"Every dress has a story," my friend told me repeatedly tonight.
Since I have a lot of dresses, I have to assume that means I have a lot of stories.
For her, it was a rationalization for not getting rid of dresses she no longer wears.
I met that friend at Bonvenu, where we lucked into a charming bartender and a changing crowd of colorful characters.
Waiting for my ever-tardy friend to arrive and not ready to order until she got there, the bartender suggested he pour me some wine to taste to occupy me while he took a smoke break.
Okay, Manon Rose will do.
I continued with the Manon once my friend arrived full of excuses about parking problems. Since we had lots to catch up on, we ordered right away.
The grilled hearts of Romaine salad had grilled sweet corn, goat cheese and a sunny side up egg with lemon and roasted garlic vinaigrette.
I am enjoying finding fried eggs atop almost everything these days (tartare, risotto, salad) because the richness of the yolk is a welcome addition no matter where it lands.
Our ex-builder bartender highly recommended the flat bread pizza with Hanover tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella, grilled Vidalia onions and EVOO.
He said four bar patrons had already ordered it and raved about it. I wanted to be the next raver.
And it was good, with a generous four pieces of flat bread and tomatoes to die for (if not now, when?).
Afterwards, on my way downstairs to the loo, I passed a girl who followed me to the stairwell.
"You are beautiful in your dress," she called to me as I descended the stairs. "You are wearing it!"
I have no idea where that came from.
After dinner, our bartender insisted we try his Flirtini overage (vodka, Chambord, pineapple juice, Triple Sec and Champagne) despite my insistence that I'm not a cocktail drinker.
It seemed to pack a punch, although I'm not a qualified enough cocktail drinker to say much beyond that.
Tonight's music was made for me, with all indie selections from the past three or four years. I couldn't find fault with a single song.
An interesting-looking group came in and claimed the stools next to us. The central character looked at me and said, "You are lovely in a way that says that you don't care. Can I buy you a shot?"
Turns out that he was a (white) rapper and as opinionated as I am. When I said my preference was tequila, he said, "But not Patron, right?"
Right he was because I know that Patron's popularity is due to marketing not, flavor, and there are many far better sipping tequilas.
He was impressed with my anti-Patron sentiments and approved of my choice of Cazadores Anejo.
You never know what captures people's attention.
Another group followed them and this one delivered us a friendly Canadian eager to show us his tattoos and talk about seeing Josh Homme in Copenhaegn.
That lasted for about ten minutes before his girlfriend reeled him in. He spent the rest of the evening looking like a beaten pup.
My girlfriend spent the night telling me about her organizational efforts.
She was divesting herself of old clothes (including some of the storied dresses), reading letters from her past and sorting through old photographs.
I have letters written to me by passionate boyfriends in college. I have photographs going back at least that far.
But unlike her, I never hesitate to give away a dress I don't wear, no matter how good the stories are that go with it.
I prefer to focus on the stories that will come with the dresses that I keep. A few hanging in there right now have doozies attached to them.
Being the optimist that I am, maybe I'm always hoping that a dress' potential has yet to be reached.
You just never know what reaction the right dress might bring...or who it might come from.
Showing posts with label bonvenu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bonvenu. Show all posts
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Surf and Turf with Two
It's tough to say no to surf and turf.
True, I was being invited by a happy couple, so I'd be the odd man out.
And I do have an early morning tomorrow, so I really didn't need a late night with lots of good wine. But how better to celebrate Memorial Day than with a cook-out?
A long-time friend invited me to join him and his girlfriend for a backyard feast of lobster, lamb and veggies. His only concern was that I like butter, garlic and mesquite. Check, check and check.
When I arrived, they were chopping and I joined them in sipping a White Haven Sauvignon Blanc, of which we made short work.
Talk centered around the new Egyptian Gallery (she being as big an art nerd as me), ocean swimming and past loves.
Next up was the New Harbor Sauvignon Blanc, tasting less of cat you-know-what, which lasted through the grilling process and into dinner.
The lobster tails were succulent with melted butter and followed by medium -rare lamb and grilled vegetables with onions, garlic and butter. It was a meal to savor and linger over as darkness descended.
It was at that point that I shared my contribution to the evening, the lovely 2001 Bodegas Carrau Tannat Amat, a rustic red to die for, which I'd been cellaring for a while now.
It's been a huge favorite of mine since the wine dinner at Bistro 27 with Francisco Carrua, the winemaker who kindly invited me to Uruguay after I fell in love with his wines, here.
My friends were as impressed with the black plum and blackberry nose of this wine as I had been, savoring how it continued to open up as we sat on his backyard deck enjoying our meal with the fireflies lighting up all around us.
We drained the bottle of Tannat before deciding that we needed chocolate, so we gathered our forces and walked over to Bonvenu to scratch that itch. It was a lovely night for a walk, even a short one.
Carytown had a decent crowd, although certainly not the typical Saturday night usual. Good or bad, it didn't matter to us; we were three blocks away and it was convenient and that's all that really mattered.
Although the bar was full, we settled for a table and ordered a bottle of the Pol Deau Blanc de Blanc to accompany a chocolate ganache with cream and blueberries as well as a flourless chocolate torte.
If bubbles and chocolate can't finish off a satisfying evening, nothing can (okay, besides the obvious and currently unobtainable).
On the stroll home, my friend offered to perform an impromptu viola solo when we arrived at his house, but those of us with a busy day tomorrow bowed out.
There was no way we were going to top that meal or the Tannat, so I decided to head out while my star was still ascending.
Besides, happy couples need some time alone on a lovely spring night so I was extraneous at that point. At least that's the way I'd feel if I were part of the happy couple.
I almost remember what that was like...Tannat and fireflies, as I recall.
True, I was being invited by a happy couple, so I'd be the odd man out.
And I do have an early morning tomorrow, so I really didn't need a late night with lots of good wine. But how better to celebrate Memorial Day than with a cook-out?
A long-time friend invited me to join him and his girlfriend for a backyard feast of lobster, lamb and veggies. His only concern was that I like butter, garlic and mesquite. Check, check and check.
When I arrived, they were chopping and I joined them in sipping a White Haven Sauvignon Blanc, of which we made short work.
Talk centered around the new Egyptian Gallery (she being as big an art nerd as me), ocean swimming and past loves.
Next up was the New Harbor Sauvignon Blanc, tasting less of cat you-know-what, which lasted through the grilling process and into dinner.
The lobster tails were succulent with melted butter and followed by medium -rare lamb and grilled vegetables with onions, garlic and butter. It was a meal to savor and linger over as darkness descended.
It was at that point that I shared my contribution to the evening, the lovely 2001 Bodegas Carrau Tannat Amat, a rustic red to die for, which I'd been cellaring for a while now.
It's been a huge favorite of mine since the wine dinner at Bistro 27 with Francisco Carrua, the winemaker who kindly invited me to Uruguay after I fell in love with his wines, here.
My friends were as impressed with the black plum and blackberry nose of this wine as I had been, savoring how it continued to open up as we sat on his backyard deck enjoying our meal with the fireflies lighting up all around us.
We drained the bottle of Tannat before deciding that we needed chocolate, so we gathered our forces and walked over to Bonvenu to scratch that itch. It was a lovely night for a walk, even a short one.
Carytown had a decent crowd, although certainly not the typical Saturday night usual. Good or bad, it didn't matter to us; we were three blocks away and it was convenient and that's all that really mattered.
Although the bar was full, we settled for a table and ordered a bottle of the Pol Deau Blanc de Blanc to accompany a chocolate ganache with cream and blueberries as well as a flourless chocolate torte.
If bubbles and chocolate can't finish off a satisfying evening, nothing can (okay, besides the obvious and currently unobtainable).
On the stroll home, my friend offered to perform an impromptu viola solo when we arrived at his house, but those of us with a busy day tomorrow bowed out.
There was no way we were going to top that meal or the Tannat, so I decided to head out while my star was still ascending.
Besides, happy couples need some time alone on a lovely spring night so I was extraneous at that point. At least that's the way I'd feel if I were part of the happy couple.
I almost remember what that was like...Tannat and fireflies, as I recall.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Blog as 21st Century Diary
Tomorrow is the 150th anniversary of the day that our most unschooled President (and best prose stylist) took office. The Virginia Historical Society observed it a day early with a Lincoln lecture.
"The Diary of a Public Man and Abraham Lincoln" was the subject of Dr. Daniel Crofts' talk (with pictures). The diary referred to was published anonymously in 1879 and claimed to detail conversations between Lincoln, his rival Stephen Douglas and Secretary of State William Seward in the five months running up to the Civil War.
After over a century of the diary author's anonymity, Crofts had discovered through the alert eyes of one of his students the similarities between the diary's writing style and that of a prominent journalist of that time, William Henry Hurlbert. Bingo! Book deal in the offing.
What had been purported to have been a diary then was in fact a memoir penned by a mere newspaper writer, albeit one who was writing editorials for The New York Times before he was 30 years old.
Still, the diary contained priceless nuggets of information about the goings-on behind the scenes and Crofts' talk was a compelling look at the difficulty of the situation Lincoln faced from the moment he took office.
Yet again, I was lucky enough to sit by a guy who fell asleep, mouth wide open, only minutes into the lecture. Why do these people come to lectures that don't interest them enough to stay awake? I'd really like to know.
Once he began snoring, the guy behind me tapped him on his shoulder to tell him to knock it off. Sleeper guy was apologetic and requested that if he began snoring again, he should be pushed in the back. Gladly. How about a full-on shove?
Amazingly, he managed to fall asleep only a couple more times before the Q & A session began. And, just like all guilty lecture nappers, he just had to raise his hand to ask a question of the speaker. I swear these people do this to make themselves feel better about having slept through the talk.
Brain full of information about our Constitutionally- conservative, Shakespeare-reading President, I headed over to Bonvenu to meet a friend and fill my belly full of food.
It was his first time at Bonvenu and, as I expected, he was totally taken with the fact that their midday menu is both brunch and lunch every day, not just weekends. So, at 1:45 on a Thursday afternoon, a nice breakfast was an option.
Even more enticing, pitchers of Bloody Marys and Mimosas are also available and we were sorely tempted. We are weak people and we are okay with that.
Naturally he went for it, ordering steak and sunny side up eggs with hashed browns and an enormous biscuit with butter and cherry preserves and then raving about how good it all was.
Breakfast long forgotten on my part, I got a turkey and spinach panini with an enormous salad that caused my friend to say, "That's a side salad? I need to remember that!"
Dessert was a chocolate torte about four inches high with a crumb crust and dense in a sticky, heavier than mousse-like way.
Actually our server called it a cake because the baker had, but this was like no cake we knew of. It was so rich we couldn't finish it, which says a lot for the two of us dessert pros.
By the time we finished gabbing and gorging, my friend didn't think there was any point in going back to work. Like me, he's his own boss, so it was a pretty simple executive decision for him to make given the hour and Plan 9's proximity.
Dear Diary,
Learned a little, ate a lot, did some work and called it a day. Juicy bits withheld...
"The Diary of a Public Man and Abraham Lincoln" was the subject of Dr. Daniel Crofts' talk (with pictures). The diary referred to was published anonymously in 1879 and claimed to detail conversations between Lincoln, his rival Stephen Douglas and Secretary of State William Seward in the five months running up to the Civil War.
After over a century of the diary author's anonymity, Crofts had discovered through the alert eyes of one of his students the similarities between the diary's writing style and that of a prominent journalist of that time, William Henry Hurlbert. Bingo! Book deal in the offing.
What had been purported to have been a diary then was in fact a memoir penned by a mere newspaper writer, albeit one who was writing editorials for The New York Times before he was 30 years old.
Still, the diary contained priceless nuggets of information about the goings-on behind the scenes and Crofts' talk was a compelling look at the difficulty of the situation Lincoln faced from the moment he took office.
Yet again, I was lucky enough to sit by a guy who fell asleep, mouth wide open, only minutes into the lecture. Why do these people come to lectures that don't interest them enough to stay awake? I'd really like to know.
Once he began snoring, the guy behind me tapped him on his shoulder to tell him to knock it off. Sleeper guy was apologetic and requested that if he began snoring again, he should be pushed in the back. Gladly. How about a full-on shove?
Amazingly, he managed to fall asleep only a couple more times before the Q & A session began. And, just like all guilty lecture nappers, he just had to raise his hand to ask a question of the speaker. I swear these people do this to make themselves feel better about having slept through the talk.
Brain full of information about our Constitutionally- conservative, Shakespeare-reading President, I headed over to Bonvenu to meet a friend and fill my belly full of food.
It was his first time at Bonvenu and, as I expected, he was totally taken with the fact that their midday menu is both brunch and lunch every day, not just weekends. So, at 1:45 on a Thursday afternoon, a nice breakfast was an option.
Even more enticing, pitchers of Bloody Marys and Mimosas are also available and we were sorely tempted. We are weak people and we are okay with that.
Naturally he went for it, ordering steak and sunny side up eggs with hashed browns and an enormous biscuit with butter and cherry preserves and then raving about how good it all was.
Breakfast long forgotten on my part, I got a turkey and spinach panini with an enormous salad that caused my friend to say, "That's a side salad? I need to remember that!"
Dessert was a chocolate torte about four inches high with a crumb crust and dense in a sticky, heavier than mousse-like way.
Actually our server called it a cake because the baker had, but this was like no cake we knew of. It was so rich we couldn't finish it, which says a lot for the two of us dessert pros.
By the time we finished gabbing and gorging, my friend didn't think there was any point in going back to work. Like me, he's his own boss, so it was a pretty simple executive decision for him to make given the hour and Plan 9's proximity.
Dear Diary,
Learned a little, ate a lot, did some work and called it a day. Juicy bits withheld...
Friday, February 4, 2011
Coveting a Heart-Shaped Box
Is there a better way to start an evening than with wine and chocolate?
Since the obvious answer to that is no, I started at Barrel Thief, where they were doing a wine and chocolate pairing for a mere five bucks. Count me in since I won't likely get a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine's Day.
The first pairing was 2009 Saracco Moscato d'Asti with a Gearhart's apricot-brandy dark chocolate. I am a huge fan of this local chocolate-maker and the beautiful asti with fruit and flowers on the nose called out for the fruity chocolate that accompanied it. This was going to be my favorite pairing, I just knew it.
Next up was the Broadbent 5-Year Madeira, paired with a maple-pecan chocolate. Sweet and nutty with acidity and complexity, the Madeira was just lovely with the chocolate's pecan.
The last pairing was the Lustau PX San Emilio to be enjoyed with the beautifully striped Earl Gray chocolate.
The abundance of sugar in this sherry made it perfect for the bitter chocolate and bergamot of the Earl Gray. This ended up probably being my favorite pairing of the three, because the contrast was so well done.
With a start like that, I needed to follow up with something just as enjoyable. That turned out to be the opening of the Chris Milk Hulbert show at Ghostprint Gallery.
I'm already partial to his work and amongst the local art on my walls is one of his pieces, "Guitar Player," so I knew going in that I was going to be tempted. It's good to know that you're going to be weak in advance,
Tonight's show included a similar piece, called "Gold Strings" where the guitar player had a gold guitar, but I still preferred mine.
The show was whimsical and colorful and if I were going to buy myself another piece, I know exactly which one it would be (just trying to figure out if I can justify the price).
The room was full of Hulbert's friends as well as local art collectors sipping wine and beer and wanting to get first shot at buying his new works. It felt like a lot like a party.
By the time I left the gallery, a couple of pieces had already been sold; I can only imagine what will happen tomorrow night when the show opens to the public.
From there I went to Bonvenu for dinner. The unexpected pleasure was walking in to find an acquaintance already at the bar and insisting that I join him at an adjacent bar stool.
Wine was poured, conversation began and it was like we had planned to meet up. Conversation flowed while he finished his French onion soup and then we both had the crab cake.
Kudos to Bonvenu and Chef Chaz for all the lump back fin and absence of binder in this fine cake. And I say that as one who grew up in Maryland and knows from well-made crab cakes.
The music was 70s and 80s and featured lots of Hall and Oats (sorry, but I did find Daryl Hall attractive in my youth), Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Sheila E. and Cameo.
Not surprisingly, my friend and I used it as a launching point for discussing dance clubs in D.C. in the a previous lifetime (cause we were in Dupont Circle at the same time, although not together).
When he said Blackie's and I responded with Deja Vu, it was like I'd run into my past and then owner Susan jumped in for a discussion of post-club eating in DC and the absence of such in RVA.
How can people be expected to drink and dance for hours and not sop with fatty food immediately afterwards? It's what makes the next day doable, we all agreed.
Dessert was a blueberry cobbler served in an onion soup ramekin and covered in a sweet crust with vanilla ice cream floating on top.
This we shared (along with more wine) while savoring its contrast of warm fruit and cold ice cream. I am a sucker for blueberries and the South American ones in the stores right now are absolutely delicious.
We were barely done with that when a couple came in and asked if the bar was still open (it was; we were proof of that).
A little conversation and we discovered we had a mutual friend; next thing I knew, that friend was being summoned by text from Bamboo.
He showed up with two friends and the wild conversation and imbibing began. My friend and I stayed the course with wine while the newcomers had Mind Erasers (shudder) and added to the mix with their defense of and disdain for their generation's musical competency.
It's amazing how often I find myself defending the current generation's music to the current generation, so many of whom seem fixated on their parents' music. Very odd.
I had to listen to them make a case for both Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga (double shudder), while they also sang the praises of Led Zeppelin and Dave Matthews Band.
I tried not to judge, but it wasn't easy. Kings of Leon seems to be the band that everyone can agree on, for whatever that's worth.
Eventually, I realized that I'd stayed so long that I'd missed the show I'd intended to see. My acquaintance, now a friend after sharing the details of our personal lives, bade me good night. I finished up my music discussion with the newcomers before deciding to make my exit as well.
Is there a better way to end an evening than after a satisfying meal, much good wine and interesting conversation?
Let's not state the obvious.
Since the obvious answer to that is no, I started at Barrel Thief, where they were doing a wine and chocolate pairing for a mere five bucks. Count me in since I won't likely get a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine's Day.
The first pairing was 2009 Saracco Moscato d'Asti with a Gearhart's apricot-brandy dark chocolate. I am a huge fan of this local chocolate-maker and the beautiful asti with fruit and flowers on the nose called out for the fruity chocolate that accompanied it. This was going to be my favorite pairing, I just knew it.
Next up was the Broadbent 5-Year Madeira, paired with a maple-pecan chocolate. Sweet and nutty with acidity and complexity, the Madeira was just lovely with the chocolate's pecan.
The last pairing was the Lustau PX San Emilio to be enjoyed with the beautifully striped Earl Gray chocolate.
The abundance of sugar in this sherry made it perfect for the bitter chocolate and bergamot of the Earl Gray. This ended up probably being my favorite pairing of the three, because the contrast was so well done.
With a start like that, I needed to follow up with something just as enjoyable. That turned out to be the opening of the Chris Milk Hulbert show at Ghostprint Gallery.
I'm already partial to his work and amongst the local art on my walls is one of his pieces, "Guitar Player," so I knew going in that I was going to be tempted. It's good to know that you're going to be weak in advance,
Tonight's show included a similar piece, called "Gold Strings" where the guitar player had a gold guitar, but I still preferred mine.
The show was whimsical and colorful and if I were going to buy myself another piece, I know exactly which one it would be (just trying to figure out if I can justify the price).
The room was full of Hulbert's friends as well as local art collectors sipping wine and beer and wanting to get first shot at buying his new works. It felt like a lot like a party.
By the time I left the gallery, a couple of pieces had already been sold; I can only imagine what will happen tomorrow night when the show opens to the public.
From there I went to Bonvenu for dinner. The unexpected pleasure was walking in to find an acquaintance already at the bar and insisting that I join him at an adjacent bar stool.
Wine was poured, conversation began and it was like we had planned to meet up. Conversation flowed while he finished his French onion soup and then we both had the crab cake.
Kudos to Bonvenu and Chef Chaz for all the lump back fin and absence of binder in this fine cake. And I say that as one who grew up in Maryland and knows from well-made crab cakes.
The music was 70s and 80s and featured lots of Hall and Oats (sorry, but I did find Daryl Hall attractive in my youth), Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Sheila E. and Cameo.
Not surprisingly, my friend and I used it as a launching point for discussing dance clubs in D.C. in the a previous lifetime (cause we were in Dupont Circle at the same time, although not together).
When he said Blackie's and I responded with Deja Vu, it was like I'd run into my past and then owner Susan jumped in for a discussion of post-club eating in DC and the absence of such in RVA.
How can people be expected to drink and dance for hours and not sop with fatty food immediately afterwards? It's what makes the next day doable, we all agreed.
Dessert was a blueberry cobbler served in an onion soup ramekin and covered in a sweet crust with vanilla ice cream floating on top.
This we shared (along with more wine) while savoring its contrast of warm fruit and cold ice cream. I am a sucker for blueberries and the South American ones in the stores right now are absolutely delicious.
We were barely done with that when a couple came in and asked if the bar was still open (it was; we were proof of that).
A little conversation and we discovered we had a mutual friend; next thing I knew, that friend was being summoned by text from Bamboo.
He showed up with two friends and the wild conversation and imbibing began. My friend and I stayed the course with wine while the newcomers had Mind Erasers (shudder) and added to the mix with their defense of and disdain for their generation's musical competency.
It's amazing how often I find myself defending the current generation's music to the current generation, so many of whom seem fixated on their parents' music. Very odd.
I had to listen to them make a case for both Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga (double shudder), while they also sang the praises of Led Zeppelin and Dave Matthews Band.
I tried not to judge, but it wasn't easy. Kings of Leon seems to be the band that everyone can agree on, for whatever that's worth.
Eventually, I realized that I'd stayed so long that I'd missed the show I'd intended to see. My acquaintance, now a friend after sharing the details of our personal lives, bade me good night. I finished up my music discussion with the newcomers before deciding to make my exit as well.
Is there a better way to end an evening than after a satisfying meal, much good wine and interesting conversation?
Let's not state the obvious.
Friday, December 31, 2010
A Tale of Two Kens
Yet again, the evening didn't work out the way I had thought it would. First off, my girlfriend and I did not connect.
When she wasn't at the appointed meeting spot, I figured she'd blown me off for better things. So I walked the galleries at VMFA looking for her and finally ended up at the Best Cafe, hoping to salvage the night with time spent listening to Hotel X.
I was as unprepared as the VMFA apparently was for the hordes that crowded the cafe for Hotel X tonight. First of all, the band has a huge following. Second, on New Year's Eve eve, there was not a lot happening in RVA. Hence the mob.
Luckily when I arrived, there was one table open and I snagged it in the name of a music lover, albeit a lonely one. Yes, it was a four-top and yes, I was one lousy person, but I'd been stood up and I was not going to stand for three hours of world music.
Afraid to lose my table if I left it to get wine, I stayed put and enjoyed Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music. Before long, I saw an old friend making his way through the crowd and waved hello from my prime seat.
It was Ken, the man who delivered me one of the unkindest and funniest lines of my life (he's the first one mentioned), here, and he came over to ask if he could join me. Not one to hold grudges against people who don't find me pretty (after all, I'm not), I welcomed him to my humble table.
When he discovered my wine dilemma, he was off like a shot to fetch me wine (well, if you insist). He caught me up on his life and I was impressed to hear that he is planning to leave April 1 to spend a month sailing his boat to Florida and back to get a little ocean-going experience. Sounds like a lot more fun than selling securities (again, why he's not my type).
Just as he was reminding me how I'm the perfect girl for him (believe me, I'm not), a woman approached our table and asked if she could join us. Eager to play nice, we said yes. Then we found out she had two friends on the way. Okay, things were getting a bit crowded, but we could adapt.
They turned out to be a fine addition to our duo, the doctor, the operating room nurse and the interior house painter. They had ties to the old Main Street Grill, knew Hotel X and were eager to swap conversation.
One of the women had been burned badly in her last relationship, necessitating her getting out of town to heal and we shared tales of love lost. The nurse asked me about the Rattlemouth show tomorrow night and the painter wanted to know all about me and my neighborhood. Ken who?
I love Hotel X; their fluidity (lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and sideline acoustic-guitar playing.
The place eventually became so jammed that the staff went out on the deck and brought in a additional tables and chairs to accommodate people. Simply put, the joint was jumping.
Once the excellent music ended, I said goodnight to my new harem (Ken having departed earlier due to the late hour...8:30) and they asked for ways to keep in touch.
Leaving the museum, I had a dilemma of where to go and decided that Carytown was my best shot tonight. I rolled up to Bonvenu, busy with a half dozen tables or so and figured they were going to welcome me. And they did.
I took a seat at the bar, was welcomed back (again) and ordered a glass of Tempranillo to start. A quick look at the menu assured me that I needed to finally taste the butternut squash dumplings with chevre, cayenne walnuts and grilled sweet onions in browned butter sauce with crispy sage.
About damn time, too, because the dish was terrific. The dumplings were dense and flavorful, the chevre abundant, the onions cooked to the sweetest perfection and with enough walnuts to satisfy a nut-lover like me. No, I'm not sharing a bite of this.
Mid-dish a butcher came in and sat near me at the bar but didn't speak. I could tell he was eavesdropping when I initiated a conversation with the bartender about the music, but he didn't join the conversation.
The music was a bit dated for my taste (Melanie, "Brand New Key"? Hall and Oates? Wow) , but the discussion thereof caught the interest of the butcher's friend who'd come in and placed himself between me and the meat man.
He was my second Ken of the evening and he was a huge pleasure to talk to (he also didn't mention me not being pretty or my nose being too big). I was set.
We had only minor overlapping music to discuss (although he awarded me major points for my extensive current music knowledge; his stopped at Kings of Leon and Kaiser Chiefs), but it was a start.
We segued into the research skills of the PDA generation (non-existent), the unprecedented turnaround in cultural attitudes toward vets (from dissing Viet Nam vets to celebrating the current crop in a mere 35 years; warp speed for a cultural shift in this country) and the way our parents' generation worked through marital discord rather than resorting to divorce at the first difficulty.
Eventually the butcher left and Ken stayed (I think) for the pleasure of further conversation.
Even so, I could not have been more surprised when he finally asked for his check (his work requires a much earlier wake-up call than mine, but then doesn't everybody's?) and insisted that Miss Karen's bill be included with his. Had I just unwittingly talked for my supper?
I was sorry to see such a fine conversationslaist go but he had a butcher to meet before bed and I understood that. Within moments of his departure, the bartender started telling me about how West Coast drink trends slowly make their way to Richmond and how it says so right in the restaurant magazines.
Specifically, she wanted me to know about the Pickleback, a shot of Jameson's followed by a half shot of pickle juice, which comes to us via Los Angeles. Since I only drink tequila and wine, the conversation between her, the staff and a customer was of no relevance to me.
Until they insisted that I join them in a round of Picklebacks, resulting in my first taste of Jameson's, not to mention my first pickle juice. Who would have thought?
And neither Ken around to witness it. I'm honestly not sure who might have been impressed and who would have been appalled.
Not that it matters either way. I just don't think I'm the Ken type.
Do I look like Barbie?
When she wasn't at the appointed meeting spot, I figured she'd blown me off for better things. So I walked the galleries at VMFA looking for her and finally ended up at the Best Cafe, hoping to salvage the night with time spent listening to Hotel X.
I was as unprepared as the VMFA apparently was for the hordes that crowded the cafe for Hotel X tonight. First of all, the band has a huge following. Second, on New Year's Eve eve, there was not a lot happening in RVA. Hence the mob.
Luckily when I arrived, there was one table open and I snagged it in the name of a music lover, albeit a lonely one. Yes, it was a four-top and yes, I was one lousy person, but I'd been stood up and I was not going to stand for three hours of world music.
Afraid to lose my table if I left it to get wine, I stayed put and enjoyed Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music. Before long, I saw an old friend making his way through the crowd and waved hello from my prime seat.
It was Ken, the man who delivered me one of the unkindest and funniest lines of my life (he's the first one mentioned), here, and he came over to ask if he could join me. Not one to hold grudges against people who don't find me pretty (after all, I'm not), I welcomed him to my humble table.
When he discovered my wine dilemma, he was off like a shot to fetch me wine (well, if you insist). He caught me up on his life and I was impressed to hear that he is planning to leave April 1 to spend a month sailing his boat to Florida and back to get a little ocean-going experience. Sounds like a lot more fun than selling securities (again, why he's not my type).
Just as he was reminding me how I'm the perfect girl for him (believe me, I'm not), a woman approached our table and asked if she could join us. Eager to play nice, we said yes. Then we found out she had two friends on the way. Okay, things were getting a bit crowded, but we could adapt.
They turned out to be a fine addition to our duo, the doctor, the operating room nurse and the interior house painter. They had ties to the old Main Street Grill, knew Hotel X and were eager to swap conversation.
One of the women had been burned badly in her last relationship, necessitating her getting out of town to heal and we shared tales of love lost. The nurse asked me about the Rattlemouth show tomorrow night and the painter wanted to know all about me and my neighborhood. Ken who?
I love Hotel X; their fluidity (lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and sideline acoustic-guitar playing.
The place eventually became so jammed that the staff went out on the deck and brought in a additional tables and chairs to accommodate people. Simply put, the joint was jumping.
Once the excellent music ended, I said goodnight to my new harem (Ken having departed earlier due to the late hour...8:30) and they asked for ways to keep in touch.
Leaving the museum, I had a dilemma of where to go and decided that Carytown was my best shot tonight. I rolled up to Bonvenu, busy with a half dozen tables or so and figured they were going to welcome me. And they did.
I took a seat at the bar, was welcomed back (again) and ordered a glass of Tempranillo to start. A quick look at the menu assured me that I needed to finally taste the butternut squash dumplings with chevre, cayenne walnuts and grilled sweet onions in browned butter sauce with crispy sage.
About damn time, too, because the dish was terrific. The dumplings were dense and flavorful, the chevre abundant, the onions cooked to the sweetest perfection and with enough walnuts to satisfy a nut-lover like me. No, I'm not sharing a bite of this.
Mid-dish a butcher came in and sat near me at the bar but didn't speak. I could tell he was eavesdropping when I initiated a conversation with the bartender about the music, but he didn't join the conversation.
The music was a bit dated for my taste (Melanie, "Brand New Key"? Hall and Oates? Wow) , but the discussion thereof caught the interest of the butcher's friend who'd come in and placed himself between me and the meat man.
He was my second Ken of the evening and he was a huge pleasure to talk to (he also didn't mention me not being pretty or my nose being too big). I was set.
We had only minor overlapping music to discuss (although he awarded me major points for my extensive current music knowledge; his stopped at Kings of Leon and Kaiser Chiefs), but it was a start.
We segued into the research skills of the PDA generation (non-existent), the unprecedented turnaround in cultural attitudes toward vets (from dissing Viet Nam vets to celebrating the current crop in a mere 35 years; warp speed for a cultural shift in this country) and the way our parents' generation worked through marital discord rather than resorting to divorce at the first difficulty.
Eventually the butcher left and Ken stayed (I think) for the pleasure of further conversation.
Even so, I could not have been more surprised when he finally asked for his check (his work requires a much earlier wake-up call than mine, but then doesn't everybody's?) and insisted that Miss Karen's bill be included with his. Had I just unwittingly talked for my supper?
I was sorry to see such a fine conversationslaist go but he had a butcher to meet before bed and I understood that. Within moments of his departure, the bartender started telling me about how West Coast drink trends slowly make their way to Richmond and how it says so right in the restaurant magazines.
Specifically, she wanted me to know about the Pickleback, a shot of Jameson's followed by a half shot of pickle juice, which comes to us via Los Angeles. Since I only drink tequila and wine, the conversation between her, the staff and a customer was of no relevance to me.
Until they insisted that I join them in a round of Picklebacks, resulting in my first taste of Jameson's, not to mention my first pickle juice. Who would have thought?
And neither Ken around to witness it. I'm honestly not sure who might have been impressed and who would have been appalled.
Not that it matters either way. I just don't think I'm the Ken type.
Do I look like Barbie?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
FILO and Funk
All I can say is thank goodness I have friends who stay in town for Thanksgiving so they can go out with me on Thanksgiving Eve when RVA is all but deserted.
Our adventure began at Bonvenu, and we were the first customers to arrive around 7ish.
The three of us staked out one end of the bar and saved a chair for the latecomer.
Knowing her inability to be punctual, we also went ahead and ordered wine.
Described as "aromas of red berries followed by notes of bell peppers," the 2007 Saint-Vincent Baron Bordeaux had a nice, long finish and gave us something with which to kick off our pre-holiday evening.
Just in case the tardy one was further delayed, we asked for the Fried Oysters Rockefeller over smoked bacon creamed spinach with lemon cream sauce and the sausage plate, featuring spicy andouille sausage, boudin blanc and sweet Italian sausage, served with Vermont white cheddar, mini buttermilk biscuits and fig jam.
I loved the variation on Oysters Rockefeller, deconstructed as it was, and all three of us found satisfaction in the sausage varieties.
I spread the little biscuits with jam to provide the sweet complement to my salty sausage.
Meanwhile, a woman came in for dinner, explaining that she was waiting for her husband to arrive. They had met at The Track eleven years ago and transferred their dinner dates to Bonvenu once it replaced that venerable institution.
Actually, I had a memorable first date at The Track, but it didn't result in an eleven-year relationship.
We had demolished that course and were finishing up the wine when a second bottle was ordered and our friend finally put in an appearance.
She was sorry to have missed the sausage, but we explained that people need sustenance waiting 50 minutes for a friend to show.
Just saying.
The music was interesting and, because it was the bartender's iPod, reflected quite the variety in music.
It's not often you hear The Archies on the same mix as Gorillaz (although an argument could be made for the comic/cartoon band connection).
When I teased her about how so much of her music was way older than she was, she skipped to Broken Bells and Andrew Bird to defend herself.
Hey, I'm not here to judge, just to comment (go ahead, Andrew, say it).
For dinner I had the French onion soup baked with garlic croutons (no kissing tonight) and Provolone, a satisfying and warm course after the oysters and sausage.
It was the first time I'd seen the one friend since deciding to take on the dating world, but unlike others with whom I'd shared this momentous and slow-arriving decision, he barely reacted.
No high-fiving, no "Finally!" comments, no nothing.
It was only after the tardy one prodded him to comment about the big news that he expressed his opinion.
Making an analogy about himself and his slow return to dating, he told me, "Eventually you have to stop howling at the moon."
Eventually I do.
We had just ordered dessert (one chocolate torte with ice cream, one chocolate pate with whipped cream, four forks) when in walked the Native Virginian, the man who had met me not long ago and tried to sweep me off my feet by inviting me to 1) Dublin and 2) church.
I will say it was a novel approach at attempting to woo a stranger.
When the third bottle of wine was empty and the chocolate plates licked clean, we realized we'd been the first customers in and the last out; just calls us FILOs.
At that point, we said goodnight to the attempted wooer and beat feet to Cary Street Cafe for music.
Playing tonight were the New Belgians, a collective of Richmond musicians (including Scott Clark, probably my favorite local jazz drummer) playing a funky, soulful, jazzy pastiche that hearkens back to a 70s groove.
Brass, thumping bass, lots of percussion, guitars (sometimes even lap steel) and occasional vocals had the crowd dancing around the stage; I saw several guys walk in the front door, pause momentarily and immediately begin bopping their heads to the music.
Sucked in upon entry they were.
In the middle of one song, an annoying and shrill sound began to compete with the music, but clearly not in time to it.
Apparently the smoke machine had set off the smoke detector; the door guy tried fanning it but finally realized that the smoke machine would just have to go. Bummer.
What's neo-70s funk without smokey effects?
It's damn good music on a night when there could easily have been no music at all given the scarcity of people still in town.
They were calling tonight their "Boom Thanksgiving" show.
Note to those not there tonight: band was booming.
Our adventure began at Bonvenu, and we were the first customers to arrive around 7ish.
The three of us staked out one end of the bar and saved a chair for the latecomer.
Knowing her inability to be punctual, we also went ahead and ordered wine.
Described as "aromas of red berries followed by notes of bell peppers," the 2007 Saint-Vincent Baron Bordeaux had a nice, long finish and gave us something with which to kick off our pre-holiday evening.
Just in case the tardy one was further delayed, we asked for the Fried Oysters Rockefeller over smoked bacon creamed spinach with lemon cream sauce and the sausage plate, featuring spicy andouille sausage, boudin blanc and sweet Italian sausage, served with Vermont white cheddar, mini buttermilk biscuits and fig jam.
I loved the variation on Oysters Rockefeller, deconstructed as it was, and all three of us found satisfaction in the sausage varieties.
I spread the little biscuits with jam to provide the sweet complement to my salty sausage.
Meanwhile, a woman came in for dinner, explaining that she was waiting for her husband to arrive. They had met at The Track eleven years ago and transferred their dinner dates to Bonvenu once it replaced that venerable institution.
Actually, I had a memorable first date at The Track, but it didn't result in an eleven-year relationship.
We had demolished that course and were finishing up the wine when a second bottle was ordered and our friend finally put in an appearance.
She was sorry to have missed the sausage, but we explained that people need sustenance waiting 50 minutes for a friend to show.
Just saying.
The music was interesting and, because it was the bartender's iPod, reflected quite the variety in music.
It's not often you hear The Archies on the same mix as Gorillaz (although an argument could be made for the comic/cartoon band connection).
When I teased her about how so much of her music was way older than she was, she skipped to Broken Bells and Andrew Bird to defend herself.
Hey, I'm not here to judge, just to comment (go ahead, Andrew, say it).
For dinner I had the French onion soup baked with garlic croutons (no kissing tonight) and Provolone, a satisfying and warm course after the oysters and sausage.
It was the first time I'd seen the one friend since deciding to take on the dating world, but unlike others with whom I'd shared this momentous and slow-arriving decision, he barely reacted.
No high-fiving, no "Finally!" comments, no nothing.
It was only after the tardy one prodded him to comment about the big news that he expressed his opinion.
Making an analogy about himself and his slow return to dating, he told me, "Eventually you have to stop howling at the moon."
Eventually I do.
We had just ordered dessert (one chocolate torte with ice cream, one chocolate pate with whipped cream, four forks) when in walked the Native Virginian, the man who had met me not long ago and tried to sweep me off my feet by inviting me to 1) Dublin and 2) church.
I will say it was a novel approach at attempting to woo a stranger.
When the third bottle of wine was empty and the chocolate plates licked clean, we realized we'd been the first customers in and the last out; just calls us FILOs.
At that point, we said goodnight to the attempted wooer and beat feet to Cary Street Cafe for music.
Playing tonight were the New Belgians, a collective of Richmond musicians (including Scott Clark, probably my favorite local jazz drummer) playing a funky, soulful, jazzy pastiche that hearkens back to a 70s groove.
Brass, thumping bass, lots of percussion, guitars (sometimes even lap steel) and occasional vocals had the crowd dancing around the stage; I saw several guys walk in the front door, pause momentarily and immediately begin bopping their heads to the music.
Sucked in upon entry they were.
In the middle of one song, an annoying and shrill sound began to compete with the music, but clearly not in time to it.
Apparently the smoke machine had set off the smoke detector; the door guy tried fanning it but finally realized that the smoke machine would just have to go. Bummer.
What's neo-70s funk without smokey effects?
It's damn good music on a night when there could easily have been no music at all given the scarcity of people still in town.
They were calling tonight their "Boom Thanksgiving" show.
Note to those not there tonight: band was booming.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Hoagies and Highlights
Ever since I'd learned about the lobster hoagie being served at Bonvenu's brunch, I've been determined to have it. I'd hoped to find a friend free to join me for brunch, but no such luck.
Two weeks in, I just went solo and now I can say that there was a good reason I was craving it without ever having tasted it.
Sliding into my seat at the bar, I was welcomed back (they're so good about that) and asked if I was in for a cocktail. "I'm here for that lobster hoagie," I explained, without even looking at the menu. She laughed and asked me which side I wanted with it.
I was barely a few pages into my Sunday Post when the object of my desire arrived. The construction of lobster meat, baby spinach, cherry tomatoes and Bermuda onion with citrus vinaigrette in a very large flour tortilla was enormous.
My first questions was whether or not it was big enough. "I see a to-go box in your future," she said chuckling. Clearly she didn't know my appetite. I'd chosen the red-skin potato and bleu cheese potato salad to accompany my hoagie and, good as it was, it was the casualty on my plate.
Chunks of claw meat and body meat were dominant in the wrap, which was too big to get my mouth around. The crunch of the onions was a lovely contrast to the rich creaminess of the rest of the mixture. I was in the throes of lobster love.
I got about two thirds of the way through it and had no choice but to begin dissection. I opened up the wrap and started eating just the contents, afraid I would be too full otherwise to finish. I think I had maybe three bites of that excellent potato salad before calling quits on it, too.
Brunch was a prelude to a highlights tour at the VMFA. I was honestly curious to see what would be considered the highlights of such an amazing and extensive collection now and said so when our guide asked us why we'd come.
"It's completely up to me what I show you," she said. "So I'm going to highlight some of my favorites." I loved that concept; any given docent would give a different tour because there were no prescribed stops.
Our group was small - two couples and me- but a local artist, colorful and vocal, joined us shortly thereafter and added a lot to the commentary. I must have been a little vocal myself because he eventually came over and asked, "Are you an artist?" I'm an art appreciator, I told him..
We began in the 21st century galleries, a fitting place to consider the state of art today. Moving from gallery to gallery, she would pause and talk about various works or, in some cases, just point out galleries and recommend them (Faberge, for instance).
Pointing upstairs, she said that the Impressionist galleries were up there, but we weren't going to visit them. "Cause they're not a highlight," the artistic latecomer joked.
Clearly he'd visited the museum a lot over the years because he remembered former wall colors, which galleries were where in the 70s and other obscure miscellaneous information (like the pool).
I, on the other hand, was able to inform one of the couples, both long-time Richmonders and museum-goers, that the Boulevard entrance is now open. Neither had any idea that it now is, presuming that the 70s closure of that grand entrance was still fact. They were almost as excited about it as I am and I have no intention of ever using any other entrance.
When the tour ended, our little group bade each other good-bye by name and our docent said, "There goes Karen to leave by the Boulevard entrance!" They all looked at me enviously as they headed to their exits.
Hey, it's not my entrance. Everybody should experience the museum they way it was originally intended to be entered.
Listen to me, sounding all old-school about how things used to be. But do give the front door a try; it's a fitting way to enter the grandeur of the new VMFA.
In fact, it's a highlight.
Two weeks in, I just went solo and now I can say that there was a good reason I was craving it without ever having tasted it.
Sliding into my seat at the bar, I was welcomed back (they're so good about that) and asked if I was in for a cocktail. "I'm here for that lobster hoagie," I explained, without even looking at the menu. She laughed and asked me which side I wanted with it.
I was barely a few pages into my Sunday Post when the object of my desire arrived. The construction of lobster meat, baby spinach, cherry tomatoes and Bermuda onion with citrus vinaigrette in a very large flour tortilla was enormous.
My first questions was whether or not it was big enough. "I see a to-go box in your future," she said chuckling. Clearly she didn't know my appetite. I'd chosen the red-skin potato and bleu cheese potato salad to accompany my hoagie and, good as it was, it was the casualty on my plate.
Chunks of claw meat and body meat were dominant in the wrap, which was too big to get my mouth around. The crunch of the onions was a lovely contrast to the rich creaminess of the rest of the mixture. I was in the throes of lobster love.
I got about two thirds of the way through it and had no choice but to begin dissection. I opened up the wrap and started eating just the contents, afraid I would be too full otherwise to finish. I think I had maybe three bites of that excellent potato salad before calling quits on it, too.
Brunch was a prelude to a highlights tour at the VMFA. I was honestly curious to see what would be considered the highlights of such an amazing and extensive collection now and said so when our guide asked us why we'd come.
"It's completely up to me what I show you," she said. "So I'm going to highlight some of my favorites." I loved that concept; any given docent would give a different tour because there were no prescribed stops.
Our group was small - two couples and me- but a local artist, colorful and vocal, joined us shortly thereafter and added a lot to the commentary. I must have been a little vocal myself because he eventually came over and asked, "Are you an artist?" I'm an art appreciator, I told him..
We began in the 21st century galleries, a fitting place to consider the state of art today. Moving from gallery to gallery, she would pause and talk about various works or, in some cases, just point out galleries and recommend them (Faberge, for instance).
Pointing upstairs, she said that the Impressionist galleries were up there, but we weren't going to visit them. "Cause they're not a highlight," the artistic latecomer joked.
Clearly he'd visited the museum a lot over the years because he remembered former wall colors, which galleries were where in the 70s and other obscure miscellaneous information (like the pool).
I, on the other hand, was able to inform one of the couples, both long-time Richmonders and museum-goers, that the Boulevard entrance is now open. Neither had any idea that it now is, presuming that the 70s closure of that grand entrance was still fact. They were almost as excited about it as I am and I have no intention of ever using any other entrance.
When the tour ended, our little group bade each other good-bye by name and our docent said, "There goes Karen to leave by the Boulevard entrance!" They all looked at me enviously as they headed to their exits.
Hey, it's not my entrance. Everybody should experience the museum they way it was originally intended to be entered.
Listen to me, sounding all old-school about how things used to be. But do give the front door a try; it's a fitting way to enter the grandeur of the new VMFA.
In fact, it's a highlight.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
On Not Squaring Shoulders
Why is it that long days always follow short nights? There was the excitement of the Folk Fest, followed by a much-needed nap and finally getting some work done, and all of a sudden it was after 8 and I hadn't even begun to consider dinner.
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
Friday, June 11, 2010
Historical Conquesting at Groovin' and GayRVA
My, my, my. When it rains, it pours. Fortunately I love a rainy spell because, metaphorically speaking, it's been a deluge. Every time I've turned around for the past week, I've been met with another unexpected and exciting situation or possibility. I still haven't ruled out the possibility of my head exploding.
The evening began in the shade of the sound booth at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. The bulk of the audience was sitting in the blazing sun and I spread my pink blanket in a shaded oasis with built-in conversational partners, the sound guys. How do I get so lucky?
Sahara Smith was up first with her ethereal voice and only a fellow guitarist accompanying her. All kinds of love and heartbreak songs followed. Her comment, "I wrote this song because I was broke on Valentine's Day. But I think I would have written it anyway," about summed up her attitude about romance. I will always enjoy listening to a fellow hopeless romantic.
Mason Jennings followed with a lively and often amusing set and then the man of the evening graced us with his presence. Josh Ritter played Groovin' in the Garden last year (I'll keep your dirty little secret about that, Andrew) and immediately acknowledged it by saying, "Last time we were here, it rained like hell. Thanks for coming back." As if there was any question?
I love his latest CD So Runs the World Away (although, for an album title, he'll never top The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter), so I couldn't have been more thrilled when his second song was "Change of Time." The song is pure poetry to someone like me.
I had a dream last night
And when I opened my eyes
Your shoulder blade, your spine
Were shorelines in the moonlight
New worlds for the weary
New lands for the living
I could make it if I tried
I closed my eyes, I kept on swimming
Sigh. He followed that with "Rumors" and then "Folk Blood Bath" and the tone was set for the evening. I was in a great place when I gathered up my pink blanket to pick up my "date" and head to Carytown.
When we arrived at New York Deli for the GayRVA first birthday party, it was in full swing. The theme was Hello Cupcake! and while there were plenty of people we wanted to say hello to, there were a few we wanted just as much to avoid. My friend is funny; she's not quite as outgoing as I am, but everyone knows her, so we eventually had to escape to the patio, where I got to see the handsome Elliott in his briefs ("What are you looking at first?" he challenged me. "What do you think?" I countered).
We said hi to the girls we know in Cherry Bomb, I gave another friend every delicious detail of the Josh Ritter show he'd missed and I ran into a restaurant owner who once employed one of my exes. There was no shortage of people to talk to as we wedged ourselves through the crowd.
One Maker's Mark and ginger and one Tres Generations later, it was time to change locations, so we crossed the street to Bonvenu where the dinner crowd was down to just a couple of tables and the bar staff seemed happy to see us. Vino Verde was poured so that the discussion could begin.
My friend summed it up perfectly. "How is it we don't see each other for only four days and we've both got big stuff to share?" If I knew the answer to that, I'd also know why strangers propose to me on the street or why guys unfriend me on Facebook when I won't date them (that'll show her!). It's a mad, mad world, I'm afraid.
One of the servers at Bonvenu was celebrating her birthday, although it was the anniversary of her breasts and not her birth. Seems she feels that "the girls" deserve a day of their own to commemorate the day they arrived on her body. She refers to one as Marilyn and the other as Monroe, and has a specific drink she makes to celebrate: champagne and grenadine, sort of a grown-up Shirley Temple, which she refers to as a Mingles Monroe. She insisted we "mingle" with her and who were we to argue? Pink drinking? We're in.
But eventually even they had to close and we moved to an undisclosed location to further the evening with a bottle of Sancerre and a discussion of how to wow a guy with a mix tape, what to wear on an unofficial first date and the best way to respond to an encouraging text from an appealing source.
If it hadn't already been almost 2 a.m., we might have gone on and solved everyone else's problems too. As it was, we decided that it may be time for some historical conquests of our own.
The evening began in the shade of the sound booth at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. The bulk of the audience was sitting in the blazing sun and I spread my pink blanket in a shaded oasis with built-in conversational partners, the sound guys. How do I get so lucky?
Sahara Smith was up first with her ethereal voice and only a fellow guitarist accompanying her. All kinds of love and heartbreak songs followed. Her comment, "I wrote this song because I was broke on Valentine's Day. But I think I would have written it anyway," about summed up her attitude about romance. I will always enjoy listening to a fellow hopeless romantic.
Mason Jennings followed with a lively and often amusing set and then the man of the evening graced us with his presence. Josh Ritter played Groovin' in the Garden last year (I'll keep your dirty little secret about that, Andrew) and immediately acknowledged it by saying, "Last time we were here, it rained like hell. Thanks for coming back." As if there was any question?
I love his latest CD So Runs the World Away (although, for an album title, he'll never top The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter), so I couldn't have been more thrilled when his second song was "Change of Time." The song is pure poetry to someone like me.
I had a dream last night
And when I opened my eyes
Your shoulder blade, your spine
Were shorelines in the moonlight
New worlds for the weary
New lands for the living
I could make it if I tried
I closed my eyes, I kept on swimming
Sigh. He followed that with "Rumors" and then "Folk Blood Bath" and the tone was set for the evening. I was in a great place when I gathered up my pink blanket to pick up my "date" and head to Carytown.
When we arrived at New York Deli for the GayRVA first birthday party, it was in full swing. The theme was Hello Cupcake! and while there were plenty of people we wanted to say hello to, there were a few we wanted just as much to avoid. My friend is funny; she's not quite as outgoing as I am, but everyone knows her, so we eventually had to escape to the patio, where I got to see the handsome Elliott in his briefs ("What are you looking at first?" he challenged me. "What do you think?" I countered).
We said hi to the girls we know in Cherry Bomb, I gave another friend every delicious detail of the Josh Ritter show he'd missed and I ran into a restaurant owner who once employed one of my exes. There was no shortage of people to talk to as we wedged ourselves through the crowd.
One Maker's Mark and ginger and one Tres Generations later, it was time to change locations, so we crossed the street to Bonvenu where the dinner crowd was down to just a couple of tables and the bar staff seemed happy to see us. Vino Verde was poured so that the discussion could begin.
My friend summed it up perfectly. "How is it we don't see each other for only four days and we've both got big stuff to share?" If I knew the answer to that, I'd also know why strangers propose to me on the street or why guys unfriend me on Facebook when I won't date them (that'll show her!). It's a mad, mad world, I'm afraid.
One of the servers at Bonvenu was celebrating her birthday, although it was the anniversary of her breasts and not her birth. Seems she feels that "the girls" deserve a day of their own to commemorate the day they arrived on her body. She refers to one as Marilyn and the other as Monroe, and has a specific drink she makes to celebrate: champagne and grenadine, sort of a grown-up Shirley Temple, which she refers to as a Mingles Monroe. She insisted we "mingle" with her and who were we to argue? Pink drinking? We're in.
But eventually even they had to close and we moved to an undisclosed location to further the evening with a bottle of Sancerre and a discussion of how to wow a guy with a mix tape, what to wear on an unofficial first date and the best way to respond to an encouraging text from an appealing source.
If it hadn't already been almost 2 a.m., we might have gone on and solved everyone else's problems too. As it was, we decided that it may be time for some historical conquests of our own.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Radio Rats Reunite
I worked in radio back in the 90s, a job that taught me how to drink tequila, encouraged me to share my opinions on new music and provided opportunities to meet some interesting characters along the way. One of my favorite oddballs, the former production director, is in from Minneapolis this week so we made plans to meet for dinner tonight.
My friend is gay, a fact I mention only to explain a compliment he gave me years ago which is still one of my favorites. When he first moved to the frigid state of Minnesota, he met a girl who was unaware of his preferences and tried hitting on him. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped her cold by saying, "Honey, if I was going to cross to the dark side, I'd have married Karen years ago." Now that, my friends, is high praise.
He's a native Chicagoan who fell in love with East Coast seafood during the five years he lived in rva, so when I asked if he had any preferences for dinner, all he required was a place he could get crab cakes. I took him to Bonvenu in Carytown, knowing he'd enjoy the feel of the place as well as the food.
I know it's corny, because the place is called Bonvenu and all, but the staff always recognizes me and says things like 'welcome back' and 'nice to see you again.' It seems very gracious and I always appreciate it because I am by no means a regular (this was maybe my sixth visit). Perhaps it's because I usually sit at the bar and they have a close-up view of me and I talk a lot. Or maybe they appreciate the fact that I bring someone different every time I come.
I began with the seared ahi tuna with avocado soy ginger over greens, something my Midwestern friend wouldn't think of eating. He went southern with the wild mushrooms with smoked Gouda grits, although when the plate came, he asked me what the white stuff was (which was actually pretty cute). On a related note, he's still grateful that I introduced him to sun-dried tomatoes back in 1993.
He'd known going in that he was going to have the crab cakes and they pleased him exceedingly. I enjoyed the PEI mussels in a spicy tomato garlic broth with grilled flat bread. I don't usually order mussels in a tomato-based broth but was rewarded for doing so. The mussels came atop a giant square of flat bread bigger than the bowl, so the broth sopped through it on the bottom and stayed warm, dry and crusty on the top and sides. It was built in dipping bread and absolutely delicious.
Over dinner my friend wanted life and love details from the past six years since he'd last been to Richmond, so I delivered the highs and lows. He told me about his adventures since arriving Saturday, including an afternoon on Belle Isle admiring the human scenery today. He was especially proud of his sunburned face.
He told me of having lunch at Joe's Inn with the former music director from the station where we worked and couldn't wait to tell me what the guy had said about me. When my friend mentioned we were having dinner tonight, the guy said, "I would have had an affair with that woman." As my friend put it, "All those years we worked together, not once did he tell me he lusted after you in his heart." Nor did he tell me, but he was married, so that's actually a very good thing.
Dropping me off at a decent hour, my friend was eager to get back to his hotel to watch baseball, so I headed over to a neighborhood joint for chocolate and wine. The restaurant owner wanted to discuss his disdain for a recent online piece about his restaurant; I read it and had to agree that his points were all valid. His only consolation was how few people would even read it, but such are the headaches of living in an online world.
It was so much simpler back when we were working in radio in the 90s. If you said something that was unnecessary or bad form on the air, sure, the people listening heard it, but it didn't live on in perpetuity. I have to say, there's a lot of appeal to that.
Of course, there was a lot of appeal to having a station manager who kept a large bottle of good tequila on his desk to smooth out the rough days, but that's a story for another day.
My friend is gay, a fact I mention only to explain a compliment he gave me years ago which is still one of my favorites. When he first moved to the frigid state of Minnesota, he met a girl who was unaware of his preferences and tried hitting on him. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped her cold by saying, "Honey, if I was going to cross to the dark side, I'd have married Karen years ago." Now that, my friends, is high praise.
He's a native Chicagoan who fell in love with East Coast seafood during the five years he lived in rva, so when I asked if he had any preferences for dinner, all he required was a place he could get crab cakes. I took him to Bonvenu in Carytown, knowing he'd enjoy the feel of the place as well as the food.
I know it's corny, because the place is called Bonvenu and all, but the staff always recognizes me and says things like 'welcome back' and 'nice to see you again.' It seems very gracious and I always appreciate it because I am by no means a regular (this was maybe my sixth visit). Perhaps it's because I usually sit at the bar and they have a close-up view of me and I talk a lot. Or maybe they appreciate the fact that I bring someone different every time I come.
I began with the seared ahi tuna with avocado soy ginger over greens, something my Midwestern friend wouldn't think of eating. He went southern with the wild mushrooms with smoked Gouda grits, although when the plate came, he asked me what the white stuff was (which was actually pretty cute). On a related note, he's still grateful that I introduced him to sun-dried tomatoes back in 1993.
He'd known going in that he was going to have the crab cakes and they pleased him exceedingly. I enjoyed the PEI mussels in a spicy tomato garlic broth with grilled flat bread. I don't usually order mussels in a tomato-based broth but was rewarded for doing so. The mussels came atop a giant square of flat bread bigger than the bowl, so the broth sopped through it on the bottom and stayed warm, dry and crusty on the top and sides. It was built in dipping bread and absolutely delicious.
Over dinner my friend wanted life and love details from the past six years since he'd last been to Richmond, so I delivered the highs and lows. He told me about his adventures since arriving Saturday, including an afternoon on Belle Isle admiring the human scenery today. He was especially proud of his sunburned face.
He told me of having lunch at Joe's Inn with the former music director from the station where we worked and couldn't wait to tell me what the guy had said about me. When my friend mentioned we were having dinner tonight, the guy said, "I would have had an affair with that woman." As my friend put it, "All those years we worked together, not once did he tell me he lusted after you in his heart." Nor did he tell me, but he was married, so that's actually a very good thing.
Dropping me off at a decent hour, my friend was eager to get back to his hotel to watch baseball, so I headed over to a neighborhood joint for chocolate and wine. The restaurant owner wanted to discuss his disdain for a recent online piece about his restaurant; I read it and had to agree that his points were all valid. His only consolation was how few people would even read it, but such are the headaches of living in an online world.
It was so much simpler back when we were working in radio in the 90s. If you said something that was unnecessary or bad form on the air, sure, the people listening heard it, but it didn't live on in perpetuity. I have to say, there's a lot of appeal to that.
Of course, there was a lot of appeal to having a station manager who kept a large bottle of good tequila on his desk to smooth out the rough days, but that's a story for another day.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Reservation for Two at the Bar
I knew that Condaleeza Rice was in town tonight, which had the potential to interfere with my dining plans and I wasn't having any of it.
A friend and I had planned to meet at Bonvenu at 6:15 and this afternoon it occurred to me that restaurants were going to be slammed early tonight because of the Forum.
What to do, what to do?
To me, the simple solution was to call Bonvenu and ask for a reservation for two at the bar for 6:15.
The woman who answered the phone sounded a bit perplexed since they'd never taken a bar reservation before, but I assured her it was done in other cities.
Since it would be before the official dinner rush, she agreed.
When we arrived, the hostess said several couples had tried to cop our stools and looked disgruntled when told they were reserved.
Sorry about your bad luck, folks, but it pays to plan ahead.
Since this was our first time hanging out together, we started slowly with drinks; I had Vino Verde and he had a martini (which led to me belatedly learning the term "bruised" as it applies to one).
He's a regular blog reader so he took some time to explain how resentful he feels that I don't blog ahead of time about what I'm going to do, the better to alert people like him who can't keep up with the goings-on but want to.
It's not often that a guy wants you to tell him what to do, and it's not like I'm any sort of expert anyway.
We ordered with sharing in mind, the better to taste around the menu; we got the special of escargots in puff pastry, a mixed green salad with blood oranges, Manhattan clam salad and beggars' purses.
The clam salad with caramelized onions was a standout, with its simple but unusual pairing of the two stars of the dish.
As for the special of escargots, they were excellent. We were both expecting them to be surrounded by pastry, but in fact they were sitting atop a small ring of it.
All except one, which had escaped its pastry ring.
I commented to our charming bartender Paul (whom I know from previous conversation has a classic rock bent) that we had a rebel snail.
"Yea, but that'll turn out to be the tastiest one, " he assured me. "The rebels are always the most interesting ones."
At this point, I think we were talking about escargots, but I'm not entirely certain.
During a visit to the subterranean bathroom, one of the owners put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was the one who had reserved the bar seats.
Affirming that, she complimented my smarts in doing so.
I thanked her for her wisdom in accepting the reservation; I can only hope it's the beginning of a trend.
In the past, they've offered to do it for me at Bistro 27 if I call ahead, so maybe there is a growing acknowledgement for those who prefer eating barside to tableside.
Bonvenu continued to fill up and it got noisy to the point that my friend and I were practically shouting to share stories with each other.
After a few hours of that, we headed down Cary Street to Bin 22 for a glass of after-dinner wine, where the music was stellar (Spoon, Cat Power, Neko Case) and the noise level far more conducive to conversation.
He's an interesting guy whom I met through his work in a local restaurant's kitchen, so he knows all the characters and had loads of good restaurant stories.
But it was talking about the quantum changes in our lifetime that really got us going; I've definitely found another great conversationalist, even if he did have to check in with his wife at 10 p.m. (which was actually kind of charming).
Leaving after our waitress gave us the hint that they were closing, he turned to me and said, "You win."
It seems that every time I went to the bathroom, he'd tried to find a way to engage her in conversation, never getting more than the briefest response.
But toward the end, I'd commented on her iPod's music, which led us to talk of shows we'd both seen and a burst of chatter from her.
"I tried every way to get her to talk, but you got her by talking music," he marveled.
Yea, I do that a lot.
A friend and I had planned to meet at Bonvenu at 6:15 and this afternoon it occurred to me that restaurants were going to be slammed early tonight because of the Forum.
What to do, what to do?
To me, the simple solution was to call Bonvenu and ask for a reservation for two at the bar for 6:15.
The woman who answered the phone sounded a bit perplexed since they'd never taken a bar reservation before, but I assured her it was done in other cities.
Since it would be before the official dinner rush, she agreed.
When we arrived, the hostess said several couples had tried to cop our stools and looked disgruntled when told they were reserved.
Sorry about your bad luck, folks, but it pays to plan ahead.
Since this was our first time hanging out together, we started slowly with drinks; I had Vino Verde and he had a martini (which led to me belatedly learning the term "bruised" as it applies to one).
He's a regular blog reader so he took some time to explain how resentful he feels that I don't blog ahead of time about what I'm going to do, the better to alert people like him who can't keep up with the goings-on but want to.
It's not often that a guy wants you to tell him what to do, and it's not like I'm any sort of expert anyway.
We ordered with sharing in mind, the better to taste around the menu; we got the special of escargots in puff pastry, a mixed green salad with blood oranges, Manhattan clam salad and beggars' purses.
The clam salad with caramelized onions was a standout, with its simple but unusual pairing of the two stars of the dish.
As for the special of escargots, they were excellent. We were both expecting them to be surrounded by pastry, but in fact they were sitting atop a small ring of it.
All except one, which had escaped its pastry ring.
I commented to our charming bartender Paul (whom I know from previous conversation has a classic rock bent) that we had a rebel snail.
"Yea, but that'll turn out to be the tastiest one, " he assured me. "The rebels are always the most interesting ones."
At this point, I think we were talking about escargots, but I'm not entirely certain.
During a visit to the subterranean bathroom, one of the owners put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was the one who had reserved the bar seats.
Affirming that, she complimented my smarts in doing so.
I thanked her for her wisdom in accepting the reservation; I can only hope it's the beginning of a trend.
In the past, they've offered to do it for me at Bistro 27 if I call ahead, so maybe there is a growing acknowledgement for those who prefer eating barside to tableside.
Bonvenu continued to fill up and it got noisy to the point that my friend and I were practically shouting to share stories with each other.
After a few hours of that, we headed down Cary Street to Bin 22 for a glass of after-dinner wine, where the music was stellar (Spoon, Cat Power, Neko Case) and the noise level far more conducive to conversation.
He's an interesting guy whom I met through his work in a local restaurant's kitchen, so he knows all the characters and had loads of good restaurant stories.
But it was talking about the quantum changes in our lifetime that really got us going; I've definitely found another great conversationalist, even if he did have to check in with his wife at 10 p.m. (which was actually kind of charming).
Leaving after our waitress gave us the hint that they were closing, he turned to me and said, "You win."
It seems that every time I went to the bathroom, he'd tried to find a way to engage her in conversation, never getting more than the briefest response.
But toward the end, I'd commented on her iPod's music, which led us to talk of shows we'd both seen and a burst of chatter from her.
"I tried every way to get her to talk, but you got her by talking music," he marveled.
Yea, I do that a lot.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Pokage at Bonvenu
Different friends expect different things from me and usually I'm happy to accommodate.
My partner for the evening tonight is a long-time friend who knows where all the bodies are buried.
But she's in a serious relationship and doesn't get out much, so she counts on me to keep her abreast of new places she'd never make it to otherwise.
As long as the wine is affordable and the food interesting, she'll agreeably meet me anywhere and right after work, too, so we have hours to gab and consume.
Tonight that place was Bonvenu in Carytown and I was surprised to be recognized and greeted by one of the owners with, "Welcome back," as we took seats at the bar.
The bartender was different than on my first visit, but quite affable and with a terrific sense of humor, as we were to discover.
He brought us a bottle of the Voleriano Temperanillo so that the girl talk could begin.
At just over two weeks since our last cocktail hour, my friend nailed it when she said, "Okay, let's go back to the beginning so I'm completely caught up."
But one cannot survive on wine and talk alone, so when menus were offered, we paused momentarily.
She was immediately seduced by the Beggars' Purses, one of the dishes I had thoroughly enjoyed on my last visit.
The mussels had just been 86'd, so I decided to try the Wild Mushroom with Smoked Gouda Grits and I was very glad I did.
The smokey Gouda flavor that infused the grits wrapped itself around the mushrooms making for a dish I will recommend to friends in the future.
She liked her purses as much as I had; come on, crab and Tasso ham, what's not to like?
The food had slowed down my ability to share everything I needed to tell her as well as her ability to analyze all the interesting rolls of the dice that have been landing at my feet of late.
I am lucky to have someone I have known for so long and with the kind of life experience to offer insightful advice when I need it most.
While still working down the wine, the bartender came over to try to entice us with dessert, not a difficult task.
The first thing out of his mouth was 'homemade chocolate cake with ganache' but we let him finish listing the others anyway before ordering the cake. And that's when the language lesson began.
"We have a little something extra you can get with that," he told us.
What's that, we wondered.
"We can do that with Godiva Chocolate Liqueur. First we do some pokage and then we pour it into the cake to absorb the flavor."
POKAGE? Poke-age?
Is that from the same word group as shrinkage?
I not only laughed out loud, I had to ask him if he'd really just said pokage.
"You know, poke-age," he reiterated, demonstrating with his fingers a poking gesture.
Oh, we knew pokage, we just hadn't heard the culinary term before.
Yes, we wanted Godiva and pokage.
And, for me, maybe even a chance to use the term again in the very near future, just for the satisfaction of saying it.
Did my friend like Bonvenu? She did indeed.
And for me, the language nerd, did it make my night to hear a new word?
Honestly, my life just keeps getting better and better.
My partner for the evening tonight is a long-time friend who knows where all the bodies are buried.
But she's in a serious relationship and doesn't get out much, so she counts on me to keep her abreast of new places she'd never make it to otherwise.
As long as the wine is affordable and the food interesting, she'll agreeably meet me anywhere and right after work, too, so we have hours to gab and consume.
Tonight that place was Bonvenu in Carytown and I was surprised to be recognized and greeted by one of the owners with, "Welcome back," as we took seats at the bar.
The bartender was different than on my first visit, but quite affable and with a terrific sense of humor, as we were to discover.
He brought us a bottle of the Voleriano Temperanillo so that the girl talk could begin.
At just over two weeks since our last cocktail hour, my friend nailed it when she said, "Okay, let's go back to the beginning so I'm completely caught up."
But one cannot survive on wine and talk alone, so when menus were offered, we paused momentarily.
She was immediately seduced by the Beggars' Purses, one of the dishes I had thoroughly enjoyed on my last visit.
The mussels had just been 86'd, so I decided to try the Wild Mushroom with Smoked Gouda Grits and I was very glad I did.
The smokey Gouda flavor that infused the grits wrapped itself around the mushrooms making for a dish I will recommend to friends in the future.
She liked her purses as much as I had; come on, crab and Tasso ham, what's not to like?
The food had slowed down my ability to share everything I needed to tell her as well as her ability to analyze all the interesting rolls of the dice that have been landing at my feet of late.
I am lucky to have someone I have known for so long and with the kind of life experience to offer insightful advice when I need it most.
While still working down the wine, the bartender came over to try to entice us with dessert, not a difficult task.
The first thing out of his mouth was 'homemade chocolate cake with ganache' but we let him finish listing the others anyway before ordering the cake. And that's when the language lesson began.
"We have a little something extra you can get with that," he told us.
What's that, we wondered.
"We can do that with Godiva Chocolate Liqueur. First we do some pokage and then we pour it into the cake to absorb the flavor."
POKAGE? Poke-age?
Is that from the same word group as shrinkage?
I not only laughed out loud, I had to ask him if he'd really just said pokage.
"You know, poke-age," he reiterated, demonstrating with his fingers a poking gesture.
Oh, we knew pokage, we just hadn't heard the culinary term before.
Yes, we wanted Godiva and pokage.
And, for me, maybe even a chance to use the term again in the very near future, just for the satisfaction of saying it.
Did my friend like Bonvenu? She did indeed.
And for me, the language nerd, did it make my night to hear a new word?
Honestly, my life just keeps getting better and better.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Carytown's Newest Eats: Bonvenu
Carytown beckoned me and two friends last night to check out the newest addition to the eating scene there, Bonvenu, in the space formerly occupied by The Track.
The interior has been vastly altered with lighter walls, sexy lighting and a new booth/table configuration.
The formerly frumpy fuddy-duddy got a Glamour Shots makeover and it's a huge improvement.
Best of all, the bar has been reworked into a larger, more user-friendly shape than the old cramped reverse L-shape.
Staff-wise, there were familiar faces from Mezzanine and Escobar, all friendly and seemingly psyched to welcome customers.
I staked out an end stool, my favorite bar position, followed shortly by Friend 1 and some time later, Friend 2 (not to be confused with Thing 1 and Thing 2).
Because Friend 2's arrival was delayed, we started with a bottle of Over the Edge Pinot Noir.
Midway through the bottle, and with Friend 2 nowhere in sight, we opted to try El Tesoro Tequila Anejo (F1's idea, although I was a most willing participant).
As one of those practically non-existent people who drink only wine and good tequila, I am always eager to try new varieties.
This one tasted of citrus and herbs and was as smooth as silk; for anyone who claims that they just can't stomach tequila, I respectfully suggest that you haven't tried the right one.
With wine and tequila in my recent past, it was time for some sort of victuals and I went with French Onion Soup, a dish I love but which is too often executed in a mediocre manner.
This was excellent and I was halfway through when Friend 2 arrived and the real ordering began in earnest.
F1 got the rack of lamb and F2 the trout.
I went with the Beggars' Purses stuffed with Tasso ham, lump crab meat and chevre with herbed lemon creme fraiche.
F2 was most pleased with her fish and F1 gave me several delicious bites of his cream sauce laden lamb.
My purses were a good size with their obscenely rich contents a nice contrast to the simple wrapper.
Since I can't discuss a restaurant experience without mentioning the audio component, here it is.
The bartender's iPod provided the music, and like so many twenty-somethings, he's a classic rock fan.
Something about not having lived through it seems to make it wildly appealing to subsequent generations (personally, I'm over most of it).
I will give him credit, though.
Although most of the artists were vintage, his song choices showed some creativity; we heard many more obscure tracks than big hits, always a plus in my book.
And yet again, I was rewarded with an enthusiastic "Good for you!" when he learned that I don't have a cell phone.
It never ceases to amaze me how impressed some people are when they discover I live my life without one.
Despite The Track having been the setting for a memorable first date, it was never high on my list of regular destinations.
If my next meal at Bonvenu is as impressive as tonight's was, that won't be the case with Bonvenu.
The interior has been vastly altered with lighter walls, sexy lighting and a new booth/table configuration.
The formerly frumpy fuddy-duddy got a Glamour Shots makeover and it's a huge improvement.
Best of all, the bar has been reworked into a larger, more user-friendly shape than the old cramped reverse L-shape.
Staff-wise, there were familiar faces from Mezzanine and Escobar, all friendly and seemingly psyched to welcome customers.
I staked out an end stool, my favorite bar position, followed shortly by Friend 1 and some time later, Friend 2 (not to be confused with Thing 1 and Thing 2).
Because Friend 2's arrival was delayed, we started with a bottle of Over the Edge Pinot Noir.
Midway through the bottle, and with Friend 2 nowhere in sight, we opted to try El Tesoro Tequila Anejo (F1's idea, although I was a most willing participant).
As one of those practically non-existent people who drink only wine and good tequila, I am always eager to try new varieties.
This one tasted of citrus and herbs and was as smooth as silk; for anyone who claims that they just can't stomach tequila, I respectfully suggest that you haven't tried the right one.
With wine and tequila in my recent past, it was time for some sort of victuals and I went with French Onion Soup, a dish I love but which is too often executed in a mediocre manner.
This was excellent and I was halfway through when Friend 2 arrived and the real ordering began in earnest.
F1 got the rack of lamb and F2 the trout.
I went with the Beggars' Purses stuffed with Tasso ham, lump crab meat and chevre with herbed lemon creme fraiche.
F2 was most pleased with her fish and F1 gave me several delicious bites of his cream sauce laden lamb.
My purses were a good size with their obscenely rich contents a nice contrast to the simple wrapper.
Since I can't discuss a restaurant experience without mentioning the audio component, here it is.
The bartender's iPod provided the music, and like so many twenty-somethings, he's a classic rock fan.
Something about not having lived through it seems to make it wildly appealing to subsequent generations (personally, I'm over most of it).
I will give him credit, though.
Although most of the artists were vintage, his song choices showed some creativity; we heard many more obscure tracks than big hits, always a plus in my book.
And yet again, I was rewarded with an enthusiastic "Good for you!" when he learned that I don't have a cell phone.
It never ceases to amaze me how impressed some people are when they discover I live my life without one.
Despite The Track having been the setting for a memorable first date, it was never high on my list of regular destinations.
If my next meal at Bonvenu is as impressive as tonight's was, that won't be the case with Bonvenu.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
