Follow Me in Merry Measure

At some point, you just give in to the strings of street lights - even stop lights - blinking a bright red and green.

Tonight we took the Christmas train without apology.

That meant a walk by Quirk Hotel to admire its enormous pink tree and the Jefferson Street side's tasteful window decorations - a ceramic dog posed in a sea of cotton "snow" under small white trees - while outside, window boxes of blooming pink roses provided color continuity.

The Quirkster misses no details.

Compare that to the far more traditional red, gold and white color scheme that awaited us at the Jefferson Hotel, which was hosting not one but three private parties, including one that took over the entire downstairs, thus prohibiting sweeping entrances down the grand staircase as we'd hoped for.

Anticipating just this level of over-the-top holiday frenzy was exactly the reason we'd walked rather than driven. Parking at home probably was the closest parking space.

Surveying the massive two-story tree, we decided that it needed additional ornaments (preferably some with more texture and color) to fill in the irregular green spaces appealingly. We were both of the mind that you really can't overdress a tree because if there's room for a bauble, it belongs there.

But nothing could have prepared us for the Christmas craziness at Lemaire where the host warned us that no seats looked to open up any time soon, but we were welcome to hover.

Translation : welcome to cut throat Christmas at a four diamond hotel.

When we joked about how ridiculously busy it was, he told us it was a slow night for December. My condolences, indeed.

Although he was kind enough to take our drink order, what hadn't been mentioned was that we'd also need to hover like vultures near the bar if we had any hope of scoring seats so we could eat with dignity.

After losing out to a pushy couple who swooped in just as we were making our approach, we were offered two stools by a vivacious and buxom blond who knew what a favor she was doing us, so we acted properly grateful (hardly a stretch), although at that point, we were unaware of our proximity to a clutch of shrill young women who continuously screamed and laughed at a pitch usually heard only by canines.

While I wouldn't say the large staff was in the weeds, it was taking every ounce of their time and attention to keep up with the needs of so many customers - many of them in larger groups - in the restaurant at one time.

Because we had a curtain to make and because we are pros who already had drinks in hand, no time was wasted in ordering, the better to move on to important conversations before its arrival.

Like Christmas Eve dinner in some Italian families I once knew, our meal came entirely from the sea.

Rosy pink tuna tartare got crunch from cucumber, richness from avocado puree, salt  from olives, and bold color from seaweed salad, but it was fried pearl onions that surprised and delighted most.

Richer than I needed, the crabcake on English muffin sandwich didn't disappoint, but I'm of the Maryland camp that believes the binder should be minimal and this was a very creamy crabcake.

For a crab purist such as myself, it doesn't come better than a blue crab tartine that layered hunks of backfin with guacamole and micro-greens on grilled and oiled rustic bread with a chew so fabulous it was challenging to cut with a knife and fork, but utterly satisfying once in our mouths, especially after a swipe through the spicy honey drizzled on the plate.

Trying to cover eight days worth of life in between bites that were worth devoting our full attention to wasn't as easy as it sounds, but we did what we had to do to de-brief each other, scrutinize the clientele and lick all three plates clean simultaneously.

All in the name of holiday cheer, you understand. I will say that we felt far less harried than some of the anxious-appearing groups around us who were clearly in the vise-like grip of holiday responsibilities looked.

We were slackers in Christmas comparison, really only out to indulge ourselves.

To that end, we'd donned our gay apparel for Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Scrooge in Rouge," which was just the seasonal ticket for a play that combined the traditional (an offbeat retelling of "A Christmas Carol" as done by an English music hall cast) with the completely irreverent, namely cross-dressing, bad puns and references to oral sex, or any sex, really.

I mean, how do you think Bob Cratchit (or Bob Crabcakes, as he's repeatedly referred to here) wound up with all those snotty-nosed children if not for a healthy drive?

Even Tiny Tim and his tiny crutch were fair game for mocking to great hilarity. It's not often you hear, "Break a leg, Tiny Tim!"

 Oh, yes, and there was a dancing pickle.

Interestingly, the cast was the same as it had been when RTP had premiered the play in 2009, for which I had a reference solely because there's a poster for the original production in the ladies' room. I knew it well because you notice everything over years of waiting in line to relieve yourself.

Hands down, my favorite member of the cast was Steven Boschen who managed to play roles as disparate as a virginal beloved and a tubercular little sister in a series of wigs and costumes that only occasionally made him resemble Boy George, but in the best possible way. Between his stellar singing voice and gracefully feminine man hands, he made me laugh more than anyone else.

And, let's face it, laughing during this frenetic season is undoubtedly the best medicine.

I understand Prozac and Prosecco work well, too. Whatever gets you to falalalala.

It's Chritmas Time in the City

It's come to this: I had to join a group to find people to walk with me.

No, that's not a whiff of desperation you smell. I merely saw that there was a holiday light walking tour and realistically acknowledged that no one I know or love would be willing to do such a thing with me. When I told one of those people about it, the response said it all. "I bet you'll love it."

Yes and no.

The group met in front of New York Deli and I was one of several first-timers. The last thing I'd expected was anyone I knew and yet there was a woman I'd met at a restaurant last year, apparently a semi-regular in the group.

Interestingly enough, there were plenty of people who'd come because, like me, they enjoyed walking but couldn't find friends to do it with. So at least I wasn't odd man out.

We began by walking up Boulevard admiring lights and decorations before turning on to Stuart Avenue. By then it was already apparent that the group's members were going to move at wildly different speeds. I should have had a clue when the group leader told us that the 10K walk would take approximately 3 1/2 hours.

Seriously? I could walk to the Lilly Pad Cafe in Varina in less time than that.

Here's the thing: it's cold outside, a few degrees above freezing at best. And while I'd dressed appropriately for the weather, when it's cold like this, my walking speed picks up for the first few miles so I can warm up. A couple of women joined me at the front of the pack but the rest of the group lagged a block or two behind.

What this meant was that periodically, we'd turn around and shout to the group leader asking about the route he wanted to take. Since the goal was seeing decorated houses, our path was completely subject to change depending on which streets appeared to have lots of bling.

Someone observed that the popular decorating style seems to be that of strings of lights spilling off a porch or roof. "Hell, I could do that," one woman sniffed. It's not rocket science, that's for sure.

As we outdistanced the pack, one in our trio told me that men her age aren't active enough and can't keep up with her. But she doesn't want to date younger men because they don't have any money. Conundrum.

After Stuart, we went east on Hanover for a bit before switching to Grove and eventually Franklin to get us to the Jefferson, our first stop. No surprise, the hotel was packed to the rafters with a huge Christmas party in the Rotunda, a smaller party in the Flemish room and scads of families dragging squalling kids dressed in their Sunday best around the lobby for photo ops.

Santa must do a lot of self-medicating this time of year.

Our group leader gave us 15 minutes and told us to meet back by the desk. My two walking companions and I made a quick pit stop and then stood there waiting for the others to join us. One of the women pointed to Lemaire and said, "I got engaged there 40 years ago and had my reception there," pointing to a ballroom.

Her Daddy was in steel fabrication, no doubt the source of the checkbook that funded such extravagance.

Once the group reassembled, our speedy trio was ready to get walking again but first we had to pose for a group picture in front of the holiday-bedecked alligators outside. Twice.

From there, we headed down Franklin, turning on 8th Street to get to Cary and the splendor that is the Grand Illumination at the James Center. I knew we were getting close when traffic all but stopped alongside us.

Under the bright lights of all those illuminated reindeer, our leader told us we had 25 minutes to explore before reporting back for the return trip to Carytown. Only problem was, we were finally warmed up and none of the three of us wanted to spend 25 minutes getting cold again for the walk back.

That and the less experienced walker in our trio was starting to feel the effects of shin splints and was afraid if she stopped, she'd never get started again. We looked at each other and made the decision to start back.

"But we walked all this way to see this," our group leader said, gesturing toward the decorations. Truth be told, we'd come all this way to enjoy a night time walk and admire lights along the way. We'd done that.

Another guy in the main group overheard us saying goodbye and elected to join us on our return trip, so then we were four.

But to show our appreciation for organizing the tour, we took a few minutes to walk around the lit figures before heading back up the hill and westward ho, running smack dab into VCU graduation ceremony crowds spilling out of the Mosque Landmark Altria Theater.

Further along, we saw holiday parties through windows, in shops and closed restaurants, in stretch limos driving by.

Even our little splinter group eventually splintered, with the shin splint victim and the last minute addition electing to adopt a more leisurely pace coming back while my lively companion and I kept up a conversation as fast-paced as our steps.

She told me she's in training to bike across Iowa and shared details of biking across Barbados. We discovered a mutual love of quinoa, fried chicken and daily walking.

Before we knew it, we were back in Carytown in what seemed like no time at all. "How'd we do that so fast?" she asked, half joking. "I'm going on the group hike tomorrow at Dutch Gap. Are you coming?'

Nope, I have other plans tomorrow. Besides, I'm not entirely sold on all aspects of the group walk thing yet.

Earlier, a very tall, bearded man with long hair had said that he'd ended up on this walk solely because he'd seen it in Style Weekly, loved to walk and doesn't have anyone to walk with.

We might be walking soul mates since that about sums up why I was there. The question is, could he keep up?

So few can. Tonight that total came down to exactly one woman. And I'm not switching teams even for a fast walker.

But I'm willing to do tryouts for anyone who's interested in giving it a shot. Perhaps I'm more of the small group type.

Lessons in Punk, Cheesiness and IEDs

I listened to a punk rock icon talk about the good old days, I saw quite possibly the worst movie of my life and I met a guy whose body had been shattered by an IED in Iraq. I guess I'll start at the beginning.

Tesco Vee, former lead singer of the Meatmen and co-founder of the Touch and Go zine and later Touch and Go Records, both enormous influences on the early punk rock scene, came to Chop Suey to sign books and talk about his life experience. Learning that he had been an elementary school teacher at the time he was doing the zine and singing in the band was a little hard to reconcile, but, oh, the anecdotes he shared.

I liked him immediately when he described himself as "a music fan first and foremost." He recalled being an uber-record nerd who drive 200+ miles to the best record store in Michigan for the latest punk imports back in the late 70s. "We had a feeling of being in the know and our job was to write about it," he said, explaining the birth of the zine.

"I'm not bitter that a lot of my contemporaries are making multi-gazillions," he insisted. "I'm a 14-year old in a 55-year old's body. And I'm still having fun." My goal exactly.

Crossing the street to the Byrd Theater for the benefit tonight was a trip back to the 80s. I was less curious about the retro element of the film than its location, the Jefferson Hotel, back before its renovation.

Todd Schall-Vass introduced Rock and Roll Hotel by saying, "The Byrd has played host to many fine motion pictures. This probably won't be one of them." And let me assure you it definitely wasn't. "A bad movie for a good cause," was how he put it.

The corny story of an aspiring rock band (and I use the term loosely) who make it to the Rock and Roll Hotel to compete for first place was cheesy beyond belief. Judd Nelson has been in a lot of bad movies but this one was in a class by itself. Bad 80s dancing, clothing and music, a cast of mediocre actors and a script so contrived and dated as to be groan-inducing.

If you need convincing, during a scene where the female manger of a radio station justifies a switch from a rock format to adult contemporary, she says, "After listening to Twisted Sister, I found myself doing the dirty boogie with the Xerox man." Baaad.

But we weren't there for quality film making; we were there for nostalgia and to see our beloved Jefferson. From the first scene of the exterior of the hotel to the fireworks exploding inside, the audience cheered for our four diamond hotel. When the grand staircase appeared, the audience erupted in clapping and yelling.

And did I mention the benefit raised $10,000 for the Byrd Theater?

For those who'd paid a premium, there was a post-screening soiree at the Jefferson. Many people headed directly across the street to Secco afterwards, no doubt needing to blot out the memory of the 80s with multiple beverages. And while I felt the same, I didn't want to fight the crowds.

As it was, a guy stopped me outside the theater and solicited my thoughts on the movie. Did it have potential as a midnight movie a la Rocky Horror Picture Show? With some additional editing, couldn't it make it as a new release of an old film? I guess he'd been to the movie alone too, and wanted someone to discuss it with.

So I escaped to Rosie Connolly's for a drink and some quiet, except that I was immediately invited to leave my stool and join two guys on their side of the bar. One was a former teacher from Chicago, so we talked baseball, weather and bad writing and the other was the vet who'd graduated from VMI and done two tours of Iraq.

He has an artificial lung, one kidney, a chunk out of his butt and several other reconstructed organs, but, as he put it, "I'm not dead and that's good, right?" His attitude in general was amazingly upbeat and positive. He is the fist person I've ever met who's been to Iraq, much less had his body ripped apart by an IED.

None of which prevented him from trying to rub my back ("That's inappropriate" I told him), telling me I was gorgeous from a distance of less than a foot ("No, I'm really not. And you need to back up a little."), saying I had the best legs in the world ("Let's just say they're the best in the bar, shall we?") and asking if I'd go out with him ("I don't date," to which he responded, "Well, I can keep trying, can't I?" Actually, I'd prefer that you didn't.).

I found it somehow reassuring to know that even after eleven years in the military, two tours of duty and great trauma, he was still comfortable enough with himself to just act like a guy.

Further proof, as I was reminded today, that guys really can be such simple creatures.

Stealth Bartering at Lemaire

Having seen Lewis Ginter's mausoleum this afternoon, it seemed only appropriate that I wile away the evening at the hotel he built here.

A friend messaged me this afternoon suggesting we have cocktails at Lemaire and discuss some bartering.

What kind of unemployed fool says no to that?

I've been hanging out intermittently at the Jefferson since 1992, when the radio station I worked for started doing a weekly promotion there.

I know the place and I feel comfortable there. And still, some things never change.

Like knowing that there will always be a wicker basket full of tastefully-arranged female products in the ladies' rooms.

That every member of the staff who lays eyes on me will greet me.

What I didn't expect was being taken for a local while I was there.

An elderly trio coming down the grand staircase stopped me and asked where TJ's was.

I pointed to it and they asked for more specific directions, which I provided, all the while wondering why they hadn't taken me for just another hotel guest.

Am I starting to look like a Richmonder or what?

I met my friend upstairs, where I got a simple iced 1800 and she got the Garden Gibson (all I know about it was what I could see: thyme, cucumber and a salt rim).

Our handsome bartender said that although it's not currently on the cocktail menu, it will be for summer; no doubt it will be a hit with its bracing gin coolness.

Her response upon tasting it was, "I like herbaceous!"

Although the purported purpose of our get-together was business-related, we had to initially cover a lot of other bases.

It's tough to focus on work without first discussing relationships, smart women and restaurant goings-on.

She told me about all the changes for the good going on at the Boathouse; it'll be interesting to see what Jimmy Sneed and his hand-picked crew can do to whip that place into a worthy destination instead of a chain clone.

Let's face it, any menu with the word "colossal" on it needs to be revamped.

We gabbed so long that eventually lights went off in adjoining rooms and the gate to Lemaire was closed.

They left just enough staff for the two of us (unbelievably, that would be three people) so we kept going and finally moved on to her business at hand.

She told me what she needed done, I got an idea of the scale of the project and how she envisions it turning out; happily, taking care of business took only fifteen minutes of the three hours we chatted.

Then it was on to the job site for a midnight visit to consider light levels (too dim? too glaring?), marvel at window heights, admire materials and praise the ReStore. 

I even got to peruse the menus-in-progress and saw all kinds of things I'll want to try.

Let's just say she had me at caramel and sea salt.

I think I'm really going to like this barter business.

Delightful Dinner at T.J.'s

I was a Restaurant Week virgin and damn proud of it. I lost that virginity tonight at the request of a friend who made a convincing argument to give it a try. So we ended up at TJ's to see what $25.09 would get us at the recently reopened restaurant...besides. of course, a $2.09 donation to the Central Virginia Food Bank.

There was no shortage of choices: three first course options, three second course and two dessert. I started with the loaded potato soup (bacon, blue cheese, scallions over creamy potato soup) and my friend had the P.E.I. mussels in tomato, garlic and coconut broth. I liked mine better, but hers was very good, too.

To our surprise, the server then arrived with a gift from the kitchen: a radicchio and frisee salad with duck confit, dressed in a lovely, nutty olive oil as the base of the vinaigrette. It would have been quite nice had we paid for it; as a bonus course, it was downright delicious.

For my entree, I chose the grass-fed beef meatloaf wrapped with bacon, over mashed sweet potatoes, with Brussels sprouts, bacon and port wine. Are you noticing how I managed to incorporate bacon into absolutely everything I ordered tonight? I'm no fool. The bacon infused the ground beef with a delicious flavor, and the portion was enormous. My friend had the herb-roasted pork rib eye with country grits, cider-braised cabbage and natural jus with golden raisins. The two pieces of pig were huge, thick cut and cooked perfectly.

To finish, I got the Nutella creme brulee and she got the roasted pumpkin bread pudding with ice cream. Neither of us had enough room left to make a dent in either one, but not because they weren't appealing. For the record, we did try; we'd just had so much food by then. And wine: my choice was the 2008 Crios de Susan Balbo Malbec from Argentina.

Perhaps because TJ's has only lately reopened, the place was barely half full when we arrived around 8:30. Our server said they are very much anticipating the rest of Restaurant Week as an opportunity to introduce their new menu to the public.

And, with the exception of the Loud Talker and her friends at the back table, my Restaurant Week experience wasn't nearly as dreadful as I had expected. As they say, bacon makes everything better.