Taking In Amuse and Darkroom

Tonight was something like my sixth visit to the museum since it reopened. The occasion was the opening of the new exhibition, Darkroom: Photography and New Media in South Africa Since 1950. I was really looking forward to the show.

I'd decided to make an evening of it by making a reservation for one at the bar at Amuse. I'm still testing the waters on which Richmond restaurants take bar reservations and whether they do it easily or begrudgingly.

I continue to be pleased with each restaurant that agrees to do so (Acacia, Bonvenu, Bistro 27, Six Burner). And although I was the first to be seated, every table except three were full within half an hour. Thank you, opentable.com for making it all possible.

It was my first visit since the second week they were open, here, and the staff was noticeably more comfortable; the menu had also gone through a revision, as had the wine pricing. I ran into a guy working there who'd left one of my neighborhood restaurants a while back; now I knew where he'd landed.

My tastes turned out to be the popular choices tonight. When I asked for the Chateau Routas Rose, bartender Tommy told me that they were out of it, so my second choice was the White Hall Viognier. Within minutes, a nearby couple also tried ordering the rose, only to learn that pink was all gone.

I began with the soup du jour, a roasted tomato and roasted corn with wild rice. It's the best time of the year for corn and tomatoes and the chunky soup had a lot of fresh flavor and texture.

Tommy and I had some great conversations when we found out how much we had in common. We lived in the same neighborhood for years, watching it change from funky and a little dodgy to gentrified and wholesome. I learned his favorite places for reggae. Turns out he's also the oldest of six children, just like me.

I alternated talking with him with chatting up newcomer barsitters. Meanwhile, he brought me a small version of one of his drinks to sample: a sunset martini (Blueridge Vodka, Cristolino cuvee, Lemoncello, fresh-squeezed OJ and grenadine). It sure was pretty.

Just when I'd decided to order the hoison-glazed skate, I was told that the skate had been replaced by tilefish. So I took Tommy's recommendation and got the mussels and Surry sausage in butter and garlic.

The dish was heart-stopping, literally, with a healthy serving of P.E.I mussels with almost an overabundance of Surry sausage (consider that hyperbole because there is no such thing as too much pig in my mussels) in a decadent bath of butter with garlic and shredded fresh Parmesan. Tommy was right on with his recommendation.

Among the most interesting neighbors I had while eating was a native Richmonder who'd then moved on to Paris/NYC/LA and yet returned (don't they all?). Another was a woman I went through VMFA Docent training with five years ago (before I realized that I didn't want to become a docent). She wanted me to have dinner with her but she was too late.

Another was a confirmed bachelor in a kilt. And just for the record, I know exactly one Scottish man and he has assured me on more than one occasion (as recently as on my birthday in May) that no real man wears anything under his kilt. Despite this, apparently Richmonders do (I was told; I did not look). I can't bear to give my friend Frank one more reason to belittle us Yanks.

After a three hour plus meal, I finally made it downstairs to the opening and immediately knew I hadn't left nearly enough time to experience it properly. Most of the photographs were taken during the apartheid years 1948-1994, long before I visited in 2004.

Of course there were the familiar familiar faces: Biko leading the Black Caucus; Mandela in his law office in 1952, looking so young and unworn as to be almost unrecognizable.There was a wonderful shot of RFK on top of a car shaking hands with South Africans in Soweto in 1966. The image was was pure Kennedy charisma.

Some pictures carried reminders of the ugliness of the era. In one, a sign read, "United to Keep South Africa WHITE! " In another, hundreds of black faces were under a sign saying, "They will not kill us!"

But there were just as many photos of life as usual. A shot of a sax player exhaling with the smoke curling around him and his instrument. A bronzed couple lying on the beach, him in a Speedo with his shirt over his face and her with a book covering hers. Another showed, "A non-white family in bed on Sunday illegally."

I didn't even get to the video and I'll have to go back to really take in some of the images I had to rush through as the guard began accompanying me in a vain attempt to get me out of the museum. On the plus side, he did provide someone with whom to chat about the exhibit as he walked me out ("Thank god she's finally gone!" I know they were all thinking it).

I made one last stop on the way home at Balliceaux. Amazing Ghost was scheduled to play later, but I only stayed for the DJ. Kilt man showed up, I met a couple of guys having some after-work drinks (at 10) and I saw the usual musical suspects. I got in some conversation with my favorite bartender there about the Devendra Banhart show (yet another vote for how poorly that show was promoted). I watched the room fill up and furniture be moved out.

At a satisfying six and a half hours in to my evening, I was feeling satisfied and ready to move out myself.