I'm a big believer in birthday celebrations.
So since my fabulous friend had had a miserable birthday yesterday, we intended to make up for that today.
Hence our meeting at Six Burner to raise a glass and dish.
Lunetta Prosecco provided the bubbles as we discussed her trip to Boston (modern art, not so much), the Outer Banks (watch out for troughs) and men who don't know how to gift their womenfolk (tragic).
Over fried oysters with a very spicy tartar sauce and bacon-wrapped dates in a blue cheese sauce, I heard about koi-seeking raccoons, blockage and being felt up by a drunk cousin.
Did she just do what I think she did?
We encountered a favorite theater type who jumped into our discussion to explain Kimmy Gibler ("Full House"), Theater Lab ("Trojans") and the beauty of staying put ("You don't have to go to L.A. or NYC to make it in theater").
Dessert was housemade some'ores with toffee, a decadent take on the Girl Scout favorite.
Did I mention it had a burning birthday candle atop it?
She blew it. Out.
We didn't even try to eat the oozy concoction as an entity, preferring to use our fingers to pull out choice bits until it was no more.
In all likelihood, we'd have sat there all night sipping Verdejo and talking about men and beach vacations, but her beloved texted and she had to be off.
One of the distinct pleasures of leading a cell phone-less life is never having to be interrupted when having fun.
So she went off to meet her man and I sallied forth to Ballcieaux.
It was a quadruple bill with some familiar faces, if not bands, on it.
I ran into a fiend's husband who informed me that I was his surrogate wife, meaning I attend his shows on the nights when his cute wife is home in bed.
I do what I can to help out my friends.
The show began with a small crowd and Lynchburg's Asentimentalsong, which is really a guy named Joe paying guitar and looping it.
His sound, aptly described by a friend as "A one-man Explosions in the Sky" was lush and dynamic.
I had it from a reliable source that Joe used the same loop pedal as the inimitable Dave Watkins.
During the break, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing the classic Delphonics tune, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?"
Matt Northrup from Charlottesville played next, doing fast-paced guitar jams and looping them endlessly.
A friend saw his sound as classic-rock oriented, but he got my attention with his his sharpness and speed.
An audience member clamored for "Small Snacks" and Matt obliged.
Turns out that the audience member suggesting music was Andrew, also a musician.
And, surprise, surprise, next up was Oakland California's The Andrew Weathers Ensemble, doing a sort of ambient folk.
The trio took the stage shoeless and when Joe joined them, he was also exhorted to remove his.
It made for a quartet of three guitars,one concertina/harmonica and forty toes.
Things got very post-rock as one guitarist began playing his instrument with a screwdriver.
A friend arrived, pulled up bar stool and we began dissecting his recent love life.
After a few well-placed questions, he asked if I was like a therapist.
Doubtful, but maybe I could play one on TV.
We were both excited to see the English Majors, comprised of Dave Watkins (Colloquial Orchestra), Matt Klimas (Snowy Owls) and PJ Sykes (Hoax Hunters).
Interestingly, they began with Dave on drums and Matt and PJ on guitars, but for the second song, Matt took drum duties and the other two shredded.
Friend looked at me, marveling, "Did you know Dave could do that?"
No, indeed.
By the third song, it was PJ on drums (and almost as much of a beast as he can be on guitar) with Dave and Matt doing guitar duty.
The sound was without vocals but fast-paced, with the guitars always pushing forward.
And no effects on those guitars, which must have been a challenge for certain members of the Majors.
You know who I'm talking to.
Another friend came over, looking dapper again thanks to his new girlfriend ("Usually I try to date women who don't come to shows with me, but..." and there she was) and asking if he could buy me a drink.
Not necessary.
As it was, the English Majors (and I'm pretty sure none of them were actually English majors) finished their set and Balliceaux wanted us out of there.
Which was fine.
By that time, I'd celebrated a friend, been called a surrogate, heard a favorite musician say "By the time we play, it'll be just Karen and the bartenders," and dispensed relationship advice.
Not sure I blew anyone's mind this time, but then there's always tomorrow night.
Showing posts with label Six Burner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Six Burner. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Every Day I Write the Book
Tonight was all about saying so long, farewell.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
I Do for an Evening
If you're going to go to dinner with a husband, always pick a happily married one.
They make the best company because they have no agenda.
Besides, it had been months since we'd gotten together and he'd missed celebrating my birthday with me.
And we can't start the lead-up to his birthday until we finish celebrating mine.
Okay, so that's my rule, but he graciously went along with it.
I've no doubt he tolerates such peccadilloes solely because I'm not his real wife.
His busy schedule had left no time for new restaurants, so that was priority one.
We decided on Deco in the Museum District once we heard about the Sicilian street food part of the menu.
The tiny bar has backless, red Lucite stools and while they didn't look particularly comfy, we were wrong.
Hubby and I decided they fit our backsides awfully well.
He got his usual heavily bruised martini and I went with a glass of Analissa Pinot Grigio while I heard tales of our time apart.
Biggest laugh goes to the knife skills class he taught where he sliced his finger open and had to staunch the blood running down his arm out of sight of his eager pupils.
The scar was impressive.
Eventually, our server asked if we wanted to order and did we ever.
A look at the menu and there it was, a selection of small plates featuring the kinds of food you'd find on the streets of Sicily.
That's when our server lowered the boom, informing us that they were out of all of them except the salad and the olives.
No meatballs, no arancini, no chickpea fritters or battered cauliflower.
"Where do you want to go to eat?" the borrowed husband asked, not willing to settle for pasta or an entree.
No longer would red Lucite cradle our butts.
Since he was still in the mood for small plates, I suggested Six Burner, knowing he hadn't been in since they went to an all tapas menu.
As a bonus, it was half off wine by the glass night and my favorite man in pumps was bartending.
Some things are just meant to be.
After scoring some Gavi and another bruised martini, this one with three olives on steroids, we began ordering.
Hubby was all but salivating over so many interesting flavor profiles on the menu.
Our first must-have was the crowder peas, butter beans and Hubbs peanuts in sorghum molasses.
Toothsome beans and crunchy peanuts in a sauce best described as sweet and heat made for a dish both us could have eaten a lot more of.
Based on my last visit, we got the huevos rancheros-style calamari with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs.
For the second time, the combination of spicy calamari and sausage with melt-in-your-mouth soft-cooked eggs was irresistible.
Bluefish with sauteed shitakes in sorrel sauce took me back to the Friday dinners of my childhood where we alternated rockfish one week and bluefish the next.
But let's be clear here, my mother never did anything half so interesting as this dish of succulent mushrooms married to beautifully strong-tasting bluefish with a mild (and very green) sorrel sauce.
And then came the nerdy part of the ordering.
Being a language geek, how could I not choose something that came with an adjective?
King mackerel with awesome Spanish chorizo succotash proved why the modifier had been required.
Yes, the mackerel was delicious, firm and meaty, but that succotash was to die for.
The mixture of butter beans, corn, grape tomatoes and okra tasted like a summer vegetable stand had exploded in our mouths.
Add chorizo to it and we were practically swooning over the party we were chewing.
Completely stuffed, we could only enjoy the dessert menu in audio form.
But I knew I'd made the right restaurant choice when he started talking about bringing the wife there.
Soon, very soon.
If there's one way to ensure a husband enjoys a night out, it's by providing a completely different experience for him than his wife would.
With this particular husband, that's by eating absolutely everything, being an extrovert and not expecting him to call me by 10:00.
I'm only good at it because I can send him on his way at the end of the night.
Hell, I'm a natural for the role of occasional wife.
They make the best company because they have no agenda.
Besides, it had been months since we'd gotten together and he'd missed celebrating my birthday with me.
And we can't start the lead-up to his birthday until we finish celebrating mine.
Okay, so that's my rule, but he graciously went along with it.
I've no doubt he tolerates such peccadilloes solely because I'm not his real wife.
His busy schedule had left no time for new restaurants, so that was priority one.
We decided on Deco in the Museum District once we heard about the Sicilian street food part of the menu.
The tiny bar has backless, red Lucite stools and while they didn't look particularly comfy, we were wrong.
Hubby and I decided they fit our backsides awfully well.
He got his usual heavily bruised martini and I went with a glass of Analissa Pinot Grigio while I heard tales of our time apart.
Biggest laugh goes to the knife skills class he taught where he sliced his finger open and had to staunch the blood running down his arm out of sight of his eager pupils.
The scar was impressive.
Eventually, our server asked if we wanted to order and did we ever.
A look at the menu and there it was, a selection of small plates featuring the kinds of food you'd find on the streets of Sicily.
That's when our server lowered the boom, informing us that they were out of all of them except the salad and the olives.
No meatballs, no arancini, no chickpea fritters or battered cauliflower.
"Where do you want to go to eat?" the borrowed husband asked, not willing to settle for pasta or an entree.
No longer would red Lucite cradle our butts.
Since he was still in the mood for small plates, I suggested Six Burner, knowing he hadn't been in since they went to an all tapas menu.
As a bonus, it was half off wine by the glass night and my favorite man in pumps was bartending.
Some things are just meant to be.
After scoring some Gavi and another bruised martini, this one with three olives on steroids, we began ordering.
Hubby was all but salivating over so many interesting flavor profiles on the menu.
Our first must-have was the crowder peas, butter beans and Hubbs peanuts in sorghum molasses.
Toothsome beans and crunchy peanuts in a sauce best described as sweet and heat made for a dish both us could have eaten a lot more of.
Based on my last visit, we got the huevos rancheros-style calamari with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs.
For the second time, the combination of spicy calamari and sausage with melt-in-your-mouth soft-cooked eggs was irresistible.
Bluefish with sauteed shitakes in sorrel sauce took me back to the Friday dinners of my childhood where we alternated rockfish one week and bluefish the next.
But let's be clear here, my mother never did anything half so interesting as this dish of succulent mushrooms married to beautifully strong-tasting bluefish with a mild (and very green) sorrel sauce.
And then came the nerdy part of the ordering.
Being a language geek, how could I not choose something that came with an adjective?
King mackerel with awesome Spanish chorizo succotash proved why the modifier had been required.
Yes, the mackerel was delicious, firm and meaty, but that succotash was to die for.
The mixture of butter beans, corn, grape tomatoes and okra tasted like a summer vegetable stand had exploded in our mouths.
Add chorizo to it and we were practically swooning over the party we were chewing.
Completely stuffed, we could only enjoy the dessert menu in audio form.
But I knew I'd made the right restaurant choice when he started talking about bringing the wife there.
Soon, very soon.
If there's one way to ensure a husband enjoys a night out, it's by providing a completely different experience for him than his wife would.
With this particular husband, that's by eating absolutely everything, being an extrovert and not expecting him to call me by 10:00.
I'm only good at it because I can send him on his way at the end of the night.
Hell, I'm a natural for the role of occasional wife.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Hot Wenches and Hard Whisks
"That which we call a hog would taste as sweet by any other name."
So there you have my evening: pig and Shakespeare.
Things got rolling at Six Burner where change is a-brewing.
Already the door in the back corner of the restaurant has been uncovered, thus providing natural light in a notoriously dark corner.
Booths will soon go missing, a banquette is coming and, best of all, a menu with more options for the wallet-challenged.
Until then, half-priced wine night will have to suffice and it did magnificently with $3.50 glasses of Gavi.
On top of that, I broke my no-cocktail rule and tried a cilantro gimlet with sugar/chile rims, a lovely warm weather refresher, the recipe for which the bartender had stolen from his favorite piano bar in the West Village.
I think I must have been crazed by all that sunlight pouring in the back door to drink something so uncharacteristic.
Deciding about what to eat was easy: house-made Cotechino pork sausage came with toothsome lentils and broccoli rabe; any bite which included all three was superb.
Then there was local asparagus ('tis the season) with escargot barigoule in a lemongrass sauce and a roasted garlic custard that got my vote for best savory pudding ever.
Can I put in my vote for more like it on menus?
While discussing Matt dressing up as Marilyn Monroe to sing happy birthday to a Ukrop (oh, it'll happen) and the difference between serving bar food and knowing good food, we looked up to discover it was Shakespeare time.
And not just any Shakespeare, but a Richmond Shakespeare Second Tuesday staged reading of "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park" at the Gottwald Theater.
Could there be a better use of my time after a meal of snails and Cotechino?
The play turned out to be a pastiche of "Hamlet" ("My father's spirit roams these trailer parks") "Macbeth," "Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet" and probably any number of others I wasn't able to catch in the fast-paced story.
The action took place in Frog Level and began with three witches stirring a pot of Brunswick stew made with road kill and magic mushrooms.
I may have found this even more hysterical than the rest of the audience since I have actually eaten Brunswick stew in Frog Level.
Mine had neither street scrapings nor hallucinogenic fungi, but I was told I could find a husband if I came back.
And for the record, I've also eaten a salt fish breakfast in Frog Level, but that's another story.
The story revolved around competing families of chefs versus bakers ("You fondle meat, I beat the batter") who lived in double wides ("Double wides are twice the trouble") in warring trailer parks (Montague Acres and Capulet Hills).
The dialog was cleverly written combining Shakespearean rhymes and language ("What light by yonder bug zapper breaks?") with modern references ("Forsooth, I am mellow").
The raunch factor was high ("I pray another part of thee is as hard as thy whisk"), frequent ("She's curdled my codpiece, the hot wench. Let's shack up") and non-stop ("It would have killed the mood if thee were butt ugly").
A pair of pink flamingos, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were "trusty pink spies," moving side to side when they overheard some juicy tidbit.
The cast was completely on point, bringing the NASCAR-obsessed, incestuous characters to life as they battled over which trailer park would be the last one standing when the new Walmart got built.
As you might expect, there was something rotten in Frog Level.
Once Cheese MacBreath was sauced, it was up to his heir to punish the murderer ("To sauce or not to sauce, that is the question").
When the guilty parties have been poisoned with tofu-laden barbecue sauce, the perp, Homeo MacBreath, awakens to find his beloved, the very hot Barbie-Q Bacon, dead by the dagger attachment on her Swiss Army knife.
His despair was evident. "No more shall I nail her."
If ever Shakespeare missed an opportunity to write a play, it was this one about tong-brandishing chefs, cold ones kept in the Kenmore, chefs who train at Blackensburg Culinary College, and spirits who roam the trailer parks to vindicate their untimely death.
The kind of trailer park trash who say of their own, "He swaggers a lot like a drunken sailor and eats us out of home and trailer."
Wisely, playwrights V. Mark Covington and Sharon Caccuabaudo (present in tonight's crowd) kept the trademark couplets so evocative of the Bard, even while having the characters mock their own rhyming language.
"In the haze of last night's rum. something wicked this way comes."
Wickedly funny, well directed and engagingly performed, it was the kind of play that left my motor revving like a stock car, with a huge grin on my face and a desire for a good whisk.
Luckily, the play had advised me how to deal with that aftermath.
"Find someone who will lick the sauce."
You gotta love a staged reading where they say it all out loud.
So there you have my evening: pig and Shakespeare.
Things got rolling at Six Burner where change is a-brewing.
Already the door in the back corner of the restaurant has been uncovered, thus providing natural light in a notoriously dark corner.
Booths will soon go missing, a banquette is coming and, best of all, a menu with more options for the wallet-challenged.
Until then, half-priced wine night will have to suffice and it did magnificently with $3.50 glasses of Gavi.
On top of that, I broke my no-cocktail rule and tried a cilantro gimlet with sugar/chile rims, a lovely warm weather refresher, the recipe for which the bartender had stolen from his favorite piano bar in the West Village.
I think I must have been crazed by all that sunlight pouring in the back door to drink something so uncharacteristic.
Deciding about what to eat was easy: house-made Cotechino pork sausage came with toothsome lentils and broccoli rabe; any bite which included all three was superb.
Then there was local asparagus ('tis the season) with escargot barigoule in a lemongrass sauce and a roasted garlic custard that got my vote for best savory pudding ever.
Can I put in my vote for more like it on menus?
While discussing Matt dressing up as Marilyn Monroe to sing happy birthday to a Ukrop (oh, it'll happen) and the difference between serving bar food and knowing good food, we looked up to discover it was Shakespeare time.
And not just any Shakespeare, but a Richmond Shakespeare Second Tuesday staged reading of "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park" at the Gottwald Theater.
Could there be a better use of my time after a meal of snails and Cotechino?
The play turned out to be a pastiche of "Hamlet" ("My father's spirit roams these trailer parks") "Macbeth," "Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet" and probably any number of others I wasn't able to catch in the fast-paced story.
The action took place in Frog Level and began with three witches stirring a pot of Brunswick stew made with road kill and magic mushrooms.
I may have found this even more hysterical than the rest of the audience since I have actually eaten Brunswick stew in Frog Level.
Mine had neither street scrapings nor hallucinogenic fungi, but I was told I could find a husband if I came back.
And for the record, I've also eaten a salt fish breakfast in Frog Level, but that's another story.
The story revolved around competing families of chefs versus bakers ("You fondle meat, I beat the batter") who lived in double wides ("Double wides are twice the trouble") in warring trailer parks (Montague Acres and Capulet Hills).
The dialog was cleverly written combining Shakespearean rhymes and language ("What light by yonder bug zapper breaks?") with modern references ("Forsooth, I am mellow").
The raunch factor was high ("I pray another part of thee is as hard as thy whisk"), frequent ("She's curdled my codpiece, the hot wench. Let's shack up") and non-stop ("It would have killed the mood if thee were butt ugly").
A pair of pink flamingos, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were "trusty pink spies," moving side to side when they overheard some juicy tidbit.
The cast was completely on point, bringing the NASCAR-obsessed, incestuous characters to life as they battled over which trailer park would be the last one standing when the new Walmart got built.
As you might expect, there was something rotten in Frog Level.
Once Cheese MacBreath was sauced, it was up to his heir to punish the murderer ("To sauce or not to sauce, that is the question").
When the guilty parties have been poisoned with tofu-laden barbecue sauce, the perp, Homeo MacBreath, awakens to find his beloved, the very hot Barbie-Q Bacon, dead by the dagger attachment on her Swiss Army knife.
His despair was evident. "No more shall I nail her."
If ever Shakespeare missed an opportunity to write a play, it was this one about tong-brandishing chefs, cold ones kept in the Kenmore, chefs who train at Blackensburg Culinary College, and spirits who roam the trailer parks to vindicate their untimely death.
The kind of trailer park trash who say of their own, "He swaggers a lot like a drunken sailor and eats us out of home and trailer."
Wisely, playwrights V. Mark Covington and Sharon Caccuabaudo (present in tonight's crowd) kept the trademark couplets so evocative of the Bard, even while having the characters mock their own rhyming language.
"In the haze of last night's rum. something wicked this way comes."
Wickedly funny, well directed and engagingly performed, it was the kind of play that left my motor revving like a stock car, with a huge grin on my face and a desire for a good whisk.
Luckily, the play had advised me how to deal with that aftermath.
"Find someone who will lick the sauce."
You gotta love a staged reading where they say it all out loud.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Listen Without Prejudice
When it comes down to it, it's all about finding a receptive audience.
I started my audience participation at the Virginia Center for Architecture and the social hour they were having to explore the new exhibit.
"The Art and Architecture of Carlton Abbott" was like a retrospective of the Williamsburg architect's career.
Which was as much about art as architecture.
Abbott's father had been the landscape architect for the Blue Ridge Parkway and his son documented many Blue Ridge Parkway buildings in pen and ink (even that most romantic-sounding of mediums, India ink).
Cantilevered barns, spring houses and weighted gates were captured by Abbott in the purest line.
But then there was Abbott, the engineer-minded architect, who designed the access bridge at Texas beach, the Visitor's Center at Jamestown and the frickin' mixing bowl.
Oh, yes, Abbott was the one behind the revamped Springfield exits on I-95.
Who knew such a logical, clear-thinking brain could also produce such pure art?
Abbott's postcards from France were a series of cards on which he sketched a French scene on the front, then drew a basic diagram of the layout of the location, maybe wrote a few words on the back, and mailed it home to himself.
And sometimes, to him and his wife.
Most were depictions of charming buildings and streets, but one was a carafe of wine and two filled glasses on a tabletop.
On the back, he had written, "Mon Cheri, I love you. CSA."
Kind of makes your heart melt, doesn't it?
A majestic charcoal over the mantle of the fireplace, "The Norfolk Dock" gave the viewer a sense of actually being on the dock due to its sheer size.
The man's multi-media art was of the deepest, brightest colors, super-saturated in their brilliance.
They were three-dimensional, some layers of fabric, some painted dowels, some intricately arranged geometric/mechanical-looking contrivances.
The man is in his fifth decade of creating and it's obvious he's still going strong.
The optimistic among us would call that encouraging.
The optimistic and the rest took off for Six Burner to discuss that kind of range of talent and enjoy well priced "midnight in a glass," Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de Bouissiere."
We heard about an actor's upcoming audition and a film graduate's desire to find the local film community.
The music went from the Lou Reed station on Pandora to the Phil Collins station.
This alone fascinates me, but I won't go there now.
When George Micheal came on, I went to point it out to the actor, who was by that time dancing to George Micheal behind the bar.
Clearly he already knew who it was.
Big points went to the panzanella salad (redundant, I think) with Feta cheese, capers, roasted tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, preserved Meyer lemon and oil for its pleasantly chewy bred cubes and perfect saltiness.
The panzanella led seamlessly into the mussels in a white wine cream sauce with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese.
It was ridiculously rich and just the right sized serving to leave you with some sense of dignity. At least until the bread-sopping part came and then all bets were off.
I got theater talk ("Rocky Horror Picture Show" coming to Firehouse) and a chance to recommend some good local film events (Biograph 40th, Southern Film Fest, James River Filmmakers' Forum) before realizing that some of us had places to be.
It was a parking lot farewell.
Since I hadn't had time to have a sweet course, I defaulted to the best late-night dessert bar I know: Ipanema.
After ordering a glass of Analissa Primitovo and a slice of double chocolate cake, I took in the conversations around me.
"Why don't you have any girl bartenders?" a twenty-something girl inquired.
"Well, you know..." the bartender trailed off.
"This place is a sausagefest," I teased him, joining in.
"A Post Office!" he laughed. "A lot of male!"
Did I mention that the comedy is free of charge at the best late night dessert bar in town?
Two bites into my cake, a couple of musician friends walked up to see what I was up to.
One asked me where I'd already been, presuming that my night was not just now starting.
The other suggested, "When you finish your cake, you should head over there," pointing to his friends and band mates celebrating a birthday.
Near the end of my cake, I heard the guy next to me mention Jackson Ward.
If that's not an invitation for me to let them know I've been eavesdropping, I don't know that is.Surely he and I would have something to talk about.
What about Jackson Ward, I asked politely but eager to sing the praises of my 'hood.
One told me where they lived (two blocks away), near the park.
"Yes, it's great. My only complaint is the people from Gilpin walk through our park and they don't live here," he said in all seriousness.
Oh, wow. Clearly we have nothing to talk about.
So I moved away from them and over to my friends where the conversation centered on Tom Waits fishing and other things I could get behind.
My fandom of their band was complimented. Hey, they're the ones doing all the heavy lifting. All I have to do is appreciate it.
"So where were you before this?" the bass player asked, echoing the earlier question.
I wouldn't be presuming I've been anywhere, my friend.
Except, of course, I had.
By that time, I'd already been an audience several times over.
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, stick with what you're good at.
There are few things I'd rather be than a really fine audience. Insert applause.
Mine.
I started my audience participation at the Virginia Center for Architecture and the social hour they were having to explore the new exhibit.
"The Art and Architecture of Carlton Abbott" was like a retrospective of the Williamsburg architect's career.
Which was as much about art as architecture.
Abbott's father had been the landscape architect for the Blue Ridge Parkway and his son documented many Blue Ridge Parkway buildings in pen and ink (even that most romantic-sounding of mediums, India ink).
Cantilevered barns, spring houses and weighted gates were captured by Abbott in the purest line.
But then there was Abbott, the engineer-minded architect, who designed the access bridge at Texas beach, the Visitor's Center at Jamestown and the frickin' mixing bowl.
Oh, yes, Abbott was the one behind the revamped Springfield exits on I-95.
Who knew such a logical, clear-thinking brain could also produce such pure art?
Abbott's postcards from France were a series of cards on which he sketched a French scene on the front, then drew a basic diagram of the layout of the location, maybe wrote a few words on the back, and mailed it home to himself.
And sometimes, to him and his wife.
Most were depictions of charming buildings and streets, but one was a carafe of wine and two filled glasses on a tabletop.
On the back, he had written, "Mon Cheri, I love you. CSA."
Kind of makes your heart melt, doesn't it?
A majestic charcoal over the mantle of the fireplace, "The Norfolk Dock" gave the viewer a sense of actually being on the dock due to its sheer size.
The man's multi-media art was of the deepest, brightest colors, super-saturated in their brilliance.
They were three-dimensional, some layers of fabric, some painted dowels, some intricately arranged geometric/mechanical-looking contrivances.
The man is in his fifth decade of creating and it's obvious he's still going strong.
The optimistic among us would call that encouraging.
The optimistic and the rest took off for Six Burner to discuss that kind of range of talent and enjoy well priced "midnight in a glass," Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de Bouissiere."
We heard about an actor's upcoming audition and a film graduate's desire to find the local film community.
The music went from the Lou Reed station on Pandora to the Phil Collins station.
This alone fascinates me, but I won't go there now.
When George Micheal came on, I went to point it out to the actor, who was by that time dancing to George Micheal behind the bar.
Clearly he already knew who it was.
Big points went to the panzanella salad (redundant, I think) with Feta cheese, capers, roasted tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, preserved Meyer lemon and oil for its pleasantly chewy bred cubes and perfect saltiness.
The panzanella led seamlessly into the mussels in a white wine cream sauce with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese.
It was ridiculously rich and just the right sized serving to leave you with some sense of dignity. At least until the bread-sopping part came and then all bets were off.
I got theater talk ("Rocky Horror Picture Show" coming to Firehouse) and a chance to recommend some good local film events (Biograph 40th, Southern Film Fest, James River Filmmakers' Forum) before realizing that some of us had places to be.
It was a parking lot farewell.
Since I hadn't had time to have a sweet course, I defaulted to the best late-night dessert bar I know: Ipanema.
After ordering a glass of Analissa Primitovo and a slice of double chocolate cake, I took in the conversations around me.
"Why don't you have any girl bartenders?" a twenty-something girl inquired.
"Well, you know..." the bartender trailed off.
"This place is a sausagefest," I teased him, joining in.
"A Post Office!" he laughed. "A lot of male!"
Did I mention that the comedy is free of charge at the best late night dessert bar in town?
Two bites into my cake, a couple of musician friends walked up to see what I was up to.
One asked me where I'd already been, presuming that my night was not just now starting.
The other suggested, "When you finish your cake, you should head over there," pointing to his friends and band mates celebrating a birthday.
Near the end of my cake, I heard the guy next to me mention Jackson Ward.
If that's not an invitation for me to let them know I've been eavesdropping, I don't know that is.Surely he and I would have something to talk about.
What about Jackson Ward, I asked politely but eager to sing the praises of my 'hood.
One told me where they lived (two blocks away), near the park.
"Yes, it's great. My only complaint is the people from Gilpin walk through our park and they don't live here," he said in all seriousness.
Oh, wow. Clearly we have nothing to talk about.
So I moved away from them and over to my friends where the conversation centered on Tom Waits fishing and other things I could get behind.
My fandom of their band was complimented. Hey, they're the ones doing all the heavy lifting. All I have to do is appreciate it.
"So where were you before this?" the bass player asked, echoing the earlier question.
I wouldn't be presuming I've been anywhere, my friend.
Except, of course, I had.
By that time, I'd already been an audience several times over.
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, stick with what you're good at.
There are few things I'd rather be than a really fine audience. Insert applause.
Mine.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Now Please Return to Your Seats
The way I see it, sometimes you just have to take the light switch into your own hands.
Of course, it may have been the pre-show wine that gave me the courage to do so.
I met a friend for an overdue happy hour at Six Burner, where the featured red was South African, so there was little chance of me resisting it.
The Left Bank was a full-bodied Western Cape blend with lovely soft tannins and an unlikely name.
Like I care what they call it.
Wisely, before we got down to the business of the past five weeks, we ordered sustenance for the storytelling that was to come.
The salmon rilettes with clementine, olives and toasted bread was a creamy ode to salmon, more of a terrine than a true rilette, but beautifully flavored.
The lamb chili came with a layer of creme fraiche, cheddar and chives, but it was the two hushpuppies floating on top that got our immediate attention.
I'm a big fan of chili and this had a pleasing depth of flavor and variety of beans that would have made it a perfect meal on a cold night.
Despite tonight's temperate air, we all but licked the bowl of every bit of lamb.
My friend told me of her pain-in-the-ass boss and her husband's attentiveness while the best I could do was CDs and head scratching.
We channeled our frustrations into a chocolate terrine with dried cherries, pistachio crumble and a clementine syrup that was one of the best desserts I've ever had at Six Burner.
Chocoholics, take note.
We took so long with dessert and the last of the wine that I barely made it to the Listening Room on time.
As it was, the man-about-town was in my seat (a fact my friend noted and said he thought, "Karen's not going to be happy about that") and my usual LR buddy was M.I.A.
The scientist was kind enough to offer me the seat next to him and ply me with dark chocolate throughout the first act.
I took it to be polite.
Nelly Kate walked onto the stage barefoot and began to do to the first-timers what she'd first done to me last June.
That would be knock my socks off.
Sharing that ever since she'd moved to Richmond she'd aspired to play the Listening Room, she began singing in her clear, little girl voice while looping guitar, hand claps, cooing, whatever she wanted.
"My loop station is a nice way for me to travel alone," she explained. It's true; it allows her to layer her dense sound and hypnotize an audience with her overdubs.
The audience reacted like they'd seen something amazing, which they had.
Afterwards, the break allowed the large crowd to mingle as if it were a party. Since this is the last Listening Room for two months, there was a special energy in the air, it seemed.
Even so, after a while it was time to sit down and hear some music and nothing was happening.
That's when I took things into my own hands and walked over to the light switch and started flicking it.
Intermission is over, kids. Sit down.
And they did, surprisingly quickly, and Bonnie Staley (of the Girtles) and Cliff Boyd (of Sport Bar) started their set with two back-up singers, Julie and Maya.
I'd like to read into the record that all three girls in the band had on dresses. Being the dress lover myself, I was impressed.
Their bass-heavy sound was complemented by girl-group vocals that would have been at home in the sixties.
In fact, the song "Samby" was, Bonnie said, part hers and partly the Beach Boys'. Seems her Dad used to sing "Wendy" to her nephew Sam and she assumed it was his song and riffed on that.
They also did a song of Julie's, about which she said, "I'm not going to explain it because I hate when people do that."
The song explained itself beautifully.
During the next break I ran into a guy I'd met at the Camel when he'd come up and introduced himself, telling me he saw me at shows everywhere.
Tonight, his first Listening Room, he referred to me as a scenester. I set him straight, welcomed him to the LR and then flicked the lights.
Somebody's got to take charge of misconceptions and intermissions.
James Wallace of Richmond via Nashville played last, acknowledging, "A lot of this equipment I don't know how to use yet so we're just going to work around it."
Their sound of guitar, upright bass, keyboard and James' voice made for a pleasantly poppy take on the singer/songwriter genre with just enough of a vintage sound (and maybe a dash of alt- country) to make it clear how talented this guy is.
But of course everyone who plays the Listening Room is talented. Okay, there was one exception once, but every one else.
That's why I can't believe there are still people who haven't been.
Come, be a scenester. Just pay attention to the flickering light.
Of course, it may have been the pre-show wine that gave me the courage to do so.
I met a friend for an overdue happy hour at Six Burner, where the featured red was South African, so there was little chance of me resisting it.
The Left Bank was a full-bodied Western Cape blend with lovely soft tannins and an unlikely name.
Like I care what they call it.
Wisely, before we got down to the business of the past five weeks, we ordered sustenance for the storytelling that was to come.
The salmon rilettes with clementine, olives and toasted bread was a creamy ode to salmon, more of a terrine than a true rilette, but beautifully flavored.
The lamb chili came with a layer of creme fraiche, cheddar and chives, but it was the two hushpuppies floating on top that got our immediate attention.
I'm a big fan of chili and this had a pleasing depth of flavor and variety of beans that would have made it a perfect meal on a cold night.
Despite tonight's temperate air, we all but licked the bowl of every bit of lamb.
My friend told me of her pain-in-the-ass boss and her husband's attentiveness while the best I could do was CDs and head scratching.
We channeled our frustrations into a chocolate terrine with dried cherries, pistachio crumble and a clementine syrup that was one of the best desserts I've ever had at Six Burner.
Chocoholics, take note.
We took so long with dessert and the last of the wine that I barely made it to the Listening Room on time.
As it was, the man-about-town was in my seat (a fact my friend noted and said he thought, "Karen's not going to be happy about that") and my usual LR buddy was M.I.A.
The scientist was kind enough to offer me the seat next to him and ply me with dark chocolate throughout the first act.
I took it to be polite.
Nelly Kate walked onto the stage barefoot and began to do to the first-timers what she'd first done to me last June.
That would be knock my socks off.
Sharing that ever since she'd moved to Richmond she'd aspired to play the Listening Room, she began singing in her clear, little girl voice while looping guitar, hand claps, cooing, whatever she wanted.
"My loop station is a nice way for me to travel alone," she explained. It's true; it allows her to layer her dense sound and hypnotize an audience with her overdubs.
The audience reacted like they'd seen something amazing, which they had.
Afterwards, the break allowed the large crowd to mingle as if it were a party. Since this is the last Listening Room for two months, there was a special energy in the air, it seemed.
Even so, after a while it was time to sit down and hear some music and nothing was happening.
That's when I took things into my own hands and walked over to the light switch and started flicking it.
Intermission is over, kids. Sit down.
And they did, surprisingly quickly, and Bonnie Staley (of the Girtles) and Cliff Boyd (of Sport Bar) started their set with two back-up singers, Julie and Maya.
I'd like to read into the record that all three girls in the band had on dresses. Being the dress lover myself, I was impressed.
Their bass-heavy sound was complemented by girl-group vocals that would have been at home in the sixties.
In fact, the song "Samby" was, Bonnie said, part hers and partly the Beach Boys'. Seems her Dad used to sing "Wendy" to her nephew Sam and she assumed it was his song and riffed on that.
They also did a song of Julie's, about which she said, "I'm not going to explain it because I hate when people do that."
The song explained itself beautifully.
During the next break I ran into a guy I'd met at the Camel when he'd come up and introduced himself, telling me he saw me at shows everywhere.
Tonight, his first Listening Room, he referred to me as a scenester. I set him straight, welcomed him to the LR and then flicked the lights.
Somebody's got to take charge of misconceptions and intermissions.
James Wallace of Richmond via Nashville played last, acknowledging, "A lot of this equipment I don't know how to use yet so we're just going to work around it."
Their sound of guitar, upright bass, keyboard and James' voice made for a pleasantly poppy take on the singer/songwriter genre with just enough of a vintage sound (and maybe a dash of alt- country) to make it clear how talented this guy is.
But of course everyone who plays the Listening Room is talented. Okay, there was one exception once, but every one else.
That's why I can't believe there are still people who haven't been.
Come, be a scenester. Just pay attention to the flickering light.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
You Can't Handle the Truth
It's funny. People don't say goodnight to me, they say "What's your next stop?"
Which is understandable when I'm asked at certain points in the evening, but I get asked it when events end at 10:00. And 11:00. Even midnight.
So I'm trying something new. Sometimes I'm going home instead of making a third or fourth stop.
Scandalous, I know.
Tonight I made two stops. That's it.
The first was at Six Burner for half-priced wine night with a favorite girlfriend. It was an interesting night. Oddly enough, we saw the owner serving tables.
When another server asked if I was having my usual pink, I opted instead for red. Raised eyebrow. "It's been an emotional couple of days and I want red tonight," I told her.
"It's more dramatic, too," she said, enabling me.
Later, the bartender kept forgetting about us and finally said, "Next time just throw a shoe at me to get my attention."
All I wanted was another glass of the Gabriele Rausse Cabernet Sauvignon. It hardly seemed like shoe-throwing was in order.
Besides, we were slurping oysters. The roasted oysters with horseradish, bacon, Parmesan and roasted red pepper were a good way to get in the mood for the Shockoe on the Half Shell Festival this weekend.
After a couple of hours of chatter about her new husband's long-awaited return from his cross-country trip and some of my male "admirers" coming out of the woodwork en masse, we made to leave.
"What's next?" she asked. Okay, fair enough at 7:30.
It was the Listening Room, putting me back at the Firehouse for the third night in a row, but the first for music.
First up was Grant Hunnicutt, who usually plays upright bass in the River City Band and Ophelia, playing guitar tonight.According to him, he'd brought in a few "ringers," namely Jessica from the Jungle Beat and Jonathan Vassar, not that he needed anyone.
With his new CD about to be released, he played songs of Jonathan's, songs he and Jonathan had written together and, as he put it, "old super hits."
Favorite lyric: "Where you are now is my home and where I'll stay."
Saying he was going to play one of his favorite Ophelia songs, he zoned and called to David Shultz, "What's the first line?" before launching into a stellar rendition.
It was a pleasure to see Grant front and center for a change. He's such a low-key guy but so talented, with or without ringers.
During the break, the scientist arrived, full of energy after a busy day teaching VCU students about plant life's asexual reproduction.
In a high point of the evening, he demonstrated how he'd shown them just that. It was so funny I made him repeat it at the next intermission.
Russell Lacy played his long-delayed set next. He'd been scheduled to play last February but had been in a car accident.
"This song is about Virginia. I was out of the state for a while. Funny how you miss home," he said by way of an introduction.
He had a fine voice, tender and at times almost bluesy. My musician friend suggested that he'd listened to a lot of James Taylor.
"Here's one I wrote after my wreck," he said, beginning with the lyric, "I always pray a little too late." The song came across beautifully heartfelt. "As long as you don't die, you can get a good song out of it," he explained philosophically.
You have to appreciate a musician with a sense of humor.
The intermission afforded me a chance to enjoy a piece of Thai tea Tres Leches cake with salted caramel made for the occasion.
And speaking of occasions, today was David Shultz's thirtieth birthday, so after he walked onstage and scooped his guitar off the bed (part of the set for "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"), the audience burst into "Happy Birthday."
It was at that point that the scientist leaned over and pointed at David and quietly said, "That guy sells me all my latex gloves for the lab. It's a lot of gloves."
I swear I couldn't make this stuff up.
And then David, minus the Skyline, got down to singing.
Favorite lyric:"Something's drawing me to you. Must be madness in my bones."
He also covered Paul Simon's "Gumboots," saying he just recently learned it. The crowd ate up his version of the song and its spirited delivery.
Promising two more songs ("And then we can all enjoy our evening"), he began a song, promptly forgot the lyrics, grinned and stopped.
"And that song was called The Falling Tree," he said sheepishly. "That song's really good when you do it right."
His entire set had been really good and who knows, maybe thoughts of his birthday celebration were crowding his mind.
David's a Listening Room alum and what's an occasional missed lyric between regulars?
It was as I made my way to the door after the show that the absence of good-nights became clear.
When asked, I shocked more than a few people with my intent to go home.
It's good to know I can still surprise people.
Which is understandable when I'm asked at certain points in the evening, but I get asked it when events end at 10:00. And 11:00. Even midnight.
So I'm trying something new. Sometimes I'm going home instead of making a third or fourth stop.
Scandalous, I know.
Tonight I made two stops. That's it.
The first was at Six Burner for half-priced wine night with a favorite girlfriend. It was an interesting night. Oddly enough, we saw the owner serving tables.
When another server asked if I was having my usual pink, I opted instead for red. Raised eyebrow. "It's been an emotional couple of days and I want red tonight," I told her.
"It's more dramatic, too," she said, enabling me.
Later, the bartender kept forgetting about us and finally said, "Next time just throw a shoe at me to get my attention."
All I wanted was another glass of the Gabriele Rausse Cabernet Sauvignon. It hardly seemed like shoe-throwing was in order.
Besides, we were slurping oysters. The roasted oysters with horseradish, bacon, Parmesan and roasted red pepper were a good way to get in the mood for the Shockoe on the Half Shell Festival this weekend.
After a couple of hours of chatter about her new husband's long-awaited return from his cross-country trip and some of my male "admirers" coming out of the woodwork en masse, we made to leave.
"What's next?" she asked. Okay, fair enough at 7:30.
It was the Listening Room, putting me back at the Firehouse for the third night in a row, but the first for music.
First up was Grant Hunnicutt, who usually plays upright bass in the River City Band and Ophelia, playing guitar tonight.According to him, he'd brought in a few "ringers," namely Jessica from the Jungle Beat and Jonathan Vassar, not that he needed anyone.
With his new CD about to be released, he played songs of Jonathan's, songs he and Jonathan had written together and, as he put it, "old super hits."
Favorite lyric: "Where you are now is my home and where I'll stay."
Saying he was going to play one of his favorite Ophelia songs, he zoned and called to David Shultz, "What's the first line?" before launching into a stellar rendition.
It was a pleasure to see Grant front and center for a change. He's such a low-key guy but so talented, with or without ringers.
During the break, the scientist arrived, full of energy after a busy day teaching VCU students about plant life's asexual reproduction.
In a high point of the evening, he demonstrated how he'd shown them just that. It was so funny I made him repeat it at the next intermission.
Russell Lacy played his long-delayed set next. He'd been scheduled to play last February but had been in a car accident.
"This song is about Virginia. I was out of the state for a while. Funny how you miss home," he said by way of an introduction.
He had a fine voice, tender and at times almost bluesy. My musician friend suggested that he'd listened to a lot of James Taylor.
"Here's one I wrote after my wreck," he said, beginning with the lyric, "I always pray a little too late." The song came across beautifully heartfelt. "As long as you don't die, you can get a good song out of it," he explained philosophically.
You have to appreciate a musician with a sense of humor.
The intermission afforded me a chance to enjoy a piece of Thai tea Tres Leches cake with salted caramel made for the occasion.
And speaking of occasions, today was David Shultz's thirtieth birthday, so after he walked onstage and scooped his guitar off the bed (part of the set for "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"), the audience burst into "Happy Birthday."
It was at that point that the scientist leaned over and pointed at David and quietly said, "That guy sells me all my latex gloves for the lab. It's a lot of gloves."
I swear I couldn't make this stuff up.
And then David, minus the Skyline, got down to singing.
Favorite lyric:"Something's drawing me to you. Must be madness in my bones."
He also covered Paul Simon's "Gumboots," saying he just recently learned it. The crowd ate up his version of the song and its spirited delivery.
Promising two more songs ("And then we can all enjoy our evening"), he began a song, promptly forgot the lyrics, grinned and stopped.
"And that song was called The Falling Tree," he said sheepishly. "That song's really good when you do it right."
His entire set had been really good and who knows, maybe thoughts of his birthday celebration were crowding his mind.
David's a Listening Room alum and what's an occasional missed lyric between regulars?
It was as I made my way to the door after the show that the absence of good-nights became clear.
When asked, I shocked more than a few people with my intent to go home.
It's good to know I can still surprise people.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Bantering with the Best
One poet, three chefs, one scientist, nine musicians, one illustrator and one skateboarder with a cane.
After a day trip to the Rappahannock, I met up with one of my favorite people for, as she put it, "a glass of wine and unloading."
It turned into a couple of glasses at Six Burner, where I ran into two friends taking a break from drywall hanging and wineglass-breaking hounds.
My friend had had the day from Hell with her evil boss, she was missing her beloved who is out of town for another month and she was trying to decide what to do about a toxic friend.
If that kind of day doesn't deserve food and wine, what kind does?
We did a balancing act with a red and yellow tomato, feta and pine nut salad dressed with the lightest possible lemon juice and olive oil vinaigrette and a plate of fried oysters.
It's been proven that fried foods make everything all better, just like a mother's hug.
I don't know if we solved all her problems, but as usual, we had some great conversation and major laughter going on.
She's that rare person I can discuss both the Peacock Room and dangling love letters with.
Once she felt better, I drove over to the Firehouse Theater for The Listening Room, a musical highlight of every month and this month curated by Matt Klimas of Snowy Owls, one of my very favorite music geeks.
My seat had been saved for me between two friends, the charmingly loopy one and the one who likes to talk about people with me.
Clint Maul went on first, doing old and new material, including several short songs (his words) like "Ohio" and "Tilden Street."
Short and winding, it's the ideal street to memorialize in song.
He's only been songwriting since 2006, but you'd never know it by his material, which had an assured air to it.
Favorite line: "The girl's easy on the eyes but she's hell on the heart."
He was followed by Stolen Sheep, a trio from Knoxville.
I'd met lead singer/guitarist George when I'd arrived and my love of reverb had come up.
'"We'll do some extra reverb for you," he generously assured me. "How do you feel about delay?"
For someone like me, the more pedal effects, the better, especially at the LR, where pedals are not typically part of the performances.
George said he'd had writer's block for three years and then sang the first song he'd written afterwards.
"I'm searching for a metaphor...I'm searching for a simile." Language geeks love that kind of lyric.
Last up was the Cinnamon Band and I was one of the few who'd seen this very electric two-piece band play an acoustic show at Ipanema Live last year.
They were unplugged again tonight and as a friend and I agreed, they're damn good either way.
Tonight they added an accordion player to flesh out their songs, adding a welcome folkiness to their sound.
The drummer was in rare form, teasing his bandmate about his lack of audience interaction ("Banter!" he commanded to no avail. "Your mother said you need to talk more.").
Despite having seen this band multiple times, I continue to enjoy seeing them live.
The songs are well written, the musicianship is good and they always seem to enjoy themselves.
Favorite lyric: Everybody needs a target that's easy to love."
The show finished at a civilized hour, so I took the opportunity to go to Secco, where I ran into a friend who broke his foot skateboarding and has been out of commission for weeks.
He's mobile with a cane now, but miserable at his long confinement. He likened it to the last week of summer vacation for a kid.
You've watched endless movies (he did four seasons of "Mad Men" in two days), played endless video games and you want to return to life as you knew it.
Sympathizing, I had a glass of the peppery Chateau de Roquefort Rose "Corail" while we discussed his accident (it wasn't a trick but trying to avoid a kid that landed him on his foot wrong) and a new DJ night at Sprout (third Thursdays).
He wants me to notify him before the next Listening Room. I get so many requests like that, I should hire myself out as a social secretary.
I met a visiting chef and former Richmonder (tattooed with a spoon) and enjoyed hearing about the restaurants in other places he's worked and how much RVA's dining scene has improved.
Everyone needs a restaurant target that's easy to love.
A group was discussing wedding rings and one of the servers suggested the groom-to-be get a ring tattoo, like he had done.
The bride-to-be thought that that was a bad idea.
"Why, because it's forever?" the ring-tattooed server asked pointedly and to great laughter.
"I'm going to divorce him after I finish school," she said.
In case of an easy divorce, it would be hell on the finger getting rid of that thing.
Surely there's a metaphor or simile in that.
After a day trip to the Rappahannock, I met up with one of my favorite people for, as she put it, "a glass of wine and unloading."
It turned into a couple of glasses at Six Burner, where I ran into two friends taking a break from drywall hanging and wineglass-breaking hounds.
My friend had had the day from Hell with her evil boss, she was missing her beloved who is out of town for another month and she was trying to decide what to do about a toxic friend.
If that kind of day doesn't deserve food and wine, what kind does?
We did a balancing act with a red and yellow tomato, feta and pine nut salad dressed with the lightest possible lemon juice and olive oil vinaigrette and a plate of fried oysters.
It's been proven that fried foods make everything all better, just like a mother's hug.
I don't know if we solved all her problems, but as usual, we had some great conversation and major laughter going on.
She's that rare person I can discuss both the Peacock Room and dangling love letters with.
Once she felt better, I drove over to the Firehouse Theater for The Listening Room, a musical highlight of every month and this month curated by Matt Klimas of Snowy Owls, one of my very favorite music geeks.
My seat had been saved for me between two friends, the charmingly loopy one and the one who likes to talk about people with me.
Clint Maul went on first, doing old and new material, including several short songs (his words) like "Ohio" and "Tilden Street."
Short and winding, it's the ideal street to memorialize in song.
He's only been songwriting since 2006, but you'd never know it by his material, which had an assured air to it.
Favorite line: "The girl's easy on the eyes but she's hell on the heart."
He was followed by Stolen Sheep, a trio from Knoxville.
I'd met lead singer/guitarist George when I'd arrived and my love of reverb had come up.
'"We'll do some extra reverb for you," he generously assured me. "How do you feel about delay?"
For someone like me, the more pedal effects, the better, especially at the LR, where pedals are not typically part of the performances.
George said he'd had writer's block for three years and then sang the first song he'd written afterwards.
"I'm searching for a metaphor...I'm searching for a simile." Language geeks love that kind of lyric.
Last up was the Cinnamon Band and I was one of the few who'd seen this very electric two-piece band play an acoustic show at Ipanema Live last year.
They were unplugged again tonight and as a friend and I agreed, they're damn good either way.
Tonight they added an accordion player to flesh out their songs, adding a welcome folkiness to their sound.
The drummer was in rare form, teasing his bandmate about his lack of audience interaction ("Banter!" he commanded to no avail. "Your mother said you need to talk more.").
Despite having seen this band multiple times, I continue to enjoy seeing them live.
The songs are well written, the musicianship is good and they always seem to enjoy themselves.
Favorite lyric: Everybody needs a target that's easy to love."
The show finished at a civilized hour, so I took the opportunity to go to Secco, where I ran into a friend who broke his foot skateboarding and has been out of commission for weeks.
He's mobile with a cane now, but miserable at his long confinement. He likened it to the last week of summer vacation for a kid.
You've watched endless movies (he did four seasons of "Mad Men" in two days), played endless video games and you want to return to life as you knew it.
Sympathizing, I had a glass of the peppery Chateau de Roquefort Rose "Corail" while we discussed his accident (it wasn't a trick but trying to avoid a kid that landed him on his foot wrong) and a new DJ night at Sprout (third Thursdays).
He wants me to notify him before the next Listening Room. I get so many requests like that, I should hire myself out as a social secretary.
I met a visiting chef and former Richmonder (tattooed with a spoon) and enjoyed hearing about the restaurants in other places he's worked and how much RVA's dining scene has improved.
Everyone needs a restaurant target that's easy to love.
A group was discussing wedding rings and one of the servers suggested the groom-to-be get a ring tattoo, like he had done.
The bride-to-be thought that that was a bad idea.
"Why, because it's forever?" the ring-tattooed server asked pointedly and to great laughter.
"I'm going to divorce him after I finish school," she said.
In case of an easy divorce, it would be hell on the finger getting rid of that thing.
Surely there's a metaphor or simile in that.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Six Burner & Balliceaux, Asian Style
There was a lot going on tonight, but I narrowed it down to the least likely to be repeated event: Asian pop rock.
That let out the dance party (near West End, too far for this city girl), the pool party (thunderstorms and bathing suits, oh my) and the ever-persistent admirer who suggested making me dinner ("How about seared foie gras and a half bottle of Sauternes?").
Thanks all, but no thanks.
Beginning my night at Six Burner after the storms rolled through, my 8:30 arrival yielded a dining room in full weeds mode.
Every table was taken, every bar stool and the bar was two deep. The staff had a sheen and a glazed look.
With greetings from the staff and assurances that I would have a stool shortly, I stood in my usual place.
When bartender Josh suggested I wile away the time with a glass of wine, I had only to nod before a glass of vino verdhe showed up under the vase of purple hydrangeas.
Now I was good to wait for as long as it took.
The foursome nearest me soon noticed me skulking next to them and one of the men turned and asked, "Are you waiting for your husband?"
Snort.
I fear a solitary woman on a Saturday night is perceived as only being out to await the arrival of her man.
I was found out again.This one's got no man.
People continued to arrive and eventually a stool opened up at the far end of the bar; I wasted no time in taking it.
Body heat surrounded me on all sides despite the fact that outside, the rain had dropped the temperature considerably.
Would anyone notice if I propped open the door? Did I care if they did?
Although I knew from the frenetic activity in the visible-to-me kitchen that they needed no further work, I couldn't resist ordering the ginger limeade shrimp with green papaya salad, mint, cilantro, shiso and Thai basil
It was a good choice because the extremely generous serving of shrimp was mixed with shredded papaya (looking almost noodle-like) and was incredibly spicy, yet flavorful.
The dish's spiciness is no doubt a surprise to some (read: the blue hair set) who order it, but I found the unexpected heat quite enjoyable.
An Asian dish before Asian music, what could be more perfect?
After several hours of conversation (the Arcade Fire show, a friend's broken heart, mint's invasive mature), I politely excused myself to go hear music ("Of course you are," Josh said).
By then it was 11:00 and yet still a twelve-top remained camped out at their table.
Quite a night, indeed.
Over at Balliceaux, the crowd was all about the band rather than the food, what with the kitchen being closed and all by then.
Approaching the bar, Austin greeted me with, "Well, well, well," as if I'd been away a long time.
It was more of a case of us having missed each other on my last few visits.
Playing was Charlottesville's Dzian, a group who reinterpret Asian pop and rock.
And lest that sound too simplistic, this sextet was combining Taiwanese a go-go, Indo-rock, Japanese eleki (a Japanese style named for the electric guitar that had traditional playing styles used on surf rock, by bands like The Ventures), Thai disco and Malaysian pop.
The result was great fun, making for poppy songs sung in various languages by musicians in bright-colored clothing.
At times, there were even red and white boas involved.
Oh, and a mother.
The keyboard player brought her mom up to do lead vocals on a couple of songs, including "Mama, Give Me a Guitar," no doubt autobiographical.
Introducing one set, the singer said, "This will be Asian go-go, not DC go-go."
If DC go-go had come out of them, it would have been hysterical, but this was worth hearing for all kinds of other reasons.
Once again, Balliceaux (and Chris Bopst) had managed to bring to RVA an interesting band in an offbeat genre for a perfectly reasonable price ($5).
I may not have been craving Asian pop, but once in the room, I was enjoying it as if I had (or perhaps this is just how I live my life).
Which was a very good thing, because the band is moving to California any day now, so who knows when I can count on another stellar evening of world surf rock music?
Much less played with musicians in boas while I watch with tequila in hand?
The world is an uncertain place.
I figure to take my pleasure where and when I can.
That let out the dance party (near West End, too far for this city girl), the pool party (thunderstorms and bathing suits, oh my) and the ever-persistent admirer who suggested making me dinner ("How about seared foie gras and a half bottle of Sauternes?").
Thanks all, but no thanks.
Beginning my night at Six Burner after the storms rolled through, my 8:30 arrival yielded a dining room in full weeds mode.
Every table was taken, every bar stool and the bar was two deep. The staff had a sheen and a glazed look.
With greetings from the staff and assurances that I would have a stool shortly, I stood in my usual place.
When bartender Josh suggested I wile away the time with a glass of wine, I had only to nod before a glass of vino verdhe showed up under the vase of purple hydrangeas.
Now I was good to wait for as long as it took.
The foursome nearest me soon noticed me skulking next to them and one of the men turned and asked, "Are you waiting for your husband?"
Snort.
I fear a solitary woman on a Saturday night is perceived as only being out to await the arrival of her man.
I was found out again.This one's got no man.
People continued to arrive and eventually a stool opened up at the far end of the bar; I wasted no time in taking it.
Body heat surrounded me on all sides despite the fact that outside, the rain had dropped the temperature considerably.
Would anyone notice if I propped open the door? Did I care if they did?
Although I knew from the frenetic activity in the visible-to-me kitchen that they needed no further work, I couldn't resist ordering the ginger limeade shrimp with green papaya salad, mint, cilantro, shiso and Thai basil
It was a good choice because the extremely generous serving of shrimp was mixed with shredded papaya (looking almost noodle-like) and was incredibly spicy, yet flavorful.
The dish's spiciness is no doubt a surprise to some (read: the blue hair set) who order it, but I found the unexpected heat quite enjoyable.
An Asian dish before Asian music, what could be more perfect?
After several hours of conversation (the Arcade Fire show, a friend's broken heart, mint's invasive mature), I politely excused myself to go hear music ("Of course you are," Josh said).
By then it was 11:00 and yet still a twelve-top remained camped out at their table.
Quite a night, indeed.
Over at Balliceaux, the crowd was all about the band rather than the food, what with the kitchen being closed and all by then.
Approaching the bar, Austin greeted me with, "Well, well, well," as if I'd been away a long time.
It was more of a case of us having missed each other on my last few visits.
Playing was Charlottesville's Dzian, a group who reinterpret Asian pop and rock.
And lest that sound too simplistic, this sextet was combining Taiwanese a go-go, Indo-rock, Japanese eleki (a Japanese style named for the electric guitar that had traditional playing styles used on surf rock, by bands like The Ventures), Thai disco and Malaysian pop.
The result was great fun, making for poppy songs sung in various languages by musicians in bright-colored clothing.
At times, there were even red and white boas involved.
Oh, and a mother.
The keyboard player brought her mom up to do lead vocals on a couple of songs, including "Mama, Give Me a Guitar," no doubt autobiographical.
Introducing one set, the singer said, "This will be Asian go-go, not DC go-go."
If DC go-go had come out of them, it would have been hysterical, but this was worth hearing for all kinds of other reasons.
Once again, Balliceaux (and Chris Bopst) had managed to bring to RVA an interesting band in an offbeat genre for a perfectly reasonable price ($5).
I may not have been craving Asian pop, but once in the room, I was enjoying it as if I had (or perhaps this is just how I live my life).
Which was a very good thing, because the band is moving to California any day now, so who knows when I can count on another stellar evening of world surf rock music?
Much less played with musicians in boas while I watch with tequila in hand?
The world is an uncertain place.
I figure to take my pleasure where and when I can.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Code Orange Emotions
If I wrote down all that happened to me today, my head would explode. We'll leave it at discombobulated.
Aside from that, on my walk this morning, a guy smiled at me and asked, " Has anyone told you today what a fine-looking woman you are?"
I thanked him for being the first, especially considering the sheen I was sporting on a Code Orange day (pleading e-mail from my mother; "PLEASE don't walk today").
My parents came to town for lunch at Tarrant's and we were seated in the window table that used to seat the stuffed dolls.
I tried a new salad, the tarragon chicken with apples, strawberries, grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, candied walnuts, golden raisins and craisins in a raspberry vinaigrette. It was the perfect lunch, full of water, on a miserably hot day.
One server asked if I remembered her from Acacia (I did) and another said she'd waited on me at Bobette; my parents inquired if I ever ate at home.
But they also wanted to discuss my absent love life, so there was a lot of ground we didn't cover. One hesitates to tread on TMI territory with the parental units.
My only plans for the evening involved a close friend, her wedding plans and my recent unexpected cosmic gifts.
We began at Six Burner, where a man walked in and recognized me, saying, "It's my pinotage fan!"
What does it mean when I'm being remembered for my grape preferences? Fortunately, I think, he was a wine rep by trade.
Tonight's preference was the Broadbent Vino Verde because, as the bartender reminded me, "That's some summer drinking." Indeed. And if isn't actually summer, it certainly feels like it.
We had an especially talkative evening, she telling me her three-month plan and me sharing my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants plan (there are some things I can only tell her).
As long as we both end up happier, I figure it's just different routes to the same goal.
Because she'd not yet had softshells this season, we had to have the tempura fried soft shells with chunky guacamole and rainbow cherry tomatoes.
I've had any number of variations of this dish already this year and this was definitely the most creatively delicious.
I heard one girl order it minus the guac ("I don't like avocado," she whined to the bartender. Your loss, honey) and thought the same thing the chef probably did when he got the order.
The crispy tempura, the creamy guacamole and the colorful and fresh-tasting tomatoes came together for a standout variation on a theme.
When my friend finally had to leave, I chose to stay because the bartender had morphed into his musician persona so we could talk about his upcoming show, as well as the Nissan Pavilion's ignorance and the Arcade Fire's video brilliance.
At the end of the evening and much vino verde, he thanked me profusely for my company and indulging his musical nerdiness.
I didn't leave any less discombobulated, but I'd certainly benefited from the bubbles and the distractions.
Any random sighing heard tonight will likely be coming from Jackson Ward.
Aside from that, on my walk this morning, a guy smiled at me and asked, " Has anyone told you today what a fine-looking woman you are?"
I thanked him for being the first, especially considering the sheen I was sporting on a Code Orange day (pleading e-mail from my mother; "PLEASE don't walk today").
My parents came to town for lunch at Tarrant's and we were seated in the window table that used to seat the stuffed dolls.
I tried a new salad, the tarragon chicken with apples, strawberries, grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, candied walnuts, golden raisins and craisins in a raspberry vinaigrette. It was the perfect lunch, full of water, on a miserably hot day.
One server asked if I remembered her from Acacia (I did) and another said she'd waited on me at Bobette; my parents inquired if I ever ate at home.
But they also wanted to discuss my absent love life, so there was a lot of ground we didn't cover. One hesitates to tread on TMI territory with the parental units.
My only plans for the evening involved a close friend, her wedding plans and my recent unexpected cosmic gifts.
We began at Six Burner, where a man walked in and recognized me, saying, "It's my pinotage fan!"
What does it mean when I'm being remembered for my grape preferences? Fortunately, I think, he was a wine rep by trade.
Tonight's preference was the Broadbent Vino Verde because, as the bartender reminded me, "That's some summer drinking." Indeed. And if isn't actually summer, it certainly feels like it.
We had an especially talkative evening, she telling me her three-month plan and me sharing my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants plan (there are some things I can only tell her).
As long as we both end up happier, I figure it's just different routes to the same goal.
Because she'd not yet had softshells this season, we had to have the tempura fried soft shells with chunky guacamole and rainbow cherry tomatoes.
I've had any number of variations of this dish already this year and this was definitely the most creatively delicious.
I heard one girl order it minus the guac ("I don't like avocado," she whined to the bartender. Your loss, honey) and thought the same thing the chef probably did when he got the order.
The crispy tempura, the creamy guacamole and the colorful and fresh-tasting tomatoes came together for a standout variation on a theme.
When my friend finally had to leave, I chose to stay because the bartender had morphed into his musician persona so we could talk about his upcoming show, as well as the Nissan Pavilion's ignorance and the Arcade Fire's video brilliance.
At the end of the evening and much vino verde, he thanked me profusely for my company and indulging his musical nerdiness.
I didn't leave any less discombobulated, but I'd certainly benefited from the bubbles and the distractions.
Any random sighing heard tonight will likely be coming from Jackson Ward.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Eat, Drink, Swoon
When you experience things in threes, they just naturally fall into good, better and best.
After last night's debauchery. tonight's plan was a simple one: meet a friend for food and drink and spend the evening listening to music.
We lucked out by picking Six Burner because my favorite bartender was pulling a rare Tuesday night shift, allowing me to get his take on the Flaming Lips show I'd passed up for the Fleet Foxes show Sunday.
Today's alternately sunny/ stormy weather was very summer-like, so I went with my favorite summer libation, the Broadbent Vino Verde. Seeing it back on wine lists means humidity and daily ice cream are just around the corner.
We were two art geeks meeting to debrief; she had just come back from NYC and going to MoMA and I had to share my trip to DC and the NGA.
She is the only person I know whom I could reference a trompe l'oeil oculus and have her get it, much less care (much less have her say, "I love that you said that!"). This is only one reason why I value our long-time friendship (that and, like me, she eats everything).
So, yes, Tuesdays are a good day to drink half-priced wine at Six Burner, but every day is a good day to eat there and we enjoyed all kinds of taste delights.
There was the octopus/olive and sweetbread terrine, an item not even yet on the menu, but interesting enough to check out. The artisanal cheese plate featured Cashel blue, Appalachian Tomme and the divine Nancy Camembert.
But the best of the bunch was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, duck jus with blood orange, Parmesan and a dusting of cocoa.
On the occasions that this dish shows up on 6B's menu, I am compelled to order it for the sheer richness of it; the pillowy gnocchi and the fatty duck are a match made in taste bud heaven, with the blood orange and cocoa providing the contrasting tang.
Before we knew it, we were stuffed and she had to go meet a wedding photographer for her upcoming nuptials and I was off to the Listening Room at the Firehouse Theater.
It was a bittersweet evening because Chris Edwards, one of the founders of the LR is leaving for Portland next month so it was his last night as MC. His easygoing and humorous introductions have set the tone for the LR for nineteen months now and he'll be greatly missed.
First up was Charlottesville's Chris Campanelli and the Dusty Jackets, a folk rock band. Campanelli admitted that his first choice in life would be to be part of a Dylan cover band and that "This is what I'm doing until that happens."
With a newly-purchased glockenspiel and two vocalists to harmonize, they played a solid set and Campanelli raved about the LR environment and the pleasures of being actually listened to.
During their set, I did have to play LR attendant for the first time when a threesome in the front row continued to whisper during the band's set.
I figured they were first-timers and just didn't know the rules of the Listening Room. A finger to my lips did the trick. They were very gracious about it and ceased conversation.
After the set, they apologized and said that they were playing in the third band of the evening. Sometimes even musicians need to be schooled.
Up second was Small Houses, also known as Jeremy Quentin. It went like this: a guy walked onto the stage, started playing guitar and singing, moving closer to the mic to sing and stepping back to play. His voice was at once intimate and intense, as was his stage persona.
Saying that many of the songs had been written while he was living in Boston and trying to convince himself to move back home to Michigan, the audience was then treated to what might arguably have been one of the top three performances at the LR ever. Ever.
After the first song, a photographer gave me a look of amazement and whispered, "Well, that certainly wasn't what I was expecting!" I nodded. But no one who hadn't heard him before could have expected what we'd just experienced.
His intensity showed itself in his performance, as he rocked up on the balls of his feet when making a point with his lyrics.
Occasionally pushing the thick shock of hair out of his eyes to sing, he came across as a Romantic-era poet. Let's just say he could have worn a sweeping black cape with aplomb.
He asked if we'd prefer a Woody Guthrie or Tom Waits cover and when Waits won, he acknowledged, "Got it. You picked the right one."
But then he followed it by doing the Guthrie cover anyway. Let me assure, you, they were both the right one.
"Tired and Twenty Cities" was preceded with the comment, "Never leave Philly and hit DC at 5:00." This from a guy who'd been on the road for twelve hours a day the last two days to get here.
The buzz after his set was terrific as the female contingent fanned themselves and the musicians acknowledged the talent of his voice and guitar playing. Some of us did both.
Haze and the Transients were the final band of the evening and the only local one. Their set was wide-ranging, from a song about an eleven day fling ("Sweet as a Margarita") to Shakespeare's Sonnet #50 set to music and titled, "Heavy."
The covered Dolly Parton's "Jolene," mentioning Mindy Smith's cover. Personally, I'd take the White Stripes' gender-bending version over any other, but that's just me. It was an inspired cover to play.
A funny moment came when the band played one of the guitarist's two original songs and he led off in the wrong key. "The guy who wrote that song should really know what key it's in," he joked.
Their last song had the surprise element of a chorus, seated in the first two rows, who stood to do the background ahhing. It was a first for the Listening Room.
That, in fact, is the enduring beauty of the LR. Despite being nineteen months in, they continue to surprise, delight and pique the interest of the attendees with choices of music we might otherwise never hear.
But let's refresh everyone's memory. The first rule of the Listening Room is there's no talking. You could say that the only other rule is to sit back and enjoy and I'm really good at that.
Don't make me go all Listening Room cop on anyone again.
After last night's debauchery. tonight's plan was a simple one: meet a friend for food and drink and spend the evening listening to music.
We lucked out by picking Six Burner because my favorite bartender was pulling a rare Tuesday night shift, allowing me to get his take on the Flaming Lips show I'd passed up for the Fleet Foxes show Sunday.
Today's alternately sunny/ stormy weather was very summer-like, so I went with my favorite summer libation, the Broadbent Vino Verde. Seeing it back on wine lists means humidity and daily ice cream are just around the corner.
We were two art geeks meeting to debrief; she had just come back from NYC and going to MoMA and I had to share my trip to DC and the NGA.
She is the only person I know whom I could reference a trompe l'oeil oculus and have her get it, much less care (much less have her say, "I love that you said that!"). This is only one reason why I value our long-time friendship (that and, like me, she eats everything).
So, yes, Tuesdays are a good day to drink half-priced wine at Six Burner, but every day is a good day to eat there and we enjoyed all kinds of taste delights.
There was the octopus/olive and sweetbread terrine, an item not even yet on the menu, but interesting enough to check out. The artisanal cheese plate featured Cashel blue, Appalachian Tomme and the divine Nancy Camembert.
But the best of the bunch was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, duck jus with blood orange, Parmesan and a dusting of cocoa.
On the occasions that this dish shows up on 6B's menu, I am compelled to order it for the sheer richness of it; the pillowy gnocchi and the fatty duck are a match made in taste bud heaven, with the blood orange and cocoa providing the contrasting tang.
Before we knew it, we were stuffed and she had to go meet a wedding photographer for her upcoming nuptials and I was off to the Listening Room at the Firehouse Theater.
It was a bittersweet evening because Chris Edwards, one of the founders of the LR is leaving for Portland next month so it was his last night as MC. His easygoing and humorous introductions have set the tone for the LR for nineteen months now and he'll be greatly missed.
First up was Charlottesville's Chris Campanelli and the Dusty Jackets, a folk rock band. Campanelli admitted that his first choice in life would be to be part of a Dylan cover band and that "This is what I'm doing until that happens."
With a newly-purchased glockenspiel and two vocalists to harmonize, they played a solid set and Campanelli raved about the LR environment and the pleasures of being actually listened to.
During their set, I did have to play LR attendant for the first time when a threesome in the front row continued to whisper during the band's set.
I figured they were first-timers and just didn't know the rules of the Listening Room. A finger to my lips did the trick. They were very gracious about it and ceased conversation.
After the set, they apologized and said that they were playing in the third band of the evening. Sometimes even musicians need to be schooled.
Up second was Small Houses, also known as Jeremy Quentin. It went like this: a guy walked onto the stage, started playing guitar and singing, moving closer to the mic to sing and stepping back to play. His voice was at once intimate and intense, as was his stage persona.
Saying that many of the songs had been written while he was living in Boston and trying to convince himself to move back home to Michigan, the audience was then treated to what might arguably have been one of the top three performances at the LR ever. Ever.
After the first song, a photographer gave me a look of amazement and whispered, "Well, that certainly wasn't what I was expecting!" I nodded. But no one who hadn't heard him before could have expected what we'd just experienced.
His intensity showed itself in his performance, as he rocked up on the balls of his feet when making a point with his lyrics.
Occasionally pushing the thick shock of hair out of his eyes to sing, he came across as a Romantic-era poet. Let's just say he could have worn a sweeping black cape with aplomb.
He asked if we'd prefer a Woody Guthrie or Tom Waits cover and when Waits won, he acknowledged, "Got it. You picked the right one."
But then he followed it by doing the Guthrie cover anyway. Let me assure, you, they were both the right one.
"Tired and Twenty Cities" was preceded with the comment, "Never leave Philly and hit DC at 5:00." This from a guy who'd been on the road for twelve hours a day the last two days to get here.
The buzz after his set was terrific as the female contingent fanned themselves and the musicians acknowledged the talent of his voice and guitar playing. Some of us did both.
Haze and the Transients were the final band of the evening and the only local one. Their set was wide-ranging, from a song about an eleven day fling ("Sweet as a Margarita") to Shakespeare's Sonnet #50 set to music and titled, "Heavy."
The covered Dolly Parton's "Jolene," mentioning Mindy Smith's cover. Personally, I'd take the White Stripes' gender-bending version over any other, but that's just me. It was an inspired cover to play.
A funny moment came when the band played one of the guitarist's two original songs and he led off in the wrong key. "The guy who wrote that song should really know what key it's in," he joked.
Their last song had the surprise element of a chorus, seated in the first two rows, who stood to do the background ahhing. It was a first for the Listening Room.
That, in fact, is the enduring beauty of the LR. Despite being nineteen months in, they continue to surprise, delight and pique the interest of the attendees with choices of music we might otherwise never hear.
But let's refresh everyone's memory. The first rule of the Listening Room is there's no talking. You could say that the only other rule is to sit back and enjoy and I'm really good at that.
Don't make me go all Listening Room cop on anyone again.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Down the Rabbit Hole
Walking through that giant door at the Virginia Center for Architecture (aka the Branch House on Monument Avenue) always feels a bit like an Alice in Wonderland moment to me. Yes, I'm vertically-challenged but I think it would feel enormous to anyone because it is.
By the same token, standing in front of an 8 x 13 foot living wall feels a tad surreal, kind of like a house plant on steroids. Or maybe a flat Audrey ("Feed me...").
Tonight's opening was for "Vertical Gardens," a new show about green walls and green roofs and how they're now being embraced for their economical, environmental, and aesthetic values. Some of them were truly fantastical.
There was a private residence in Mumbai, which was essentially a residential tower inspired by the hanging gardens of Babylon. The core of the tower was living space with lush greenscapes growing around it on every floor and hanging off the edges. Serious money was clearly involved in this creation.
Considering that vertical gardens were "invented" in the late 80s, the exhibit made clear how much progress has been made with them in barely a quarter of a century. Rooftop gardens? Pshaw, old news.
I mean, even the Shake Shack in NYC's Madison Square Park has a green roof. Chicago's City Hall has one. But the truly impressive one was the Vancouver Convention Center, which sported a six-acre green roof.
The centerpiece of the exhibit was Edmundo Ortega's giant living wall made from hundreds of plants over the course of three days. I know that only because he was at the opening and willing to talk to anyone who asked about his creation. I loved how enthusiastic he was about creating these huge green walls for people.
When I left the opening, I drove down Park Avenue and spotted a farmer friend I hadn't seen in months in front of his apartment. Calling out to say hello, he looked at me like I'd grown horns.
"I've never seen you driving before. I don't think of you that way," he called uneasily from the sidewalk. I had no idea.
Not wanting to further destroy his illusions about me, I drove on to Six Burner, tonight the site of multiple large group gatherings, but with not a soul at the bar.
A "Washingtonian" magazine was suspiciously front and center at the end of the bar; I learned it was because of a mention of Six Burner in it (Chef Philip Denny's use of sous-vide made it worthy).
In an article about getaways, Richmond was the first suggested destination (come on, Picasso, of course). And, like every other out-of-town piece ever written about our fair city, Millie's was recommended. Yawn.
I look forward to the day when non-local writers can make RVA restaurant suggestions without mentioning Millie's. I'm pretty sure everyone on the east coast knows about Millie's by now...and no doubt mistakenly believes that it's our only (or best) restaurant.
Maron Cotes de Provence was considered the featured white (because, sadly, no one has a featured pink listing), so that was a no-brainer. Dinner, not that I needed it, was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, cocoa and blood orange sections.
I'm a gnocchi hound anyway, but put it with that decadent duck confit and I could see why the bitterness of the dusted cocoa was the right thing to do. Guilt should have come with every rich bite, but didn't.
Instead, I took my time savoring it, enjoying conversation with a rotating cast. On the chat table (bar?) were party tape mixes, slaughterhouse rules, where to eat in DC and new restaurant wars. I couldn't have asked for a better combination.
Unlike Alice, I didn't need anything labeled "Eat me" and "Drink me" for clarification. Although as usual, I may as well have been wearing a "Talk to me" sign.
Curious Satisfying how I manage to convey that without a label.
By the same token, standing in front of an 8 x 13 foot living wall feels a tad surreal, kind of like a house plant on steroids. Or maybe a flat Audrey ("Feed me...").
Tonight's opening was for "Vertical Gardens," a new show about green walls and green roofs and how they're now being embraced for their economical, environmental, and aesthetic values. Some of them were truly fantastical.
There was a private residence in Mumbai, which was essentially a residential tower inspired by the hanging gardens of Babylon. The core of the tower was living space with lush greenscapes growing around it on every floor and hanging off the edges. Serious money was clearly involved in this creation.
Considering that vertical gardens were "invented" in the late 80s, the exhibit made clear how much progress has been made with them in barely a quarter of a century. Rooftop gardens? Pshaw, old news.
I mean, even the Shake Shack in NYC's Madison Square Park has a green roof. Chicago's City Hall has one. But the truly impressive one was the Vancouver Convention Center, which sported a six-acre green roof.
The centerpiece of the exhibit was Edmundo Ortega's giant living wall made from hundreds of plants over the course of three days. I know that only because he was at the opening and willing to talk to anyone who asked about his creation. I loved how enthusiastic he was about creating these huge green walls for people.
When I left the opening, I drove down Park Avenue and spotted a farmer friend I hadn't seen in months in front of his apartment. Calling out to say hello, he looked at me like I'd grown horns.
"I've never seen you driving before. I don't think of you that way," he called uneasily from the sidewalk. I had no idea.
Not wanting to further destroy his illusions about me, I drove on to Six Burner, tonight the site of multiple large group gatherings, but with not a soul at the bar.
A "Washingtonian" magazine was suspiciously front and center at the end of the bar; I learned it was because of a mention of Six Burner in it (Chef Philip Denny's use of sous-vide made it worthy).
In an article about getaways, Richmond was the first suggested destination (come on, Picasso, of course). And, like every other out-of-town piece ever written about our fair city, Millie's was recommended. Yawn.
I look forward to the day when non-local writers can make RVA restaurant suggestions without mentioning Millie's. I'm pretty sure everyone on the east coast knows about Millie's by now...and no doubt mistakenly believes that it's our only (or best) restaurant.
Maron Cotes de Provence was considered the featured white (because, sadly, no one has a featured pink listing), so that was a no-brainer. Dinner, not that I needed it, was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, cocoa and blood orange sections.
I'm a gnocchi hound anyway, but put it with that decadent duck confit and I could see why the bitterness of the dusted cocoa was the right thing to do. Guilt should have come with every rich bite, but didn't.
Instead, I took my time savoring it, enjoying conversation with a rotating cast. On the chat table (bar?) were party tape mixes, slaughterhouse rules, where to eat in DC and new restaurant wars. I couldn't have asked for a better combination.
Unlike Alice, I didn't need anything labeled "Eat me" and "Drink me" for clarification. Although as usual, I may as well have been wearing a "Talk to me" sign.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Trying to Tryst the Evening Away
Feeling a tad nervous tonight, I figured a stop for a bit of food and wine in familiar environs would be a good way to relax into the rest of my evening.
So I went to Six Burner, also the destination for an awful lot of other people tonight. I did get a chance to see Beth Marchant's show of works after Picasso; they were uncanny for their similarities to the originals. We'll call them cover paintings, like cover songs.
When I was asked what my wine preference was, I asked for the Warwick Pinotage, only to be told that it was no longer the featured red.
It was a good time to put on my pouty face because the wine rep who carries it was sitting at the bar. More is on order, I was told.
A zinfandel was suggested, tasted and rejected and I ended up choosing the Concannon Petit Syrah. Not nearly as good a pairing with springbok as the Pinotage would have been, but then I wasn't having springbok tonight.
Enjoying the roasted beet salad with goat cheese and pistachios in balsamic vinaigrette, I considered the sugar toads, but went with the fluke sashimi (with chicharron, ponzu, red plum, horseradish and bacon powder) instead.
The dish demonstrates why I want talented people to cook for me. The fluke and pork rind combination came together on the plate as if they were meant to be partnered, with the ponzu positively sop-worthy. I savored my first bacon powder, wondering how in the world such a thing is conceived of, much less made.
Tonight it was the staff who kept me entertained because there were no other bar sitters. It worked out well because I got to hear about a breakup that resulted in a reunited couple and who doesn't love a happy ending story?
The owner was telling me about some of the Picasso specials various restaurants have come up with and I had to wonder how many blue drinks Richmond will have for the next three months. Just a thought, folks, but it may have been more appetizing to focus on the painter's Rose Period.
I got to hear a long-time service industry employee get on her restaurant soapbox and tell me her interpretation of how things should be in terms of menus, staff and ambiance. She thanked me for listening and I thanked her for sharing her informed opinions; it's how I learn things.
From there it was on to Patrick Henry's to meet a recent acquaintance for some extended conversation. When he'd suggested it, my first thought had been that it would be perfect in that we could be alone in a roomful of people I wouldn't likely know.
Wrong. Ten minutes in and we had one of my music buddies stop by the table to say hi. My new friend's neighbors came in. Forget discretion in this town because there is no privacy when you're out and about.
But that's fine because the visitor returned to his table, the neighbors ignored us and we had the rest of the evening to discuss all kinds of things amongst ourselves.
It went so well that I wondered why I'd ever been nervous about an evening of talking. Or maybe I mistook anticipation for nerves.
Look at me, actually anticipating. That's progress with a capital P.
So I went to Six Burner, also the destination for an awful lot of other people tonight. I did get a chance to see Beth Marchant's show of works after Picasso; they were uncanny for their similarities to the originals. We'll call them cover paintings, like cover songs.
When I was asked what my wine preference was, I asked for the Warwick Pinotage, only to be told that it was no longer the featured red.
It was a good time to put on my pouty face because the wine rep who carries it was sitting at the bar. More is on order, I was told.
A zinfandel was suggested, tasted and rejected and I ended up choosing the Concannon Petit Syrah. Not nearly as good a pairing with springbok as the Pinotage would have been, but then I wasn't having springbok tonight.
Enjoying the roasted beet salad with goat cheese and pistachios in balsamic vinaigrette, I considered the sugar toads, but went with the fluke sashimi (with chicharron, ponzu, red plum, horseradish and bacon powder) instead.
The dish demonstrates why I want talented people to cook for me. The fluke and pork rind combination came together on the plate as if they were meant to be partnered, with the ponzu positively sop-worthy. I savored my first bacon powder, wondering how in the world such a thing is conceived of, much less made.
Tonight it was the staff who kept me entertained because there were no other bar sitters. It worked out well because I got to hear about a breakup that resulted in a reunited couple and who doesn't love a happy ending story?
The owner was telling me about some of the Picasso specials various restaurants have come up with and I had to wonder how many blue drinks Richmond will have for the next three months. Just a thought, folks, but it may have been more appetizing to focus on the painter's Rose Period.
I got to hear a long-time service industry employee get on her restaurant soapbox and tell me her interpretation of how things should be in terms of menus, staff and ambiance. She thanked me for listening and I thanked her for sharing her informed opinions; it's how I learn things.
From there it was on to Patrick Henry's to meet a recent acquaintance for some extended conversation. When he'd suggested it, my first thought had been that it would be perfect in that we could be alone in a roomful of people I wouldn't likely know.
Wrong. Ten minutes in and we had one of my music buddies stop by the table to say hi. My new friend's neighbors came in. Forget discretion in this town because there is no privacy when you're out and about.
But that's fine because the visitor returned to his table, the neighbors ignored us and we had the rest of the evening to discuss all kinds of things amongst ourselves.
It went so well that I wondered why I'd ever been nervous about an evening of talking. Or maybe I mistook anticipation for nerves.
Look at me, actually anticipating. That's progress with a capital P.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
No Way to Keep the Beat
It's my week to catch up with everybody after the holidays. Tonight it was a former work buddy and we met at Xtra's, just to see what it had to offer in the evenings, since I'd only had lunch there.
It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.
On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.
Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.
My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.
He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.
We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.
Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.
Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.
I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.
The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.
Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.
Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.
There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.
Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.
In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.
A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.
I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.
After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.
It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.
Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.
I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.
Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.
Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.
While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.
By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.
Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.
It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.
On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.
Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.
My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.
He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.
We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.
Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.
Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.
I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.
The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.
Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.
Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.
There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.
Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.
In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.
A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.
I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.
After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.
It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.
Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.
I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.
Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.
Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.
While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.
By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.
Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Sausage and Sympathy
If you offer me sausages, I will come.
And tonight Sausage Craft, Chris Mattera's artisanal food workshop, was throwing a party to show off their new space and bring together sausage loving fools. So I went. It turned out to be much more than just sausage, although that alone would have been enough given the delectability of Chris' ground meats.
Also represented were local cheese-makers Meadow Farm and Caromont, Buzz and Ned (with their sliced pig) and Free Run Wine Merchants. There was beer, too, but I couldn't tell you what kind.
What I can tell you is that the sausages I ate were positively addicting.
There was the San Miniato, Carmelina's and the braising sausage, probably my favorite. It was a sausage that is cooked all day until its pig flavor is one with the braising liquid and vegetables; I went back three times for more of it over Billy bread.
Sublime does not begin to describe it.
Abi of Free Run Wine merchants, whom I'd just seen at the Matt & Kim show and the Metric show, was pouring some of their off-the-radar Northwestern wines, most of which end up at select Seattle restaurants. The few that escaped are now available in RVA.
I tried the Impuls Chardonnay, the "71," a Syrah/Cabernet Sauvignon blend and then, for a palate cleanser, the M. Lawrence "Us," a sparkling blend of pinot noir and chardonnay done in the Prosecco method. I finished with the Left Coast Cellars "Cali's Cuvee," a Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley.
All worth tasting again, but the "71" spoke most directly to me.
The Jason Jenkins Trio was providing the jazz and I ran into a few people I knew. Okay, lots of people I knew. The surprise was being discovered by those I didn't. One guest guessed my identity by my tights ("You must be Karen!") and another, once he learned I blogged about going out in Richmond, by my enthusiasm ("I sensed that was you").
Mattera's new work space was impressive for its variety of meat grinders and the sheer size of the refrigerators/freezers. As a friend and I discussed, it would have made a great setting for a Halloween party.
Meat Grinder #2 was my official base of operation, allowing me a full view of the room, a straight shot of the band and a surface on which to place drinks and plates while chatting with old and new friends.
When I'd done all the damage I could, I left for greener pastures, which is to say a glass of wine and dessert. And a small rescue mission.
Earlier today, I'd been out front re-potting a plant when a friend and neighbor walked by. Upon asking her how she was, she answered "Fine" but with such a quiver in her voice that it was clear she was anything but.
She said she'd been dumped last night and, to add insult to injury, she had discovered this on Facebook when her ex changed his relationship status.
Talk about a cold way to end things.
I gave her a hug and asked what she was doing to deal with it. Her plan was to spend some quality time with friends at Six Burner tonight to distract herself from being so sad. So I stopped by to be one of the feel-better missionaries. Even if I couldn't offer any encouragement about getting over being dumped, I could at least be there for her.
For a Monday evening, it ended up being a good crowd of people I knew and didn't. My farmer's market friend told me she was getting a divorce and that that was a good thing (I congratulated her).
I met a girl who wanted to talk music, so we discussed M. Ward and Mumford & Sons (whom I can't stand) and surprisingly, she'd not yet explored She and Him.
I saw a favorite DJ who, just last week, had led off with an awesome trio of music at Balliceaux (retro to the max: Tainted Love, Melt with You, Young Turks) and needed to be told that. He beamed when I complimented his mix.
Another friend, one of those I run into almost every time I'm out, upon seeing me announced, "Okay, one of us has to leave." Neither of us did and for a change, we had a good, long discussion of make/female dynamics, Jack Kerouac and the uses of basil (I grow, he cooks).
Normally we're ships that pass in the night and tonight we entertained each other.
Another eight or so sausage party attendees came in and sat down to be wined for the evening. The new Belle magazine was on the bar, so I could show off my cover story. I ate part of my dessert and shared the rest with a friend.
But mostly I listened and consoled my friend and neighbor who is still stinging from her unexpected discharge. I almost made a crack about our block of J-Ward becoming known as "Dumpee Row," but decided against it.
As I recall, humor is in short supply during the early stages.
I wish I'd had some of Chris' sausage to cheer her up. Sausage that good makes everything feel better.
Or nearly everything.
And tonight Sausage Craft, Chris Mattera's artisanal food workshop, was throwing a party to show off their new space and bring together sausage loving fools. So I went. It turned out to be much more than just sausage, although that alone would have been enough given the delectability of Chris' ground meats.
Also represented were local cheese-makers Meadow Farm and Caromont, Buzz and Ned (with their sliced pig) and Free Run Wine Merchants. There was beer, too, but I couldn't tell you what kind.
What I can tell you is that the sausages I ate were positively addicting.
There was the San Miniato, Carmelina's and the braising sausage, probably my favorite. It was a sausage that is cooked all day until its pig flavor is one with the braising liquid and vegetables; I went back three times for more of it over Billy bread.
Sublime does not begin to describe it.
Abi of Free Run Wine merchants, whom I'd just seen at the Matt & Kim show and the Metric show, was pouring some of their off-the-radar Northwestern wines, most of which end up at select Seattle restaurants. The few that escaped are now available in RVA.
I tried the Impuls Chardonnay, the "71," a Syrah/Cabernet Sauvignon blend and then, for a palate cleanser, the M. Lawrence "Us," a sparkling blend of pinot noir and chardonnay done in the Prosecco method. I finished with the Left Coast Cellars "Cali's Cuvee," a Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley.
All worth tasting again, but the "71" spoke most directly to me.
The Jason Jenkins Trio was providing the jazz and I ran into a few people I knew. Okay, lots of people I knew. The surprise was being discovered by those I didn't. One guest guessed my identity by my tights ("You must be Karen!") and another, once he learned I blogged about going out in Richmond, by my enthusiasm ("I sensed that was you").
Mattera's new work space was impressive for its variety of meat grinders and the sheer size of the refrigerators/freezers. As a friend and I discussed, it would have made a great setting for a Halloween party.
Meat Grinder #2 was my official base of operation, allowing me a full view of the room, a straight shot of the band and a surface on which to place drinks and plates while chatting with old and new friends.
When I'd done all the damage I could, I left for greener pastures, which is to say a glass of wine and dessert. And a small rescue mission.
Earlier today, I'd been out front re-potting a plant when a friend and neighbor walked by. Upon asking her how she was, she answered "Fine" but with such a quiver in her voice that it was clear she was anything but.
She said she'd been dumped last night and, to add insult to injury, she had discovered this on Facebook when her ex changed his relationship status.
Talk about a cold way to end things.
I gave her a hug and asked what she was doing to deal with it. Her plan was to spend some quality time with friends at Six Burner tonight to distract herself from being so sad. So I stopped by to be one of the feel-better missionaries. Even if I couldn't offer any encouragement about getting over being dumped, I could at least be there for her.
For a Monday evening, it ended up being a good crowd of people I knew and didn't. My farmer's market friend told me she was getting a divorce and that that was a good thing (I congratulated her).
I met a girl who wanted to talk music, so we discussed M. Ward and Mumford & Sons (whom I can't stand) and surprisingly, she'd not yet explored She and Him.
I saw a favorite DJ who, just last week, had led off with an awesome trio of music at Balliceaux (retro to the max: Tainted Love, Melt with You, Young Turks) and needed to be told that. He beamed when I complimented his mix.
Another friend, one of those I run into almost every time I'm out, upon seeing me announced, "Okay, one of us has to leave." Neither of us did and for a change, we had a good, long discussion of make/female dynamics, Jack Kerouac and the uses of basil (I grow, he cooks).
Normally we're ships that pass in the night and tonight we entertained each other.
Another eight or so sausage party attendees came in and sat down to be wined for the evening. The new Belle magazine was on the bar, so I could show off my cover story. I ate part of my dessert and shared the rest with a friend.
But mostly I listened and consoled my friend and neighbor who is still stinging from her unexpected discharge. I almost made a crack about our block of J-Ward becoming known as "Dumpee Row," but decided against it.
As I recall, humor is in short supply during the early stages.
I wish I'd had some of Chris' sausage to cheer her up. Sausage that good makes everything feel better.
Or nearly everything.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
