2016 or 2026
Two young women in two different decades take on the capital city
Short Story
Sarah Beth Spraggins
This story was read by Sarah Beth at Secret Ballot’s Secret Agent reading.
The other girls at this party are wholesome, American Enterprise Institute conservatives. Katia’s look (big shoulders, Fort Worth hair, toothpick legs) is a form of Uno-reversed intellectual dominance I could never execute. She is wearing a green polyester silk dress. In Washington, cartoonishness is a form of professional proof, a sign that you will make a fool of yourself if necessary. It is often necessary. Katia is from Wisconsin but she floats above context, above the backyard where we are standing, surrounded by the smell of flowers. She wants to run for congress back home. She hasn’t spoken to the man she calls her boyfriend for a month because he won’t give her what she wants. She won’t tell me what that means.
We are at a house in Kalorama. She offers me a skinny cigarette from a pink box.
I say, “He’s married?”
“Oh my God. No.”
I tell her I don’t know why I asked that.
“The President loves him,” she says. “I tell him he’s my Alexander Hamilton. We have the same interests, you know, like financial history.” She shows me the texts; he sends her long gray paragraphs of policy analysis. I read his name twice. I excuse myself to get another drink and retrieve my phone from the counter. I type Alexander Hamilton’s real name into google. Chair of commodity futures trading commission of the federal government of the United States. The picture is a man in his thirties leaned over a desk, in a suit and old glasses, next to the President and the Vice President, in the oval office.
I text a friend who knows everyone, “Do you know who this guy is?”
“No,” she says. “He is cute though.”
There is a flash of green. Katia laughs over my shoulder. “I don’t know if you saw, but we text each other these essays every night in the style of President Trump’s tweets. It’s a bit. It’s art.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I say. “I know exactly what you mean.”
I grab the bottle opener on the counter to open the sparkling rosé I’d brought. When I do, it explodes in the opposite direction of the table full of lemon slices. Tucked inside them are the most tasteful-looking Jell-O shots in the world. Just vodka and sugar and lemon. I grab a handful of paper towels and lunge to wipe up the spill.
She gets down on the hardwood floor beside me. “Everyone wants to marry me, but I don’t want to marry everyone. His chief of staff says he’s completely torn up about me. I think he will come back but you really can’t compromise your values for anyone.”
When we were teenagers in youth group, they loved that one phrase: be in the world but not of it. It was a way of saying to keep your eyes on the prize, but stay cool. No one is really of this world, I’m learning, the more in it I am.
I picture Trump tucked away in the White House, in his pajamas, watching the news. I think about Gwyneth Paltrow. How, once, a guy I was dating told me I looked like her in my Hinge picture. That was nice. I’m much shorter than she is. I wonder who Katia’s maybe-boyfriend thinks she looks like. Certainly she’ll get him back.
And if she’s honeypotting the President’s favorite boy, it’s for a good cause — like all those who went before her– she has a life to live.
Some people hate it here, but I hate those people.
Sarah Beth Spraggins is a writer in Washington DC and a co-editor of Secret Ballot.
New World
Ani Tatints
It’s September 2016, and I have just moved to Washington, DC I wanted to get away from LA and my boyfriend. I might also be depressed.
Due to my heritage and impressive CV, I have been accepted into the fellowship program with the Armenian National Committee in DC The committee recruits Armenian youth in hopes that they will one day be in prominent positions of power and help “the cause.” It offered three months of free housing in a gorgeous brownstone in Dupont Circle. I took the opportunity and left my job as a receptionist for a Scientologist lawyer in LA. He gave me L. Ron Hubbard books as a parting gift. I was on my way to the East Coast.
I’m a young academic who has just written a dissertation titled “Melancholic Attachments.” The dissertation is about the political agency of sadness, and it’s getting some attention. I have been accepted to speak at George Washington University and the University of Maryland during my time in DC. I feel that will keep me occupied until I figure out what I’m doing next with my life.
I arrive in DC on a pleasant evening, and the roommate that’s been assigned to me is Julia, a recent law school graduate from Kentucky. She tells me she’s going out on U Street, and I should tag along. When we get there, I am immediately taken by the professionalism of the town, its seriousness. Suddenly, I am conscious of my frivolity.
If in New York you can feel the circulation of money, and in LA you can feel the production of artifice, then in DC you can feel the formation of networks. The Committee encourages us to attend “networking events” and make connections, ask people for their contact info, send follow-up emails, ask them if they have 30 minutes for coffee, all in the hopes of landing a job.
On U Street, Julia and I meet her friend Paul, a scheduler for a prominent Republican California congressman. He’s dressed in a suit and tie and has a trickster sort of smile on his face. “He’s a genius,” Julia tells me.
Donald Trump is running for President against Hillary Clinton, and almost everyone I meet thinks he’s going to lose. Except Paul. He looks at me and says, “Something’s shifting, and actually your boy Bernie was an indicator of that.” He says the liberalism project is over and moves away, shakes hands with another guy.
The next day Paul asks if Julia and I will meet him at St. Arnold’s Mussel Bar. “I’m putting together a reading group, like a think tank,” he says. “I think that’s something that would interest you.” He turns to me: “Even you, sad girl.” He tells Julia he would introduce her to some of Mitch McConnell’s people since she’s from Kentucky. She reluctantly agrees.
My boyfriend wants to visit me, and I keep avoiding him.
The day after the election, I take an Uber to the National Gallery, which I’ve made a habit of doing. The city is dead silent. The Uber driver has the radio on, and they’re playing The Weeknd’s “Starboy.”
I open Twitter. Trump has tweeted: “Such a beautiful and important evening! The forgotten man and woman will never be forgotten again. We will all come together as never before.”
Paul texts me, “NEW WORLD.”
Inside the museum, I am looking at Cézanne’s “Harlequin”—I stare at it for 20 minutes.
I get another text from Paul: “My apartment tonight for a meeting of the minds.”
The Committee sends a letter stating that I will not be invited back due to my lack of trying. I’m going back to LA anyway. I found some financing to shoot a television pilot I wrote. Maybe I’ll be an actress. And maybe I should finally break up with my boyfriend. The possibilities of the future give me an almost erotic jolt. New World!
Ani Tatints is a writer living in New York.
Restaurant Review: Belga
Julia Broussard
I have noticed a problem in DC. Lots of people seem to lack the kindness, consideration, and generosity that’s so vital to getting along. Who knows who, who works where, who met who — these little questions dominate the DC scene, a vice sublimated on the left into the “omni-cause.” If there’s anything that tarnishes this Golden Age, it’s that, just as real gold brings out envy, ugliness, and jealousy, the Golden Age has brought them out, too, sullying its hope and optimism.
This problem extends to dining too, less in quality than in venue, in the small selection of restaurants that have become the hot spots to be. I’m seeing too many of the same people now, especially after the 250th, and am growing tired. If you share this feeling, and are looking for a new place to visit, one with a nice atmosphere that bridges, gracefully, casual and fine dining, and in its best moments lunging at a Michelin standard, may I suggest Belga Café, on 8th Street?
Though Belga is relatively unknown in our crowd, it is popular with its main clientele, established millennials, Gen-X, and older DC residents in Washington. Belgian food, like the country, combines Dutch, German, and French influences, though at Belga you’ll find mostly Flemish, French, and some slight Asian ones. Chef and restaurateur Bart Vandaele, Belga’s owner, has been in business for over 20 years and was once on Top Chef; before that, he was head chef for the European Union’s ambassador to the U.S., and later for the Dutch embassy. These respectful roots in foreign affairs and breweries show in Belga’s thick, diverse wine and beer menu, and in its frequent events, from World Cup watch parties to Mussels Tuesday.
Something Extra for the Discerning Customer
Though Belga is known for its brunch of waffles, mussels, and green eggs, I went for their dinner service, which gives opportunity to enjoy the extensive beer and wine menu, rather than down mimosas.
We arrived at the restaurant in early July, bedecked with American and Belgian flags for the World Cup. American waiters gossiped about bets against Belgium made with the Chef. We sat near the window, ordering the kip and krab cigars to start, a staple menu item, and a bottle of wine: a Southern Rhône blend, rustic, fruity, and savory. Our waiter was kind and conversational.
The cigars, which are thin eggrolls of chicken and crabmeat, arrived plated simply, with a tuile for garnish, a sweet and sour sauce, and a pale orange mayonnaise. The meat was moist and springy, with a curry spice, and the wrapping was delicate and crunchy.
In addition to these cigars, they offer bread, frites, mushroom waffles, salads, and soups. Their menu, written in English, French, and Dutch, offers fish, mussels, and Belgian classics shaped by a rustic French sensibility, alongside lighter fare like lobster pasta, burrata, and escargot. For dinner, I ordered pork cheeks with summer vegetables, and my husband had roasted salmon and asparagus. I avoided ordering the frites, though they’re popular and served with a trio of sauces.They don’t fry in tallow.
The pork cheeks arrived resting on a buttery pillow of polenta, covered in brown beer sauce and hosting a smattering of squash, carrots, and peas on one side. Done poorly, these ingredients could collapse into each other, but instead, the fatty polenta doesn’t get soggy; the pork cheeks, though tender, don’t break down into the dish; and the vegetables retain a bite, tasting fresh enough to earn a summer-menu spot for what would otherwise be a comforting dish on a cold night. It was finished with a small garnish of crispy fried onion, complementing the soft meat.
The salmon was flaky, its crispy skin propped up on one side, leaning against a curving line of marbled potatoes and asparagus in a broccoli cream, laid out on the side of the plate like little hills. The caviar on top, resting in a thin, white yuzu sauce, added pops of salty goodness, elevating what would be a simple dish of salmon, asparagus, and potatoes into something more refined.
As to the plating, Belga is a bit over the top. I often prefer something less ostentatious, but what keeps Belga fresh is the enthusiasm Vandaele and his team pour into what could become a boring menu. They change the menu frequently, having fun with garnish and plating, but always staying reasonably within the realm of fine dining and keeping certain staples around. The simplicity of the menu’s main courses — beef and pork stews, mussels, roasted fish — shine with refined technique. Where Belga could go simple, Belga adds just enough complexity to keep things exciting, reflected in our choice of dessert, a lemon tart with sorbet.
The dish centered on verbena, the herbaceous leaf of the plant. A lemon curd with verbena results in a more floral, green aroma, which is airy and acidic rather than punchy like straight lemon. The result brought spoons to the plate with enthusiasm, smashing the tart apart and slicing into the sorbet. At Belga, the food shines because of these creative flourishes, which contrast the relative simplicity of other menus elsewhere.
After dinner, I felt satisfied and happy, and we enjoyed a sunny stroll home.
Vandaele is often at the restaurant playing host. He’s a friendly, gregarious Belgian who enjoys his job. The Asian influences on the food — in the salmon’s yuzu sauce and the sweet and sour for the cigars —stay subtle and never push into fusion. The absence of pride flags, alongside the happy pairing of American and Belgian flags, gave the restaurant a cheery, relaxed, international feeling, but not a partisan one. Inside Belga, it’s as if politics did not exist.
Possibilities
Belga works for almost any occasion except business. The restaurant bridges fine and casual with tasteful wood and plaster decor, blue glasses and table settings, and whimsical, glossy closeups of piggies and chickens on the walls.
For administration staffers who are married, maybe with a child or another on the way, I recommend Belga. It is family friendly without ever putting “family friendly” on a menu. If you’d like to take someone out and not run into anyone you know, do Belga. If you are twenty-eight and embarrassed about going to bars with Hill interns, do Belga and familiarize yourself with the beer menu. If you are somewhat a foodie, tired of the NYT-influencer circuit of food trends like hot honey, Nashville whatever, herbed fries, and pale imitations of Cajun fused with Thai, go to Belga. You’ll find something new. It is fine and casual, with a varied menu of appealing options at multiple price points.
Belga Café feels the least like the most popular places you are going now. Belga offers savory escape in a small city I think most of us sometimes want to leave.
Four Stars ★★★★
Open: Lunch, Tuesday – Friday, 12:00 PM – 2:30 PM
Brunch, Saturday 9:30 AM – 3:30 PM, Sunday 9:00 AM – 3:30 PM
Happy Hour, Monday – Saturday 4:30 PM – 6:30 PM
Dinner, Monday – Saturday Starting At 5 PM
Address: 514 8th Street Southeast, Washington, DC 20003
Prices: Brunch, $17–26; Dinner, $28-65
Julia Broussard is a writer in Washington, DC, covering politics, culture, and international affairs. She left American diplomacy and development for publishing. Follow her on X @TheMeteorBlog or subscribe to The Meteor Magazine.
Secret Agent. Secret Ballot hosted an espionage themed reading at Night Club 101 in the East Village last weekend. We had a fantastic group of readers including Harry Krinsky, Sam Venis, Emma Glenn Baker, Dylan Partner and Catherine Shannon. The reading rules were 1. No sex and 2. Keep it under five minutes. We recommend this system and an accompanying dress code to others who want to host a stellar event. Follow Secret Ballot on Instagram for more event announcements.
City kid. This week, in Northwest DC, a man was arrested for walking his goat. It sounds like a Biblical scenario. Why can’t he have a goat??
Rocking around the round table. Trump is hosting a round table on the American mining industry today. We don’t know what that means.
Abundance? We heard this week’s DC Abundance happy hour at Duke’s Grocery was a bit of a dud. No free drinks!
Don’t Miss:
Friday Market. Kucheh DC is hosting a bazaar on Friday, August 7th from 5-9pm at Brookland Arts Walk. Vendors will be selling everything from ceramics and handmade rugs to stuffed cookies and fresh falafel. There will also be backgammon and live poetry from 6-8pm through the American Poetry Museum.
From the NYC lit mag circuit: Sect Magazine is having their Launch Party at Night Club 101 on August 8th at 7pm in New York City. Ivy Wolk will read at the Mean Woman Monologue Contest at Life World in Brooklyn, same day at 7:30pm.
Rohmer’s Pauline at the Beach screens at Suns Cinema Wednesday, August 12th. Tickets.
Pon de Replay. Friend of the Ballot, My Friend Jack, is playing at Showtime Lounge on August 15th from 10-late.
Johnny Appleseed. Eat an apple in the park August 15th. BYOA.
Political Theater. Salt, a play by Matthew Gasda, is showing in DC on September 11 and September 12 at 7pm. Get tickets here.
Cold Comfort. Submit questions to our advice column here!
I want to read anis memoir
very good ballot