You can't start your birthday the same as every other day.
No, when it's your day, you have to make sure everything is exactly how you want it to be.
That meant eschewing my usual walk on city streets for something far more pleasurable.
Honeysuckle and rushing water.
Ideally, I would have woken up at the beach today, but absent the sound of crashing waves, I happily started my day with a walk on Belle Isle.
I have to admit, I was a tad surprised at the number of cars already at the parking lot on a Thursday morning.
Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I was passed by a jogging couple, him saying to her, "Are you making fun of my colloquialisms?"
Since all she did was laugh, I have to assume she was.
Further on, I got behind a group of high school students, likely truants since school's still in session, and one of the guys decided to show his prowess at the monkey bars.
Using the overhead scaffolding that protects pedestrians from debris falling from the real bridge overhead, he swung from bar to bar until his sweaty hands gave out.
He apologized for holding me up when he came down, but I was happy to watch such exuberance on a muggy morning.
Over on the island, there were already lots of bikini-clad girls trying to get skin cancer laying out on the rocks as well as a surprising number of guys fishing.
Walking along the rushing rapids made for a delightful breeze which brought the scent of the surrounding honeysuckle straight to my birthday nostrils.
Once around the bend and into the backside of the island, I felt like I'd stepped into a rain forest.
It was muggy, much more still and practically like walking through pea soup, so I wasted no time in getting back around to the cooler side of the island.
So while joggers and bicyclists continued making their loops, I did a couple of fragrant strolls up and down the river side, greeting some of the same people coming and going.
It's my birthday. I can do whatever I want.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Not Dead Yet
Leave it to a fellow Gemini to give me the best birthday eve celebration ever.
Because, as we all know, the first rule of a birthday eve is to tease the imminent holiday, but not overshadow it with too much celebration, lest it eclipse the main event.
Only a fellow Gemini can walk that fine line.
First she picks me up, tells me how nice I look and then she takes me to Enoteca Sogno.
The restaurant is not too busy, the owner greets us at the door and we decide to sit at the bar when he says he will be our server.
Because we got a late start, we have already missed out on the soft-shelled crab appetizer, but not the other specials.
"We're going to eat until we die," my friend announces, apropos of nothing.
Can do.
There are two Roses on the menu and in appropriate birthday eve-fashion, we ask for one of each.
My favorite is the Argiolas Serra Lori, tasting of berries and herbs, although the other Rose (made from Nebbiolo) is a close second, especially once food arrives.
Friend engages the owner in talk of Italy and it is a discussion that continues unabated throughout the night.
I have made only one visit to Italy, my friend has made two and our host boasts of sixteen, a number we cannot begin to compete with.
He mentions friends about to embark on their first trip to Italy, planning to spend three days each in Florence, Rome and Venice.
I've only been to Italy once and even I know what a bad idea that is.
Three days in Florence? Three days?
I spent a week and it wasn't close to enough, so how could any human being be satisfied with a mere three days?
Our host seems to think they just want to be able to check off three Italian cities off their bucket list.
Tragic.
But it's not our problem, so we move on to more pressing issues, like food.
She starts with a beet and orange salad while I jump straight to meat with a plate of Olli salumeria, letting the kitchen choose my three varieties.
I end up with three Italians: Toscano (notes of fennel), Napoli (smoked) and Molisano (pepper and garlic), all with just enough fat to make the wine come alive.
As we eat the salami, we hear that Olli is planning to sell their products in B.J.'s and a little piece of our souls die when we hear this.
Really, Olli, the sublime meats to be found in high-end restaurants all over the country is now available in a discount store?
This is not good birthday eve news.
For distraction from this tragedy, the chef comes out and we discuss the Lebanese Food Festival, an event he attended that left him in a food coma.
Now we want our own.
For our next course, she chooses rockfish with a side of asparagus with butter and Parmesan and another of spaghetti while I ask for scallops with a balsamic reduction.
I switch to the other Rose while she continues to sip her first glass, good girl that she is.
My scallops are meaty and sweet, the ideal complement to my Rose.
Even though most of the dinner crowd is leaving, we are soon joined by a group of wine geeks spouting wine talk in that way that makes mere mortals wonder what they're talking about.
On the other hand, they are guys and we are women and they are ordering very nice wines and are soon offering to pour us some of what they're drinking.
My friend demurs while I happily avail myself of their generosity.
2006 Voliero Brunello is the first thing they offer me and the nose alone is worth whatever conversation they want in return.
It has a gorgeous, flowery nose and a long finish and when I am offered a second taste, I happily accept.
Generous wine geeks are the best.
Friend and I were feeling uncomfortably full (possibly near death, the stated goal for the evening) but I reminded her that there's a always a corner for dessert.
Especially on a person's birthday eve.
That came in the form of sea salt and caramel boudino with nut brittle.
As the soon-to-be birthday girl, I was expected to finish more than half, which turned out to be more challenging than you (or I) might think.
But, trooper that I am, I persevered, along with some help from a 2006 Casanova di Neri Brunello, which the wine geeks said would be even more stellar by 2018.
The thing is, birthday eves are all about the here and now, so I had no interest in waiting until 2018 for wine or anything else.
It's enough I have to wait till tomorrow to begin the serious celebration.
Okay, not so serious. I am, after all, a Gemini.
Because, as we all know, the first rule of a birthday eve is to tease the imminent holiday, but not overshadow it with too much celebration, lest it eclipse the main event.
Only a fellow Gemini can walk that fine line.
First she picks me up, tells me how nice I look and then she takes me to Enoteca Sogno.
The restaurant is not too busy, the owner greets us at the door and we decide to sit at the bar when he says he will be our server.
Because we got a late start, we have already missed out on the soft-shelled crab appetizer, but not the other specials.
"We're going to eat until we die," my friend announces, apropos of nothing.
Can do.
There are two Roses on the menu and in appropriate birthday eve-fashion, we ask for one of each.
My favorite is the Argiolas Serra Lori, tasting of berries and herbs, although the other Rose (made from Nebbiolo) is a close second, especially once food arrives.
Friend engages the owner in talk of Italy and it is a discussion that continues unabated throughout the night.
I have made only one visit to Italy, my friend has made two and our host boasts of sixteen, a number we cannot begin to compete with.
He mentions friends about to embark on their first trip to Italy, planning to spend three days each in Florence, Rome and Venice.
I've only been to Italy once and even I know what a bad idea that is.
Three days in Florence? Three days?
I spent a week and it wasn't close to enough, so how could any human being be satisfied with a mere three days?
Our host seems to think they just want to be able to check off three Italian cities off their bucket list.
Tragic.
But it's not our problem, so we move on to more pressing issues, like food.
She starts with a beet and orange salad while I jump straight to meat with a plate of Olli salumeria, letting the kitchen choose my three varieties.
I end up with three Italians: Toscano (notes of fennel), Napoli (smoked) and Molisano (pepper and garlic), all with just enough fat to make the wine come alive.
As we eat the salami, we hear that Olli is planning to sell their products in B.J.'s and a little piece of our souls die when we hear this.
Really, Olli, the sublime meats to be found in high-end restaurants all over the country is now available in a discount store?
This is not good birthday eve news.
For distraction from this tragedy, the chef comes out and we discuss the Lebanese Food Festival, an event he attended that left him in a food coma.
Now we want our own.
For our next course, she chooses rockfish with a side of asparagus with butter and Parmesan and another of spaghetti while I ask for scallops with a balsamic reduction.
I switch to the other Rose while she continues to sip her first glass, good girl that she is.
My scallops are meaty and sweet, the ideal complement to my Rose.
Even though most of the dinner crowd is leaving, we are soon joined by a group of wine geeks spouting wine talk in that way that makes mere mortals wonder what they're talking about.
On the other hand, they are guys and we are women and they are ordering very nice wines and are soon offering to pour us some of what they're drinking.
My friend demurs while I happily avail myself of their generosity.
2006 Voliero Brunello is the first thing they offer me and the nose alone is worth whatever conversation they want in return.
It has a gorgeous, flowery nose and a long finish and when I am offered a second taste, I happily accept.
Generous wine geeks are the best.
Friend and I were feeling uncomfortably full (possibly near death, the stated goal for the evening) but I reminded her that there's a always a corner for dessert.
Especially on a person's birthday eve.
That came in the form of sea salt and caramel boudino with nut brittle.
As the soon-to-be birthday girl, I was expected to finish more than half, which turned out to be more challenging than you (or I) might think.
But, trooper that I am, I persevered, along with some help from a 2006 Casanova di Neri Brunello, which the wine geeks said would be even more stellar by 2018.
The thing is, birthday eves are all about the here and now, so I had no interest in waiting until 2018 for wine or anything else.
It's enough I have to wait till tomorrow to begin the serious celebration.
Okay, not so serious. I am, after all, a Gemini.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
And There It Goes
Tonight was the calm before the storm.
I have birthday plans for the next few days, every night.
And while I intentionally plan it so my birthday gets celebrated for as long as possible, I know from previous years that it's wise to take a wee rest in the midst of the reveling.
So that was me tonight, sedately having a Tennessee dog (mustard, onions, chili, cole slaw) and chocolate shake at the bar of City Dogs when a panicked-looking guy came in.
"We were just here and my friend's sister left her green cell phone here," he said breathlessly, indicating the bar area immediately adjacent to where I sat.
The guy on the other side of the indicated area looked at me and we shrugged; neither of us had seen a green phone when we'd sat down.
We all checked the floor, the bar stools and nothing.
The bartender had the bright idea of telling the guy to call the girls' phone, but he said he didn't know her number.
That was when the friend and her sister, the one who'd lost the phone in the first place, came rushing in.
Fortunately, she knew her own number and gave it to the bartender to call, hoping to locate the phone that way.
He called, we heard nothing.
Just then an older guy with a backpack comes in the restaurant holding a green phone out in front of him.
Turns out he'd found it in the grass on Main Street, ringing, and brought it into the nearest business.
The girl who'd lost it snatched it out of his hand, saying, "Thanks, crazy guy," and flouncing out of the restaurant with her phone and friends in tow.
The guy two seats away who'd helped me look around for the phone looked at me incredulously.
I'm sure my look was identical.
She could have at least bought the guy a $1 RVA dog, I said to him, still amazed at her rudeness and sense of entitlement.
"You mean instead of calling him "crazy guy" for no good reason?" he asked.
Clearly some people were raised by wolves.
I left that crowd for something more civilized, the Listening Room.
Clearly the planets were still out of alignment, though, because despite arriving at 7:32, someone was already sitting in my seat.
Okay, it's not my seat but it is the one I always sit in.
Plan B, the seat directly in front of my usual.
Also unusual tonight was that there was no set decoration onstage because Firehouse Theater is between shows.
Playing first tonight was man-about-town Prabir, playing songs off his new album, "Once Upon a Breakfast Menu."
It took him no time at all to play the funny guy, asking the crowd, "How're you guys doing?" before putting out his hand to stop us from answering.
After all, there's no talking at the Listening Room.
He did a song called "Clouds" about reaching for a CD ("what an archaic reference") and one called "Sept. 7" with an analogy for the ages.
"I took out a knife and carved up this life."
After multiple exotic tunings, Prabir called a friend up on stage so they could have a bowl of cereal together while we watched.
It was breakfast as performance art, only with Silk because Prabir has apparently recently gone vegan.
He also invited violinist Treesa and bassist Matt up to augment a few songs and promote their show Sunday night.
"We're playing a show with Paul McCartney's son at the Camel Sunday night," Prabir said.
"He has a name, you know," Matt reminded him.
"Yea, ca-ching!" Prabir retorted, grinning.
Fortunately, it's okay to laugh at the Listening Room.
Next MC Chris introduced Mohawk Lodge, a Canadian band with most of the members on their way back to Canada.
The tour that had begun April 29 had the rest of the band members leaving in the band van to return to Canada today while leader Ryder continued solo in a rental car ("It's kind of tough but I couldn't not play a show").
Taking the stage with his electric guitar, he took a moment to listen to the silence and observed, "Wow, this is an amazing room."
There was a lot going on his songs, despite him subbing for an entire band.
Favorite lyric: "I call timber because everyone I know is falling."
He took requests from the audience and played them, to his credit.
"Canadian Girl," was requested, along with "Calm Down," about which he said, "I haven't played this in a really long time."
I'm sure I wasn't the only one touched when he said, "I woke up today and my grandmother died and I'm going to play some songs. This one is for my Dad."
He played a couple of songs that had been written when he was part of a songwriters' conference in Berlin, including a political one despite not being a political person, he said.
"You guys are rad," he said, promising, "I'm coming back to Virginia."
We should be so lucky.
During intermission, I heard a friend's report on the new Mellow Mushroom in Carytown.
He gave it a thumbs up for the extensive beer list and vegan cheese available, neither of which matter one bit to me.
I am curious to see the Plan 9 tribute wall, though.
The last band of the night was My Old Ways, whom I'd seen at the Listening Room last June.
Made up of members from a bunch of local bands, they feature acoustic guitar, pedal steel, bass, drums and backup vocals/shaker.
Playing drums and every kind of percussion he could get his hands on was Willis, the guy who adds immeasurably to any band he plays in.
And he has dimples.
There were sad songs, pirate jokes, a song called "Dance" ("I just want to dance") and one written only two days ago, "And There It Goes."
I have to admire a band willing to debut something so new, although the lead singer acknowledged, "This last song we're going to play may be a disaster."
Favorite lyric: "Can we just go back to 2003?"
As evocative a lyric as that is, I don't really want to.
I've already carved up the last ten years and that knife is a tad dull at the moment.
Maybe I'll call timber instead.
I have birthday plans for the next few days, every night.
And while I intentionally plan it so my birthday gets celebrated for as long as possible, I know from previous years that it's wise to take a wee rest in the midst of the reveling.
So that was me tonight, sedately having a Tennessee dog (mustard, onions, chili, cole slaw) and chocolate shake at the bar of City Dogs when a panicked-looking guy came in.
"We were just here and my friend's sister left her green cell phone here," he said breathlessly, indicating the bar area immediately adjacent to where I sat.
The guy on the other side of the indicated area looked at me and we shrugged; neither of us had seen a green phone when we'd sat down.
We all checked the floor, the bar stools and nothing.
The bartender had the bright idea of telling the guy to call the girls' phone, but he said he didn't know her number.
That was when the friend and her sister, the one who'd lost the phone in the first place, came rushing in.
Fortunately, she knew her own number and gave it to the bartender to call, hoping to locate the phone that way.
He called, we heard nothing.
Just then an older guy with a backpack comes in the restaurant holding a green phone out in front of him.
Turns out he'd found it in the grass on Main Street, ringing, and brought it into the nearest business.
The girl who'd lost it snatched it out of his hand, saying, "Thanks, crazy guy," and flouncing out of the restaurant with her phone and friends in tow.
The guy two seats away who'd helped me look around for the phone looked at me incredulously.
I'm sure my look was identical.
She could have at least bought the guy a $1 RVA dog, I said to him, still amazed at her rudeness and sense of entitlement.
"You mean instead of calling him "crazy guy" for no good reason?" he asked.
Clearly some people were raised by wolves.
I left that crowd for something more civilized, the Listening Room.
Clearly the planets were still out of alignment, though, because despite arriving at 7:32, someone was already sitting in my seat.
Okay, it's not my seat but it is the one I always sit in.
Plan B, the seat directly in front of my usual.
Also unusual tonight was that there was no set decoration onstage because Firehouse Theater is between shows.
Playing first tonight was man-about-town Prabir, playing songs off his new album, "Once Upon a Breakfast Menu."
It took him no time at all to play the funny guy, asking the crowd, "How're you guys doing?" before putting out his hand to stop us from answering.
After all, there's no talking at the Listening Room.
He did a song called "Clouds" about reaching for a CD ("what an archaic reference") and one called "Sept. 7" with an analogy for the ages.
"I took out a knife and carved up this life."
After multiple exotic tunings, Prabir called a friend up on stage so they could have a bowl of cereal together while we watched.
It was breakfast as performance art, only with Silk because Prabir has apparently recently gone vegan.
He also invited violinist Treesa and bassist Matt up to augment a few songs and promote their show Sunday night.
"We're playing a show with Paul McCartney's son at the Camel Sunday night," Prabir said.
"He has a name, you know," Matt reminded him.
"Yea, ca-ching!" Prabir retorted, grinning.
Fortunately, it's okay to laugh at the Listening Room.
Next MC Chris introduced Mohawk Lodge, a Canadian band with most of the members on their way back to Canada.
The tour that had begun April 29 had the rest of the band members leaving in the band van to return to Canada today while leader Ryder continued solo in a rental car ("It's kind of tough but I couldn't not play a show").
Taking the stage with his electric guitar, he took a moment to listen to the silence and observed, "Wow, this is an amazing room."
There was a lot going on his songs, despite him subbing for an entire band.
Favorite lyric: "I call timber because everyone I know is falling."
He took requests from the audience and played them, to his credit.
"Canadian Girl," was requested, along with "Calm Down," about which he said, "I haven't played this in a really long time."
I'm sure I wasn't the only one touched when he said, "I woke up today and my grandmother died and I'm going to play some songs. This one is for my Dad."
He played a couple of songs that had been written when he was part of a songwriters' conference in Berlin, including a political one despite not being a political person, he said.
"You guys are rad," he said, promising, "I'm coming back to Virginia."
We should be so lucky.
During intermission, I heard a friend's report on the new Mellow Mushroom in Carytown.
He gave it a thumbs up for the extensive beer list and vegan cheese available, neither of which matter one bit to me.
I am curious to see the Plan 9 tribute wall, though.
The last band of the night was My Old Ways, whom I'd seen at the Listening Room last June.
Made up of members from a bunch of local bands, they feature acoustic guitar, pedal steel, bass, drums and backup vocals/shaker.
Playing drums and every kind of percussion he could get his hands on was Willis, the guy who adds immeasurably to any band he plays in.
And he has dimples.
There were sad songs, pirate jokes, a song called "Dance" ("I just want to dance") and one written only two days ago, "And There It Goes."
I have to admire a band willing to debut something so new, although the lead singer acknowledged, "This last song we're going to play may be a disaster."
Favorite lyric: "Can we just go back to 2003?"
As evocative a lyric as that is, I don't really want to.
I've already carved up the last ten years and that knife is a tad dull at the moment.
Maybe I'll call timber instead.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Family Feud
I missed the mini-series but caught the lecture.
Author Dean King was at the Library of Virginia talking about his book, "The Feud: The Hatfields and the McCoys."
Of all the unlikely things to come away with, my favorite was about trees.
King showed a wealth of compelling old photographs, including one of a Hatfield patriarch in front of the most massive tree you can imagine.
I'm talking California redwood massive, a tree so enormous (the diameter was 13') I couldn't imagine it was a Virginia photograph.
Wrong.
As King told us, that part of the country used to be covered in massive, old-growth trees, all of which were cut down, floated downstream and used to rebuild the south after the Civil War.
Who knew?
Unlike me, most of the crowd had seen the inaccuracy-filled mini-series, so King set about correcting some fallacies.
With no misinformation, I was just curious about the story, one I knew about only on a surface level.
Like, I hadn't known how politically powerful the families were.
I certainly hadn't known that the Hatfields were one of the first families of Virginia, having fought in the Revolutionary War.
Then there was the media component.
The period when the feud was in full flower was the same as when Jack the Ripper was terrorizing London, so the feud story was the American equivalent, headline-wise.
The New York Times even sent a reporter to cover the story, for crying out loud.
And here I thought they were just a bunch of redneck moonshiners.
Well, they were (with the 20th century addition of ATVs), only now they have a museum in what looked like a double wide trailer and which King described as " a really sad place."
Here's the kicker: after September 11th, the families made peace and now they have a yearly reunion, which King attends.
There's always a tug-of-war at the reunion, and the Hatfields have won the past few years.
How can I miss a noon lecture when I'm all but guaranteed to learn the most arcane stuff?
Can't.
Author Dean King was at the Library of Virginia talking about his book, "The Feud: The Hatfields and the McCoys."
Of all the unlikely things to come away with, my favorite was about trees.
King showed a wealth of compelling old photographs, including one of a Hatfield patriarch in front of the most massive tree you can imagine.
I'm talking California redwood massive, a tree so enormous (the diameter was 13') I couldn't imagine it was a Virginia photograph.
Wrong.
As King told us, that part of the country used to be covered in massive, old-growth trees, all of which were cut down, floated downstream and used to rebuild the south after the Civil War.
Who knew?
Unlike me, most of the crowd had seen the inaccuracy-filled mini-series, so King set about correcting some fallacies.
With no misinformation, I was just curious about the story, one I knew about only on a surface level.
Like, I hadn't known how politically powerful the families were.
I certainly hadn't known that the Hatfields were one of the first families of Virginia, having fought in the Revolutionary War.
Then there was the media component.
The period when the feud was in full flower was the same as when Jack the Ripper was terrorizing London, so the feud story was the American equivalent, headline-wise.
The New York Times even sent a reporter to cover the story, for crying out loud.
And here I thought they were just a bunch of redneck moonshiners.
Well, they were (with the 20th century addition of ATVs), only now they have a museum in what looked like a double wide trailer and which King described as " a really sad place."
Here's the kicker: after September 11th, the families made peace and now they have a yearly reunion, which King attends.
There's always a tug-of-war at the reunion, and the Hatfields have won the past few years.
How can I miss a noon lecture when I'm all but guaranteed to learn the most arcane stuff?
Can't.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Between Parentheses and Marcona Almonds
Not to be self-centered-sounding, but his week is all about me.
With my birthday falling sooner rather than later, I corralled a girlfriend to help me kick off the week's festivities.
We'd no sooner made our meet-up arrangements when another friend e-mailed with the directive, "If you are not doing anything this evening/afternoon (now, I guess), come meet up with me at Bistro 27 tonight."
Since the message arrived an hour and a half before I was due to pick up my girlfriend and celebrate myself, I was more than happy to go over to 27 and meet up with a friend.
It was early, it was Monday night and I was one of the few occupants of the restaurant beside my friend.
Vinho Verde in hand. I listened as he told me about his stressful day/week/month while I made empathetic noises.
You want to hear about stress? Don't get me started.
Mid-conversation, a guy at the end of the bar interrupted, already aware of my plans because he was a co-worker of the friend I was soon to meet.
He knew my name, where I was headed and who I was meeting.
Small world.
He was fortifying himself with cocktails before setting off for a four-hour session to have his massive back tattoo worked on.
Somebody's gotta keep us as the #3 most-tattooed city in the country and it's certainly not going to be me, so I appreciate die-hards like him.
By the time I finish my wine, it is time to go collect my friend.
Because she is so awesome, she will not allow herself to be collected until we kick off my birthday celebration chez her.
She is pouring Cristalino, a smoky and pungent Cava that went down easily, and she'd even laid out the most sublime take on one of childhood's most distinctive treats.
Growing up, a party standard was peanuts and M & Ms, that most accessible of all sweet/salty combinations, if a bit tired after decades of service.
Friend took this classic combo to another level by substituting exquisite Marcona almonds with sea salt for the standard goobers.
As we sat there sipping Spanish bubbles, she handed me a present, already taking the entire evening far beyond what I'd imagined (i.e., lots of wine and some good food).
It was a book, making for the best possible way to kick off a birthday week celebration.
Written by Roberto Bolano, a writer who's been described as the most controversial and commanding figure to have emerged since Gabriel Garcia Marquez (a personal favorite of the highest magnitude), "Between Parentheses," a collection of essays, articles and speeches 1998-2003, according to her, "just screamed Karen."
Now there is a compliment of the highest order.
After indulging in bubbles and literary talk, we set out for Italian pastures, namely Dinamo.
It was my second time and her first and we took bar stools rather than a table, the better to whisper in each other's ears about birthdays, being stood up and adjusting to silence.
After Vinho Verde and Cava, there was nowhere to go except red, so I chose Masciarelli Montepulciano, a dry but intensely perfumed Italian that perfectly suited my birthday needs.
We began with tortellini in brodo, a soup of gigantic noodles and the most flavorful broth, while discussing rising rent costs in the city.
Looking at the menu, she raised her eyebrows at me, "You're getting the tongue, aren't you?"
For my next course, I chose veal tongue with parsley sauce, which was more like a pesto, and offered a rich component to the tongue.
My girlfriend, less adventuresome about what she puts in her mouth, took the tiniest bite of tongue and sauce, but only so I wouldn't give her a hard time.
She'd ordered flat bread with hearts of palm and chickpeas, a huge serving of antipasto that, at least from my bites, was a beautiful marriage of flavors.
Sipping our Montepulciano, we admired the sheer size of the espresso machine (sometimes size does matter) and Friend informed our server that I'd had the audacity to spend two weeks in Italy and not once taste coffee of any kind.
Her horror was evident.
I tried to compensate by ordering chocolate espresso torte, a rich-tasting dessert that came with an option for whipped cream and berries.
My friend made an excellent point.
"I've had an elegant sufficiency," she stated for the record, using a phrase her beloved uncle apparently did, meaning nothing more than chocolate (and an espresso) was required at that point.
Luckily for me, the non-coffee drinker, I still had wine to accompany my chocolate as the discussion looked at what's ahead.
Honestly, I have no idea.
Friend was kind enough to say that, "You've an elegant sufficiency of culture, culinary morsels and conversations most hours."
This night or any, much less during my birthday weekend, what more could I hope for?
Well...
With my birthday falling sooner rather than later, I corralled a girlfriend to help me kick off the week's festivities.
We'd no sooner made our meet-up arrangements when another friend e-mailed with the directive, "If you are not doing anything this evening/afternoon (now, I guess), come meet up with me at Bistro 27 tonight."
Since the message arrived an hour and a half before I was due to pick up my girlfriend and celebrate myself, I was more than happy to go over to 27 and meet up with a friend.
It was early, it was Monday night and I was one of the few occupants of the restaurant beside my friend.
Vinho Verde in hand. I listened as he told me about his stressful day/week/month while I made empathetic noises.
You want to hear about stress? Don't get me started.
Mid-conversation, a guy at the end of the bar interrupted, already aware of my plans because he was a co-worker of the friend I was soon to meet.
He knew my name, where I was headed and who I was meeting.
Small world.
He was fortifying himself with cocktails before setting off for a four-hour session to have his massive back tattoo worked on.
Somebody's gotta keep us as the #3 most-tattooed city in the country and it's certainly not going to be me, so I appreciate die-hards like him.
By the time I finish my wine, it is time to go collect my friend.
Because she is so awesome, she will not allow herself to be collected until we kick off my birthday celebration chez her.
She is pouring Cristalino, a smoky and pungent Cava that went down easily, and she'd even laid out the most sublime take on one of childhood's most distinctive treats.
Growing up, a party standard was peanuts and M & Ms, that most accessible of all sweet/salty combinations, if a bit tired after decades of service.
Friend took this classic combo to another level by substituting exquisite Marcona almonds with sea salt for the standard goobers.
As we sat there sipping Spanish bubbles, she handed me a present, already taking the entire evening far beyond what I'd imagined (i.e., lots of wine and some good food).
It was a book, making for the best possible way to kick off a birthday week celebration.
Written by Roberto Bolano, a writer who's been described as the most controversial and commanding figure to have emerged since Gabriel Garcia Marquez (a personal favorite of the highest magnitude), "Between Parentheses," a collection of essays, articles and speeches 1998-2003, according to her, "just screamed Karen."
Now there is a compliment of the highest order.
After indulging in bubbles and literary talk, we set out for Italian pastures, namely Dinamo.
It was my second time and her first and we took bar stools rather than a table, the better to whisper in each other's ears about birthdays, being stood up and adjusting to silence.
After Vinho Verde and Cava, there was nowhere to go except red, so I chose Masciarelli Montepulciano, a dry but intensely perfumed Italian that perfectly suited my birthday needs.
We began with tortellini in brodo, a soup of gigantic noodles and the most flavorful broth, while discussing rising rent costs in the city.
Looking at the menu, she raised her eyebrows at me, "You're getting the tongue, aren't you?"
For my next course, I chose veal tongue with parsley sauce, which was more like a pesto, and offered a rich component to the tongue.
My girlfriend, less adventuresome about what she puts in her mouth, took the tiniest bite of tongue and sauce, but only so I wouldn't give her a hard time.
She'd ordered flat bread with hearts of palm and chickpeas, a huge serving of antipasto that, at least from my bites, was a beautiful marriage of flavors.
Sipping our Montepulciano, we admired the sheer size of the espresso machine (sometimes size does matter) and Friend informed our server that I'd had the audacity to spend two weeks in Italy and not once taste coffee of any kind.
Her horror was evident.
I tried to compensate by ordering chocolate espresso torte, a rich-tasting dessert that came with an option for whipped cream and berries.
My friend made an excellent point.
"I've had an elegant sufficiency," she stated for the record, using a phrase her beloved uncle apparently did, meaning nothing more than chocolate (and an espresso) was required at that point.
Luckily for me, the non-coffee drinker, I still had wine to accompany my chocolate as the discussion looked at what's ahead.
Honestly, I have no idea.
Friend was kind enough to say that, "You've an elegant sufficiency of culture, culinary morsels and conversations most hours."
This night or any, much less during my birthday weekend, what more could I hope for?
Well...
Chasing the Years of a Life
Show tunes met birthday party tonight.
The monthly Ghost Light Afterparty was also a celebration of pianist Sandy's 50th birthday.
You might not know if you've never been, but Sandy is the heart of the GLAP, playing any music that's put in front of her and doing it with aplomb and a grin.
Appropriately things were gussied up withe the tables covered in tablecloths and lamps set on them as part of the set decoration for "La Cage aux Folles," which is playing at Richmond Triangle Players.
All I know is that to get to my usual seat, I had to walk down a runway, something I hadn't done since I was in my 10th grade fashion show.
In a pale green polyester jumpsuit, I might add.
The festivities started with "what did you do this weekend?" a party game.
Hostess Maggie got the party rolling by telling us that she'd gone to Nationals Stadium to hear the National Opera perform "Showboat" on a giant screen.
It had clearly been a seminal evening in her life.
Co-host Matt had attended a family wedding where he saw all kinds of his past, including, "My ex-stepdad who's 41 and had a blond-tipped crew cut. It was the most tragic thing I ever saw."
Come to think of it, in addition to the usual show tunes, there was a lot of comedy throughout the evening.
Maggie slow-motion danced for effect through the birthday balloons strewn on the floor, saying, "Now that I know how that feels, there's going to be a lot more of that."
Birthday girl Sandy was hysterical doing high kicks, lunges and eventually pulling up her dress to show us her leggings underneath.
It's okay; there are no rules for birthday girls.
After the dress raising, Matt took one look at her and announced, "I'm buying Sandy another glass of wine now!"
Kent did a dramatic reading of the University of Maryland sorority president's e-mail to her sorority sisters.
Although I'd read the e-mail, it was even funnier with Kent's pithy inflections, valley girl-style.
Josh did a birthday lap dance with Sandy perched on a stool and cracking up.
Music ran the gamut, maybe even a little more far-flung than usual.
A remix of the Temptations' "My Girl" by Chris, Evan and Nick.
"Welcome to the '60s" from "Hairspray," with singer Sara lamenting mid-song, "Oh, god, another key change!"
A guy named Eduardo (who'd been innocently driving by Richmond Triangle Players last month, come in and caught the end of GLAP) had a chance to sing twice tonight.
People, people who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world
Even the honoree Sandy had a song for us and she never sings, only plays piano.
She did a Five for Fighting song called "100 Years," about the passing of the years.
There was pizza to soak up the alcohol, albeit late pie because someone forgot to order it on time.
You, with the yellow shorts and black fingernails, I'm talking to you.
Because of the celebration, there were also mini-cupcakes, described by color as, "the pink ones are Cosmos and the chocolate ones have something alcoholic in them."
I absconded with two while Josh laughed at my audacity.
In "Little Mermaid"-style, there was a group singalong to "Kiss the Girl" that resulted in Evan kissing Sandy on the lips.
It was truly a GLAP gone mad.
Before we knew it, it was last call and we knew the songs from "Follies," "Funny Girl" and "A New Brain" would soon be silenced.
Luckily, Sarah got up and saved the day.
"I don't want anyone to be sad because the GLAP is over," she said and dramatically sang Melissa Manchester's "Don't Cry Out Loud," a true time warp.
The only way to top that was with a killer closer like "Rock Me, Mama, Like a Wagon Wheel," with harmonica, which is exactly what happened when Chris, Evan and Nick took charge, manly men that they are.
And sitting in the front row, grinning ear to ear, was Sandy.
Every woman should have such a great birthday.
The monthly Ghost Light Afterparty was also a celebration of pianist Sandy's 50th birthday.
You might not know if you've never been, but Sandy is the heart of the GLAP, playing any music that's put in front of her and doing it with aplomb and a grin.
Appropriately things were gussied up withe the tables covered in tablecloths and lamps set on them as part of the set decoration for "La Cage aux Folles," which is playing at Richmond Triangle Players.
All I know is that to get to my usual seat, I had to walk down a runway, something I hadn't done since I was in my 10th grade fashion show.
In a pale green polyester jumpsuit, I might add.
The festivities started with "what did you do this weekend?" a party game.
Hostess Maggie got the party rolling by telling us that she'd gone to Nationals Stadium to hear the National Opera perform "Showboat" on a giant screen.
It had clearly been a seminal evening in her life.
Co-host Matt had attended a family wedding where he saw all kinds of his past, including, "My ex-stepdad who's 41 and had a blond-tipped crew cut. It was the most tragic thing I ever saw."
Come to think of it, in addition to the usual show tunes, there was a lot of comedy throughout the evening.
Maggie slow-motion danced for effect through the birthday balloons strewn on the floor, saying, "Now that I know how that feels, there's going to be a lot more of that."
Birthday girl Sandy was hysterical doing high kicks, lunges and eventually pulling up her dress to show us her leggings underneath.
It's okay; there are no rules for birthday girls.
After the dress raising, Matt took one look at her and announced, "I'm buying Sandy another glass of wine now!"
Kent did a dramatic reading of the University of Maryland sorority president's e-mail to her sorority sisters.
Although I'd read the e-mail, it was even funnier with Kent's pithy inflections, valley girl-style.
Josh did a birthday lap dance with Sandy perched on a stool and cracking up.
Music ran the gamut, maybe even a little more far-flung than usual.
A remix of the Temptations' "My Girl" by Chris, Evan and Nick.
"Welcome to the '60s" from "Hairspray," with singer Sara lamenting mid-song, "Oh, god, another key change!"
A guy named Eduardo (who'd been innocently driving by Richmond Triangle Players last month, come in and caught the end of GLAP) had a chance to sing twice tonight.
People, people who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world
Even the honoree Sandy had a song for us and she never sings, only plays piano.
She did a Five for Fighting song called "100 Years," about the passing of the years.
There was pizza to soak up the alcohol, albeit late pie because someone forgot to order it on time.
You, with the yellow shorts and black fingernails, I'm talking to you.
Because of the celebration, there were also mini-cupcakes, described by color as, "the pink ones are Cosmos and the chocolate ones have something alcoholic in them."
I absconded with two while Josh laughed at my audacity.
In "Little Mermaid"-style, there was a group singalong to "Kiss the Girl" that resulted in Evan kissing Sandy on the lips.
It was truly a GLAP gone mad.
Before we knew it, it was last call and we knew the songs from "Follies," "Funny Girl" and "A New Brain" would soon be silenced.
Luckily, Sarah got up and saved the day.
"I don't want anyone to be sad because the GLAP is over," she said and dramatically sang Melissa Manchester's "Don't Cry Out Loud," a true time warp.
The only way to top that was with a killer closer like "Rock Me, Mama, Like a Wagon Wheel," with harmonica, which is exactly what happened when Chris, Evan and Nick took charge, manly men that they are.
And sitting in the front row, grinning ear to ear, was Sandy.
Every woman should have such a great birthday.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Beware My Love the Mists of Time
It was music as memory check.
Movieland was showing "Paul McCartney and Wings Rockshow," a chronicle of their Wings over America tour.
Since I'd seen them on that tour (don't judge), I was a little curious to see how the documented facts compared to my misty water-colored memories.
Among the things I'd forgotten were how dressed up the musicians looked (three-piece white suit, baggy black satin pants, pink-trimmed leather vest) and that there was a horn section (with two stellar Afros on the guys playing trumpet and sax).
Among the things I remembered about shows back then (and was reminded of) were girls sitting on the shoulders of guys for a better view (now we have slanted floors in venues) and how everyone had lighters at a concert, whether for cigarettes or pot.
The most defining memory for me of that show long ago had been the moment when Paul kicked into "Maybe I'm Amazed," how the lights had gone down, how it was the first song he played on the piano during the set, how I'd felt goosebumps when he hit those first oh-so-recognizable notes.
Bingo. The proof was there in the film, right down to my memory of the piano's placement and the heart-stopping moment when the lights came on and he started singing and the moment was absolutely perfect.
Likewise the strobe light show and smoke of "Live and Let Die," very of its time.
I didn't have memories of Sir Paul's low-key humor, but the film gave me examples.
"You're a grand bunch here tonight, I'll tell you that," pointing at the audience.
"Let's go back into the mists of time," before launching into "Lady Madonna."
I hadn't remembered the acoustic portion of the show at all, so the killer trio of "Bluebird" (with not one, but two acoustic 12-string guitars), "I've Just Seen a Face" (which he said "is known as a toe-tapper so tap your feet if you like it") and "Blackbird" ("I'm going to change to my other piano," he said, taking out a 6-string acoustic) knocked me out.
He followed that 1-2-3 punch with "Yesterday," which, yes, had girls in the audience with tears streaming down their faces at the moment.
Considering it hadn't even been a decade since the breakup of the Beatles, it was understandable.
I certainly don't recall any tears.
I was thrilled to hear "My Love" because it was the first song I ever slow-danced to, but judging from the beaming of the girls in the audience, it was "Silly Love Songs" that meant the most to them.
It was also the first point at which the massive wave of Bic lighters appeared to show the audience's love.
By then, we'd already seen plenty of shots of people smoking in the crowd, so why not?
One of the funniest unexpected moments came just as McCartney was about to introduce the stellar brass section while behind him, guitarist Denny Laine proceeds to do a handstand on the piano, unbeknownst to Paul.
It was the last night of the tour, so what were they going to do, fire him?
After Wings left the stage and the call for encores began, people began lighting sparklers and waving them, as if this would encourage the band to come back.
And maybe it did because they did two encores.
Ah, yes, the days when it was okay to bring pyrotechnics into a concert venue.
Speaking for myself, it's been a long and winding road from that long-ago Wings show to today.
Maybe I am a little amazed by it all.
Movieland was showing "Paul McCartney and Wings Rockshow," a chronicle of their Wings over America tour.
Since I'd seen them on that tour (don't judge), I was a little curious to see how the documented facts compared to my misty water-colored memories.
Among the things I'd forgotten were how dressed up the musicians looked (three-piece white suit, baggy black satin pants, pink-trimmed leather vest) and that there was a horn section (with two stellar Afros on the guys playing trumpet and sax).
Among the things I remembered about shows back then (and was reminded of) were girls sitting on the shoulders of guys for a better view (now we have slanted floors in venues) and how everyone had lighters at a concert, whether for cigarettes or pot.
The most defining memory for me of that show long ago had been the moment when Paul kicked into "Maybe I'm Amazed," how the lights had gone down, how it was the first song he played on the piano during the set, how I'd felt goosebumps when he hit those first oh-so-recognizable notes.
Bingo. The proof was there in the film, right down to my memory of the piano's placement and the heart-stopping moment when the lights came on and he started singing and the moment was absolutely perfect.
Likewise the strobe light show and smoke of "Live and Let Die," very of its time.
I didn't have memories of Sir Paul's low-key humor, but the film gave me examples.
"You're a grand bunch here tonight, I'll tell you that," pointing at the audience.
"Let's go back into the mists of time," before launching into "Lady Madonna."
I hadn't remembered the acoustic portion of the show at all, so the killer trio of "Bluebird" (with not one, but two acoustic 12-string guitars), "I've Just Seen a Face" (which he said "is known as a toe-tapper so tap your feet if you like it") and "Blackbird" ("I'm going to change to my other piano," he said, taking out a 6-string acoustic) knocked me out.
He followed that 1-2-3 punch with "Yesterday," which, yes, had girls in the audience with tears streaming down their faces at the moment.
Considering it hadn't even been a decade since the breakup of the Beatles, it was understandable.
I certainly don't recall any tears.
I was thrilled to hear "My Love" because it was the first song I ever slow-danced to, but judging from the beaming of the girls in the audience, it was "Silly Love Songs" that meant the most to them.
It was also the first point at which the massive wave of Bic lighters appeared to show the audience's love.
By then, we'd already seen plenty of shots of people smoking in the crowd, so why not?
One of the funniest unexpected moments came just as McCartney was about to introduce the stellar brass section while behind him, guitarist Denny Laine proceeds to do a handstand on the piano, unbeknownst to Paul.
It was the last night of the tour, so what were they going to do, fire him?
After Wings left the stage and the call for encores began, people began lighting sparklers and waving them, as if this would encourage the band to come back.
And maybe it did because they did two encores.
Ah, yes, the days when it was okay to bring pyrotechnics into a concert venue.
Speaking for myself, it's been a long and winding road from that long-ago Wings show to today.
Maybe I am a little amazed by it all.
Got It
Just to be clear, I have nothing at all against being happy.
After a long, busy day helping a favorite Fan resident thrift and decorate her guest room, I came home to learn that my planned cultural partner was bowing out.
Quick! Who do you call when it's 45 minutes to curtain call?
I caught her as she was about to make coq au vin and lured her away with the promise of theater.
Some nerds are so easy.
This afternoon I'd scored an adorable high-waisted floral skirt while thrifting and put that on to set the tone for Saturday night.
During a stop at Kroger on my way to pick her up, I got a double-take from a girl as I breezed through the produce section.
"Were you in Diversity Thrift today?" she asked, pointing at me and my skirt.
Were you behind the counter at Diversity, I inquired.
"Skirt looks good!" she enthused with a nod.
Every Saturday night should start with a compliment.
A few minutes later when my arms were full of unwieldy fruit, I heard a voice behind me.
It was a Kroger employee, helpfully bringing me a basket. "Here you go!" the guy said.
In all my bazillion trips to Kroger, I can't remember anyone ever noticing my hands were full and bringing me a basket.
Score 2 for the skirt.
My skirt and I went to fetch my girlfriend and head to Centenary United Methodist Church on Grace Street where Henley Street and African American Repertory Theater were doing a staged reading of "Sunset Limited."
I knew nothing about the play except that it was the winner of the National Book Award and National Book Critics' Circle Award.
Well, and that the Sunset Limited was a train that went between New Orleans and Los Angeles
It would have been enough but upon arrival, I also learned that they had cookies, lots of cookies.
Saturday night's alright for munching.
We found second row seats and settled in a for a play about two people who only met because one was ready to die.
"If it ain't got the lingering scent of divinity, I ain't interested," said the devout one.
"People stopped believing in books, music and art," bemoaned the atheist one.
The set was simple and perfect: a wooden table and two chairs, framed by perpendicular pews with stained glass windows above.
"What do you have against being happy?" asked the believer.
"It's contrary to the human condition," shot back the non-believer.
Despite being a reading, the actors moved about quite a bit and railed at each other with periodic glances down at the scripts in hand.
Although they couldn't have had much time for rehearsals, actors Daniel Moore and DL Hopkins kept up the intensity of the philosophical discussion that made up the play.
I was especially taken by how the play began, with compelling, full-on confrontational discussion going on with the audience completely unaware of what had brought us to this moment.
The intellectual pull of trying to figure out what had happened prior was very seductive.
As a card-carrying heathen, I related on many levels to the character who had no use for religion, although I don't think a lack of belief necessarily sends one into a downward spiral that ends in suicidal thoughts.
It was much harder for me to relate to the evangelical character, except in his devotion to saving the other man from himself.
"Sometimes people don't know what they want 'till they get it," he wisely says.
Amen, says I.
In lieu of staying for the talkback, Friend and I headed across the street to Pasture to have our own dissection of the play and enjoy some refreshment.
We barely made it to the back of the bar in search of seats before running into some favorite Amuse staffers, who helpfully told us about tonight's special on Spanish bubbles before giving my cute skirt its due.
Then they departed for Brown's Island to hear Toots and the Maytals and dance to reggae, while we finally had a shot at some bar stools.
Before I could sit down, I ran into a restaurant owner, all dressed up pretty and uncharacteristically out on a Saturday night, sharing a drink with a cheese monger and her bearded hubby.
Lots of people were coming in from the "Single in the City Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction" at CenterStage, never an option for me because of its cost (not that it's not a worthy cause).
There was talk of new restaurants - Dynamo, the Well- before I made it to our seats and the possibility of a light meal.
Muscanti Cava and Frito pie more than did the trick for me, especially after a first course of cookies at the play, while my lovely companion did Cava with pork and Chorizo meatballs the size of, well, big.
And flavorful, just for the record, especially with grits underneath.
During our talkback with each other about the points raised in the play, we decided our heathen credentials were in danger of being revoked because we don't feel the despair typically required of black souls like us.
How can we go through the world so damn happy when we should, in theory, be wringing our hands about the hopelessness of it all?
I can't answer for my friend, but personally, all it takes to keep me satisfied is the occasional $3.25 cute flowered skirt, a thought-provoking play and good conversation.
Like the evangelical pointed out, sometimes people don't know what they want till they get it.
Sounds pretty hopeful to me.
After a long, busy day helping a favorite Fan resident thrift and decorate her guest room, I came home to learn that my planned cultural partner was bowing out.
Quick! Who do you call when it's 45 minutes to curtain call?
I caught her as she was about to make coq au vin and lured her away with the promise of theater.
Some nerds are so easy.
This afternoon I'd scored an adorable high-waisted floral skirt while thrifting and put that on to set the tone for Saturday night.
During a stop at Kroger on my way to pick her up, I got a double-take from a girl as I breezed through the produce section.
"Were you in Diversity Thrift today?" she asked, pointing at me and my skirt.
Were you behind the counter at Diversity, I inquired.
"Skirt looks good!" she enthused with a nod.
Every Saturday night should start with a compliment.
A few minutes later when my arms were full of unwieldy fruit, I heard a voice behind me.
It was a Kroger employee, helpfully bringing me a basket. "Here you go!" the guy said.
In all my bazillion trips to Kroger, I can't remember anyone ever noticing my hands were full and bringing me a basket.
Score 2 for the skirt.
My skirt and I went to fetch my girlfriend and head to Centenary United Methodist Church on Grace Street where Henley Street and African American Repertory Theater were doing a staged reading of "Sunset Limited."
I knew nothing about the play except that it was the winner of the National Book Award and National Book Critics' Circle Award.
Well, and that the Sunset Limited was a train that went between New Orleans and Los Angeles
It would have been enough but upon arrival, I also learned that they had cookies, lots of cookies.
Saturday night's alright for munching.
We found second row seats and settled in a for a play about two people who only met because one was ready to die.
"If it ain't got the lingering scent of divinity, I ain't interested," said the devout one.
"People stopped believing in books, music and art," bemoaned the atheist one.
The set was simple and perfect: a wooden table and two chairs, framed by perpendicular pews with stained glass windows above.
"What do you have against being happy?" asked the believer.
"It's contrary to the human condition," shot back the non-believer.
Despite being a reading, the actors moved about quite a bit and railed at each other with periodic glances down at the scripts in hand.
Although they couldn't have had much time for rehearsals, actors Daniel Moore and DL Hopkins kept up the intensity of the philosophical discussion that made up the play.
I was especially taken by how the play began, with compelling, full-on confrontational discussion going on with the audience completely unaware of what had brought us to this moment.
The intellectual pull of trying to figure out what had happened prior was very seductive.
As a card-carrying heathen, I related on many levels to the character who had no use for religion, although I don't think a lack of belief necessarily sends one into a downward spiral that ends in suicidal thoughts.
It was much harder for me to relate to the evangelical character, except in his devotion to saving the other man from himself.
"Sometimes people don't know what they want 'till they get it," he wisely says.
Amen, says I.
In lieu of staying for the talkback, Friend and I headed across the street to Pasture to have our own dissection of the play and enjoy some refreshment.
We barely made it to the back of the bar in search of seats before running into some favorite Amuse staffers, who helpfully told us about tonight's special on Spanish bubbles before giving my cute skirt its due.
Then they departed for Brown's Island to hear Toots and the Maytals and dance to reggae, while we finally had a shot at some bar stools.
Before I could sit down, I ran into a restaurant owner, all dressed up pretty and uncharacteristically out on a Saturday night, sharing a drink with a cheese monger and her bearded hubby.
Lots of people were coming in from the "Single in the City Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction" at CenterStage, never an option for me because of its cost (not that it's not a worthy cause).
There was talk of new restaurants - Dynamo, the Well- before I made it to our seats and the possibility of a light meal.
Muscanti Cava and Frito pie more than did the trick for me, especially after a first course of cookies at the play, while my lovely companion did Cava with pork and Chorizo meatballs the size of, well, big.
And flavorful, just for the record, especially with grits underneath.
During our talkback with each other about the points raised in the play, we decided our heathen credentials were in danger of being revoked because we don't feel the despair typically required of black souls like us.
How can we go through the world so damn happy when we should, in theory, be wringing our hands about the hopelessness of it all?
I can't answer for my friend, but personally, all it takes to keep me satisfied is the occasional $3.25 cute flowered skirt, a thought-provoking play and good conversation.
Like the evangelical pointed out, sometimes people don't know what they want till they get it.
Sounds pretty hopeful to me.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Blood Orange Night
I'd hoped for red and instead get blood orange.
The theater lover and I conspired to score rush tickets to Virginia Repertory's production of "Red" after she wrote me, "Haven't seen a play in ages and am jonesing."
But the highlight of her message was yet to come. "I'm calling off date Saturday for greener Karen pastures."
I moved our date to Friday so she wouldn't disappoint an admirer and agreed to address her theater jones, adding in a pre-theater drink.
The box office gods were not with us.
I arrived at 5:59 to get tickets (the box office opens at 6:00), only to be told that there was only one ticket available.
What kind of friend would I be if I bought the one ticket for myself and left her in the lurch?
Exactly.
Fortunately, Rothko will be around for another month, so we intend to see it yet.
But for tonight, I punted, suggesting we do dinner instead.
Agreeable sort that she is, she promised to report to my house at once and we'd motor from there.
Rather than calling out my name when she arrived, I instead heard, "Stellaaaaaa," from the sidewalk out front.
It was an auspicious start.
Inexplicably, we made Bistro Bobette our destination, found an easy space in front of Fountain Books and walked back up the hill.
Past the diners we went, straight to the bar and seats at the end near a huge vase of lilies and eucalyptus.
The bartender I'd missed on my last two visits was there, happy to see us and we began with a bottle of Paul Mas Estate Picpaoul de Pinet from Languedoc, well-balanced and dry.
I'd been drinking a wonderful white Languedoc just last Friday with Holmes and was happy to continue the tradition this week.
From the moment I sat down, the music suited me so I asked about it, discovering it was Pandora set to Thievery Corporation.
Well done, Bobette.
Wine in hand, girlfriend and I got started when she looked at me, paused and announced, "I think my stepmother drunk-dialed me last night."
Honestly, I wouldn't be the least surprised if that sentence had never before been uttered.
The hysterical story that followed necessitated sustenance, so we listened to the specials.
Ostrich crudo with cilantro oil, capers, cayenne and shaved horseradish got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from us both.
Warm, crusty bread accompanied the lean and flavorful flightless bird.
I made a simple supper of mesclun salad, mushroom and bacon quiche and squid ink pasta with tomatoes and asparagus, while my friend did the "meatless," a selection of four sides.
We agreed that the spring squash sauteed with shallot and herbs was exquisite.
My friend told me that her comments about going to see "Red" with me tonight, and that it was about painter Mark Rothko, had been met by blank stares from co-workers.
This is why we are soul mates - no explanations are necessary.
A regular came in and sat down at the bar, a guy I've met before who's been here working, first on the "Killing Lincoln" movie for what seemed like ages and now on the "Killing Kennedy" movie.
It's gotten so we recognize each other by now.
Tonight he was joined by another film type and they had intense discussion of important stuff while my girlfriend and I discussed Bermuda, anacondas and working from home when the night before necessitates it.
In lieu of dessert, we had a digestif of blood orange wine, as beautifully colored as scented.
The chef came out to have a glass of Rose and enthusiastically jumped into the conversational fray.
"The best tartare is horse," he said when we got into a discussion of unusual meats.
Friend recalled seeing lion meat in a market and inquired about how best to serve it.
We heard rumors about Peking's space across the street being taken over by another tenant.
A server told us horror stories about a recent visit to a certain restaurant I long ago gave up on.
We got a full report on the French Food Festival, an event neither of us had ever before heard good things about.
We talked so long about boating with the chef that all at once we realized that we were the final customers of the day.
Wishing the chef a fine day on his boat tomorrow ("I don't care if it rains, I just want to feel the wind," he grinned, reminding me of the photo of him on his boat in the ladies' room), we headed out onto Cary Street, which was bustling and noisy compared to when we'd arrived.
A woman playing sax sat on a window ledge, wailing away.
Couples walked by, ignoring everyone else.
A couple of guys gave us a second look and a tentative compliment.
Down at the end of the block, the construction fence was up around the former parking lot and soon-to-be hotel at 14th Street.
We should have been having a post-theater drink to discuss how well Rothko had been portrayed.
Oh, well. "Red" will run for another month and you can be sure the two of us will see it.
You could say that'll be part of the future greener Karen pastures.
It's reassuring to know I'm considered one step away from a superlative.
The theater lover and I conspired to score rush tickets to Virginia Repertory's production of "Red" after she wrote me, "Haven't seen a play in ages and am jonesing."
But the highlight of her message was yet to come. "I'm calling off date Saturday for greener Karen pastures."
I moved our date to Friday so she wouldn't disappoint an admirer and agreed to address her theater jones, adding in a pre-theater drink.
The box office gods were not with us.
I arrived at 5:59 to get tickets (the box office opens at 6:00), only to be told that there was only one ticket available.
What kind of friend would I be if I bought the one ticket for myself and left her in the lurch?
Exactly.
Fortunately, Rothko will be around for another month, so we intend to see it yet.
But for tonight, I punted, suggesting we do dinner instead.
Agreeable sort that she is, she promised to report to my house at once and we'd motor from there.
Rather than calling out my name when she arrived, I instead heard, "Stellaaaaaa," from the sidewalk out front.
It was an auspicious start.
Inexplicably, we made Bistro Bobette our destination, found an easy space in front of Fountain Books and walked back up the hill.
Past the diners we went, straight to the bar and seats at the end near a huge vase of lilies and eucalyptus.
The bartender I'd missed on my last two visits was there, happy to see us and we began with a bottle of Paul Mas Estate Picpaoul de Pinet from Languedoc, well-balanced and dry.
I'd been drinking a wonderful white Languedoc just last Friday with Holmes and was happy to continue the tradition this week.
From the moment I sat down, the music suited me so I asked about it, discovering it was Pandora set to Thievery Corporation.
Well done, Bobette.
Wine in hand, girlfriend and I got started when she looked at me, paused and announced, "I think my stepmother drunk-dialed me last night."
Honestly, I wouldn't be the least surprised if that sentence had never before been uttered.
The hysterical story that followed necessitated sustenance, so we listened to the specials.
Ostrich crudo with cilantro oil, capers, cayenne and shaved horseradish got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from us both.
Warm, crusty bread accompanied the lean and flavorful flightless bird.
I made a simple supper of mesclun salad, mushroom and bacon quiche and squid ink pasta with tomatoes and asparagus, while my friend did the "meatless," a selection of four sides.
We agreed that the spring squash sauteed with shallot and herbs was exquisite.
My friend told me that her comments about going to see "Red" with me tonight, and that it was about painter Mark Rothko, had been met by blank stares from co-workers.
This is why we are soul mates - no explanations are necessary.
A regular came in and sat down at the bar, a guy I've met before who's been here working, first on the "Killing Lincoln" movie for what seemed like ages and now on the "Killing Kennedy" movie.
It's gotten so we recognize each other by now.
Tonight he was joined by another film type and they had intense discussion of important stuff while my girlfriend and I discussed Bermuda, anacondas and working from home when the night before necessitates it.
In lieu of dessert, we had a digestif of blood orange wine, as beautifully colored as scented.
The chef came out to have a glass of Rose and enthusiastically jumped into the conversational fray.
"The best tartare is horse," he said when we got into a discussion of unusual meats.
Friend recalled seeing lion meat in a market and inquired about how best to serve it.
We heard rumors about Peking's space across the street being taken over by another tenant.
A server told us horror stories about a recent visit to a certain restaurant I long ago gave up on.
We got a full report on the French Food Festival, an event neither of us had ever before heard good things about.
We talked so long about boating with the chef that all at once we realized that we were the final customers of the day.
Wishing the chef a fine day on his boat tomorrow ("I don't care if it rains, I just want to feel the wind," he grinned, reminding me of the photo of him on his boat in the ladies' room), we headed out onto Cary Street, which was bustling and noisy compared to when we'd arrived.
A woman playing sax sat on a window ledge, wailing away.
Couples walked by, ignoring everyone else.
A couple of guys gave us a second look and a tentative compliment.
Down at the end of the block, the construction fence was up around the former parking lot and soon-to-be hotel at 14th Street.
We should have been having a post-theater drink to discuss how well Rothko had been portrayed.
Oh, well. "Red" will run for another month and you can be sure the two of us will see it.
You could say that'll be part of the future greener Karen pastures.
It's reassuring to know I'm considered one step away from a superlative.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Shutters and Mouths Open
Tonight's lesson: How to be a glutton after art and architecture.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
A Word Fittingly Spoke
You know you're a nerd when...
You read at 11:40 that there's a noon lecture at the Historical Society and you manage not only to change clothes and drive there, but be in your usual seat chatting with a guy from Westmintser-Canterbury by 11:58.
"You Need a Schoolhouse: Booker T. Washington, Julius Rosenwald and the Building of Schools for the Segregated South" sounded compelling enough to throw off my sweaty walking shorts and high-tail it to the Boulevard.
Speaker Stephanie Deutsch got a thumbs-up from me for speaking extemporaneously rather than reading from a script.
It was hardly surprising to learn that Booker T. Washington had been the product of an enslaved black mother and a nearby white planter.
She brought us up to speed on his life, including his tragic personal life, with two wives dying within a few years of marrying him and a child who died young.
We heard about him going to and teaching at Hampton before being recruited to start the Tuskegee Institute, for which he became known.
Almost as interesting was Julius Rosenwald, who'd bought into Sears when Roebuck wanted out and used his pragmatic, executive style to turn it into a moneymaker.
And because he was Jewish, he had a history steeped in giving and started looking for more ways to do good beyond helping European Jews escape pogroms.
When he met Washington, a fast friendship was formed, with each visiting the other's home and place of work.
That was the crux of the talk, about how these two men got the ball rolling on the over 5,000 schools built for rural black children from Maryland to eastern Texas.
North Carolina got the most (800) and our own Virginia got 365 schools.
Rosenwald was a "matching funds" kind of guy, meaning he wasn't handing over money without the community raising a little of their own.
We all know a person's more invested when their hard-earned nickels are involved.
To induce the locals to raise funds, "arousement meetings" were held, not a tough sell in areas where blacks were desperate for their children to have access to education and a better life than they'd had.
By the time all was said and done, the county boards of education were also involved, finally contributing money to building schools for the children they'd once ignored.
That was the feel-good part of the story.
Deutsch said only 10% of the schools are still standing, but many have been rescued by alumni and former teachers at them and repurposed.
They're even now part of the "Most Endangered Historic Sites in America" listings and not a moment too soon.
See, that's something a nerd would say.
On the other hand, if I hadn't collected myself and gone to the lecture, I'd never have known about arousement meetings.
Now there's a meeting a nerd could really get into.
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