Feeling It

If you pour, they will come.

And they were pouring at Bistro 27 for a holiday wine tasting, so I went.

You know it's going to be a fun time when you walk in and the hostess drops her jaw, saying, "Your tights are hawt!"

I wasn't sure I'd know anyone at the tasting besides the two wine reps pouring, but I ran into a wine-loving couple I've known for years and a bartender/gardener and his beloved, so there were a few familiar faces on hand.

But the wine was the thing so I tasted a few of them, although never got close to tasting the entire dozen.

Judging by the increasing decibel level and ever-widening smiles, though, plenty of people did the full twelve.

A man came up to me and said he recognized me from an art and poetry event at VMFA and asked why I'd been there.

It seemed like an odd line but it turned out he was a poet, so he was thrilled to hear I was a poetry lover.

By the time I woke up this morning, he'd already e-mailed me, promising to send along some of his poetry.

Chef Carlos and I were particularly taken with the 2009 Vega Tinto Douro, a plummy and complex wine for fans of Portuguese style.

When I was poured the 2009 Gaspirini Venegazzu Cabernet, I was reminded of what I like about Italian wines.

The guy next to me took a sip of the same and observed, "It's just beautiful and not overly tannic. I hate those."

The kind that smack you in the head the next morning, I asked, guessing why he felt that way.

"Exactly!" he said. "Although I'm a man, so sometimes I need a smack upside the head."

I told him he was one of the evolved ones if he realized that he occasionally needs a smack upside the head, whether literally or figuratively speaking.

"I am one of the evolved ones," he said, his red face smiling broadly.

I ran into my favorite multiple beagle owner and heard tales of her dog leaning his paws on her shoulders as she sat on the couch working on her computer.

The mental image was adorable.

A short, older man walked up to me at one point and shyly said, "I love your nylons."

What is this, 1945?

It should give you some idea of his age that he even used the term "nylons."

"Not many women could pull them off," he said, winking.

I took my taste of Coltibuono "Cetamura" Chianti and eased over to the other side of the room.

Wine sips makes for loose lips, I guess.

For me, it turned out to be a wine tasting with far more conversation than tasting, but sometimes that's exactly what I want.

From there, I went to pick up a fellow balletomane to go see "The Nutcracker" at Center Stage.

So there we were, surrounded by little girls in party dresses and giant hair bows, amongst what appeared to be a sold out crowd watching Richmond Ballet's perennial cash cow.

I've been a ballet-goer for so long that I remember some of the company members when they were apprentices or trainees.

But as we know, youth is a gift of nature and age is a work of art.

Witness the wonder of Susan Massey, a long-time teacher at Richmond Ballet, and still limber, expressve and impressive as Dr. Silberhaus' mother, despite being no spring chicken.

And it is a beautiful production of the holiday chestnut with jewel-colored costumes, monumental sets and dancing of all levels and kinds.

Perhaps most surprisingly, the cast was by far the most diverse I've ever seen in Richmond,

At the party that starts the ballet, families were mixes of black and white, with even little Clara played by an African American, something I never thought I'd see in Richmond.

Bravo, Richmond Ballet, for finally stepping into the 21st century where everyone is not white.

During intermission, I ran into my favorite dulcitar player in the lobby and my favorite bass clarinet player in the orchestra pit.

As intermissions go, seeing the two of them made it way better than a mere bathroom break.

The second act is such fun, with its snake charmer, dancing bear with his incredibly sharp dancing moves despite the bulky costume and the elaborate Chinese dragon, eye candy all.

By the time that act ended, the little girl next to us was sound asleep in her mother's lap and the tween-age boy on the other side was busily drawing robotic monsters in his sketchbook.

So maybe they were a little young for ballet, even one that had us out on the street by 9:10.

As a wine tasting, polka-dancing friend had told me earlier at 27, "It doesn't feel like Christmas to me until I see "The Nutcracker."

I may not have drunk much wine and I certainly can't polka, but walking out afterwards under the twinkling CenterStage marquee, I had to agree with her.

And, who knows, maybe I'll get some hawt nylons from Santa.