All Quiet on the Friday Front

Sometimes, Friday nights are my quietest nights.

Admittedly it's rare, but if nothing catches my eye, I am happily content to have a meal and call it a night.

Maybe it's because I'm out all the other nights, but if nothing grabs me culture-wise, I feel no shame in having a low-key evening.

So when I hadn't found anything calling my name by 8:00, I contently headed out to eat.

Facebook postings by restaurant friends had informed me that they were anticipating a lot of residual Valentine's Day business tonight and tomorrow night, so that was a consideration.

Taking a chance, I went to Aziza, hoping to slide in after the initial Friday/holiday rush.

Whether I succeeded or not, I have no idea, but it was a good thing I wanted to sit at the bar (empty because what happy couple wants to eat at the bar?) because every table was taken.

But my server recognized me, making me feel at home and I settled in for a solo meal while the Pandora '60s station serenaded me.

Dave Clark Five's "Glad All Over," Judy Collins' "Both Sides Now," the Byrds' "Mr. Tambourine Man."

The truth is, I couldn't listen to it everyday, but tonight it made for a nicely mellow ambiance.

I was debating about having a glass of wine after the great faint of last night, but I risked it with a glass of Marques de Riscal Rioja, spicy and with a long finish.

To start, I went with a bowl of red turnip soup with duck confit and seared scallions.

The creamy soup had no actual cream (just an abundance of butter) and a generous sprinkling of rich and salty confit to make it truly decadent.

Mid-spoonful, a woman came out of the bathroom, stopped and said, "Karen?"

It was the former P.R. director for Maymont, with whom I'd worked back when I was in publishing a lifetime ago.

Honestly, I was amazed she even remembered me.

That's when she caught me by surprise.

She not only remembered our shared projects back then, but had seen me at the VMFA memorial service for a former boyfriend last month.

She even recalled all those years when my daily walk took me past her Grove Avenue house every morning and she'd be coming out for the paper and wave hello to me.

Even after two decades here, I never cease to be amazed at what a small town this is.

Once she left, I returned to my dinner, this time spicy garlic shrimp with herbs and Spanish olive oil.

When the server brought the dish, she said, "Chef Philip said you can eat the shells."

This might have surprised me at one time, but not since my Fall trip to Italy, where I'd had a fried prawn dish and been instructed to do the same thing.

If I can do it in Italian, I can do it in English.

These were even better candidates given the pool of flavorful and fragrant olive oil in which they rested.

Some of my bread also found its way into the oil, but before long, I had to admit defeat.

In fact, when my server came around to inquire about dessert, it was with a heavy heart that I had to decline.

Surprised because she's seen me enough to know my fondness for the house cream puff, I had to come clean.

I'd had a bowl of ice cream around 5:00, I admitted.

She was impressed, so impressed that she said so.

"I can't even keep ice cream in my apartment because it's my weakness," she said, clearly envious of my earlier treat.

I may be able to keep it around, but I found myself regretting my decision to have some now that it was potentially cream puff time.

So there I was with no dessert, no music plans and the rest of Friday night looming ahead.

But I was okay with that.

Just don't ask me to settle for such a low-key night any other night of the week.

I do have to be able to face myself in the morning, you know.