Hard to Handle

It all came down to bar dancing.

But it's not like I wanted to go from 0 to 60 and be done by 10, so the evening began at the VMFA.

Once a year, we get the Paul Mellon lecture and tonight's was "Near Andersonville: Winslow Homer's Civil War" by Peter Wood.

Curator Mitchell Merling began by talking about the significance of Homer's enigmatic painting "Near Andersonville," saying, "I suspect it'll be a little less enigmatic an hour from now."

It was.

Wood began by admitting that, "I've been obsessing about this picture for a long time."

From there, we had a virtual lesson in Homer, referred to as "America's greatest sea painter."

I probably wasn't the only one surprised to learn that the revolutionary painting being discussed tonight had an inauspicious start.

Seems it disappeared for a while, only to turn up 100 years later for sale.

The grandson of the man who'd held on to something he didn't know was of value wrote a term paper for his art class entitled, "How We Discovered a Winslow Homer in Grandpa's Attic."

We heard of how Homer's time in the military being embedded with the Army of the Potomac had changed him, leaving a long-term impact.

The picture in question, "Near Andersonville" was significant for three reasons, according to Wood.

What was even more interesting was how the picture had been considered of no real consequence until the sixties when its subject matter of a black woman became suddenly relevant.

Naturally Wood, being a true art geek (and history professor) had several theories about the iconography in the painting (taking us for a stretch of the imagination at some points)  and we heard about planks, gourds and mud sills.

Honestly, it was pretty fascinating.

The picture now owned by the Newark Museum had layers of meaning courtesy of Homer's over-arching talent by that point.

Only at a Mellon lecture can you learn so much arcane information and then end with no Q & A period.

But it wasn't exactly my first time at a Mellon lecture, so I knew better than to expect any answers.

Art gave way to Lunch, where we had dinner.

When we got there, the house was full except the one frigid table by the door but we were grateful for that.

The four top that arrived minutes later did their waiting outside.

I said yes to Tortoise Creek "Les Oliviers" Pinot Noir, tasting of raspberries and a lovely sipping wine for a cold evening.

Moments later a table opened up and we quickly took possession of it.

It's my favorite, the one over the heat vent. That's right, a hot seat.

We went with the special of the evening, Mediterranean snapper , a pan-seared snapper on a bed of sauteed spinach, artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers, red onions, and mushrooms topped with a chunky salsa and Feta.

Not bad if you like a generous-sized piece of fish and a complement of Mediterranean flavors.

We loved it.

A spinach salad came next and while it could hardly compete with what came before, it was fine and fresh and the bacon thick and plentiful.

You really can't go wrong with pig at Lunch.

Our server asked if it was our first time at Lunch (I've had the pancakes on at least three occasions already) but I corrected her.

The music was the ideal mood-setter, playing vintage R & B like and "Someday We'll Be Together" and "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?"

(I don't know. Can I let you know tomorrow?)

Best conversation overheard: "I'm good at Napalm."

Understandably, we cleared out at that point.

Next stop was Balliceaux for dessert and music.

The front bar provided a nattily-dressed bartender from whom we  requested the dessert offerings and Barbera.

We were immediately turned over to another server (and "Lincoln" cast member) who began describing the desserts available.

After announcing the first, a nougat glace, he gestured toward a couple sharing one at the end of the bar.

Rather than take his word for it, I proceeded down the bar and inquired of the nougat eaters their thoughts on it.

The charming duo related that it was not a terribly sweet dessert and pointed me in the direction of the raspberry creme brulee, their server's favorite or so they'd been told.

Returning to the server who was reciting the sweets, I inquired if the creme brulee was as good as I'd heard.

"It's stab-you-in-the-face-good," he deadpanned.

Naturally, we went with pumpkin cake with spice frosting.

Never believe the hype, kids.

Once it came to room temperature, the pumpkin cake was quite lovely - delicately spiced and with a thick spice frosting and toasted pumpkin seeds.

Our entertainment came from the girl next to me and the bartenders, who had differing opinions about what a sense of fashion was.

One indicated that he'd given up being fashionable for fashion's sake to dress more authentically.

Another piped in, "I brought the black V-neck to Balliceaux," quite a claim when you think about it.

Once we made it to the back room, we found the band still in various stages of setting up and I found a friend sitting on a bar stool.

The band was Motha Goose and the Funky Ducks and they were nothing if not young.

All very dapper in shirts and ties (except the female trumpet player), they exuded youth.

And there were plenty of them: trumpet, sax, percussion, drums, guitar, bass and keyboards.

My friend knew the band and she raved about the lead singer, how energetic and talented he was.

I'll tell you what.

He could dance up a storm in front of the stage, while singing originals and covering old soul songs in ankle-length pants, a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders and a watch.

You know, to keep track of time.

There wasn't a moment his feet weren't shuffling, his arms akimbo and his head bobbing.

I couldn't be sure if the crowd recognized nuggets like "Hard to Handle" and "Use Me"  or if they were just responding to great songs.

Leading into a sax solo, the singer said, " That's a new horn. He broke his last one."

I'd like to hear that story.

I think it was during "Midnight Hour" that my friend turned to me and acknowledged that both of us were in motion.

"Bar dancing!" she enthused.

I'd come a long way from Andersonville.