And We're There

While it wouldn't be fittin' not to tie dinner to the evening's entertainment, we proved that anything goes afterward.

Waiting to be scooped up by friends, I admired the remains of my garden, still amazingly colorful in December despite the recent spate of cold weather while noticing that the birdbath was filled to the brim after yesterday's day-long deluge.

I don't want to brag (nor do I deserve to given how long it's been since I gave my handkerchief-sized garden any attention), but interspersed with ferns and Gerbera daisies still surprisingly lush were blooms of all kinds: pink dianthus, fuchsia snapdragons, pink and white geraniums, purple and pink vinca, miniature lavender petunias, one pale pink blossom on the clematis hybrid that looks like a dahlia and hips galore on the pale pink miniature rosebush.

Considering I saw footage of snow falling on the Japanese Garden in Portland today, the colorful array felt like a near-winter gift.

Taking a cue from tonight's film, ours was a southern-themed evening, beginning in the understated brown and taupe interior of Spoonbread Bistro, where the flatware is golden and the vibe is luxe.

Pru and Beau faced me in a booth that sequestered us away from the restaurant's activity, while I grilled our server about the origins of her name, correctly having guessed her parents were inspired by a flame-haired movie star.

The subject of not responding to a person's texts came up (clearly not in reference to moi), with Beau mentioning one sent today to Pru, who'd been too busy to answer. My question was, if a compliment falls on a tart's ears and she fails to acknowledge it, did the text even happen?

Discuss.

The amuse bouche was a blue crab arancini, setting the meal's decadent tone from that first perfect bite.

What followed only got more obscene. As proof, I give you exhibits A) a lobster "Pop Tart" with Hollandaise sauce for icing, B) shrimp scampi with possibly the creamiest Cheddar grits I've ever swallowed, surrounded by chunky tomato "fondue," C) Cesar salad that tasted like the dressing had been made tableside it was so freshly egg-y, and D) scallops over caramel corn pudding with applewood bacon drizzle.

And that's just what I ate, never mind the sea bass Beau inhaled or the foie gras and spoonbread with Smithfield ham that Pru managed to disappear with not a bit of  assistance from us.

As she took the last succulent bite, she looked at us with only mild regret and said, "To be honest, I wanted to share with you two, but I literally could not stop myself from eating it all."

Luckily, Beau and I are not the judgmental types. But when she pronounced having had "an elegant sufficiency" and they both opted for coffee over dessert, I alone was left to order tonight's dessert special, a Gran Marnier chocolate mousse.

Just for the record, both their golden demitasse spoons touched down in my mousse more than once, despite earlier assurances that they had no room for sweets.

Tonight's conversation was particularly notable because it was the first in the two years of our three-way friendship that Beau actually heard it all.

After years of missing out due to ears damaged by heavy machinery when he was in the Navy, and despite being a man (so stubborn for no good reason), he'd gotten corrective devices so he could stop reading lips (only a slight exaggeration), a challenge given that  Pru and I talk a lot (both loudly and sotto voice) and he used to miss 85% of it.

No more. In fact, when I commented early on in the meal that he could finally hear us, he smirked and said, "I've already turned the volume down on you. You two are loud."

What his new hearing aids mean is that now when we ask him something, we needn't repeat ourselves. So it was that when Pru was discussing with him who he should conjure when mulling how to handle a situation, she asked who he admired and he came up immediately with Cary Grant.

"So do or say what Cary Grant would do or say," she explained, a point that somehow led to him admitting that if push came to shove and if he were to swing both ways, he'd have little problem swinging with Cary Grant.

The things you learn once everyone can hear the conversation clearly.

Walking out of Spoonbread feeling full as ticks and fully indulged, Pru turns to me and asks, "Remember the Jefferson?"

It took me a moment to get her drift, namely a long-ago December night as we were leaving Lemaire when she'd "appropriated" a poinsettia or two on our way out.

As I mentioned, I try not to judge but I know I left Spoonbread's poinsettia sitting on the table as we exited, stage right.

This month's classic film at the Byrd was "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," a film that is as much about looking at two superior physical specimens - 26-year old Elizabeth Taylor and 33-year old Paul Newman - as it is about a dysfunctional southern family, especially in a Hollywood adaptation that all but scrubbed the homo-erotic elements from Tennessee Williams' script.

I wouldn't have even thought that was possible. Ditto the seemingly innocuous subject of the Sweet Tarts Beau was enjoying devolving into taking vitamins and minerals, which somehow led to the inner workings of Beau's, er, plumbing before, as Pru so eloquently put it, "And we're there."

TMI, that's all I'm going to say. Fortunately, the movie began.

Why is it so damn hard for people to talk?

Praise be that the film at least kept the setting, a stately house with screen doors opening to the veranda from second floor bedrooms cooled by constantly whirring ceiling fans. You could almost feel the humidity plucking on everyone's last nerve.

A drinking man's someone who wants to forget he isn't still young and believing.

Although I've seen "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" produced as a play multiple times, I'd never seen the 1958 movie version (shh, I didn't tell Pru so she wouldn't give me crap about it), so I was pleasantly surprised at the strong performances of everyone involved - scenery was chewed with real skill - although I was ready to smother those annoying child actors every time they came on screen.

Ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity.

After leaving the Byrd, I suggested a nightcap and film discussion but was voted down because Herself was tired, at least for the first block we drove east, but suddenly she reconsidered.

Our southern theme went out the window as easily as cigarette ashes, but now at least she was up for anything.

In no time, we were at the bar at Amour, complimenting the owner's new goatee, drinking and swooning over digestifs of Plantation Barbados 5 Year Rum aged in French cognac barrels and taking topics from all four participants.

Sure, some people want to dish about annoying foodies, but others only want to covet swing coats and plan pre-concert parties. To each his own.

We covered a mutual friend's Studio 54-themed party, a planned trip to Antibes next summer, a formerly gawky teen morphing into a handsome young man aboard a yacht (with photos) and Pru's hippie chick Mom recently dying her hair green.

Digressions included Trump's excellent Blanc de Blanc, the grace notes of Willamette Valley wine and tastes of the latest Beaujolais Nouveau.

Marveling at the number of years Amour's been open, Pru wanted to say that she'd visited it first, but the owner corrected her and I won that round.

Not that I hadn't already had dessert, but since my partners in crime had not, we over-indulged in chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulee, followed by the wonder of Beaujolais Nouveau sorbet (hints of orange on the front, anise on the finish), just the kind of delight you'd only get at Amour.

In the blink of an eye, three hours were gone and Beau had some wee concerns about his meetings tomorrow, so we thanked our host and departed.

This time, it took less than a block to realize that we'd not uttered a single word of discussion about the film, ostensibly the point of a third stop.

'We're done. There will be no do-overs tonight!" Pru announced firmly as Beau wisely kept the car moving eastward, knowing we'd made the same gaffe another time and then spent another full hour finally having the discussion we'd lost sight of.

The real question is, what would Cary Grant have done? Go home after a mere seven hours together?

Not likely. As I always say, ain't nothin' more powerful than conversations not shared.

Well in the Present

No doubt about it, we're in the home stretch for November.

Walking by the front of Kroger yesterday - it's 63 degrees, sunny and I'm wearing shorts, mind you - I see employees untying Christmas trees. When I make a comment about it being a tad early, the manager-looking one cracks, "Yea, they're Thanksgiving trees!"

Hardee-har-har.

Tonight I drive out to the boondocks Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen for the On the Air Radio Players' "Turkeys on the Radio" live radio show.

Walking in, the receptionist looks at my outfit and says, "You look like you're from the '80s. I like it!" As I pass by, she calls out, "Rock on!" which is always my intent anyway.

The audience was scattered all throughout the November Theatre (yes, there are November Theatres in every nook and cranny of this town), but I was surprised that as many times as I've been there for these radio shows over the years, this was the first time I'd ever seen someone I know there.

Unfortunately, it was also the first time anyone was foolish enough to bring a toddler who squawked throughout or that someone forgot to turn their cell phone off, meaning the live recording now includes an anachronistic ring tone midway through (something the director usually warns against but he was a first-timer and forgot).

As is only right, both tonight's radio plays had Thanksgiving themes.

1950's "Our Miss Brooks: Thanksgiving Turkey" was about how Miss Brooks tried to plot to get her favorite single man to invite her to turkey dinner (even if she had to pay the $1.50 for her own meal), a dilemma that involved buying a live turkey to save money and then catching it once it got loose in the house.

Favorite line: "Live well in the present. The future ain't never done nothin' for nobody!"

1942's "The Great Gildersleeve: Thanksgiving" was obviously a wartime story with references to gas applications, food shortages and the Ration Board. In it, ten-year old Leroy worried about looking like a sissy in his Pilgrim costume for the school production of "The Courtship of Miles Standish" and cracked  a Longfellow joke.

They sure don't make 10-year olds like they used to.

Along the way, the cast did singing commercials for Colgate, Luster Cream shampoo and Parkay margarine, touting it as "a nourishing energy food with Vitamin A, wholesome and economical." They left out the awful tasting part, but in wartime, I guess you take what you can get.

Maybe most interesting to me were the frequent references to having ham for Thanksgiving instead of turkey, a tradition I've never even heard of. Ham for Christmas or Easter, both ham and turkey for those holidays, but just ham on Thanksgiving? Not in my lifetime.

I've long been a fan of OTARP's shows for the glimpse they offer into a time I didn't know - as well as for watching the machinations of a radio play - not to mention the appealing corniness of the commercials. Although tonight's cast had more than their share of muffed lines and lost places in the script, it was still more than worth the price of admission.

But after an hour in the county, I was ready to return to the city for another November tradition: the Cru Beaujolais tasting followed by the post-midnight unveiling of the Beaujolais Nouveau at Amour.

Except, unlike my friend Holmes, I'm not much of a fan of the young, fruity wine, so it was enough to join the regulars at the bar, enjoy a warming bowl of French onion soup and marvel at my first white Beaujolais, Domaine des Nugues Blanc, a lovely acidic wine with a distinct honey taste.

"This would be wonderful with lobster," one of the regulars commented. "Perfect for New Year's Eve. Except we'll probably be here." The owner smiled. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see lobster with this wine on his menu come December 31st.

A woman came in to, as she put it, "drink her dessert" while her son finished up a game of Dungeons and Dragons nearby, so of course we invited her to join our conversation. A New Jersey transplant, she was already madly in love with Richmond after only two years.

When she left to collect her son, it was with regret about leaving our lively political discussion, but she also assured us she'd be back next Wednesday, should we want to further it.

As the hour got later, but still pre-midnight, the many bottles of Cru Beaujolais clustered at the end of the bar were opened as more people arrived looking for their November fix.

After pouring wine in several glasses, the owner stood by the bar, holding the neck of the bottle, whether guarding it or ready to pour more, I can't say for sure.

A female guest looked at his stance and joked, "I work out and I could just grab that bottle from you and run!"

"Grab a wine bottle? Not from a Frenchman!" he responded. Acknowledging the French lock on wine, she didn't bother trying. Meanwhile, I discussed piano moving with an expert - a man who'd moved his three pianos six times - amazed at how many ways there are to move such large objects.

For the first time in years, I didn't stay for the uncorking of the Nouveau (it was a short night last night), instead abdicating my bar stool to a later arrival once I heard there were a dozen reservations on the books for midnight, which was minutes away.

And so November rocks on.

Explosions in the Sky

Some people know how to use their down time better than others.

My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about  - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.

Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.

An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.

We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.

From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.

There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.

Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.

Translation: not particularly my kind of place.

Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.

Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.

So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.

I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.

Afternoon delight, pure and simple.

I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.

But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.

Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.

We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.

No news there for true pink fans.

Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.

"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.

"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.

The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.

Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.

When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.

"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.

Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.

Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.

Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a  great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.

Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.

What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.

She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.

How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?

Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).

By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.

All in all, not a bad night's work.

But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building  because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?

Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.

On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.

Ergo, absolutely delicious.

Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which,  incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.

Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.

As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.

I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.

In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.

Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.

Ain't Nobody Loves My Legs Better

I'm not the most stylish woman you'll ever meet. Not even close, never have been.

Everyone seems to accept this fact about me except one friend, Pru, who apparently resolved to address this shortcoming casually and relentlessly.

She's the one who informed me that I didn't do enough with my eye makeup, complete with examples of my shortcomings, so I began putting more effort into that. She was beside herself last year when I broke a life-long moratorium on wearing jewelry. It thrills her.

Now she's trying to up my shoe game. Her complaint? I wear the same shoes all the time. Who knew anyone was paying attention?

First came the sky-high sueded Betty Boop platforms with feathers and a flower that she gave me in the Fall when I had plans to attend a black-tie event at the November Theater. She worried I wouldn't go buy fabulous shoes to wear with my adorable thrift store find cocktail dress and she was right.

And not to toot her horn too much, but those shoes got a lot of compliments for me that night. And not to toot mine, but when you always wear a dress and have nice legs, people are already looking down, so shoes do get noticed.

Shoes Pru picked.

That purchase and her happiness at how they looked on me must have been like a new drug to her because she showed up for our delayed Christmas exchange with four gift-wrapped boxes for me and three contained shoes. Three.

There were stylish boots with a jaunty buckle on the side, sort of an Emma Peel look. They look totally mod on. There was a pair we dubbed the David Bowie tribute because they look like a futuristic take on a classic t-strap, but with the addition of a net-like shell around the strap and a tall, thick heel. The ultimate party girl shoe.

And there was a perforated pair of ankle strap platforms that manage to be both ladylike and downright sexy, but perhaps most amazingly, pretty comfortable considering they jack me up three inches. Turns out she already has a pair in two other colors (I got black), so she was well aware of how cute and comfy they were.

Let me assure you, tonight was the first time in my life I got three pairs of shoes in one day and it felt downright decadent. I gave her a book wrapped in a satin ribbon, but it hardly compared to her offerings.

Our get-together was a chance to catch up and sip white Pinot Noir while listening to Chaka Khan and Isaac Hayes ("Never Can Say Goodbye" got us both dancing but it was "The Look of Love" that stopped her in her tracks) and mulling such things as big birthdays and the catch and release program.

One of the highlights of our tête a tête involved her smoke break on my balcony, a part of my apartment of which she was completely unaware. "How is it I never knew you had a veranda?" she queried of her many visits here over the past seven years. One has to save a few surprises for later on in the relationship, no?

Once we got peckish, Amour became our destination for a nibble, so I did the only logical thing, shed my boring shoes and buckled on my new ankle-straps. Who doesn't want to wear a new Christmas present once it's opened?

Or, as Chaka would say, "I'm every woman. It's all in me." I can be stylish, with a little help from my friend anyway.

We had the bar to ourselves at Amour, with owner Paul entertaining us with news from Carytown and beyond while we snacked through a cheese (ah, Morbier, how we love you) and charcuterie plate (liver mousse, yes, please), a happy hour special of shrimp and pearl onions with balsamic reduction, stellar duck rilletes and a duck mac and cheese that almost certainly closed our arteries as we mainlined it.

The Elby nominations provided both laughter and derision as we considered the hackneyed choices, questionable designations and obvious omissions.

At times, Richmond isn't just a small town, it's a village, as anyone who has lived here for long has learned. As the owner so succinctly put it, "What happens at Amour stays in Richmond," and the same could be said for almost any restaurant in town. We have no secrets, at least not for long.

And that fourth present from Pru? That was a muff, an item I've long coveted but haven't owned since childhood. That's been corrected with a furry hand-warmer complete with deep zippered pocket for all life's necessities: lipstick, lip gloss, driver's license and debit card.

You know, for when I'm standing around in the cold Richmond winter, batting my well-mascaraed eyes and showing off my legs in adorable shoes. Pru's already told me she wants a picture.

My only concern is it'll show up all over the village and people will mistakenly think I'm stylish. As if.

Right with the World

To paraphrase Frank Kennedy to Scarlett O'Hara, "Oh, you act on me just like a tonic, Miss Pru!" Or maybe that was the Barbados rum.

It had been ages since Pru and I had had a girls' night out, so we got gussied up Saturday night style and did a seven-hour date to reinstate our chops and see what we could get into.

Without even speaking of it, we both showed up locked and loaded and before the night was over, she was being hit on by a 25-year old. Good times.

First up was my house for Pinotage and catching up. When a friend tells you she's going to spend the day puttering, inquiring minds want to know what's involved. I may not putter the way she putters. Let's just say I have a new appreciation for Zulilly and being thought of in crucial moments.

Once the sun had set, we decided on Amour's bar, beginning the next portion of our Saturday night with Mauresques, the owner's favorite summertime drink when in southern France. Pastis and almond syrup made for a refreshing and eminently quaffable libation that could easily spell trouble over the course of a long, hot afternoon.

Fortunately, we had only the night to deal with.

Dinner began with Macon-Villages and a stunning vichyssoise that knocked Pru's Uncle Elmer's out of the running. "It's better he's dead so I don't have to tell Elmer I found better vichyssoise than his," Pru observed. Better for whom? The chilled soup was exquisite.

Pru and I parted ways next because she's not the sweetbreads fan I am - despite an appreciation for the Madeira cream sauce they came in - so I ate my glands while she had escargots, sopping up every last drop of garlicky butter with the accompanying bread.

We used the time to make plans because her beach house rental is fast approaching and we want to ensure that we have the most fun during the time that I'm there, her other guests be damned (or left at the house while we go play). If ever two women could find some trouble at the beach, we'd like to think it'll be us.

Kir Royals and dessert followed. The selection of sorbets included raspberry (with chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulee), melon Pastis, the owner's first attempt at coconut milk (so delicious even non-coconut lover Pru was smacking her lips over it) and the queen of the evening's sorbets, lychee rose petal, which tasted like lychee on the tongue but after swallowing rewarded us with a mouth full of heavenly rosiness. Just gorgeous.

To finish off the night, we had Plantation Rum Barbados, the kind of sipper that tastes like Barbados - a place I had a blast in - on a warm, breezy night, but by the Atlantic Ocean, not the Caribbean.

We'd barely begun sipping when a favorite Carytown chef stopped by to join the party and before long, another chef, his fiancee (Pru and I were invited to their destination wedding in the Yucatan next Spring) and a friend named Karen. All of a sudden, we had a party.

Before long, we were planning a party ourselves (my vote was for a Bollywood dance party) and one of the chefs said all he needed was a pig's head to make the ultimate party foods. This will be a party I could really do some damage at.

By the time we left hours later, Pru was insisting on returning to my pad for mroe wine and conversation and what single, middle-aged woman doesn't want to discuss what she's learned in life and what she still wants in life with a good friend until 2 a.m.?

Especially a friend who tells you she's never met a man who satisfies as many of her needs as I do. Aw, go on.

Honestly, I only threw her out because I knew I had to get up early this morning. I woke up to a message from her: "I swear I had no idea it was that late. Came home, ate some leftover spaghetti. It was fun. You're too funny and wonderful as always. All is right with the world."

Fiddle-dee-dee. That's how you should feel after a good tonic works its magic on you.

Broadly Speaking

Broad Appetit, you're getting tedious.

With each year that you crow about the plethora of participants - "a record-breaking 75 restaurants" this year, you claim- are we not supposed to notice the amount of "filler" fair food options such as gyros and fries taking up space? Or the absence of some past favorites like Acacia and Magpie?

And what about the layout? You'd expect that more participants would mean the festival would extend another block or two instead of practically stacking booths on top of each other, with lines winding into each other and confusion about whether or not a person is in line for the desired place.

More than one person mentioned the need for a separate lane for those with strollers and dogs, two demographics that snarl foot traffic and seem oblivious to the back-ups they're causing. Why do people even bring small children to an event like this? All the ones I saw looked sunburnt, sweaty and miserable as their parents tried to cajole them into eating something the kid didn't want.

Since I'd not even been up an hour when I got to Broad Street at 11 a.m., I began with Lucy's corn fritters with jalapeno sour cream, not exactly breakfast but at least a distant cousin of doughnuts, and a hot, crispy and flavorful start to the day.

Amour had the ideal brunch dish: savory ham, mushroom and duck bechamel crepes and a vegetable crepe for good measure. The owner looked particularly dapper cooking crepes in a beret and I know he was wishing he could pour me a glass of French cider to pair with my crepes.

At Comfort, I had a drumstick of fried chicken with butterbean honey and a side of strawberry/rhubarb slaw, a slaw that tasted like May. As I sat in the shade eating, a mother tried unsuccessfully to convince her two youngsters that they wanted the fried chicken, which they both refused with hands over their mouths. Dad left in search of cheese pizza.

Family Meal, Brian Voltaggio's new spot at Willow Lawn (which I've yet to visit as I'm not especially attracted to eating with families), was offering deviled egg samples, so I nabbed one, enjoying the mixture of yolk, cream cheese, hot sauce and Dijon mustard with bacon on top.

Curious about the FeedMore Community Kitchen booth, I selected mesquite-marinated southern fried pork spareribs with spicy maple glaze and watermelon slaw. Honestly, I have no need for my ribs to be fried, but that slaw was one of the highlights of the day, peppery, refreshing and packed with complementary flavors.

After five savory dishes, I was ready for sweet and found it at the new Belle & James booth, a place that won't even open for a couple more months. They were giving away t-shirts to early customers, so I chose the tank top along with a piece of chocolate and buttermilk layer cake with buttercream frosting, a multi-layered treat that tasted like my Richmond grandma used to make.

Making my way through the mass of humanity was not without its humorous moments.

At the Mosaic booth, they had a yard-high red blown glass bottle adorning their table, causing a young man near me to observe to his buddy, "Check out that bong."

I passed two different women wheeling their little dogs around in strollers, more reason for that separate lane, just so normal people don't have to see such nonsense.

Wine drinkers could choose from Wine on Tap's various selections (not one was Virginia wine) and for the truly tasteless brave there was a tent for wine slushies, but of course the longest lines by a mile were for the breweries, all of which were from Virginia. Anyone else notice this disparity in local liquid sourcing?

After four laps, I'd only seen a handful of familiar faces beyond those working the booths and I was full enough. I still had half a piece of cake left, so I got a new fork and took the cake to one of the volunteers on the side street that leads to my house who seemed thrilled to have it.

There, that's done.

Back home, I changed into my new Belle & James tank top, shorts and Nikes and made my way through the endless neighborhood traffic jam (so many suburbanites trying desperately to parallel park in Jackson Ward) to escape for a 5 1/2-mile walk to Chapel Island, a welcome respite for the mayhem on Broad Street.

Don't get me wrong, I had several very tasty dishes and at $3 a pop, the price is right. But the truth is, despite living two blocks off of Broad Street, I only bother with this event because I have to, because I write about food and need to be there.

I saw that a friend just posted from Broad Appetit, saying, "Enjoyed this so much more a couple of years ago when it was smaller and not as crazy."

What he said. Where's the suggestion box?

Table for Eight

If, as Robert Louis Stevenson said, marriage is one long conversation, then I would argue that so is a wine dinner.

Take eight people, place them at a community table at Amour Wine Bistro and proceed to serve four courses of food and wine and see where the conversation goes. I certainly had no idea.

I'd begun by asking the wine expert how it was possible that he was still using his outdoor shower given the sub-zero temperatures. He admitted he'd had to stop when the time it took to unfreeze the pipes became longer the the length of his shower.

Knowing my affinity for outdoor showering, he teased me with pictures of his shower in the snow and one of him the other day mid-shower, snow along the ledge of the stall. I don't know about you, but I can't help admiring a man who showers outside practically year round.

The wine dinner called "Walking Through the Vineyards of Burgundy, Languedoc and Loire" began with 2012 Domaine Jean Aubron Muscadet Sevre & Maine paired with mussels in a dazzling broth of Chorizo, espelete and tomato.

It turned out one at our table didn't like the texture of mussels and was ready to hand them off when she reconsidered, saying she likes to retry things periodically to see if her palate has changed. She got halfway though the bowl before deciding she'd had enough.

Most of us had sopped every last drop of that tasty broth with our pleasantly acidic Muscadet while listening to tales from the couple who'd spent two years living on a boat in the Caribbean.

In Curacao (or was it Grenada?), they told of a guy on a boat who had come ashore and shucked oysters for them as fast as they could eat them until they were full. Another time, he told of being on a tuna fishing boat in the Atlantic and no one catching anything. The captain wanted to know who had brought a banana aboard (a sure omen of bad luck, apparently).

So that you know, other unlikely totems when fishing: whistling and women. Needless to say, the latter caused an entire discussion to ensue on the subject of women and luck.

I happen to think I bring luck.

When we were informed that the next wine, 2013 La Galope Sauvignon Blanc, was from Gascogne, the Romanian-accented women at the other end of the table pipes up, saying, "That's where D'Artagnan was from." It's a worthy crowd when people are referencing Dumas' classic, "The Three Musketeers."

I shouldn't have been surprised. Her husband turned out to be a professor at VCU of theoretical and comparative literature with an appreciation of music. Smart people abounded at this table.

As we sipped the full-bodied wine with salmon, clove-scented sauerkraut and fingerling potatoes, the woman in the adorable leopard-print bolero regaled us with the time she and her husband had bought "Dinner with Ed" at a silent auction benefiting Save Our Shelters.

The Ed in question was Ed Vasaio of Mama Zu who showed up to make dinner at their house. She said he brought an enormous rockfish (which he cleaned in the alley behind their house), two cases of wine, steak and two kinds of pasta.

"He had to fold that rockfish in half to get it in my oven!" she said, laughing. It sounded like a memorable meal, but then, how could it not have been?

When the third wine arrived, 2010 Promesses de France Pinot Noir, our wine guru took us on a tangent about the difference in French and American wine drinkers. Explaining that the French could not care less about the varietal they're drinking or how it's made, he assured us they only consider how it tastes and what it does for food.

"Ask a French winemaker what grape you're drinking and he'll say what do you care?" It was interesting to hear that some smaller producers (say, less than 1,000 cases) have gone back to foot trodding again. Of course I'd like to try it once.

The lovely Pinot Noir smelled like cherries and did a fine job complementing the NY strip, asparagus, mashed potatoes and greens that accompanied it. When I couldn't finish my steak, I slid the last chunk ("I hate that word," the Brit said) onto the wine guru's plate and his face lit up. "Nothing like some steak nuggets to finish off a meal," he said appreciatively.

The group got off on a discussion of music and dancing, a subject that seemed to interest everyone and in no time, were comparing notes on who'd seen what videos and performances.

Willie Nelson had been impressive on guitar but couldn't recall lyrics (too much weed, no doubt). Dylan had surprised and impressed. Annie Lennox and Hoosier had blown minds.

Bolero and her husband had gone to Ft. Meyer to see a stellar Johnny Mathis show and he shared fond teenage memories of making out to Mathis. He also recalled an interview where Jeff Beck was asked why he didn't use a pick. His response was that if he used a pick, he'd have an unemployed finger.

More than a few people at the table had taken dancing lessons to learn to waltz, foxtrot, cha cha cha and tango (described by the guy who took a summer's worth of lessons to learn the sexy dance as "slide, slide, drag"), something which impressed me since I'd like to do the same before I die.

All of us had seen the monthly group of tango enthusiasts dancing at the VMFA and marveled at their finesse dancing with touching shoulders and hips so far apart.

One guy admitted that dancing was how he'd learned to drink in Philly. Apparently going to coming out parties ("That doesn't mean the same thing anymore," someone else pointed out) and debutante balls teaches a young man how to dance quickly. Or at least it did back in the day.

The topic of pillows came up (no idea) and the charmingly accented woman said she'd gone online to find some nice ones, only to find a Swedish company who makes a $100,000 version made of horsehair, cashmere and springs. From this, we assumed she meant mattresses, not pillows. But seriously?

It struck her as funny because she recalled that the mattresses of her youth were made of horsehair so it seemed like a throwback. The history nerd in the group knew that at the end of WWI, there were half a million horses in Philly but by the start of WWII, there were 1,000. I'm guessing that explains all the extra horsehair.

I'm not sure these conversation would have been possible without the walk through the vineyards.

I was tickled pink to see that the dessert course was paired with La Galope Cotes de Gascogne Rose, not at all like a delicate Provencal Rose, but rich with lots of fruit to stand up to dark chocolate-covered profiteroles filled with vanilla cream. Not many Roses could hold their own against a dessert.

A discussion of women and chocolate naturally followed with one woman observing, "Men think we're so difficult. Just tell us we're beautiful and give us chocolate. It's so easy." She made a good point, but how many men actually bother to do that?

One of the guys immediately cracked wise, saying, "Just give us a beer and the remote. We know we're simple." We know it, too.

The Brit regaled us with a favorite travel story from Key West. A street performer - a guitarist - had been in costume as Darth Vader. His sign read, "Don't forget to tip your Vader." Maybe it was all the wine by that point, but she got a lot of laughs with that.

Over Armagnacs and coffees, we batted around the topic du jour - Brian Williams - many saying that he's probably no more an embellisher than most news people. Someone posited that John Stewart would make a fine replacement for Brian, especially given that there's an entire generation who didn't realize he was doing satire.

It was some time after the leopard bolero told us of the difficulty she'd had finding peach brandy for punch one holiday season (the ABC guy said hunters buy it up and stash it in hollow trees for between-kill nips) but before I got the professor to admit that some semesters he assigns his students "Finnegan's Wake" just to be perverse, that we all raised a glass to each other and a fine night of wide-ranging conversation.

Maybe the secret to a happy marriage is excellent food and well-chosen wine, like what we had tonight. Or, more poetically speaking, maybe it's walking through vineyards together.

Hell, just tell us we're beautiful and give us chocolate. It's so easy.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

When the working day is done, girls just want to hear about Japanese landscapes and listen to Postmodern Jukebox.

Oh, Daddy, dear, you're still number one, but some nights just get away from you.

It began earnestly enough at the VMFA for the Kendall Brown lecture, "Kawase Hasui: The Importance of Water and Shadow," a tie-in to the new exhibition of Hasui's prints.

Brown was doing his third lecture in 48 hours, but was confident enough to wing it without notes ("Hold that thought, we'll come back to that"), hardly surprising for one of the country's pre-eminent scholars on Asian art.

First thing I learned was about the earthquake and great fire of 1923 in Japan and the subsequent mission of artists like Hasui to keep alive the places of the past destroyed in the fire. His serene landscapes were considered an antidote to the modern life of industrialization, not fully traditional and not avant garde.

Beginning as a graphic designer - considered low culture because it spoke to the masses - Hasui moved on to watercolors and painting of screens and scrolls, all the while creating prints that were successfully sold in Japan and here.

Brown shared his semi-random thematic categories of Hasui's prints, explaining that they were conceived of after a few drinks. I was liking the guy.

Moving through a series of Hasui's prints from the new exhibit, he explained that research had shown that there was a universal preference for landscapes in blue and green with water, trees and some kind of human presence. Hasui included all of them.

By the time the lecture ended, I was very much anticipating seeing the show upstairs. As it turns out, so were three quarters of the people in the lecture hall.

Rather than see Hasui's prints with the masses, I instead took myself to Amuse, planning to return to see the print show I was now so curious about.

There was only one man at the bar, so I had no problem finding a stool and ordering a glass of Renegade Rose to get the evening started. As I took my first sip, a woman joined him and it didn't take long to see his true colors.

Everything she did was wrong. She didn't speak loud enough when he asked her a question. Her food was slow in coming when he was anxious to eat with her and his had already arrived. It didn't matter if she wanted dessert and coffee because he was ready to go.

I don't know how (or why) she put up with him.

Trying to ignore his rudeness, I ordered the General Tso's sweetbreads with tempura broccolini on the staff's recommendation and chatted with them rather than be a party to all the unpleasantness beside me. Let's just say I was glad when they left but sorry for her for putting up with such a boor.

The bartender asked what my next destination was and all I knew was that I might end up at Ballcieaux for music. It was enough for her and I said goodnight.

Staying in the neighborhood, I decided on Amour, where I found a lively contingent at the bar. Settling in with a glass of the big, rich La Tour Chambert Cahors 2011, I found myself in the company of an anthropologist, a Yankee and a guy born on the southside and determined since his teen years to escape it. They were great fun.

They'd been there for a while so two of the trio were already moving on to whiskey (or is it whisky?), discussing the appeal of Scotch, his love of peat monsters and why blends are to be shunned.

But the best discussion centered around mindfulness, living in the present and about how few people are capable of that anymore. What's the attraction of filming or shooting something you don't actually experience first hand?

We digressed into the perils and successes of gentrification and how so many people abandon city living once they have children. About how southerners can't walk down the street without making eye contact and acknowledging strangers.

The male in our group gave me major props when I included myself in that southern category given that I was born south of the Mason-Dixon line. "I'm glad you realize that," he said, surprised. Duh.

Things really got fun when the music went from gypsy jazz to the fabulous Postmodern Jukebox and from solely audio to audio and video.

Even without being familiar with the source material, I found their cover versions of pop songs done in jazz, swing and ragtime stellar. It was "All About the Bass" that sucked me in - wholly and enthusiastically - with Kate Davis' languid voice and ace bass playing, but I'm not ashamed to say even the songs I knew captivated me (yes, that included T. Swift's "Shake It Off" - don't judge).

I have to admit, even the 2012 mash-up they did in the Cosmo offices was killer and I only recognized "Roar" and "Royals" out of the half a dozen songs they did with a host of different lead singers.

When a vintage '30s rendition of Wham's "Careless Whisper" came on, one of the (young) servers, observed, "I don't know this song." Were you alive in the '80s, I asked politely. Nope.

She did recognize "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," but you'd have to be brain dead at this point in pop culture not to know that one.

It's not just the rotating cast of alluring lead singers (some even male) that make it all so compelling. The keyboard player Scott Bradlee, who arranges all these songs into vintage-sounding classics, assembles a crack band of musicians and back-up singers to get the effect he wants. It's so well done.

By the time I got home, I found a message asking if I was going to make it to Balliceaux for music.

Only problem was, I'd already had a superb music fix. Some nights it is all about the bass.

Broadly Speaking

Turns out it was a good night to take the sore legs for a walk and have a sweet tart.

I invited a friend to join me for the first Fridays artwalk, which was considerably less packed than usual because so many people were apparently down at the grand illumination.

I feel certain the lit-up reindeer will be there next time I head downtown.

We strolled the few blocks to Gallery 5 to see "Hard Copies," a group show by a bunch of up and coming young artists.

Ian Gamble's sculpture, made of tree trunks and lumber, were especially compelling, contrasting areas where his chain saw had removed rhythmic sections with intact masses of wood making for organic creations of an entirely new sort.

We wandered down Broad to Steady Sounds to see Richard Busch's photography show, "1960 Rock Stars," and get a blast from the past.

The black and white photos were a peek into another era, a time when Ike Turner had cheesy bangs and Mick Jagger was so unbelievably young he was still smiling onstage.

Compositionally, the Jimi Hendrix photo was outstanding, with the guitarist surrounded by mannequins and a girl, all at an odd angle.

Striking in another way was one of "Jerry Garcia and Groupie" set under an arch and with the fan on a lower step as if in deference to her idol.

I overheard a girl ask her mother to buy one of the Rolling Stone photos for her because it would look great over her bed.

"Seriously, Mom, it would!" she whined.

Friend and I were busily discussing which photo we'd buy if we could when a white-haired man walked up and asked what had us so deep in conversation.

It was Richard Busch, who with a few well-placed questions, shared some of the back stories to the photographs.

The one of Roger Daltry gazing nonchalantly at the camera with a groupie at his side at a bar had a fascinating post script.

A few years back, the woman in the picture had contacted him to tell him her name and that she was the girl in the photo.

Oddly enough, she didn't want to buy a copy of it, though.

Maybe it's just me, but if a picture of me and a rock god from the past were to show up in a photography show, I'd want to own that picture.

Busch told us that the picture of Garcia and girl had been shot at the Cloisters in NYC after an afternoon of the three of them walking around the medieval-style building.

Garcia had paused under an archway with the girl nearby smiling in apparent delight at her good fortune and Busch had snapped the picture.

Pure luck, not posed.

When we left there, we crossed over to Black Iris so I could schedule my appointment to pick up a "sound suitcase" for the new show, "Low Frequency Travel Agency," which allows you to take a valise to six locations, push a button and hear soundscapes written for that particular place.

I love the idea of being sent to random places in the city to hear music created for specifically that spot and on Wednesday, I'll be spending my afternoon experiencing just that.

Then it was on to Quirk Gallery to see Susannah Raine-Haddad's whimsical new animal paintings.

It was my friend's first time in Quirk and she was tickled with their shop, looking at all kinds of gift items before finally choosing a smart-assed card to buy.

Let's just say it had to do with nude male asses and pressed ham.

While I was standing next to an impeccably-groomed much older woman, she unexpectedly turned to me and said, pointing, "Scented clothespins. I just know you need three jars."

I didn't really but loved that she'd made a joke to a stranger.

At the register, the smell of paperwhites blooming in a pot was exquisite, prompting a conversation between us and counter guy Adam about whether or not their heady fragrance was too much.

Not for me, which probably says something about me.

After she paid for her card, Adam told us that Tuesday night was "guys' night," with a DJ, drinks from Saison and hot shaves from RVA City Barber to entice guys to come in to shop.

"You should come, too" he suggested, making me wonder if I'd be able to get a hot shave for my legs. "I bet they would," he said with assurance.

Tempting as it might be to test that out, chances are I won't.

We walked down to Bistro 27 thinking it might be time for a drink, but they were far too busy to need our business, so we crossed back over Broad.

All of a sudden, I heard my name called and there was half of my favorite Jackson Ward couple, just coming from their monthly pre-artwalk cocktail party at their flat.

Looking around for his lovely wife, I saw she was busy dancing with the guy in front of the DJ at Turnstyle.

She came over to hug me, saying, "Jim spotted your legs all the way across the street and said 'there's Karen's legs!' He knew them from across Broad."

It's good to be recognized, right?

Comfort was just as crowded as 27 had been, so Friend and I hoofed it back to my place to collect our cars and head to Carytown, where we decided on Amour for a nosh and a glass.

It turned out to be an interesting glass, too, Le Chapeau Cuvee Napoleon pinot noir, an unlikely product of France made with Corsican grapes.

Corsica, as in the island off Italy where the future emperor Napoleon was born into a wine-making family.

Despite being at a bar table, we made friends with the people at the bar, a gardener sitting alone and then a stylish couple I've seen there before, all friendly and eager to chat with us.

My friend had never had Amour's onion soup but recalled me raving about it and did the same after a few tastes.

I'd had soup for lunch, so I went with the Alsatian onion tart, a happy marriage of onion, cheese and Smithfield bacon (carry me back to ole Virginny), followed by escargots in garlic butter, with plenty of bread for sopping all that butter.

We finished up with apple cider sorbet, which brought about the funniest line of the evening.

Normally sorbet comes three flavors to a serving, but Friend and I, happily replete at this point, wanted just one scoop to share.

Our waiter obligingly brought us one scoop and the stylish man at the bar looked over at our mini-dessert to be spli between two and cracked, "That's just sad."

It may have been petite portion-wise, but it was exactly what we'd wanted and the autumnal take on dessert was the perfect balance of sweet and tart.

Come to think of it, that's kind of how I'd like to be described myself...and maybe remembered for perfectly shaved legs and the faint scent of paperwhites and Smithfield bacon.

Tickling My Fancy

You know what makes for a great Friday?

Unexpected props from my editor for chasing all over the western hemisphere to get musician interviews.

A totally unexpected gift of bacon and the best pork chops ever from my favorite farm.

You know how I reward myself? By starting my evening at 4:45 by picking up Moira for happy hour.

She chose Heritage, a place I enjoy less every time I'm there.

Sure, the pork fries are tasty but the chicken liver mousse with beet gelee was so-so and the room became so stupidly busy within an hour that it was like being in a Jersey Italian restaurant, all loud voices and no room to move.

But the company was stellar and since we hadn't met up in a month, we made the best of it, swapping tales of indulgences on the deck, abrupt departures and Pigeon Forge.

Favorite quote: "Can I have some of that?"

The girl sitting next to us couldn't resist sharing what she'd just been texted from a friend who works at a vet.

A Pomeranian ate an entire box of tampons.

Too much information, but thanks for sharing, sweetie.

Moira had a curfew because she was part of a comedy show tonight and, coincidentally, I was also off for some comedy.

Mine was courtesy of Richmond Comedy Coalition (motto: live comedy, dead serious) at their spanking new theater on Broad Street, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward.

A short walk and I was there, taking crap from the ticket taker. All in good fun, of course.

Tonight's show was Richmond Famous and the victim was my former co-worker and long-time friend, Andrew, author of the RVA Playlist blog.

One friend told me Andrew had recorded four hours and 39 minutes of music for tonight.

Just so you know, the show runs an hour and a half. But it's a perfect example of what a music geek he is.

As I told friends I saw at the show, I wouldn't have missed seeing Andrew's life made fun of for anything.

The space looked great with a long narrow stage and three rows of chairs, but the best part were the chandeliers.

Three bentwood chairs had been screwed together and hung upside down around globe light bulbs, making for comedic fixtures.

Host Dave began by shaking the imaginary hands of the non-existent people in the front row and then demanded that the people in the second row move up.

According to him, Andrew had it in his rider that the front row had to be filled, along with a request for green M & Ms.

Andrew got up and explained his blog to people who didn't know about it, mentioning his frustration with shows that don't start on time.

That's when I became that heckler and shouted out, "You mean like this one?"

Somebody had to do it.

Then it was his turn to tell a story (to give material to the RCC improv troupe to riff on) about accompanying a band to NYC where they played to four people, got drunk and told off their friends when they finally showed up too late and then discovered their tour van had been broken into.

A nightmare, in other words.

Then RCC was off and running with a bit about a poet doing a reading from his book, The Bitch-Whore of Richmond, about his breakup.

Unfortunately, his ex-girlfriend, fingers snapping, was the only one who showed up for the reading.

Hysterical.

Another bit was about a mother and son looking to buy a van, which turned out to the former touring van of the band Cape Cods and Ends.

Come on, how clever is that?

There was an argument at the pearly gates about analog versus digital with St. Peter yelling, "Back in my day, we used to carry symphonies around in our pockets!"

Andrew began his second story about the band Passenger by calling me out, saying, "Karen, you've already heard this story."

I had, but it was a funny one about his obnoxious behavior as an uber-fan at their show.

Their were bits about serial suiciders, an adopti-marriage and naked people in spas before it was all over.

The last piece began, not with another of Andrew's stories, but with his iPod and he apologized in advance for some of his song choices.

Things began with a couple facing off to get ready for the prom (a make-up off) and ended back in that tour van with the supposed lead singer of Cape Cods and Ends smoking pot listening to an 8-track with the kid and the car salesman.

You know, we're damn lucky to have such a talented improv group doing this stuff every week.

Funny stuff and all at Andrew's expense, which made it even more hilarious.

The only thing missing was the Plushgun story with the soccer Moms and glow sticks, but maybe I didn't want him to tell a story that involved me anyway.

After the show I mingled for a while, talking to a favorite handsome musician who admitted to eating pot cakes in Amsterdam and threatened to start Facebooking every time he saw me.

I love that idea.

"I'll say you were wearing black because you're always wearing some black, except maybe in June," he nonsensically promised.

I told him I had to get going so I could call a friend and find out where to meet him, leading to his incredulous realization that I don't have a cell phone.

Hey, I hear the executive director of the symphony doesn't have one, either, so what's the big deal?

Back home, I found a message from Holmes letting me know he was listening to Big Star in the car and he wanted me to know that.

A return call provided his coordinates (Amour) so I made tracks for Carytown and dessert.

Holmes and Beloved were still eating dinner (the seafood special of frog legs and pork belly looking as fabulous as Holmes said it tasted) so I ordered Rose and heard about their state fair quandary.

He wants to go while she hasn't been since she was a child and has no interest.

Even the racing pigs couldn't entice her. I say don't knock 'em till you've tried 'em (and I have).

For dessert, I had one of tonight's specials, dark cherry, walnut and apple bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream, an appropriate sweet given the sudden arrival of Fall.

Despite Holmes giving me a hard time about practically everything tonight - not having a cell phone, not watching TV, not eating at chains- we made tentative plans for the three of us to spend a day at Merroir soon, while the weather is so perfect for riverside wining and dining.

We'll probably listen to Big Star on the way there...but only because we don't have any Cape Cods and Ends.

Eccentric's Birthday

We'll call it a good birthday because I'm just now getting around to blogging it.

Holmes and his honey invited me over for a bottle of Mumm Brut Prestige to kick off the night.

Mid-sips, the couple presented me with a well-chosen birthday postcard done by a German artist.

The scene of cave people having a cocktail party while guests admired the cave paintings on the walls was hysterical to the art historians in the room.

And we outnumbered the non-art historians two to one.

From there it was a hop, skip and a jump to the VMFA and Amuse.

When I insisted on going in my favorite entrance, the Boulevard doors, Holmes accommodated me, but later grumbled, "Why do I surround myself with eccentrics?"

Um, because we're more fun than non-eccentrics?

Upstairs at Amuse, we began in the mod green chairs in front of the windows so we could watch the dramatic clouds rolling in, but soon moved to the bar.

Holmes never misses an opportunity to commandeer his stool.

Since the staff knows my taste, almost immediately I was offered an absinthe drip, but even I knew enough not to begin with the green fairy.

Instead we went the Sauivignon Blanc route while watching the magnificent sunset in the mirror behind the bar.

As the navy blue clouds gave way to the last of the sunset behind the Pauley Center, we talked about birthday wisdom.

My favorite, a brilliant nugget from the manager, went like this, "You're only as old as people treat you."

I feel really good about that, knowing how people treat me.

We noshed on curry-fried oysters and a cheese plate, eventually getting to the absinthe that is the inevitable end of every visit there.

How better to feel like van Gogh while admiring the view in the bar mirror, so much like a Manet?

Already pleasantly loopy, we left the museum for nearby Amour.

Because it was my birthday, we began with something pink and pretty, a sumptuous cocktail of fresh-squeezed pink grapefruit juice and Rose.

As we discussed with the pourer, the grapefruits are over-ripe and at the end of their season, and the Roses are young and just arriving, making for the perfect blend of old and young.

I'm sure there's a birthday metaphor in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it, right now anyway.

There were only two other people at the bar, both men, one at each end.

Plopped in the middle of them and wrapped around the corner of the bar, we were an interruption to their evenings, any way you looked at it.

The pompous-looking one ignored us entirely while the other one eventually joined in, wishing me a happy birthday.

Heimberger Riesling, crisp and earthy, accompanied a first course of French onion soup while Django Reinhardt played softly in the background.

Holmes went with pork and duck rillettes, the curly-haired one had a tarte and I went straight for the veal sweetbreads in a sherried cream sauce in puff pastry.

"That's the best choice!" our server whispered to me, making his way to the kitchen.

Holmes' phone rang and I was handed the phone so a long-distance chum could wish me all the best.

My guilt was huge, since I have no use for cell phones in a restaurant setting.

That led to a discussion with the owner about another Carytown business owner who'd come in recently and talked non-stop on his phone throughout the meal.

First the owner asked him to go outside and when he continued talking, his server had gone over and reminded him what the owner had said.

When he got miffed and left, the remaining customers applauded.

That's the world I want to live in.

We sat there eating and talking until it was dessert time, requiring a festive changeover to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace.

Since I was the birthday girl, I had both chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and raspberry lambic sorbet.

For that matter, the three of us finished with one perfect madeleine each, while "I Can't Give You Anything But Love" played.

I'd say I was being treated exactly like the age I am.

I'm going to go with ageless and call it a birthday.

Mess Mates

Repeated the head, went to the county and revisited Paris in the '20s.

Funniest line of the night: "Do not sit on the sofa!"

Girlfriend finally in tow, we began at Tio Pablo, where one of tonight's specials was beef head.

"That's so you," my friend observed, declining to join me in some head.

"We use the whole cow," our server said immodestly.

Once our food was delivered, our server recommended "head first" and I took her advice.

That, a tongue taco and a glass of Espolon and I was a very happy camper.

I couldn't convince the more conservative eater to join me in tongue either but we happily lapped up guacamole, pinto beans with bacon and pico de gallo together.

The meal was fortification for driving to the Henrico Theater, a place I had been only once, and tonight where Capital Opera Company was performing "H.M.S. Pinafore."

Despite our arrival to masses of people, we were able to score second row seats with a fine view of five life preservers hanging from the stage.

The first-time director spoke about the all-volunteer company, garnering applause to which she responded, "Don't clap yet. You haven't seen it yet."

Good point, although I'd heard several of the performers sing pieces from this show at VMFA a while back.

Tonight was only the company's sixth performance and last of the season.

She said the entire production had been put together in two weeks.

That probably explained why half the cast used British accents (Dick Deadeye even going so far as Cockney) and half didn't.

"Extra grog sent to the company at seven bells!""

And while it was my first time seeing the Gilbert and Sullivan take on naval life, my friend was considerably more savvy.

Seems she'd been part of the chorus of a production of "Pinafore" back in her school days.

It was notable mainly because the performance was outdoors on a hot day and she promptly fainted under a tree, a move the audience took for part of the play.

Horrors!

So while I was mooning over lines like, "Your simple eloquence goes to my heart," she was wondering what happened to her favorite song, "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General," which was conspicuously absent here.

The cast's ages ranged from what looked like middle school to well-seasoned, with the Buttercup and Josephine roles being played by particularly strong actresses.

Leave it to the women, many of whom wore period costumes and fur stoles.

She is the figurehead on my ship of life.

As the play began to wrap up, it felt very Shakespearean, with a three-way wedding to tie up all the loose ends of switched babies, class differences and love.

If only it were that easy in real life.

Our operatic experience was over so early that we decided to go in search of some fun.

We'd both heard about Amour's "Midnight in Paris" party last night, so we made that our destination to see what we'd missed.

The restaurant was still decorated from the party and looked fabulous with sheer white curtains between some tables, a "window" looking out on the Parisian skyline, peacock feathers everywhere, fabric-draped fans and lace curtains in the front window.

We made our way to the back through a lot of diners still eating and found seats at the bar.

The photographer who'd taken pictures of last night's fun happened to be there, so we looked at scads of photographs of customers in period dress, servers with period coiffures and the owner Paul very dapper in a gold brocade vest and bowler.

Clearly we had missed a very good time.

I'd had an inkling since when I got home last night, it was to a message from Holmes and his honey, who were at Amour, and wondering why I wasn't part of the fun.

All I can say is I won't miss the next one and the chance to find some thrift store finery to suit the Jazz Age theme.

The best we could do tonight was partake of the party's signature drink "Midnight at Amour," a refreshing cocktail involving fresh-squeezed orange juice, absinthe, bubbles and who knows what else.

Probably crushed peacock eyes or something.

My girlfriend and I invited others into our circle for conversation, including a guy introduced to me who felt sure I was thinking, "I wonder who this strapping young man is?" about himself, a guy trying to make a long-distance relationship work with a woman in a rabbit hat, and a May-December romance drinking only the best wines.

We took all comers.

But after several rounds of "Midnight at Amour," it was clear that it was time for this ship to sail. I love my mess mate, but even a ship's figurehead has gotta sleep sometime.

And it was long after midnight in Carytown...even if the sun was coming up in Paris.

Cut to Life

It was literally banner news.

Walking through my beloved Jackson Ward last week, I'd seen a sign hanging on Mama J's proclaiming, "Open on Monday."

They didn't have to tell me twice.

A) It's a few blocks from home and B) it's open on a night when so many are not.

Tonight's partner in crime and I rolled in early so we could catch a movie and, just in case, avoid the crowds.

At 5:15, we had our pick of seats and took two prime bar stools with a view of the cake cabinet.

By 6:00, every single table and stool were taken. It pays to know what you're doing.

And it helps to be a neighbor.

The bartender immediately recognized me and welcomed us back, detailing happy hour specials on libations and wings.

But the cakes in the cabinet were too alluring not to admire first, so we tried to figure out which cakes on the chalkboard were still available.

My companion was leaning toward the strawberry lemon cake when a server got it out of the case and cut the last two slices.

Knowing how it works at Mama's we immediately lamented not having called dibs on a piece of that cake.

The server took one of the two she'd cut and laid it in front of us. The last piece.

Whew, that was a close one.

Since he'd picked the cake, I got to choose dinner, opting for Mama's seafood salad followed by country fried steak smothered in onion and pepper gravy and mashed potatoes with more gravy.

It's rare that I can refrain from ordering Mama's fried chicken, but I stayed strong.

The reward was on the plate.

Mama's seafood salad combines elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a mayo and Old Bay-based dressing.

It's a fitting start to any meal at Mama's.

The fried steak had a wonderfully flavorful breading, perfectly fried and still crispy despite a liberal ladling of (red and green pepper and onion) gravy sitting atop it.

We were half way through when a server not our own came over to ask, "How are y'all doing with your food?"

"Great," the monosyllabic one said, while I went with, "Wonderful!"

"I like her answer," the server said, filling a water glass and smiling broadly. "She had to close her eyes to answer."

Yes, I did.

Say what you want about the lowly country fried steak (the inferior cut of beef, all the tenderizing required, the requisite gravy to hide any shortcomings), it's a tasty dish when done as well as this was.

Even the mashed potatoes were a treat, full of bits of red skin and seasoned to be a standalone and not just a vehicle for gravy.

While we ate, a woman came in for a piece of cake to go.

She requested the coconut pineapple and when our server went to cut it for her, he mentioned that it was his favorite.

After cutting and boxing her piece, he put the last piece of that cake in a box and set it behind the bar.

"Is that for you?" the customer asked, laughing.

"Yea, I've learned to cut mine early," he said. "Otherwise we run out and I don't get mine."

Leaning in conspiratorially, the woman confided, "I used to come down here every week after church and get a slice of that cake."

If she was looking for us to judge her, she'd picked the wrong people.

"I had to stop!" she finished.

It doesn't take many trips to Mama's to learn that the smart people choose their cake first and put it on hold for later, we all agreed.

Our cake was a two-toned and moist delight with strawberry icing on the lemon layer and lemon icing (my favorite of the two) on the strawberry layer.

We ate it down to the crumbs.

By then, the place had filled up with two large parties and our server confirmed that last Monday had been their biggest Monday ever.

Clearly I was late to seeing the banner, since this was their 6th Monday and I was just now taking advantage of it.

Now I know.

From Jackson Ward, it was on to the Westhampton theater for a beautiful and at times difficult-to-watch film about love and death.

"Amour" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, all kinds of European film critics' awards and is nominated for scads more here.

Surprisingly, there was a decent crowd for tonight's showing, albeit a talkative one all the way through the opening credits.

Like the woman beside me who said loudly, "It's gonna be subtitled so it doesn't matter how loud we are," to her companion.

Actually, it does.

The story of an 80-something French couple deeply entrenched in their simple, cultured lives and long-time marriage was a revelation in acting and storytelling.

After the wife has two strokes and surgery fails to help, the loving husband takes on her care.

The beauty of the film was the lack of sympathy or any sort of overriding emotion in the way the decline of the wife unfolds.

When she directs her husband mid-meal to fetch the family photo albums, it is so that she can reminisce about their life together while she's still able to.

"It's beautiful," she says, turning pages of an album.

"What?" he asks.

"Life," she says simply, but devastatingly for the audience who, like her, knows she's not long for this world.

Because the movie allows each scene to unfold, there are many that would have those with short attention spans squirming in their chairs, itching for something faster to happen.

But life doesn't always move in quick cuts and the film's pace befits the character's mindsets, slow to accept the inevitable.

The enduring love shown between the couple, the way she chides him for being overly-attentive when she comes home from the hospital, the way he essentially gives up his life to provide her care, is what gives the movie its title.

It's an amour for the ages.

By the time they are both gone and the quiet, unhurried, music-less movie finishes, sobs and sniffles could be heard all over the theater.

Okay, so it wasn't a feelgood movie, just an unflinching look at a stage of life and infirmity that most people would prefer not to imagine, but as love stories go, it was exquisite.

A banner cinema experience even.

A reminder that even beautiful lives end and if that's not impetus to savor every bit now, I can't imagine what would be.

A Foggy Night in R-Town

On second thought, I guess I didn't seem so bad.

A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.

No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.

A minute later the phone rang.

"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.

Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?

Apparently not.

I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.

Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.

Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."

And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.

Or the bubbles.

But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.

I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).

It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.

Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.

Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.

We actually made a hell of a team.

As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.

For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.

The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.

You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.

My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.

"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.

Will work for wine.

Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.

So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.

The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.

We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.

Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.

Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.

Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.

I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.

A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.

"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.

We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.

Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.

One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."

It was an unexpectedly charming moment.

By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.

If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.

People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.