Unprovoked Limping and Faithful Eaters

It's always flattering when a man accuses you of cheating on him.

But first men (and a woman) read to me at Chop Suey Books.

A friend and I arrived just before 6 and the first thing I did was walk over and open the window to let out some of the frigid air-conditioned air.

It is, after all, as perfect a low humidity June day as we could possibly hope for, so why shut it out?

From there we took the first seats in the room and started to blather like it was, well, Friday night.

A guy soon came in and told us the reading wouldn't start until 6:30 and he was going across to NY Deli for a beer.

Rather than join him, we decided to use our unexpected time to get in some girl talk before everyone joined us.

Oh, if those walls could talk!

Even though she had some good restaurant gossip, I took the prize for most unexpectedly gross story shared.

People begin to filter back into the room and all of a sudden I noticed someone had closed the window.

What a pity.

By the time every seat was taken, someone had re-opened it, so I knew I had a kindred soul in the room.

Or, at the very least, a window fairy.

Our host explained that they were going to decide which order the poets would read in based on drawing straws.

But it wasn't the poets drawing straws, it was their proxies.

Not that everyone was certain who they were standing in for, because they weren't.

It soon became abundantly clear that no one knew much about the drawing straws method.

The whole episode reminded me a lot of the old "Who's on first?" gag.

No one had any idea what was going on.

When Jack's proxy got the shortest straw, he held it up and said, "I got the shortest straw, whatever that means."

No one had planned that far.

But soon Jack Christian took to the podium with a small butterfly bandage over one eye and talk of meeting a doorknob and how much alcohol was in a National Bohemian.

He began with the title poem from his book, "Family System," full of childhood memories and assessments.

"This poem made for an interesting discussion with my parents last year," he laughed. "My Mom said she didn't get it and I said I know you don't, Mom."

We all have our crosses to bear.

My mother can't understand how I eat brains or heart or beets.

My favorite was the poem called "Marie," which he preceded with, "This is a little bit longer, but it'll be good."

And good it was, especially when it began with, "Karen's parents" and went on to name names.

Andrew was impossible to locate.
Clay had gone to Maui.
Sadie preferred barbecue.

By the end of it, he was chuckling right along with us.

Next came Gabe Durham, a long, tall drink of water with a smile that hinted at his understated but hilarious wordplay.

"No Moms for Miles" was about camp life and provided guidelines.

No unprovoked limping.

In the event of some unexpected arousal, play basketball.

"Icebreaker" was about meeting a goat-sacrificing Satanist in an elevator and the moral dilemmas that ensue.

A poem about how people met in the pre-Internet days explained that they "locked beer eyes across the bar" and eventually "said hi."

Yes, kiddies, that's how it was done back in the olden days.

Camp and youth returned for "No Gourd" about how young men will always fall for girls on summer nights.

Wow, your skin looks great in starlight.

Durham was the best possible reader of his own words, inflecting them with a rhythmic, humorous cadence that perfectly suited his poems of life instructions and astute observations.

When he read his last to great tittering, he closed with, "Thanks, guys, this was so fun."

Last but not last was Allison Titus, whom I'd seen read almost three years ago, which seems like ages ago except part of her introduction included that she's been working on a novel.

That'll take up some time.

Referring to the amusing poetry we'd already heard, she began by saying, "I'm going to take it down a notch because I only have one funny poem and I didn't bring it."

We heard from her "Office" series which she'd begun after being laid off and included such disparate topics as accounting and taxidermy.

"Station of the Harness-Maker" included the line, "I rode my bike to the ditch and I ditched it."

You gotta love that noun/verb doubleplay.

She read the poem she'd written for her neighborhood after living almost a decade on 24th Street, "Essay on Urban Homesteading."

Sirens, blackouts and a rampage of little boys throwing rocks.

Her work may not have been funny but it had an evocative subtlety to it that perfectly closed out a blue-sky evening of poetry.

Fittingly, we decided to eat on 25th Street at the Roosevelt, where I was long overdue.

How do I know?

When the chef came out and saw me, he asked if I'd been cheating on him.

It's always nice to be missed.

But the really big news was that bartender T was clean-shaven, his Lincoln-worthy beard now history.

He looked very handsome but it's almost startling when you first lay eyes on him.

Once adjusted to that novelty, we focused on his face long enough to hear the specials.

Stop right there, I told him, we'll start with crispy-fried monkfish cheeks with remoulade.

If any chef in this town can produce the most delectably crusted anything, it's Chef Lee and, as I told my friend, I didn't honestly care what was inside the crust.

Fortunately, though, it was the meatiest monkfish cheeks a person could hope to put in their mouth, delicate in flavor but with an almost streak-like texture.

Nothing says Friday night like cheeks and, yes, that's a metaphor.

Next came the double cheeseburger with onion jam, bacon and rooster sauce with a side of braised green beans with almonds and roasted garlic.

The conversation took a left turn when Friend told me about the burger discussion she and some office mates had recently had.

They'd insisted no one could top Carytown Burger and Fries and here we sat with irrefutable proof that they were wrong.

I saw a friend and her husband having dinner and she mentioned that it had turned out to be "the cool kids' night" with a noted culinary historian, the Kaine staffer who books shows and the director of "Richmond's attic."

I was just happy to be in their company.

By the time we got to dessert, we could reach no accord.

I wanted coconut cake but she doesn't like flaked coconut, only whole or milk.

She doesn't even like Samoas, I discovered, but I'm trying not to hold that against her.

I'm no fan of panna cotta but when I saw it was cocoa, I allowed as how it might be okay and friend was delighted.

She's a panna cotta hound and this one came under a layer of big, beautiful lightly sweetened strawberries over a pale chocolate pudding.

I'd been won over yet again by this man.

What kind of idiot cheats on a chef who makes her cheeks, burgers and pudding?

Don't look at me.

I've got too much poetry in my soul for that.