Dear Me, Life Gets Real

A kind woman began my day with a message telling me how happy I'd looked last night.

That's a lovely thing to wake up to.

On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.

Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.

It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.

The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me,"  a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.

It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.

Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.

But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.

There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.

The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.

Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.

It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.

He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.

Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.

Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).

Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.

Oh, I will.

Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.

The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.

I talked to them anyway.

They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.

But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.

Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.

When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?

It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.

Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.

A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.

Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.

I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.

From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.

A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.

"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?

The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull,"  a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."

She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.

If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.

On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.

And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.

Dear Young Karen,

Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.

Love,
Karen the Elder