I put the reins in a friend's hands and reaped the benefits.
With no real plan until 10:30, I forced my company on a friend who was getting a late start on her evening due to taxes.
Before we could meet up, though, she needed to shower because being abused by the government made her feel dirty.
Choices are limited at 8:00 on a Saturday night so I let her choose the destination and she wanted Magpie.
The door was wide open and every table was taken but bar stools were available.
I couldn't convince her to go Greek with me, so I enjoyed a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero without her.
The amuse bouche was one perfect fava bean with blood orange and shaved sea truffle.
The chalkboard outside was full of new dishes, so we chose from that.
A smoked rabbit terrine with house crackers and orange marmalade was an addictive cream-cheese-based marvel.
Housemade pheasant sausage with a bit of heat came with the poetically labeled Night Sky chevre and pear butter to cool it down.
As if those two weren't enough to knock our socks off, we then had pan-seared duck breast with Easter egg radishes, avocado, orange segments and sea truffle.
The variety of beautiful colors explained the name, Easter egg radishes, and maybe even the taste, highly desirable.
Over our feast, she regaled me with a day spent with her Dad, a character if ever there was one.
They began by trying to find a marina whose location he'd long since forgotten.
From there, they went to Costco (his first time) where when they saw a buy one, get one deal on Preparation H, he began to do the hemorrhoid dance, much to her mortification.
A trip to his library followed (a library, she said, that had a cafe, wtf?) where she attempted to teach him how to do a keyword search.
But the high point of the afternoon, she said, was when he took her to a secret pet cemetery he'd discovered that necessitated them climbing down a ravine and over a creek to access it.
One of them might have ended up with wet feet making the trek.
The reward was a field of headstones devoted to Fluffy and Snookums, may they rest in peace.
By this time, I was laughing so hard I was worried "Feast" was going to come out of my nose.
We calmed down with dessert, an incredibly dark and dense chocolate mousse with rosemary pound cake and lemon curd, leading to another laugh attack when she asked me in all seriousness if I'd ever made lemon curd.
Well, there was the time when I took those lemons and...no, I have definitely never even thought about making lemon curd.
Why would I when people far more qualified than me can do it so much better?
By that time, we were two of the only four people left in the restaurant, meaning it was time for us to get out and let the staff go home and sleep before coming back tomorrow for brunch.
My next stop was a rare Saturday night edition of Live at Ipanema, curated by the Cheats Movement.
Crossing the patio, a friend spotted me and smirked. "I beat you here," he bragged before getting realistic. "That'll never happen again."
You can almost always count on Live at Ipanema starting around 10:45 and yet tonight I walked in at 10:30 and Sam Reed was already singing.
The band, fronted by dynamic Photosynthesizer front woman Sam, sounded great and did a bunch of covers (Coldplay, Radiohead, Chaka Khan) that showed off the range of her voice.
The crowd was especially lively for a Live at Ipanema event, but as a musician friend observed, "It is Saturday night after all."
I ran into plenty of friends who'd seen a James River Film Fest film today, along with a lot of the festival's organizers coming over for a drink after the last screening.
In yet another reminder of what a small place Richmond is, I officially met a girl I'd seen Monday at a house show and Wednesday at a poetry reading.
We concluded that we have a lot of the same (good) taste.
The Low Branches played next and I have to say it was the loudest audience I've ever seen at a Low Branches show.
The sound of the music in the room was amazing, crystalline and clear (thanks to Allen), so many of us focused on what we could hear while the rest of the Saturday night revelers chatted on.
The band finished up with a cover of "Jolene" that finally quieted the room down with its sheer brilliance as done by singer Christina.
Or, as a musician friend put it, "I worked all day and got home and was going to stay in. Then I listened to Low Branches' Bandcamp and I thought, I need to hear this girls' voice live tonight."
As many times as I've heard Christina's voice, I still feel that way.
Add in Josh's superb bass playing (another bass player observed, "Sometimes he just plays one note and just holds it. Man!"), Matt's distinctive guitar parts and the invaluable Blasco on drums (their sound has grown so much since he joined the group), and they should be a must-see no matter what kind of day you've had.
Mine was pretty great - a vintage silent film, gardening with a novice and dinner dishing with a favorite girlfriend- but so was the final chapter.
That'll happen again.
Showing posts with label Semeli Feast Moschofilero. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Semeli Feast Moschofilero. Show all posts
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
California Dreaming
I pick up the most interesting things on my daily walk.
Like today on Leigh Street, I spotted Magpie's chef Owen on the phone in front of this restaurant.
By the time I made it down the block, he was finished and we chatted - about Charleston, about firkins, about multi-chef dinners- but as I walked away, two things stuck with me.
He'd just cut up a pig, so there's a lot of pig in Magpie's future.
And tonight he was doing a new medium plate of flash fried sweetbreads with sesame seeds, asparagus and leeks.
That was a tip worth remembering.
Let's just say six hours after he told me about them, I was the first customer in Magpie.
The door was propped open to the warm evening air and Pandora was set to Frank Black, a change from the usual '80s.
When asked if I wanted the "Feast" (Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero) I'd had before, I took advantage of the unseasonable warmth to drink white for the first time in a while.
I wasted no time in ordering the sweetbreads, hoping Owen had meant what he'd said this morning.
He had and the tender sweetbreads in sesame sauce were terrific, a unique take on a favorite of mine.
I followed that with oyster mushroom and bone marrow spread on crostini with red onion marmalade.
The earthy taste of the marrow and mushrooms had just a hint of salt to balance the sweetness of the marmalade, making for total taste satisfaction in every bite.
And all because I walked down Leigh Street this morning.
After two rich dishes, dessert wasn't an option and since I had limited time, more wine wasn't a possibility, either.
I was eager to get to the Grace Street Theater for "Fish Tank," part of VCU's Cinematheque series and a Cannes jury prize winner.
The place was crowded with other film lovers and the ubiquitous students, but I found a good seat and a familiar face with no problem.
The teacher introducing the film warned us that "It's not as bad as in "Trainspotting," but the slang is tough at times."
I'm sure more than a few people would have liked subtitles, despite it being in English.
He told the group that the female-directed film had a great soundtrack, "With rap for you and James Brown for me."
Part of Britain's social realism school of filmmaking, the story followed a terrible mother and her two daughters living in the projects of Essex.
The focus was on 15-year old Mia, who'd been kicked out of school and spent her days getting drunk and into trouble.
When a girl challenges her, Mia head-butts the girl, establishing her boundaries.
Her little sister was a trash-talking, cigarette-smoking pest who had a way with words.
To an adult she says, "I like you. I'll kill you last."
Into this mess comes a new boyfriend to further upset the rotten apple cart.
He's supportive of Mia's talent for dance and tries to give the girls new experiences.
When he takes the family for a ride in the country, he insists on playing his favorite song, Bobby Womack's cover of "California Dreaming."
As they speed along with the song blasting and the windows down, the girls, who are rarely in cars, much less out in the country, seem to be having a moment.
You know, that transformative experience of a road trip with the perfect music playing when all things seem possible.
I know it well.
But it's one of the few moments in the gritty film where it seems like good things could happen.
The rest of the time, it's Mia trying to save an underfed horse and failing. Mia being terrorized by two guys for trying to free the horse. The mother's boyfriend having sex with Mia while the mother is passed out upstairs. Her mother talking to her in a way that no mother should ever speak to a child.
Britain's strong tradition of social realism is alive and well, it would seem.
But as downbeat as the story was, the movie was at its heart, a well-told coming of age story of a girl with no clear path out of an hellacious life.
The claustrophobic framing of the shots (life in a tenement), the camera's point-of-view often that of Mia herself, and the non-stop barrage of obscenities (a family who tosses around "f*ck off" and "I hate you" like others say "good morning") caused more than a few uncomfortable titters in the audience.
It was interesting; at the start of the film, before the students had figured out where this movie was going, they was full-on laughter at the swearing, at the teen-aged girls fighting, at the sex.
But once it became clear that this was a depiction of a relentless, sordid kind of life, they got quiet and just took it in.
We're not in Hollywood anymore, kids.
During the post-film discussion, we learned that the film had been shot chronologically, with the actors not seeing any more of the script than what was being shot that week.
Which means that none of them really knew what their characters were capable of until it happened.
I could see where that method had lent a lot of authenticity to their portrayals of these flawed people.
As usually happens, the discussion afterwards was a compelling mashup of the older film lovers in the audience and enthusiastic film students, making for wildly divergent takes on what we'd seen.
One girl mentioned how interesting it was that men were objectified in "Fish Tank" but women were not.
Until it was pointed out, it hadn't occurred to her that a female director might prefer to linger over Michael Fassbinder's sculpted body and put the female lead in sweatpants and sweatshirts.
I certainly understood where she was coming from.
But that's part of the beauty of seeing a foreign film as part of the Cinematheque series.
It's like a lesson in how another generation thinks when you go to one of these films.
I'm telling you, it's fascinating the things you can pick up.
Like today on Leigh Street, I spotted Magpie's chef Owen on the phone in front of this restaurant.
By the time I made it down the block, he was finished and we chatted - about Charleston, about firkins, about multi-chef dinners- but as I walked away, two things stuck with me.
He'd just cut up a pig, so there's a lot of pig in Magpie's future.
And tonight he was doing a new medium plate of flash fried sweetbreads with sesame seeds, asparagus and leeks.
That was a tip worth remembering.
Let's just say six hours after he told me about them, I was the first customer in Magpie.
The door was propped open to the warm evening air and Pandora was set to Frank Black, a change from the usual '80s.
When asked if I wanted the "Feast" (Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero) I'd had before, I took advantage of the unseasonable warmth to drink white for the first time in a while.
I wasted no time in ordering the sweetbreads, hoping Owen had meant what he'd said this morning.
He had and the tender sweetbreads in sesame sauce were terrific, a unique take on a favorite of mine.
I followed that with oyster mushroom and bone marrow spread on crostini with red onion marmalade.
The earthy taste of the marrow and mushrooms had just a hint of salt to balance the sweetness of the marmalade, making for total taste satisfaction in every bite.
And all because I walked down Leigh Street this morning.
After two rich dishes, dessert wasn't an option and since I had limited time, more wine wasn't a possibility, either.
I was eager to get to the Grace Street Theater for "Fish Tank," part of VCU's Cinematheque series and a Cannes jury prize winner.
The place was crowded with other film lovers and the ubiquitous students, but I found a good seat and a familiar face with no problem.
The teacher introducing the film warned us that "It's not as bad as in "Trainspotting," but the slang is tough at times."
I'm sure more than a few people would have liked subtitles, despite it being in English.
He told the group that the female-directed film had a great soundtrack, "With rap for you and James Brown for me."
Part of Britain's social realism school of filmmaking, the story followed a terrible mother and her two daughters living in the projects of Essex.
The focus was on 15-year old Mia, who'd been kicked out of school and spent her days getting drunk and into trouble.
When a girl challenges her, Mia head-butts the girl, establishing her boundaries.
Her little sister was a trash-talking, cigarette-smoking pest who had a way with words.
To an adult she says, "I like you. I'll kill you last."
Into this mess comes a new boyfriend to further upset the rotten apple cart.
He's supportive of Mia's talent for dance and tries to give the girls new experiences.
When he takes the family for a ride in the country, he insists on playing his favorite song, Bobby Womack's cover of "California Dreaming."
As they speed along with the song blasting and the windows down, the girls, who are rarely in cars, much less out in the country, seem to be having a moment.
You know, that transformative experience of a road trip with the perfect music playing when all things seem possible.
I know it well.
But it's one of the few moments in the gritty film where it seems like good things could happen.
The rest of the time, it's Mia trying to save an underfed horse and failing. Mia being terrorized by two guys for trying to free the horse. The mother's boyfriend having sex with Mia while the mother is passed out upstairs. Her mother talking to her in a way that no mother should ever speak to a child.
Britain's strong tradition of social realism is alive and well, it would seem.
But as downbeat as the story was, the movie was at its heart, a well-told coming of age story of a girl with no clear path out of an hellacious life.
The claustrophobic framing of the shots (life in a tenement), the camera's point-of-view often that of Mia herself, and the non-stop barrage of obscenities (a family who tosses around "f*ck off" and "I hate you" like others say "good morning") caused more than a few uncomfortable titters in the audience.
It was interesting; at the start of the film, before the students had figured out where this movie was going, they was full-on laughter at the swearing, at the teen-aged girls fighting, at the sex.
But once it became clear that this was a depiction of a relentless, sordid kind of life, they got quiet and just took it in.
We're not in Hollywood anymore, kids.
During the post-film discussion, we learned that the film had been shot chronologically, with the actors not seeing any more of the script than what was being shot that week.
Which means that none of them really knew what their characters were capable of until it happened.
I could see where that method had lent a lot of authenticity to their portrayals of these flawed people.
As usually happens, the discussion afterwards was a compelling mashup of the older film lovers in the audience and enthusiastic film students, making for wildly divergent takes on what we'd seen.
One girl mentioned how interesting it was that men were objectified in "Fish Tank" but women were not.
Until it was pointed out, it hadn't occurred to her that a female director might prefer to linger over Michael Fassbinder's sculpted body and put the female lead in sweatpants and sweatshirts.
I certainly understood where she was coming from.
But that's part of the beauty of seeing a foreign film as part of the Cinematheque series.
It's like a lesson in how another generation thinks when you go to one of these films.
I'm telling you, it's fascinating the things you can pick up.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Tales from the Banquette
I'm known for being particularly good at keeping up with what's going on.
Granted, I do it old-school style with a small purple calendar I carry in my bag, but I do keep track of what's coming up.
So when I looked at my book yesterday morning, I saw there was an art opening at UR.
And not just any opening, but one for the social documentary photography show I'd recently written up for Style Weekly, here.
So with an art-loving associate in tow, we headed out to UR.
From the second we pulled into the Modlin Center parking lot, it was clear I had my dates wrong.
Sure enough, despite having included the correct date in the article I'd done, I'd written it on the incorrect date in my book.
Just call me idiot.
But I am nothing if not resilient, so we simply turned the car eastward and headed to dinner ahead of schedule.
My companion had never been to Magpie, so that's where we decided to console ourselves over the absent art.
Surprise, surprise, they were at capacity when we walked in.
A promise of seats kept us cooling our heels and reading the new RVA magazine until we were seated at the far end of the curved, red banquette.
As many times as I've eaten at Magpie (a fair number, since it's mere blocks from home), I'd never been anywhere but the bar.
In fact, once I was seated, the owner (who'd designed it) came over to comment that it was my my first time on the banquette.
It was also my first time hearing current music, since Magpie is known for its reliably '80s soundtrack.
When I commented on hearing MGMT, our server proudly said, "This isn't '80s!"
It was turning out to be an alternate universe at Magpie tonight and we were along for the ride.
It turned out to be a cozy spot for a meal, even given the nerdy father/son duo bonding at the next table
"Dad, you tell the corniest jokes," the son said. "But you're never gonna stop, are you?"
Not while we were there he didn't.
With glasses of the crisp and floral-nosed Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, we savored an amuse bouche of house-made Mozzarella with blackberry and shallot foam.
One perfect bite of freshness whetted our appetites for a sampling of small plates.
Lardo crostini, slathered with BellaVitano cheese and truffle oil over grilled asparagus was decadent even in small bites, but paired beautifully with the crisp acidity of the wine.
Fried hearts of palm were stacked up Jenga-style with an addictive roasted poblano pesto for dipping.
I remember the first time I'd had it, the bartender had told me he could eat that pesto with a spoon and my companion agreed, using bread to sop up the remaining pesto once the hearts were history.
The banana-crusted scallops with a spiced rum reduction and vanilla gelato proved once again the chef's mastery of sweet and savory.
As we ate, the small room got even busier, with people two deep at the bar.
At one point, two guys were in line for the one unisex bathroom and after a bit, one of them began banging on the door.
A mortified-looking woman came out to find the two guys hovering in front of her. Awkward.
Who knew Wednesdays were so popular in Carver?
Our server thought that it was due to people like us who eat out frequently choosing a mid-week dinner rather than deal with the weekend crowds.
And yet here was a midweek crowd, a pleasure to see in a month that has seen far too many local restaurants closing.
For our closer, we chose a chocolate caramel torte with seat salt and bourbon cream.
The shortbread crust provided a cookie character that enhanced the deep, dark chocolate filling and was a vehicle for the bourbon sauce.
By the time we got up to leave, we were well satisfied with the array of flavors we'd tasted, the father/son duo was wrapping up their rap session and everyone waiting had finally been seated.
No telling what else we missed, but with no art or music on the horizon, we set out to find something to do with our brains.
When my calendar and all else fails on a Wednesday night, there's always the art of conversation.
Once hearts are history, sometimes a discussion of words and their meaning is as good as an art opening.
Granted, I do it old-school style with a small purple calendar I carry in my bag, but I do keep track of what's coming up.
So when I looked at my book yesterday morning, I saw there was an art opening at UR.
And not just any opening, but one for the social documentary photography show I'd recently written up for Style Weekly, here.
So with an art-loving associate in tow, we headed out to UR.
From the second we pulled into the Modlin Center parking lot, it was clear I had my dates wrong.
Sure enough, despite having included the correct date in the article I'd done, I'd written it on the incorrect date in my book.
Just call me idiot.
But I am nothing if not resilient, so we simply turned the car eastward and headed to dinner ahead of schedule.
My companion had never been to Magpie, so that's where we decided to console ourselves over the absent art.
Surprise, surprise, they were at capacity when we walked in.
A promise of seats kept us cooling our heels and reading the new RVA magazine until we were seated at the far end of the curved, red banquette.
As many times as I've eaten at Magpie (a fair number, since it's mere blocks from home), I'd never been anywhere but the bar.
In fact, once I was seated, the owner (who'd designed it) came over to comment that it was my my first time on the banquette.
It was also my first time hearing current music, since Magpie is known for its reliably '80s soundtrack.
When I commented on hearing MGMT, our server proudly said, "This isn't '80s!"
It was turning out to be an alternate universe at Magpie tonight and we were along for the ride.
It turned out to be a cozy spot for a meal, even given the nerdy father/son duo bonding at the next table
"Dad, you tell the corniest jokes," the son said. "But you're never gonna stop, are you?"
Not while we were there he didn't.
With glasses of the crisp and floral-nosed Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, we savored an amuse bouche of house-made Mozzarella with blackberry and shallot foam.
One perfect bite of freshness whetted our appetites for a sampling of small plates.
Lardo crostini, slathered with BellaVitano cheese and truffle oil over grilled asparagus was decadent even in small bites, but paired beautifully with the crisp acidity of the wine.
Fried hearts of palm were stacked up Jenga-style with an addictive roasted poblano pesto for dipping.
I remember the first time I'd had it, the bartender had told me he could eat that pesto with a spoon and my companion agreed, using bread to sop up the remaining pesto once the hearts were history.
The banana-crusted scallops with a spiced rum reduction and vanilla gelato proved once again the chef's mastery of sweet and savory.
As we ate, the small room got even busier, with people two deep at the bar.
At one point, two guys were in line for the one unisex bathroom and after a bit, one of them began banging on the door.
A mortified-looking woman came out to find the two guys hovering in front of her. Awkward.
Who knew Wednesdays were so popular in Carver?
Our server thought that it was due to people like us who eat out frequently choosing a mid-week dinner rather than deal with the weekend crowds.
And yet here was a midweek crowd, a pleasure to see in a month that has seen far too many local restaurants closing.
For our closer, we chose a chocolate caramel torte with seat salt and bourbon cream.
The shortbread crust provided a cookie character that enhanced the deep, dark chocolate filling and was a vehicle for the bourbon sauce.
By the time we got up to leave, we were well satisfied with the array of flavors we'd tasted, the father/son duo was wrapping up their rap session and everyone waiting had finally been seated.
No telling what else we missed, but with no art or music on the horizon, we set out to find something to do with our brains.
When my calendar and all else fails on a Wednesday night, there's always the art of conversation.
Once hearts are history, sometimes a discussion of words and their meaning is as good as an art opening.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Get a Little Action In
Saturday night's alright for fighting.
That and dating, 'cause Saturday is definitely date night.
Which means if I decide to go eat by myself in a restaurant, I am guaranteed to be surrounded by couples.
So it was at the Magpie.
With me at the bar were the aging blond rock star and his date (she paid the bill) and how she put up with his endless bragging, I'll never know.
Two seats away and I got tired of hearing how the girls adored him onstage.
There was the couple who spent the length of two drinks talking about stuff: the number of diamonds in her new ring, the options on his new car, how chilly she was in her new leather jacket.
Boring.
In other words, I was pretty satisfied being by myself.
When I ordered a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, a Greek blend promising crisp acidity and an intense nose of peach and rose petals, the bartender informed me that it was the owner's favorite.
I continue to be impressed with the array of Greek wines showing up locally lately and their low price points don't hurt, either.
"I like value in wine," the owner laughed matter-of-factly when I told her how much I liked the Feast.
While all around me couples did the mating game (or, in some cases, spent more time looking at their phones than talking to their date), I took advantage of the cooler evening and ordered tonight's soup.
It was a roasted corn with bacon and, as it turns out, some unbilled poblano, making for an unexpected but welcome heat.
I can always count on Magpie's soundtrack to relive the old days and tonight's music was no exception.
"Listen Like Thieves" gave way to "Show Me" which begot "Girlfriend in a Coma," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (can you tell I saw "The King and I" a few days ago?).
For my next course, I got banana-crusted scallops with spiced rum reduction and (wait for it) vanilla gelato.
The thick, sweet sauce was beautiful with the scallops and the gelato, which conveniently also satisfied my sweet tooth.
By the time the bartender asked me about dessert, I had no need of anything further.
Well, except perhaps a date. It is Saturday night, after all.
And I'm really not a fighter.
That and dating, 'cause Saturday is definitely date night.
Which means if I decide to go eat by myself in a restaurant, I am guaranteed to be surrounded by couples.
So it was at the Magpie.
With me at the bar were the aging blond rock star and his date (she paid the bill) and how she put up with his endless bragging, I'll never know.
Two seats away and I got tired of hearing how the girls adored him onstage.
There was the couple who spent the length of two drinks talking about stuff: the number of diamonds in her new ring, the options on his new car, how chilly she was in her new leather jacket.
Boring.
In other words, I was pretty satisfied being by myself.
When I ordered a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, a Greek blend promising crisp acidity and an intense nose of peach and rose petals, the bartender informed me that it was the owner's favorite.
I continue to be impressed with the array of Greek wines showing up locally lately and their low price points don't hurt, either.
"I like value in wine," the owner laughed matter-of-factly when I told her how much I liked the Feast.
While all around me couples did the mating game (or, in some cases, spent more time looking at their phones than talking to their date), I took advantage of the cooler evening and ordered tonight's soup.
It was a roasted corn with bacon and, as it turns out, some unbilled poblano, making for an unexpected but welcome heat.
I can always count on Magpie's soundtrack to relive the old days and tonight's music was no exception.
"Listen Like Thieves" gave way to "Show Me" which begot "Girlfriend in a Coma," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (can you tell I saw "The King and I" a few days ago?).
For my next course, I got banana-crusted scallops with spiced rum reduction and (wait for it) vanilla gelato.
The thick, sweet sauce was beautiful with the scallops and the gelato, which conveniently also satisfied my sweet tooth.
By the time the bartender asked me about dessert, I had no need of anything further.
Well, except perhaps a date. It is Saturday night, after all.
And I'm really not a fighter.
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