Whatever your tastes, Washington
has something for you. Yes, you, even my friends in the Ventrue! I defy
you to find another city that draws from such a broad array of peoples--it’s
like the Noah’s Ark of mortals with at least one of everything.
The most important thing to
remember when eating out in Washington (especially in Washington) is
the Masquerade. I can hear the moaning and groaning among the neonates
and Anarchs even now, but listen up dearies, this is
Washington, the seat of power for the entire Federal government.
That includes the military, FBI, CIA, National Institute of Health,
several media conglomerates, embassies from every international government,
Congress and the President. Does that scare you? It should. Now consider
this: Washington, despite being the capitol is really just a small town.
Every important person here circulates within the same small group of
people. What does that mean for you? Well, if a nameless schoolteacher
at the Sidwell Friends or Gonzaga school expires unexpectedly, the parents
whose children are affected will want an answer. Big deal, you say?
If the concerned parents (desperately trying to explain this to little
Johnny and Suzy) don’t get a satisfying answer from the DC police, they’re
likely to pull some strings. (There are ALOT of strings in this town.
Don’t let the Ventrue and Tremere fool you into thinking they’ve got
‘em all covered. NOBODY controls that much power except the Elders....)
So if two Lt. Colonels from the Pentagon, three White House Appointees,
three lawyers, five Senior Executive Level civil servants, four reporters,
and 19 well-connected captains of industry (just a random sample of
the types of parents who can afford those private academies) DEMAND
an investigation, some Kindred screw-up is going to fry for risking
the lives of Kindred all over the world.
That’s the glass bubble that
is Washington. Everything done here is has repercussions throughout
the entire world, and thus we tend to be a bit....conservative...in
our adherence to the Traditions. So to recap: leave them alive and with
a plausible explanation. Whenever possible do a quick background check
on your intended victim. There’s a reason why “So what do you do for
a living?” has become the most popular conversational icebreaker in
DC. Use it to your advantage.
The good news is that sooner
or later everything comes to Washington: masterpieces will be on rotation,
theater companies will travel, CEO’s will visit their lobbying offices,
protesters will demonstrate, troops will be transferred through, heads
of state will visit, tourists will choke the streets, scientists will
lecture their colleagues, travelers will pass through our terminals,
and all manner of effluvia will find their way into the hands of the
Library of Congress, Smithsonian Institution, ABC News and World Report,
and Central Intelligence Agency.
Where else but Washington can
you step outside your door and sample the delicacies of Marrakech, the
grandeur of the rain forest, the spicy tension of Kashmir, or the staid
blandness of Britannia? All wonderful flavors that move nightly through
the river of delight that we call the human circulatory system!
ELDERS ONLY
The White House, Congress and
Supreme Court are all under the direct control of the Elders. Whether
the Elders feed in these areas is a matter of their personal business
(and I’d pay good money to know.) Placing them outside our direct control
is a matter of safety--or so they say.
I once tried to sample Nixon
during one of his late night visits to the Lincoln Memorial. Sooner
or later every President makes a trek there during a national crisis.
But of course, I became enchanted by the view from the steps -- showing
the Mall in all its spring night splendor -- and the moment was lost.
But my quest continues. One night I WILL drink from the President of
the United States. It’s important to have goals. Don’t you think?
The good news is that most
of those who live and work within sight of the government buildings
regularly circulate among the various high-society functions. Then they
become prey of the Toreador....
HAINES POINT:
When it’s not underwater from
Potomac flooding or mired in mud, Haines Point, I feel, is one of the
District’s more underappreciated treasures. The site is actually a man-made
peninsula surrounded by waters flowing from the Tidal Basin and Potomac
river. On the east side is an enchanting view of the hundred-year-old
officers quarters of Ft. McNair. On the west side, at one of the widest
points of the river, you can see (but not hear) flights taking off from
National Airport adjacent to wooded bike trails. Vehicular traffic shares
the one roadway that loops the peninsula with bikers, joggers, and military
personnel training for PT tests. At the very end is an enchanting statue
of a giant emerging from the ground. The metaphor is not lost on the
Kindred populace and we tend to give the work a
wide berth.
Because it is quiet, secluded,
breezy, and tree-lined, mortals can be found here at all hours of the
night--making it an excellent feeding area. I personally love to snack
on the exercise fanatics, loaded as they are with endorphins. And it
is easy enough to explain away a fainting spell during such rigorous
training. I have also been known to while away the hours listening to
a lone fisherman complain about his shrewish wife and drown his sorrows
in malt liquor. The current is swift here, so if things get out of hand,
a quick hoist over the railing and your unruly victim will be carried
quickly downriver and entangled in the intake valves of the waste reclamation
facility.
I have been known to be overtaken
from time to time with the enrapturing gleam of a well polished Nissan
Sedan: each detail shining with the promise of unfulfilled longing and
beaming with the craftsmanship of hours of hand washing. Sometimes I’ll
bestow my Kiss upon the owner of the best auto of the evening. Their
efforts should not go entirely unrewarded. I tend to avoid the tennis
courts: too much competition makes the vitae tense and unwelcome. Washingtonians
are very competitive, and if you’re not careful, all your meals with
be bitter with job stress. That’s why I never eat someone coming off
their commute. You’re just asking for a stomachache!
A special Ligadier note: The
Marines from the 8th and I barracks can be found jogging here very close
to dawn on winter mornings. As they are all in incredible shape, it’s
maddeningly difficult to find stragglers or someone out of formation.
They are also extremely overprotective of their members. But they CAN
be had. Trust me, the weeks of careful preparation are worth it. Non-Toreador
may not appreciate the beauty of the moment: a young, wayward Adonis,
writhing in your arms, his breath enveloping you like a cloud. I hope
I can inspire you to raise your standards.
CAPITOL HILL
Despite it’s proximity to all
those Cap Hill staffers in their lovely row houses, and despite the
allure of Eastern Market and all its heady smells, I’ve never been able
to eat on Capitol Hill. Perhaps it’s all that entrenched low-class,
low-rent misery pushing back the limited encampments of gentrification,
but whenever I eat there every vessel tastes like squirrel. For the
life of me, I don’t know why. Psychosomatic, maybe? Maybe that’s why
the Tremere, Nosferatu, and Malkavians are often found here. One eschews
the pleasures of the flesh, the other is lucky to take what it can get,
and the other is probably mad for the taste anyway.
THE SMITHSONIAN
The gardens behind the Smithsonian
Castle are some of the most enchanting I’ve seen outside of Europe.
Surrounded by brick, wrought-iron, Victorian turrets, and frosted glass,
they make the most enchanting locale in which to exsanguinate a young
poetess, wealthy dilettante, or demur young virgin. Unfortunately, the
dreaded Forrestal Building of the Department of Energy -- that bane
of my existence -- heavily fortified, patrolled and festooned with video
cameras is adjacent. So, although the site is exquisite, you must exercise
extraordinary care. Take your opportunities as they come.
On a more positive note, a
carousel, out of any line of sight to the DOE, sits in front of the
castle. It is under Toreador patronage and can be operated at all hours.
Nothing is more charming than to nip at your beloved as she bobs up
and down on a carved horse, spinning round and round. Fresh mops are
in the back of the concession stand to erase any tell-tale splatter.
Have you tried the Smithsonian’s
regular lecture series? Train your mind and sate your hunger all in
the same evening. Scope out the crowd and during one of the scheduled
breaks slip out for some conversational reconnaissance. And while you’re
sizing up your meal, your meal will be sizing up YOU -- as a networking
opportunity, political connection, or lover. So look your best and stay
sharp, after all another potential ghoul may present themselves.
SOUTHEAST DC
Two of the District’s largest
and more popular nightclubs are located in this hellhole...I mean...Nosferatu
territory: The Capitol Ballroom and Tracks. The Ballroom features many
popular traveling bands and the occasional “Dungeon Dance” (I am a legend
there I must confess). Tracks is predominately gay on the weekends with
a gothic night on Thursdays. Clan Nosferatu has yet to permit anyone
outside their clan to feed there. We are permitted to look, but don’t
touch; Dance but don’t dine. All of the clubbers are from other areas,
so it’s always easy to just share a ride, and lure your prey back to
the appropriate section of town. Sadly the mood of that special moment
on the dance floor may be lost, and we are each stuck with plan B: “sex”
at their place and a hasty retreat before dawn.
This section of town is also
blessed with a number of brothels, bathhouses, and gay strip clubs,
where I have now been saddled with an ignoble pseudonym: The Starer.
Apparently, I become so entranced by all those low-fat bodies, gyrating
with flushed veins pulsating against tissue-paper skin that I forget
to blink, and I have been relieved of my wallet more than once while
in this condition. Go take a look for yourself. I defy you to not be
entranced by the sight of naked flesh writhing in l’hommage to Eros!
I assure you that most of them moving into my apartment buildings is
entirely a coincidence.
GEORGETOWN
And then there’s Georgetown,
sweet Georgetown, Mecca of good taste, hoi polloi, and shopping! Those
of a refined palette need look no further on Friday or Saturday night
than this little gem along the river. A cab will be necessary as there
is NO parking to be had, and METRO is out of the question. (I dare any
Toreador to ride one of those ghastly orange and yellow trains through
the dark tunnels. The last thing you’ll see before the Nosferatu grab
you is the back of a toxic yellow pleather seat cushion!) Those of you
who rely upon the comfortable interior of your auto to set table for
your victim will be at a distinct disadvantage.
I have always taken to wandering
the grounds of Oak Hill and Mt. Zion cemetery before beginning my hunt.
It is a most peaceful and overwrought locale, poised atop a hill overlooking
the expanses of Montrose and Rock Creek Park. For a moment, I can almost
imagine myself back in a simpler time when the woods provided a safe
and sheltering bower for my muse--before the change barred me forever
from sylvan glens.
It is not uncommon to find
the young here playing at their games of rebellion and angst -- drinking
and making love among the dead. Our kind often join them and are always
welcome. Illicit liaisons in this part of the park are not uncommon,
and if you should happen to come upon a sticky, fumbling stranger in
the dark it is not inappropriate to leave them a little more lightheaded
than when you met them. It IS considered the height of bad taste to
take more than a sampling. Overfeeding will scare away the herd, and
they do provide such wonderful aperitifs. I would not be the only one
seeking the head of the one who soiled this watering hole.
A casual stroll up R Street
to the Dumbarton Oaks Garden and Museum is often next on my list. As
one of the smaller museums of the city, it rarely attracts the attention
of the Elders. Why should it? The well stocked halls of the Kennedy
Center or National Portrait Gallery befit their station better. The
collection here is small consisting mainly of Asian pottery and pre-biblical
jewelry. But the gardens! I have on occasion been mistaken for a statue
in the moonlight rendered immobile by such ephemeral beauty. I have
also been known to frolic nude like a satyr through the fountains, letting
the hyacinth and jasmine soak into my skin. While it is often possible
to feed in the quiet streets outside, I would never spill vitae upon
the soil of the garden itself. The balance of scent and pheromone is
so delicate; violence would render the place poisonous.
At night Georgetown’s newly
redeveloped waterfront complex provides traditional feeding opportunities:
a deserted 9 to 5 business complex with darkened alcoves and occasional
foot traffic; an enjoyable if somewhat bourgeois experience. Georgetown
University is classic and gothic with lots of Old World charm and young
spoiled students. Its divinity students can be a bit difficult for those
of us with sensitivity to sunlight, so caution is advised. Because of
the dearth of on-street parking, the residential sections of Georgetown
are often filled with circling cars that can impede a successful hunt.
Better to get yourself invited to one of the smaller private parties
IN those homes to maximize your safety. There’s always the small hill
by the Francis Scott Key Memorial with its deep underbrush and rocky,
riverside slopes, but I’ve never been partial to mountaineering for
my food. Of course one MUST try eating on the
Exorcist stairs at least once, if just for the shock value. I
always swing my out-of-town Kindred visitors past there after they’ve
been introduced to the Prince.
Underneath the Whitehurst Freeway
by the Bayou nightclub is your best bet. The music, traffic noise and
on-street revelers will mask any sound while the tangle of cars will
obscure any struggle and prevent most escapes. It’s proximity to the
river is ideal should you need to dump a body or fake your own watery
demise. I would not advise swimming in the Potomac for anyone other
than Gangrel or Nosferatu but desperate times sometimes call for desperate
measures. It’s a given that one’s outfit will need to be burned immediately
following.
The footpaths along the C&O
Canal, away from main traffic, unlit, and shrouded in an overhead canopy
of foliage, are also an ideal choice. Union soldiers used to swim naked
there during the Civil War but (*sigh*) such is not an option now. The
Canal is crisscrossed with bridges where our kind can lurk in the traditional
style, but beware bicyclists! Not only is the path barely wide enough
for two to walk abreast, but a bicyclist (with mandatory headlight)
can quickly approach an unaware Kindred with disastrous consequences.
In closing, Georgetown is an
expensive place to visit, so you can almost guarantee that your victims
will be well-dressed and well-fed: a combination I find ideal.
GEORGETOWN CENTER MALL
The Toreador count among their
holdings a number of shopping malls but I’ve never been able to work
myself up to feed in just such an environment. I mean, imagine the danger!
It would be impossible for me to make a quick escape weighted down with
twelve bags of purchases!
You might think that the restrooms
are the ideal place to carry out a discreet feeding at the mall. Au
contraire, senorita. Such places (tearooms in gay parlance) are patrolled
regularly by undercover detectives intent on dissuading homosexual liaisons.
No, the place to feed is in the dressing room. (Obviously, care must
be taken with 2-way mirrors or busy sale seasons.) But after I buy a
particularly stunning outfit, I am always tempted to “christen” it.
Nothing christens an outfit better than eating the salesclerk who picked
it out. You’re right, I am too kind.
THE HOTEL INTERCONTINENTAL
Some prefer the anonymity of
a room at the Marriott or Hyatt, others the prestigious name of the
Four Seasons, and for some the antiseptic randomness of a Holiday Inn.
But nothing can ever compare with the glory and grandeur of the Hotel
Intercontinental. I don’t care if it’s in Ventrue territory. I don’t
care if it abuts the Elder’s personal feeding zone surrounding the White
House. The risk to eternity itself is worth a few precious moments at
the Hotel Intercontinental, a stone’s throw from the National Theater.
(I have unusually weak wrists so it would be two stone’s throws by that
calculation for me.)
For the non-Toreador in the
audience I will omit my normal gushing over the furnishings, accoutrements,
woodwork, carpet, and tile. Nor will I wax rhapsodic about the stately
grace of the grand dining salon. Suffice it to say that the Hotel Intercontinental
is (in street parlance) “classy.” Sometimes I like to wine and dine
my dinner; to season it to perfection with the gourmet creations of
DC’s finest chefs. Afterwards we ascend to the honeymoon suite on the
upper floors for a bubble bath, romantic interlude, and lovemaking with
the Kiss delivered near the point of orgasm.
The hotel has never failed
to deliver. Never. My partners have run the gamut from hookers off the
street to happily married Christian Coalition matrons. The magical charm
of the Hotel Intercontinental has never failed to provide among the
most satisfying of feeding experiences.
THE CORCORAN GALLERY OF ART
Luckily I’ve been through the
Corcoran enough that I’m not rendered immobile unless focusing on the
detail of a particular piece. As a gallery, no words can describe it.
But as a feeding territory, ah! Unless one of our select club is making
a special appearance, the Corcoran is locked up tightly every night,
and rightfully so. But if you have the special key (like most Toreador),
private access is available upon demand. The guards have adopted the
bad habit of taking extended smoke breaks. Nothing compares to
letting loose some terrified teenager or tourist in the darkened Corcoran
and hunting them amongst the treasures. I think of it as sort of a scavenger
hunt. What do they think of it, you ask? Hmmm. I’ve never bothered to
inquire.
To those unfamiliar with the
Corcoran, it can be quite a maze -- especially in the dark. And with
the mixture of ancient woods, canvas, marble and brass, the intendeds’
screams reverberate in a way that is...well, I’m no poet, so I can’t
do it justice, but suffice it say that it always leaves me...aroused.
I’ve taken to consummating the hunt in the 17th century French drawing
room. It seems somehow appropriate that way, don’t you agree?
THE UPTOWN
The Uptown is one of the last
of Washington’s grand film houses. Recently restored, it regularly plays
to sold out showings. The gorgeous screen is curved and flanked by fabulous
crushed red velvet curtains. Nothing says vampire like crushed red velvet.
The Uptown is imbued with a sense of history right down to the art deco
mosaics. I never feel out of place here, and this feeling, shared by
many of my peers, makes it one of the Kindred’s preferred feeding spots.
During the sweaty summer months, patrons are encrusted with a slight
layer of salt that adds a tasty kick while making the first puncture.
I favor the femur artery. You can just lean over to your partner or
kneel before them in the darkness (thus not disturbing other patrons)
while you feed. I’ve been told receiving the Kiss makes the film more
vibrant. Curious neighbors will misconstrue the slurping as an act of
sexual perversion and wisely tend to their own affairs.
I remember one time while I
was fucking a young teenager on my lap during the showing of Starship
Troopers, and we both became incredibly aroused during the whipping
scene. Simultaneously, she came, I bit and the lash struck the young
hero’s flesh. Timing, my dears, is everything.
INTERNATIONAL YOUTH HOSTEL
Sometimes one can overdo on
the exotic and sophisticated. As a counterbalance, I like to drop in
for a quick hello at the International Youth Hostel on 11th street.
Eight stories of idle, itinerant youth, optimistic and ignorant to the
ways of the world, courageous enough to tackle it brazenly. The taste
of them reminds me of the smell of pizza. I’ve never actually eaten
pizza, pizza parlors being one of those fads that developed after my
breathing days. I remember one time during the 60’s, the city was packed
with young hopefuls and protesters. One of my benefactors had ingested
some LSD, and for the remainder of the evening, I worked my way through
all eight floors sampling the bouquet from each. In retrospect, it’s
amazing I didn’t get caught, but to my credit I can now say that I once
drank an entire building dry. I’ll save the hangover story for another
time....
CHINATOWN
The 9th street corridor (now
occupied by that atrocious MCI Arena) used to be home to Washington’s
red light district. Sadly those activities have now been moved underground
(figuratively not literally). But for the Toreador the area is alive
with new projects. Chinatown (home to our beloved Coco Loco nightclub)
is being cleaned of its burnt-out storefronts and energized with new
nightclubs, galleries and bars. Abutting this territory is the Martin
Luther King Jr. Library and the National Portrait Gallery. Conveniently
(some would say too conveniently) a large number of the homeless continue
to make their home here. I’ve often found this site ideal for a Celerity
refill. The abandoned planters and steam vents obscure most activities
and the residents have learned to ask no questions. For the first few
decades, I was possessed of an impulse to have this area cleared of
riffraff and restored. But now I see the wisdom of our Elders’ policies.
We can always find something to eat here. Always. It’s the Kindred
equivalent of a bowl of peanuts on the bar or leftovers in Mom’s fridge.
What do they taste like? Black
licorice is the closest that describes it. You might well ask if despair
and broken dreams have a taste of their own. It’s the quintessential
taste of the “other” Washington: the permanent underclass mired in perpetual
poverty. Maybe that’s why we keep them around: garnish.
ARCHIVES/NAVY MEMORIAL
Just south and east from Chinatown
is the 7th street art corridor. Unlike many cities, Washington spreads
its artistic enclaves throughout the entire city. Whether this has some
deeper implication of the patronage and competition among the Toreador
is up to the reader to determine.
Care must be taken to avoid
the FBI building. If you have to be warned a second time, you are doubtlessly
not long for this world and not welcome in the city. The Archives and
Navy Memorial are located here on either side of Pennsylvania Avenue.
For sheer architectural overload, this is the place to be. I tried rollerblading
along the street once but was immediately entranced and had to be pulled
around like a little red wagon.
Most Washingtonians of means
leave the city during the summer weekends for the beach -- an undertaking
of exceptional risk for the local Kindred. A barely passable substitute
can be found at the salted fountains of the Navy Memorial. The plaza
(marble of course) is ringed with fountains and contains an inlaid map
of the world 25 yards in diameter. The plaza is flanked with business
towers made to look like Doric temples, and on either axis sit the National
Portrait Gallery and Archives. (No, I am not making this up! Is it to
die for or what?!) In the middle is a captivating bronze statue of a
sailor in peacoat with seabag staring expectantly towards the shore.
(A replica of which is in the main hall of my haven.) The plaza also
has the fortune to be located near a police annex and the city courthouse.
Some unfortunate can always be found strolling here on any given night.
I’ve had several dozen memorable
feedings here over the decades. I remember once in 1976, I had the pleasure
of feasting from one of the curators at the Archives. We went onto the
primary tier of the roof and crawled out onto one of the stone eagles
overlooking the street. At that time, flags were festooned along the
front, and as I exsanguinated the gentle, lovely man, the breeze draped
us in the silken fabric of American liberty. I consider it my testament
to the Bicentennial. During the 80’s I recaptured that moment again
on the top tier during the 4th of July fireworks. I drank from my partner’s
throat beneath a sky lit up in showers of flames and sparkles.
Later that same summer, I caught
a released convict washing himself in the fountains. I pinned him to
the cascading falls and let the water and blood run over us as we locked
in a tight embrace. Only later, after we had gone our separate ways,
could I recall the fantastic detail of his tattoos.
THE OLD POST OFFICE PAVILLION
One of the few truly gothic
looking structures in downtown Washington (which favors Baroque and
Classical themes obviously), the Pavilion is no longer the headquarters
of the US Postal Service. A food court, shops, and nightclubs fill the
lower levels with the uppers dedicated to Federal office space. The
pavilion’s main architectural feature is a clock tower that is open
to the public and provides an excellent and spacious view of the city.
The tower is usually closed to the public after 5 but those rules do
not apply to Toreador and their guests.
The interior of the building
features exquisite turn-of-the-century architecture and an open atrium
to the roof. It has hosted inaugural parties for several presidencies
and is imbued with a touch of aged charm like much of the city’s architecture,
including concealed passages and subbasements.
This site serves as a wonderful
tableaux for Toreador to display our largess, intelligence and charm.
A typical evening will start in the bar, making idle conversation with
likely prospects, maybe “tickling the ivories” to an appreciative audience.
Later we’ll take a stroll through the shops, pontificating on the history
of the building and city. (Since we’ve lived it firsthand we’re never
at a loss for amusing anecdotes.) Then a private ride in the glass elevator
to the top of the clocktower which never fails to elicit wonder. After
a romantic view of the city’s nightscape, timed precisely with the chiming
of the bells, dinner for the immortal guests is served.
I often have a trusted servant
on hand to escort the lucky recipient of my attentions to a waiting
cab where he or she will be whisked away to their home (address extracted
from their wallet or purse) to awake with a hangover and a vague recollection
of an ethereal stranger and a most romantic evening.
THE TIDAL BASIN
Every spring along the Tidal
Basin, the cherry trees burst into a pastiche of color and scent that
is not to be missed. Tourists from all over the region flock to see
them. The height of the bloom has yet to coincide with the Cherry Blossom
Festival, but I hold the Gangrel responsible for that.
On any given night during the
one week peak of their bloom, Toreador from all over DC (and sometimes
the world!) can be found wandering beneath the gentle pink canopy drinking
in both the sights, smells, and citizenry. It is a night of gracious
and familial spirits. At no other time of the year can one expect to
be feed next to European elders on one side and neonates on the other.
It is a time when our differences are put aside and a pseudo-carnival
atmosphere takes hold. There are games of sorts: first blood, sharpest
wit, best costume, etc. The event never gets out of hand as there are
far too many of us patrolling the grounds to cover any contingency,
and mortal retainers are always a phone call away. In a way it is our
own recreation of A Midsummer’s Night Dream.
THE DIPLOMATS
For the truly cosmopolitan
gourmand experience, nothing compares with Embassy Row. Starting from
east of Dupont Circle and extending along Massachusetts Avenue to the
US Naval Observatory, the various embassies, residences, and consulates
along this area are the ne plus ultra of the DC gourmand experience.
Vitae savored with the richness of a thousand foreign cultures can be
found here and the temptation to dive in is almost irresistible. Due
to the security risks involved it is inadvisable to try home invasions
(Presence-driven or otherwise). No, in order to get access to this segment
of society, one must hit the parties and functions of Washingtonian
society. The guest lists are guarded with an iron fist by the Toreador.
Don’t despair! Even if you’re not on their good side, there are still
avenues to explore.
AMERICAN UNIVERSITY
For international students,
American University is the school of choice, with dorms set aside exclusively
for their convenience. It is here that the wise hunter turns her attention.
Although the University is set in Tremere territory, the students regularly
tour the city in pursuit of the newest, hottest, and hippest. Ozio’s,
Zei Club, the World Bank, all of Adams Morgan are their playgrounds.
You can spot them bypassing the lines at any hot nightspot: they never
have to wait. They’re always VIP. The quickest way to bag them is gifts
and bribes. After all, the children of the international elite never
pay their own way.
THE WORLD BANK
Any social event associated
with this mammoth institution can provide you with the opportunity you
need. For obvious reasons the World Bank draws from an international
pool of staffers, and like all mortals they live, drive, workout, shop,
and eat in a dizzying variety of venues. My personal preferences are
World Bank social receptions where the herd gathers en masse and no
one stray is particularly missed. But for the less connected, try lecture
halls, cigar shops, and the toniest of tony shops.
THE KENNEDY CENTER
Anyone who’s anyone will eventually
make an appearance at the Kennedy Center, a virtual cultural palace
along the banks of the Potomac. All the classical forms can be found
here: ballet, opera, classical concerts, theaters, but lately the programme
has been broadened to include samples from the full panoply of the arts.
My personal favorite is to loiter in the men’s room and waylay patrons
who leave in the middle of a performance, but your tastes may vary.
The Kennedy Center works best when conducting reconnaissance for future
victims. The site has been designed with few private areas to accommodate
the tastes of our kind. In the summer, when the river recedes, exposing
the raw sewage on its banks, the outdoor terrace can be particularly
cruel to those with delicate olfactory equipment.
ADAMS MORGAN
If DC had a bohemian neighborhood,
this would be it--a densely packed ethnic mix of Carib, African, Latino,
Asian, and Gringo. The massive opportunities to feed are inversely proportionate
to the poverty of parking spaces. It is impossible to walk more than
one block without an exotic vintage presenting itself. The volume of
foot traffic presents a problem for those who normally feed on the street.
Your best bet is to follow your prey into one of the many bars. Barring
that, it is always possible to get your meal “to go” and arrange an
illicit liaison at the Hilton Towers on Connecticut Avenue. WARNING:
Adams Morgan has been the flashpoint for several riots over the years,
sometimes over the most innocuous of events. The area is constantly
on the verge of violence. If you see a gang of Brujah out on the town,
run, don’t walk, to the nearest exit.
U-STREET
Once a rollicking hotspot during
the Jazz Age, U-Street has only experienced sufficient renovations to
capture a small portion of it’s earlier glory. Even for Kindred there
is still an omnipresent air of menace among the citizenry, so keep your
wits about you. The good news is that the area abounds with dark alleyways,
vacant lots, and shadowy porticos. When you think of the traditional
modern feeding grounds and Racks of our kind, you’re thinking of U-Street.
The international flair may be a bit lacking but the gothic romanticism
and punk sensibilities are in such discordant blend that you can’t go
wrong with a helping of teen angst, urban resentment, or jaded cynicism.
The mortals here are like vegetables: one of the basic foodgroups that
simply must be eaten on a regular basis for good health and longevity.
FOR THOSE ON A BUDGET
I’ve never actually been poor
myself, but I’ve heard from time to time that poverty exists. Therefore,
for those of you on a budget (Brujah, Gangrel and Nosferatu) here is
my helpful tip on how to get a taste of the exotic DC cultural nightlife
even when you’re on a budget.
1. Pick your target after they
emerge from an ethnic restaurant.
2. Wait for the food to settle
into the bloodstream.
3. Lure them to a deserted
area and play international music on your boom box.
4. Close your eyes and feed.
5. Pretend its the same.
The Elders in their infinite
wisdom appointed the feeding territories to best reflect the needs and
appetites of the various clans, but each night I thank God (well, not
really, but it sounds good) that the Toreador received the lion’s share
of the best territories.
Good night. Good hunting. And
remember, I love you all!
~~ Ligadier ~~
Frank Gerkins, 2001