Vive la France.
The French film festival began with two free screenings and we all know I am all about the free.
I arrived at the Byrd theater behind a woman who not only wanted to hear the names of the upcoming films, but the film run times as well. Mon cherie, that's what the program is for.
After scoring some buttered popcorn from a favorite Gallery 5 server, I found a seat at the end of an unoccupied row.
First up was "Cineast(e)s," a documentary about female filmmakers and their unique challenges.
Twenty French women filmmakers discuss whether or not you can spot a woman-made film, half saying you can and half saying you can't.
My favorite was the one who observed that if you looked at a film, you could see that it was either a woman director or a man in love. In the case of "Annie Hall," she said, it seemed like a woman, but was really a man in love.
Talking abut the challenges of a woman directing a predominantly male crew, several said you abandon heels and lipstick to take control.
Several disagreed, saying you put on make up and a dress and boss them like a woman, whether they like it or not.
Needless to say, no consensus was reached and filmmakers, some who began shooting in the '50s and '60s and some in the aughts, all held definitive opinions about writing and directing French film.
Approaching the bathroom after the film ended, I first saw a line and then heard a woman behind me say, "And so it begins."
The bathroom lines at the French Film Festival are always the worst part of the weekend, but the break between films was lightened when an unexpected French friend showed up with a box of dark chocolate covered marshmallows and took the seat beside me.
He joined me for "Il est Minuit, Paris s'eveille," a documentary about Paris' Left Bank music scene between 1945 and 1968, a cluster of clubs who began around midnight every night.
Unfortunately, director Yves Jeuland, who spoke before and after the showing, was presenting the 52 minute subtitled version rather than the 90 minute French version.
It wasn't the dumbed down version I wanted to see.
I fell in love with the opening credits done in a vintage '50s jazz style, with ovals of color against a black background, with the occasional drumstick tapping out a rhythm.
The film was chock full of old footage, gathered over a period of ten plus years, and showing the cellar and cabaret scene on the Left Bank.
With a post-war attitude of "live it up," the artists who performed at these 200+ cafes - Juliette Greco (looking like a young Cher with long, dark hair and bangs), Jacques Briel, Charles Aznavour, the Freres Jacques group - epitomized a post war attitude, singing songs with direct meanings and, even more shocking, average looking (or even odd looking) men singing them.
Shops that closed at 5:00 became cabarets at 9 p.m with as many people as possible flooding in to hear these new style singers.
I'd have loved these places, which didn't get going until midnight and featured music, poetry, theater and dance. Oh, yes, and mimes like Marcel Marceau.
My friend and I were amazed at how much vintage footage was contained in the film (including Orson Welles-shot footage of Paris streetscapes) along with current interviews of many of the former cabaret stars.
They were all so romantic about that period in Parisian history.
What was distinctive about that era was how it opened the door for non-traditional singers to come thorough. Good looks, height and a classical voice no longer were required to be a hit with the masses.
Absolutely no one thought Aznavour would succeed because he didn't fit the mold. The surprise was that the molds were being thrown away by this time.
How else to explain the oddly-eared Serge Gainsbourg and his instant hit, "The Ticket Puncher," with its allusion to suicide based on job frustration? Or the oblique "Be Pretty and Shut Up," a song which made a woman's role perfectly clear?
What was funny was the reactionary development of the Right Bank scene where all the tourists and bourgeoisie flocked to "experience" the cabaret scene in a safe and controlled environment. In other words, a commercial take on the swinging cellars.
No, thanks.
Eventually the film moved on from the '50s scene to the '60s, where singers got even deeper and more oblique.
We haven't finished talking about love
We haven't finished smoking cigarettes.
The how can we possibly call it a night?
When the lights came up, the Frenchman turned to me beaming and noted that the film had been far too short.
I agreed. It had flown by in the blink of an eye, making me wish for the French 90 minute version. Of course I was going to love a documentary about French music so did it have to be over so soon?
He bragged about recognizing nearly every singer in the movie, not to mention 95% of all the songs performed.
But then, he grew up over there.
Meaning he didn't need to wait for the translation of the director's comments during the question and answer period like most of us did.
Blinking against the light, it was tough to accept that the fun was over.
Wait, we hadn't finished hearing about love. We hadn't finished hearing about music. Time to go drink wine and discuss the things that matter.
Day one of the French Film Festival. And so it begins...
Showing posts with label Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose. Show all posts
Friday, March 28, 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
She'll Go Her Way and I'll Go Mine
Me and my married friends, we got a thing going on.
Or perhaps I should say several things, since I had more than one date tonight, although can you really have too many dates in one night?
Given today's significance, it being national Pi day and all, my first was a pie date at Garnett's. Except I opted for cake. Coconut cake, my favorite.
But my fetching date had pie, along with loads of good Twitter gossip, details of her latest endeavor and a request for my mad Home Ec skills.
WPA's baker David stopped by, dropping off cakes and pies, and sheepishly admitting that he'd forgotten it was national Pi day. He must not have as many nerdy science friends as I do because it was impossible to miss in my feed, where mathematical jokes abounded.
You know what my favorite thing about Pi is? It goes on and on...
She and I spent the late afternoon chatting about people with a sense of entitlement, whose got talent in this town and where our next lunch date will be.
While the jukebox (okay, Pandora) plays our favorite songs.
We have to be clandestine about it so her husband doesn't find out.
In fact, it was when he texted her asking, "Are you coming home soon?" that we knew our "Me and Mrs. Jones" moments were over and it was time for her to go her way and me to go mine.
She might not have been so quick to let me go had she known I was on my way to meet another married woman, only this time it was for drinks, not sweets.
When that wife had told me she wanted to meet up, I'd suggested Amuse, saying "Assuming you want to drink in a museum filled with fabulous art."
Her response, "As if I could pass THAT up...xxoox." Of course, I didn't want her to pass that up.
We both know that it's wrong, but it's much too strong to let cool down.
Arriving at the VMFA's Boulevard entrance just as my date did, we walked into the museum and upstairs to Amuse together.
Wisely, we'd chosen to meet early and not just early, but early on the first week after the time change, so the bar was abandoned with barely a few tables occupied.
We were a study in contrasting seasons, she bundled up as if just back from the Yukon and ordering a chewy red wine and me coat-less and clamoring for Thurston Wolfe Rose, a deep pink charmer that got the bartender talking about the next big pink thing.
She posited that white zinfandel, that overly sweet staple of the '80s, was going to become the winemakers' new darling grape, massaged and reworked into something hip and decidedly not cloying.
It is after all, she pointed out, the zinfandel grape, a lovely thing when bottled appropriately.
From our bar position, we kept an eye on the sun, watching it illuminate the bare trees in the sculpture garden from behind while the staff lamented how no one wants to think about going out to eat when it's this light out.
If you think it's bad now, kids, wait until June.
Over curry fried oysters, we watched as the bartending staff worked on concocting the new spring cocktail menu, stressing that creation comes first and naming last.
My drinks date wanted to talk theater - "Death and the Maiden," "Rocky Horror Picture Show"- while I wanted to hear about what's been going on in her life.
As you might expect, her husband came up in conversation more than a few times, but what date really wants to hear about the "other man"?
Ending our tryst on a sweet note was a no-brainer when our server rhapsodized about the new dessert, a chocolate peanut butter terrine, telling us no other chocolate options would do.
On occasion, I like to let someone else be the boss of me.
Eventually I lured her away from the bar crowd to see the "Ryan McGinness: Studio Visit" exhibit, especially fascinating for her because she's an artist herself.
I now because she's invited me to her studio before to see her etchings, if you get my drift.
But where I won her undying affection (if I didn't have it already) was when I led her to the "Clare Leighton: From Pencil to Proof to Press" show, sure she'd fall in love with it just as I had.
Did she ever! As if proof of our compatibility was required, she was immediately charmed by my two favorites, the poster for "Week End Walks. 800 miles of these in London's country" advertising a set of books and a 1952 print called "The Baptizing" done when Leighton came upon a scene of a minister and people gathered around a woman holding a baby in the river on a hot August Sunday.
My darling date, an illustrator, was entranced reading how Clare had done what any self-respecting artist caught pencil-less would do - pull out her lipstick and a scrap of old paper and put down a sketch of the scene which she turned into the engraving months later.
We said our fond farewells on the bricks along the Boulevard, promising not to wait too long to meet up again.
Finding it tough to spend the rest of the evening alone after such splendid company times two, I ended up at the Westhampton Theater with six other people to see "Tim's Vermeer," a documentary about a man obsessed with proving how the 17th century painter Vermeer achieved photographic-like realism long before the invention of photography.
Watching Tim, an inventor, take 213 days to recreate the room Vermeer painted in "The Music Lesson" by hand means we see him making glass for the windows, fashioning picture frames and crafting chair legs on a lathe he eventually cuts in half to accommodate the necessary length of the harpsichord leg, a process that seems endless and painstaking.
But that's nothing compared to the process of him painting an exact copy of the room using a mirror as an optical device the way he believes Vermeer had.
This is a man with absolutely no artistic training, mind you.
As an art history geek of the highest order, and someone who got to see an extraordinary, once in a lifetime Vermeer show in Rome in 2012, I was thrilled just to see close ups of many of the works I'd seen at that show.
By the end of the film, when Tim gets choked up looking at the finally finished Vermeer, all I could think was what a testament to his passion for the project it was, all 1825 days of it.
What it came down to is that there is no difference between an artist and a scientist and both require a lot of slow, hard work to succeed. Plainly put, there's always been some kind of technology involved in art, as long as man has indulged his creative spirit.
I only wish I'd had someone's wife to discuss the film with when the lights came up, but my lovely dates were home with their husbands.
We gotta be extra careful
That we don't build our hopes up too high
Cause she's got her own obligations and so do I
Me and my Mrs., Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones. We got a thing or two going on.
Or perhaps I should say several things, since I had more than one date tonight, although can you really have too many dates in one night?
Given today's significance, it being national Pi day and all, my first was a pie date at Garnett's. Except I opted for cake. Coconut cake, my favorite.
But my fetching date had pie, along with loads of good Twitter gossip, details of her latest endeavor and a request for my mad Home Ec skills.
WPA's baker David stopped by, dropping off cakes and pies, and sheepishly admitting that he'd forgotten it was national Pi day. He must not have as many nerdy science friends as I do because it was impossible to miss in my feed, where mathematical jokes abounded.
You know what my favorite thing about Pi is? It goes on and on...
She and I spent the late afternoon chatting about people with a sense of entitlement, whose got talent in this town and where our next lunch date will be.
While the jukebox (okay, Pandora) plays our favorite songs.
We have to be clandestine about it so her husband doesn't find out.
In fact, it was when he texted her asking, "Are you coming home soon?" that we knew our "Me and Mrs. Jones" moments were over and it was time for her to go her way and me to go mine.
She might not have been so quick to let me go had she known I was on my way to meet another married woman, only this time it was for drinks, not sweets.
When that wife had told me she wanted to meet up, I'd suggested Amuse, saying "Assuming you want to drink in a museum filled with fabulous art."
Her response, "As if I could pass THAT up...xxoox." Of course, I didn't want her to pass that up.
We both know that it's wrong, but it's much too strong to let cool down.
Arriving at the VMFA's Boulevard entrance just as my date did, we walked into the museum and upstairs to Amuse together.
Wisely, we'd chosen to meet early and not just early, but early on the first week after the time change, so the bar was abandoned with barely a few tables occupied.
We were a study in contrasting seasons, she bundled up as if just back from the Yukon and ordering a chewy red wine and me coat-less and clamoring for Thurston Wolfe Rose, a deep pink charmer that got the bartender talking about the next big pink thing.
She posited that white zinfandel, that overly sweet staple of the '80s, was going to become the winemakers' new darling grape, massaged and reworked into something hip and decidedly not cloying.
It is after all, she pointed out, the zinfandel grape, a lovely thing when bottled appropriately.
From our bar position, we kept an eye on the sun, watching it illuminate the bare trees in the sculpture garden from behind while the staff lamented how no one wants to think about going out to eat when it's this light out.
If you think it's bad now, kids, wait until June.
Over curry fried oysters, we watched as the bartending staff worked on concocting the new spring cocktail menu, stressing that creation comes first and naming last.
My drinks date wanted to talk theater - "Death and the Maiden," "Rocky Horror Picture Show"- while I wanted to hear about what's been going on in her life.
As you might expect, her husband came up in conversation more than a few times, but what date really wants to hear about the "other man"?
Ending our tryst on a sweet note was a no-brainer when our server rhapsodized about the new dessert, a chocolate peanut butter terrine, telling us no other chocolate options would do.
On occasion, I like to let someone else be the boss of me.
Eventually I lured her away from the bar crowd to see the "Ryan McGinness: Studio Visit" exhibit, especially fascinating for her because she's an artist herself.
I now because she's invited me to her studio before to see her etchings, if you get my drift.
But where I won her undying affection (if I didn't have it already) was when I led her to the "Clare Leighton: From Pencil to Proof to Press" show, sure she'd fall in love with it just as I had.
Did she ever! As if proof of our compatibility was required, she was immediately charmed by my two favorites, the poster for "Week End Walks. 800 miles of these in London's country" advertising a set of books and a 1952 print called "The Baptizing" done when Leighton came upon a scene of a minister and people gathered around a woman holding a baby in the river on a hot August Sunday.
My darling date, an illustrator, was entranced reading how Clare had done what any self-respecting artist caught pencil-less would do - pull out her lipstick and a scrap of old paper and put down a sketch of the scene which she turned into the engraving months later.
We said our fond farewells on the bricks along the Boulevard, promising not to wait too long to meet up again.
Finding it tough to spend the rest of the evening alone after such splendid company times two, I ended up at the Westhampton Theater with six other people to see "Tim's Vermeer," a documentary about a man obsessed with proving how the 17th century painter Vermeer achieved photographic-like realism long before the invention of photography.
Watching Tim, an inventor, take 213 days to recreate the room Vermeer painted in "The Music Lesson" by hand means we see him making glass for the windows, fashioning picture frames and crafting chair legs on a lathe he eventually cuts in half to accommodate the necessary length of the harpsichord leg, a process that seems endless and painstaking.
But that's nothing compared to the process of him painting an exact copy of the room using a mirror as an optical device the way he believes Vermeer had.
This is a man with absolutely no artistic training, mind you.
As an art history geek of the highest order, and someone who got to see an extraordinary, once in a lifetime Vermeer show in Rome in 2012, I was thrilled just to see close ups of many of the works I'd seen at that show.
By the end of the film, when Tim gets choked up looking at the finally finished Vermeer, all I could think was what a testament to his passion for the project it was, all 1825 days of it.
What it came down to is that there is no difference between an artist and a scientist and both require a lot of slow, hard work to succeed. Plainly put, there's always been some kind of technology involved in art, as long as man has indulged his creative spirit.
I only wish I'd had someone's wife to discuss the film with when the lights came up, but my lovely dates were home with their husbands.
We gotta be extra careful
That we don't build our hopes up too high
Cause she's got her own obligations and so do I
Me and my Mrs., Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones. We got a thing or two going on.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Watercolor Pickle
On the one hand, you have to admire multi-talented people.
But how is it some people end up being very good at several things? And how is it some people can take up a discipline and master it effortlessly?
That's the question I came away with after the opening of Victor Yanchick's show "Watercolors" at VCU Tompkins-McCaw Library this evening. Yanchick, who happens to be the dean of VCU's School of Pharmacy, decided to take a painting class in order to do something totally different from what he does on a day-to-day basis.
I imagine drugs get old after a while.
But unlike most of us who take a painting class, he was good at it and kept at it. His opening tonight showed just how well he's mastered the watercolor format with 42 works ranging from landscapes to still lifes to portraits.
After perusing the show, I met the artist and was surprised to learn that he paints from photos and magazine pictures. I admired the one called "English Boathouse," mainly because it challenged my perception of England (granted, I've only been to London).
The view of buildings in pastel shades of peach, green and lavender was complemented by a stone wall shadowed in purple. What England was this? "Cornwall, perhaps," said the poet standing next to me and I appreciated the explanation. Yes, all that water.
My favorite piece was "Maymont Afternoon," but not because it reminded me of Maymont or even Richmond. Rather, the street scene looked like a Dutch village street, quaint and charming, with its turreted building and path leading off into the trees.
I was fascinated to hear that the artist uses painting as a way to wind down, the way some people use TV (shudder) or a good book at the end of a long day. About 9:30, he begins painting and with a few hours work is able to complete a watercolor while his wife sleeps upstairs.
But it's not for the profit that he does it. The works are sold and the proceeds benefit pharmacy scholarship programs. And in yet another how-can-you-resent-this-guy twist, all the frames he uses are reclaimed.
Yes, he scours garage and estate sales, buying inexpensive frames and matching them to the appropriate work. Some of them were quite striking. As are some people's abilities.
I gave a little thought to trying to discover my hidden talent and instead went with one of my known strengths: eating and drinking. Carver was calling and the Magpie had a nice crowd when I arrived, including a bartender from M Bistro I'd recently met.
"So you do come here," he said with a smile, pointing at me. "You weren't lying." I'm not sure what it says that he thinks people lie about where they've been, but I didn't judge (much).
The wine list has a nice selection of Northwest wines and I went with the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose since the wine rep had told me that Magpie had gotten the last seven cases of it. Drink it while you got it, kids.
My very August amuse bouche was a savory/sweet spoonful of fig, tomato, yogurt and balsamic reduction. The classic rock was rolling and T-Rex was banging a gong.
For dinner, I got the grilled house-made wild boar sausage with an enormous Briarwood pickle and coarse mustard. I loved the full-bodied flavor of the wild boar and found the pickle's pucker to provide a nice tartness to contrast with the richness of the meat.
Victor Yanchick could have made quite the still life out of that combination. And probably shot the wild boar and grilled up the sausage, too.
Proof positive that you never know what you can do until you try.
But how is it some people end up being very good at several things? And how is it some people can take up a discipline and master it effortlessly?
That's the question I came away with after the opening of Victor Yanchick's show "Watercolors" at VCU Tompkins-McCaw Library this evening. Yanchick, who happens to be the dean of VCU's School of Pharmacy, decided to take a painting class in order to do something totally different from what he does on a day-to-day basis.
I imagine drugs get old after a while.
But unlike most of us who take a painting class, he was good at it and kept at it. His opening tonight showed just how well he's mastered the watercolor format with 42 works ranging from landscapes to still lifes to portraits.
After perusing the show, I met the artist and was surprised to learn that he paints from photos and magazine pictures. I admired the one called "English Boathouse," mainly because it challenged my perception of England (granted, I've only been to London).
The view of buildings in pastel shades of peach, green and lavender was complemented by a stone wall shadowed in purple. What England was this? "Cornwall, perhaps," said the poet standing next to me and I appreciated the explanation. Yes, all that water.
My favorite piece was "Maymont Afternoon," but not because it reminded me of Maymont or even Richmond. Rather, the street scene looked like a Dutch village street, quaint and charming, with its turreted building and path leading off into the trees.
I was fascinated to hear that the artist uses painting as a way to wind down, the way some people use TV (shudder) or a good book at the end of a long day. About 9:30, he begins painting and with a few hours work is able to complete a watercolor while his wife sleeps upstairs.
But it's not for the profit that he does it. The works are sold and the proceeds benefit pharmacy scholarship programs. And in yet another how-can-you-resent-this-guy twist, all the frames he uses are reclaimed.
Yes, he scours garage and estate sales, buying inexpensive frames and matching them to the appropriate work. Some of them were quite striking. As are some people's abilities.
I gave a little thought to trying to discover my hidden talent and instead went with one of my known strengths: eating and drinking. Carver was calling and the Magpie had a nice crowd when I arrived, including a bartender from M Bistro I'd recently met.
"So you do come here," he said with a smile, pointing at me. "You weren't lying." I'm not sure what it says that he thinks people lie about where they've been, but I didn't judge (much).
The wine list has a nice selection of Northwest wines and I went with the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose since the wine rep had told me that Magpie had gotten the last seven cases of it. Drink it while you got it, kids.
My very August amuse bouche was a savory/sweet spoonful of fig, tomato, yogurt and balsamic reduction. The classic rock was rolling and T-Rex was banging a gong.
For dinner, I got the grilled house-made wild boar sausage with an enormous Briarwood pickle and coarse mustard. I loved the full-bodied flavor of the wild boar and found the pickle's pucker to provide a nice tartness to contrast with the richness of the meat.
Victor Yanchick could have made quite the still life out of that combination. And probably shot the wild boar and grilled up the sausage, too.
Proof positive that you never know what you can do until you try.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
She Covets Antelope
As exciting as all the new restaurant openings have been, it's doubly so when the restaurant is in my neighborhood.
Such was the case at the Magpie, a charming place in Carver and a short walk from my house. I knew one of the owners from my forays out (Stronghill and Bacchus) and, even closer to home, from census taking in Jackson Ward.
The last time I'd set foot in that space, it was the Leigh Street Grill and my friend and I had scarfed down some most excellent chicken and waffles.
Today, I found a turn-of-the-century style restaurant with a pressed tin ceiling, an elaborate red velvet settee and one of the most eclectic art collections I've seen, with lithographs, oils, local art and etchings.
On the stereo was Pandora tuned to a classic rock station. Except for the occasional misstep ("Rock Me Like a Hurricane"?) it was straight on with The Who, Beatles, Rolling Stones and the like. Scorpions need not apply.
Pale green walls had a faux-marble finish and the dark wood everywhere was quite striking against it.
The menu had so many interesting choices that I labored over it while trying to decide. Wine was easy; I chose the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose and was quite satisfied with its peppery dark fruit.
One stool away was a familiar restaurant face obviously enjoying his meal, so I solicited his opinion on what to order.
He had high praise for the grilled housemade sausage, so I stored that information for the future and ordered instead the local heirloom tomato salad with basil and Mozzarella ice cream.
It's hard to go wrong with a Caprese salad at this time of year, but this one had an ace in the hole.
The beautiful heirlooms tasted of summer, but it was that Mozzarella ice cream that will be the topic on the lips of everyone who orders this dish.
Its sweetness, the creamy texture and, yes, the cold of the ice cream made for a truly memorable tomato dish, a variation on the classic sweet and salty.
As a side note, it has romantic origins. The chef created it for his vegetarian girlfriend who eats a Caprese salad anytime she sees it on a menu.
The small bar lends itself to being a community space and, at least tonight, there was much shared conversation and offering of shared wine among us.
Just as I was getting more rose, a familiar restaurateur came in with a friend and they added more lively voices to the group.
For my next course, I had the braised Wagyu beef tongue ravioli, made with Dave and Dee's oyster mushrooms over an asparagus puree with grilled white corn kernels.
The earthiness of the tongue complemented the elegant taste of the asparagus and the niblets of corn gave a nice crunch to an otherwise creamy dish. Well done.
The chef stopped by to ask how I'd liked my food and I shared my thoughts. I put in a plug for seeing the seared antelope with drunken blackberry sauce on the small plate menu so people like me could try it.
I briefly considered the small chocolate milkshake with peanut butter cookies on the dessert menu, but opted for a half a pink instead.
But one of my fellow bar sitters had it and the look on his face said it all.
Before long, I expect to see the same slow drivers I usually encounter in front of Black Sheep in front of the Magpie.
We neighbors call it the "Carver cruise" and it's where those unfamiliar or unsure of the neighborhood drive by the restaurant v-e-r-y slowly and usually repeatedly before letting out the womenfolk directly in front of the restaurant and then doing the manly thing by parking the car.
I'll be walking over, so none of that affects me as long as they leave a stool open for me at the new neighborhood joint.
After dinner, I was meeting a friend and his new girlfriend at Balliceaux.
They weren't yet there, so I found a barstool, ordered a Hornitos and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me.
It was fate; he's living in NYC and considering a move down here and if anyone relishes the challenge of convincing someone what a great town this is, it's yours truly.
Over the course of the next hour or so, I learned that he was into art, music and restaurants (and iPod apps, but I was willing to overlook that), so we found loads to talk about.
He's decided that rather than build the new Institute for Contemporary Art at Belvidere and Broad, it should be an Institute of Contemporary Cuisine.
I say why not both?
When he finally left to meet a friend at Selba (after soliciting my opinion on it), I moved to the back bar where Amazing Ghost was to play.
Tonight's show had been billed as "Christmas in July" and when I walked back there, the DJ was playing music from Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
It may be the first time I'd heard that song in July, but it wasn't completely unwelcome, either. My favorite server had already warned me that he'd be playing an inappropriate Santa in the shortest possible shorts.
I found a musician friend with whom to discuss over-produced sophomore albums (Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, in his opinion) as the crowd around us continued to grow.
Finally my friend showed up and we moved back up front so I could met his beloved and be able to talk about what she could do in Richmond (telling me that, "I've told her so much about you that she thought you were multiple people").
Are we noticing a pattern here?
But of course, I do think there are myriad reasons to stay in Richmond, so we spent several hours drinking and talking about all the things they need to see and do.
The fact is, I'd met this friend when he moved back here and became a regular reader of my blog.
He was always leaving comments, amazed at an activity or food or something he hadn't known was in Richmond until he read my posts.
I don't look like a cheerleader, but maybe that's my lot in life, at least for the moment. It's not like I don't have the time to do it.
On the other hand, I did come home to two phone messages and an e-mail from a friend who's in DC on business.
They all said essentially the same thing, although the voice mails used a fevered voice to convey the message.
"Brace yourself. I met the man of your dreams in DC. You need to meet this guy! It's all arranged. Can you be up here Tuesday night?"
Surely I need to be selling someone on how great Richmond is that night.
Such was the case at the Magpie, a charming place in Carver and a short walk from my house. I knew one of the owners from my forays out (Stronghill and Bacchus) and, even closer to home, from census taking in Jackson Ward.
The last time I'd set foot in that space, it was the Leigh Street Grill and my friend and I had scarfed down some most excellent chicken and waffles.
Today, I found a turn-of-the-century style restaurant with a pressed tin ceiling, an elaborate red velvet settee and one of the most eclectic art collections I've seen, with lithographs, oils, local art and etchings.
On the stereo was Pandora tuned to a classic rock station. Except for the occasional misstep ("Rock Me Like a Hurricane"?) it was straight on with The Who, Beatles, Rolling Stones and the like. Scorpions need not apply.
Pale green walls had a faux-marble finish and the dark wood everywhere was quite striking against it.
The menu had so many interesting choices that I labored over it while trying to decide. Wine was easy; I chose the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose and was quite satisfied with its peppery dark fruit.
One stool away was a familiar restaurant face obviously enjoying his meal, so I solicited his opinion on what to order.
He had high praise for the grilled housemade sausage, so I stored that information for the future and ordered instead the local heirloom tomato salad with basil and Mozzarella ice cream.
It's hard to go wrong with a Caprese salad at this time of year, but this one had an ace in the hole.
The beautiful heirlooms tasted of summer, but it was that Mozzarella ice cream that will be the topic on the lips of everyone who orders this dish.
Its sweetness, the creamy texture and, yes, the cold of the ice cream made for a truly memorable tomato dish, a variation on the classic sweet and salty.
As a side note, it has romantic origins. The chef created it for his vegetarian girlfriend who eats a Caprese salad anytime she sees it on a menu.
The small bar lends itself to being a community space and, at least tonight, there was much shared conversation and offering of shared wine among us.
Just as I was getting more rose, a familiar restaurateur came in with a friend and they added more lively voices to the group.
For my next course, I had the braised Wagyu beef tongue ravioli, made with Dave and Dee's oyster mushrooms over an asparagus puree with grilled white corn kernels.
The earthiness of the tongue complemented the elegant taste of the asparagus and the niblets of corn gave a nice crunch to an otherwise creamy dish. Well done.
The chef stopped by to ask how I'd liked my food and I shared my thoughts. I put in a plug for seeing the seared antelope with drunken blackberry sauce on the small plate menu so people like me could try it.
I briefly considered the small chocolate milkshake with peanut butter cookies on the dessert menu, but opted for a half a pink instead.
But one of my fellow bar sitters had it and the look on his face said it all.
Before long, I expect to see the same slow drivers I usually encounter in front of Black Sheep in front of the Magpie.
We neighbors call it the "Carver cruise" and it's where those unfamiliar or unsure of the neighborhood drive by the restaurant v-e-r-y slowly and usually repeatedly before letting out the womenfolk directly in front of the restaurant and then doing the manly thing by parking the car.
I'll be walking over, so none of that affects me as long as they leave a stool open for me at the new neighborhood joint.
After dinner, I was meeting a friend and his new girlfriend at Balliceaux.
They weren't yet there, so I found a barstool, ordered a Hornitos and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me.
It was fate; he's living in NYC and considering a move down here and if anyone relishes the challenge of convincing someone what a great town this is, it's yours truly.
Over the course of the next hour or so, I learned that he was into art, music and restaurants (and iPod apps, but I was willing to overlook that), so we found loads to talk about.
He's decided that rather than build the new Institute for Contemporary Art at Belvidere and Broad, it should be an Institute of Contemporary Cuisine.
I say why not both?
When he finally left to meet a friend at Selba (after soliciting my opinion on it), I moved to the back bar where Amazing Ghost was to play.
Tonight's show had been billed as "Christmas in July" and when I walked back there, the DJ was playing music from Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
It may be the first time I'd heard that song in July, but it wasn't completely unwelcome, either. My favorite server had already warned me that he'd be playing an inappropriate Santa in the shortest possible shorts.
I found a musician friend with whom to discuss over-produced sophomore albums (Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, in his opinion) as the crowd around us continued to grow.
Finally my friend showed up and we moved back up front so I could met his beloved and be able to talk about what she could do in Richmond (telling me that, "I've told her so much about you that she thought you were multiple people").
Are we noticing a pattern here?
But of course, I do think there are myriad reasons to stay in Richmond, so we spent several hours drinking and talking about all the things they need to see and do.
The fact is, I'd met this friend when he moved back here and became a regular reader of my blog.
He was always leaving comments, amazed at an activity or food or something he hadn't known was in Richmond until he read my posts.
I don't look like a cheerleader, but maybe that's my lot in life, at least for the moment. It's not like I don't have the time to do it.
On the other hand, I did come home to two phone messages and an e-mail from a friend who's in DC on business.
They all said essentially the same thing, although the voice mails used a fevered voice to convey the message.
"Brace yourself. I met the man of your dreams in DC. You need to meet this guy! It's all arranged. Can you be up here Tuesday night?"
Surely I need to be selling someone on how great Richmond is that night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
