Vienna Sausage Envy

There's nothing like seeing a grown man cry.

Not that there was anything to cry about at The Roosevelt where the evening began.

We arrived early and had our pick of seats in the light-filled dining room. All we really needed were the two end stools.

I always enjoy being in The Roosevelt early on before the hordes descend. The vibe is so completely different.

'Tis the season, so we got a bottle of Boxwood Rose to ease us into the weekend.

Like we needed easing.

The good news was that the menu had just been tweaked today, making for some new choices for us regulars.

Crostini thick with local ricotta, anchovies and radish slices satisfied us to start.

A new salad of peaches, burrata, hazelnuts and arugula with banyuls vinaigrette delivered the taste of summer fruit and the ultra creaminess that mozzarella only wishes it had.

Hand-cut steak tartare got a richness boost from an egg yolk and charcoal vinaigrette, making for a plate sopped clean with bread so as not to miss a trace of charcoal, beef or egg.

Between discussing Members Only, the local '80s cover band that's got everyone dancing lately and hearing about how to handle a lubricated customer from bartender T, we hadn't noticed how much time had flown.

I should have realized because the dining room was suddenly full.

Coca cola cake and King Family Loreley were requested in short order, giving us the sweet period at the end of the meal sentence.

Properly fortified and dressed appropriately, it was time for the GayRVA third birthday party at Gallery 5.

The party was still very much in the mingling stage when we arrived and the host was giving everyone a bear hug as welcome.

3-D glasses were handed out at the door, tying in to the theme "Attack of the 30-Foot Drag Queens."

It didn't take long to find friends or drinks as DJ Soigne West kept the bass thumping.

And such friends. The handsome theater critic complimented my brief dress, Princess Di ruffled my hair, telling me how much he liked my "sex" hair and a guy I met a year ago told me he reads my blog regularly and loves it.

A girl can't get too much of that kind of attention.

The buffet was courtesy of Crossroads VCU and had a '50 theme: spanikopita, cream cheese-stuffed celery, cheese and Country Club crackers.

But as a friend noted, it also had a particularly phallic theme: pigs in a blanket, meatballs, Vienna sausages.

Yes, Vienna sausages. We'll leave it at that.

Cupcakes came from Delish and the dark chocolate frosted chocolate one I tried was spicy with the heat of cayenne.

It wasn't long before the show started and it was being hosted by Natasha Carrington, self-described as "a fat guy in a dress."

Actually, she had on a bodysuit, a sparkly shrug and impossibly high heels.

Before long, press-on nails were flying off the stage and she was shimmying all over the place.

Women began approaching the stage with dollar bills for her efforts and I noticed more than one woman with a wad of bills tucked into her bra or shirt pocket.

I wish I'd known.

Talking afterwards, Natasha began having microphone issues and insisted to no one in particular that it be fixed.

Once that problem had been solved, she joked, "How many gay men does it take to fix a microphone?''

She paused less than one beat. "None!" she cackled. "Get a lesbian!"

Later when she commented on how warm the room was (the radiators actually felt warm for some reason), she called out, "Any lesbians out there with heating and air conditioning skills?"

Natasha wasn't the only performer; we also saw Scarlet Starlet in red fishnets and eventually her pasties before Deanna Danger took the stage and did the same but with a hula hoop.

But Natasha was our hostess and she never stopped engaging and provoking the audience.

"Will you look at this tuck job?" she asked, looking very feminine down there. So we did look.

When it was time for the big moment, the announcement of GayRVA's Richmonder of the Year, Natasha stood by as publisher Kevin praised the winner as someone who'd been tireless in his work fundraising for HIV awareness and the Fan Free Clinic.

And then boom, the announcement that it was Natasha, aka John, and the tears began to fall.

Accepting a bouquet and goody bag, Natasha wiped her mascaraed eyes and shouted, "F**k you bitches for making me cry!"

It was actually a very touching moment.

Eventually we moved on from burlesque to boylesque with Jebidiah Stone taking the stage dancing in a  cardboard robot costume that was eventually shed for shiny blue shorts, then black briefs and eventually a G-string.

And he never stopped dancing, flipping and flexing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Natasha roared afterwards, "That's how a man should take off his clothes!"

Okay, maybe not every time, but on occasion, it would definitely have its appeal.

Scarlet performed again and so did Deanna, although this time it was her aerial stylings.

Out of nowhere there was a large metal ring hung from the ceiling and she mounted it, weaving her body in, on and under it in any number of suspended provocative poses.

And speaking of provocative, on a trip to the bathroom, I excused myself by a large group and one woman looked me up and down and said, "Mmm, mmm, mmm!"

I think I knew what she meant, but I'm not sure we're compatible.

I can't fix a microphone.

Rebuilding the Bionic Woman

Never make plans because they are always subject to change. But set goals anyway.

I began at Amuse because it was a favorite bartender's last night and far be it for me not to worship at his bar one last time.

The vibe was low key when I arrived and escalated to full-on busy before it was all over.

Even better, a dedicated admirer joined me before long, making for an even better way to enjoy my evening.

We started with the Boxwood Rose despite the plethora of happy hour choices. As if that weren't surprise enough, there was a new prix fixe menu.

Amuse, you've gotten so hip lately.

We couldn't resist the regular menu, though, choosing  the country style duck pate with quince whole grain mustard, pistachios and toasted crostini.

At the bartender's recommendation, we let it sit for a while to warm up, releasing the flavors.

Just as compelling were the house-cured sardines and roasted piquillo peppers with arugula, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

It was just short of an Italian's wet dream.

Last, but certainly not least, was the grilled polenta with a saute of local mushrooms and creamy sherry with chives.

Meanwhile, we had been greeted by WRIR folk, the bartender's parents ("Didn't we meet in an alley?") and a couple who clarified that they were not engaged.

Because it was the bartender's last night. It seemed only appropriate that he make my last absinthe drip at Amuse.

Okay, maybe not my last, but the last he  prepared for me.

A nearby bar sitter marveled at the process, never having seen it before.

You have to love absinthe virgins.

Because of the later light and the magnificent view, we lingered over absinthe while admiring the fading March light over the sculpture garden.

By then I'd missed the Black Maria Film Fest I'd intended to make.

Eventually, we marshaled our forces and went to see "Visions of France: Three Postwar Photographers," a beguiling show of people kissing, cafe scenes and assorted denizens of Paris' streets.

We were taken with Doisneau's "Kiss by the Hotel de Ville" mainly because of the girl's arm.

Yes, he is holding her shoulder and kissing her hard, but it is the surrender in her right arm that captivated us.

Clearly, she was completely helpless once he started kissing her.

Now, that's street art.

Stopping on the second floor landing, we paused to admire the host of couples tangoing on the lower level.

Every third Friday, they do Tango after Work and watching these couples dance was a beautiful entertainment.

I am probably far too uncoordinated to attempt tangoing, but I couldn't help but admire the beauty of the joined bodies.

And I've got the wardrobe; all the women wore skirts or dresses.

We all need something to aspire to.

Next up, I went to Strange Matter for music because how else do you follow absinthe, street kissing and tango?

In this case, with leg compliments from a girl, libido questions from a guy, a man in the ladies' room and three excellent sets.

Marionette started on time, a rarity at Strange Matter, and played an incredibly tight set of new music.

It's fantastic when old fans get rewarded with new material.

During one song the drummer's girlfriend came up to me and said, "This song sounds like sex, doesn't it?"

When I mentioned her comment to the guitarist later, he said, "I thought it sounded more like victory...or maybe that's the same."

Ocean versus Daughter was next, and while I'd seen them once before, I hadn't known the full back story then.

Hearing her sing "You hurt me. I hate you. I hope you die in a fire" takes on a whole new meaning when I learn that the guy she wrote it about is in the room.

While I liked her voice and keyboards, even better was when she had two members of Marionette backing her up.

During a trip to the bathroom, I came out of my stall to find the singer cornered near the sink by a guy who wanted her to listen to his band.

But really, following her into the ladies' room to make his pitch?

I can't decide if that's very rock and roll or just skeevy.

Last up was Canary, oh Canary and while the vocals weren't quite high enough in the mix, they did their usual superb job with reverb and obtuse lyrics.

So while I'd traded off film for music, I can't come close to matching the record of WRIR's Galaxy Girl, who was there tonight. She's now seen fifteen shows this month and it's March 16th.

I bowed at her feet for such awesomeness.

The best I got tonight was having a musician friend tell me he'd been driving through my neighborhood and was admiring some great legs in shorts when he realized it was me.

We're going to call that metaphorical bowing at my legs for semi-awesomeness.

I know it's not much, but it's hard to compete with a record like fifteen out of sixteen.

Truth is, when it comes to some things, I'd be happy with one out of three.

As long as it's the right one.

Good Things To Eat

If I say I brought a bottle of Virginia wine in my bag, does that tell you where I ended up?

It says nothing about where I started out, which was at The Camel for Todd Raviotta's art opening.

Before I even made it inside, I ran into a musician headed up to WRIR for an interview. That yielded some fun conversation and a FB friend request before I even got home.

The prolific photographer was showing his art work, all of it based on a life going to shows in Richmond. I know because I see him everywhere.

The first image I saw was of Prabir and the Goldrush, a band I know well.

In Raviotta's image, Treesa's dress was green glitter and Prabir was singing with his mouth wide open and Matt had his head bent, the better to hear his bass (I strain, too).

An image of No BS Brass band showed the musicians mid-note, with everyone's mouth open and singing.

There were many images of burlesque dancers in addition to one of a six headed DJ (actually three double exposures).

I admire Todd because he eschews the use of Photoshop in his photography; instead, he prints his pictures on waterproof paper, creating a canvas for further work.

Then, using nail polish (and often glitter nail polish) he paints on the photographs. It's interesting what gets his brushstrokes and what doesn't. Treesa's dress did.

Todd said tonight that this art form was his way of combining his love of photography with painting and his affinity for the people in his world (musicians and burlesque performers) without having to resort to using a screen.

After perusing the paintings and talking to the artist, I headed up the hill to The Roosevelt, where I arrived to a standing-room-only dining room.

It was also the first night of full ABC service. Just in case, though, I'd brought a bottle of my own. For the record, it was Virginia wine.

I took the seat vacated by Jason Alley, chef at Comfort, and was immediately introduced to my seatmate, a merchandiser for Urban Outfitters and a charming conversationalist.

Considering my Diversity Thrift summer dress, I'm fortunate that he even deigned to talk to me.  But he did, and with enthusiasm

I asked for the Virginia Fizz, which had already sold so well that the remainder was on ice being chilled down.

Rather than wait, I opted for the Boxwood Rose, which came to me highly recommended by the owner. She was right.

The conversation with my new found friend was fascinating; we covered suburban childhoods (his), diversity in the neighborhood (mine) and the appeal of beer labels in making a selection (given his line of work, not surprising).

The good news is that The Roosevelt carries no throwaway beers, so bring your best beer-drinking game when you come. Beer and a shot comes with knowledge, not on the menu.

After lively discussion of city life and Mama J's, I found myself hungry and ordered the squash fritters with Tabasco remoulade at my new friend's suggestion.

The irregularly shaped fritters had the right amount of  crunch outside to balance the  savory inside, especially when dredged in the remoulade.

My companion, a highly visual type, described the decor of some favorite high-end restaurants and hotels while I enjoyed my fritters

The dining room became a tad more civilized as a few tables got up to go and were not immediately filled.

A musician friend (and, as it turned out, blog reader) appeared with his beloved and we talked local music until he had to go. Readers seem to turn up everywhere.

Then I ordered the steak tartare with egg yolk, pickled mustard seed and grilled bread.

The dish was amazing; the couple next to me ordered it twice tonight. The yolk made the dish, imparting a a richness that the tartare could only absorb.

I pricked it, it oozed and I savored it like, well, I hadn't had a a good yolk in a while.  Metaphor-like.

The grilled bread, when eaten with the tartare, gave a cooked quality to the beef that was wholly unexpected...and perfect.

With my raw meat, I enjoyed a pairing of Mountfair Merlot. As good a pairing as it was, the raw meat and yolk were the star. Still, I drank on.

After dinner, I was invited to join a contingent at the center table. Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to bring a bottle of 2008 Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc/Viognier to share.

While celebrating Virginia's new BYOB law, we talked about wineries, American food origins and why it's important to stand up to people who disagree with you (this happens to us both frequently).

Be nice, but be firm. Hate no one. And when in doubt, ignore the people who don't matter.

One of my favorite drummers came in and I greeted him enthusiastically, not having known before that he was a Church Hill resident. Like the other neighbors, he is rejoicing at The Roosevelt's opening.

"We're just going to sit you out front with a bottle of wine and you can bring in business," my friend informed me.

It was at that point that we switched to a bottle of Whitehall Cabernet Franc, very different from the last.

I sipped it while flipping through a fascinating book, "Rufus Estes Good Things to Eat," the first cookbook by an African-American (full of yummy things like tongue toast).

There were no less than ten return customers at The Roosevelt tonight, all raving about the food and thrilled that the ABC license has arrived.

I was just another returning face with a bottle of Virginia wine and a propensity to talk to everyone.

The Roosevelt, not just for teetotalers anymore.