At the Top of My List

As dates go, this one ran the gamut from Cream to Bon Iver, a range not all can swing.

And while the music has changed, this whole dating thing takes me back to high school, although at least now it's legal for me to drink on dates.

Dinamo was quiet when we arrived, with only a single at the bar and a two-top busily eating and talking.

Exactly what we'd come to do.

We started with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano and crostini with chopped liver and red onions, which, as far as I'm concerned, almost guarantees that a date is going to go well.

Whether or not liver leads to love is a whole different issue, but it did lead to a story about a place he knew that does tableside preparation of chopped liver, right down to asking how much schmaltz to add.

My kind of place.

The music was full-on old school to start, with Led Zeppelin the soundtrack to our next course of caponata, one of my favorite ways to eat eggplant for its sweet and sour contrast, and frisee with duck confit, because a little bitter greens are the ideal accompaniment to fat-cooked anything.

My date scored big with humor and had me choking with laughter after a crack about him being  a late and unexpected addition to his family.

As opposed to me, an early and unexpected addition to my family.

If chicken liver starts a date on the right foot, convulsive laughter ensures that it is progressing well.

We finished up with a meaty rockfish filet, not because it was my first choice (they were out of branzino), but because fish sounded good at that point...and it was.

By that time, we'd outlasted everyone but the staff (and inexplicably, now the music had jumped 40 years to the Shins) but weren't quite done talking to each other, so we went to Secco for flight night.

The featured flight was from northwest Spain and the music far more current despite discussion of it being hip hop Monday.

The Terra Do Castelo Godello, a new grape to me, tasted like the perfect white to sip on a sunny balcony in Spain, the fragrant Guimaro Ribeiro Mencia would have been lovely with the caponata we'd just had, but it was the big Carthago Lui Tempranillo Toro, with its hints of black fruit and smokiness, that we both ordered full glasses of.

And here's where I give my date credit.

It would have been so easy to end things there, after a satisfying meal and a lovely Spanish dessert.

Instead, I was invited up to see his etchings hear his new stereo and what music-loving woman is going to say no to that?

From Modern Lovers to XTC to Luther Vandross to Bon Iver, it was a decade-spanning musical journey on a newer system and through far better speakers than I have.

Just two people on a date, sitting on a couch, listening to music very loud and talking about it. Honestly, it was just like how I spent many dates with guys in high school.

For some of us, listening to music together is one of the fastest ways to weed out the chaff. Ditto eating together.

When it comes to schmaltz, I can onlyhope he agrees with me and Luther. Never too much.

Walk This Way

When it comes to bartering, just pay me in food.

A friend had asked me to take him to his first Folk Fest and I'd obliged.

It wasn't my first time playing tour guide to a FF virgin and one year (2011) I'd escorted two (on separate nights).

Last year I'd missed the festival entirely because I was in Italy, so I was overdue to show someone new the ropes.

What I hadn't expected was receiving an e-mail an hour after I got home asking if I wanted to meet for dinner. A thank you meal, so to speak.

Never one to turn down the gift of food, I said hell, yes and chose Dinamo to provide it.

We walked in at prime time and there at the front table, of all the unlikely people, was my friend Pru with a date.

Surprised as I was, she introduced her charming friend and we stood there chatting with them while the restaurant bustled around us.

They'd ended up at Dinamo because earlier today she'd been getting her hair cut and her stylist had recommended she go to Dinamo for the beef cheeks, in fact, said they were the most amazing thing she'd ever put in her mouth.

Mighty high praise, that.

So of course Pru and her date had gotten the cheeks and were now raving to us about them.

One good turn begets another.

We found seats at the bar, ordered Masciarelli Montepulciano and considered our options.

In addition to being a FF virgin before today, my friend was also a Dinamo virgin, so he took my word that the seafood salad was to die for.

When the massive platter of calamari, mussels, shrimp, and clams arrived, "oh, wow," was about all he could muster.

The dish takes me back to some of the superb seafood I had last year while in Naples, always a pleasant memory.

About then we heard the same sort of surprised sounds we'd heard when we'd arrived and I turned around to see another couple I knew, as surprised to find Pru and her date holding down the front table as I'd been.

When they finished their meet and greet there, they came over to repeat it. 'What is this, old home week?" she asked, laughing and hugging me.

Our beef cheeks with polenta had just arrived and her husband said it was one of his favorite dishes.

A non-beef eater, she began raving about her favorite, the squid ink fettuccine with crabmeat.

Did she already know she was going to order it, I asked her?

"They already knew she was going to order it when she walked in the door!" he husband insisted.

They took the table nearest us and now 66% of the occupied tables were people I knew.

With the Pixies playing, we attacked the bowl of enormous beef cheeks in the kind of carrot-studded red sauce every good Italian mother makes.

The cheek meat was positively succulent, long-cooked and fork-tender, rendering the serrated knife our server had brought superfluous.

We couldn't even finish both cheeks, try as we did, but part of us also wanted to leave room for dessert, namely chocolate espresso torte.

I'm proud to say we at least had the sense to forgo berries and whipped cream on top or we would have exploded, right there in front of people I know.

I've got no problem trading my time and knowledge for a good meal (it's kind of like dating without any lust or intention), but I prefer not to go into a food coma in front of someone I don't have designs on.

A tour guide's got to maintain some decorum. She never knows who might need her services next.

Answer Me, Rescue Me

A day that runs the gamut from art to balcony is a memorable one. Romantic, even.

When I woke up this morning, I found an e-mail from a painter friend reminding me that he owed me a painting and had one ready for me.

Modestly, he referred to it as a good "summary."

Even better, he let me know as soon as he got home from work and I walked the block and a half to his house to procure my newest acquisition, "South Beach."

He described it as "South Beach, Miami. Caught in the rain, 4am walks on the beach, not a care in the world. Mojitos. Grace. 1606. sushi samba. Lincoln Rd. Art. A great time. Airline hostesses giving free wine. a surreal list of events. Timeless.....that painting has a lot if meaning to me."

I teetered home with this large format (3' x 4') "painted diary" of a fondly recalled part of his life and hung it on one of my 1876 walls, where it looks magnificent and joins an apartment full of other friends' artwork.

The energy it adds to the room is palpable.

When I left to meet a friend to go out tonight, it was only after one last, long glance at "South Beach" before I departed.

I am so fortunate to have such talented friends.

The one picking me up in front of my house is a terribly talented conversationalist, who never fails to stimulate my intellect while making me laugh hysterically.

From a very local artist to six more of the same I went.

We drove directly to the VMFA to hear a panel discussion with six local artists, "Virginia Artists Live."

All six artists have work hanging in the VMFA (much of which I'd blogged about after a recent trip through the 21st Century gallery) and worked in various disciplines: photography, sculpture, painting, ceramics, drawing and printmaking.

Modern and Contemporary Art curator John Ravenal got things rolling humorously, saying, "We're calling this program "Virginia Artists Live" because here they are."

After each introduced himself and spoke a little about their work, Ravenal asked what was good about working in Richmond.

Former New Yorker and painter Richard Roth said, "I was interested to find such an intellectual community in a place like Richmond."

Relative newcomer Ben Durham said, "It's a great satellite of D.C. and NYC, providing great opportunities you can't find in New York. Here, you have spare time because money goes further here for people to put time into studio practice."

Ceramicist Michelle Erickson explained that living in Virginia had been integral to her learning about centuries-old ceramic processes that had informed her work.

Behind me, I heard an old guy gently snoring.

Trying a different tack, Ravenal asked photographer Gordon Stettinius about how RVA was difficult for an artist.

"I'm gonna go all Jiminy Cricket on you," Gordon laughed. "I have a gallery and I love how the community has congealed around the gallery There are lots of people to bump up against and learn from."

Grinning and emboldened, he went on to suggest that the museum needed to hold a biennial like some other museums do. "It would be a way for artists to have their work seen and probably swatted down."

Speaking in his delightfully South African-accented voice, collector and printmaker Siemon Allen took it down to basics. "In D.C. I could go to a news agent and they'd have the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Chicago papers. When I came to Richmond, I couldn't find those newspapers here."

Sculptor Elizabeth King was more blunt. "What an odd political city this is. It's odd how many people I don't talk to. It's strange and surreal."

Nervous titters all around as she referenced hot-button topics and certain audience members got uncomfortable.

Asked about advice for young people, Roth told them to have high ambitions and low overhead.

That's always been my motto.

Durham freely admitted, "I have no idea how I could function in New York. My studio on southside is a very happy place."

I understand his sentiment; my apartment/office in Jackson Ward is also a very happy place (with, did I mention, a fabulous new painting?).

Stettinius said, "I don't tell people they have to leave to succeed but I do advocate for people to come here because it's a very fertile scene."

There was a short period for audience questions, but they mostly were of the love-fest variety, one praising Stettinius' photography series of himself dressed as various characters, another noting King's resemblance to the museum's bust of her mother.

Ravenal is notorious for keeping his talks to an hour or so ("I like to leave you wanting more") so he quickly wrapped things up and turned us out into the still-lit night.

My fellow art lover and I made a bee-line for Dinamo where a server kindly made space for us at the end of the bar near a man and his Dad trying to finish a hefty and rich looking lasagna.

In a place as Italian as Dinamo, there was nowhere to go but with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano, so we unashamedly did.

Meanwhile, the men next to us threw up the white flag on the pasta and ordered espressos and the chocolate espresso torte all the way, as in with berries and whipped cream.

We looked on enviously, but knew enough to eat in the order an Italian mother would approve of.

That meant starting with the tortellini in brodo, which we'd had on our last visit and couldn't bear not to have again.

It's not just the pasta, it's not just the filling, it's not just the flavorful broth, it's the whole package.

Over a discussion of mixed signals and delayed gratification, we tore into a white pizza with artichoke hearts, so good and so generously portioned.

"Garlic!" my friend enthused, but then nobody was going to be kissing us tonight, so why not?

When the lasagna bolognese arrived, it was the size of a baby's head and so hot the sauce was still bubbling.

"You got the last one," our sever said with satisfaction.

We let it cool just long enough not to burn our tongues and then pulled big, gooey bites off of the platter to cool momentarily.

Mmm, meat and cheese, just what hungry women want after an evening of intellectual stimulation.

Despite working down all of the wine, we both ended up with Chinese take-out boxes of pizza and lasagna, not a bad thing come lunch time tomorrow.

Friend looked at me when our server inquired about dessert.

Although the last time we'd been in we'd gotten the torte naked, the two gents who'd been enjoying theirs earlier had insisted that "all the way" was the only acceptable option for this dessert.

Our arms easily twisted once our server concurred, we were soon facing a mountain of chocolate and cream while Friend also sipped an espresso.

"Wasn't that a great meal?" she asked rhetorically as I slid into a food coma.

I would say so, even if I feel like I'm about to explode as we make our way out to a deserted Cary Street.

When she drops me off, I am surprised to see how early it still is, so I decide to enjoy the summer solstice eve outside on the balcony.

I light a few candles, put on Bryan Ferry's "Taxi" and relax back into a deep and comfy chair to digest.

The air deliciously cool, the candlelight soft and low and Ferry's crooning exquisite, it is everything a summer night should be.

Starting with "I Put a Spell on You," meandering through "Answer Me" and ending with "Because You're Mine," it's an album for romantics.

And after this day, this amazing new painting I was gifted with, this stimulating talk by local artists who all clearly see the wonder of this city much the way I do, this fabulous meal eaten in the shadow of an enormous, shiny espresso machine with a good friend, and this music-filled hour under a not quite full moon, I am feeling all kinds of romantic.

Surely I must be under a spell.

Between Parentheses and Marcona Almonds

Not to be self-centered-sounding, but this week is all about me.

With my birthday falling sooner rather than later, I corralled a girlfriend to help me kick off the week's festivities.

We'd no sooner made our meet-up arrangements when another friend e-mailed with the directive, "If you are not doing anything this evening/afternoon (now, I guess), come meet up with me at Bistro 27 tonight."

Since the message arrived an hour and a half before I was due to pick up my girlfriend and celebrate myself, I was more than happy to go over to 27 and meet up with a friend.

It was early, it was Monday night and I was one of the few occupants of the restaurant beside my friend.

Vinho Verde in hand. I listened as he told me about his stressful day/week/month while I made empathetic noises.

You want to hear about stress? Don't get me started.

Mid-conversation, a guy at the end of the bar interrupted, already aware of my plans because he was a co-worker of the friend I was soon to meet.

He knew my name, where I was headed and who I was meeting.

Small world.

He was fortifying himself with cocktails before setting off for a four-hour session to have his massive back tattoo worked on.

Somebody's gotta keep us as the #3 most-tattooed city in the country and it's certainly not going to be me, so I appreciate die-hards like him.

By the time I finish my wine, it is time to go collect my friend.

Because she is so awesome, she will not allow herself to be collected until we kick off my birthday celebration chez her.

She is pouring Cristalino, a smoky and pungent Cava that went down easily, and she'd even laid out the most sublime take on one of childhood's most distinctive treats.

Growing up, a party standard was peanuts and M & Ms, that most accessible of all sweet/salty combinations, if a bit tired after decades of service.

Friend took this classic combo to another level by substituting exquisite Marcona almonds with sea salt for the standard goobers.

As we sat there sipping Spanish bubbles, she handed me a present, already taking the entire evening far beyond what I'd imagined (i.e., lots of wine and some good food).

It was a book, making for the best possible way to kick off a birthday week celebration.

Written by Roberto Bolano, a writer who's been described as the most controversial and commanding figure to have emerged since Gabriel Garcia Marquez (a personal favorite of the highest magnitude),  "Between Parentheses," a collection of essays, articles and speeches 1998-2003, according to her, "just screamed Karen."

Now there is a compliment of the highest order.

After indulging in bubbles and literary talk, we set out for Italian pastures, namely Dinamo.

It was my second time and her first and we took bar stools rather than a table, the better to whisper in each other's ears about birthdays, being stood up and adjusting to silence.

After Vinho Verde and Cava, there was nowhere to go except red, so I chose Masciarelli Montepulciano, a dry but intensely perfumed Italian that perfectly suited my birthday needs.

We began with tortellini in brodo, a soup of gigantic noodles and the most flavorful broth, while discussing rising rent costs in the city.

Looking at the menu, she raised her eyebrows at me, "You're getting the tongue, aren't you?"

For my next course, I chose veal tongue with parsley sauce, which was more like a pesto, and offered a rich component to the tongue.

My girlfriend, less adventuresome about what she puts in her mouth, took the tiniest bite of tongue and sauce, but only so I wouldn't give her a hard time.

She'd ordered flat bread with hearts of palm and chickpeas, a huge serving of antipasto that, at least from my bites, was a beautiful marriage of flavors.

Sipping our Montepulciano, we admired the sheer size of the espresso machine (sometimes size does matter) and Friend informed our server that I'd had the audacity to spend two weeks in Italy and not once taste coffee of any kind.

Her horror was evident.

I tried to compensate by ordering chocolate espresso torte, a rich-tasting dessert that came with an option for whipped cream and berries.

My friend made an excellent point.

"I've had an elegant sufficiency," she stated for the record, using a phrase her beloved uncle apparently did, meaning nothing more than chocolate (and an espresso) was required at that point.

Luckily for me, the non-coffee drinker, I still had wine to accompany my chocolate as the discussion looked at what's ahead.

Honestly, I have no idea.

Friend was kind enough to say that, "You've an elegant sufficiency of culture, culinary morsels and conversations most hours."

This night or any, much less during my birthday weekend, what more could I hope for?

Well...