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Gentrification and Food: An evening in Columbia Heights
09/06/06
by Shaw

I'm not sure of the real root cause behind gentrification.  I think it's dismissive to say that it's all about money--most of the masterminds behind invasive takeovers of ethnic neighborhoods also like being able to advertise to their friends that the community they are hijacking is "charming." Since it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between "charm" and "proximity to crime-ridden hellholes," usually the first thing to go in a neighborhood after gentrification is "charming," which soon gives way to "cute." And no one wants to see their neighborhood become cute.

In DC, Columbia Heights is the latest frontier in the battle between culture/charm and commercial/cute.  A friend of mine bought a condo there a few years ago, and ever since, he has been a professed megalomaniac and big fan of gentrification.  Right after he had moved in, I went for a walk with him to the liquor store a few blocks away... on the way, we passed through a neighborhood filled with harmless-looking kids and their families, playing outdoors in the nice weather.  Looking out on this scene, his comment was (said in the most Mufasa-like voice possible for a man who sounds nothing like James Earl Jones), "Shaw--you see all this out here? In five years, all these people will be gone. And my apartment will double in value."

Maybe I just wasn't seeing what he was: I was watching some kids whose parents wanted them to have the best life possible, who bought houses in the best neighborhood they could afford. And then, when DC came in and put a Green Line Metro stop there a few years ago, they felt like they got lucky, and they started to think maybe this whole American Dream was really going to work out. Maybe their home equity would increase and they could work a little less and enjoy life a little more, play with their kids... he saw a bunch of people whose low class way of life wouldn't fit in on this block burgeoning with young professionals.  People who enjoyed living quietly at the limit of their means. People who would stand in the way of commercial progress, and thus had to be eliminated.

The same friend that lives in Columbia Heights has been lauding both the beautiful culture, local restaurants, and small businesses atmosphere... and the brand new Giant grocery store, Georgetown Valet cleaners, Ruby Tuesday, Cinnabon, and big condo complexes that have gone up in the past few years, driving rent up and pushing longtime residents out. This means he is in the untenable position of supporting the locals and forcing them out.  Maybe his plan is to live there until he has sucked the life out of the entire block and his property has tripled in value, and then sell his condo for a 200% profit and move on to another poor unsuspecting neighborhood. All that will remain in his wake will be a Giant/Target/Ruby Tuesday/CVS wastefield, and the former residents will be forced by high rent and community pressure to move a few miles north to the next place they can afford, in rural Silver Spring, two miles from the metro, and with the rising price of gas they won't be able to afford a car, so they will have to add an extra 30 minutes to their commute each way, taking away an hour a day from the time they would have spent watching their kids, who will then grow up in a community that doesn't care about them and naturally progress to a life of crime and die in jail, ironically losing his last appeal when the defense lawyer, the same person who bought this kid's parents' house from them at rock bottom price and flipped it for twice as much 20 years earlier, fails to even read the case notes before going to trial.

So in any case, my CH friend has been touting the Heights and is always trying to get us to hang out there.  This Sunday, we complied. We got 10 people together for dinner and went to a new place that just opened up and got some good local reviews.  The Columbia Heights tourism page called it "Latin American food in the Revitalizing 11th Street Corridor"... given the population of the area and the high quality food available elsewhere in the neighborhood, we all thought this was bound to be a good place.

Unfortunately the entire dinner was a comedy of errors.  We waited until 8pm to arrive, because there was a sign on the door saying that they would be closed for a party until then.  When we arrived at 8, the party was just letting out, but it was clear that the party had involved tons of loud music and someone's birthday... as we were led in to our table, the music was blasting from two person-sized amplifiers right next to our table. After about ten minutes, it became clear that the plan was NOT, as I had thought, to turn down the music after the party had ended.  In fact the music seemed to get louder with every new song... every new 80s hair metal song.  It was bad enough just being in the restaurant to hear that awful sludge, but then to be seated right next to the amp made conversation logistically impossible.  The waitress knew this because she couldn't hear our orders and we had to point to the menu for all of our orders.  She also didn't hear when I asked if she could lower the music. Or didn't care? Indeed, at that time we were the only group in the dining room, so I don't know who was there, enjoying the loud awful music, but someone was clearly vetoing our request. She did make a feinting motion toward the stereo at some point, seemingly to turn it down, but perhaps the puppetmasters watching from the eye in the sky took command of her limbs and stopped her from actually touching the machine.

The music would become a repeated theme throughout the night, as later on, a man and his girlfriend took over the stereo and started DJ-ing to the dining room, flipping between songs after playing just a minute or two. Sometimes the girlfriend would put her hand on the DJ's upper thigh, and he would be stimulated enough to turn the music up a little louder, usually with a stern glance in our direction.  By this point, the place had filled up, and it was clear that we were going to be the only white people in the entire place. Even though I hardly have a five figure income, I felt like I was an ambassador for the aristocratic ruling class... every single person in the restaurant was staring at us.

When the food came, it was like I was Peter in "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing"... everyone was audibly expressing sounds of delight that I could almost hear over the music, except for me.  My food came last, which normally wouldn't be a problem, but it seems like the reason for my food being so late was that it was being steadily overcooked in the kitchen. I had fried pork... even though "fried" and "dried" don't rhyme in Spanish, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some kind of miscommunication regarding the cooking time. You know, like,

"Should I take it out yet?"

"No, it looks perfect right now."

"So, shouldn't I take it out then?"

"No, he didn't order the fried pork, he ordered the overcooked, inedible crunchy stringy pork."

"Oh, okay, I'll wait ten more minutes then."

Then no one really understood how horrible my food was until my girlfriend took a bite and couldn't finish it.  No one else wanted to try it after that.

[Aside: Sorry, iheartshaw, I know, we have to talk.]

I would have accepted these two problems, and would even have agreed to go back again, if it weren't for the final insult. They brought out the bill at the end (about $180), and our resident economist computed the appropriate tip (about $33) and determined we should each pay the same to ease computational complexity.  When this was done, we had a respectable pile of cash, which we handed to the waitress.  She returned a few moments later and had the following conversation with our economist... this version is simplified; picture the same conversation with a lot of yelling over the music and language difficulties:

Waitress (W): You are short $3.00.

Economist (E): No we're not.

W: Yes, you are.

E: Why?

W: The tip is included for large parties.

E: Oh. But we gave you more than the bill said.

W: The tip isn't written on the bill, but it's included.

E: OK, but we gave you $33 extra.

W: Right, but we charge 20%. So you owe us $3.00.

It was then that I decided I would not be returning to this restaurant again... but at the same time, I wish them luck, and I suppose we deserved what we got. After all, if this place is going to survive the Target/Ruby Tuesday/Cinnabon/Condo bomb, they're going to have to charge a lot more for their meals.

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