Third Thursday Eve

The moon is not in the seventh house, but in Gemini, my sign, which meant I needed two lively ways to spend my evening.

The first came courtesy of one of my favorite husbands, loaned to me for the night by his charming wife who, unlike me, does not eat everything.

We agreed to meet a Magpie, but only after he asked if he, a middle-aged suburban guy, would be safe parking and walking in Carver.

I didn't deign to respond to such nonsense.

Once there, we found the music set to a Stevie Wonder station, meaning Bill Withers and Curtis Mayfield, "Superstition" and "For Once in My Life" and fine by me.

After acquiring his standard well-bruised martini, the husband and I listened to the specials with an ear for what was irresistible.

Our amuse bouche arrived: tempura crawfish over curried sweet potato puree, one perfect bite of kick-ass flavors.

We got off on a tangent about the upcoming exhibit at UR, "The American Dream, Right?" about the influx of Russian Jews to Richmond in the late '80s and early 90s.

Yea, who knew?

I impressed him with my recent forays to the Hebrew cemetery and the unusual "consort" gravestones I'd seen.

Not only was he surprised to hear about them, he was able to recommend the archives at Temple Beth Ahaba as a place we could go to research the women.

Now that's an invaluable friend, not just because like me he eats anything, but because he can help up my nerd quotient.

The first dish to come out was the General Tso's sweetbreads, lightly breaded, slightly spicy and served with crisp-tender broccoli.

You really couldn't ask for an easier way to eat thymus glands.

Next up was one of the night's specials, braised beef cheeks over apple ranch dressing and topped with shaved brussels sprouts (my second of the day) and oyster mushrooms, an earthy combination ideal for this too-cold-for-me weather.

That led to a discussion of heat, with my friend saying he was always turning the thermostat down at work, leaving the women to complain that they were cold.

Like his wife, I tend to get cold easily but even so, prefer a cool room to sleep in, unlike his wife.

"I don't know why she wants the room so warm when I'm like a radiator in bed," he mused.

Warm men and cool women, that's a combination that's worked for centuries, at least according to my Mom.

I suggested ordering the root vegetable salad, to which my friend showed little enthusiasm, but I assured him he'd be impressed.

Midway through the beautifully colorful dish of sliced red and yellow beets, radishes, fried sweet potato chips and goat cheese with house ranch dressing, doubting Thomas looked at me and acknowledged, "Oh, my god, this is the best thing yet."

I may have pointed out that I told him so.

He told a hilarious and touching story about a friend who discovered after years of dating women that he actually preferred men, the realization coming after he met a certain man ("I met him and the room stood still").

When my friend asked him if it took any adjustment going from female to male, he said with masterful understatement, "I had to get used to that little stubble on his upper lip."

Don't we all?

About the time we stopped laughing about that, our final dish arrived and, man, it was a doozy.

Pig's head torchon Philly cheesesteak-style, complete with sauteed onions and peppers on - wait for it - a mini Amoroso roll.

Let's just say it left a properly greasy stain on the black and white checked paper in the basket when we scooped each of our halves up

Died. And. Gone. To. Heaven.

The properly soft roll, the lightly oiled pig, the oozing cheese, it was divine and then some.

The only way it could have been improved was with a good story and my friend had one.

He'd been telling me about how his extended family requires him to make certain dishes for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, stuff he'd prefer to forget, stuff like green bean casserole.

Oh, no, I laughed , not that canned soup abomination.

The very one.

The funny part was that two years ago, his mother had mentioned casually that that recipe was hers. They thought she was joking, but no.

As a young bride she'd been given a bunch of recipe cards from married women, all of dishes guaranteed to "keep a man."

One of them was the canned green bean, canned mushroom soup, canned onion ring classic, a card she still had, albeit yellowed and stained.

She had no idea until two years ago that the recipe had been on the back of cans for decades.

"You can imagine how much we made fun of her," my friend shared.

We were too full for dessert and soon my friend began yawning, still unused to a job that requires a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call after years of being on his own schedule.

I watched as he headed toward southside and I made tracks for Carytown.

It was, after all, only a matter of hours until the Beaujolais Nouveau would be released and while I'm not interested in drinking juvenile wine all the time, once a year it's a fun way to spend an evening.

Plus Amour wine bistro was starting the Wednesday part of the evening with a Cru Beaujolias tasting, necessarily saving the nouveau part of the evening for when it's legal, namely after midnight.

When I arrived, there was only one guy there for the tasting, but he hospitably  gestured to the stool next to him and introduced himself.

Before long, the owner donned a beret and a colorful Georges Duboeuf tie, the combination leading to a discussion of stereotypical Frenchmen and Pepe Le Pew, a character with which he claimed to have no knowledge.

Still, he looked very dapper.

I started with a flight of Cru Beaujolais that included the earthy Beaujolais Village Domaine des Nugues 2010, the elegant Fleurie Domaines des Nugues 2009 and the smooth Julenas G. Duboeuf Chateau des Capitans 2011, with the guy next to me mocking my ability to down the flight.

Slow and steady wins the race, my friend.

Before long lots of others came in to join the fun, couples mostly including his wife and a couple of her friends who'd just come from a wine dinner.

Many people were enjoying the sparkling Gamay Domaine des Nugues and loving it, but it got to be midnight before I got to it.

Once the bewitching hour struck, it was all about the nouveau and in short order, I tried them all: the mass appeal Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais nouveau, Manoir du Carra Beaujolais nouveau, the lovely Domaine Descroix Beaujolais nouveau and Manoir du Carra Beauejolais Villages nouveau.

Everyone acknowledged that 2013 wasn't a particularly good year for wine and the dominant notes of banana attested to that. Or as one guy said, "By the new year, this'll be vinegar."

That's why we were drinking it tonight, kids.

A highlight of the evening was hearing the French owner pronounce "village" with an American accent. Our vowels are so flat-sounding.

The music was notably not French for a change with Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby and Michael Buble crooning at us as everyone became everyone's friend and chatted across the room.

There were bad jokes about escargots, the color green and a ball, there was one woman repeatedly rhapsodizing about the fig goat cheese (which after a while got mangled to "fake goat cheese") and much discussion of the quality of restaurant service in Richmond.

Conclusion: not enough people who truly want to be service professionals, unlike in major and European cities where service is a worthy career.

Prosciutto quiche and Camembert and leek Croque Monsieurs were savory accompaniments to the flights and eventually people were sharing their food like we were at a party and not a restaurant.

By the end of the evening, the guy next to me was telling me why I should start following him on Twitter and why I should start tonight.

You know, with the moon in my sign, I think I have bigger fish to fry than reading  about why you don't eat sweetbreads and how you're a furnace in bed.

And what is it with guys bragging tonight about their heating abilities in bed?

Besides, I've got recipe cards too mister, so I've got ways to get a furnace man of my own.

Cans optional.