The First Rule of J-Ward

Imagine being taken to lunch only to be accused of having an avatar.

I'd been in a gallery recently and saw the New York Times piece about Jackson Ward on the counter.

Being my usual smart-assed self, I made an off-the-cuff remark to the owner about how there were probably people in RVA, much less NYC visitors, who had never been to all the places in the article.

Her sheepish look said it all. "Actually, I've never been to Ettamae's," she admitted.

Explaining that you weren't allowed to do business in J-Ward if you didn't support its merchants resulted in today's lunch date.

And don't think I didn't walk right in there and introduce her as an Ettmae's virgin, either.

Like everyone else, including Kate Capshaw and Spielberg, she fell in love with the place and its food after one visit.

One thing she made clear from the start was that she wouldn't be getting dessert. She's just back from seeing her mother and had over-indulged all week.

Although it was pouring when we arrived, it wasn't cold, but I used the wet weather as an excuse to order today's soup, a seafood tomato chowder with scallops, shrimp and crab and a grilled cheese.

The soup was so chunk-ful of seafood you could stand up your spoon in it (I know because I did) and not red like I'd expected, but flavorful and filling.

My decadent  grilled cheese used the chef's housemade Amish white bread, making for a thick buttery crust around gobs of cheese.

Once we'd ordered, she got right down to business. "I have to ask you, and I know probably everyone does, but how do you do it all? You have an avatar, right?"

Without answering that I have absolutely no love life and nothing better to do, I tried to pass it off as owing to the array of compelling things to do and my flexible schedule.

Yea, right.

Lunch lasted for hours because we're both culture nerds so we talked about the labyrinth of the UR campus despite the attraction of their rich offerings, the wonder of the Ife show at the VMFA that so many people missed and local theater.

When we finally finished chowing down, our server came over to offer us dessert, but small desserts, she said.

My friend cracked like a peanut under a car tire, telling me she would if I would.

For those who don't know me, I'm the wrong person to say that to. I always will.

Take that any number of ways.

"What do you have?" asked the same woman who had earlier sworn off dessert.

We each ended up with a raspberry-plum puff pastry and by no means were they small.

The combination of all those layers of, let's face it, butter with the sweet tartness of the raspberry-plum sauce and nuts was heavenly.

Neither of us left a bite, just a smear of the most beautiful magenta you ever saw.

We'll just call it a metaphor the the deflowering of an Ettamae's virgin.

But not by an avatar.