He didn't, of course, but he might as well have planned it for me.
If I'd wanted to attend a wine tasting class as part of my birthday celebration, chances are I'd want it to be a pink class.
And as Mac just recently pointed out, that's exactly what Amour Wine Bistro was having tonight: Le Rose Wine Tasting: Rhone Valley and Provence.
Birthday schooling of the highest order. Reservation for two, please.
An attendee tonight could be forgiven for thinking that the class was really just a means for the owner to gather a group of interesting women to hang on his every word, because that's what it seemed to be. Not that a restaurant owner would do such a thing.
Every single attendee was female. And eager to learn. Overheard: "Oh, I love eggplant, but I don't know how to cook it."
Looking to start off with something unlikely, the owner poured a tannic 2007 E. Guigal Rose from the southern Rhone valley to prove that some Roses have wonderful aging potential. "It's 2007 again and we're all young!" he joked. "Who was President then?"
The man who never looked so good as he has in retrospect the past 120 days, that's who.
To set the scene for Domaine Pere Caboche Rose, he painted a picture. "For this wine, you should be sitting on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, with a barbecue grill over here for the fish you caught this morning - or got at the market - and drinking this," he said, conjuring up a great visual. "Then you have it all!"
I don't know, give me the terrace, the sea and the grilled fish and I'd probably be quite happy drinking anything. With the exception of the woman who called out, "Are you gonna come cook the fish for me because I just can't do fish on the grill," we got his point.
He admitted his favorite was Le Petit Rouviere Rose and that's one I've swooned over for years because of its lush peach notes and long finish.
Lest it sound like we were hunkered down sipping pinks, listening intently to terroir lessons and taking abundant notes, it should probably be acknowledged that we had a steady stream of food coming at us all the while.
White bean, beet and arugula salad segued in to salmon and tuna tartar with capers on thick, chewy crostini and then creamy Dijon mustard sauced chicken with rice kept our Rose-addled attention spans focused until chocolate tart covered in fresh strawberry slices arrived.
Meanwhile, Teacher had moved on to the finer points of Domaine Petit Coeur Rose, so we refocused on the wine's refined elegance instead of drooling over the bottle's sexy shape because Mac and I just aren't that shallow.
That bottle would make a great candle-holder, that's all I'm saying.
It was while we were sipping the summery aromas of blossoms in a glass courtesy of Domaine Mas de la Rouviere Rose from Bandol, that the owner dazzled one and all by bringing out the equivalent of four bottles of Rose in one hand.
You could just see some of the women's eyes go glassy at the prospect of an entire box of Chateau Montaud Cote de Provence Rose and it wasn't long before several of them requested a box of her own to take home. Just don't be too quick to judge.
For those dedicated to the art of Rose, that's what we call homework. For those of us celebrating our birthdays in long form, it's a marathon, not a sprint.
Showing posts with label amour wine bistro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amour wine bistro. Show all posts
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Don't Want Diamonds
Baby Boomers, they're not just for hating on anymore.
Just when I'm starting to believe the consensus that Boomers have ruined the country, I am reminded of my allegiance to them.
Not just because I'm one of them, but because out of the Boomer generation came the hippie radical types who were committed to taking on the work of making the world a better place. Groovy as that sounds, I don't think we breed that type much anymore.
Additionally, I'm the worst kind of lapsed Catholic. I'm a heathen.
But despite having been mostly raised Catholic - being baptized, making my first communion, getting confirmed - I had very little exposure to nuns. Oh, sure, I've heard the terrifying tales from people who went to Catholic schools (my parents were public school supporters), but none of that happened to me.
So my opinion of nuns was pretty much based on other people's experiences and not especially good.
I'm rethinking all of that now for the simple reason that I saw the documentary "Radical Grace" at the Virginia Historical Society. Because the screening was co-sponsored by St. Gertrude High School, the VHS curator who introduced the film was obligated to read a message from the school first.
Essentially, it said that the school supports the Catholic church's bishops and that their directives must be obeyed, a statement that meant little to me at that point and everything by the end of the film.
Focusing on three nuns who have committed their lives to fighting, one as a social justice lobbyist working to get the ACA passed so the poor and marginalized will have health care, one a church reform activist trying to move the needle on women being deacons in the Catholic church and one who works with ex-cons trying to get back on track.
In one scene, she even provided dating advice, telling the men, "Find yourself a decent woman who'll be your best friend. If she wants diamonds, dump her."
That these vocal women are doing their thing in street clothes out in society did not sit well with the U.S. bishops who accuse them of being radical feminists. As if. That the nuns not only swear but use you-know-who's name in vain surprised me big time.
Proving that the church needs to be part of the social fabric of the country to be of real service to those less fortunate, the nuns were tireless and enthusiastic about moving their agendas forward, even when risking being censured or kicked out of the church.
A group hit the road as "Nuns on the Bus," making stops all over, including at the 2012 Democratic convention and Colbert's show where huge, mostly supportive crowds greet them at every stop, although it's deeply disturbing to see a man yell at one of the nuns that she's as bad as a pedophile priest for not siding with the pro-life contingent.
Mac and I looked at each other incredulously and spitting mad after watching him say something so venomous in front of a camera.
Not gonna lie, I teared up more than once watching as these brave women continued fighting for their causes despite the whole of the Vatican insisting they cease and desist. In the Catholic church, women must be silenced and bishops must be obeyed. Radical feminism indeed.
Apparently this was why St. Gertrude was making their stance clear to all. Puh-leeze.
An especially satisfying element of the documentary was that so much relevant happened during its filming. The ACA passed and we got a new pope with more modern ideas, proving change is possible.
But the defining feature of the nuns' work was how they hung in there. These nuns weren't religious fanatics, they were old hippies trying to change the world by working for the causes that mattered to them.
Part of me wanted to cheer their outdated optimism with my own.
Mac and I left the VHS to walk 7 blocks in the windy cold night to Amour, where a Burgundy wine-tasting was going on. Leaving them to their learning, we dove into simple suppers: mine of French onion soup and a winter salad and hers of a decadent cream of mushroom soup and then a warm salad with duck confit.
Someone humorous thought it would be funny to Instagram pictures of our practically licked clean plates, but we talked him out of it.
Meanwhile, the wine tasters were looking ahead to the next tasting of Loire valley wines and the man with the house in the Loire wanted to know where I'd stayed when I'd been there last summer.
All I wanted was to sip my Madeira and savor salted dark chocolate creme brulee with side cars of raspberry, strawberry-lime, coconut milk and melon pastis sorbet.
As it happened, a radical Boomer feminist can polish off dessert and reminisce about France at the same time. It will not be captured on Instagram, however.
Just when I'm starting to believe the consensus that Boomers have ruined the country, I am reminded of my allegiance to them.
Not just because I'm one of them, but because out of the Boomer generation came the hippie radical types who were committed to taking on the work of making the world a better place. Groovy as that sounds, I don't think we breed that type much anymore.
Additionally, I'm the worst kind of lapsed Catholic. I'm a heathen.
But despite having been mostly raised Catholic - being baptized, making my first communion, getting confirmed - I had very little exposure to nuns. Oh, sure, I've heard the terrifying tales from people who went to Catholic schools (my parents were public school supporters), but none of that happened to me.
So my opinion of nuns was pretty much based on other people's experiences and not especially good.
I'm rethinking all of that now for the simple reason that I saw the documentary "Radical Grace" at the Virginia Historical Society. Because the screening was co-sponsored by St. Gertrude High School, the VHS curator who introduced the film was obligated to read a message from the school first.
Essentially, it said that the school supports the Catholic church's bishops and that their directives must be obeyed, a statement that meant little to me at that point and everything by the end of the film.
Focusing on three nuns who have committed their lives to fighting, one as a social justice lobbyist working to get the ACA passed so the poor and marginalized will have health care, one a church reform activist trying to move the needle on women being deacons in the Catholic church and one who works with ex-cons trying to get back on track.
In one scene, she even provided dating advice, telling the men, "Find yourself a decent woman who'll be your best friend. If she wants diamonds, dump her."
That these vocal women are doing their thing in street clothes out in society did not sit well with the U.S. bishops who accuse them of being radical feminists. As if. That the nuns not only swear but use you-know-who's name in vain surprised me big time.
Proving that the church needs to be part of the social fabric of the country to be of real service to those less fortunate, the nuns were tireless and enthusiastic about moving their agendas forward, even when risking being censured or kicked out of the church.
A group hit the road as "Nuns on the Bus," making stops all over, including at the 2012 Democratic convention and Colbert's show where huge, mostly supportive crowds greet them at every stop, although it's deeply disturbing to see a man yell at one of the nuns that she's as bad as a pedophile priest for not siding with the pro-life contingent.
Mac and I looked at each other incredulously and spitting mad after watching him say something so venomous in front of a camera.
Not gonna lie, I teared up more than once watching as these brave women continued fighting for their causes despite the whole of the Vatican insisting they cease and desist. In the Catholic church, women must be silenced and bishops must be obeyed. Radical feminism indeed.
Apparently this was why St. Gertrude was making their stance clear to all. Puh-leeze.
An especially satisfying element of the documentary was that so much relevant happened during its filming. The ACA passed and we got a new pope with more modern ideas, proving change is possible.
But the defining feature of the nuns' work was how they hung in there. These nuns weren't religious fanatics, they were old hippies trying to change the world by working for the causes that mattered to them.
Part of me wanted to cheer their outdated optimism with my own.
Mac and I left the VHS to walk 7 blocks in the windy cold night to Amour, where a Burgundy wine-tasting was going on. Leaving them to their learning, we dove into simple suppers: mine of French onion soup and a winter salad and hers of a decadent cream of mushroom soup and then a warm salad with duck confit.
Someone humorous thought it would be funny to Instagram pictures of our practically licked clean plates, but we talked him out of it.
Meanwhile, the wine tasters were looking ahead to the next tasting of Loire valley wines and the man with the house in the Loire wanted to know where I'd stayed when I'd been there last summer.
All I wanted was to sip my Madeira and savor salted dark chocolate creme brulee with side cars of raspberry, strawberry-lime, coconut milk and melon pastis sorbet.
As it happened, a radical Boomer feminist can polish off dessert and reminisce about France at the same time. It will not be captured on Instagram, however.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Stupid Girl, Only Happy When it Rains
When someone writes, "It was cool hanging out with you," couldn't they be saying you make them forget about the heat?
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
Friday, June 10, 2016
Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels
It only took nine plus hours to get from gospel in the garden to Joni on the balcony at 3:30 a.m.
The Valentine Museum's new Music in the Garden series was having its second installment on such a gorgeous and California-like Thursday night that I couldn't think of a single good reason not to head to the leafy garden for music before my date.
Kenneka Cook was mid-set when I found a spot and began scanning the crowd for people I knew. There was the show booker making faces at a baby, the brass band drummer adjusting knobs onstage, the marketing man looking studious in glasses and the Frenchman, just back from Tampa where they'd beaten the impending storm by just two days.
Moving closer, I was charmed to see people sprawled out on the wide porch of the adjoining Wickham House with the "door" windows behind them, a fact I learned from a tour of the house. I'd been struck by the concept of windows so tall that the house's occupants would just throw up the sash and stroll through the opening to the porch.
"We only know how to do one thing and that's gospel music, so let's go to church," the Ingramettes announced and commenced to get people clapping and toes tapping while shaking the rafters on the tent over their heads.
On my way home, I spotted a line at the National for Catfish and the Bottlemen, a group I'd never so much as heard of. A couple clicks once I got home and I quickly learned that they were a British indie band mining '80s jangle, '90s rock and '00s alternative pop in the service of one of my favorite genres: young man music.
Sounding like their influences were comprised of lots of my guilty pleasure songs with a singer whose voice resembles that of the Arctic Monkeys' leader, the songs were buoyant, testosterone-fueled and likely drawn from the narrow scope of boyish experience.
I was hooked immediately, of course.
And I'd beg you but you know I'm never home
I'd love you but I need another year alone
I'd try to ignore it every time you phone
But I'm never coming close
Adorable, right? Now I understood why all those people were standing in line for an evening of young man angst.
But my date and I were off to Amour for dinner where a private party had commandeered the bar area, which necessitated us taking up residence in the front window for a lovely meal that began with veal sweetbreads in a Madeira wine sauce, moved through a crabcake-topped salad, lamb chops and housemade cocoa sorbet.
After making a pit stop at Secco for pink bubbly from Greece and a unique Rose blend of Malbec, Gamay and Cabernet Sauvignon, we witnessed a verbal testament to the powers of Queen Bey ("I want three things from a man and I can't remember the first two, but the last one is he has to know that Beyonce is the most important thing in the world") from a visiting California woman who will be seeing her hero in L.A. in September.
Pop star conversations aside, I'm trying to get in my Secco fixes in before they close their doors next week.
Once we were back on the street, the evening continued on my balcony with Breaux Rose we'd picked up at the winery and some triage on my boombox to get it to play on its inaugural night of summer season 2016, for which we couldn't have asked for finer weather.
Our musical entertainment began with the new Clair Morgan album "New Lions and the Not Good Night," which qualifies as young man music given its musicians, but not its subject matter, which is a reflection of songwriter Clair exploring his role parenting young children and memories of being a child himself.
But ultimately, it was Joni Mitchell's "Hits" album that we listened to twice, agreeably taking tangents about the musicians on her various albums, how sometimes a cover can be better than the original (CSNY's "Woodstock" being a perfect example) and what an absolutely brilliant medley "Chinese Cafe" and "Unchained Medley" make.
Somewhere around two hours before sunrise, my date expressed a wee bit of concern about the music and conversation being broadcast to the neighborhood pretty much in the middle of the night, so we scaled back a notch but it was a small notch.
We've never been the types to make ungainly concessions, whether music or relationships.
To "settle" is to give up. We never settled. But, man, can we kill some time together.
The Valentine Museum's new Music in the Garden series was having its second installment on such a gorgeous and California-like Thursday night that I couldn't think of a single good reason not to head to the leafy garden for music before my date.
Kenneka Cook was mid-set when I found a spot and began scanning the crowd for people I knew. There was the show booker making faces at a baby, the brass band drummer adjusting knobs onstage, the marketing man looking studious in glasses and the Frenchman, just back from Tampa where they'd beaten the impending storm by just two days.
Moving closer, I was charmed to see people sprawled out on the wide porch of the adjoining Wickham House with the "door" windows behind them, a fact I learned from a tour of the house. I'd been struck by the concept of windows so tall that the house's occupants would just throw up the sash and stroll through the opening to the porch.
"We only know how to do one thing and that's gospel music, so let's go to church," the Ingramettes announced and commenced to get people clapping and toes tapping while shaking the rafters on the tent over their heads.
On my way home, I spotted a line at the National for Catfish and the Bottlemen, a group I'd never so much as heard of. A couple clicks once I got home and I quickly learned that they were a British indie band mining '80s jangle, '90s rock and '00s alternative pop in the service of one of my favorite genres: young man music.
Sounding like their influences were comprised of lots of my guilty pleasure songs with a singer whose voice resembles that of the Arctic Monkeys' leader, the songs were buoyant, testosterone-fueled and likely drawn from the narrow scope of boyish experience.
I was hooked immediately, of course.
And I'd beg you but you know I'm never home
I'd love you but I need another year alone
I'd try to ignore it every time you phone
But I'm never coming close
Adorable, right? Now I understood why all those people were standing in line for an evening of young man angst.
But my date and I were off to Amour for dinner where a private party had commandeered the bar area, which necessitated us taking up residence in the front window for a lovely meal that began with veal sweetbreads in a Madeira wine sauce, moved through a crabcake-topped salad, lamb chops and housemade cocoa sorbet.
After making a pit stop at Secco for pink bubbly from Greece and a unique Rose blend of Malbec, Gamay and Cabernet Sauvignon, we witnessed a verbal testament to the powers of Queen Bey ("I want three things from a man and I can't remember the first two, but the last one is he has to know that Beyonce is the most important thing in the world") from a visiting California woman who will be seeing her hero in L.A. in September.
Pop star conversations aside, I'm trying to get in my Secco fixes in before they close their doors next week.
Once we were back on the street, the evening continued on my balcony with Breaux Rose we'd picked up at the winery and some triage on my boombox to get it to play on its inaugural night of summer season 2016, for which we couldn't have asked for finer weather.
Our musical entertainment began with the new Clair Morgan album "New Lions and the Not Good Night," which qualifies as young man music given its musicians, but not its subject matter, which is a reflection of songwriter Clair exploring his role parenting young children and memories of being a child himself.
But ultimately, it was Joni Mitchell's "Hits" album that we listened to twice, agreeably taking tangents about the musicians on her various albums, how sometimes a cover can be better than the original (CSNY's "Woodstock" being a perfect example) and what an absolutely brilliant medley "Chinese Cafe" and "Unchained Medley" make.
Somewhere around two hours before sunrise, my date expressed a wee bit of concern about the music and conversation being broadcast to the neighborhood pretty much in the middle of the night, so we scaled back a notch but it was a small notch.
We've never been the types to make ungainly concessions, whether music or relationships.
To "settle" is to give up. We never settled. But, man, can we kill some time together.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
This, Sir, Is an Outrage
Sometimes the universe gives you a sign, good or bad, about what's to come.
Musician Jason Webley said that when he picks up his accordion, he knows by how heavy it feels what kind of performance he'll have that night.
When I'm driving over the Huguenot Bridge in the later afternoon glow of the impending sunset and Prince's 1992 song "7" comes on - a song I adore but haven't heard in years, I'd wager - I can pretty much feel that it's going to be a fine night.
My destination was a 1949 house on Southside built by Richmond architect Bud Hyland, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, open tonight for a Modern Richmond tour. The narrow street was already teeming with traffic when I joined the fracas, but a low-key gent suggested I back up and take a nearby driveway spot.
"Think you can back up that far? he asks me, one step short of mansplaining.
I got this, buddy. Backed, turned around and on my way to a more civilized street to park, another guy who'd watched me called out, "That's some good driving!" as if surprised. Please.
Walking back to the house felt like walking through a rain forest, buggy, muggy and near the river, so different than the city streets I'd just left behind in Jackson Ward.
But it was worth it to check out the house which, while built in '49, felt like the granddaddy to all those '60s and '70s tract houses with its wood-paneled walls (cypress, no less), infrequent doors and expansive windows to bring the outdoors in.
And what outdoors it was: a pond, a sloping hill, an 80-year old Dogwod tree with impressive undergrowth, just the kind of problematic location Wright relished. Its coolest feature (mercifully, the wall to wall shag carpeting had been ripped up years ago) was a 1950 Cubist-inspired fresco by VCU artist Jewett Campbell over the entrance to my favorite room, the screened porch.
The former garage had been turned into a weaving studio with three looms and a straw basket filled with multi-colored balls of yarn, a look I recall copying for my own bedroom when I was in college, not that I knitted or wove.
People streamed in for a look-see, demonstrating the fabulous flow of the house, evident when one of the organizers said that they'd never expected to get so many people in the house. Referring to the monthly Modern Richmond tours, she said, "This is the one night a month folks can imagine they're in Los Angeles."
I could imagine it but I couldn't imagine wanting it to be permanent.
Check, please.
Amour welcomed me into its bar during my break between culture with happy hour small plates and a glass of Terrasse du Midi Rose.
Saying yes happily to everything on the happy hour board, I was rewarded with a petite crepe piled high with duck confit in garlic butter, a Croque Madame with a quail egg astride and the owner's grandmother's potato pancake with applesauce recipe fried up golden brown and crispy.
Discussing the new rules of civility whereby potential employees can't be bothered calling in to alert staff to their no-show, a nearby millennial picked up the thread of our conversation and said in all seriousness, "Yea, what's wrong with my generation? They've got no worth ethic at all."
Best guesses were bandied about - too much coddling, no parental limits, meaningless sports trophies - and before long, someone else reminisced about mowing lawns to save up to buy a Nintendo when he knew his parents never would.
Somehow, we have bred out of our youth any willingness to mow or shovel snow for the sake of earning unreported income.
It's a crying shame, I tell you, and delicate Rose-poached pear with strawberries went a long way to taking my mind off the crisis at hand.
I left Amour for Gallery 5 because singer/storyteller Jason Webley was back after a five year hiatus, an intended break which he began by explaining had been compromised almost from the beginning. First friends wanted him to play, then he was offered money, then he was going to be in town (or nearby) anyway and, before long, hiatus was code for working musician.
Jason not only had a knack for (as he called it) long-winded storytelling but thoroughly enjoyed it, too, so he warned us early to keep him in check, not allowing too much music or too many stories. That's like putting the patients in charge of the asylum, don't you think?
Come on, it had been announced late, promoted almost not at all and still a solid and appreciative crowd had shown up on a random Wednesday for a show that wasn't even supposed to start until 9ish.
When Jason referred to getting older, a woman near me called out, asking how old he was. "43, how old are you?" Jason called back. She was 42 in a few months, but she also admitted, "Sorry, I heard that question in my brain and I don't know how it got out."
Sucking us into another story, this one was about kissing a beautiful girl on the railroad tracks while a train whizzed by on an adjacent track. "I'll never have a better first kiss."Just when I was thinking he'd hit a personal best, he said later that night they danced in a parking lot.
Now that's a night of high romance.
He took second place in a street performance contest after that and the two went to Bali together except by then she'd made up with her creepy boyfriend, so it was a platonic week during which he wrote a song which he now performed for us.
So, you see, the introductions to the songs were easily as long as the songs, but that's just how Jason rolls and a big part of why most people were there.
In the absolute pinnacle of a stellar show, he slid in a slow burn cover of Prince's "Purple Rain" during one of his songs, although most of the crowd didn't even recognize it until about ten lines in, a fact which only gives more weight to our earlier concerns about certain generational failings.
For heavens' sake, I can let it slide if you don't know the words to "7" (although I did better than I'd have expected), but we should all know "Purple Rain" by this point, right?
Jason agreeably played his accordion and stamped his feet for percussion and before long, many of us were dancing along to songs about pork goulash until all of a sudden he was notified he had sixteen minutes left and needed to decide how to use it.
His choice was a song about a candlelit march to a cemetery's pyramid, then a final closer that had people dancing tavern-style around him on the floor to a song about the need to relax.
That's some good advice. And if not, how about we smoke them all with our intellect and our savoir faire?
Gotcha.
Musician Jason Webley said that when he picks up his accordion, he knows by how heavy it feels what kind of performance he'll have that night.
When I'm driving over the Huguenot Bridge in the later afternoon glow of the impending sunset and Prince's 1992 song "7" comes on - a song I adore but haven't heard in years, I'd wager - I can pretty much feel that it's going to be a fine night.
My destination was a 1949 house on Southside built by Richmond architect Bud Hyland, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, open tonight for a Modern Richmond tour. The narrow street was already teeming with traffic when I joined the fracas, but a low-key gent suggested I back up and take a nearby driveway spot.
"Think you can back up that far? he asks me, one step short of mansplaining.
I got this, buddy. Backed, turned around and on my way to a more civilized street to park, another guy who'd watched me called out, "That's some good driving!" as if surprised. Please.
Walking back to the house felt like walking through a rain forest, buggy, muggy and near the river, so different than the city streets I'd just left behind in Jackson Ward.
But it was worth it to check out the house which, while built in '49, felt like the granddaddy to all those '60s and '70s tract houses with its wood-paneled walls (cypress, no less), infrequent doors and expansive windows to bring the outdoors in.
And what outdoors it was: a pond, a sloping hill, an 80-year old Dogwod tree with impressive undergrowth, just the kind of problematic location Wright relished. Its coolest feature (mercifully, the wall to wall shag carpeting had been ripped up years ago) was a 1950 Cubist-inspired fresco by VCU artist Jewett Campbell over the entrance to my favorite room, the screened porch.
The former garage had been turned into a weaving studio with three looms and a straw basket filled with multi-colored balls of yarn, a look I recall copying for my own bedroom when I was in college, not that I knitted or wove.
People streamed in for a look-see, demonstrating the fabulous flow of the house, evident when one of the organizers said that they'd never expected to get so many people in the house. Referring to the monthly Modern Richmond tours, she said, "This is the one night a month folks can imagine they're in Los Angeles."
I could imagine it but I couldn't imagine wanting it to be permanent.
Check, please.
Amour welcomed me into its bar during my break between culture with happy hour small plates and a glass of Terrasse du Midi Rose.
Saying yes happily to everything on the happy hour board, I was rewarded with a petite crepe piled high with duck confit in garlic butter, a Croque Madame with a quail egg astride and the owner's grandmother's potato pancake with applesauce recipe fried up golden brown and crispy.
Discussing the new rules of civility whereby potential employees can't be bothered calling in to alert staff to their no-show, a nearby millennial picked up the thread of our conversation and said in all seriousness, "Yea, what's wrong with my generation? They've got no worth ethic at all."
Best guesses were bandied about - too much coddling, no parental limits, meaningless sports trophies - and before long, someone else reminisced about mowing lawns to save up to buy a Nintendo when he knew his parents never would.
Somehow, we have bred out of our youth any willingness to mow or shovel snow for the sake of earning unreported income.
It's a crying shame, I tell you, and delicate Rose-poached pear with strawberries went a long way to taking my mind off the crisis at hand.
I left Amour for Gallery 5 because singer/storyteller Jason Webley was back after a five year hiatus, an intended break which he began by explaining had been compromised almost from the beginning. First friends wanted him to play, then he was offered money, then he was going to be in town (or nearby) anyway and, before long, hiatus was code for working musician.
Jason not only had a knack for (as he called it) long-winded storytelling but thoroughly enjoyed it, too, so he warned us early to keep him in check, not allowing too much music or too many stories. That's like putting the patients in charge of the asylum, don't you think?
Come on, it had been announced late, promoted almost not at all and still a solid and appreciative crowd had shown up on a random Wednesday for a show that wasn't even supposed to start until 9ish.
When Jason referred to getting older, a woman near me called out, asking how old he was. "43, how old are you?" Jason called back. She was 42 in a few months, but she also admitted, "Sorry, I heard that question in my brain and I don't know how it got out."
Sucking us into another story, this one was about kissing a beautiful girl on the railroad tracks while a train whizzed by on an adjacent track. "I'll never have a better first kiss."Just when I was thinking he'd hit a personal best, he said later that night they danced in a parking lot.
Now that's a night of high romance.
He took second place in a street performance contest after that and the two went to Bali together except by then she'd made up with her creepy boyfriend, so it was a platonic week during which he wrote a song which he now performed for us.
So, you see, the introductions to the songs were easily as long as the songs, but that's just how Jason rolls and a big part of why most people were there.
In the absolute pinnacle of a stellar show, he slid in a slow burn cover of Prince's "Purple Rain" during one of his songs, although most of the crowd didn't even recognize it until about ten lines in, a fact which only gives more weight to our earlier concerns about certain generational failings.
For heavens' sake, I can let it slide if you don't know the words to "7" (although I did better than I'd have expected), but we should all know "Purple Rain" by this point, right?
Jason agreeably played his accordion and stamped his feet for percussion and before long, many of us were dancing along to songs about pork goulash until all of a sudden he was notified he had sixteen minutes left and needed to decide how to use it.
His choice was a song about a candlelit march to a cemetery's pyramid, then a final closer that had people dancing tavern-style around him on the floor to a song about the need to relax.
That's some good advice. And if not, how about we smoke them all with our intellect and our savoir faire?
Gotcha.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Wine is Not Sad
In the game of life, I've been told, sometimes you have to focus on the end game.
Today's challenge was fitting in a whole lot of work around a fair amount of fun that began with a very ladylike plan for the afternoon: walking over to Chez Foushee for lunch, followed by a play at Virginia Rep.
Yes, we were the ladies who lunch and then matinee. It may as well have been 1959 except for the salty language and absence of gloves.
We began with a sunny table in the front window - "Great people watching!" the hostess told us as she installed us there - and the best of intentions. I knew the brussels sprouts salad with red onions, bleu cheese, walnuts and red wine vinaigrette was divine, a fact confirmed not once, but four times by our handsome young server, so we both ordered it.
Just before he takes the menus away, my friend looks at me guiltily and tells him, "And the pate."
And by pate, it was really a plate of country pork pate and a massive hunk of chicken liver pate, along with cornichons, mustard and toasted bread, none of which we needed and most of which we downed.
Because it was Chez Foushee, we easily brought down the average age significantly, but also enjoyed basking in the glow of a place so fussy and old-school.
We got so embroiled in discussing my recent post about my past (favorite comment, "Wait, you once dated men older than you?" Sure, when I was 18) that all too soon it was going on 2:00 and we had seats to fill. Luckily Virginia Rep is spitting distance from Chez Foushee.
"Saturday, Sunday, Monday" began with an actor singing "Volare" while playing guitar and went on to tell the tale of an extended Italian family in Naples in 1959 where Mama's not happy and as we all know, if Mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy.
For that matter, nor is Dad, who not only thinks his wife is having an affair with the accountant upstairs, but is also trying to accept that his son is leaving the family business to open his own menswear shop.
All the Italian cliches were in place (except Italian accents): the mythical process of making the weekly Sunday ragu, the strong-willed aunt who's already buried her husband and lover and now dominates her meek son's life, the dutiful daughter trying to carve out her own niche and not follow her mother's path and the doddering grandfather lost in the shuffle.
After a while, you wonder if anyone in Naples is happy. And don't get me started on the dutiful sons who worship at Mama's altar. Catherine Shaffner as Aunt Meme was the most compelling to watch as she espoused higher education and having the courage to be honest to get what you want.
But as my theater-savvy friend and I discussed walking home, no matter what the minor flaws of a play, there's always a great deal of satisfaction simply in watching actors act on the stage.
We parted ways at my house because she was home to sew while I had an assignment to finish before going to school. Tonight was Amour Wine Bistro's "Taste the Terroir" class and no one wants to be tardy for class.
Taking my seat at the bar, some of the other attendees introduced themselves and our teacher began explaining tonight's topic beginning with how to read a wine label in French, Italian and German before moving on to the specifics of terroir.
Naturally this was a class with experiments to prove the teachers' points, meaning two glasses set in front of each of us, both utilizing the same grape but from different regions, the better to assess terroir. So we'd taste a Sauvignon Blanc from the chalky Loire (citrusy) and compare it to one from the hot and sunny Rhone (ripe fruits and herbs) and then enjoy them both with salmon ceviche and grilled bread.
One of the women near me asked her couple date why their friend Kyle had canceled. "Did he get a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding sarcastic.
"No," the husband answered. "He said he had to save his money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone." Everyone within earshot cracked up at hearing this. but I understand. The man has priorities.
We repeated the wine lesson with two Chardonnays from Burgundy served with Comte and bread, and during this discussion period, I was schooled on what is referred to as the "Asian flush," a result of Asians lacking enough of the enzyme dehydrogenase to properly process alcohol.
I know this only because the two Asian women explained it patiently to the rest of us and then half an hour later, showed us their flushed cheeks and ears. Oh, the things we were learning tonight.
It was while we were sussing out the differences in two Pinot Noirs, one from Burgundy (berries, no tannins) and another from Languedoc (cherries, more acidic) that plates of rabbit rilletes arrived, leading to more new information from one of the students.
Seems that when she decided to go vegetarian, she heavily researched proteins and discovered that humans can't rely solely on rabbit as a protein source. "So when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, don't think you can rely on rabbit meat to sustain yourself," she warned us. "Not enough vitamins for survival."
Well, don't you know that led to a round table discussion of cricket-eating and fortunately, we had two firsthand sources for reference. One girl had eaten them in Japan, skewered on a stick and resolved never to eat them again, while a guy had enjoyed them in Mexico, scooped out of a bucket like peanuts, covered in oil, lime juice and cayenne.
"They were tasty, but the legs got stuck in my teeth," he said with a straight face.
Nerdy as I am, I don't remember school ever being as much fun as tonight was turning out to be.
The couple from Petersburg told us that he was soon leaving for Alabama for a year and a half's training learning to fly helicopters. "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one," his chipper wife piped up like a sage.
Her husband grinned. "Can we all just admire that statement: "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one?" he asked, beaming with pride.
Our final experiment involved Cabernet Franc from Loire (blueberries and minerality) and Bordeaux (smoky, full-bodied, velvety) and a plate of Soprasetta arranged to look like a heart. When that was pointed out, a collective "awww" went up from the room and one woman pointed at her mate of a year and a half and announced, "He was super romantic."
"You burned that out of me like the Vikings burned their dead," he said without missing a beat.
Clearly we had a lot of class clowns at school tonight.
By evening's end, everyone agreed that they'd learned plenty and enjoyed the process even more. Turns out tonight was part of a whole series of wine classes Amour is doing, meaning more opportunities to drink for the sake of learning to come.
And speaking of learning, once class was over and everyone was chatting and drinking full glasses of their favorites, one woman shared that she was about to embark on a class in ethical hacking, which sounded a lot like an oxymoron to me.
When I asked if that was really a thing, she answered, "No, not really," which meant yes, but she also hopes it'll help her get a job in this brave new world where people carry their every secret in their phones.
Several of tonight's participants were part of a 2500-person group called "New in Richmond," although some members have lived here for as many as 16 years, which hardly sounds new to me. When I asked what kind of activities the group did, the answer was short and to the point: "Drink!"
I suppose that's one way to get used to Richmond.
Alan Rickman's namecame up and almost everyone there had something to say about a favorite role or movie - Dogma! Truly, Madly, Deeply! Love, Actually, but you have to fast forward through that scene of Carl undressing!- but then people began getting sad because Alan's dead now.
"But wine's not sad," owner Paul said, stepping in and saving the moment by returning us to topic like a good teacher does.
We also had some runners in the group, so the rest of us heard about the difference in how the French do marathons and, let me tell you, it's way better than the way we do them here.
Who knew that at the Paris marathon or the Medoc marathon, there are stops for cheese, chocolate and fine wine? How civilized is that?
Ditto tonight's adventure at school.
In addition to all the laughter and new faces (last question from a recent acquaintance before I left: "You're coming for next week's class, aren't you? Yes, you are!"), I really did further my understanding of terroir with a well-executed lesson plan and the kind of science experiments that can make an Asian flush.
Besides, haven't you heard? The only acceptable excuse for missing out is if you're saving money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone.
Just don't go all Viking and burn out the romance getting there.
Today's challenge was fitting in a whole lot of work around a fair amount of fun that began with a very ladylike plan for the afternoon: walking over to Chez Foushee for lunch, followed by a play at Virginia Rep.
Yes, we were the ladies who lunch and then matinee. It may as well have been 1959 except for the salty language and absence of gloves.
We began with a sunny table in the front window - "Great people watching!" the hostess told us as she installed us there - and the best of intentions. I knew the brussels sprouts salad with red onions, bleu cheese, walnuts and red wine vinaigrette was divine, a fact confirmed not once, but four times by our handsome young server, so we both ordered it.
Just before he takes the menus away, my friend looks at me guiltily and tells him, "And the pate."
And by pate, it was really a plate of country pork pate and a massive hunk of chicken liver pate, along with cornichons, mustard and toasted bread, none of which we needed and most of which we downed.
Because it was Chez Foushee, we easily brought down the average age significantly, but also enjoyed basking in the glow of a place so fussy and old-school.
We got so embroiled in discussing my recent post about my past (favorite comment, "Wait, you once dated men older than you?" Sure, when I was 18) that all too soon it was going on 2:00 and we had seats to fill. Luckily Virginia Rep is spitting distance from Chez Foushee.
"Saturday, Sunday, Monday" began with an actor singing "Volare" while playing guitar and went on to tell the tale of an extended Italian family in Naples in 1959 where Mama's not happy and as we all know, if Mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy.
For that matter, nor is Dad, who not only thinks his wife is having an affair with the accountant upstairs, but is also trying to accept that his son is leaving the family business to open his own menswear shop.
All the Italian cliches were in place (except Italian accents): the mythical process of making the weekly Sunday ragu, the strong-willed aunt who's already buried her husband and lover and now dominates her meek son's life, the dutiful daughter trying to carve out her own niche and not follow her mother's path and the doddering grandfather lost in the shuffle.
After a while, you wonder if anyone in Naples is happy. And don't get me started on the dutiful sons who worship at Mama's altar. Catherine Shaffner as Aunt Meme was the most compelling to watch as she espoused higher education and having the courage to be honest to get what you want.
But as my theater-savvy friend and I discussed walking home, no matter what the minor flaws of a play, there's always a great deal of satisfaction simply in watching actors act on the stage.
We parted ways at my house because she was home to sew while I had an assignment to finish before going to school. Tonight was Amour Wine Bistro's "Taste the Terroir" class and no one wants to be tardy for class.
Taking my seat at the bar, some of the other attendees introduced themselves and our teacher began explaining tonight's topic beginning with how to read a wine label in French, Italian and German before moving on to the specifics of terroir.
Naturally this was a class with experiments to prove the teachers' points, meaning two glasses set in front of each of us, both utilizing the same grape but from different regions, the better to assess terroir. So we'd taste a Sauvignon Blanc from the chalky Loire (citrusy) and compare it to one from the hot and sunny Rhone (ripe fruits and herbs) and then enjoy them both with salmon ceviche and grilled bread.
One of the women near me asked her couple date why their friend Kyle had canceled. "Did he get a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding sarcastic.
"No," the husband answered. "He said he had to save his money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone." Everyone within earshot cracked up at hearing this. but I understand. The man has priorities.
We repeated the wine lesson with two Chardonnays from Burgundy served with Comte and bread, and during this discussion period, I was schooled on what is referred to as the "Asian flush," a result of Asians lacking enough of the enzyme dehydrogenase to properly process alcohol.
I know this only because the two Asian women explained it patiently to the rest of us and then half an hour later, showed us their flushed cheeks and ears. Oh, the things we were learning tonight.
It was while we were sussing out the differences in two Pinot Noirs, one from Burgundy (berries, no tannins) and another from Languedoc (cherries, more acidic) that plates of rabbit rilletes arrived, leading to more new information from one of the students.
Seems that when she decided to go vegetarian, she heavily researched proteins and discovered that humans can't rely solely on rabbit as a protein source. "So when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, don't think you can rely on rabbit meat to sustain yourself," she warned us. "Not enough vitamins for survival."
Well, don't you know that led to a round table discussion of cricket-eating and fortunately, we had two firsthand sources for reference. One girl had eaten them in Japan, skewered on a stick and resolved never to eat them again, while a guy had enjoyed them in Mexico, scooped out of a bucket like peanuts, covered in oil, lime juice and cayenne.
"They were tasty, but the legs got stuck in my teeth," he said with a straight face.
Nerdy as I am, I don't remember school ever being as much fun as tonight was turning out to be.
The couple from Petersburg told us that he was soon leaving for Alabama for a year and a half's training learning to fly helicopters. "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one," his chipper wife piped up like a sage.
Her husband grinned. "Can we all just admire that statement: "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one?" he asked, beaming with pride.
Our final experiment involved Cabernet Franc from Loire (blueberries and minerality) and Bordeaux (smoky, full-bodied, velvety) and a plate of Soprasetta arranged to look like a heart. When that was pointed out, a collective "awww" went up from the room and one woman pointed at her mate of a year and a half and announced, "He was super romantic."
"You burned that out of me like the Vikings burned their dead," he said without missing a beat.
Clearly we had a lot of class clowns at school tonight.
By evening's end, everyone agreed that they'd learned plenty and enjoyed the process even more. Turns out tonight was part of a whole series of wine classes Amour is doing, meaning more opportunities to drink for the sake of learning to come.
And speaking of learning, once class was over and everyone was chatting and drinking full glasses of their favorites, one woman shared that she was about to embark on a class in ethical hacking, which sounded a lot like an oxymoron to me.
When I asked if that was really a thing, she answered, "No, not really," which meant yes, but she also hopes it'll help her get a job in this brave new world where people carry their every secret in their phones.
Several of tonight's participants were part of a 2500-person group called "New in Richmond," although some members have lived here for as many as 16 years, which hardly sounds new to me. When I asked what kind of activities the group did, the answer was short and to the point: "Drink!"
I suppose that's one way to get used to Richmond.
Alan Rickman's namecame up and almost everyone there had something to say about a favorite role or movie - Dogma! Truly, Madly, Deeply! Love, Actually, but you have to fast forward through that scene of Carl undressing!- but then people began getting sad because Alan's dead now.
"But wine's not sad," owner Paul said, stepping in and saving the moment by returning us to topic like a good teacher does.
We also had some runners in the group, so the rest of us heard about the difference in how the French do marathons and, let me tell you, it's way better than the way we do them here.
Who knew that at the Paris marathon or the Medoc marathon, there are stops for cheese, chocolate and fine wine? How civilized is that?
Ditto tonight's adventure at school.
In addition to all the laughter and new faces (last question from a recent acquaintance before I left: "You're coming for next week's class, aren't you? Yes, you are!"), I really did further my understanding of terroir with a well-executed lesson plan and the kind of science experiments that can make an Asian flush.
Besides, haven't you heard? The only acceptable excuse for missing out is if you're saving money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone.
Just don't go all Viking and burn out the romance getting there.
Friday, November 20, 2015
What Lovely Fervor
A good daughter cooks and bakes for her mother and answers her father's questions before going out to play.
"What band sang 'Highway to Hell'?" he asks from the family room. AC/DC, I tell him
"Who was the 'Originator'?" When I say Bo Diddly, he fills in the crossword blanks with a satisfied smile. "Ah, yes!"
At this point, Mom gets involved. "If you need any more assistance, you'd better ask her now before she goes because I can't be of any help to you on this stuff."
I assume that she means she doesn't know anything about music history. "I blocked out that whole rock and roll period!" she says with disdain, although the truth is she's been to multiple Neil Diamond concerts and some of her favorite songs are by Stevie Wonder.
It's all rock at this point, Mom.
Today's road trip to the Northern Neck had been motivated by Mom's bridge luncheon tomorrow, so I'd spent my time helping make chicken noodle soup, chicken salad and a Viennese torte, all of which took a solid three hours and endless conversation.
Answering Dad's questions takes seconds, and that includes him asking me about my love life.
As parents go, mine are pretty cool.
After driving back through a series of rain squalls, I consider my evening's options and decide that Quill Theater's historic play reading series wins out because it's "Luminous One: An Evening with Ethel Barrymore" and I know nothing about the woman besides that she's a distant relation to Drew.
It doesn't hurt that it's being presented at the Branch House and while I've already seen the new exhibit, I certainly don't mind seeing it again. To my amazement, I overhear a woman say she's lived in Richmond for 17 years and never been in the building.
"What is this place?" she inquires of her clueless friend. Tragic.
I, on the other hand, am enchanted to find the heavy leaded windows are open on this unusually balmy, wet November evening, allowing the moist air inside. This fact alone makes the evening special.
The one-woman show, ably written and directed by Melissa Rayford and starring the reliably impressive Melissa Johnston-Price is set in Richmond and kicks off with its premise.
"I've been asked to write a memoir. Horrors!" Ethel exclaims, standing next to a typewriter. From there, she reminisces about some of what's happened in her life, never writing a word.
She talks about her grandmother who "experimented with marriage" (haven't we all?), her memories of going to the Jefferson for the wedding of Charles Dana Gibson and Irene Langhorne, saying, "By the time she married, she'd had 60 proposals," and dancing on the Jefferson's rooftop garden the night before.
And, like my Dad, Ethel's father kept his word count to strictly what was necessary. When she cabled that she was getting married ("I was constantly trying to let myself get married and it never worked"), he responded with, "Congratulations. Love, Father."
When she broke the engagement and cabled her father the change in events, he responded, "Congratulations. Love, Father."
Turns out Ethel's life involved Winston Churchill, Henry James, the Duke of Manchester, Teddy Roosevelt and Spencer Tracy while wearing black, white and gray clothing because they were cheapest.
Apparently the Barrymores are known for two things: mismanaging money and drinking excessively.
In a particularly telling moment, Ethel complained about the current generation expecting art to be an instantaneous pleasure. As if. Or, as Ethel put it, "If you don't like it, you need to figure out why!"
When the reading ended, we broke for a dessert buffet and mingling. In the course of commiserating about the evils of Verizon, I manged to devour four little sweeties, as my Scottish friend would say, followed by chatting with a handsome stranger.
My mother and her sweet tooth would be proud.
A panel discussion followed, where we gleaned obscure tidbits such as the fact that if Drew Barrymore's children become actors, they'll represent 300 years of Barrymores in the profession. And how Ethel's hair was imitated just like Jennifer Aniston's was a century later. That the Barrymores gave each other red apples on opening night.
Yet another fine Ethel-ism: "You grow up the day you have your first laugh...at yourself."
The logical place to end my evening was celebrating the third Thursday of November, also known as the day Beaujolais Nouveau is released and as good an excuse as any to visit Amour, enjoy some young wines and sample Beaujolais Nouveau sorbet (while patting myself on the back for missing last night's guests).
Not only is this years' Georges du Boeuf Beaujolais Noveau far better than the usual bubblegum-flavored sipper, but one of last year's Noveaus has aged amazingly well and how often does that happen?
My favorite French teacher and part-time model tries to convince me to consider modeling in local fashion shows and I wonder how I would like being looked at for wearing clothes not my own. The entire bar discusses the difference in "cruise people" and "boat people."
In the strictest sense, I qualify for neither. On the other hand, I've been proposed to eight times, I've experimented with marriage and I've laughed at myself for as long as I can remember.
And you know what I'd hear from the Northern Neck about that?
Congratulations. Love, Dad.
"What band sang 'Highway to Hell'?" he asks from the family room. AC/DC, I tell him
"Who was the 'Originator'?" When I say Bo Diddly, he fills in the crossword blanks with a satisfied smile. "Ah, yes!"
At this point, Mom gets involved. "If you need any more assistance, you'd better ask her now before she goes because I can't be of any help to you on this stuff."
I assume that she means she doesn't know anything about music history. "I blocked out that whole rock and roll period!" she says with disdain, although the truth is she's been to multiple Neil Diamond concerts and some of her favorite songs are by Stevie Wonder.
It's all rock at this point, Mom.
Today's road trip to the Northern Neck had been motivated by Mom's bridge luncheon tomorrow, so I'd spent my time helping make chicken noodle soup, chicken salad and a Viennese torte, all of which took a solid three hours and endless conversation.
Answering Dad's questions takes seconds, and that includes him asking me about my love life.
As parents go, mine are pretty cool.
After driving back through a series of rain squalls, I consider my evening's options and decide that Quill Theater's historic play reading series wins out because it's "Luminous One: An Evening with Ethel Barrymore" and I know nothing about the woman besides that she's a distant relation to Drew.
It doesn't hurt that it's being presented at the Branch House and while I've already seen the new exhibit, I certainly don't mind seeing it again. To my amazement, I overhear a woman say she's lived in Richmond for 17 years and never been in the building.
"What is this place?" she inquires of her clueless friend. Tragic.
I, on the other hand, am enchanted to find the heavy leaded windows are open on this unusually balmy, wet November evening, allowing the moist air inside. This fact alone makes the evening special.
The one-woman show, ably written and directed by Melissa Rayford and starring the reliably impressive Melissa Johnston-Price is set in Richmond and kicks off with its premise.
"I've been asked to write a memoir. Horrors!" Ethel exclaims, standing next to a typewriter. From there, she reminisces about some of what's happened in her life, never writing a word.
She talks about her grandmother who "experimented with marriage" (haven't we all?), her memories of going to the Jefferson for the wedding of Charles Dana Gibson and Irene Langhorne, saying, "By the time she married, she'd had 60 proposals," and dancing on the Jefferson's rooftop garden the night before.
And, like my Dad, Ethel's father kept his word count to strictly what was necessary. When she cabled that she was getting married ("I was constantly trying to let myself get married and it never worked"), he responded with, "Congratulations. Love, Father."
When she broke the engagement and cabled her father the change in events, he responded, "Congratulations. Love, Father."
Turns out Ethel's life involved Winston Churchill, Henry James, the Duke of Manchester, Teddy Roosevelt and Spencer Tracy while wearing black, white and gray clothing because they were cheapest.
Apparently the Barrymores are known for two things: mismanaging money and drinking excessively.
In a particularly telling moment, Ethel complained about the current generation expecting art to be an instantaneous pleasure. As if. Or, as Ethel put it, "If you don't like it, you need to figure out why!"
When the reading ended, we broke for a dessert buffet and mingling. In the course of commiserating about the evils of Verizon, I manged to devour four little sweeties, as my Scottish friend would say, followed by chatting with a handsome stranger.
My mother and her sweet tooth would be proud.
A panel discussion followed, where we gleaned obscure tidbits such as the fact that if Drew Barrymore's children become actors, they'll represent 300 years of Barrymores in the profession. And how Ethel's hair was imitated just like Jennifer Aniston's was a century later. That the Barrymores gave each other red apples on opening night.
Yet another fine Ethel-ism: "You grow up the day you have your first laugh...at yourself."
The logical place to end my evening was celebrating the third Thursday of November, also known as the day Beaujolais Nouveau is released and as good an excuse as any to visit Amour, enjoy some young wines and sample Beaujolais Nouveau sorbet (while patting myself on the back for missing last night's guests).
Not only is this years' Georges du Boeuf Beaujolais Noveau far better than the usual bubblegum-flavored sipper, but one of last year's Noveaus has aged amazingly well and how often does that happen?
My favorite French teacher and part-time model tries to convince me to consider modeling in local fashion shows and I wonder how I would like being looked at for wearing clothes not my own. The entire bar discusses the difference in "cruise people" and "boat people."
In the strictest sense, I qualify for neither. On the other hand, I've been proposed to eight times, I've experimented with marriage and I've laughed at myself for as long as I can remember.
And you know what I'd hear from the Northern Neck about that?
Congratulations. Love, Dad.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
How Long is Too Long?
The thing about getting older is you realize there are no answers, only stories. Tonight brought me some really excellent storytellers.
Let's start with L. Doug Wilder, who was talking at the Library of Virginia tonight about his memoir, "Son of Virginia: Life in America's Political Arena."
The man is 84, was a state senator for 16 years, made Lieutenant Governor in 1985 and became the country's first black governor in 1989. Oh, right, and the first popularly-elected Richmond mayor in 60 years.
Naturally, he had some mighty fine stories with a history like that. Or as the RTD newsman who introduced him put it, "He's been good copy for 40 years."
From stories of his stint in the military in Korea ("My first experience being, eating and sleeping with whites, sharing the same experiences") to being appointed to the NAACP council by Thurgood Marshall ("We met at Slaughter's Hotel, where everyone met") to politics being the last thing he wanted to get involved in ("But I kept running my mouth"), he regaled us in his distinctive cadence, his voice rising and falling with inflection.
He bragged a little about his law firm being the first - black or white - in Church Hill and his back roads barnstorming campaign in which he never stayed in a hotel, only with voters ("I carried southwest Virginia, can you imagine? Show me a Democrat now who can carry southwest Virginia!").
Yes, he recalled chasing a young Arthur Ashe off the tennis courts, but he also was responsible for Ashe's body lying in state ("The last person to lie in state was Stonewall Jackson!") and 5,000 people coming to pay their respects. Well done, sir.
When asked Hillary ("She needs to be innovative and show that things won't be business as usual") or Bernie ("He's going to have a difficult time explaining socialism to a country that still fears it"), he was diplomatic, making the point that when you have a new poll come out every day, something is drastically wrong.
The fact is, he was unfailingly lively, funny and completely at ease, whether sharing anecdotes from his colorful past or taking the audience's questions. The combative Wilder of old was nowhere in evidence and the stories were pure gold.
Hate on him as a politician all you want, but as an octogenarian, the guy had spunk and a terrific memory.
Walking out, I ran into my favorite city councilman and former neighbor and his first question was about where I was off to.
That was easy: to meet a visiting septuagenarian, her former roommate (aka Pru's delightful mother) and a favorite couple at Amour for dinner.
Starting with a fun wine - a sparkling gamay called "G," fruity on the front and dry on the finish - and humor - "It'll hit the spot" - I took a seat across from the visitor from Mexico, eager to get to know the woman I'd heard so much about. The first things I learn are that she's a chef and rents part of her house on Airbnb, leaving her plenty of time to enjoy life.
Over the four hours we spend eating and drinking, one thing became obvious to us all: this tiny woman and I were cut from the same cloth. Showing me pictures of her house, I see a bedroom with violet and fuchsia walls, an orange coverlet and art everywhere. I could move in tomorrow and not change a thing.
But here's the clincher: when someone brought up that I'm a Luddite, I admitted to not having a cell phone. Her eyes lit up. "So? I don't have one either!" Beau, sitting across from me, rolled his eyes. "The two people on the planet who don't have a cell phone, right here at this table."
Lucky man. He had our undivided attention.
Bottles of beautifully crisp J. Fritsch Riesling accompany a cheese plate, a charcuterie plate, onion tarts, onion soup and two vegetarian plates while the visitor enjoys flounder and ratatouille and tells me about nursing one of the members of the New Riders of the Purple Sage.
We have an especially good time talking about how she likes to unwind and the product she's developing, which involves personal lubrication, among other things. When the subject of 15-minute orgasms comes up, everyone around the table is quick to clarify that 15 minutes is too long.
"Oh, no, it's not!" this feisty woman insists and I feel sure she knows of what she speaks.
Sure of what she wants and what she wants to know, she doesn't hesitate to ask questions ("Do you know when this fish was caught?") and impart opinions about the food ("This gelato needs salt. Just a little to brighten it up") to the owner.
Meanwhile, she regales us with tales of the recent Day of the Dead celebration just before she left Mexico, how much she was enjoying the Boathouse's oysters at lunch today and her hope to be green-lit on her flight back so her luggage doesn't get checked. She wants to return with a lot of, er, souvenirs.
When the subject of her gardener comes up, Pru interjects about how the man ogled her in the shower from above on one of her visits, causing jokes to fly. Better to be ogled than not, yes?
She pays me what is probably the best possible compliment, not because she says that I'm lovely, but because she also observes that I am completely present in the moment.
And why not? I may not get ogled from above, but there always seems to be something interesting going on right in front of me. Maybe that's the luck of getting older.
Let's start with L. Doug Wilder, who was talking at the Library of Virginia tonight about his memoir, "Son of Virginia: Life in America's Political Arena."
The man is 84, was a state senator for 16 years, made Lieutenant Governor in 1985 and became the country's first black governor in 1989. Oh, right, and the first popularly-elected Richmond mayor in 60 years.
Naturally, he had some mighty fine stories with a history like that. Or as the RTD newsman who introduced him put it, "He's been good copy for 40 years."
From stories of his stint in the military in Korea ("My first experience being, eating and sleeping with whites, sharing the same experiences") to being appointed to the NAACP council by Thurgood Marshall ("We met at Slaughter's Hotel, where everyone met") to politics being the last thing he wanted to get involved in ("But I kept running my mouth"), he regaled us in his distinctive cadence, his voice rising and falling with inflection.
He bragged a little about his law firm being the first - black or white - in Church Hill and his back roads barnstorming campaign in which he never stayed in a hotel, only with voters ("I carried southwest Virginia, can you imagine? Show me a Democrat now who can carry southwest Virginia!").
Yes, he recalled chasing a young Arthur Ashe off the tennis courts, but he also was responsible for Ashe's body lying in state ("The last person to lie in state was Stonewall Jackson!") and 5,000 people coming to pay their respects. Well done, sir.
When asked Hillary ("She needs to be innovative and show that things won't be business as usual") or Bernie ("He's going to have a difficult time explaining socialism to a country that still fears it"), he was diplomatic, making the point that when you have a new poll come out every day, something is drastically wrong.
The fact is, he was unfailingly lively, funny and completely at ease, whether sharing anecdotes from his colorful past or taking the audience's questions. The combative Wilder of old was nowhere in evidence and the stories were pure gold.
Hate on him as a politician all you want, but as an octogenarian, the guy had spunk and a terrific memory.
Walking out, I ran into my favorite city councilman and former neighbor and his first question was about where I was off to.
That was easy: to meet a visiting septuagenarian, her former roommate (aka Pru's delightful mother) and a favorite couple at Amour for dinner.
Starting with a fun wine - a sparkling gamay called "G," fruity on the front and dry on the finish - and humor - "It'll hit the spot" - I took a seat across from the visitor from Mexico, eager to get to know the woman I'd heard so much about. The first things I learn are that she's a chef and rents part of her house on Airbnb, leaving her plenty of time to enjoy life.
Over the four hours we spend eating and drinking, one thing became obvious to us all: this tiny woman and I were cut from the same cloth. Showing me pictures of her house, I see a bedroom with violet and fuchsia walls, an orange coverlet and art everywhere. I could move in tomorrow and not change a thing.
But here's the clincher: when someone brought up that I'm a Luddite, I admitted to not having a cell phone. Her eyes lit up. "So? I don't have one either!" Beau, sitting across from me, rolled his eyes. "The two people on the planet who don't have a cell phone, right here at this table."
Lucky man. He had our undivided attention.
Bottles of beautifully crisp J. Fritsch Riesling accompany a cheese plate, a charcuterie plate, onion tarts, onion soup and two vegetarian plates while the visitor enjoys flounder and ratatouille and tells me about nursing one of the members of the New Riders of the Purple Sage.
We have an especially good time talking about how she likes to unwind and the product she's developing, which involves personal lubrication, among other things. When the subject of 15-minute orgasms comes up, everyone around the table is quick to clarify that 15 minutes is too long.
"Oh, no, it's not!" this feisty woman insists and I feel sure she knows of what she speaks.
Sure of what she wants and what she wants to know, she doesn't hesitate to ask questions ("Do you know when this fish was caught?") and impart opinions about the food ("This gelato needs salt. Just a little to brighten it up") to the owner.
Meanwhile, she regales us with tales of the recent Day of the Dead celebration just before she left Mexico, how much she was enjoying the Boathouse's oysters at lunch today and her hope to be green-lit on her flight back so her luggage doesn't get checked. She wants to return with a lot of, er, souvenirs.
When the subject of her gardener comes up, Pru interjects about how the man ogled her in the shower from above on one of her visits, causing jokes to fly. Better to be ogled than not, yes?
She pays me what is probably the best possible compliment, not because she says that I'm lovely, but because she also observes that I am completely present in the moment.
And why not? I may not get ogled from above, but there always seems to be something interesting going on right in front of me. Maybe that's the luck of getting older.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Food is Memories
It's a pretty terrific lunch that makes people change their evening plans.
Unlike last year, I hadn't bothered with Fire, Flour and Fork at all this time around. That is, at least until today's irresistible lunch, poetically dubbed the 100 Meter Journey.
Unlike some people there, I immediately got the reference, having seen the film "The Hundred Foot Journey" last September at the Bowtie.
So I knew about the story of an Indian family (and their talented son who cooks) having to flee their home and restaurant due to political unrest before landing in France to open a restaurant, hilariously named Maison Mumbai, across the street from a one Michelin star French restaurant run by the imperious Helen Mirren.
I recall fondly that there were two romances, the young (attractive and earnest Indian chef and bike-riding French sous chef) and old (uptight French widow and garrulous Indian widower) to remind us that food and love go hand in hand. The lesson? Fine cuisine is not an old, tired marriage but a passionate affair.
The upshot of the movie was simple: food is memories.
So when I saw that Amour Wine Bistro and Curry Craft were combining forces for this 100 meter journey as part of FFF, I wanted some of that passion.
Arriving as a singleton guaranteed that I'd be seated with whomever had room for me, which negated any chance of sitting with any of the people I saw and knew.
Fortunately, though, it landed me at a table with familiar faces, two handsome guys I've repeatedly met around town at wine dinners and restaurants, where they welcomed me in. Another stray joined us and we were four.
I knew from past encounters how much fun these two can be, as evidenced by their favorite parlor game when at Lemaire. It's called "Wife, daughter, hooker?" and they play it any time they see a younger woman with an older man at the Jefferson.
Good times.
Today's journey began humorously with Kir Royals and Amour's French owner Paul welcoming us to, "Fi - ah - I hate that word - fi-ah, flour, whatever it is!"
Whatever it was, we were about to find out.
Our first course of shrimp and grits "Pondicherry," which was Curry Craft's chef Mel Oza's sassy take on the southern staple, set a high bar for the rest of the meal. Using upma with aromatic spices instead of grits, he'd created a fresh take on a ubiquitous standard.
Savoring it with Cave de Beblenheim Heimberger Pinot Blanc, I polished it off right down to the tasty nasturtium leaves adorning the plate.
My table companions had already been to multiple FFF events and proceeded to regale me with details about them, both food and people-wise. Someone mentioned that at the afterparty at Pasture last night, the chef had roasted a whole pig.
"That's right up Jason's alley," one of the guys commented, not realizing until the words came out his own cleverness given that Jason's last name is Alley. Hearing about the dinner at L'Opossum, I wasn't the least surprised to hear of the giant statue of David on the roof or the marquee name guest.
But all conversation ceased when cups of French onion consomme arrived, a crusty circle of a giant crouton atop each one and paired with another Beblenheim, this time a lovely, dry Riesling that set off the savory soup to perfection.
The last few spoonfuls of Chef Rob's soup-soaked bread were nothing short of sublime.
We were knee-deep in conversation about eating out habits - trying new places versus craving familiar favorites - when cordial glasses of Calvados sorbet arrived, fetchingly garnished with apple slices. Our table must have been very, very good because we each got two.
Okay, so they actually had a few left over and we were happy to sip more Calvados.
Sadly then, one in our group had to leave (prior engagement involving flowers), reducing us to a trio, but the loss was his.
The room was considerably louder by that point, no doubt due to several rounds of wine but also, maybe, because it was a gloomy, gray day outside and we were all comfortably ensconced inside with this parade of French and Indian-influenced food to keep us happily occupied.
Familiar faces continued to stop by my table on their path to the bathrooms, spurring discussions of thrift store dresses (hers and mine), over-priced oysters and why it's easy to skip certain restaurants.
Slow-roasted salmon with Allepy spices melted in our mouths (was that a hint of Pernod?) but just as gorgeous were the accompanying root vegetables - radishes, leeks, local carrots -and the decadent cardamom-ginger emulsion they were swimming in, washed down with Jean Sablenay Touraine Sauvignon Blanc, a seductive sipper.
By this point, we were probably three hours into our lunch and had already learned that chefs are terrible with microphones.
As we began each course, the chef who'd prepared it (Rob of Amour or Mel of Curry Craft) would talk about the dish, barely speaking into the mic and completely unintelligible from our perch in the back. But Paul, the former DJ, was a master with the mic talking about the wine pairings, projecting his voice to the rafters, even to us.
Cue disco ball. Some jobs just require an experienced DJ.
Our first red wine, Chateau Michel de Montaigne Bergerac 2012, delivered black fruit and spice, an ideal pairing for beef bourguignon with a veal demi-glace and the most adorable miniature fresh vegetables I've ever seen, truly tiny.
It was about then that my seatmate looked at his watch, wondered aloud about making his flight to Texas tonight and made an executive decision to reschedule.
For that matter, I was starting to reevaluate my own plans to go out tonight. It was already obvious that it would be well after 5:00 when this lunch finally wound down, so perhaps I should reconsider 6:00 plans.
After all, we hadn't seen the dessert cart - more lyrically labeled "le chariot de desserts" - go by yet and this Cremant d'Alsace wasn't going to drink itself.
On the cart's first pass, we snagged Lilliputian chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulees and what resembled chocolate bar bells: dark chocolate covered coconut sorbet and chocolate-covered marshmallows connected by a wooden skewer.
As owner Paul put it, "If you don't like chocolate, you're in trouble." I was in the opposite of trouble.
On the cart's next trip by, we got Chef Mel's take on a sweet course, which included rice pudding and got us talking about what an old-fashioned dessert it was.
"In my family, on Fridays, we used to have steak, Cold Duck and rice pudding," my seatmate recalled fondly. "When I got a little older, they even gave me some Cold Duck." Some parents can be so cruel.
The point of his stroll down Memory Lane? "I want my rice pudding," he announced and, let's face it, that's not something you hear every day.
And of course Chef Mel hadn't made a lackluster rice pudding. No, this one had Indian spices blended in and a compote of figs, pistachios, cardamom and red wine surrounding it. Fabulous and, I'm willing to bet, as far removed from my new friend's childhood rice pudding as imaginable.
We also had little ramekins of kulfi flavored with cacao, chilis and rose petals, a beautifully balanced marriage of unlikely flavors that ended lunch on a high note.
By this time, Paul and Mel were cracking wise about their inspiration for the lunch, joking that in lieu of flying in an Indian chef for FFF, Paul had brought in Mel from east Carytown's Indian neighborhood two blocks away.
I've heard it said that fine cuisine is a passionate affair, not an old, tired marriage. Today's lunch ably demonstrated that some people can go at it for five straight hours and keep things exciting.
And if you don't like that kind of action, my friend, you're in trouble.
Unlike last year, I hadn't bothered with Fire, Flour and Fork at all this time around. That is, at least until today's irresistible lunch, poetically dubbed the 100 Meter Journey.
Unlike some people there, I immediately got the reference, having seen the film "The Hundred Foot Journey" last September at the Bowtie.
So I knew about the story of an Indian family (and their talented son who cooks) having to flee their home and restaurant due to political unrest before landing in France to open a restaurant, hilariously named Maison Mumbai, across the street from a one Michelin star French restaurant run by the imperious Helen Mirren.
I recall fondly that there were two romances, the young (attractive and earnest Indian chef and bike-riding French sous chef) and old (uptight French widow and garrulous Indian widower) to remind us that food and love go hand in hand. The lesson? Fine cuisine is not an old, tired marriage but a passionate affair.
The upshot of the movie was simple: food is memories.
So when I saw that Amour Wine Bistro and Curry Craft were combining forces for this 100 meter journey as part of FFF, I wanted some of that passion.
Arriving as a singleton guaranteed that I'd be seated with whomever had room for me, which negated any chance of sitting with any of the people I saw and knew.
Fortunately, though, it landed me at a table with familiar faces, two handsome guys I've repeatedly met around town at wine dinners and restaurants, where they welcomed me in. Another stray joined us and we were four.
I knew from past encounters how much fun these two can be, as evidenced by their favorite parlor game when at Lemaire. It's called "Wife, daughter, hooker?" and they play it any time they see a younger woman with an older man at the Jefferson.
Good times.
Today's journey began humorously with Kir Royals and Amour's French owner Paul welcoming us to, "Fi - ah - I hate that word - fi-ah, flour, whatever it is!"
Whatever it was, we were about to find out.
Our first course of shrimp and grits "Pondicherry," which was Curry Craft's chef Mel Oza's sassy take on the southern staple, set a high bar for the rest of the meal. Using upma with aromatic spices instead of grits, he'd created a fresh take on a ubiquitous standard.
Savoring it with Cave de Beblenheim Heimberger Pinot Blanc, I polished it off right down to the tasty nasturtium leaves adorning the plate.
My table companions had already been to multiple FFF events and proceeded to regale me with details about them, both food and people-wise. Someone mentioned that at the afterparty at Pasture last night, the chef had roasted a whole pig.
"That's right up Jason's alley," one of the guys commented, not realizing until the words came out his own cleverness given that Jason's last name is Alley. Hearing about the dinner at L'Opossum, I wasn't the least surprised to hear of the giant statue of David on the roof or the marquee name guest.
But all conversation ceased when cups of French onion consomme arrived, a crusty circle of a giant crouton atop each one and paired with another Beblenheim, this time a lovely, dry Riesling that set off the savory soup to perfection.
The last few spoonfuls of Chef Rob's soup-soaked bread were nothing short of sublime.
We were knee-deep in conversation about eating out habits - trying new places versus craving familiar favorites - when cordial glasses of Calvados sorbet arrived, fetchingly garnished with apple slices. Our table must have been very, very good because we each got two.
Okay, so they actually had a few left over and we were happy to sip more Calvados.
Sadly then, one in our group had to leave (prior engagement involving flowers), reducing us to a trio, but the loss was his.
The room was considerably louder by that point, no doubt due to several rounds of wine but also, maybe, because it was a gloomy, gray day outside and we were all comfortably ensconced inside with this parade of French and Indian-influenced food to keep us happily occupied.
Familiar faces continued to stop by my table on their path to the bathrooms, spurring discussions of thrift store dresses (hers and mine), over-priced oysters and why it's easy to skip certain restaurants.
Slow-roasted salmon with Allepy spices melted in our mouths (was that a hint of Pernod?) but just as gorgeous were the accompanying root vegetables - radishes, leeks, local carrots -and the decadent cardamom-ginger emulsion they were swimming in, washed down with Jean Sablenay Touraine Sauvignon Blanc, a seductive sipper.
By this point, we were probably three hours into our lunch and had already learned that chefs are terrible with microphones.
As we began each course, the chef who'd prepared it (Rob of Amour or Mel of Curry Craft) would talk about the dish, barely speaking into the mic and completely unintelligible from our perch in the back. But Paul, the former DJ, was a master with the mic talking about the wine pairings, projecting his voice to the rafters, even to us.
Cue disco ball. Some jobs just require an experienced DJ.
Our first red wine, Chateau Michel de Montaigne Bergerac 2012, delivered black fruit and spice, an ideal pairing for beef bourguignon with a veal demi-glace and the most adorable miniature fresh vegetables I've ever seen, truly tiny.
It was about then that my seatmate looked at his watch, wondered aloud about making his flight to Texas tonight and made an executive decision to reschedule.
For that matter, I was starting to reevaluate my own plans to go out tonight. It was already obvious that it would be well after 5:00 when this lunch finally wound down, so perhaps I should reconsider 6:00 plans.
After all, we hadn't seen the dessert cart - more lyrically labeled "le chariot de desserts" - go by yet and this Cremant d'Alsace wasn't going to drink itself.
On the cart's first pass, we snagged Lilliputian chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulees and what resembled chocolate bar bells: dark chocolate covered coconut sorbet and chocolate-covered marshmallows connected by a wooden skewer.
As owner Paul put it, "If you don't like chocolate, you're in trouble." I was in the opposite of trouble.
On the cart's next trip by, we got Chef Mel's take on a sweet course, which included rice pudding and got us talking about what an old-fashioned dessert it was.
"In my family, on Fridays, we used to have steak, Cold Duck and rice pudding," my seatmate recalled fondly. "When I got a little older, they even gave me some Cold Duck." Some parents can be so cruel.
The point of his stroll down Memory Lane? "I want my rice pudding," he announced and, let's face it, that's not something you hear every day.
And of course Chef Mel hadn't made a lackluster rice pudding. No, this one had Indian spices blended in and a compote of figs, pistachios, cardamom and red wine surrounding it. Fabulous and, I'm willing to bet, as far removed from my new friend's childhood rice pudding as imaginable.
We also had little ramekins of kulfi flavored with cacao, chilis and rose petals, a beautifully balanced marriage of unlikely flavors that ended lunch on a high note.
By this time, Paul and Mel were cracking wise about their inspiration for the lunch, joking that in lieu of flying in an Indian chef for FFF, Paul had brought in Mel from east Carytown's Indian neighborhood two blocks away.
I've heard it said that fine cuisine is a passionate affair, not an old, tired marriage. Today's lunch ably demonstrated that some people can go at it for five straight hours and keep things exciting.
And if you don't like that kind of action, my friend, you're in trouble.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Dig It, No Mark
You can feel it in the air: something's coming.
The crazy breezes, the hide and seek humidity, the sudden cool, the encyclopedia of clouds in the sky, all of it seems to be the opening act for whatever (notice the caps) Weather Event is hitting us this weekend.
I'm the first to say - after qualifications, of course (no one wishes for bad things to happen to good people) - bring it on. We can't stop it, so may as well accept it. Embrace it even.
Walking down Cary Street after stopping in Chop Suey Books, I know I reveled in the warmth and stormy promise of the last of the daylight air. I'd set my sights on Amour's happy hour to feed and entertain me.
A guy at the bar was already working his way through the happy hour small plates, with the intention of doing the prix fixe meal afterwards. I admired his ambition (and stomach), but he explained it had been a couple months since he'd been in and he intended to make up for it.
The owner asked how many were joining me (zero) and made sure I knew that Wednesdays were date nights. Does it have to be a real date, I inquired?
"We're not following you to check on what you do after the meal," he assured me. Later, when another table said they intended to swap plates and they hoped that was acceptable on date night, he informed them, "Who you swap with is not my business now or later."
Like I said, I was dateless, but I did order the three specials: duck rillettes, almond pesto shitake mushroom caps with crumbled bacon and black and blue gougieres, each served with a small pour of the ideal pairing because, let's face it, that's what Amour does incredibly well.
Waiting for my food I got the bar sitter's story which included his career as an ER nurse and 20 years in West Point, leading to an admission that he's spent the past five years trying to regain his sense of smell after two decades inhaling the putrid outpourings of the paper mills on the waterfront.
I wished him luck before he went on to educate me about the three rivers there. Turns out the Mataponi is fresh water and the Pamunkey and York brackish and this is why he, his family and others in the area fought for 15 years against a reservoir to serve Newport News.
"You take out ten million gallons of fresh water and who's to say that river stays fresh water?" he asked rhetorically. The most I could offer was my Pamunkey viewing from a distance story and he approved of the long view
The rillettes got me started, the gougieres dazzled with black olives and bleu cheese and as I all but licked the plate under the shitake caps, a server (the one who'd described the post- bike race city as currently under a "blissed- out chill) gave me the nod, saying, "Told you you'd dig it."
Dig I had, all three, especially so well paired.
We were joined by an EMT and before I could get much more from her, she and the nurse were doing a comparison of who could do what in their respective job, what drugs have to be dripped and why she would never consider working all weekend nights like he happily does.
She shared that drinking heightens her senses, so kitty litter really offends her after a couple glasses of wine. Even her skin is more sensitive when drinking. Well then, I began, sounds like it should be the ideal time to...
"Oh, I do," she said authoritatively, not even letting me finish. Some bars just reliably provide colorful conversation.
By the time I left there (and them discussing intubation), it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
Walking up to the door, I heard my name called and there was the one guitarist friend I'd expected to see tonight, having a smoke with a staffer. My first question was when the show might start since he was talking to the door guy, who, if he was outside, probably meant no time soon.
The all-girl opening band Myrrias, from Philly, had hit traffic so the show would begin shortly. Asking about their sound, my friend cut off the door guy's description, reassuring me that I would like them. After years of talking music, he's someone who knows my sound and theirs, he said, was it.
I stayed long enough to discuss the recent Kepone ("They were good in the '90s, broke up and got back and didn't embarrass themselves. Those guys can really play, unlike a lot of these younger bands," door man pronounced) show I'd recently missed
Inside, I got half the length of the dining room before hearing my name called again, this time two music-loving couples I know. Like me, they're loving this beachy breezy blowing we're getting and fondly recalled a past hurricane that involved mushrooms and a prolonged storm-watching session on the porch.
We all have our hurricane rituals. Talk of tropical storm party planning are already ubiquitous on Facebook.
After paying the same door guy I'd already talked to, he asked if I wanted my hand stamped. What was this? He always draws something on each paying guest's hand.
Since when do I have a choice, I ask? He knows me, he says, so he doesn't need to mark me any more.
Wait, since when? He's known me for years, I remind him. "Since now. Since this moment. It's a new era." I enter the back room unmarked for the first time.
There, I heard about an upcoming show by a cover band and not just any cover band but one that does nothing but Tom Waits and the Smiths. They're called Tom Smith, if you can believe that. I can only anticipate what a hoot that'll be.
Myrrias was a trio tonight of bass, keys and drums, but only because their guitarist had had a family emergency. Even with one less vocal and no guitar, their sound was, as my friend had assured me, right up my alley.
Dreamy, multiple vocalists, vocal effects and, most importantly, that music from a cave sound I adore. I'd love to hear them as a quartet.
Midway through their set, the bass player announces, "I'm really hoping to try the food here It looks really good. I hope the kitchen is still open when we finish." Alas, no, a shame because the food's good, as my friends up front had mentioned, not eaten here myself a couple days ago.
During the break between bands, four guys sat down at the table next to me, unexpectedly providing all kinds of entertainment. One guy told a story of asking s girl to dinner, only to have her cancel at the last minute.
Her reason? She'd found out he drove a 1988 Ford Explorer and told him she didn't want to sound shallow, but it wouldn't work out because they wanted different things out of life.
"What did she think she discovered about me by what I drive?" he asked, a fair question, and a thoughtful one for his tender youth. "I have a job and I love my old car. So what?"
Be glad you found out before you wasted a dime on her, my friend. Girls like that are a dime a dozen and still overpriced.
I gave him credit, though, because when White Laces took the stage ("Thanks for braving the hurricane," leader Landis humorously greeted us, causing the kid next to me to say, "There's not any hurricane"), he went up and stood front and center, leaving his buddies to a back table and their phones.
At one point, he came back to the table, but all three (including no hurricane guy) had their eyes glued to their phones while the band was playing and though he tried to mock them by crouching down to take a picture of them, not a one noticed.
He gave up and went back up front. Meanwhile, I'd positioned myself for near-perfect sound and since White Laces never disappoints, I was like a pig in slop.
Playing songs from their first album all the way to songs from their upcoming album, they did their usual flawless execution, guitars ringing, drums everywhere and keys winding in and out of every song.
I hadn't known, but tonight's their last show until March, with a new album in January, making me doubly glad I'd wandered out on this beautiful night to hear them.
I don't want to sound shallow, but feed me like one of your French girls and rock me like a hurricane.
Sometimes that's exactly what a girl needs out of life.
The crazy breezes, the hide and seek humidity, the sudden cool, the encyclopedia of clouds in the sky, all of it seems to be the opening act for whatever (notice the caps) Weather Event is hitting us this weekend.
I'm the first to say - after qualifications, of course (no one wishes for bad things to happen to good people) - bring it on. We can't stop it, so may as well accept it. Embrace it even.
Walking down Cary Street after stopping in Chop Suey Books, I know I reveled in the warmth and stormy promise of the last of the daylight air. I'd set my sights on Amour's happy hour to feed and entertain me.
A guy at the bar was already working his way through the happy hour small plates, with the intention of doing the prix fixe meal afterwards. I admired his ambition (and stomach), but he explained it had been a couple months since he'd been in and he intended to make up for it.
The owner asked how many were joining me (zero) and made sure I knew that Wednesdays were date nights. Does it have to be a real date, I inquired?
"We're not following you to check on what you do after the meal," he assured me. Later, when another table said they intended to swap plates and they hoped that was acceptable on date night, he informed them, "Who you swap with is not my business now or later."
Like I said, I was dateless, but I did order the three specials: duck rillettes, almond pesto shitake mushroom caps with crumbled bacon and black and blue gougieres, each served with a small pour of the ideal pairing because, let's face it, that's what Amour does incredibly well.
Waiting for my food I got the bar sitter's story which included his career as an ER nurse and 20 years in West Point, leading to an admission that he's spent the past five years trying to regain his sense of smell after two decades inhaling the putrid outpourings of the paper mills on the waterfront.
I wished him luck before he went on to educate me about the three rivers there. Turns out the Mataponi is fresh water and the Pamunkey and York brackish and this is why he, his family and others in the area fought for 15 years against a reservoir to serve Newport News.
"You take out ten million gallons of fresh water and who's to say that river stays fresh water?" he asked rhetorically. The most I could offer was my Pamunkey viewing from a distance story and he approved of the long view
The rillettes got me started, the gougieres dazzled with black olives and bleu cheese and as I all but licked the plate under the shitake caps, a server (the one who'd described the post- bike race city as currently under a "blissed- out chill) gave me the nod, saying, "Told you you'd dig it."
Dig I had, all three, especially so well paired.
We were joined by an EMT and before I could get much more from her, she and the nurse were doing a comparison of who could do what in their respective job, what drugs have to be dripped and why she would never consider working all weekend nights like he happily does.
She shared that drinking heightens her senses, so kitty litter really offends her after a couple glasses of wine. Even her skin is more sensitive when drinking. Well then, I began, sounds like it should be the ideal time to...
"Oh, I do," she said authoritatively, not even letting me finish. Some bars just reliably provide colorful conversation.
By the time I left there (and them discussing intubation), it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
Walking up to the door, I heard my name called and there was the one guitarist friend I'd expected to see tonight, having a smoke with a staffer. My first question was when the show might start since he was talking to the door guy, who, if he was outside, probably meant no time soon.
The all-girl opening band Myrrias, from Philly, had hit traffic so the show would begin shortly. Asking about their sound, my friend cut off the door guy's description, reassuring me that I would like them. After years of talking music, he's someone who knows my sound and theirs, he said, was it.
I stayed long enough to discuss the recent Kepone ("They were good in the '90s, broke up and got back and didn't embarrass themselves. Those guys can really play, unlike a lot of these younger bands," door man pronounced) show I'd recently missed
Inside, I got half the length of the dining room before hearing my name called again, this time two music-loving couples I know. Like me, they're loving this beachy breezy blowing we're getting and fondly recalled a past hurricane that involved mushrooms and a prolonged storm-watching session on the porch.
We all have our hurricane rituals. Talk of tropical storm party planning are already ubiquitous on Facebook.
After paying the same door guy I'd already talked to, he asked if I wanted my hand stamped. What was this? He always draws something on each paying guest's hand.
Since when do I have a choice, I ask? He knows me, he says, so he doesn't need to mark me any more.
Wait, since when? He's known me for years, I remind him. "Since now. Since this moment. It's a new era." I enter the back room unmarked for the first time.
There, I heard about an upcoming show by a cover band and not just any cover band but one that does nothing but Tom Waits and the Smiths. They're called Tom Smith, if you can believe that. I can only anticipate what a hoot that'll be.
Myrrias was a trio tonight of bass, keys and drums, but only because their guitarist had had a family emergency. Even with one less vocal and no guitar, their sound was, as my friend had assured me, right up my alley.
Dreamy, multiple vocalists, vocal effects and, most importantly, that music from a cave sound I adore. I'd love to hear them as a quartet.
Midway through their set, the bass player announces, "I'm really hoping to try the food here It looks really good. I hope the kitchen is still open when we finish." Alas, no, a shame because the food's good, as my friends up front had mentioned, not eaten here myself a couple days ago.
During the break between bands, four guys sat down at the table next to me, unexpectedly providing all kinds of entertainment. One guy told a story of asking s girl to dinner, only to have her cancel at the last minute.
Her reason? She'd found out he drove a 1988 Ford Explorer and told him she didn't want to sound shallow, but it wouldn't work out because they wanted different things out of life.
"What did she think she discovered about me by what I drive?" he asked, a fair question, and a thoughtful one for his tender youth. "I have a job and I love my old car. So what?"
Be glad you found out before you wasted a dime on her, my friend. Girls like that are a dime a dozen and still overpriced.
I gave him credit, though, because when White Laces took the stage ("Thanks for braving the hurricane," leader Landis humorously greeted us, causing the kid next to me to say, "There's not any hurricane"), he went up and stood front and center, leaving his buddies to a back table and their phones.
At one point, he came back to the table, but all three (including no hurricane guy) had their eyes glued to their phones while the band was playing and though he tried to mock them by crouching down to take a picture of them, not a one noticed.
He gave up and went back up front. Meanwhile, I'd positioned myself for near-perfect sound and since White Laces never disappoints, I was like a pig in slop.
Playing songs from their first album all the way to songs from their upcoming album, they did their usual flawless execution, guitars ringing, drums everywhere and keys winding in and out of every song.
I hadn't known, but tonight's their last show until March, with a new album in January, making me doubly glad I'd wandered out on this beautiful night to hear them.
I don't want to sound shallow, but feed me like one of your French girls and rock me like a hurricane.
Sometimes that's exactly what a girl needs out of life.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Microgrooving French Style
Record collectors like to show off.
So when - hypothetically, of course - they put on Dean Martin's 1960 gem, "This Time I'm Swingin'," they're inclined to say something cocky such as, "Only five or ten people in all of Richmond could play this for you."
Probably true.
Talk centers on the happy couple hosting me who have spent the afternoon trying to free up a vintage DeSoto from her long-ignored garage. Given the heat, I understood that it had been a sweaty and rather unpleasant undertaking. The manly one explained it best. "I don't do manual labor."
After swingin', we moved on to Sarah Vaughan's "After Hours at London House," an album recorded at 2 a.m. after she'd already done three shows that night. It's awe-inspiring: her energy, her ease and her improvisational skills while singing the final number, "Thanks for the Memories."
No doubt tired by that point, she improvises, singing the line, "Thanks for this night being over."
While we're listening to these albums, we're taking a stroll down record memory lane with the album sleeves touting the label's other offerings: Mort Sahl, Anita O'Day, Ethel Merman. But what's just as compelling are the dire warnings about equipment.
Play safe! Ask your dealer for the new Columbia needle. (Needles, the gateway drug...)
This monophonic microgroove recording is playable on monophonic and stereo phonographs. It cannot be obsolete. (Cannot is such a big word...)
The Vaughan sleeve had three distinct sections, all instructional: Taking care of your records, taking care of your needle and how to listen to high fidelity. A girl could learn a lot reading an album sleeve.
Our next selection for the turntable was ideal given our earlier meal at Amour. There, we'd come upon a chalkboard on the sidewalk with a weather report warning of a flooding of Rose at the bar. Time to get wet.
We'd begun with my friends ordering vichyssoise (the owner provided a cultural history lesson about the genesis of the soup that tied into Waldorf Astor, a major figure in the book I'm currently reading) while I'd made a bee line for the octopus salad with olives and frisee in lemon juice, olive oil, red peppers, shallots and parsley. Perfection.
"To me, this is what summer tastes like," the owner said, echoing what I was thinking about the salad. Ditto Le Petit Rouviere Rose and a tomato and Dijon mustard tart that rewarded me up front with the sweetest of tomatoes before finishing with a hit of sinus-clearing mustard to put your taste buds on alert. Just beautiful.
We'd finished with desserts of sorbets (decadent cocoa, lychee, cantaloupe pastis, raspberry) and a dessert special of an espresso chocolate tort with blueberries and cream, naturally. Summer fruit was in every bite.
Post dinner, fat and satisfied, we were now listening to Dean's "French Style," a 1962 record that showed him wearing a beret and with a cigarette holder in his mouth. Tres continental, if a bit condescending.
But, oh, how it sounded! With the smuggest of looks (and completely correct), my host observed, "There are only two other places in Richmond where you might hear this."
The record was as much a cultural artifact as a collection of French-inspired songs, ranging from "C'est si Bon" (with chorus) to "April in Paris" to "La Vie en Rose." We danced in place and swooned to all the accordion.
When "The Poor People of Paris" (also with chorus) came on, my gregarious and only slightly loopy host observed, "This was my first favorite song when I was four. But it was an instrumental version." (Note to self: how come you don't have a favorite song from when you were four?)
Frankly, I credit his music-loving parents for having exposed the four-year old to such a song. Well done.
Returning to our swingin' roots (and after a discussion of how the connotation of swingin' has morphed since the early '60s), we closed out the night with the obscure album, "Ella Sings Sweet Songs for Swingers."
Ah, for the days of such alluring album alliteration.
"Let's Fall in Love" was fine but her version of "Makin' Whoopee was sublime, her voice crystal clear, the take definitely swingin' but also hugely atmospheric.
Not to give anybody a big head, but I'm willing to wager that there's nowhere else in Richmond I could have heard that tonight. Especially after a charming French meal that tasted completely of summer.
Such evenings can never become obsolete.
So when - hypothetically, of course - they put on Dean Martin's 1960 gem, "This Time I'm Swingin'," they're inclined to say something cocky such as, "Only five or ten people in all of Richmond could play this for you."
Probably true.
Talk centers on the happy couple hosting me who have spent the afternoon trying to free up a vintage DeSoto from her long-ignored garage. Given the heat, I understood that it had been a sweaty and rather unpleasant undertaking. The manly one explained it best. "I don't do manual labor."
After swingin', we moved on to Sarah Vaughan's "After Hours at London House," an album recorded at 2 a.m. after she'd already done three shows that night. It's awe-inspiring: her energy, her ease and her improvisational skills while singing the final number, "Thanks for the Memories."
No doubt tired by that point, she improvises, singing the line, "Thanks for this night being over."
While we're listening to these albums, we're taking a stroll down record memory lane with the album sleeves touting the label's other offerings: Mort Sahl, Anita O'Day, Ethel Merman. But what's just as compelling are the dire warnings about equipment.
Play safe! Ask your dealer for the new Columbia needle. (Needles, the gateway drug...)
This monophonic microgroove recording is playable on monophonic and stereo phonographs. It cannot be obsolete. (Cannot is such a big word...)
The Vaughan sleeve had three distinct sections, all instructional: Taking care of your records, taking care of your needle and how to listen to high fidelity. A girl could learn a lot reading an album sleeve.
Our next selection for the turntable was ideal given our earlier meal at Amour. There, we'd come upon a chalkboard on the sidewalk with a weather report warning of a flooding of Rose at the bar. Time to get wet.
We'd begun with my friends ordering vichyssoise (the owner provided a cultural history lesson about the genesis of the soup that tied into Waldorf Astor, a major figure in the book I'm currently reading) while I'd made a bee line for the octopus salad with olives and frisee in lemon juice, olive oil, red peppers, shallots and parsley. Perfection.
"To me, this is what summer tastes like," the owner said, echoing what I was thinking about the salad. Ditto Le Petit Rouviere Rose and a tomato and Dijon mustard tart that rewarded me up front with the sweetest of tomatoes before finishing with a hit of sinus-clearing mustard to put your taste buds on alert. Just beautiful.
We'd finished with desserts of sorbets (decadent cocoa, lychee, cantaloupe pastis, raspberry) and a dessert special of an espresso chocolate tort with blueberries and cream, naturally. Summer fruit was in every bite.
Post dinner, fat and satisfied, we were now listening to Dean's "French Style," a 1962 record that showed him wearing a beret and with a cigarette holder in his mouth. Tres continental, if a bit condescending.
But, oh, how it sounded! With the smuggest of looks (and completely correct), my host observed, "There are only two other places in Richmond where you might hear this."
The record was as much a cultural artifact as a collection of French-inspired songs, ranging from "C'est si Bon" (with chorus) to "April in Paris" to "La Vie en Rose." We danced in place and swooned to all the accordion.
When "The Poor People of Paris" (also with chorus) came on, my gregarious and only slightly loopy host observed, "This was my first favorite song when I was four. But it was an instrumental version." (Note to self: how come you don't have a favorite song from when you were four?)
Frankly, I credit his music-loving parents for having exposed the four-year old to such a song. Well done.
Returning to our swingin' roots (and after a discussion of how the connotation of swingin' has morphed since the early '60s), we closed out the night with the obscure album, "Ella Sings Sweet Songs for Swingers."
Ah, for the days of such alluring album alliteration.
"Let's Fall in Love" was fine but her version of "Makin' Whoopee was sublime, her voice crystal clear, the take definitely swingin' but also hugely atmospheric.
Not to give anybody a big head, but I'm willing to wager that there's nowhere else in Richmond I could have heard that tonight. Especially after a charming French meal that tasted completely of summer.
Such evenings can never become obsolete.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Wine for a Small Party
You can make fun of my passion for all things summer all you want.
"Oh, my dear, you must be getting the vapors this afternoon, as steamy as it is," the soft male voice drawls in a thick southern accent when the phone unexpectedly rings mid-afternoon.
Ignoring his condescension, I explain that when an afternoon gets to be too much, I simply tilt the blinds and lay down for a bit, a time-honored southern way to deal with the summer heat. But today it's a temperate 83 degrees - admittedly inside and outside the apartment - and I hadn't the slightest need for a mid-day lie down.
What he's really calling for is to make plans for the later part of the night.
When he asks, "What time is the first seating?" I understand that he's asking when my first plans of the evening begin. Hearing that they begin at 5, he immediately puts me on notice to join him and friends post-plans.
My first seating is with my fellow Gemini to belatedly celebrate our birthdays at Amour. We're the first ones in - despite what passes for "heavy" traffic getting to Carytown from Church Hill - and begin with Le Petit Rouvier Rose and three small plates (mussels, steak and fried eggplant) over talk of John Currance's restaurants, three of which we've been to.
When people begin arriving around us, we realize the Alsatian wine tasting is about to begin and promptly put on our wine goggles. Gemini makes an aside that she may not be able to keep up, an amusing comment given that she practically taught me to drink six years ago.
"But I'm tasting to taste now," she says, making a distinction and putting herself at the mercy of my bad jokes.
No surprise, from the very first wine we taste, Cave de Belbenheim Heimberger Pinot Blanc with a nose of honeysuckle that makes me want to dive into it, we are led through a series of interesting wines that demonstrate the terroir, styles and flavor profiles of Alsace. Having an Alsatian teacher only makes it better.
That small plates arrive with each set of pairings is an unexpected surprise, especially after we'd just polished off a meat and cheese plate (the Morbier so deliciously barnyard funky we paused for cow poop humor) not long before. We are nothing if not hearty eaters.
Our group, which includes a recent new friend and her wine pro boyfriend, moves through Rieslings such as the Cave de Belbenheim Heimberger Riesling with its nose of petrol and citrus, to Pinot Gris (learning that the grape was brought to Alsace from Hungary in the 16th century) and finally to Gewurztraminer, described as "wine for a big party" and heavenly with the accompanying lychee and rose petal sorbet.
Much of our conversation revolved around oral history projects, something that interests us both. Who's collecting the good stories and recipes before the people with them are gone? Why doesn't someone ask us to do it? Where's FDR when you need him?
Five hours and nine wines later, we called it a night, considering our birthdays well celebrated, at least for the moment. Officially, it's my last birthday celebration of the 2015 season, although I'm always open to invitations. Hint, hint.
Once home, I found not one but two messages from the friend who'd called earlier, necessitating one last social gathering for the night. Our foursome took flutes of La Marca Prosecco outside to the deck to enjoy the languid evening heat and banter back and forth. Twice I was shushed for laughing too loud.
In my summer world, I like to think that all the humidity absorbs the sounds of night time laughter, bothering no one. That and everyone else in the first world besides me uses air conditioning, so their windows are sealed shut.
My dear, it's simply wrong to stop a summer lover from laughing on a warm night with friends. Especially when she's on her evening's second seating.
"Oh, my dear, you must be getting the vapors this afternoon, as steamy as it is," the soft male voice drawls in a thick southern accent when the phone unexpectedly rings mid-afternoon.
Ignoring his condescension, I explain that when an afternoon gets to be too much, I simply tilt the blinds and lay down for a bit, a time-honored southern way to deal with the summer heat. But today it's a temperate 83 degrees - admittedly inside and outside the apartment - and I hadn't the slightest need for a mid-day lie down.
What he's really calling for is to make plans for the later part of the night.
When he asks, "What time is the first seating?" I understand that he's asking when my first plans of the evening begin. Hearing that they begin at 5, he immediately puts me on notice to join him and friends post-plans.
My first seating is with my fellow Gemini to belatedly celebrate our birthdays at Amour. We're the first ones in - despite what passes for "heavy" traffic getting to Carytown from Church Hill - and begin with Le Petit Rouvier Rose and three small plates (mussels, steak and fried eggplant) over talk of John Currance's restaurants, three of which we've been to.
When people begin arriving around us, we realize the Alsatian wine tasting is about to begin and promptly put on our wine goggles. Gemini makes an aside that she may not be able to keep up, an amusing comment given that she practically taught me to drink six years ago.
"But I'm tasting to taste now," she says, making a distinction and putting herself at the mercy of my bad jokes.
No surprise, from the very first wine we taste, Cave de Belbenheim Heimberger Pinot Blanc with a nose of honeysuckle that makes me want to dive into it, we are led through a series of interesting wines that demonstrate the terroir, styles and flavor profiles of Alsace. Having an Alsatian teacher only makes it better.
That small plates arrive with each set of pairings is an unexpected surprise, especially after we'd just polished off a meat and cheese plate (the Morbier so deliciously barnyard funky we paused for cow poop humor) not long before. We are nothing if not hearty eaters.
Our group, which includes a recent new friend and her wine pro boyfriend, moves through Rieslings such as the Cave de Belbenheim Heimberger Riesling with its nose of petrol and citrus, to Pinot Gris (learning that the grape was brought to Alsace from Hungary in the 16th century) and finally to Gewurztraminer, described as "wine for a big party" and heavenly with the accompanying lychee and rose petal sorbet.
Much of our conversation revolved around oral history projects, something that interests us both. Who's collecting the good stories and recipes before the people with them are gone? Why doesn't someone ask us to do it? Where's FDR when you need him?
Five hours and nine wines later, we called it a night, considering our birthdays well celebrated, at least for the moment. Officially, it's my last birthday celebration of the 2015 season, although I'm always open to invitations. Hint, hint.
Once home, I found not one but two messages from the friend who'd called earlier, necessitating one last social gathering for the night. Our foursome took flutes of La Marca Prosecco outside to the deck to enjoy the languid evening heat and banter back and forth. Twice I was shushed for laughing too loud.
In my summer world, I like to think that all the humidity absorbs the sounds of night time laughter, bothering no one. That and everyone else in the first world besides me uses air conditioning, so their windows are sealed shut.
My dear, it's simply wrong to stop a summer lover from laughing on a warm night with friends. Especially when she's on her evening's second seating.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Quelle Night!
I'm clawing my way back from illness to my real life.
After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.
A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.
Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.
Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.
In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.
I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.
Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.
But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.
It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.
I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.
Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").
Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.
Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.
My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.
While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.
I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.
And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.
My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.
Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.
I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.
The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.
Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.
Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.
I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.
Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.
Or at least I am.
After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.
A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.
Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.
Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.
In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.
I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.
Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.
But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.
It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.
I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.
Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").
Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.
Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.
My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.
While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.
I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.
And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.
My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.
Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.
I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.
The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.
Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.
Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.
I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.
Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.
Or at least I am.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
A Good Talking To
It's the classic story of two single women huddled together for warmth under one shared coat. At the end of the evening, there are declarations of love and they both dissolve in fits of giggles.
You know, that old chestnut.
Pru and I were overdue for a date, so I picked her up and whisked her off to Amour, where we found a restaurant full of French people and only one available stool at the bar. Given that it's the height of the French Film Festival, it was hardly surprising.
The owner was in rare form, no doubt a function of his pleasure at having so many French-speakers in the restaurant all week, and delighted us with his steady stream of witty patter, explaining that the handsome tie he was wearing made him look slimmer and he'd blow up like a balloon if he removed it and that white wine was for girls and red for boys.
We took him at his word on everything.
Pru was just coming off her birthday so it seemed only appropriate to celebrate with Veuve Clicquot as she opened presents not from me. Inside the gift bag was a veritable Byrd Theater survival kit: dark chocolate covered marshmallows, two kinds of biscotti, fancy gummies.
Few things are as lovely as beginning an evening with bubbles, but our busy days - hers packing, mine writing - also meant hungry bellies. Our cheese and charcuterie plate arrived to address those munchies with such temptations as fourme d'ambert, wild boar salami, Comte, speck, dried mango, grapes and cornichons. And that wasn't the half of it.
So many delightful things to eat meant plenty of time to take the temperature of each other's lives since we'd last had a girls' night out, far too long ago. Her recent night at the opera was up first.
We discussed the beach house she's rented and whether it should be a girls' only clubhouse or not given how much fun we had last time we did it sans men. We're thinking no boys allowed and possibly no red wine. White and pink only.
The subject of E-Z Bake ovens came up, necessitating we explain the concept to a Frenchman. I'd heard tell of a woman who'd demonstrated her mettle as a child by replacing the bulb in the oven with a higher wattage so she could cook bacon instead of miniature cakes.
Neither Pru nor I had had nor wanted an E-Z Bake oven, for what that's worth.
Delving into some personal matters of hers, I had to laugh long and hard when she told me, "I had a talk with myself because someone needed to do it and I knew if I didn't, you would." Right she was about that.
Since tonight counted toward her ongoing birthday festivities, naturally we had dessert and hers arrived with a lit candle. I can't sing, but the owner was gracious enough to wish her a "joyeux anniversaire" as she blew it out.
Even without it being my celebration, I was plenty keen on the mini duo of sea salt and caramel chocolate creme brulee and housemade raspberry sorbet. We agreed that all desserts should be sized that way to mitigate guilt and not make delicate flowers such as us feel stuffed. Unfortunately, no one was asking our opinion about dessert sizing.
Best Pru quip of the night: "Do I really want to die alone?" Do any of us really want to? Do we really have a choice?
After the last sips of Willm Cremant d'Alsace were savored, we made the frigid trek (was it really 77 degrees just two days ago?) to the Byrd only a few minutes late.
We had no problem finding good seats just as the films were being introduced. On the bill tonight were rare and restored films of the late 19th and early 20th century and tonight was the first time they were being shown in their restored state anywhere.
What was interesting about that was that once this cache of films from 1896-1905 had been discovered, in deplorable shape of course, they had to be transferred to digital to capture them and then put on 35 mm for posterity. Some were even hand-painted frame by frame.
And get this: they were being shown with musical accompaniment. Bob Gulledge was playing the mighty Wurlitzer with each film.
Because they were so old, they were incredibly brief, most about a minute long, but offered fascinating glimpses into the late 19th century world.
Several showed street locations such as the Place de la Concorde and Gare Saint Lazare, both alive with hansom cabs, carts, bicycles, pedestrians, horse-drawn street cars and the like. Dogs and children darted through it all.
Several films showed dancing - Russians with knives, ballet, a dramatic scene by the river - and one was a comical look at a marriage banquet (Bob Gulledge began by playing "Here Comes the Bride").
It was some time around then that Pru and I realized we were both shivering. If the air conditioning wasn't on, then there was certainly no heat on and we were reduced to huddling under her wool coat (I'd never even removed my jean jacket). Looking around, we saw several other women doing the same.
If it was intended to keep us awake, it seemed unnecessarily cruel.
The final short was George Melies' "Legend of Rip van Winkle," a treat since I've seen several of Melies' films thanks to my friend Jameson and the Silent Music Revival. This one was 15 minutes long and colorized, which was something new for the films of his I've seen.
As Bob Gulledge played and the film rolled, Todd, the affable manager of the Byrd, read the original text to the audience as we watched the film, much the way a bonimenteur would have done in 1905. In those days, there was no assumption that the audience could follow the story solely from silent pictures.
I found the language of the script wonderful. Rip was described as "a good and lazy bon vivant" and the gnomes "capered." When's the last time you heard "caper" used as a verb?
Tonight's piece de resistance was "The Byrd: A Love Affair," a documentary that's part of a series "Mythic Cinema Palaces" made by a French filmmaking team who discovered the theater a few years back when the director was asked to speak at the French Film festival.
Clearly the filmmaking gods work in mysterious ways.
It was a charming look at the landmark movie palace Richmonders know well, referred to as "a magical place to take us out of our daily world." We saw not only the vintage litter commercial, but an updated version that was a bit disconcerting simply because the original is so completely familiar.
What was most compelling about watching the documentary was the mirror effect. I could look at the screen as the Czechoslovakian chandelier was being shown and explained or I could look overhead and see it in real life.
When the camera follows the storyteller up four flights of stairs to see the instruments that make up the organ's works, I could recall going up those stairs myself years ago while shooting video with my co-worker. Since I'd been clueless about how organs worked, I'd been amazed to learn that each sound came from the actual instrument.
There was a scene of the annual Christmas Eve singalong, an event I've attended at the Byrd for the past 20 years. I didn't see myself, but I also can assure you I was there, although not singing given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket.
So while it was all very familiar, it was also surprisingly satisfying to see a documentary about a subject I know well made by people from another continent. Their reverence for and appreciation of the Byrd (and Richmond) came through in every frame.
When it ended, Pru and I reluctantly separated ourselves, giving up the shared body that that had made two hours in the theater tolerable. Walking up Cary Street with the FFF crowd, I heard my name called and spotted two friends hurrying against the wind.
We'd been so busy laughing and talking, I hadn't even noticed they'd been just ahead of us.
That lasted right up until I pulled up in front of her house to let her out, at which point I teased her one last time, setting off more giggles and a final, "I love you."
Just two bon vivants capering.
You know, that old chestnut.
Pru and I were overdue for a date, so I picked her up and whisked her off to Amour, where we found a restaurant full of French people and only one available stool at the bar. Given that it's the height of the French Film Festival, it was hardly surprising.
The owner was in rare form, no doubt a function of his pleasure at having so many French-speakers in the restaurant all week, and delighted us with his steady stream of witty patter, explaining that the handsome tie he was wearing made him look slimmer and he'd blow up like a balloon if he removed it and that white wine was for girls and red for boys.
We took him at his word on everything.
Pru was just coming off her birthday so it seemed only appropriate to celebrate with Veuve Clicquot as she opened presents not from me. Inside the gift bag was a veritable Byrd Theater survival kit: dark chocolate covered marshmallows, two kinds of biscotti, fancy gummies.
Few things are as lovely as beginning an evening with bubbles, but our busy days - hers packing, mine writing - also meant hungry bellies. Our cheese and charcuterie plate arrived to address those munchies with such temptations as fourme d'ambert, wild boar salami, Comte, speck, dried mango, grapes and cornichons. And that wasn't the half of it.
So many delightful things to eat meant plenty of time to take the temperature of each other's lives since we'd last had a girls' night out, far too long ago. Her recent night at the opera was up first.
We discussed the beach house she's rented and whether it should be a girls' only clubhouse or not given how much fun we had last time we did it sans men. We're thinking no boys allowed and possibly no red wine. White and pink only.
The subject of E-Z Bake ovens came up, necessitating we explain the concept to a Frenchman. I'd heard tell of a woman who'd demonstrated her mettle as a child by replacing the bulb in the oven with a higher wattage so she could cook bacon instead of miniature cakes.
Neither Pru nor I had had nor wanted an E-Z Bake oven, for what that's worth.
Delving into some personal matters of hers, I had to laugh long and hard when she told me, "I had a talk with myself because someone needed to do it and I knew if I didn't, you would." Right she was about that.
Since tonight counted toward her ongoing birthday festivities, naturally we had dessert and hers arrived with a lit candle. I can't sing, but the owner was gracious enough to wish her a "joyeux anniversaire" as she blew it out.
Even without it being my celebration, I was plenty keen on the mini duo of sea salt and caramel chocolate creme brulee and housemade raspberry sorbet. We agreed that all desserts should be sized that way to mitigate guilt and not make delicate flowers such as us feel stuffed. Unfortunately, no one was asking our opinion about dessert sizing.
Best Pru quip of the night: "Do I really want to die alone?" Do any of us really want to? Do we really have a choice?
After the last sips of Willm Cremant d'Alsace were savored, we made the frigid trek (was it really 77 degrees just two days ago?) to the Byrd only a few minutes late.
We had no problem finding good seats just as the films were being introduced. On the bill tonight were rare and restored films of the late 19th and early 20th century and tonight was the first time they were being shown in their restored state anywhere.
What was interesting about that was that once this cache of films from 1896-1905 had been discovered, in deplorable shape of course, they had to be transferred to digital to capture them and then put on 35 mm for posterity. Some were even hand-painted frame by frame.
And get this: they were being shown with musical accompaniment. Bob Gulledge was playing the mighty Wurlitzer with each film.
Because they were so old, they were incredibly brief, most about a minute long, but offered fascinating glimpses into the late 19th century world.
Several showed street locations such as the Place de la Concorde and Gare Saint Lazare, both alive with hansom cabs, carts, bicycles, pedestrians, horse-drawn street cars and the like. Dogs and children darted through it all.
Several films showed dancing - Russians with knives, ballet, a dramatic scene by the river - and one was a comical look at a marriage banquet (Bob Gulledge began by playing "Here Comes the Bride").
It was some time around then that Pru and I realized we were both shivering. If the air conditioning wasn't on, then there was certainly no heat on and we were reduced to huddling under her wool coat (I'd never even removed my jean jacket). Looking around, we saw several other women doing the same.
If it was intended to keep us awake, it seemed unnecessarily cruel.
The final short was George Melies' "Legend of Rip van Winkle," a treat since I've seen several of Melies' films thanks to my friend Jameson and the Silent Music Revival. This one was 15 minutes long and colorized, which was something new for the films of his I've seen.
As Bob Gulledge played and the film rolled, Todd, the affable manager of the Byrd, read the original text to the audience as we watched the film, much the way a bonimenteur would have done in 1905. In those days, there was no assumption that the audience could follow the story solely from silent pictures.
I found the language of the script wonderful. Rip was described as "a good and lazy bon vivant" and the gnomes "capered." When's the last time you heard "caper" used as a verb?
Tonight's piece de resistance was "The Byrd: A Love Affair," a documentary that's part of a series "Mythic Cinema Palaces" made by a French filmmaking team who discovered the theater a few years back when the director was asked to speak at the French Film festival.
Clearly the filmmaking gods work in mysterious ways.
It was a charming look at the landmark movie palace Richmonders know well, referred to as "a magical place to take us out of our daily world." We saw not only the vintage litter commercial, but an updated version that was a bit disconcerting simply because the original is so completely familiar.
What was most compelling about watching the documentary was the mirror effect. I could look at the screen as the Czechoslovakian chandelier was being shown and explained or I could look overhead and see it in real life.
When the camera follows the storyteller up four flights of stairs to see the instruments that make up the organ's works, I could recall going up those stairs myself years ago while shooting video with my co-worker. Since I'd been clueless about how organs worked, I'd been amazed to learn that each sound came from the actual instrument.
There was a scene of the annual Christmas Eve singalong, an event I've attended at the Byrd for the past 20 years. I didn't see myself, but I also can assure you I was there, although not singing given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket.
So while it was all very familiar, it was also surprisingly satisfying to see a documentary about a subject I know well made by people from another continent. Their reverence for and appreciation of the Byrd (and Richmond) came through in every frame.
When it ended, Pru and I reluctantly separated ourselves, giving up the shared body that that had made two hours in the theater tolerable. Walking up Cary Street with the FFF crowd, I heard my name called and spotted two friends hurrying against the wind.
We'd been so busy laughing and talking, I hadn't even noticed they'd been just ahead of us.
That lasted right up until I pulled up in front of her house to let her out, at which point I teased her one last time, setting off more giggles and a final, "I love you."
Just two bon vivants capering.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Intimate and Grand
Oops, I did it again. Set out for culture and ran smack into the nexus of sports and cops directing traffic.
Unlike last night when I was on foot, tonight's inconvenience was brought to me by University of Richmond's basketball game, meaning I sat in a backup of cars trying to get somewhere completely different than where I was headed.
My goal: the Modlin Center for the opening lecture of "Garry Winogrand: Family Intimacies" by the photographer's first wife, Adrienne Judith Lubeau-Winogrand, a delightful former dancer who took many tangents to tell us a small part of the story of her marriage to the central figure in American mid-century photography.
How much more fascinating it was to have the woman who was his subject and bedmate talking about a dead artist than a curator.
"I had the honor to be Garry's first wife," was how she launched the lecture. Seriously, how many first wives refer to the honor of their first (failed) time at bat?
Showing photographs as she spoke from an armchair onstage, she told us she'd had no idea he went to burlesque houses at night until she saw the photos. "I feel I really made him happy," she said. "He decided on me and I went along for the ride."
Actually, I see a kind of romance to that.
Displaying a rare shot of him, she said, "He looks terrific, doesn't he? The problem was he smoked three packs a day, drank like a fish and sometimes stayed up for 24 hours." She thought that might explain his early death at 56, although his daughter was convinced it was all the darkroom chemicals he was exposed to regularly over the years.
Referring to his second wife, she said, "She only lasted two years. By then, he'd drained her bank account. Should I say that?'" Seems she's still friends with Wife #3, whose daughter was flower girl at her own daughter's wedding. Very cozy, indeed.
Many of the photographs were of Adrienne herself - sleeping, holding their children - and she wasn't shy about admitting that'd felt like she was married to a lens, not a man because he was always shooting her. "It was a constant presence."
After her talk, we adjourned to the Hartnett Museum to see the exhibit, a window into another era since most of the pictures were from the '60s and '70s.
Some were downright old-fashioned, such as a child on a wooden horse or a baby carriage in a park. I heard several young women marveling over that antique.
Ethan on 93rd Avenue, New York showed the artist's son dressed in a striped romper (something toddlers don't wear anymore), pointing a toy gun at a window. We don't allow that anymore.
Another showed the little boy slightly older running down the street, cowboy hat in hand. Adrienne had said during the talk that that picture usually hangs in her living room and she's already missing it terribly. What I found interesting about it was that the wide sidewalk held not a piece of trash, not so much as a cigarette butt as far as the eye could see.
My favorite in the entire show was 1967's Adrienne After the Bath, a photograph that could have been modeled on a Degas pastel. She sits naked on the closed toilet in a narrow, tiled bathroom, a towel around part of her body with a curved, young hip exposed.
It was one of the most exquisite photographs I've ever seen, all the more meaningful for having just seen the subject herself 58 years later. She's aged well, probably a result of her dancing career.
After mingling at the reception, I went into the other gallery to see Anti-Grand: Contemporary Perspectives on Landscape, another new exhibit but as different as it could be: all the works were post-2000.
I had flashbacks to the '70s with Village Green by Vaughn Bell, a large, house-shaped plastic terrarium set on legs with the steamed up interior walls every former hippie chick recognizes.
What made this one so cool was the opening on the bottom of the "house" that allowed the viewer to stick your head inside to inhale the humid, plant-scented air inside. Groovy to the nth degree and very 21st century. We can't just look, we have to experience.
There was something very compelling about Mono Lake, CA, a huge digital print of the lake that had been soaked in Mono lake water causing water stains through which you could see the actual photo.
Inheritance was a large, wooden black box into which slides of endangered wildlife areas were projected while a humidifier spewed steam out of the opening, sort of an implied scolding for what we have wrought.
The show's strength was the wide-ranging notion of landscape as interpreted by an array of international artists during the new millennium. Even video games were included, not that I knew what to do with them.
As I was coming out of the bathroom afterwards, Adrienne was headed in and I took a moment to thank her for sharing her life stories with us. I said I'd been especially impressed with how she'd said she'd held fast to her own dreams and goals, even when her husband hadn't paid much attention to them.
"Oh, but he came and photographed me at the dance studio, did you see?" she asked eagerly. I had, but I also sensed it must have been challenging to hold fast to her artistic soul (Robert Motherwell was her painting professor!) back in the '50s when motherhood reigned supreme. Despite no longer being young, she still had the body of a dancer.
Leaving UR, I decided that the big game was still being played because cars were parked everywhere but there wasn't a soul in sight. Go, team.
My cold hands and I stopped for the fabulous and very French hot chocolate Amour serves, namely Les Confitures a l'Ancienne, while eavesdropping on a couple discussing their divorces, what Ritalin does to kids and the probability of weed being made legal in Virginia.
We had a joint discussion (ha!) about why firemen are different than policemen (she claimed there was scientific study to explain the different personalities) and why Amour should have scantily-clad firemen at their fire department benefit dinners next month.
After the chocolate, I indulged in a half glass of J. Fritsch Pinot Gris, a rich, semi-sweet sipper to complement what I'd just had and send me on my way after an evening well spent.
Part of that was the mid-century romance! He decided on me and I went along for the ride. That's as quaint as a baby carriage, but I don't even think we allow that anymore.
Although as long as you're sure it makes both people happy, why not? Should I say that?
Unlike last night when I was on foot, tonight's inconvenience was brought to me by University of Richmond's basketball game, meaning I sat in a backup of cars trying to get somewhere completely different than where I was headed.
My goal: the Modlin Center for the opening lecture of "Garry Winogrand: Family Intimacies" by the photographer's first wife, Adrienne Judith Lubeau-Winogrand, a delightful former dancer who took many tangents to tell us a small part of the story of her marriage to the central figure in American mid-century photography.
How much more fascinating it was to have the woman who was his subject and bedmate talking about a dead artist than a curator.
"I had the honor to be Garry's first wife," was how she launched the lecture. Seriously, how many first wives refer to the honor of their first (failed) time at bat?
Actually, I see a kind of romance to that.
Displaying a rare shot of him, she said, "He looks terrific, doesn't he? The problem was he smoked three packs a day, drank like a fish and sometimes stayed up for 24 hours." She thought that might explain his early death at 56, although his daughter was convinced it was all the darkroom chemicals he was exposed to regularly over the years.
Referring to his second wife, she said, "She only lasted two years. By then, he'd drained her bank account. Should I say that?'" Seems she's still friends with Wife #3, whose daughter was flower girl at her own daughter's wedding. Very cozy, indeed.
Many of the photographs were of Adrienne herself - sleeping, holding their children - and she wasn't shy about admitting that'd felt like she was married to a lens, not a man because he was always shooting her. "It was a constant presence."
After her talk, we adjourned to the Hartnett Museum to see the exhibit, a window into another era since most of the pictures were from the '60s and '70s.
Some were downright old-fashioned, such as a child on a wooden horse or a baby carriage in a park. I heard several young women marveling over that antique.
Ethan on 93rd Avenue, New York showed the artist's son dressed in a striped romper (something toddlers don't wear anymore), pointing a toy gun at a window. We don't allow that anymore.
Another showed the little boy slightly older running down the street, cowboy hat in hand. Adrienne had said during the talk that that picture usually hangs in her living room and she's already missing it terribly. What I found interesting about it was that the wide sidewalk held not a piece of trash, not so much as a cigarette butt as far as the eye could see.
My favorite in the entire show was 1967's Adrienne After the Bath, a photograph that could have been modeled on a Degas pastel. She sits naked on the closed toilet in a narrow, tiled bathroom, a towel around part of her body with a curved, young hip exposed.
It was one of the most exquisite photographs I've ever seen, all the more meaningful for having just seen the subject herself 58 years later. She's aged well, probably a result of her dancing career.
After mingling at the reception, I went into the other gallery to see Anti-Grand: Contemporary Perspectives on Landscape, another new exhibit but as different as it could be: all the works were post-2000.
I had flashbacks to the '70s with Village Green by Vaughn Bell, a large, house-shaped plastic terrarium set on legs with the steamed up interior walls every former hippie chick recognizes.
What made this one so cool was the opening on the bottom of the "house" that allowed the viewer to stick your head inside to inhale the humid, plant-scented air inside. Groovy to the nth degree and very 21st century. We can't just look, we have to experience.
There was something very compelling about Mono Lake, CA, a huge digital print of the lake that had been soaked in Mono lake water causing water stains through which you could see the actual photo.
Inheritance was a large, wooden black box into which slides of endangered wildlife areas were projected while a humidifier spewed steam out of the opening, sort of an implied scolding for what we have wrought.
The show's strength was the wide-ranging notion of landscape as interpreted by an array of international artists during the new millennium. Even video games were included, not that I knew what to do with them.
As I was coming out of the bathroom afterwards, Adrienne was headed in and I took a moment to thank her for sharing her life stories with us. I said I'd been especially impressed with how she'd said she'd held fast to her own dreams and goals, even when her husband hadn't paid much attention to them.
"Oh, but he came and photographed me at the dance studio, did you see?" she asked eagerly. I had, but I also sensed it must have been challenging to hold fast to her artistic soul (Robert Motherwell was her painting professor!) back in the '50s when motherhood reigned supreme. Despite no longer being young, she still had the body of a dancer.
Leaving UR, I decided that the big game was still being played because cars were parked everywhere but there wasn't a soul in sight. Go, team.
My cold hands and I stopped for the fabulous and very French hot chocolate Amour serves, namely Les Confitures a l'Ancienne, while eavesdropping on a couple discussing their divorces, what Ritalin does to kids and the probability of weed being made legal in Virginia.
We had a joint discussion (ha!) about why firemen are different than policemen (she claimed there was scientific study to explain the different personalities) and why Amour should have scantily-clad firemen at their fire department benefit dinners next month.
After the chocolate, I indulged in a half glass of J. Fritsch Pinot Gris, a rich, semi-sweet sipper to complement what I'd just had and send me on my way after an evening well spent.
Part of that was the mid-century romance! He decided on me and I went along for the ride. That's as quaint as a baby carriage, but I don't even think we allow that anymore.
Although as long as you're sure it makes both people happy, why not? Should I say that?
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Cold as Ice
This kind of winter weather is good for two things I've been told. Good books and bad boys.
With half of that in mind, before I even left to go out tonight, I sat down with my latest book, "Sophie's Choice," and read 80 pages. Only then did I layer up to face the wrath of January and find some dinner.
While the roads were mostly dry, sidewalks were still icy and I just knew that it was going to be the kind of evening where restaurants were slow and bars busy. But it's also cassoulet week, so a French restaurant was in order. Walking into Amour, I saw one occupied table and a full bar. Bingo.
Taking a seat at the far end appropriately near the "Je suis Charlie" sign, I found myself next to a charming couple who teach during the school year and summer in the Loire Valley. At the far end were the restaurant owner and the local Fire Chief, busy discussing an upcoming February fundraiser for the fire department. It'll be a one year-ish anniversary thank you to the department that saved Amour.
While sipping a glass of Willm Cremant d'Alsace, the teachers and I chatted about their exalted status at Amour. It had been his duck that had been in the oven when Amour's kitchen caught fire last January. Some would worry about tempting fate, but he'd ordered duck again tonight. Daredevil.
As I was tucking into a bowl of exquisite shiitake mushroom bisque - the ideal warmer-upper on a night like this - a couple of familiar faces came through the front door and I heard, "Is that Karen?" Somehow, a favorite couple had also chosen Amour on this unlikely winter evening.
It was Holmes and Beloved, recently returned from a trip to Fort Lauderdale and full of stories (they'd met a man who claimed to only drink Missouri wine) and show and tell (menu, postcard). Since they were at one end of the bar and I another, we chose to include the teachers in our conversation rather than just talk over them.
Using his lifelong knowledge of Richmond and its inhabitants, Holmes was soon interrogating them on mutual acquaintances, of which they had several. I managed to slide in my usual question (his first concert was the Commodores in 1979, she couldn't recall having one), only to have Holmes demand to know whether I knew his first.
Strangely, I didn't. He informed me that it had been Strawberry Alarm Clock, Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys at the Arena, which meant nothing to me. Apparently it was a venue where the Sportbackers stadium now sits. More importantly, now I knew.
As I nibbled a small plate of decadent butter-poached lobster, the entire bar discussed the best seasons to visit the Loire Valley (fall and spring) and why the blues festival there had finally been discontinued (gotten too big for the town). Holmes inquired if the couple rented out their house (yes, but not during summer because they're there) and suggested they invite him and his beloved because they're fun people.
Braised rabbit over Byrd Mill polenta was my final small plate, a comforting dish on a cold evening, but by then I was approaching full and only managed half of it before sharing with Holmes.
Not long after, the teachers had to head home - it was a school night after all - so I moved closer to my friends to share desserts of swoon-worthy raspberry sorbet (made in house, natch) and Amour's classic chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee. I love my chocolate, but that sorbet was the kind of thing you dream about long after finishing.
Because it wouldn't be an evening with Holmes if he didn't lecture me, I was given a stern talking to about missing important information (because I don't watch TV) and about the folly of walking on ice (which I'd done today). Some friends just have to give you a hard time about who you are. On the plus side, he didn't say a word about my bangs for a change.
But we all walked out together with hugs all around as they headed home and I made tracks for Balliceaux to see New Orleans band The Naughty Professor.
Walking in, the door guy was busy checking IDs but he waved me in, more than familiar by now with me. But when I glanced at the couple in front of me, I realized it was my photographer friend and the love of his life. Here again was unexpected couple company.
Sort of anyway. They only got back together a month ago, so they're still pretty busy making goo-goo eyes at each other all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that). I admired her adorable bag, a small, hard black purse with gold studs and brass knuckles (with rings) for the handle. You know, just in case.
Tonight's entertainment, the Naughty Professor, turned out to be incredibly young-looking guys: a guitarist, bassist, drummer and three horns playing all instrumental New Orleans funk/jazz. The horns would step off the short stage whenever it was time for the others to shine (the drummer gave me "Whiplash" flashbacks) before ambling back up for the horn parts.
The band was surprisingly good for being so young and it didn't take long for some people to start dancing. The challenge was how often the band changed up the rhythm and tempo, but even so, it soon felt like a good time in the back room.
A guy standing in front of me knocked into me twice before apologizing and then saying, "Wanna dance? If you decide you do, just let me know and I'll twirl and dip you and we'll clear out the floor." That's not an offer I get every day.
I ran into a bartender friend who's doing a one-night gig in Seattle, saw the long tall drink of water bassist wearing a hat his mother made him (complete with yarn braid), chatted with Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop about this weather and got a bear hug from the DJ who told me he had just discovered go-go. He was there because he'd been told that this was going to be the show of the week.
As the music unfolded, I had to agree that he'd been given good information. Although not stereotypically New Orleans (it was as much jazz as funk), the horn section was tight and the rhythm section clearly knew each other well. Songs took tangents but always came back around and the band members' energy never flagged during an hour and a half long set.
Even when the room filled up, I could see my lovebird friends over on the side dancing and rubbing up against each other. The band finished with the epic song "Chef's Special" and a cold Wednesday night closed out on a high note.
Bad boys will have to wait till another cold night.
With half of that in mind, before I even left to go out tonight, I sat down with my latest book, "Sophie's Choice," and read 80 pages. Only then did I layer up to face the wrath of January and find some dinner.
While the roads were mostly dry, sidewalks were still icy and I just knew that it was going to be the kind of evening where restaurants were slow and bars busy. But it's also cassoulet week, so a French restaurant was in order. Walking into Amour, I saw one occupied table and a full bar. Bingo.
Taking a seat at the far end appropriately near the "Je suis Charlie" sign, I found myself next to a charming couple who teach during the school year and summer in the Loire Valley. At the far end were the restaurant owner and the local Fire Chief, busy discussing an upcoming February fundraiser for the fire department. It'll be a one year-ish anniversary thank you to the department that saved Amour.
While sipping a glass of Willm Cremant d'Alsace, the teachers and I chatted about their exalted status at Amour. It had been his duck that had been in the oven when Amour's kitchen caught fire last January. Some would worry about tempting fate, but he'd ordered duck again tonight. Daredevil.
As I was tucking into a bowl of exquisite shiitake mushroom bisque - the ideal warmer-upper on a night like this - a couple of familiar faces came through the front door and I heard, "Is that Karen?" Somehow, a favorite couple had also chosen Amour on this unlikely winter evening.
It was Holmes and Beloved, recently returned from a trip to Fort Lauderdale and full of stories (they'd met a man who claimed to only drink Missouri wine) and show and tell (menu, postcard). Since they were at one end of the bar and I another, we chose to include the teachers in our conversation rather than just talk over them.
Using his lifelong knowledge of Richmond and its inhabitants, Holmes was soon interrogating them on mutual acquaintances, of which they had several. I managed to slide in my usual question (his first concert was the Commodores in 1979, she couldn't recall having one), only to have Holmes demand to know whether I knew his first.
Strangely, I didn't. He informed me that it had been Strawberry Alarm Clock, Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys at the Arena, which meant nothing to me. Apparently it was a venue where the Sportbackers stadium now sits. More importantly, now I knew.
As I nibbled a small plate of decadent butter-poached lobster, the entire bar discussed the best seasons to visit the Loire Valley (fall and spring) and why the blues festival there had finally been discontinued (gotten too big for the town). Holmes inquired if the couple rented out their house (yes, but not during summer because they're there) and suggested they invite him and his beloved because they're fun people.
Braised rabbit over Byrd Mill polenta was my final small plate, a comforting dish on a cold evening, but by then I was approaching full and only managed half of it before sharing with Holmes.
Not long after, the teachers had to head home - it was a school night after all - so I moved closer to my friends to share desserts of swoon-worthy raspberry sorbet (made in house, natch) and Amour's classic chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee. I love my chocolate, but that sorbet was the kind of thing you dream about long after finishing.
Because it wouldn't be an evening with Holmes if he didn't lecture me, I was given a stern talking to about missing important information (because I don't watch TV) and about the folly of walking on ice (which I'd done today). Some friends just have to give you a hard time about who you are. On the plus side, he didn't say a word about my bangs for a change.
But we all walked out together with hugs all around as they headed home and I made tracks for Balliceaux to see New Orleans band The Naughty Professor.
Walking in, the door guy was busy checking IDs but he waved me in, more than familiar by now with me. But when I glanced at the couple in front of me, I realized it was my photographer friend and the love of his life. Here again was unexpected couple company.
Sort of anyway. They only got back together a month ago, so they're still pretty busy making goo-goo eyes at each other all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that). I admired her adorable bag, a small, hard black purse with gold studs and brass knuckles (with rings) for the handle. You know, just in case.
Tonight's entertainment, the Naughty Professor, turned out to be incredibly young-looking guys: a guitarist, bassist, drummer and three horns playing all instrumental New Orleans funk/jazz. The horns would step off the short stage whenever it was time for the others to shine (the drummer gave me "Whiplash" flashbacks) before ambling back up for the horn parts.
The band was surprisingly good for being so young and it didn't take long for some people to start dancing. The challenge was how often the band changed up the rhythm and tempo, but even so, it soon felt like a good time in the back room.
A guy standing in front of me knocked into me twice before apologizing and then saying, "Wanna dance? If you decide you do, just let me know and I'll twirl and dip you and we'll clear out the floor." That's not an offer I get every day.
I ran into a bartender friend who's doing a one-night gig in Seattle, saw the long tall drink of water bassist wearing a hat his mother made him (complete with yarn braid), chatted with Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop about this weather and got a bear hug from the DJ who told me he had just discovered go-go. He was there because he'd been told that this was going to be the show of the week.
As the music unfolded, I had to agree that he'd been given good information. Although not stereotypically New Orleans (it was as much jazz as funk), the horn section was tight and the rhythm section clearly knew each other well. Songs took tangents but always came back around and the band members' energy never flagged during an hour and a half long set.
Even when the room filled up, I could see my lovebird friends over on the side dancing and rubbing up against each other. The band finished with the epic song "Chef's Special" and a cold Wednesday night closed out on a high note.
Bad boys will have to wait till another cold night.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Hugging a Tree
You know what's hard? Putting up a Christmas tree by yourself.
And I'm not talking about some 9 foot monster of a tree, I'm talking about a Charlie Brown kind of a tree, the kind that needs a little love to reach its full potential. The kind that needs Linus to wrap his blanket around the base to help it stay upright. The kind that starts to lean when you look at it.
It's not just difficult dragging it up a flight of stairs and through an extremely narrow hallway by yourself, it's also challenging to get it in the stand and determine if it's straight or not when you can't be under the tree and in front of it simultaneously.
Once all that was accomplished, I began stringing lights on it when it began to lean precariously and I lost an hour of my life reworking everything so it could stay upright and support lights and decorations, too.
After another hour in, my hands were brown with sap, the tree was wearing its holiday finery and I was itching to get out of the house. Where better to go than to meet the friend who'd been so kind as to send me to see "Mame" today?
We met at Amour because I also wanted to eat and they have terrific small plate options, the better to pair with an exquisite Blanc de Noir with which we toasted "Mame."
First up I had two oysters swimming under a mignonette of canola oil, sherry vinaigrette and shallots, each a perfectly balanced bite of the bay.
Cauliflower soup was a revelation made even more impressive when I heard that the cauliflower had still been in the ground at noon today. The rich soup was adorned with Parmesan-crusted cauliflower and sauteed cauliflower greens, a decadent bowl I couldn't finish despite how fresh-tasting it was.
Next came tuna and cantaloupe ceviche, the unexpected sweetness of the melon a delightful addition. I followed that with duck confit with gnocchi and Granny Smith apple sauce, a dish of contrasting textures- pillowy, crunchy - and mouthfeel - rich, tart - that was also being enjoyed by a couple of regulars at the bar.
Turns out the woman was only taking in the gnocchi, though.
She said she eats nothing with feet, so duck was out but she also admitted to loving Soprasetta ("It doesn't have feet") and other cured meats. Her man said it wasn't an issue of ethics but rather the texture of meat she found offensive.
How anyone couldn't love that duck confit is beyond me, but the really strange part is that she loves blood pudding. "So she'll eat congealed blood," her man observed with a grimace.
That led to a discussion of other edibles such as Scrapple (he was raised in Philly so it was a staple) and his father's favorite: white bread with Karo syrup and butter. It makes my teeth hurt to think about it, but he said his Dad ate it for lunch as a kid and never outgrew his taste for it.
But the main reason for my visit had not been to discuss food or this couple's upcoming winter vacation in Key West, but to compare notes on "Mame," which my friend is already planning to see a second time this weekend.
And a third time on closing night.
As it turned out, the couple had also seen it, so our four-way conversation became a love-fest about the musical, how it captured even non-musical lovers, what a top-notch cast it has, how exceptional the choreography was and what a feel-good experience watching it had been.
"It grabbed from the opening scene and made me happy all the way through," my friend said. The non-feet eater told us that "Cabaret" was her favorite musical but allowed as how it was a downer. Not so for "Mame," which radiates sunshine, lollipops and rainbows start to finish (even through stock market crashes, job firings and death of a beloved/rich husband).
Given the caliber of the production, it's the kind of show every theater-loving patron in the city should see. Hell, even people who think they don't like theater or musicals are likely to get their socks knocked off by all the talent onstage.
Instead of dessert, we all shared a cup of Les Confitures a l'Ancienne hot chocolate (my latest obsession), a decadent French extravagance that capped off our meal nicely after so much savory.
But the Scrapple lover had other ideas for happy endings, so we ended up trying a 2007 J. Fritsch Gewurtztraminer, a swoon-worthy sweet and ripe late harvest wine that tasted of lychee and finished with honey. Perfectly lovely, in other words.
By then we'd all moved on from "Mame" to the pleasures of traveling France's 1,000 miles of canals, something the couple is planning to spend two summers doing.
But that's a few years off so for now, they're going to pack up the little teal Christmas tree she won at a fundraiser and drive to Florida for the holidays.
You know what's easy? A teal pre-decorated Christmas tree. You know what's way more fun?
Wrangling a Charlie Brown tree into yuletide submission. Decking the halls with a trail of fallen pine needles. Celebrating with sparkling conversation.
It made me happy all the way through.
And I'm not talking about some 9 foot monster of a tree, I'm talking about a Charlie Brown kind of a tree, the kind that needs a little love to reach its full potential. The kind that needs Linus to wrap his blanket around the base to help it stay upright. The kind that starts to lean when you look at it.
It's not just difficult dragging it up a flight of stairs and through an extremely narrow hallway by yourself, it's also challenging to get it in the stand and determine if it's straight or not when you can't be under the tree and in front of it simultaneously.
Once all that was accomplished, I began stringing lights on it when it began to lean precariously and I lost an hour of my life reworking everything so it could stay upright and support lights and decorations, too.
After another hour in, my hands were brown with sap, the tree was wearing its holiday finery and I was itching to get out of the house. Where better to go than to meet the friend who'd been so kind as to send me to see "Mame" today?
We met at Amour because I also wanted to eat and they have terrific small plate options, the better to pair with an exquisite Blanc de Noir with which we toasted "Mame."
First up I had two oysters swimming under a mignonette of canola oil, sherry vinaigrette and shallots, each a perfectly balanced bite of the bay.
Cauliflower soup was a revelation made even more impressive when I heard that the cauliflower had still been in the ground at noon today. The rich soup was adorned with Parmesan-crusted cauliflower and sauteed cauliflower greens, a decadent bowl I couldn't finish despite how fresh-tasting it was.
Next came tuna and cantaloupe ceviche, the unexpected sweetness of the melon a delightful addition. I followed that with duck confit with gnocchi and Granny Smith apple sauce, a dish of contrasting textures- pillowy, crunchy - and mouthfeel - rich, tart - that was also being enjoyed by a couple of regulars at the bar.
Turns out the woman was only taking in the gnocchi, though.
She said she eats nothing with feet, so duck was out but she also admitted to loving Soprasetta ("It doesn't have feet") and other cured meats. Her man said it wasn't an issue of ethics but rather the texture of meat she found offensive.
How anyone couldn't love that duck confit is beyond me, but the really strange part is that she loves blood pudding. "So she'll eat congealed blood," her man observed with a grimace.
That led to a discussion of other edibles such as Scrapple (he was raised in Philly so it was a staple) and his father's favorite: white bread with Karo syrup and butter. It makes my teeth hurt to think about it, but he said his Dad ate it for lunch as a kid and never outgrew his taste for it.
But the main reason for my visit had not been to discuss food or this couple's upcoming winter vacation in Key West, but to compare notes on "Mame," which my friend is already planning to see a second time this weekend.
And a third time on closing night.
As it turned out, the couple had also seen it, so our four-way conversation became a love-fest about the musical, how it captured even non-musical lovers, what a top-notch cast it has, how exceptional the choreography was and what a feel-good experience watching it had been.
"It grabbed from the opening scene and made me happy all the way through," my friend said. The non-feet eater told us that "Cabaret" was her favorite musical but allowed as how it was a downer. Not so for "Mame," which radiates sunshine, lollipops and rainbows start to finish (even through stock market crashes, job firings and death of a beloved/rich husband).
Given the caliber of the production, it's the kind of show every theater-loving patron in the city should see. Hell, even people who think they don't like theater or musicals are likely to get their socks knocked off by all the talent onstage.
Instead of dessert, we all shared a cup of Les Confitures a l'Ancienne hot chocolate (my latest obsession), a decadent French extravagance that capped off our meal nicely after so much savory.
But the Scrapple lover had other ideas for happy endings, so we ended up trying a 2007 J. Fritsch Gewurtztraminer, a swoon-worthy sweet and ripe late harvest wine that tasted of lychee and finished with honey. Perfectly lovely, in other words.
By then we'd all moved on from "Mame" to the pleasures of traveling France's 1,000 miles of canals, something the couple is planning to spend two summers doing.
But that's a few years off so for now, they're going to pack up the little teal Christmas tree she won at a fundraiser and drive to Florida for the holidays.
You know what's easy? A teal pre-decorated Christmas tree. You know what's way more fun?
Wrangling a Charlie Brown tree into yuletide submission. Decking the halls with a trail of fallen pine needles. Celebrating with sparkling conversation.
It made me happy all the way through.
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