Of Tingas, Ties and Trains

When shall we do something, a friend inquires.

I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.

What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.

Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.

I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."

He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.

If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.

Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.

I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.

Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.

Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.

I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.

By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.

Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.

When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."

My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."

His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.

With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.

No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.

On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.

I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.

With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.

He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.

We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.

And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.

About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.

This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.

We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.

When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.

After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.

There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.

A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.

The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.

"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.

The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.

The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into  the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."

Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.

Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?