March 28, 2006

Looking A Gift Horst In The Mouth

My husband and I met a with a real estate agent with the unfortunate yet infinitely amusing name of Horst Helbig. Our plan was to spend an afternoon exploring a few of the neighborhoods we had chosen through our endless online searches of the DC area. We were ushered into his posh Georgetown office, and promptly handed ten thousand documents detailing Horsts expertise and how fortunate we were to have him as our agent. A few moments later, my husband received a business call, and excused himself to take it. I was immediately presented the exclusivity agreement that was the sole condition under which Horst was willing to work. Chuckling to myself at his attempt to trick the little woman, I tossed my cocktail in his fat face. No, I didn’t. I didn’t have a cocktail. And if I had, I wouldn’t have abused it. Instead, I calmly explained that, given as we had been in the city fewer than 24 hours, signing anything committing us to anything was a bit premature. With a look I could only assume meant that I was making the biggest mistake of my life; he reluctantly agreed to allow for a 24-hour exclusivity agreement. If we bought a house we saw that day, we had to go through him. In signing this, I was certain I had nothing to fear. I couldn’t have been more right.

My husband and I had detailed to Horst the types of properties we were and were not interested in viewing. We did not want Georgetown or Foggy Bottom. We did want Dupont or Capitol Hill. We did not want a condo. We did want a 3 bedroom single family home. We did not want a fixer upper. We did want a gourmet kitchen. Perimeters in place, we set off for our first look at D.C. real estate.

We were trapped Horsts car for four hours. Our only escape was to look at a one-bedroom condo in Georgetown with a 1970’s galley kitchen. The other 3 hours and 45 minutes were spent viewing the exteriors of properties Horst had previously bought, and getting treated to the details of how he managed to pull fast ones on all the sellers. By the time he suggested stopping for beer and hot wings, we needed the drink.

We stopped in at Tunnicliffs, a popular pub near the Eastern Market in Capitol Hill. Beers and hot wings ordered, we proceed to cleverly dodge questions about any future business dealings. We were more than ready to leave when Horst asked, “Should we get another order of hot wings?” “No!” my husband and I shouted, and quickly exchanged “was I too loud?” looks. Horst promptly ordered another round of wings. We promptly ordered another round of drinks. I’m not sure which happened first when my husband picked up the tab, Horst saying he would get it, or me socking my husband in the arm hard enough to make him drop the bill back on the table.

After repeated assurances that we would contact Horst within 24 hours if we decided to make a bid on anything we’d seen, we were at last returned to our hotel. The day would have been a complete waste, had the hot wings not been so good.

Buffalo Wings
12 Chicken Wings or Drummettes
1 c. Hot Sauce, divided
1 stick Butter
2 tsp. Worcestershire Sauce
1 tsp. Liquid Smoke
White Pepper, to taste
Vegetable oil, for frying

Marinate the wings in ¼ cup of the hot sauce for at least an hour. In a saucepot, combine with remaining hot sauce, butter, Worcestershire, liquid smoke, and white pepper, heat though.

Heat the oil to about 350 degrees. Fry the wings for 10 minutes, turning once. Place the wings in a baking dish, and coat with the hot sauce mixture. Place under a hot broiler for 2 to 3 minutes, or until bubbly.

Serve with Blue Cheese dressing. Do not even consider using Ranch, or I will send Horst to get you.