Moving Past Suspense

I'm not very good at suspense. I can't do suspenseful movies. I am tortured by watching sporting events where I care about the outcome. By about 8:00, though, I left the house for dinner and a chance to see the end of the game.

Unwilling to be in a roomful of sports fans, though, I decided on Six Burner, knowing that the game would be on their one screen, but confident that it would be an enjoyable experience.

And not surprisingly, the restaurant was full of fans, most of whom had eaten by the time I arrived. In fact, taking up an empty standing spot at the front corner of the bar under the TV, the guy next to me inquired, "Are you here to eat?"

I explained my suspense issues and he suggested I watch his face for game clues; it seemed like a good compromise. I jumped right in with the featured red, Cotes de Ventoux Les Blaques (I can't get away from it lately) and ordered the marinated octopus salad.

A stool became available at the other end of the bar, in front to the service bar, but as the manager said, "At least you're someone we know," so I moved. My octopus arrived  momentarily.

One of the servers saw it delivered and smiled wickedly at me. "It's to die for," she warned. And was it ever, succulently marinated with red onion, capers and an assortment of herbs that made for a savory and toothsome taste of the sea. With some crusty Billy bread, it was the perfect supper.

As the crowd around me alternately cheered and groaned, I chatted with Chef Philip about offal and with bartender Josh about everything but offal. When VCU's fate was determined, I joined with the rest of the room in offering a heartfelt ovation for our team making it to the Final Four.

The end of the game signaled for some to pay their checks and exit stage right and for others to order more drinks; I opted to go with the latter group, getting a Warre's Otime 10, a ten-year tawny port and enjoying it with my hazelnut gelato. I considered it a tribute to the team that had brought so much bonhomie to our city.

When I finally left Six Burner, it was to got to Balliceaux for my music fix.  Playing tonight were James Wallace and the Naked Light and while I was familiar with most of the players, Wallace was new to me.

And, with the exception of my Herradura Anejo being absconded with midway through the set by a an over-zealous barback (an egregious error that was corrected), it was a stellar evening of music and friends.

Describing the band's sound is tough because it ranged between so many genres, There was definitely a folky, almost country sound to it, but the double drummers and sax/clarinet/flute add-ins made for something most unlike folk and country. Wallace's vocals, melodic and plaintive at times, were a beautiful and unique complement to the unusual instrumentation.

The music was infectious, causing people like me to move in place and others to downright dance their hearts out. A drummer friend ogled the two drummers and a horn-playing friend bobbed his head to the clarinet.sax combo. It was all good.

Well, good except for the slightly deflated vibe that almost everyone carried around for the last portion of the evening. On the plus side, everyone seems committed to making the team's homecoming rally the biggest and best it could be. And maybe now I'll stop hearing non-stop fire trucks and fireworks in the Ward.

And so we can return to business as usual in RVA. Of course, that's like me saying I could get back to business as usual in my little life.

There's really no such thing. Thankfully.

Sail Me to Wales and Bring Cheeks

To-Do List/ Friday:

1. Pre-artwalk party at Emrick Flats
I'd been eager to see the inside of these condos since they'd opened and I finally got the chance when music friends invited me to a party in their sensationally art-decorated home. I met J-Ward neighbors, music lovers and three people who recognized me although I couldn't reciprocate. Coolest elements of the building: the old elevator that would move the cars from floor to floor when it was a showroom and the rooftop deck, perfect for watching fireworks from both the Diamond and RIR. The view is stunning; who knew how many rooftop gardens there were in Jackson Ward? My friends have even slept up there. I aspire to sleep on a roof with someone I love.

2. Gallery 5 opening
Upon walking in, a G5 stalwart comes up with a guy in tow and introduces me saying, "And here's a woman who looks as good from the back as she does from the front." The stranger introduces himself as a solo transAtlantic sailor ("I did it twice. Both ways!"). He also tells me he was the first white guy in Carver and my friend informs me that he's an incredibly talented furniture maker. "Wanna come over now and see my etchings and I'll make you dinner?" he asks. I am tickled to hear that chestnut of a line. When I politely decline he tells me that I'm missing the chance of a lifetime. Damn! Again?

3. Metro Gallery and ADA Gallery openings
The group show at Metro contains a drawing with my favorite title of the evening: "When We Get There, I Will Love You More" by Carly Troncale. Over at ADA, Kate Woodliffe's fabric collages convey a sense of unsewn whimsy in cloth, but I realize her hands must have become gnarled and cramped from so much precise cutting. I see various guests from the party earlier, receive a compliment on my bangs and get invited to a house show in Monroe Ward. I chalk it up to Tinkerbelle hovering over me from a collage above.

4. Reynolds Gallery  opening (late addition)
One of the paintings in my friends' apartment at the Emrick Flats had been by a student of artist Heide Trepanier, and after admiring the follower, I couldn't resist going to see the teacher's opening. As is always the case at Reynolds, local art luminaries were in attendance (Richard Roth, Joe Seipel) and and the place was crowded with artsy types having earnest conversations. Trepanier's large-scale works were fluid, detailed and defined by color. A woman says to me, "Who would have thought those colors go together?' about a piece with pinkish red, aqua blue and pine green shapes. Heide Trepanier, that's who.

5. Dinner
Restaurants on Broad Street and Main Street were out because of their respective artwalks, so I drove down to the Slip to Bistro Bobette. When I'd seen Chef Francis yesterday, he'd told me that pork cheeks were in the house, but wouldn't last long (fallling off the fork-tender, served cassoulet-style with carrots, potatoes, celery, pearl onions no doubt had something to do with that); I ordered almost as soon as I sat down. Bartender Olivier immediately introduced me to a Welsh-born chap who moved to RVA from L.A. yesterday. Full of presumptions, I asked him if he wanted company. He did. Cotes de Ventoux Les Blaques, a rhubarb/vanilla rum cocktail and blood orange wine came next.  If I am to be believed, scintillating conversation, extensive laughter and loads of innuendo also followed. His version would be, "They had a chat and he buggered off," but not before acknowledging that men give women their power (thus proving that he has a clue). Note: he did not bugger off; I left him sitting at the bar with lipstick kisses on both cheeks, European-style. He'd already stated how much he wanted that. Welcome to Richmond.

To-do list done.

True Love and Bouchon

If it's Thursday, I must be at my Modern Romance class and tonight's topic was true love.

Last week was about that giddy first kiss stage, but tonight we moved on to something more substantial, namely true love.

That stage where reality sets in, compromises are made and love deepens. You know.

Of course, this modern love class is all about architecture and tonight we covered 1930-1960.

After the exuberance of movements, manifestos and the shock of the new in the first 30 years of the last century, the next 30 were all about the socially-driven architecture of Europe rebuilding after the war versus the capitally-driven need for commerce in the U.S. (now there's a surprise).

Luckily for us, many European architects came here to share their talent on our soil.

From the first exhibit of modern architecture at the MOMA in 1932 to the flying exuberance of the TWA Terminal at JFK, this was the period when compromises were made to the realities of economics and site, while still creating landmark buildings.

You know, the Seagram's Building and the Empire State Building and although the Guggenheim Museum was built at the tail end of this period, it clearly represents no compromises with reality whatsoever, but such is its charm.

Tonight's after-school snack was at Bouchon, where I was joined by my extremely hungover friend.

 She was slow to order, but I dove right into their bar menu, a steal at only $4 per item.

I had the pork rillettes with toasted baguette slices and gherkins, along with the Portabello stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and Gruyere.

The rillettes, made with pork shoulder, was everything it should be: rich, fatty, salty and addictive.

The mushroom, which came with a side salad, was a perfect combination of veggies and cheese.

I definitely wasn't scoring any points with my arteries tonight, but, oh, was it good.

The owner surprised us with dessert, apparently thinking my friend could use some rich ice cream to coat her stomach and ease her malaise.

I don't expect she'll drink that many cosmos again in this lifetime.

Topics on the table tonight were stalking exes, overly late nights and Valentine's Day plans and even a hungover friend has strong thoughts on all three.

What we didn't get around to discussing tonight was true love, despite my new-found knowledge on the subject.

No need to jump the gun; I'm still processing what I learned last week about the first kiss stage and all the ensuing giddiness.

Twitterpation, if you will.

That's more than enough to process for the time being.

This Is It?

My friend and I were looking for an appropriately scary way to kick off the Halloween weekend, when it hit us like a ton of bricks; we should see the new Michael Jackson documentary, "This Is It."

What could be more disturbing than a film about a dead pop star, showcasing his 50-year old emaciated body being put through its paces in rehearsal for the Big Comeback?

Sure, "The Exorcist" was playing at the Byrd, but that's so cliched.

To prepare for this night of horror, we started at my place with a bottle of the 2006 Domaine de Berane Cotes de Ventoux "Les Blaques," a big, peppery wine perfect for fortifying us for what lay ahead.

Since I never go to the movies on a Friday night, I had no idea how many people did.

But that's okay, we were armed with buttered popcorn and fear in our hearts; we were ready.

And then unexpectedly, it turned out to be far less horrifying than anticipated.

Oh, yes, MJ is very scary looking up close (that nose! those lips! that pallor!), but then he was 50 years old and had had as many cosmetic surgeries as Cher.

And given that the camera adds 20 pounds, he must have disappeared when he turned sideways in real life.

Someone should have given the guy a sandwich.

But the documentary showcased more of his talent than his scariness and turned out to be quite entertaining to watch.

I have to give the man credit; he knew his music backwards and forwards and how he expected it to sound.

And his voice was still surprisingly supple.

Since every song was intended to be a major production, there were a lot of shiny, moving things to amuse us for the duration.

Apparently I'll have to get my fright on elsewhere this Halloween weekend.