(The Willow Lunch Counter Special for Wednesday: Brian’s spaghetti and meat balls with the best damn garlic bread I have tasted lately).

CNN was running the Chinese satellite imagery of the three chunks of possible debris not far from the point of last contact with the missing Malaysian jet, and that was where the matter stood as I dashed out of the house to meet Argo for lunch.

I don’t know why this event far away has gripped me with such fascination, but it is the old analyst in me, I guess, and the manifold mysteries in this bizarre story.

Argo and I were last together in the continuing hunt to identify and visit the remaining 36 stones of the original 40 that were the first monuments of the new Republic: the District of Columbia Boundary Markers.

If you missed that account of attempting to slog along the coastline of the Potomac River to pass under the expressway and onward to the Stone at SE9 I can send it to you. It was an epic and failed adventure in the wilderness contained within the borders of Your Nation’s Capital.

We had a good plan, but my bad leg and the rough terrain won. We realized that there were only two viable plans to succeed: one would require a driver to drop us off by the fence that protects the interstate from intrusions by deer, somehow find a breech in the links, hike down the embankment, and take the Stone from the shore side.

Argo looked over at me, then, as I was attempting to come to terms with failure. “The answer is to make an assault from the water.” I realized he was right, and all we would need to do was charter a boat and then just sail right up to the Stone, which is located just above the high water mark on the shore.

Then came winter, and all the rest of it, and I did not think of the Stones until last week, when I got a note from Argo that claimed a new boathouse was going to open at National Harbor, and from there, it would be a relatively cheap and easy paddle down to the Stone. That would close out the odyssey that began a decade ago, and culminated in adventures in the wildest parts of the District, which includes the Impound Lot, Potter’s Field and a sliver of wilderness bounded between whizzing traffic high above and the big placid river on the other.

Anyway, it seemed like lunch would be a good way to plan the way ahead, and we agreed that noon on Wednesday would be a good place to start. I was pinned down by the Jorge, the Guatemalan Exterminator, who was disassembling the lower front of the dishwasher to see where the mice might be hiding out.

“No spoor or droppings,” He said, peering under the appliance. “That probably means you have only had a visitor, not an infestation.” Then we tried some of my pigeon Spanglish, and talked about his impending visit home, and the fact that in the seven years he has been servicing Big Pink, this is his first visit to my unit. “I put you on the list for a visit next week,” he said with a smile, and I told him a had to split due to an important commitment.

I scrambled out to the parking lot under skies that promised change, and not for the better. I drove the Bluesmobile over to Willow, since this was a two-fer. In addition to catching up with Argo, it was a chance to try the Willow Lunch Counter.

This is a big deal. I don’t go to sit-down restaurants for lunch unless there is some reason to combine it with social or business purposes. I preferred to eat at the desk when I was chained to one, and the white tablecloths and heavy silver of the formal dining room were special events.

The bar was technically open, and Tracy would have someone on duty just in case there were some Key West style early drinkers, or someone in the dining room wanted a glass of wine with their meal. But normally the bar and high-top tables on the other side of the aisle were empty as a tomb.

I don’t know whose idea it was, but Willow decided to capitalize on the space by turning it into a Lunch Counter. They gambled that people who wanted a civilized quick lunch were not the same ones who patronized the formal dining room. Moreover, the people who were standing in the long lines at the food trucks over by the Ballston Metro stop were paying around ten bucks for the privilege of getting food in a

(John Philip Falter’s classic image of the American Lunch Counter. Brian adopted it as the symbol of what Willow is trying to do to provide a decent lunch at a reasonable price for the bureaucrats of Ballston).

Voila! The Willow Lunch Counter was born. The concept was straightforward: there is a daily special, and the soup-and-half-sandwich, and with complementary soda or iced tea the fixed price was ten bucks.

It was genius, and the place was almost full when I walked in, almost precisely on time.

Argo was seated in the cocktail nook checking his messages when I arrived, and we were able to snag Old Jim’s stool at the apex of the Amen Corner, and I slid into my usual spot. All was right with the world, and despite the fact that I have cut carbs out of my diet, I decided that whatever the daily special was, I was going to enjoy it.

I don’t recall that the subject of the stones ever actually came up. “So apparently,” Argo started, “the Rolls Royce people in the UK get technical updates about the health of their engines. They told the Wall Street Journal that the engines on the missing jet communicated with them four hours after the transponders cut out.”

“Or were turned off,” I said darkly. “If so, that is a game changer. That airplane could have gone down in the Indian Ocean- or landed somewhere.”

Baby J the new bartender approached us and seemed to be happy to see us. She explained the specials- it being Wednesday, it was Brian’s spaghetti and meatballs with fresh grated Parmesan cheese and garlic bread- but she mentioned the half-sandwich or Panini with soup, which happened to be that delicious cauliflower cream- and when Argo seemed interested, she ticked off the specials for the rest of the week.

“Monday is meatloaf with two sides, Tuesday is the brisket chili, Thursday is the cobb salad, and Friday, New England clam chowder with Kate Jansen’s Irish Soda Bread.”

“Whoa,” said Argo, and then Tracy herself came into the bar area with a case of wine to store in the open bays behind Baby J.

“We will change every month,” she said. “Try to keep things fresh.”

“It is a fabulous idea, Tracy,” I said firmly. “I have been wanting a plate of spaghetti and meatballs since it got cold, but I don’t keep or cook pasta at home. You have to keep this on the menu- and that brisket chili.”

“We will consider all recommendations,” she said gravely, “And your interest in the menu is appreciated.”

Argo laughed. “That is like thanking some taxpayer for his interest in National Defense.”

“Best insult we had in the service,” I said, thinking back.
“If that airplane is still out there, someplace, there is going to be a hell of a story.”

“Yeah, and 230 people alive rather than dead. Or something.”

Lithe Dante the waiter came up and gave me a hug from behind as he slid two large white china dishes filled with just-right noodles, spicy marinara sauce and gigantic meatballs in front of us. I won’t even bother to describe the garlic bread. Kate Jansen has outdone herself- again.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303