Hot Dogging at Bistro Bobette

As a DC native, I will never think of National Airport as Reagan Airport. For my friend, it's Bombay that will never be Mumbai to him. And both of us are having a tough time making the transition from Bouchon to Bistro Bobette.

But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.

Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.

I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.

Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.

If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).

I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).

Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.

When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.

Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.

The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.

When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.

I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.

"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.

To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.

We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.

A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.

Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.

Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.

Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.

A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.

But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.

Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.

The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.

Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.

Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.

Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.