"Wake up and smell the bok choy!" I was told by a long-time friend to great hilarity on my part.
Could there be a better synopsis of a three course lunch than my friend's call to acknowledge certain things while we lingered at Amour?
It's Friday so we planned a late lunch, sliding into the front table with a view of Carytown just as the last big table was finishing up their boisterous lunch.
We began with Kir Royales and my friend telling me a story about ordinariness (apparently a legal term) and how great my Vienna tights look.
That's easy for him to say; he's the one who got them for me.
Succumbing to the allure of a three course menu (because why do two courses when three are available?), we settled in for the long haul.
While Jimmy Durante sang "Young at Heart" we ordered more food than anyone should need for lunch, even on a sunny Friday.
I chose the bistro salad (Manakintowne greens, grape tomatoes, Parmesan, toasted almonds, with a honey balsamic vinaigrette), the steak grilles aux legumes (Chef's blend seasoning seared sirloin with red onion relish, parsley and chive salad vinaigrette and, wait, was that bok choy?), topped off with the chocolate creme brulee with sea salt.
My friend, not to be outdone, had a crab cake followed by rare duck breast and then the tart tatin.
And while he had to be somewhat good because he at least intended to go back to work for a while (after a Kir Royale, it should be noted), all bets were off with me, so I also chose the wine pairings.
My steak called for a Bordeaux, and the Chateau Garat Bel Air gave me the black currant weight to stand up to it.
For the dessert course, I savored a Muscat de Rivesalt Ambre, aged for at least two years I was told and a worthy partner for the dark chocolate of my creme brulee.
I then enjoyed an Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Blanc de Blanc, basically a champagne from a few miles outside of Champagne.
As I drank my bubbles, my friend crowed about his tart tatin and Calvados pairing, a combination of which he is inordinately fond.
When he got near the end of this classic close to a meal, he suggested I have a bite,
"I can't," I protested. "I'm too full!"
"What?" he said, dramatically putting a hand to his ear. "What words did I just hear you utter?"
Okay, maybe not so full I couldn't appreciate the classic pairing of apples and apple brandy.
I'm at least wise enough to realize that there is a reason the French have been savoring this pairing for centuries.
By the time we broke camp and headed out into the late afternoon Carytown madness, we'd covered his hair shirt moments (not to divulge too much, but butter was involved), travel companions who are different than girlfriends and the appeal of an absinthe drip.
"Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder," he noted dryly.
That all depends on with whom you choose to drink absinthe.
On Jimmy Durante's advice, I plan to limit my absinthe sharing to those who are young at heart.
Besides, for a lunch as good as today's, absinthe would have been superfluous.
Never let it be said that I can't wake up and smell the bok choy.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Smile Like You Mean It
I got it from all sides tonight.
The swine was on the wall and on my plate. The relationship advice came from a sculptor who no longer believes in art. The travel advice came from a Sicilian with whom I discussed South Africa.
Ghostprint Gallery was hosting a preview of "Chroma Shift: Leslie Herman and Neal Iwan," two VCU graduates with very different work.
Herman's prints and drawings spoke to the music lover in me. "The "Strokes" was all cigarettes, coffee cups and five young men looking in different directions.
"Ian Curtis" was a face and a hand holding a microphone, compelling for the engmatic nature of Curtis' expression.
A couple of the prints were for shows I'd seen. "Okkervil River: Richmond" was for the show they'd done with Wye Oak last Fall that I'd so enjoyed.
Probably my favorite was "Explosions in the Sky." an ink and gouache on paper that called to me (well, except for the $750 price tag), partly because I'd been at that show,but also because of its whimsical imagery.
It was of a woman's face with a hat and veil, but the hat morphed into something fantastical with twigs and explosions trailing off the top of the page.
It perfectly encapsulated visually what it feels like when you hear Explosions in the Sky playing their dynamic post-rock.
Meanwhile on the other side of the gallery, Neal Iwan's oil paintings showed a variety of domesticated animals.
"Swine," a painting the artist said took him five hours to finish, showed that tastiest of animals, pigs, clearly represented without any embellishment.
Next to it, "Crowded" showed more pigs, these with occasional drips of paint through them. Iwan is an artist who likes to let the paint do what it does.
By the time I arrived at the show, two of his paintings had already sold, including my favorite, "The Herd."
Dabs of brown paint emerge from a lime green canvas to describe a herd of horses running toward the viewer.
Here the brushwork was more loose and evocative than definitive; I found the immediacy of it captivating.
The artist indicated that it was indicative of the direction his work has been taking of late.
I ran into an old friend at the show, a sculptor and former long-time teacher at VCU.
We talked art for a while but his disgust with the direction art took several decades ago left him with little tolerance for the lack of questioning in contemporary art.
I only hope I never get so jaded that I can't appreciate the latest generation of artists coming up.
He did tell me a sweet story about him and his girlfriend ("We see each other three times a week. Not on Thursdays!" he clarified), whom he'd met in the 80s.
"We liked each other then," he said, "But both our egos were too big. We got back together a few years ago and now everything's wonderful."
His grin looked awfully satisfied.
That's the secret, I guess. Find someone, send them packing and then reconnect decades later for a happy ending.
With new-found knowledge and my stomach growling, I left J-Ward for Six Burner and some sustenance.
On the actor/bartender's effusive recommendation ("This is the smoothest wine in the world"), I had the Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de la Bouissiere," a Cotes du Rhone also described as "midnight in a glass."
And as long as we're talking about smooth and midnight, it should be noted that tonight's music at Six Burner was not the usual.
Vintage R & B (Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Lou Reed, Barry White) made for a livelier vibe than usual, delighting the bartender and giving me something I don't often listen to.
But tonight was not so much about music as food.
I love how Six Burner's menu changes every day, but it means that sometimes I just can't pick only one thing.
Accepting my gluttony, I started with roasted eel and sauteed sweetbreads with pickled watermelon radishes (so pretty!), turnip-braised cabbage, lardoons and XO sauce.
Besides being an exquisitely beautiful presentation (a food fashion spread on a rectangular plate, so to speak), it was a perfect balance of rich and tart, with the sweet/spicy XO sauce lending an extra kick to all of it.
Granted, I could have stopped there. Instead, I ordered the confit pork belly cassoulet with Spanish Chorizo, Olli prosciutto, apples and local speckled butter beans and crowder peas.
At its essence, it was pork and beans with apples and of course it was so much more than that.
The toothsome beans and peas were as impressive as the variety of swine products and the sweet cooked apples the ideal contrast to the salty meats.
Then the food coma set in.
Fortunately, a guy had sat down one stool away from me, so I figured now was the time to seek out some after-dinner conversation since I was unable to do anything more strenuous than talk.
He turned out to be a Manhattan transplant who lives near VCU and loves to eat out and travel. He justified both by explaining that he was Italian, Sicilian specifically.
"Where in Europe have you been?" he asked right of the bat.
My answer of England and Scotland didn't satisfy him.
"You need to go to Italy," he instructed. "You need to do Venice first, then Florence and Rome. I can already tell you'd love the food and wine."
He graciously said I needn't do Sicily until I'd seen the other three first.
I managed to stop him from lecturing me about my Italy omission by bringing up South Africa, a place we'd both been.
He told a story of a Londoner he'd met in South Africa who'd lectured him about seeing everything you could now because there was no guarantee any of it would be around for future generations.
Naturally he felt obligated to pass on that lecture to me.
When he asked how I'd ended up in Richmond, the conversation took a turn and I took charge.
Despite fifteen years here, he had almost no idea of what to do at night besides going out to eat.
Oh, my new Italian friend with the New York accent, let me tell you some of what there is to do in this town.
I'm happy to say that by the time I finished with him (and my wine), he was leaving for Balliceaux, a place he didn't even know existed (despite living six blocks from it) to hear No BS, a band he'd never heard of before I told him about them.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he said when he got up. "I hope I'll see you around someplace."
No problem, toots. It's just what I do. And if you do go out, you're bound to eventually see me.
I get it from all sides and I give it right back. With a smile, mind you.
Always with a smile.
The swine was on the wall and on my plate. The relationship advice came from a sculptor who no longer believes in art. The travel advice came from a Sicilian with whom I discussed South Africa.
Ghostprint Gallery was hosting a preview of "Chroma Shift: Leslie Herman and Neal Iwan," two VCU graduates with very different work.
Herman's prints and drawings spoke to the music lover in me. "The "Strokes" was all cigarettes, coffee cups and five young men looking in different directions.
"Ian Curtis" was a face and a hand holding a microphone, compelling for the engmatic nature of Curtis' expression.
A couple of the prints were for shows I'd seen. "Okkervil River: Richmond" was for the show they'd done with Wye Oak last Fall that I'd so enjoyed.
Probably my favorite was "Explosions in the Sky." an ink and gouache on paper that called to me (well, except for the $750 price tag), partly because I'd been at that show,but also because of its whimsical imagery.
It was of a woman's face with a hat and veil, but the hat morphed into something fantastical with twigs and explosions trailing off the top of the page.
It perfectly encapsulated visually what it feels like when you hear Explosions in the Sky playing their dynamic post-rock.
Meanwhile on the other side of the gallery, Neal Iwan's oil paintings showed a variety of domesticated animals.
"Swine," a painting the artist said took him five hours to finish, showed that tastiest of animals, pigs, clearly represented without any embellishment.
Next to it, "Crowded" showed more pigs, these with occasional drips of paint through them. Iwan is an artist who likes to let the paint do what it does.
By the time I arrived at the show, two of his paintings had already sold, including my favorite, "The Herd."
Dabs of brown paint emerge from a lime green canvas to describe a herd of horses running toward the viewer.
Here the brushwork was more loose and evocative than definitive; I found the immediacy of it captivating.
The artist indicated that it was indicative of the direction his work has been taking of late.
I ran into an old friend at the show, a sculptor and former long-time teacher at VCU.
We talked art for a while but his disgust with the direction art took several decades ago left him with little tolerance for the lack of questioning in contemporary art.
I only hope I never get so jaded that I can't appreciate the latest generation of artists coming up.
He did tell me a sweet story about him and his girlfriend ("We see each other three times a week. Not on Thursdays!" he clarified), whom he'd met in the 80s.
"We liked each other then," he said, "But both our egos were too big. We got back together a few years ago and now everything's wonderful."
His grin looked awfully satisfied.
That's the secret, I guess. Find someone, send them packing and then reconnect decades later for a happy ending.
With new-found knowledge and my stomach growling, I left J-Ward for Six Burner and some sustenance.
On the actor/bartender's effusive recommendation ("This is the smoothest wine in the world"), I had the Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de la Bouissiere," a Cotes du Rhone also described as "midnight in a glass."
And as long as we're talking about smooth and midnight, it should be noted that tonight's music at Six Burner was not the usual.
Vintage R & B (Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Lou Reed, Barry White) made for a livelier vibe than usual, delighting the bartender and giving me something I don't often listen to.
But tonight was not so much about music as food.
I love how Six Burner's menu changes every day, but it means that sometimes I just can't pick only one thing.
Accepting my gluttony, I started with roasted eel and sauteed sweetbreads with pickled watermelon radishes (so pretty!), turnip-braised cabbage, lardoons and XO sauce.
Besides being an exquisitely beautiful presentation (a food fashion spread on a rectangular plate, so to speak), it was a perfect balance of rich and tart, with the sweet/spicy XO sauce lending an extra kick to all of it.
Granted, I could have stopped there. Instead, I ordered the confit pork belly cassoulet with Spanish Chorizo, Olli prosciutto, apples and local speckled butter beans and crowder peas.
At its essence, it was pork and beans with apples and of course it was so much more than that.
The toothsome beans and peas were as impressive as the variety of swine products and the sweet cooked apples the ideal contrast to the salty meats.
Then the food coma set in.
Fortunately, a guy had sat down one stool away from me, so I figured now was the time to seek out some after-dinner conversation since I was unable to do anything more strenuous than talk.
He turned out to be a Manhattan transplant who lives near VCU and loves to eat out and travel. He justified both by explaining that he was Italian, Sicilian specifically.
"Where in Europe have you been?" he asked right of the bat.
My answer of England and Scotland didn't satisfy him.
"You need to go to Italy," he instructed. "You need to do Venice first, then Florence and Rome. I can already tell you'd love the food and wine."
He graciously said I needn't do Sicily until I'd seen the other three first.
I managed to stop him from lecturing me about my Italy omission by bringing up South Africa, a place we'd both been.
He told a story of a Londoner he'd met in South Africa who'd lectured him about seeing everything you could now because there was no guarantee any of it would be around for future generations.
Naturally he felt obligated to pass on that lecture to me.
When he asked how I'd ended up in Richmond, the conversation took a turn and I took charge.
Despite fifteen years here, he had almost no idea of what to do at night besides going out to eat.
Oh, my new Italian friend with the New York accent, let me tell you some of what there is to do in this town.
I'm happy to say that by the time I finished with him (and my wine), he was leaving for Balliceaux, a place he didn't even know existed (despite living six blocks from it) to hear No BS, a band he'd never heard of before I told him about them.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he said when he got up. "I hope I'll see you around someplace."
No problem, toots. It's just what I do. And if you do go out, you're bound to eventually see me.
I get it from all sides and I give it right back. With a smile, mind you.
Always with a smile.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Standing Room Only
If romantic comedies are date movies, does that make historical dramas about sex nerd date movies?
Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.
Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.
Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.
One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.
Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.
It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.
Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.
A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.
Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.
A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."
Not true.
Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).
Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.
If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.
But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.
That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.
If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.
It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.
I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.
Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.
"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."
Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.
Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.
Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.
But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.
You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true
I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?
The spanking, however, I could do without.
Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.
Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.
Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.
One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.
Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.
It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.
Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.
A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.
Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.
A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."
Not true.
Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).
Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.
If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.
But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.
That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.
If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.
It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.
I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.
Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.
"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."
Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.
Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.
Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.
But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.
You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true
I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?
The spanking, however, I could do without.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Snap, Crackle, Pop
Spring fever is rampant in Richmond today.
Luckily I was meeting a friend for lunch, so I already knew I'd have an outlet for celebrating the first day of February and the 72-degree temperatures that rolled in with the new month.
At Aziza's on Main, the front door was propped open and a warm breeze blew into the nearly-full restaurant.
We took one of the only two tables open, right in the center of the room, and got the ordering out of the way so we could talk.
She told me about the recent Hill and Holler wine dinner in Charlottesville that I had missed (with good reason but hopefully not the next one), including all the juicy details.
I told her about the mutual friend who'd made my day by inviting me to hear his band, drink wine with him and meet a favorite winemaker.
We're both big fans of Aziza's food and today I enjoyed a rich Chorizo and white cheddar quiche with a salad of mesclun while she did her favorite, the tuna, white beans and arugula with a side of stuffed grape leaves.
The only way our lunch could have been better would have been if we'd been sitting at a farmhouse table outside somewhere with a bottle of wine.
Say, like in Orvieto, where she's headed for a trip this summer.
We talked about her travel plans and mine, her work and mine and her personal life and mine.
In all likelihood, we'd have lingered indefinitely but the sunny day called, so we walked down the block to Globehopper so she could get some caffeine.
Standing at the counter, one of the servers looked at me and asked where I worked. Home, I said.
"But I know you," she insisted and, indeed, her face was familiar.
The owner looked back and forth at us and asked me, "Do you go to the theater?" All the time, said I.
"Twelfth Night!" the girl exclaimed. "Front row, right?"
Yes, I agreed, now recognizing her as one of the actresses from the recent staged reading that Richmond Shakespeare had done.
Who knew that the actors noticed the people in the audience, even those of us who sit in the front row?
And once again, the three degrees of separation in Richmond were randomly demonstrated.
Moving down the counter to pay for her coffee, our sweet tooths took us right to the Rice Krispie treats by the register.
She scooped up one the size of a man's fist and we adjourned to the back garden (although not to the kissing bench) to enjoy the sunshine and savor a childhood treat.
I don't know how people go back to work after a sunny interlude like that.
Luckily I didn't have to.
Luckily I was meeting a friend for lunch, so I already knew I'd have an outlet for celebrating the first day of February and the 72-degree temperatures that rolled in with the new month.
At Aziza's on Main, the front door was propped open and a warm breeze blew into the nearly-full restaurant.
We took one of the only two tables open, right in the center of the room, and got the ordering out of the way so we could talk.
She told me about the recent Hill and Holler wine dinner in Charlottesville that I had missed (with good reason but hopefully not the next one), including all the juicy details.
I told her about the mutual friend who'd made my day by inviting me to hear his band, drink wine with him and meet a favorite winemaker.
We're both big fans of Aziza's food and today I enjoyed a rich Chorizo and white cheddar quiche with a salad of mesclun while she did her favorite, the tuna, white beans and arugula with a side of stuffed grape leaves.
The only way our lunch could have been better would have been if we'd been sitting at a farmhouse table outside somewhere with a bottle of wine.
Say, like in Orvieto, where she's headed for a trip this summer.
We talked about her travel plans and mine, her work and mine and her personal life and mine.
In all likelihood, we'd have lingered indefinitely but the sunny day called, so we walked down the block to Globehopper so she could get some caffeine.
Standing at the counter, one of the servers looked at me and asked where I worked. Home, I said.
"But I know you," she insisted and, indeed, her face was familiar.
The owner looked back and forth at us and asked me, "Do you go to the theater?" All the time, said I.
"Twelfth Night!" the girl exclaimed. "Front row, right?"
Yes, I agreed, now recognizing her as one of the actresses from the recent staged reading that Richmond Shakespeare had done.
Who knew that the actors noticed the people in the audience, even those of us who sit in the front row?
And once again, the three degrees of separation in Richmond were randomly demonstrated.
Moving down the counter to pay for her coffee, our sweet tooths took us right to the Rice Krispie treats by the register.
She scooped up one the size of a man's fist and we adjourned to the back garden (although not to the kissing bench) to enjoy the sunshine and savor a childhood treat.
I don't know how people go back to work after a sunny interlude like that.
Luckily I didn't have to.
Of Language and Love Songs
It's a rare night when I can sandwich in Tennessee between Romania and Prague.
Things got rolling at the Grace Street Theater where the VCU Cinematheque series restarted for the semester with a Cannes double award winner, "Police, Adjective."
I've stated for the record that I'm a huge fan of this (free) film series which shows independent foreign films that never quite made it to Richmond.
Tonight's gem played to a nearly full house and given that it was Romanian New Wave, deservedly so.
The movie about an undercover cop who is tailing a high school kid suspected of selling hash had less to do with cops and crime and everything to do with language.
When his superior insists that he initiate a sting operation to arrest the kid, the hero resists because he doesn't want to ruin the kid's life merely for being irresponsible.
The payoff comes when the boss challenges him on why not. The hero doesn't want it on his conscience that he's ruined a kid's life.
It's at that point that the dictionary comes out and the boss has him look up conscience and discuss it. Next comes looking up moral, then police.
Everything comes down to interpretation of language and, frankly, this language geek couldn't have been more amused at a black comedy about the language police enforcing word usage.
As if that wasn't pleasurable enough, I found myself seated next to a former Media General colleague (and his partner) who was also let go in the great recession of 2008.
When I asked what he'd been up to, he regaled me with stories of his travels since he retired/got laid off.
Their last trip had been to Rome, Florence, Sienna and the hill towns of Tuscany.
Telling me a hilarious story about a bus driver who drove them up a mountain in his own car because it was a holiday and the taxis and buses weren't running, he advised, "You have to go to Florence."
I'll get right on that.
Their upcoming trip is to Amsterdam, the Riviera, the Loire Valley and Paris ("because it's on the way," he insisted).
I like his version of being laid off even more than my own.
After bidding the travelers goodnight, I headed over to City Dogs for a Tennessee slaw dog with mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw.
Pig and cabbage was just what I needed to fortify myself before the next portion of the evening.
Meanwhile, a quick stop in the ladies' room provided a wealth of reading material on the chalkboard walls.
My favorite: "Love guys with beards? Become a whiskerina! Visit beardleague.org."
Somehow I wasn't surprised to learn about the Follicles of the James Stache and Beard League. I know I have more bearded male friends than not.
Why shouldn't they have a fan club?
And on that pleasant note, I got myself to Balliceaux for Oceans versus Daughter, which is usually three Americans, one Brit and one Czech who came together in Prague and have been making music ever since.
For the recent past, though, lead singer Flanna has been back in the colonies and touring the northeast with two members of our own indie royalty, Kevin and Marshall of Marionette while her band is back in Prague.
She did the first couple of songs solo, pairing her lovely voice with just keyboards before having Marshall and Kevin join her onstage to fill out her sound.
Telling us she was going to sing a song about poison cake, she called to the guys in the kitchen, asking if they made poison cakes.
Somehow they heard "poison snakes" and there was some back and forth before the song began.
And the songs were exquisite; "Fire" was about being destroyed by a guy ("You hurt me, I hate you. I hope that you die in a fire") while she said "Don't Try" was about listening to that little voice in your head.
Midway through she told the crowd that she had CDs (pay what you will), T-shirts and tote bags.
"This is my QVC moment," she explained before suggesting that Marionette do the same.
"It's over there," Marshall said with his usual understated charm. "Y'all know."
We do.
We were also treated to Flanna joining them for two Marionette songs, including the first track off their upcoming EP, a song called "Shades of Doubt."
It was quite a song. In the over four years that I have been seeing this band, they continue to impress me as they develop musically and lyrically.
Then it was back to OvD and the trio finished up with "Take Care," a fitting close to their set.
When the night is through
The light of the moon awakens you
And the day has come again for you
I'll take care of you
Despite the happy ending, the crowd (me included) called for one more and Flanna alone returned to the stage for "Lips of Justice."
I've been several places
In my heart you've come along
My trailing train
And then the show was over and the room was filled with people raving to each other about what we'd just heard.
A friend summed it up. "When I look back on my twenties, I'm going to think of how lucky I was to have heard shows like this at Balliceaux."
The fact is, at any age a person could look back and remember how lucky they were to have nights like this.
I'll send you a letter
I'll write you a song
Please hold your horses
It won't be too long
Things got rolling at the Grace Street Theater where the VCU Cinematheque series restarted for the semester with a Cannes double award winner, "Police, Adjective."
I've stated for the record that I'm a huge fan of this (free) film series which shows independent foreign films that never quite made it to Richmond.
Tonight's gem played to a nearly full house and given that it was Romanian New Wave, deservedly so.
The movie about an undercover cop who is tailing a high school kid suspected of selling hash had less to do with cops and crime and everything to do with language.
When his superior insists that he initiate a sting operation to arrest the kid, the hero resists because he doesn't want to ruin the kid's life merely for being irresponsible.
The payoff comes when the boss challenges him on why not. The hero doesn't want it on his conscience that he's ruined a kid's life.
It's at that point that the dictionary comes out and the boss has him look up conscience and discuss it. Next comes looking up moral, then police.
Everything comes down to interpretation of language and, frankly, this language geek couldn't have been more amused at a black comedy about the language police enforcing word usage.
As if that wasn't pleasurable enough, I found myself seated next to a former Media General colleague (and his partner) who was also let go in the great recession of 2008.
When I asked what he'd been up to, he regaled me with stories of his travels since he retired/got laid off.
Their last trip had been to Rome, Florence, Sienna and the hill towns of Tuscany.
Telling me a hilarious story about a bus driver who drove them up a mountain in his own car because it was a holiday and the taxis and buses weren't running, he advised, "You have to go to Florence."
I'll get right on that.
Their upcoming trip is to Amsterdam, the Riviera, the Loire Valley and Paris ("because it's on the way," he insisted).
I like his version of being laid off even more than my own.
After bidding the travelers goodnight, I headed over to City Dogs for a Tennessee slaw dog with mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw.
Pig and cabbage was just what I needed to fortify myself before the next portion of the evening.
Meanwhile, a quick stop in the ladies' room provided a wealth of reading material on the chalkboard walls.
My favorite: "Love guys with beards? Become a whiskerina! Visit beardleague.org."
Somehow I wasn't surprised to learn about the Follicles of the James Stache and Beard League. I know I have more bearded male friends than not.
Why shouldn't they have a fan club?
And on that pleasant note, I got myself to Balliceaux for Oceans versus Daughter, which is usually three Americans, one Brit and one Czech who came together in Prague and have been making music ever since.
For the recent past, though, lead singer Flanna has been back in the colonies and touring the northeast with two members of our own indie royalty, Kevin and Marshall of Marionette while her band is back in Prague.
She did the first couple of songs solo, pairing her lovely voice with just keyboards before having Marshall and Kevin join her onstage to fill out her sound.
Telling us she was going to sing a song about poison cake, she called to the guys in the kitchen, asking if they made poison cakes.
Somehow they heard "poison snakes" and there was some back and forth before the song began.
And the songs were exquisite; "Fire" was about being destroyed by a guy ("You hurt me, I hate you. I hope that you die in a fire") while she said "Don't Try" was about listening to that little voice in your head.
Midway through she told the crowd that she had CDs (pay what you will), T-shirts and tote bags.
"This is my QVC moment," she explained before suggesting that Marionette do the same.
"It's over there," Marshall said with his usual understated charm. "Y'all know."
We do.
We were also treated to Flanna joining them for two Marionette songs, including the first track off their upcoming EP, a song called "Shades of Doubt."
It was quite a song. In the over four years that I have been seeing this band, they continue to impress me as they develop musically and lyrically.
Then it was back to OvD and the trio finished up with "Take Care," a fitting close to their set.
When the night is through
The light of the moon awakens you
And the day has come again for you
I'll take care of you
Despite the happy ending, the crowd (me included) called for one more and Flanna alone returned to the stage for "Lips of Justice."
I've been several places
In my heart you've come along
My trailing train
And then the show was over and the room was filled with people raving to each other about what we'd just heard.
A friend summed it up. "When I look back on my twenties, I'm going to think of how lucky I was to have heard shows like this at Balliceaux."
The fact is, at any age a person could look back and remember how lucky they were to have nights like this.
I'll send you a letter
I'll write you a song
Please hold your horses
It won't be too long
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Viola da Gamba for Dummies
It's not as hard as I would have thought to find someone to go hear Bach with me.
I offered up wine and cheese (and not just any cheese, but my favorite, Taleggio, and to an Italian yet) as an incentive and was able to find a willing music-lover to go to the Modlin Center with me to hear the "Three Sonatas for Viola da Gamba and Harpsichord."
Yet again I got sucked into that labyrinth of a campus but we managed to get excellent seats fairly near the front despite a good-sized crowd and our last minute arrival.
With no real idea what a viola da gamba was, I appreciated the soloist taking the time to explain about the six or seven stringed instrument once so popular in Renaissance and Baroque times and now largely unknown.
I'm sure part of that is the gamba (legs) part of the instrument. Holding a stringed instrument the size of a cello between your legs with no stand under it has got to be quite an inner thigh workout.
Likewise for finally learning that the harpsichord is a plucked and not struck instrument. Clearly my musical education ended after elementary school's autoharps and "This Land is Your Land."
Despite being surrounded by the walls and stage of Booker Hall, I found myself transported to an 18th century drawing room and the kind of entertainment that might have been put on for a small group of friends and family.
All three sonatas were beautifully performed by visiting soloist Lisa Terry on viola da gamba and UR's Joanne Kong on harpsichord, with the last one being the most affecting.
Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't recognize Bach unless I had a program.
But reading how rarely these sonatas are performed, it seemed like a stellar opportunity to go hear them.
And isn't it about time I did?
When they were over, Terry invited the audience to come up and see the instruments and ask any questions.
A student, and probably a music student, made his way up on stage to ask if he could play it for a minute and she happily handed it over.
In doing so, she told him that the elaborate wooden scroll at the top of the viola was not original to the instrument.
"It should be a fat lady's face, but I didn't like that," she explained. "So I had an English scroll put on instead."
Women like that don't have any trouble getting a guy to go hear Bach with them.
The rest of us work with what we've got...and augment with Taleggio.
I offered up wine and cheese (and not just any cheese, but my favorite, Taleggio, and to an Italian yet) as an incentive and was able to find a willing music-lover to go to the Modlin Center with me to hear the "Three Sonatas for Viola da Gamba and Harpsichord."
Yet again I got sucked into that labyrinth of a campus but we managed to get excellent seats fairly near the front despite a good-sized crowd and our last minute arrival.
With no real idea what a viola da gamba was, I appreciated the soloist taking the time to explain about the six or seven stringed instrument once so popular in Renaissance and Baroque times and now largely unknown.
I'm sure part of that is the gamba (legs) part of the instrument. Holding a stringed instrument the size of a cello between your legs with no stand under it has got to be quite an inner thigh workout.
Likewise for finally learning that the harpsichord is a plucked and not struck instrument. Clearly my musical education ended after elementary school's autoharps and "This Land is Your Land."
Despite being surrounded by the walls and stage of Booker Hall, I found myself transported to an 18th century drawing room and the kind of entertainment that might have been put on for a small group of friends and family.
All three sonatas were beautifully performed by visiting soloist Lisa Terry on viola da gamba and UR's Joanne Kong on harpsichord, with the last one being the most affecting.
Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't recognize Bach unless I had a program.
But reading how rarely these sonatas are performed, it seemed like a stellar opportunity to go hear them.
And isn't it about time I did?
When they were over, Terry invited the audience to come up and see the instruments and ask any questions.
A student, and probably a music student, made his way up on stage to ask if he could play it for a minute and she happily handed it over.
In doing so, she told him that the elaborate wooden scroll at the top of the viola was not original to the instrument.
"It should be a fat lady's face, but I didn't like that," she explained. "So I had an English scroll put on instead."
Women like that don't have any trouble getting a guy to go hear Bach with them.
The rest of us work with what we've got...and augment with Taleggio.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Mirror Ball Lunch
You think you know a friend.
She's someone you see all the time at music shows, so you know you have that in common.
The two of you have talked about a mutual preference for warm weather and the cute clothes that go with it.
But when you meet for lunch at Crossroads and really get to talking, you discover that you have The Trifecta in common, too.
Over her grilled cheese and your BLT (both on the server-recommended sourdough), you lunch with someone who knows exactly what it's like when life decides to clobber you not once or twice, but three successive times.
And yet here we both were.
Still, it's rare to find someone who can relate to losing your job, your partner and your health before you've even had time to get up after the previous loss.
For her, it all happened in a two-year period; for me, it was a mere eight weeks.
So with techno music blaring (she said, "I feel like there should be a disco ball in here," and she's a dance party fanatic), we talk about how life's 1-2-3 punch had changed us.
Consensus: life is way too short.
She used to be a perfectionist and now she's far more laid back. I used to be an early riser and now I go to be a couple of hours before I used to get up.
We both cherish the free time that our reduced incomes allow for. We welcome the challenge of living on less and enjoying life more.
Neither of us can be bothered to sweat the small stuff. And once you've been run over by the triple play of life, it's all small stuff.
So if you see us at the show tomorrow night, we'll be the ones grinning like we've got the greatest lives around.
The way we see it, we do.
She's someone you see all the time at music shows, so you know you have that in common.
The two of you have talked about a mutual preference for warm weather and the cute clothes that go with it.
But when you meet for lunch at Crossroads and really get to talking, you discover that you have The Trifecta in common, too.
Over her grilled cheese and your BLT (both on the server-recommended sourdough), you lunch with someone who knows exactly what it's like when life decides to clobber you not once or twice, but three successive times.
And yet here we both were.
Still, it's rare to find someone who can relate to losing your job, your partner and your health before you've even had time to get up after the previous loss.
For her, it all happened in a two-year period; for me, it was a mere eight weeks.
So with techno music blaring (she said, "I feel like there should be a disco ball in here," and she's a dance party fanatic), we talk about how life's 1-2-3 punch had changed us.
Consensus: life is way too short.
She used to be a perfectionist and now she's far more laid back. I used to be an early riser and now I go to be a couple of hours before I used to get up.
We both cherish the free time that our reduced incomes allow for. We welcome the challenge of living on less and enjoying life more.
Neither of us can be bothered to sweat the small stuff. And once you've been run over by the triple play of life, it's all small stuff.
So if you see us at the show tomorrow night, we'll be the ones grinning like we've got the greatest lives around.
The way we see it, we do.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Atta Boy
It's a wonder everyone isn't sick right now given the see-saw rhythm of the weather this January.
And of course some people are.
Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."
Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.
Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.
In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."
So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.
Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.
I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.
Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.
Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.
Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.
It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.
I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.
Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.
Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.
And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.
And of course some people are.
Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."
Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.
Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.
In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."
So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.
Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.
I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.
Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.
Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.
Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.
It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.
I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.
Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.
Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.
And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.
Welcome to Salon G
Some people I can have fun with no matter what the circumstance.
So even when it's impossible to get the server's attention, even when the restaurant is out of not one but two of the wines we tried to order (one bottle, one glass), even when after asking for a food menu we are never given the chance to order food, we persevere.
After all, we haven't gotten together in three weeks and we are just happy to be in each other's company.
Still, it rankles to have so much go wrong when we choose a place I had previously written off but decided to give yet another chance.
Sometimes I am too forgiving.
After the painful process of getting wine and then being ignored right up through trying to pay the check, we knew enough to vacate the premises.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I need never return to your establishment.
And yet the evening was redeemed almost immediately.
With a short drive to Bistro 27, we entered a bustling dining room, found two stools at the bar and were greeted enthusiastically by the handsome bartender who'd gone from being a long-hair to looking like a male model with his freshly shorn locks.
They weren't out of the wine we wanted (Pont de Crillon Cotes du Rhone), 27 guy was in the stool next to me to say hello (and ask me about Happy Hour at the Hipp) and the bartender said, "The Chef and I were just saying last night that Karen hadn't been in for a while."
Truth is, I had been in less than two weeks ago, but neither of them had been working so my visit had gone unnoticed except by my partner in crime who was not there to act as my witness tonight.
Unlike at our previous stop, we had no problem ordering and by that point in the evening, only the Wagyu Kobe-style beef cheeseburger was going to do it for me.
A juicy burger smothered in Fontina and mushrooms and an abundance of fries paved the way for conversation about making your feelings known in a relationship, taking off one's bra immediately when it gets a red wine stain and how 36-year old men are old enough to decide with whom they want to sleep.
Don't get us started because we just feed off of each other and we have opinions about everything..
After dinner we pulled in some fresh meat to join the conversation about restaurants good and bad.
By the time I drove my friend home, we'd moved on to a discussion of the kind of place we would open if given the opportunity.
Let's just say it would involve scintillating guests, well-priced wine that was always in stock and attentive servers. A small plate menu and a traditional menu. Not a single TV screen. Lots of couches.
And great music, always the perfect music.
People would come, not to chat with the person they arrived with, but to be part of a bigger discussion of ideas and philosophy and art.
Friend and I would facilitate by introducing worthy conversational partners and tossing out discussion points.
Yeesh. Give a couple of bookish types some Cotes du Rhone and next thing you know they're fantasizing like a couple of schoolgirls.
That is, when they're not laughing uproariously at themselves.
So even when it's impossible to get the server's attention, even when the restaurant is out of not one but two of the wines we tried to order (one bottle, one glass), even when after asking for a food menu we are never given the chance to order food, we persevere.
After all, we haven't gotten together in three weeks and we are just happy to be in each other's company.
Still, it rankles to have so much go wrong when we choose a place I had previously written off but decided to give yet another chance.
Sometimes I am too forgiving.
After the painful process of getting wine and then being ignored right up through trying to pay the check, we knew enough to vacate the premises.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I need never return to your establishment.
And yet the evening was redeemed almost immediately.
With a short drive to Bistro 27, we entered a bustling dining room, found two stools at the bar and were greeted enthusiastically by the handsome bartender who'd gone from being a long-hair to looking like a male model with his freshly shorn locks.
They weren't out of the wine we wanted (Pont de Crillon Cotes du Rhone), 27 guy was in the stool next to me to say hello (and ask me about Happy Hour at the Hipp) and the bartender said, "The Chef and I were just saying last night that Karen hadn't been in for a while."
Truth is, I had been in less than two weeks ago, but neither of them had been working so my visit had gone unnoticed except by my partner in crime who was not there to act as my witness tonight.
Unlike at our previous stop, we had no problem ordering and by that point in the evening, only the Wagyu Kobe-style beef cheeseburger was going to do it for me.
A juicy burger smothered in Fontina and mushrooms and an abundance of fries paved the way for conversation about making your feelings known in a relationship, taking off one's bra immediately when it gets a red wine stain and how 36-year old men are old enough to decide with whom they want to sleep.
Don't get us started because we just feed off of each other and we have opinions about everything..
After dinner we pulled in some fresh meat to join the conversation about restaurants good and bad.
By the time I drove my friend home, we'd moved on to a discussion of the kind of place we would open if given the opportunity.
Let's just say it would involve scintillating guests, well-priced wine that was always in stock and attentive servers. A small plate menu and a traditional menu. Not a single TV screen. Lots of couches.
And great music, always the perfect music.
People would come, not to chat with the person they arrived with, but to be part of a bigger discussion of ideas and philosophy and art.
Friend and I would facilitate by introducing worthy conversational partners and tossing out discussion points.
Yeesh. Give a couple of bookish types some Cotes du Rhone and next thing you know they're fantasizing like a couple of schoolgirls.
That is, when they're not laughing uproariously at themselves.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Absinthe for Modern Masters
You go to the VMFA with a person in 1992 and next thing you know, they're expecting you to go again in 2012.
And yet, it's hard to know where to start when showing someone the museum for the first time since pre-renovation.
It seemed easier to start with the present and work back, so Mocha Dick got our attention first before heading into the 21st Century galleries.
With only two days left to see it, I made sure we checked out "Modern Masters: Sean Scully and John Walker," an exhibit of monumental paintings and a dozen colorful photographs.
It was interesting because Scully was born in Ireland and Walker in England, despite the fact that both are now long-time U.S. residents.
Walker embraces his English past with enormous paintings of the Maine coast, evoking a sense of wind and water and even including local mud on the canvas.
Scully, on the other hand, goes for the opposite of his homeland, preferring to paint the colors of Moroccan tents and photograph Santa Domingo's bright, sunny colors.
From there we moved on to the 20th-century American galleries to fawn over Thomas Hart Benton's Colonial brides and swoon over a color poet's depiction of bohemians.
We lingered in front of "The Underworld," a painting of the occupants of NYC's early subway: a showgirl and her protector, an immigrant family, a messenger boy.
Once we reached the art saturation point, it seemed only logical to go upstairs to Amuse and see how we could be amused there.
Greeting me on the corner of the bar was the absinthe drip, long absent since the Picasso exhibit left last year much to my disappointment.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see it returned to its rightful place and full of iced water, awaiting a call to the green fairy.
But first things first. We found an Italian wine on the menu that was irresistible. Tormaresco Neprica, a blend of Negroamaro, Primitivo and Cab Sauvignon, was intensely colored and softly balanced.
I'm finding a lot to like about Italian wines lately.
There was only one other person at the bar, a guy with whom we chatted about the weather (a weather wimp, he'd wanted to ride his motorcycle but the rain had put him off) and he was followed by another lone wolf, this one with a tiny diamond earring and Chuck Taylors.
Both regulars, the bartender told us after they left.
I was glad to hear that Chef Greg was back in the kitchen after being gone to help with the birth of his little one.
Since every first time visitor to Amuse is required to get the mussels and Surry sausage dish, we did so for my friend's sake, but augmented it with a cheese plate that had some spectacular Humbolt Fog on it.
A friend who works at Amuse shared a story about a girl he'd been dating, someone I'd seen him with at Balliceaux last month.
Apparently he had lost interest in her once she put him in a headlock.
Oh, well, easy come, easy go.
Dessert arrived in the form of a lovely sticky toffee pudding but the real treat was the arrival of the green fairy.
There was never any doubt that I was having a drip, but my dining companion decide to give it a shot, too, convinced that the appeal was the process of watching the water drip through the sugar cube.
Not so, I explained. The attraction is the unique effect that absinthe has on one's mood and the sweet level of contentment it brings.
Sipping our absinthe in the manner of 19th century artists like van Gogh, Hemingway and Toulouse-Lautrec led to a discussion of Pernod, which, while similar, is not made with wormwood.
To be scientific about it, we ordered a Pernod (which came with a carafe of iced water) and proceeded to sip it in an attempt to compare it to absinthe.
Not even close.
The nose was far more delicate, the effect less unique. And, to be honest, I missed the little bit of sweetness that the sugar cube had imparted.
The bartender had a ready solution, dispensing a packet f raw sugar into the Pernod and stirring it in.
Okay, it was better that way, but still couldn't hold a candle to the absinthe.
And so we were back to the traditional absinthe drip, the only one in a Richmond restaurant and as integral a pleasure of the VMFA as the Golden Hare.
After all, it's not enough to just visually experience the art. One must imbibe like the artists in order to fully appreciate the mindset from which they came.
In a parallel world, we would have then gone down to "The Underworld" and joined the late night people for a ride home on the subway.
Absinthe on our breath, yes, but with a pleasing contentment about the hours spent at the museum.
And yet, it's hard to know where to start when showing someone the museum for the first time since pre-renovation.
It seemed easier to start with the present and work back, so Mocha Dick got our attention first before heading into the 21st Century galleries.
With only two days left to see it, I made sure we checked out "Modern Masters: Sean Scully and John Walker," an exhibit of monumental paintings and a dozen colorful photographs.
It was interesting because Scully was born in Ireland and Walker in England, despite the fact that both are now long-time U.S. residents.
Walker embraces his English past with enormous paintings of the Maine coast, evoking a sense of wind and water and even including local mud on the canvas.
Scully, on the other hand, goes for the opposite of his homeland, preferring to paint the colors of Moroccan tents and photograph Santa Domingo's bright, sunny colors.
From there we moved on to the 20th-century American galleries to fawn over Thomas Hart Benton's Colonial brides and swoon over a color poet's depiction of bohemians.
We lingered in front of "The Underworld," a painting of the occupants of NYC's early subway: a showgirl and her protector, an immigrant family, a messenger boy.
Once we reached the art saturation point, it seemed only logical to go upstairs to Amuse and see how we could be amused there.
Greeting me on the corner of the bar was the absinthe drip, long absent since the Picasso exhibit left last year much to my disappointment.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see it returned to its rightful place and full of iced water, awaiting a call to the green fairy.
But first things first. We found an Italian wine on the menu that was irresistible. Tormaresco Neprica, a blend of Negroamaro, Primitivo and Cab Sauvignon, was intensely colored and softly balanced.
I'm finding a lot to like about Italian wines lately.
There was only one other person at the bar, a guy with whom we chatted about the weather (a weather wimp, he'd wanted to ride his motorcycle but the rain had put him off) and he was followed by another lone wolf, this one with a tiny diamond earring and Chuck Taylors.
Both regulars, the bartender told us after they left.
I was glad to hear that Chef Greg was back in the kitchen after being gone to help with the birth of his little one.
Since every first time visitor to Amuse is required to get the mussels and Surry sausage dish, we did so for my friend's sake, but augmented it with a cheese plate that had some spectacular Humbolt Fog on it.
A friend who works at Amuse shared a story about a girl he'd been dating, someone I'd seen him with at Balliceaux last month.
Apparently he had lost interest in her once she put him in a headlock.
Oh, well, easy come, easy go.
Dessert arrived in the form of a lovely sticky toffee pudding but the real treat was the arrival of the green fairy.
There was never any doubt that I was having a drip, but my dining companion decide to give it a shot, too, convinced that the appeal was the process of watching the water drip through the sugar cube.
Not so, I explained. The attraction is the unique effect that absinthe has on one's mood and the sweet level of contentment it brings.
Sipping our absinthe in the manner of 19th century artists like van Gogh, Hemingway and Toulouse-Lautrec led to a discussion of Pernod, which, while similar, is not made with wormwood.
To be scientific about it, we ordered a Pernod (which came with a carafe of iced water) and proceeded to sip it in an attempt to compare it to absinthe.
Not even close.
The nose was far more delicate, the effect less unique. And, to be honest, I missed the little bit of sweetness that the sugar cube had imparted.
The bartender had a ready solution, dispensing a packet f raw sugar into the Pernod and stirring it in.
Okay, it was better that way, but still couldn't hold a candle to the absinthe.
And so we were back to the traditional absinthe drip, the only one in a Richmond restaurant and as integral a pleasure of the VMFA as the Golden Hare.
After all, it's not enough to just visually experience the art. One must imbibe like the artists in order to fully appreciate the mindset from which they came.
In a parallel world, we would have then gone down to "The Underworld" and joined the late night people for a ride home on the subway.
Absinthe on our breath, yes, but with a pleasing contentment about the hours spent at the museum.
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