Broadly Speaking

Turns out it was a good night to take the sore legs for a walk and have a sweet tart.

I invited a friend to join me for the first Fridays artwalk, which was considerably less packed than usual because so many people were apparently down at the grand illumination.

I feel certain the lit-up reindeer will be there next time I head downtown.

We strolled the few blocks to Gallery 5 to see "Hard Copies," a group show by a bunch of up and coming young artists.

Ian Gamble's sculpture, made of tree trunks and lumber, were especially compelling, contrasting areas where his chain saw had removed rhythmic sections with intact masses of wood making for organic creations of an entirely new sort.

We wandered down Broad to Steady Sounds to see Richard Busch's photography show, "1960 Rock Stars," and get a blast from the past.

The black and white photos were a peek into another era, a time when Ike Turner had cheesy bangs and Mick Jagger was so unbelievably young he was still smiling onstage.

Compositionally, the Jimi Hendrix photo was outstanding, with the guitarist surrounded by mannequins and a girl, all at an odd angle.

Striking in another way was one of "Jerry Garcia and Groupie" set under an arch and with the fan on a lower step as if in deference to her idol.

I overheard a girl ask her mother to buy one of the Rolling Stone photos for her because it would look great over her bed.

"Seriously, Mom, it would!" she whined.

Friend and I were busily discussing which photo we'd buy if we could when a white-haired man walked up and asked what had us so deep in conversation.

It was Richard Busch, who with a few well-placed questions, shared some of the back stories to the photographs.

The one of Roger Daltry gazing nonchalantly at the camera with a groupie at his side at a bar had a fascinating post script.

A few years back, the woman in the picture had contacted him to tell him her name and that she was the girl in the photo.

Oddly enough, she didn't want to buy a copy of it, though.

Maybe it's just me, but if a picture of me and a rock god from the past were to show up in a photography show, I'd want to own that picture.

Busch told us that the picture of Garcia and girl had been shot at the Cloisters in NYC after an afternoon of the three of them walking around the medieval-style building.

Garcia had paused under an archway with the girl nearby smiling in apparent delight at her good fortune and Busch had snapped the picture.

Pure luck, not posed.

When we left there, we crossed over to Black Iris so I could schedule my appointment to pick up a "sound suitcase" for the new show, "Low Frequency Travel Agency," which allows you to take a valise to six locations, push a button and hear soundscapes written for that particular place.

I love the idea of being sent to random places in the city to hear music created for specifically that spot and on Wednesday, I'll be spending my afternoon experiencing just that.

Then it was on to Quirk Gallery to see Susannah Raine-Haddad's whimsical new animal paintings.

It was my friend's first time in Quirk and she was tickled with their shop, looking at all kinds of gift items before finally choosing a smart-assed card to buy.

Let's just say it had to do with nude male asses and pressed ham.

While I was standing next to an impeccably-groomed much older woman, she unexpectedly turned to me and said, pointing, "Scented clothespins. I just know you need three jars."

I didn't really but loved that she'd made a joke to a stranger.

At the register, the smell of paperwhites blooming in a pot was exquisite, prompting a conversation between us and counter guy Adam about whether or not their heady fragrance was too much.

Not for me, which probably says something about me.

After she paid for her card, Adam told us that Tuesday night was "guys' night," with a DJ, drinks from Saison and hot shaves from RVA City Barber to entice guys to come in to shop.

"You should come, too" he suggested, making me wonder if I'd be able to get a hot shave for my legs. "I bet they would," he said with assurance.

Tempting as it might be to test that out, chances are I won't.

We walked down to Bistro 27 thinking it might be time for a drink, but they were far too busy to need our business, so we crossed back over Broad.

All of a sudden, I heard my name called and there was half of my favorite Jackson Ward couple, just coming from their monthly pre-artwalk cocktail party at their flat.

Looking around for his lovely wife, I saw she was busy dancing with the guy in front of the DJ at Turnstyle.

She came over to hug me, saying, "Jim spotted your legs all the way across the street and said 'there's Karen's legs!' He knew them from across Broad."

It's good to be recognized, right?

Comfort was just as crowded as 27 had been, so Friend and I hoofed it back to my place to collect our cars and head to Carytown, where we decided on Amour for a nosh and a glass.

It turned out to be an interesting glass, too, Le Chapeau Cuvee Napoleon pinot noir, an unlikely product of France made with Corsican grapes.

Corsica, as in the island off Italy where the future emperor Napoleon was born into a wine-making family.

Despite being at a bar table, we made friends with the people at the bar, a gardener sitting alone and then a stylish couple I've seen there before, all friendly and eager to chat with us.

My friend had never had Amour's onion soup but recalled me raving about it and did the same after a few tastes.

I'd had soup for lunch, so I went with the Alsatian onion tart, a happy marriage of onion, cheese and Smithfield bacon (carry me back to ole Virginny), followed by escargots in garlic butter, with plenty of bread for sopping all that butter.

We finished up with apple cider sorbet, which brought about the funniest line of the evening.

Normally sorbet comes three flavors to a serving, but Friend and I, happily replete at this point, wanted just one scoop to share.

Our waiter obligingly brought us one scoop and the stylish man at the bar looked over at our mini-dessert to be spli between two and cracked, "That's just sad."

It may have been petite portion-wise, but it was exactly what we'd wanted and the autumnal take on dessert was the perfect balance of sweet and tart.

Come to think of it, that's kind of how I'd like to be described myself...and maybe remembered for perfectly shaved legs and the faint scent of paperwhites and Smithfield bacon.