Hello, It's Me

Sometimes you have to go to a wine and cheese tasting to learn about ceiling fan settings. Or maybe that's just me.

When I got to Olio, owner Jason came over to greet me and ask how I was. My standard answer these days is, "Cold," and I usually place my cold hands on the questioner to further demonstrate what I mean.

Leading me across the store, we stopped under a ceiling fan. "This is the hot spot" he said smiling. "Reverse the fan blades and it pushes the heat down." Duly noted. Next he suggested some wine to further the process.

Among the wines being poured was the absolutely beautiful Mumm Napa Pinot Noir, velvety and with a dense berry flavor (and at $31.99 at Olio, a steal of a deal). My only regret was drinking it out of a plastic cup, but I soldiered on for the sake of the grape.

Jason suggested second helpings, but I had places to be, so I stopped by the cheese counter and picked up a half pound of Italian Tallegio before one final stop under the fan and exiting stage right.

If it's Friday, I must be going to the VMFA for their Friday film series, but tonight's installment had a twist; there was going to be a guest speaking for the first hour.

And I lucked out when I got there, running into an acquaintance and all-around interesting guy whom I hadn't seen in awhile to sit beside and share discussions of history and movies with before the festivities began.

Speaking was Marine Sgt. Kristopher Battles, the last remaining U.S. Marine Corps combat artist.

This was a guy who, after getting his degree in painting, ended up reenlisting at 38 to document war in the same way that combat artists have risked their lives doing for their country and their craft for over a century.

His slide show presented some of his works, including a sketch of three non-functioning urinals in an abandoned hotel. "This is my homage to Duchamp," he said, amusing the art geeks in the audience. He also cited Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent (also a war artist) as influences.

"And isn't that the best artist name ever?" he asked rhetorically about Sargent. I've always thought the same thing, so I loved hearing this cheerful Midwestern artist say what I've been thinking since college.

Not surprisingly, the audience contained plenty of Marines in addition to art geeks. Calling his work "the greatest job in the military," he explained why. "We are not restricted in our field range, our medium or our subject matter."

His talk was followed by a screening of They Drew Fire, a documentary about WW II combat artists. The film interviewed an array of former combat artists, most of whom agreed that it was essential that a man be a fighter first and an artist second.

The sheer number of combat artists in WW II was amazing. There were over a hundred, working not only for publications like Life and Yank magazines, but for entities like Abbott Laboratories, documenting military hospital work. Apparently the demand was huge for interpretive war imagery back in the States.

One former artist told of making a painting of soldiers rinsing blood off stretchers in the river on a hot night. One of the soldiers performed this odious task naked, but the military censors would have none of it, instructing the artist to cover the nudity.

"It was okay to kill people in war, but not to show nudity," the artist complained. "I put drawers on him, but it bothered me." He was understandably not happy with the military's censoring.

I walked out of the museum with a wider appreciation for the role of combat artists. I had been struck by the risks taken by the artists in the "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" exhibit I'd seen and to that I could now add an appreciation for the men who'd done it in the wars since.

My favorite evenings are ones like tonight where I get to learn something and then sit back and enjoy myself. I was meeting one of my favorite couples for a date at Acacia and I arrived to a full-on noisy full house.

They were stationed at the bar and I joined them toward the end of their pork terrine, managing to score a couple of bites before the plate was whisked away.

The bar was full of colorful characters (the strapless dress and Wilma Flintstone-like necklace begged for commentary), so we ordered libations and I perused the menu.

Since we'd first met over pork belly at Balliceaux, we ordered it for sentimental reasons, along with the duck confit and butternut squash hash under a poached egg. Both were terrific, although one among us found the hash to have a tad too much squash despite the excellent flavor profile of the dish.

As we were discussing current movies, the issue of making beds and anonymous commenters, a bar sitter came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who am I?" he asked from close range.

I told him he was Rick and he expressed amazement that I recognized him (I later heard from my friends that he'd been glancing over all evening; color me oblivious). We had met back in the 90s when I was working in radio and hadn't seen each other in eons.

He was the one who had tried to curry favor with me by making me a tape (!) of Porno for Pyros, a band name I remember him telling me he did not understand, but thought I might like. He got an A for effort, as I recall.

After that trip down memory lane, my friends and I moved on to dessert. Naturally the one I chose was chocolate, although the best part of it was the brown butter ice cream, with the caramelized bananas and chocolate Chantilly cream a lovely complement.

The deep and decadent butter flavor of the ice cream made every bite taste sinful. We also shared the apple skillet cake with caramel sauce and the tiniest amount of bacon brittle under the ice cream.

This led to a discussion of desserts in RVA and whether comparisons can be made between desserts at a place like Acacia and more casual restaurants.

The verdict was that quality comparisons can be made, but not creativity comparisons. Few places in Richmond innovate with dessert like Acacia does.

And speaking of few, few people would admit to not knowing about reverse ceiling fan settings. But like I said, the best nights always involve me learning something.

In the words of Todd Rundgren, something/anything.