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International Nights
Koichi Abe continues to beam. If there is a world record for beaming, he might be on track to challenge it. A king in his court, he is the first with applause for entertainers both tin-eared and talented.
There are tambourines and air guitars and triumphant duets by a pair of sweat-drenched brothers. And when it comes time for the guest of honor to take center stage, he does so without a glimmer of embarrassment.
  Juan Carlos Hector and Diana Ram salsa on the dance floor at Cecilia's Club in Arlington. (Mark Finkenstaedt for The Washington Post) |
Sumiko snaps a picture of her singing husband, and then, just after midnight, she pushes her wire-rimmed glasses on top of her head and reclaims the mike for one more ballad, this one soft and slow, and in Japanese.
"It's so sweet it makes me cry," whispers one 20-something guest. "It's a song about how much she loves her husband."
CAFE MUSE 7356 Little River Tpk., Annandale. 703-658-9351.
The importance of a proper pregame can never be underestimated. Miriam Noori and her girlfriends know as much. You've got to slip slowly into an evening, rev up with a little gossip, a little sustenance, a little speculation about what -- and who -- is on the agenda.
"Oh, we have to go, you guys. My dad is waiting," breaks in Natasha Yousuf, looking bookish and sophisticated in a pair of designer eyeglasses.
Actually, both of her parents are waiting, so Noori, Yousuf and Malvika Mathur down the last of their Fuddruckers fries and file into the back seat of the dad-driven SUV with a handmade "Student Driver" sign in the rear window.
A year from now, when the McLean High School seniors are off at college, their Friday nights will play out a little differently. Parental escorts won't be a factor. Neither will SAT stress or debates about whether to apply to nine schools or 10.
Anyway, it's cool. Yousuf's dad will play their Arash CD during the ride to Fur nightclub, and it's not like her parents will actually go in or anything. And this is waaay better than wandering around the mall, which is what they end up doing most Friday nights.
This evening has been in the works for a while now, since Noori heard that Arash, a Persian pop singer, was making a stop in Washington. "I personally like the Black Eyed Peas and Justin Timberlake," explains the 17-year-old, whose parents emigrated from Iran. "But I've been exposed to Persian music since I was born. The TV, whenever my parents watch it, is on Persian satellite."
Yousuf, for the record, is really into old-school '90s boy bands -- "And I heard the Spice Girls are coming back," she says -- but all three have come to love Arash (just Arash, thanks) in recent years. The Iranian-born heartthrob has a couple of European chart-toppers to his name, and for a month the bulletin boards of DCPersian.com have lit up with messages from fans who "CAN'T WAIT FOR THE ARASH CONCERT!!" and haters who think he's overrated.
Thirty-five minutes and three wrong turns after leaving Tysons Corner, the dad-mobile rolls up to the club. It's only 7:30, but a line has formed, snaking its way around the side of the building in Northeast Washington.
"There's so many people wearing black," says Yousuf, 17, who chose a banana-colored tank top and aqua coverup for the occasion. "I'm like the Ukrainian flag."
The three are branded too-young-to-drink with an unsightly hand stamp. They fork over $40 tickets they purchased online and trudge down a sticky staircase into the cavernous center of the club.
Once she has staked a claim on a patch of territory two feet from the stage, Noori throws back her head to sing along with the Farsi lyrics of Persian dance hits reverberating through the room. In the wings, near the bars, an older crowd mingles with nonchalance, while the teenagers around Noori chant incessantly for Arash to take the stage.
"Ar-ash! Ar-ash! Ar-ash!" And on and on for 30 minutes, 40, 90.
Finally the singer bounds into view, smiling like a pageant contestant, and impatience is wiped away with a collective scream. Pictures of Arash -- Arash with some ladies, Arash with the Iranian soccer team, Arash with more ladies -- flash overhead as the pop star bounces and girls reach out to touch his hand.
Ninety minutes and a dozen songs later, the lights come on, and the crowd heads for the exits. But it's only 11, and the chance to continue partying lies through a set of glass doors. Noori makes it through and waves for her friends to follow.
"Gotta be 18. Gotta be 18," a mountainous bouncer bellows, planting himself directly in front of Yousuf and Mathur, 16. Heads low, the three backtrack in defeat, wondering what to do next.
A ring on Yousuf's cellphone presents the answer. "We gotta go," she says. "My parents are outside."
Persian parties, events and concerts are held regularly at various clubs in Washington. For more information, visithttp:/
The door to Fabio Oliveira's townhouse, tucked in the middle of a verdant Bowie subdivision, is already open.
"Come on in," he yells. "Make yourself at home."
The buzz of a beard trimmer floats down from the second floor to hum over the seductive slow jams of "Quiet Storm" on 96.3 FM (WHUR). The white-walled living room is immaculate and sparingly decorated, a rack of CDs on one side, a tropical painting on the other.
Ten minutes pass before Oliveira springs down the stairs in loose jeans, gleaming white tennis shoes and a T-shirt that looks as if it has been ironed. "I'm gonna go fire up the car," he pronounces and promptly vanishes for another few minutes.
Thirty-two and single, Oliveira is a loan officer and part-time student who was born in Brazil and whose outgoing voice-mail message encourages callers to "Do it! Just do it!" His Friday night routine, he explains, is this: "Come home, watch a little TV and, around this time, start getting ready." The time is 10:45, and the itinerary is just one stop, a Bladensburg club called Crossroads, known for spinning Caribbean music and attracting reggae stars.
"It's kind of a quaint little spot," Oliveira says, standing with his arms crossed, biceps protruding. "I took a liking to the culture. . . . Reminds me a little of home, too. Real laid-back. Nice people."
Oliveira locks up the house and heads to "the weekend car," a yellow 1976 Triumph idling as it infuses the neighborhood with a gaseous odor. As per usual, there are no friends to pick up or meetings to arrange. "I ride solo," he says. "I'll know people there."
Which is true, because he is there most every Friday, and when he rolls up this night, the parking attendant waves him into a choice spot near the door. "This is Lieutenant Greene," Oliveira declares, arm draped around the old man's shoulders. "Gotta know Lieutenant Greene. He'll take care of you."
The club is a box in the middle of concrete and warehouses. A dark railroad track looms to one side while imported palm trees sprinkled around the building fruitlessly attempt to evoke island breezes on a cold October night.
Hand slaps delivered to three more workers, Oliveira enters the building as a song by Damian (son of Bob) Marley comes on, which means there's no time to waste. He strides purposefully to the rear of the club, stops just before the DJ booth and begins to dance. No one stands within a 10-foot radius of Oliveira, and no one else is dancing, save a few tightly enveloped couples on the other side of the room.
Earlier in the night, the club had a live band and Caribbean buffet, but now the lights are turned down, and the music -- soca and reggae and a little R&B -- steps up to a faster, louder beat. Oliveira dips forward, shoulders going lower than his knees, then rotates up, forearms pumping, as a line of cocktail-sipping women looks on. Eventually he is joined by another guy, then two more. Sometimes people call them the Crossroads dancers, one DJ explains on a break, because they're always here and they never leave the floor.
"It's the Caribbean locked in a box and shipped to Bladensburg, Maryland, where they unwrapped it," says Alvarado Martinez, who grew up in Trinidad and now goes by the name DJ Super Slice. "You always feel at home."
Slowly the dance floor fills, but Oliveira and his boys remain in front of the DJ, where there's room to move. Seemingly at random, they break into choreographed steps for 10 seconds, then turn away and carry on on their own.
The line of lady admirers grows, but Oliveira never turns to bring them into the fold. The pickup game isn't what brings him out, he insists. "Me, personally, I'm just there to get my mind off of work and school and unwind," he says.
The unwinding continues until 3:30 a.m., when, as the club's lights blink on, he returns to the Triumph. He could have kept going, but it doesn't matter. Another Friday night is only six days away.
CROSSROADS ENTERTAINMENT COMPLEX 4103 Baltimore Ave., Bladensburg. 301-927-1056.http:/
At 10:10 on a Saturday night, every seat in the dining room of Dukem Restaurant is taken. Waitresses in long white skirts scurry among tables of bohemian students and hand-holding couples, delivering miniature bottles of chardonnay and extra bowls of injera to customers who need a little more of the Ethiopian flatbread to sop the last drops of peppery sauce from their plates.
"How spicy is spicy?" asks a middle-aged man in black leather, leaning in close so the distracted bartender can hear him loud and clear. "I mean, is it very, very spicy?"
It is, so a milder option is chosen, and the man relaxes into the warmth and noise of the wood-paneled room. The faces filling the place at this hour are mostly white, and the focus is food. But in 90 minutes that will change, as the lights dim, the shades are drawn and a keyboard that stood idle is lit up by a man in a showman's vest and purple shirt.
"Everything is cool here. The music, the singers, I like them all," says Yonas Abera, a smiling 22-year-old with bright eyes and a thin gold chain tucked into his long-sleeve T-shirt. The part-time student moved to the United States from Ethiopia less than a year ago, and though Dukem has a sister restaurant in Baltimore, where he lives, the U Street original has the scene he prefers.
"The Washington Dukem has more music, more fun," he says.
From a table near the bar, Abera watches with bemusement as his friend Minale Cherenet, 22, is pulled to the center of the restaurant by a 20-something hippie whose blond hair is wrapped in Princess Leia buns. The tables have been pushed away, and she's in the mood to dance.
The band, crowded on a tiny stage just a foot off the ground, is four people strong now, including a soprano at the mike. The woman flails about, legs kicking into the air, as Cherenet stands opposite her, hands on hips, shoulders and knees bouncing subtly and in time with the swinging rhythm.
She gives up after a few songs, and the dance floor is left to Cherenet, who is joined by Abera and a half-dozen other men who form a tight circle in a room that's now as dark and loud as any bar in Washington.
The contemporary music is watery and buoyant, and Cherenet and Abera dance as if there's a drama unfolding between them -- moving toward each other, then away, faces registering false anger and surprise, joy that might be authentic.
"See these two guys, just dancing together by themselves? They're just friends and nothing else," says Natnael Berhane, who has been overlooking the scene while his buddies sip Heinekens. "A few years ago I brought some friends here, and they thought I brought them to a gay bar."
Eventually a few women join the fold, and others look on from low tables as they chat over tea and honey wine. At the bar it's mostly men, laughing and passing cigarettes.
When the band breaks, Abera and Cherenet take their seats and order another round of cocktails, as the sound system pipes in pop hits from the late '80s. ( "It's electric! Boogie woogie, woogie!") Dukem is as busy now, at 1:30 a.m., as it was three hours ago, but there is no food in sight.
After 20 minutes, the band -- called, appropriately, the Dukem Band -- returns to its instruments, and the dance floor is flooded with a boisterous wedding party and guests in tuxedos and sparkling strapless dresses. Friends of the owner, someone says.
Abera and Cherenet just watch as if they're happily hypnotized, saying not a word for long minutes at a time. Precisely at 2 a.m., they stand to leave. It proves hard to look away, though, so the walk to the door is taken in slow motion.
DUKEM RESTAURANT 1114 U St. NW. 202-667-8735.http:/
The Dukem Band plays Friday and Saturday nights starting about 11:30.
Ellen McCarthy is a Weekend staff writer.
