Week 40: Saluting, Swinging, and Santa Fe, Baby.

Calling all over-achievers, we’re here in Washington D.C. for the running of the 36^th Marine Corps Marathon. In this sea of perfect health sits my chubby ass, huffing and puffing, from literally chasing my boyfriend across town as a spectator. That’s right. Ryan is running, in addition to our friends Rolando and Shannon. I’m apparently the only one who does not have “running a marathon” on their bucket list.

As I stand at the finish line awaiting the arrival of Ryan, Rolando and Shannon, I notice there’s a common look of anguish across every runner’s face. Despite being inches away from the finish, very few look “happy.”   Although running a marathon is pale in comparison to all that Marines (who look fantastic in uniform) have sacrificed to serve our country, I just can’t imagine myself accomplishing something of this nature. 

Ryan passes with a forced smile and while he may look in desperate need for Tylenol and a jacuzzi, I know he’s beaming inside. Shannon passes shortly after looking like she’s on her way to a casting call for Platoon. And when I refer to the movie Platoon, I’m not talking about hot fearless men in combat. I’m talking about the men that have already been shot several times and are being filmed dying in slow motion. I scream at her to continue and let her know she’s “kickin f’in ass!” But, the mother to the right to me doesn’t appreciate my language, and the guy to the left of me refuses to believe Shannon is my friend based on the hideous face she just gave me.  Because I’m only a mediocre friend with a lack of dedication, I disappear before Rolando crosses in order to redeem the free beer ticket I just found laying in the mud. I believe these beers were reserved for runners only, but something tells me I deserve a beer as well.

Rolando and Shannon truly are great friends. They moved to Indiana from Florida about a year ago and I’ve missed them every day since.  If I were ever to explore swinging I believe they would be the perfect match for Ryan and I. Ryan and Shannon share a common interest of running and are both very smart, and Rolando and I are both light brown people who get ashy in the winter if we don’t keep up on our application of lotion. I believe a partner swap would work just fine.

(Insert fast forward button here).   It’s Meatball Chronicle time, the following morning, and I’m the only one capable of walking. D.C meets Sante Fe, baby. We’ve found a nearby restaurant that the runners are capable of hobbling to, and its name is Santa Fe Café. I envisioned the day being full of “ahhhs” and “ouches”, due to the hell/26.2 miles the runners put their bodies through yesterday; which is why I have filled everyone’s coffee cups with wine. A buzz before noon never feels bad.  It’s like we never parted ways. The old crew together again, finishing off our faux coffees, throwing back a few beers, discussing segway accidents and debating over how disgusting of a city Cleveland is.

Santa Fe Café is buried underground in a chamber-like poorly decorated establishment that somehow manages to get enough sunlight to illuminate the place. Located in Arlington, Virginia, they serve authentic New Mexican cuisine from hand-packed hamburgers to quesadillas to New Mexican explosions in bowls—which I further define as “everything Mexican in the kitchen thrown into one bowl that will make you shit.”  They are very reasonably priced.

I wasn’t craving Mexican and randomly ordered a sausage, egg and cheese sandwich from the breakfast menu. The way I see it, if the New Mexican chef cooks it, it’s still authentic. I added lettuce and tomato to let my fellow marathoners know that I too care about health. Side of home fries, okay I’ll have those too.

Everyone else ordered Mexican dishes and once the food came out I found myself regretting my decision. Mexican looked delicious. In an attempt to turn my home fries into a Mexican cuisine, I dumped chili sauce all over them, completely destroying them. Those firey bastard potatoes were so hot that one bite resulted in suffering.

In my short visit to Santa Fe Café, a visit never to occur again due to its lack of geographical desirableness, I can say I enjoyed my time spent there. I think it was more about reconnecting with old friends than it was the food, though. And, my food critiquing was slightly off due to the solid buzz I had following my wine packed morning and ice cold beer, but if you’re in DC it’s worth a visit. And, order from their authentic menu, not the breakfast chalkboard.  Despite being delicious, sausage always seems to find me at moments of weakness.