East by Southwest

Never let it be said that I can't step outside of my bubble, if only to remind myself why I stay in it.

But the bubble was firmly in place when my companion and I arrived at the Roosevelt for dinner.

Waiting diners were everywhere, front and back, chatting and drinking until their tables became free.

We immediately found a bar stool empty and set up camp.

I never cease to be amazed at how long people will wait for a table rather than eat dinner at the bar.

Before long we scored another bar stool from the far end and suddenly we had our dinner a deux.

Once of us was too sickly to drink, but it wasn't me and I was enticed by Delfosse Cuvee "Laurent," a Chamourcin-based blend with a fruitiness that made it perfect for food.

It was the bartender's new favorite and I have to think he knows of what he speaks.

Of course we discussed the "Lincoln" movie and a friend brought me up to speed on all the scenes where I could find him should I go back for a second viewing.

It's the new indoor sport in Richmond this week, discussing film sightings of our near and dear.

Best line delivered in my vicinity, "Come on, T, you know the Karen protocol."

Once I saw crispy pig head terrine on the menu, it was a no-brainer with a history.

Years ago, Chef Lee Gregory had made  me that same dish at Six Burner, igniting a love of odd body parts that remains unabated.

Tonight's square of heaven was as magical as I remembered that first one being, crispy on the outside and full of rich-tasting meat inside.

And, no, I don't have any problem with the visuals of eating head.

I ran into a friend who does music production and he told some hilarious stories about the Kit Kat bar commercial he's been working on, creating music for it that brings together earnest acoustic like Head and the Heart with psychedelic grooviness like Animal Collective.

He was hilarious describing how listening to the same 15-second spot all day long had left him a bit crazed.

Probably a good thing, because it was certainly a crazed night at the Roosevelt.

People kept coming and the ones in place lingered. It was obvious everyone was having too good a time to leave.

And then there's always the food.

Tonight's maple-glazed pork belly had braised cabbage, toasted pecans and pickled apple married in the most season-appropriate melange of flavors a girl could hope for on a Saturday night.

Or at least this girl.

When the time came for dessert, I was hardly surprised to hear that they were already out of the Coca Cola cake.

Instead, we chose the mixed berry pie with caramel ice cream and while I'd had the pie before, the ice cream was a revelation.

Sticky, thick and with deep caramel flavor, it had such high butterfat that you could pick it up with a fork and it just clung there, immovable.

As good as the pie was, that ice cream was what got the two women next to use to reconsider dessert once they saw us swooning over ours.

Bartender T. had mentioned earlier that last Saturday night had been the Roosevelt's busiest ever and it was clear that tonight was on its way to displacing that record.

"I don't think it's going to ease up tonight," he said in his usual low-key manner at one point glancing out over the mass of humanity.

I know that by the time we left it was every bit as busy as when we'd walked in three hours earlier.

Only after the high of such a perfect wine and food pairing can you do what we did next.

That's right, we went to Midlothian.

Call it a sociological experiment, call it an exercise in reality, call it Saturday night madness, but we went out Hull Street to South Beach Club.

I gotta admit, it's not a scene with which I have much familiarity, but it was pretty funny to hang back and just watch.

Apparently in those parts of the world, girls dance with imaginary poles and guys ogle and music like "Back That Ass Up" is de rigueur.

Bad song after bad song continued, broken only by the DJ's meager attempts to work the room and try to convince people to dance to his ill-chosen songs.

Maybe they were distracted by the 17 screens blaring sports in the room.

Maybe they just wanted music worth dancing to.

Either way, I wasn't backing my ass up to anybody there tonight, so it seemed like a good time to leave.

Time to return to the bubble and a world I better understand.

Call it Karen protocol.