Knowing Me, Knowing You,

I took the rainbow for a good sign.

Granted, Pru is always chiding me for finding the "[expletive deleted] silver lining in everything," but this was an honest-to-goodness half rainbow situated between two construction cranes as I headed east on the Leigh Street bridge to meet her and Beau at Alewife. Since it had been breezy and nice when I'd left J-Ward, I was immediately suspicious about the cause of the rainbow.

Virtual projection, perhaps?

That question was answered the moment I got to Church Hill, where it felt positively jungle-like and the streets were wet. Clearly rain had recently visited the 'hood on the hill, leaving behind sticky, humid air you practically had to swim through.

I walked into Alewife to find every seat taken except for two at the bar and my friends not yet arrived, so I installed myself in one of the free bar stools and scored a glass of Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Brut to justify my presence. Pru and Beau soon showed up, a tad dewy from having strolled over from the manse, but otherwise ready for an evening of fish and conversation.

Once the former occupants of our table had cleared out, we took it over, its only disadvantage being it was right in the front window and the 7:00 sun was beating down on it mercilessly. After putting up with it long enough to get a bottle of wine from the Loire, we politely asked our server if he could lower the shade below the skyline, a minor adjustment that immediately lowered the temperature at our table.

As much as the three of us enjoy Alewife's mid-Atlantic fish focus and the seafood shack vibe with its white beadboard walls, between the three of us, we couldn't think of a single reason why the place doesn't have ceiling fans. No self-respecting seafood joint would open its doors without fans to move the hot air, fish smells and cooking heat from the open kitchen around, especially when no amount of air conditioning can offset it.

Because while I'm the last person to complain about heat - plus I'd worn the thinnest, lightest dress I own - Pru and Beau are the first and they were definitely wilting. She resorted to fanning herself with a menu to deal with it.

Heat aside, the second most challenging part of the evening was deciding what to order from a dream menu listing five starter and five entree offerings from the sea. Those are my kind of odds.

Naturally, I went directly to what I didn't know, beginning with an Okonomiyaki-style waffle (main ingredient: cabbage) spread with creamy smoked fish, paper-thin slices of black garlic and kimchi. Beau was quick to question the proportion of kimchi, insisting that more would have been better to offset the richness of the smoked fish and he wasn't wrong.

In any case, this dish, which resembled pizza, was so appealing looking (and we were scarfing it down so enthusiastically) that the newly arrived eight-top next to us leaned over and asked what it was so they could order their own.

Few things could be as summery as chilled peach soup with ginger, Caramont goat cheese and peanuts, although with my stone fruit allergy, I had to limit myself to only a few delicious bites. But the Cremant had made me weak and so I had a few more and in no time, my tongue was swelling and the inside of my mouth was itchy.

During peach season, it sucks to be me.

The best description of cured cobia with strawberry, buttermilk and pickled blueberries was Beau's: "It's like I'm drinking the beach!" a nod to the Cobia's saltiness which matched that of a mouthful of ocean. Serious yum.

Pru and I both chose Snook, a highly desirable southern Florida fish that's extremely regulated, so infrequently found on menus. With its savory crisped skin, medium firm white flesh and farro salad with grilled squash and carrots underneath, it was everything you'd hope for in ordering an unknown fish at a beachside fish shack.

Beau tried unsuccessfully to insist that his mackeral was better, but that's only because he was drooling over the Surry sausage, charred cabbage and mustard vin that completed it.

Complaints about the heat subsided while so much stellar food was being enjoyed, but the pause in conversation (beyond moans of delight for what was in our mouths) only accentuated how noisy it was in there and that it was impossible to hear the music. Let's just say ambiance is not Alewife's forte.

With nothing but soft serve custard on the dessert menu, we decide to cover as many bases as possible. My vanilla and chocolate swirl had hot fudge (though not nearly enough), cocoa nibs and graham cracker crumbs, while Beau's poundcake was smothered in peach, raspberry and soft serve. Pru kept it simple with affogato: coffee-drenched soft serve, though she acknowledged she still prefers Dinamo's version.

I stay out of all coffee-related discussions given my lack of knowledge and interest on that front.

Given the heat and absence of music, the Church Hillians were only too eager to clear out and head to the manse's screened porch which somehow, despite being essentially outdoors, managed to be cooler and drier feeling than Alewife.

Thankfully, some people know the value of ceiling fans.

With blades whirring, we began the evening on the porch with the soundtrack from "Heavy Metal," a 1981 film with which they were both familiar and which meant nothing to me. Am I going to judge if a soundtrack starts with Sammy Hagar? Yes, yes I am. And who knew that Blue Oyster Cult ever did anything beyond "Don't Fear the Reaper?"

That said, both Pru and Beau were singing and chair dancing once Devo's "Working in a Coal Mine" cranked up. Such are the memories of those who came of age in the '80s.

Speaking of the old days, Pru regaled us with stories of reporting to boarding school wearing a yellow Gant button-down shirt, jeans and loafers, a pack of Marlboro Reds in her shirt pocket and enough attitude to dare anyone to challenge her on any of it.

When I brought up the end of an era - MAD magazine deciding to no longer publish new material, instead resorting to old editorial - a discussion ensued about how topical MAD's humor had been. Would Millennials even get, much less appreciate, some of those brilliant satires from before they were born? Doubtful, we agreed.

"I have to find a safe space and cry," deadpanned Pru about the generation that holds the reins to our future.

Meanwhile, a debate on the merits of the word "classy" (which I abhor and, we agreed, no classy person would think of using) and "swanky," which at least has a retro, humorous connotation, ensued. Yes, we are those people who can debate word usage and consider it Friday night fun.

Once we'd listened to as much of "Heavy Metal" as we could stand, we struggled to find something else to please our ears. When Beau told Alexa to play Huey Lewis and the News, Pru's response was swift and clear. "No, it's not that time yet!"

For some of us, it's never the time for Huey Lewis and the News.

Instead, with fireworks exploding in the background, we sipped and chatted through a lot of '70s AM radio music like America, Bread, Seals and Croft (Pru: "Sure, I know the song, but I had no idea it was called "Diamond Girl!"), eventually landing on ABBA for the long haul. With this crowd, Dancing Queens beat Veterans of Psychic Wars every time.

Never more so than when you've seen a rainbow, drank the beach and talked into the next day. I call that my kind of silver lining.

Crumbs from the Feast of Love

Any day when I hear the Stranglers' "Skin Deep" on the radio - its lyrics even more salient in 2019 than 1984 when it was written - is bound to be an interesting day.

Or at least make me smile.

As usual, my walk to the river and back takes me through Capital Square where I pass the now-omnipresent media trucks - CNN, CBS, NBC, assorted others with no identifying signs beyond the satellite dishes atop the vans - waiting for the dumpster fire that is our current state administration to officially burn out. On Wednesday Mac and I had run into into two female anti-abortion protesters (because, let's face it, they're not pro-life or they'd worry about how those babies would be raised), complete with illustrated signs ("Mama, don't kill me! ~ baby), and a speech being given on the steps of the capital.

Just another day in the Old Dominion.

At Kroger later in the afternoon, I get a shot of youth when I'm behind two VCU guys, each with a four-pack of alcohol in their hand and already anticipating Friday's pleasures. "You gonna do shots or are you just gonna drink tonight?" the big one asks the other. "Both, I think," he responds, but without much conviction.

Ah, the pressures of being young and having a weekend of drunkenness ahead of you.

Serious noise was the soundtrack to an afternoon of writing on Clay Street. Thursday I'd lost the tree directly across the street from my apartment of ten years and today, the tree police showed up and amputated any number of branches on the two large trees on my side of the street, the ones that have framed my view for as long.

The sense of being in a treehouse from my second floor perch, always lesser in winter anyway because of bare branches, will have to wait for the trees to leaf out.

I met up with Beau for dinner at Alewife, followed by "Cyrano de Bergerac" at Swift Creek Mill, Pru having opted out because of the countless times she's seen, read or studied the play. Personally, any play that introduced the word "panache" into the English language is going to call to me.

When we got to Alewife, it was lightly populated and when we headed out two hours later, people were stacked up at the bar, waiting for tables. Sometimes it pays to be obscenely early for dinner.

The evening's wine special was an orange wine, Sebastion Riffault "Akmenine" Sancerre, described as funky and vegetal, which got both our attention. Love the region, love the grape, adore some funk. When our server hedged her bets by asking if we wanted to taste it first, we demurred. Not bloody likely a wine is going to come out of Sancerre that we can't drink.

Creamy with funk and a bit of smokiness suited us just fine.

Although we didn't intend to go rich, our selections took us there. Right off the bat, I wanted to try the smoked whitefish dip (which turned out to be snapper), in tribute to all the smoked fish dips Mr. Wright and I had eaten in the Keys. Alewife's, though, was a horse of a different color, combining, as it did, not just fish and a bit of mayonnaise, but also cream cheese and horseradish and served with pickled onions, celery and house focaccia crisped with oil and some time in a pan.

Truly decadent first course eating, and that's not even allowing for the housemade hummus riding shotgun. It's hard to appreciate good hummus when cheese dip calls its siren song.

What do two friends talk about when the person who connects them - his main squeeze, my long-time friend - isn't present? Why, her, of course. Beau regaled me with tidbits from the early days of their courting, sharing that he'd gotten only as far as their fourth meeting (because they never referred to them as "dates") before stating that he had designs on her and the rest of her life.

I can't say I have a problem with a man stating his intentions, even as early as the fourth face-to-face.

Next came the fried course, which necessitated me switching to bubbles, namely the Catalonian Cava Macaveo Xarel-lo, to keep pace with the fried.

We dove into crab hushpuppies with preserved lemon vinaigrette and crab roe dust and Buffalo sugar toads, the latter a distinctive take on the little fish usually served in a butter sauce. These were fried up in a crispy batter and served with hot sauce butter, pickled celery and bleu cheese and immediately brought to mind Chef Lee Gregory's Buffalo sweetbreads from the halcyon Six Burner days (so, 2009-10?), back when the notion of Buffalo could only mean wings.

Ah, the dark ages.

Just so I could live with myself, our next course was a bowl of beets with a bit of arugula dressed with bleu cheese and sesame peanut crumble, a dish so loaded with beets that it reminded us of a long-ago meal where Beau and I had ordered a beet salad that arrived with nothing more than beet shavings, disappointing us both. Alewife's beet salad was for serious beet lovers.

Meanwhile, Beau regaled me with tales of his work comrades, one of whom wants to cook a meal at the manse for a crowd and only one of whom (his boss) who has the nerve to call him by the nickname they've all secretly given him. "Hey, Bowtie!" Bossman now greets him, which is pretty darn funny if you know Beau.

We closed out the meal with soft-serve chocolate/raspberry frozen custard for me and banana pudding for Beau, who especially liked the mashed bananas under the pudding. The smokey Islay single malt he chose ended up disappointing him, so we made tracks for the play.

Our drive south was accompanied by his "New Love" playlist, which he assured me catered to my tastes because it was full of new songs/bands he'd discovered and loved, like Christine and the Queens and lots of electronica which he and I both favor. Hearing Jade Bird, Beau claimed her heard a Sheryl Crow thing in her voice, albeit without the life experience.

Our seats for "Cyrano" were front and center, third row, making for a fine view. Artistic director Tom Width opened by telling us that "Cyrano" was written in verse for 50 actors. "We're not doing that," he said and got a huge laugh. "We're doing it in prose with sixteen actors."

And with lots of wonderful actors that we'd seen and enjoyed before. Dean Knight never fails to get laughs with his hangdog face and delivery. Jeff Clevenger manages to play drunk in, I think, every role I've ever seen him in and he's always hilarious. It's been far too long since I've seen Thomas Cunningham's expressive face. Debra Wagoner and Jacqueline Jones never disappoint and always delight.

Beau and I differed on Matt Bloch's portrayal of Cyrano, which I found brash and strong-willed, just like the character is written. But no, Beau saw his characterization as bombastic, although he allowed that it was less so in the second act.

The size of a man's nose is the size of a man's spirit...and other parts.

Word nerds that Beau and I are, we'd discussed jackanapes on the drive down, only to hear popinjay not once but twice during the play. What's fascinating is that both words mean the same thing.

No man has ever said more sweet nothings that mean everything to a woman.

For a play about unrequited love, there were some excellent sword-fighting scenes as well as literary commentary. When Cyrano is told that Moliere has been stealing some of his writing for his own plays, he dismisses the thief by spitting out, "Moliere!" with such disgust it sounded like a curse. Hysterical.

Your neck, I want to kiss it.

When all was said and done, Roxanne had been in the convent for 14 years and Cyrano is dying in front of her, Beau turns to me and observes, "Tragedy is always fun."

The end.

Stopping at a Wawa along Route 1 on the way home, I couldn't help but notice a man in a flannel shirt with a gun holstered at his hip climbing into a giant truck. Open carry, my ass, it was time to get out of Colonial Heights and back to Church Hill.

Pru was waiting for us at the manse, showing off how the porch has been augmented and rearranged in anticipation of warm nights ahead (sadly, it was too cold for a porch blather) and humble bragging that she's already read 15 books since 2019 arrived.

Talk about living the dream.

Once we settled in to discuss life and how sophistication is the tie that binds Pru and I together (Beau's theory), time got away from us, at least until my hosts threw me out sometime around 1:30 a.m.

As much as I love a good late night, it doesn't change my need for nine hours sleep, meaning that by the time I awoke, it was going on lunch time. Conveniently, a cursory check of the Interwebs had revealed that today is National Pizza day and Tarrant's was giving away a free slice to anyone who cared to celebrate.

Coming up from the river on my walk, I couldn't think of a single reason not to stop and collect my slice at Tarrant's Back Door. After putting it in the oven to warm, the guy behind the counter rang it up, looked at me and said, "That'll be one smile."

Naturally, I flashed him my most sincere grin, offering that I'd give up 2 or 3 smiles for a slice and then doing so.

"Thanks," he said, smiling back and handing me my slice. "I'll keep the change."

Talk about your panache...

For the Good Times

When you get back to J-Ward at 1:35 a.m. during a hurricane watch, you can be sure the 'hood will be lively. And not a parking space in sight.

The strange part was, when I'd left home nine hours before, it had been like a ghost town around here. I figured with VCU out until Monday, some students had skipped town. And it wasn't just the kids, either, because walking through downtown in the morning had revealed an unusually low number of worker bees and traffic.

Oh, Richmond, you handle bad weather predictions so poorly.

Never one to sit at home and wait for bad weather to arrive, I was on my way to Church Hill by 4:45 for a girls' night out with Pru and Queen B. Usually when it's the three of us, we head directly to Merroir, but given Flo's looming presence on the coast, we decided on Alewife, with its focus on the bounty of the sea, instead.

As a bonus, we only had to drive six blocks instead of an hour.

No one wants to be the first group taking a table when a restaurant opens, but we had a 7:00 play to make, so we were those rubes sliding into our seats in the nearly empty dining room just after 5:00. That said, within 45 minutes, people began to come through the door at a steady pace and the noise level rose exponentially.

The menu had changed almost completely since I'd been in the week before, so there were plenty of new temptations. After staking our wine claims in Languedoc (my Rose) and the Loire (Pru's Chenin Blanc), we dove into the menu, stopping only when we hit food coma stage.

Crab claws with roe mayo arrived unexpectedly fried when I'd presumed they'd just be steamed, but that was the only wrinkle. Spaghetti squash jazzed up with oil and Szechuan spices was a new take on an old favorite. Even more unique, a fluffy olive oil pancake was the pillow on which rested translucent wisps of tuna, everything dip and bonito, a surprisingly rich starter. Pattypan squash from local Bowtide Farms got the glam treatment by being topped with tomato gravy and Caramont cheese.

When the subject turned to my blog, Pru asked why I'd been blogging less lately. Short answer: too happy and no time. Her complaint was that my blogging had stopped when I was low, too. That's because my readers don't want to hear about my giddy highs or last winter's lows.

"Not true, your readers love to ride the roller coaster with you," she insisted. Do they?

Meanwhile, back at the feast, Queen B couldn't resist Wagyu flank steak with fingerling potatoes, shitake mushrooms, shishitos and steak sauce, even if her preference for well-done meat had to be compromised. But the undisputed crowd favorite was a special of orecchiette with clams Fra Diavalo, the spicy tomato garlic sauce resting in the divot of each "ear" of orecchiette. So satisfying we all ate like field hands it was our first meal of the day (it wasn't) and obliterated any dessert lust I'd been harboring.

Midway through the meal, Chef Lee came over to welcome us to his new place in the former Blue Wheeler Market & Deli, which is a fancy name for what was a bodega. That they left one window still painted with a Coca Cola advertisement to acknowledge the building's history was a nice touch. Raving about everything we'd tasted so far, I looked up at him and asked, "You know how long I've been eating your food?"

Smiling, he acknowledged, "A looong time." I'm thinking I fell for his cooking somewhere back in the dark ages of 2006 or 2007, even driving out to Charlottesville once he was cooking there. In restaurant years, that's devotion.

The other familiar face was the former New Yorker who stopped by the table to say hello and acknowledge she'd seen me from afar when I was in last week. "You're hard to miss, sitting at the end of the bar like you were," she said of my favorite bar position.

When the discussion turned to the newest restaurants in Church Hill, she was quick to acknowledge that Jackson Ward is where it's at. East End residents, she and her husband (who has a business in J-Ward) are music lovers like me, but unlike me, they can't walk to Strange Matter or Gallery 5. I appreciate the praise for my 'hood, but no one has to remind me how centrally located I am.

By the time we left Alewife, it was seriously hopping and we had a play to make at CATheatre. And not just any play, but a French farce translated into English and on record as the most performed French play throughout the world.

Personally, the attraction for me was that "Boeing, Boeing" was set in the 1960s and involved an architect and the three flight attendants - "My international harem" - he was "engaged" to. As for why he had three, his claim was that less than three was too monotonous and more than three was too much work.

Then the play went on to demonstrate that even three was dangerous if all three were in town at the same time.

And make no mistake, I know perfectly well we weren't calling them flight attendants back then. As someone who went through the tedious process to become one in the '70s (a process that included a weigh-in), let me assure you they were called stewardesses. And no, I didn't take the job.

I also know that when one of the women in the play holds up a molded bra and pair of pantyhose to ask who they belonged to, neither were accurate to the 1960s. That actress should have been holding one of those cotton Playtex bras and a pair of stockings, assuming there's a continuity god in the theater.

At least the reference to the Kinsey Report rang true.

The architect Bernard's long-time friend Robert from Wisconsin comes to visit and gets to meet the three stewardesses: Gloria from the U.S., Gabriella from Italy and Gretchen from Germany. Conveniently for the story, Gloria has found an American millionaire devoted to his work and Gretchen falls for Robert, leaving Bernard to finally commit to Gabriella and marriage.

Robert (after Gloria unwraps her bath towel to them): I've never seen a woman freshly bathed. It's really quite something!

Because what good '60s romantic farce could possibly end with anything other than a walk down the aisle? For reference, see every Doris Day movie ever made.

The three of us laughed throughout at the antics of the two men trying to keep the three women from finding out about each other so Bernard's duplicity in having three fiancées wouldn't be discovered. Tres French, non?

We closed out the evening on Pru's screened porch listening to Al Greene, sipping Cotes des Roses Rose and awaiting Flo's arrival. Oh, sure, there was the occasional capricious wind and periodic bouts of light rain, but nothing vaguely worthy of even a category 2 storm. The air was damp and beach-like, appropriate since we're all on pins and needles about whether the Outer Banks will be reopened for our getaway.

So far, lots of list-making but no packing and all the good vibes we can muster.

Posh, my future is so bright, I have to wear sunglasses. If you haven't seen my freshly renewed optimism, it's really quite something.

Since You've Asked

Go out for a while and you can't help but notice "new restaurant smell."

Oh, to be sure, it involves far more than the olfactory sensors. It's partly the fresh paint job not yet marred by scuffs and handprints. It's partly the pending ABC license (never mind, we have booze-free cocktails!) that makes everyone feel accidentally virtuous. But it's also the early evening sun showing just how badly smeared the front floor-to-ceiling windows are because no one has yet realized the inevitability of shades at sunset.

It's all the glorious newness of a recently-opened place to eat. It's a living learning curve.

Lady G and I made the trek to Alewife in Church Hill via a route new to her, giving her a chance to admire the city's oldest residential architecture as well as the leafy canopy of the established neighborhood. Curious about where we were headed, she was on board from the moment I said it was a new place with a focus on mid-Atlantic seafood, influenced by the Bay and Virginia's bounty.

We took seats at the bar, just barely out of range of the sun beating down through the glass. Casing the joint, she was smitten with the sea green tile, while I admired the porthole-like mirrors over a row of tables.

With six weeks flown by since our last hook-up, a lot had happened, especially for her. Absent wine to loosen lips, we worked our way through the mocktail menu, drinking watermelon sangrita (with a salty/spicy rim), blue pea lemonade (its tea made Lady G a fan), tepache (Jamaica flower, pineapple, allspice) and another whose name escapes me, but came with a pineapple leaf in it. Metal straws all around.

While talking about her disastrous trip to the beach, we began eating through the starters. Broiled oysters with buttermilk soubise had us wanting to lick the shells clean (we abstained). A pancake (so thick and yet light it raised questions of recipe) played raft to bits of cauliflower, smoked bluefish, herbs and trout roe, a symphony of contrasting textures. Fried basil topped Stracchino, the soft Italian cow's milk cheese, and gorgeous September tomatoes we're all going to soon be missing.

By far, the most indulgent dish was Mississippi rice with lumps of Maryland crabmeat, sea urchin, roe dust and onions cooked so long they'd taken on a new identity ("All day," was G's guess). I told her I could have happily eaten a bowl of nothing but those onions.

Another sure sign of "new restaurant smell" is the high percentage of neighbors. I don't even live in Church Hill and I knew that more than a few people had walked only a block or a few to try the new spot. Twice, the front door opened and local residents stuck their heads in to say hello or have a look around, like new neighbors (but without bringing cookies). A couple I've known for years had come from two blocks away with their 7-month old for a dinner date, giddy to have a good place so nearby.

The beauty of a two decade-plus friendship like mine with G is the range of conversational topics: hippie looks, ocean currents, White House occupants, garden judgers, architecture, eyesight, the upcoming theater season and travel, among other things. Seems we'll both be across the pond at the same time next month, albeit 1300 miles apart.

After four dishes and four libations not sullied by alcohol, we could have called it quits, but what's that new restaurant smell without a sweet ending? Especially after our bartender told us that the soft serve frozen custard on the menu was the closest thing to Carl's Frozen Custard in Fredericksburg he'd ever experienced and he should know because he grew up there.

I've only had it once, but it's a very good memory.

The vanilla/chocolate swirls had fresh whipped cream, crumbles and brandied cherries, but it was the frozen custard that felt like a throwback to the stuff of our youth. It's a completely different animal than ice cream, with an old school charm you have to remember to appreciate. Unlike the bivalve shells, we licked the bowl clean.

Rather than end our conversation, we moved it back to my balcony, where a lone moonflower greeted us and G mentioned how she loved the sound of cicadas in summer. When we'd made our plans originally, she'd said that sharing the highlights of her recent run of bad luck with me on my tiny balcony would be the best antidote ever for what was ailing her.

Filled to the brim with true confessions, Bay seafood and "new restaurant smell," I'd say the patient is well on her way to recovery (and looking fabulous doing it hippie-style).

No regrets, as the Tom Rush song goes. We know what lucky girls we are.