Kansas City and Jello Shooters

It's always the nights you expect to be low-key that blow up in your face. But in a fun way.

After a friend called from out of town and kept me on the phone for a while talking about sailing, GTOs and cuff links, I got a late start on dinner out.

One factor was the heat seriously reducing my appetite, but I was hoping that Pescado's China Street could revive it.

As it turned out, I met a couple of friends of the owner, one from Kansas City and the other a native, and they decided to join my party of one, making for all kinds of conversational possibilities.

With the temperature still hovering in the 90s despite the clock reading almost 8:00, I had no choice but to drink the Twin Vines vino verde. Anything more would have been too much.

I kept dinner light, too, ordering the Los Cabos, a salad of local field greens, goat cheese, mango, pine nuts, red onion and avocado with mango dressing.

Despite my new found friends, I tore into it when it arrived.

It was the guys' first time at Pescado's and they made two excellent choices: the soft shelled crab and the escolar.

I was even given a generous piece of the crab, savoring the chipotle-honey sauce that came on it.

I thought I was breaking some sort of record for soft shell consumption until the owner ordered one and the chef pointed out that he has eaten soft shells for 27 days straight.

I feel far better about my own softshell obsession now.

The first-timers were good company, offering up conversation about fish, restaurants and which West End bars are good meat markets. The things I learn when I'm out.

When the topic turned to tilapia, the chef joined in, telling us which fish he likes to order and which are too commonplace.

I loved his summation of the RVA food trifecta.
According to him (and I don't think he's far off), pig, crab and corn guarantee a best-seller on a menu.

Thinking about the ubiquitous nature of all three on menus around her, it's hard to argue his point.

After a particularly good food discussion, the KC dweller noted the obvious. "So I should call you when I come to town because I'm on an expense account and we're both foodies."

Only if you want a non-stop talking dinner companion who eats everything.

Finally they were off to the meat market and I was off to a housewarming party thrown by two symphony musicians.

Sedate as that might sound like it should be, it  was anything but. When I walked in, the host grabbed me and said, "Karen is in the house," as if that were significant.

He handed me a shot of Jagermeister (which I left sitting on the dog cage and is still there I would assume) and opened my gift of wine and a sex toy. Hey, it takes a lot to make a house a home.

The music was vintage and I had to razz the twenty-somethings about forcing me to listen to music I've already heard for far too long.

Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.

The guests were an eclectic mix, pulling heavily from the Richmond Symphony, but also from the local music scene and any number of offbeat connections.

One guy introduced himself suggestively and when I asked his connection, pointed to a girl and said, "I live under her."

He became a tad too friendly, pressing me (literally and figuratively) to dance with him and following me out when I left.

But other than that, I had a great time talking to a variety of people known and new to me as I made my way from room to room in the hosts' new (1979) freshly painted Museum District house.

Then the host appeared with a tray of Jello shooters, something I hadn't seen in quite some time and hadn't realized were still popular.

Perhaps it's bad memory, but the Jello shooters of my youth tasted far more of sugary gelatin than these alcohol-laden lovelies did.

Still, I squeezed a couple into my mouth. Peer pressure or foolhardiness? You be the judge.

I found a jazz DJ with whom I could discuss some recent purchases, talked to some charming symphony musicians about a mutual clarinet-playing friend and met the host's father who questioned how I knew his son. Music, really, sir.

If it hadn't been for being followed out and pressed about a date, it would have been a practically perfect way to spend a sultry evening.

A sign is what I need. I'll wear it around my neck.

"If I'm interested, I'll tell you. Otherwise, let's just chat."

I have no problem being direct when circumstances warrant it. Would that that were the case more often.