Baby, Come to Me

Just another evening feeding body and soul.

Remember 1986?

That's the year I moved to Richmond and the year Adam Gopnik began writing for The New Yorker.

Back in 2000, I'd read and loved his book Paris to the Moon, a series of essays about his time spent living as an ex-pat in Paris.

Tonight he was giving a talk at VCU as part of the annual Windmueller Lecture series, so I made sure to be there early enough to get a seat.

Good thing, because before long the Singleton Center was filled to capacity.

Titled "Doing Things and Doubting Things," his lecture was witty from the get-go.

He spoke of his wife, Martha Parker, remarking offhandedly that she had never changed her name or gotten U.S. citizenship despite 30 years of marriage.

Ha! Wonder how many times he's mentioned that in 30 years.

His talk centered on the mystery of mastery and were drawn from a series of essays he's written on learning to do things like drive a car (still a work in progress apparently), draw and bake bread.

As one who continues to try to learn and do new things, I could appreciate his efforts.

The emphasis was on the role of doubt in doing things, how doubt and error propel us forward.

His conclusion that the liberal arts are the basis for all change and that science follows after was bolstered with example of Galileo and Leonardo.

My opinion of him was bolstered by our shared pain. He, too, has five sisters.

The Q & A after the talk was a highlight, with the inquisitive audience really probing him on his comparisons of art and magic.

He gamely took questions for quite some time before sending us back into the world, our minds whirling with his thoughtfully intense and cockeyed way of looking at things.

Walking back up Harrison Street, I started considering where to eat.

I've been busy with so many restaurant reviews lately that I haven't been able to dine where I please as often as I like to.

But tonight no deadline called and I was free to give in to my whim.

Bingo. It had been too long since the Roosevelt.

On this beautiful evening with a last quarter moon, I walked in to find the bar half empty.

Taking a seat near the end, I settled in for a relaxing evening with nothing more than the staff for company.

It took less than two minutes for a nearby barsitter to overhear the bartender talking to me and insert herself into the conversation, letting us know that she also knew the person we were mentioning.

Next thing I knew, she was introducing herself and we were discussing tequilas.

Isn't that always the way in Richmond?

With Jerry Lee Lewis blaring on the speakers, I ordered a glass of Rockbridge Pinot Noir and fried duck nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and pineapple relish.

I couldn't resist once bartender T told me that it was Chef Lee's take on Chick-fil-A's Polynesian nuggets.

You gotta love a chef who riffs on Chick-fil-A.

Across the street, we noticed Sub Rosa Bakery's owner Evrim standing on his stoop speaking to about 20 people.

No one had any idea what the occasion could be and everyone was too lazy to walk across the street.

Me, I was ready for more food.

One of my restaurant pet peeves is tempting-sounding specials only available in entree size.

So when I heard about seared red fish with plum and salsify in black walnut butter, I politely asked about a half portion.

Not a problem, I was told and while the meaty fish was definitely the star, the contrasting textures of the soft plum and crunchy, tuberous salsify were perfect together.

Meanwhile, my infotainment was coming from T, who was lecturing two new arrivals about emerging east coast Madeiras.

I'd already noticed that there were no longer any Ports or dessert wines on the menu, replaced by ciders, probably because it's the season.

I asked and he let me know that glasses were still available if one was interested.

Good to know, but at this point, more Pinot Noir would do just fine.

Chef Lee came out to chat and ask about all the places I'd recently reviewed, making me think he's too busy to pick up a Style and read it for himself.

Or maybe he just likes to hear it from the horse's mouth.

When I inquired where he'd eaten lately, I got a typical chef answer: carryout from the local Vietnamese place in his neighborhood.

By then I was trying to decide between another small plate and dessert and he swayed me in the savory direction by suggesting an unadvertised special for a great price.

Twist my arm.

It wasn't long before an obscenely rich small plate arrived with rabbit three ways.

Tiny, little pieces of liver, loin, kidneys and slivers of belly sat atop black lentils with golden raisins, fried brussels sprouts and radish slices.

Be still my heart (which the rabbit's apparently was given the other items on the plate), this was a mighty decadent thing to be eating at this point in the evening.

Did that stop me? Perish the thought.

I ate most of it anyway, my arteries clogging and blood thickening as I savored the distinct flavors of each.

So much for dessert. Goodbye, Port.

As for doing things and doubting things, Adam Gopnik would have been proud.

I never doubted that I could eat so much delectable food and I ended up doing it.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't what he meant...