Stay on the Streets of This Town

So it's Labor Day weekend and the city is all but dead.

Parking spaces abound, businesses are closed and if you're one of the few left in town, good luck finding action.

With that in mind, I invited Holmes and his favorite gal to meet at Lunch for dinner.

No surprise, we were the only ones in the restaurant when we arrived.

A familiar and pretty server greeted us and brought our favorite Wolf Trap blend to ease us into happy hour.

Music was absent, so I asked our server to correct that.

Within seconds, the '70s and '80s arrived, courtesy of Pandora.

You know what I'm talking about: MJ's "Rock with You," Robbie Dupree's"Steal Away,"  Ambrosia's "Baby Come Back," " Ace's "How Long?" and more Hall and Oates than you could shake a stick at.

Songs I've heard too many times and know every word to.

Still, it made for terrific conversation, especially once Holmes and partner arrived and joined us at our window table.

They followed our Wolf Trap lead and everyone perused the menu eagerly.

Having had 80% of the menu, I couldn't help but go with one of the specials, fish tacos.

Three grilled tilapia, pineapple-mango salsa and shredded cabbage tacos were more than I needed to satisfy my hunger.

All around me, my companions, ordered pig: griddle cakes with pork, chicken with pork, a pork sampler.

The music provided lots of discussion, as did the black and white photographs of old Richmond.

Our server was quick to refill wine glasses and profess her love of Hall and Oates.

It was adorable.

The abundance of pig meant that no one at our table had enough room for dessert, so once again, I didn't taste the brownie with bacon.

Someday, my love.

I lost my date to northern Virginia while Holmes and his beloved agreed to meet me at Carytown Bistro for music.

Somehow, I arrived first, scoring a table far too near the wafting odor of sewer gas.

After a move closer to Chilled Mint, we settled in to enjoy music al fresco.

The restaurant was low on inventory, so we settled for a Close Robert chardonnay, the only white wine available.

Holmes advised the owner to change wine reps if that was the case.

When his love saw the bottle, she noted, "It's 13%. Good, we're not f**king around with a vinho verde.. That's a single serving in a bottle."

I found that a succinct and hilarious observation.

I'd seen Chilled Mint before and had much enjoyed their Latin take on jazz.

With a good friend on sax, jazz guitar, a drummer who only occasionally used anything but his hands to make sound and a bass player on an acoustic bass guitar, they created a smooth and eminently danceable sound.

Sadly, I had no one to dance with.

Even so, they delivered standards and originals, like "Delta Casbah," Dizzy Gillespie's "Night in Tunisia," and the standards, "Autumn Leaves" and "Song for My Father," both of which required the drummer to stand.

One song required the drummer to blow his whistle, conveniently located around his neck.

"I thought it was a crucifix," Holmes admitted once he began blowing.

"It's not just bling," his nearby girlfriend laughingly told us.

Scent of sewer gas and limited wine selection aside, we were more than happy to sit back and enjoy bossa novas and sambas in the warm August night.

When we left there, it was to go to Amour Wine Bistro for a nightcap.

What the hell?

It was a block away, we knew their wine selection would not be limited and there was always the opportunity for dessert.

While Holmes had no preference, his lady love and I immediately went for the Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut rose, a lovely pink sparkler that puts the rose in our cheeks.

As we enjoyed the soundtrack of gypsy jazz (mostly Django Reinhardt), the chalkboard listing the evening's sorbets caught our eye.

"They have fig sorbet," Holmes' beloved noted.

Given the all-too-brief fig season, how could we resist?

Both fig sorbet and a lovely plum sorbet arrived at our request and we savored the delicacy of the flavors.

Eventually, the other couple at the bar joined our conversation, unable to resist Holmes' comment, "Olli soprasetta smells like semen."

Seems they'd done a taste comparison between Boar's Head and Olli soprasetta and Olli had been disqualified for its distinctive scent.

It was a tough thing to even respond to.

Instead, we looked at art, namely that of Vicki Foster Miller, which hung on one wall of the dining room.

Recalling late 19th century post-impressionists, I immediately saw one I coveted.

But at $450 (a steal of a deal, no doubt), it was way beyond my budget.

Still, I can admire.

By the time we left,even the fro-yo customers had vacated the overly bright premises and it was just us on Cary Street.

Approaching my car parked in front of Babe's, I saw a line out the door and considered going in.

The bass was booming and several women gave me inviting looks.

Should I or shouldn't I?

Truth is, even on a holiday weekend, the city is only as dead as you want it to be.