Don't Stop 'Till You Get Enough

Being the dutiful daughter results in a lot of waterfront pleasures.

It began with my Mom's birthday brunch at the Inn at Montross with four of my five sisters and their husbands and spawn. Sister #5 was missing in action because her husband (my friend before he ever laid eyes on her) had broken his knee cap in five places two days before the brunch.

I mean, I'd go to great lengths to avoid a family get-together, too, but not that far.

The rest of us met up for an eating orgy and non-stop talking fest (best comment: "We don't do 'shut out mouths' very well") that only nominally celebrated my mother.

Best quip from a sister: #3, who'd just returned from New Orleans. "We only went for three days. We can't do a week anymore or we come back in body bags." Tragic, but true, from two devotees of the Big Easy.

Once brunch was over, I headed to Mom and Dad's for my annual assist with preparations for her women's club St. Patrick's Day luncheon. What this involves is me making potato soup and soda bread for 70 women while my Mom watches and offers less-than-helpful advice.

Because St. Patrick's Day immediately follows Mom's birthday - March 16th - there was also the creation of  coconut cake (her fave) and dinner -Crab Imperial, chosen from a '70s Maryland Seafood Board cookbook both she and I own (original cost $1.50) - accompanied by the lovely "Love Drunk" Rose. Nothing beats seeing your Mom a little loopy on "Love Drunk."

My parents are basketball fanatics so while they stayed up to check the playoff brackets, I was more than happy to read the Washington Post and make it an early night.

Today dawned bright and early as I made a coffee cake for Mom's birthday (her request) and got started on the three loaves of raisin-studded soda bread she requires for the luncheon.

In between making the loaves (each takes 3 hours start to finish), there were walks to a house with fretwork from our own Broad Street Station and out on a lengthy pier that boasted terra cotta tubes over the posts so that during the controlled burns of the marsh, the pier wouldn't go up in flames.

Lunch was birthday-appropriate: sandwiches made from liverwurst from Metzger (I'm starting a cult of Metzger liverwurst devotees), accompanied by Fritos, a stipulation my family has always demanded with liverwurst, don't ask me why.

There is much about my family I have no explanation for. Such as why my mother, the least adventurous eater on the planet, a woman who would no more eat liver or pig's tail than dance on a bar, can love liverwurst. You know what it's made from, Mom, don't you?

Discussing my omnivore status, she says, "But you wouldn't eat brains, would you?" Would I? I have, Mom! The look of revulsion on her face alone was worth the drive.

Leaving there during the shank of the 68-degree afternoon, we headed to Belle Isle State Park, less than two miles away, and a world away in feeling. Horse trails, pavilions and a long pier that had a view of my parents' house were enough to seduce us down road after road once we entered the park.

Spotting a bald eagle stood with its feet in a massive puddle at the center of a field, I was reminded that my dad had said he'd seen a few around lately.

From there, the only logical thing to do was spend some time with a bottle of Mazzolino Brut Rose and a view of another river. Luckily for me, we have friends who happen to have a charming cottage fronting the Carotoman River mere miles from my parents' house.

Were they home? No, they're decent people at work on a Monday afternoon. Us, not so much.

Boldly setting up camp on their deck overlooking the Carotoman River, we promptly sent a photo of me, glass in hand, to the homeowner, with an email, "Trespassers! Call the police!"

The joke there is that our friend works for the county sheriff's office.  He called, laughing heartily, and lamenting that he couldn't be deck-side with us to enjoy the Rose and slow slide to sunset. Too bad because he's always terrific company and full of good stories.

But even interlopers don't want to overstay their welcome, so we tooled down the road to Merroir for dinner. It was too cool for al fresco dining, but we did take a minute to admire the new pergola and mourn the loss of the big tree that used to lord majestically over the outdoor tables.

Cozy on the porch with a view of the marina and a blue sky morphing into pink, chef Pete came out to say hello and invite us in to admire his new kitchen shelving, notable because the handsome slabs of wood had been reclaimed from an old building in Williamsburg.

His other bit of trivia was that the room we were standing in, the kitchen, had originally been the post office for the village of Lockslie during the pre-Zip code era.

Back on the porch, our cute server arrived to do our bidding. She shared her name, an unusual one, and when I inquired about her middle name, she explained that her parents gave her and her siblings middle names better suited to the opposite sex.

So hers was Ray while her brother's was Lynne, that sort of thing. Hippies, I asked? She broke into a wide grin. "Well, they're from Burlington, Vermont if that tells you anything!"

Sure does, honey, it tells me your parents sound almost as eccentric as mine.

We went straight to hog heaven with Wimmer Gruner Veltliner and a dozen Old Saltes in front of each of us while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Ohio" played overhead. I couldn't have been happier.

We were eventually joined on the porch by a foursome of locals who appeared to be regulars with good attitudes. But when our server told them about the lamb neck poutine special, they were flummoxed about the neck part.

Tongue loosened by then, I leaned over and assured them of the absolute tastiness of lamb neck. And come on, over fries with gravy and cheese curds? Not only did they order it, but as they left later, one of the women stopped to thank me, saying she'd never have had the nerve to order it without my endorsement.

Who doesn't like being thanked by a stranger for offering unsolicited food advice?

While I was eating my rockfish cake and my date his halibut special, Chef Pete returned and I insisted her share the tale of refinding his true love, a story I already knew but never tire of hearing. The man glows when he talks about his wife.

The meal was capped off with pure decadence - a doughnut split in half to hold marshmallow cream and then smothered in dark chocolate sauce, incidentally my first chocolate in days - as the fading sunset finally gave way to night on the river, our third body of water for this stellar afternoon.

I'd baked, I'd trespassed, I'd slurped bivalves, if that tells you anything.

Best of all, I'd earned my good daughter badge for another year.

Not Sleeping while the World Goes By

I can begin an evening as artistically as I please, but chances are I'll end up lost and looking.

And that will be a very good thing.

A short walk to Ghostprint Gallery put me in the thick of a group of writers working on a false memory project.

I found my muse in a telegram, a letter and two old photographs.

Now I must create the poetry, the thought or the story to tell the world. Thank you, Chuck Scalin, for the inspiration.

Leaving the group behind, I found a willing partner and made for dinner.

I love Sundays at Secco because the staff is all female, so you get to talk about things like musicians and photographs.

And some people call you "my dear."

I began with a rose described as like drinking a red, all dark pink and calling for food.

The Mazzolino Brut Rose is a favorite from last year and held up in this unseasonable March.

My companion went  with the Saeti Lambrusco Seco which I'd had the other night.

Little did he realize he was getting the last glass of the secret stash.

In a further repeat of the other night, I insisted on the gnocchi in sea urchin butter, just to prove my point about what it conjured up.

He concurred and provided the rationale.

When comparing food to sexual activity, it's best to find a like-minded soul.

We went on to the pork rilletes followed by the Savoy cabbage wrapped Alsatian-style sausage with Granny Smith apples and Appezeller.

Who could resist a tiny mason jar of pork with fat on top? Not to mention the tomato chutney that accompanies it.

I chatted up the guy next to me who turned out to be the new chef at Blowtoad's, on a break to eat.

Newly arrived from South Carolina, he explained that he was eating his way up and down Cary Street to "see."

We finished with La Peral, a smooth Spanish bleu cheese that served as our dessert.

From that fabulous meal, we moved on to Balliceaux for music.

Walking up to the bar, the bartender went to leave, mumbling something.

What?

"Going to get some Cazadores for you," Sean explained.

Such service!

Tonight was all about Brooklyn, beginning with the Bee and Flower, who managed to sound heartbreaking yet beautiful at the same time.

With a female lead singer, their dark yet upbeat sound with violin and occasional horn was catchy in that way that sneaks up on you.

At one point. Dana, the lead singer, asked the audience to sing along, saying their part wasn't difficult.

"Just sing 'hey now, hey now," she instructed. "Come on, you never know when we'll be back in Richmond."

The Parisian-born singer Blasco joined them for "Send Me Low," lending a vocal along with trumpeter Paul Watson's blowing and singing.

It was a beautiful thing.

When ...And the Wiremen took the stage, it was with three members of the Bee and the Flower and yet the sound was different.

Leader Lynn Wright has a voice that would do Bryan Ferry proud and there's a slightly more urgent note to their sound.

I'm especially fond of Paul Watson's trumpet, adding in a  melancholy or triumphant note as needed.

I loved the lyric, "Shut the fuck up while I'm trying to sing."

Not that I was, but it was duly noted.

Actually, the crowd tonight (including more than a few industry types) were clearly musically-oriented and not there to use music as a backdrop.

It's great when the pretty people don't show up.

For their last song, they covered Sam Cooke's "Lost and Lookin," taking on a nearly fifty-year old song and doing an exquisite job with it.

I'm lost and a-calling for my baby
Baby, won't you please come home?

If the lights had been just a tad lower, I feel sure half the room would have been making out by the time the song ended.

As it was, we were half-swoony ourselves, what with pink wine and Sam Cooke.

Nothing like a little Brooklyn soul with horn on a Sunday night.

Baby, I was home.

Tails, Ears, and Cheeks but No Tats

This week's proverb: If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you've never tried before.*

So it was that I ended up at the Blue Goat with someone else's husband.

It's not questionable in any way; the wife knew about our rendezvous, she had plans of her own and we're just friends anyway.

But we were both enticed by the thought of a restaurant devoted to "nose to tail" eating. No one told us that we'd be doing nose to tail near West End style.

The poured concrete bar is interestingly shaped. The music (Coldplay, U2)  is a good volume but sometimes tough to decipher over the conversation bouncing off all the hard surfaces.

The walls have been stripped to the brick, the ceiling to the girders and the carpeting has given way to linoleum. It's a very attractive space.

Arriving at 6:30 meant arriving at peak time, apparently. Some were even willing to sit outside in the 100 degree heat, but we weren't among them.

People continued to stream in long after we settled into two stools at the far end of the bar nearest the front.
Unfortunately, the seats provided a view of the two large flat screens that sucked the soul out of the bar. I know some people enjoy TV at a bar, but I'm not one of them.

Our bartender was a familiar face (from right here in J-Ward) and supplied us with a heavily bruised martini and a Bodegas Borsao Campo de Borja  Rosado, a deep pink rose with good fruit and a refreshing finish.

As we glanced around the lively bar, there was not a seat available. The place was hopping, but then it's new so the curiosity factor is still quite high.

After catching up on each other's lives and recent restaurant meals, we looked at the menu (well-priced at $7-$17) for what looked good.

This is the friend who, like me, eats absolutely everything, so the menu held a lot of temptations.

For our first course, we chose braised goat, Ricotta and Swiss chard homemade ravioli with sage brown butter and shaved Pecorino as well as balsamic-braised pig tail with Gorgonzola polenta.

We loved that the pig tail had a deep sweetness and while we understood the choice of the salty Gorgonzola as an accompaniment, we couldn't rave about the combination (but very much appreciated them separately).

The ravioli's pasta  was a tad thick and we looked for more spice in the raised goat, although most people would have just savored the lovely sage butter sauce.

After enjoying these two courses, my friend observed that perhaps the food had been spiced to suit the crowd. 

Even the familiar preparations seemed geared to making the diner comfortable with creative ingredients for those who don't usually eat the unusual.

Always a fan of pork cheeks, these were doubly appealing for the spaetzle that accompanied them. Fork-tender, they too were light on the seasoning.

The batter-fried julienne strips of Smithfield pig ears with a sunny side up duck egg with crispy Swiss chard, peppers and onion looked like calamari but packed a salty punch. Incredibly salty, almost inedibly salty.

We did get a kick out of our server telling us to "Break the yolk and mix it all up," as if that wouldn't have occurred to us.

As it turned out, though, the egg was well-done and so there was little yolk to drip despite her instructions.

That's when it hit us. The nose to tail menu was catering to the crowd. We'd only had four things, but all of them seemed to point to making the food accessible to the clientele. Fair enough.

Unfortunately for us,we were not the expected clientele We were looking for something more rustic, more earthy, more flavorful and instead got a very safe selection of body parts.

Still, we did get pig tail, cheeks and ears and that's saying a lot for Richmond.

At one point, my friend looked around and asked, "So what's the one thing that's missing among the people here?" I looked around and hazarded a guess.

"Tattoos?" I asked. He was terribly impressed that I'd nailed it on the first guess.

"Maybe no tattoos means safe food," he hypothesized. It should be noted that neither he nor I are inked. 

Still, we usually eat closer in to downtown sharing the bar with the inked and the food suits us better. Necessarily, conclusions are drawn. 

But we realized that we were in the minority when the women next to us (both from the immediate neighborhood) told us that it was their second visit and that they'd be back. 

But their order told a different story. They'd chosen frites, salad and a charcuterie plate. Not a body part in sight. Ladies, come on. How often do you see this kind of a menu?

And that got my friend and I discussing the restaurant's concept. Can it hold up to a neighborhood that likes food safe and familiar?

Only time will tell, but if the menu doesn't satisfy the foodies willing to drive in and it's off-putting to the locals desperate for a neighborhood restaurant, it seems inevitable that the menu will morph.

Only time will tell. For now, I like the five-choice tequila listing ($7-$15) and the energy at the bar, but I think it's safe to say that the place is not geared for people like me and my borrowed husband.

Which is fine because neither of us lives in the neighborhood and clearly there are plenty of people from right around there who will happily support it. 

Once my fiend left for suburbia and his wife, I drove eastward to Secco for a change of pace.

After some pink indecisiveness, I was offered a flight of Mazzolino Sparkling Rose, Domaine Brazilier Côteaux du Vendomois Rose Gris, and Domaine de Fenouillet Ventoux Rose, three lovely pale pink selections with my name on them.

Happily, I found  a server with whom I could talk upcoming music shows, a chef to talk food and a bar sitter to talk walking Grace Street with.

I could feel myself relaxing into my kind.

You can take the girl out of the city (proper) but not the city out of the girl, even for pig parts and goat. But I tried.

Lesson learned.

*From The Blue Goat menu

Winning Winemaker Words

I'm always pleasantly surprised when I meet someone once and they remember me on our second meeting.

But I'm dumbfounded when I meet someone once and they don't just remember me, they write me a lovely e-mail a few weeks later, referencing the evening we met, sharing information and anticipating our next meeting.

Such was the case when I just received an e-mail from Jean Francois Coquard of Tenuta Mazzolino, the winemaker I'd met at Enoteca Sogno's wine dinner back at the beginning of the month.

I'd enjoyed his company at dinner (being the only single diner) and his wines were a delightful discovery for me, so naturally I'd blogged the occasion.

He was full of appreciation for the attention, notably, he wrote, because I'd done it in such a "personal and friendly" way.

Actually, I think personal and friendly just happens to be my style, but still, it was a gracious compliment, among others.

He was most excited about today's degorgement of their new Mazzolino Brut Rose, a sparkling rose made with Pinot Noir, after 18 months in bottles.

I was most excited to be promised details of his Asian trip and his sincere hope that we would dine again when he returns to Richmond.

I can only hope to make such a good first impression with any interesting man I meet.