Yet again, pure coincidence took me down a rabbit hole.
Waking up to a colder-than-necessary Thanksgiving Day, I nevertheless headed down to the river for a walk. Like Thanksgiving days past, the city was eerily silent with next to no traffic and few cars parked in Jackson Ward or downtown.
People are gone, baby, gone.
I was within spitting distance of home when I passed my car on a side street and, knowing there was plenty of parking right in front of my apartment, decided to move it. It wasn't like it would have been a far walk to the car, so there was really no compelling reason for me to climb in and re-park.
Except that the moment I started the car, it was filled with the sound of a monologue-type song I didn't know, though the voice and nature of the song caught my ear. Did I know it? If I did, my brain wasn't sure what I was hearing, so I sat and listened to find out who and what it was.
Turns out it was Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant Massacree," which apparently has been played as a Thanksgiving tradition on radio for decades because the lyrics involve a real life littering incident that happened to him on Thanksgiving 1965.
I'm seeing a pattern. Earlier this week, I'd seen "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" and recognized none of it and now here I was hearing a song long associated with Thanksgiving yet new to me, except for the title.
Who am I and how have I missed out on these Thanksgiving Day classics?
Given that I'd heard the song on Thanksgiving and I had absolutely nothing to do until my turkey dinner at 4:00, I proceeded to research the 18-minute masterpiece that is the "Alice's Restaurant Massacree."
Not sure how much time I lost (best guess: a fair amount) to learning that not only had it been based on real events, but that the song's overall purpose was as an anti-Vietnam war protest song. Well, that explained all those lyrics I'd heard about the draft board inanity of refusing to induct him because his littering offense made him of questionable moral fiber to kill Vietnamese and burn villages.
All I can say is, thank you WNRN for upping my cultural literacy by playing a song I should have known about 40 years ago. I like to think I increased my Thanksgiving bona fides today because of it.
Turkey with all the trimmings was taken with my favorite musician at Camden's Orphans' Thanksgiving where the rule is you have to be a party of three or fewer because the chef believes if you have four or more, you should cook your own damn turkey. That said, we were seated next to a five-top and midway through our yams, a four-top sat down on the other side of us.
Clearly, the three person rule is up for interpretation.
But our dinner was pretty wonderful - though I'll always prefer stuffing with hot sausage - and after downing a fine salad of mesclun greens to clear the arteries for that was to come, we got down to the main event: turkey, dark and light, mashed potatoes and gravy, yams, stuffing and green bean casserole.
To wash it all down, I enjoyed a glass of Louis Latour "Cuvee Latour," a perfectly balanced white burgundy with an appealing floral nose that provided a refined note for such an all-American meal.
Only when it came to dessert did my dinner companion and I part ways. He was in an apple pie mood while no less than our server anticipated that I'd require chocolate pate. "And I know not to take your plate until you've cleared the last crumb off it," she joked, referencing the one time she reached for it when I had a bite or two left and was merely taking a breather.
The smart ones learn so I don't have to resort to using my fork as a defensive weapon.
We rolled out of there - leftover turkey sandwiches in hand - as the next wave was settling in, although I pity anyone trying to eat a meal that substantial so long after sunset.
Like Arlo sang, I had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat. Another thing the two of us have in common is long-winded opinions.
And now I know how much I've got to be thankful for - though perhaps not quite as much as in past years - since unlike Arlo, I've never been arrested for littering.
I may finally be up to Thanksgiving speed.
Showing posts with label camden's dogtown market. Show all posts
Showing posts with label camden's dogtown market. Show all posts
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Saturday, November 18, 2017
Pardon My Asking What's New
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. ~ Rilke
Leave it to me to find reassurance in poetry. Moral: When life throws up roadblocks, find a way around them. And, yes, there's a metaphor somewhere in there.
My first message of the day Thursday was from a Frenchman, wishing me happy Beaujolais Nouveau day. My second was from my parents, asking if I was free for lunch Friday since they'd be in town for a car repair. Granted, I already had Beaujolais Nouveau dinner plans Friday evening, but what's one more meal out?
On that subject, my favorite comment ever was the friend who sincerely asked, "Does your apartment even have an oven?" Well, duh, where do you think I dry my gloves after cleaning snow off my car?
After picking the 'rents up at the dealership out on godforsaken West Broad Street, I drove them right back into the city, past scores of chain restaurants, to take them to Garnett's. Not because there's a sandwich named after me there, although there is (the Bon Vivant), but because I knew the combination of well-made sandwiches and killer desserts would be right up their alley.
What hadn't occurred to me was not just how mobbed Garnett's would be at mid-day on Friday, but how noisy. Dad dealt with it by sucking back a South Street Brewery Virginia Lager while Mom complained about the incessant chatter and unpleasant frequency of the table of millennials behind her, wishing for it to cease and desist.
If there's one demographic they don't spend much time around on the Northern Neck, it's millennials.
But they loved their sandwiches - the Colonel and the Dutch Aunt, which probably somehow reflected their personalities - especially the side of housemade pickles. It took all three of us to conquer a massive slice of crumb-topped blueberry peach pie, but we managed just barely.
Meanwhile, I listened as they exchanged their typical differences of opinion. Dad doesn't hear something said and Mom claims it's because he has selective hearing. He swears she talks so softly no one can hear her and eats like a sparrow. She thinks he talks too loudly and he says he's just making his point. If I've heard them say these things to each other once, I've heard them hundreds of times and I only see them once or twice a month.
Which means they've both heard it all thousands of times. Apparently after 62 years of marriage, there's a fair amount of repeated conversation that's just accepted as part of the bargain. On the other hand, he continues to hold doors open for her and she's always noticing when he requires something.
More belongs to marriage than four legs in a bed. ~ Rilke
After returning them to the dealership, I had only a brief afternoon to work before meeting Holmes and Beloved for dinner and their annual bacchanal starring Beaujolais Nouveau.
When I strolled into his house, they'd already cracked the first bottle of the young wine. On the counter sat additional bottles for future sipping because Holmes believes it should be consumed in copious quantities while you can get it.
After the ritual toast to the harvest (notably France's overall smallest since 1945), we piled in my car to head to Camden's to check out the new all prix fixe, all the time menu. Naturally, our meal was to be accompanied by the star of the evening, in this case, Manior de Carra Beaujolais Nouveau (but only after a pretty funny exchange with the hostess who'd seated us), although I couldn't resist a celebratory glass of Cava to start.
The hardest part of any prix fixe menu is choosing three courses while observing the paramount rule of dining with friends: no one duplicates an item. We lucked out there because there were so many appealing choices to work from.
For starters, we had a sensational salad of watercress, house bacon and pickled cauliflower in champagne vinaigrette, turkey liver mousse to die for (the grilled bread was just a way to get it to our mouths) and a savory bleu cheesecake with honey that made Holmes, who'd never even heard of such a thing, a believer in savory cheesecakes.
Please, I made my first savory cheesecake when Clinton was eating Big Macs in the White House and people joke about my kitchen? Get with the program, man.
I hadn't gotten together with Holmes and Beloved since the first week of August, so there were plenty of updates on both our sides to discuss. Holmes shared stories and Beloved showed photos from their trek to St. Michaels, Maryland, where they'd done some memorable eating and drinking at an Italian trattoria called Limoncello that they highly recommended.
Don't talk to me about Limoncello unless it's in Sorrento, Italy where the best lemons in the world grow and Limoncello was birthed. I've only been once, but I'm ready to go back any time.
Alas, conversation was derailed when our entrees showed up. He-man Holmes had chosen London Broil and was soon crying uncle about how good it was but how large the portion size. My crispy-skinned pecan-smoked chicken thighs got a nice sweetness from apple slaw, but I could also appreciate the well-cooked black beans and rice that shared the plate.
But top prize went to Beloved's melt-in-your-mouth steelhead trout over creamy polenta and peas, a wondrous combination I intend to return for so I can eat the whole thing rather than just have a couple bites.
Meanwhile, Holmes had heard scuttlebutt and was seeking confirmation, details and rationale. A lot can happen in 3+ months, friend. A good portion of our entree conversation was given over to the Leonardo painting that just sold for $450 million, with Holmes insisting that if turns out to be a fake, Christie's should be fined heavily and put out of business.
When it came time for our final course, the choices were easy but finishing was more challenging after gorging ourselves on the first two courses.
There was no way I was getting anything over than thechocolate butter walnut-crusted chocolate torte I've been devoted to (for, what, 16 years now?) and Beloved got the same. Only Holmes opted for lavender creme brulee and scraped the bowl clean as we finished up the last of the Beaujolais Nouveau.
We rolled out of there determined to have a record-listening party despite our overfed state, only to run into a roadblock as we came across the Lee Bridge. There must have been a dozen cops, lights on and flashing, lined up, along with a sign alerting motorists that a traffic checkpoint was just ahead.
It wasn't that my alcohol level was too high at that point, but we were intent on starting the party, so I seamlessly slid over to the Second Street exit and in no time we found ourselves settled into Holmes' wood-paneled man cave for the next four hours. Beginning with Linda Ronstadt's classic 1983 album, "What's New?" so beautifully arranged by Nelson Riddle, we got off on the unlikely subject of crinolines because of the album cover photograph of her in a strapless pink gown.
From there, we zig-zagged through their Plan 9 and estate sale record finds, which, given Beloved's old soul status and musical taste, meant all kinds of gems from the '50s and '60s. At one point, Holmes presented me with an early Christmas present (Joni Mitchell's "Court and Spark"), a shame since that is the sole Joni Mitchell record I already own.
Errol Garner's "Paris Impressions" may have been my first album of harpsichord music by a multi-talented jazz pianist. "The Swingin's Mutual!" by Nancy Wilson and the George Shearing Quintet sounded like a happening 1961 party in Manhattan. We gave Earl "Fatha" Hines' "Live at Buffalo" record a shot but Beloved soon gave it a thumbs down, deeming it not right for a swingin' Friday night.
Holmes took us in a new direction with the Giorgio Moroder-produced Bowie song "Cat People," although somehow, I was the only one of the three who knew who Moroder was. Clearly they'd checked out of popular music by the Flashdance period. As is his habit, Holmes slid in some Stephen Stills via the CSNY classic "Deja Vu."
That's the beauty of a listening party where the host not only has multiple formats - record, CD, cassette - but extensive collections of music for them all. Since we take turns choosing, the fun of it is trying to play something that'll surprise, impress or please the other two.
And the music is really just the background for a wide-ranging conversation about what's going on in everybody's life and the world beyond. Tonight that included the tsunami of men finally being challenged on their inappropriate behavior toward those of us with girl parts.
Beloved shared the recent saga of one of Holmes' friends ostensibly going in for a goodbye hug and groping her like he had a right to. "What the hell are you doing?' she'd accused him. It's barely been a month since a male friend I've known for 6 or 7 years took the liberty of placing his hand inappropriately low on the small of my back (aka the top of my butt), to which I rather rudely asked, "Is that your idea of making a move?" and shut him down.
Friendship has its priveleges, but that's not one. I've got no problem with a man's hand being in that place as long as it's the right man, preferably someone who appreciates that undersung curve.
Love is like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack. ~ Rilke
Tonight, the swingin' was mutual, the food was superb and the Beaujolais Noveau was drinkable. I don't know that you could ask for more the day after the third Thursday in November.
Well, of course I could, but I'd be discreet enough to ask for it silently. Final feelings and all...
Leave it to me to find reassurance in poetry. Moral: When life throws up roadblocks, find a way around them. And, yes, there's a metaphor somewhere in there.
My first message of the day Thursday was from a Frenchman, wishing me happy Beaujolais Nouveau day. My second was from my parents, asking if I was free for lunch Friday since they'd be in town for a car repair. Granted, I already had Beaujolais Nouveau dinner plans Friday evening, but what's one more meal out?
On that subject, my favorite comment ever was the friend who sincerely asked, "Does your apartment even have an oven?" Well, duh, where do you think I dry my gloves after cleaning snow off my car?
After picking the 'rents up at the dealership out on godforsaken West Broad Street, I drove them right back into the city, past scores of chain restaurants, to take them to Garnett's. Not because there's a sandwich named after me there, although there is (the Bon Vivant), but because I knew the combination of well-made sandwiches and killer desserts would be right up their alley.
What hadn't occurred to me was not just how mobbed Garnett's would be at mid-day on Friday, but how noisy. Dad dealt with it by sucking back a South Street Brewery Virginia Lager while Mom complained about the incessant chatter and unpleasant frequency of the table of millennials behind her, wishing for it to cease and desist.
If there's one demographic they don't spend much time around on the Northern Neck, it's millennials.
But they loved their sandwiches - the Colonel and the Dutch Aunt, which probably somehow reflected their personalities - especially the side of housemade pickles. It took all three of us to conquer a massive slice of crumb-topped blueberry peach pie, but we managed just barely.
Meanwhile, I listened as they exchanged their typical differences of opinion. Dad doesn't hear something said and Mom claims it's because he has selective hearing. He swears she talks so softly no one can hear her and eats like a sparrow. She thinks he talks too loudly and he says he's just making his point. If I've heard them say these things to each other once, I've heard them hundreds of times and I only see them once or twice a month.
Which means they've both heard it all thousands of times. Apparently after 62 years of marriage, there's a fair amount of repeated conversation that's just accepted as part of the bargain. On the other hand, he continues to hold doors open for her and she's always noticing when he requires something.
More belongs to marriage than four legs in a bed. ~ Rilke
After returning them to the dealership, I had only a brief afternoon to work before meeting Holmes and Beloved for dinner and their annual bacchanal starring Beaujolais Nouveau.
When I strolled into his house, they'd already cracked the first bottle of the young wine. On the counter sat additional bottles for future sipping because Holmes believes it should be consumed in copious quantities while you can get it.
After the ritual toast to the harvest (notably France's overall smallest since 1945), we piled in my car to head to Camden's to check out the new all prix fixe, all the time menu. Naturally, our meal was to be accompanied by the star of the evening, in this case, Manior de Carra Beaujolais Nouveau (but only after a pretty funny exchange with the hostess who'd seated us), although I couldn't resist a celebratory glass of Cava to start.
The hardest part of any prix fixe menu is choosing three courses while observing the paramount rule of dining with friends: no one duplicates an item. We lucked out there because there were so many appealing choices to work from.
For starters, we had a sensational salad of watercress, house bacon and pickled cauliflower in champagne vinaigrette, turkey liver mousse to die for (the grilled bread was just a way to get it to our mouths) and a savory bleu cheesecake with honey that made Holmes, who'd never even heard of such a thing, a believer in savory cheesecakes.
Please, I made my first savory cheesecake when Clinton was eating Big Macs in the White House and people joke about my kitchen? Get with the program, man.
I hadn't gotten together with Holmes and Beloved since the first week of August, so there were plenty of updates on both our sides to discuss. Holmes shared stories and Beloved showed photos from their trek to St. Michaels, Maryland, where they'd done some memorable eating and drinking at an Italian trattoria called Limoncello that they highly recommended.
Don't talk to me about Limoncello unless it's in Sorrento, Italy where the best lemons in the world grow and Limoncello was birthed. I've only been once, but I'm ready to go back any time.
Alas, conversation was derailed when our entrees showed up. He-man Holmes had chosen London Broil and was soon crying uncle about how good it was but how large the portion size. My crispy-skinned pecan-smoked chicken thighs got a nice sweetness from apple slaw, but I could also appreciate the well-cooked black beans and rice that shared the plate.
But top prize went to Beloved's melt-in-your-mouth steelhead trout over creamy polenta and peas, a wondrous combination I intend to return for so I can eat the whole thing rather than just have a couple bites.
Meanwhile, Holmes had heard scuttlebutt and was seeking confirmation, details and rationale. A lot can happen in 3+ months, friend. A good portion of our entree conversation was given over to the Leonardo painting that just sold for $450 million, with Holmes insisting that if turns out to be a fake, Christie's should be fined heavily and put out of business.
When it came time for our final course, the choices were easy but finishing was more challenging after gorging ourselves on the first two courses.
There was no way I was getting anything over than the
We rolled out of there determined to have a record-listening party despite our overfed state, only to run into a roadblock as we came across the Lee Bridge. There must have been a dozen cops, lights on and flashing, lined up, along with a sign alerting motorists that a traffic checkpoint was just ahead.
It wasn't that my alcohol level was too high at that point, but we were intent on starting the party, so I seamlessly slid over to the Second Street exit and in no time we found ourselves settled into Holmes' wood-paneled man cave for the next four hours. Beginning with Linda Ronstadt's classic 1983 album, "What's New?" so beautifully arranged by Nelson Riddle, we got off on the unlikely subject of crinolines because of the album cover photograph of her in a strapless pink gown.
From there, we zig-zagged through their Plan 9 and estate sale record finds, which, given Beloved's old soul status and musical taste, meant all kinds of gems from the '50s and '60s. At one point, Holmes presented me with an early Christmas present (Joni Mitchell's "Court and Spark"), a shame since that is the sole Joni Mitchell record I already own.
Errol Garner's "Paris Impressions" may have been my first album of harpsichord music by a multi-talented jazz pianist. "The Swingin's Mutual!" by Nancy Wilson and the George Shearing Quintet sounded like a happening 1961 party in Manhattan. We gave Earl "Fatha" Hines' "Live at Buffalo" record a shot but Beloved soon gave it a thumbs down, deeming it not right for a swingin' Friday night.
Holmes took us in a new direction with the Giorgio Moroder-produced Bowie song "Cat People," although somehow, I was the only one of the three who knew who Moroder was. Clearly they'd checked out of popular music by the Flashdance period. As is his habit, Holmes slid in some Stephen Stills via the CSNY classic "Deja Vu."
That's the beauty of a listening party where the host not only has multiple formats - record, CD, cassette - but extensive collections of music for them all. Since we take turns choosing, the fun of it is trying to play something that'll surprise, impress or please the other two.
And the music is really just the background for a wide-ranging conversation about what's going on in everybody's life and the world beyond. Tonight that included the tsunami of men finally being challenged on their inappropriate behavior toward those of us with girl parts.
Beloved shared the recent saga of one of Holmes' friends ostensibly going in for a goodbye hug and groping her like he had a right to. "What the hell are you doing?' she'd accused him. It's barely been a month since a male friend I've known for 6 or 7 years took the liberty of placing his hand inappropriately low on the small of my back (aka the top of my butt), to which I rather rudely asked, "Is that your idea of making a move?" and shut him down.
Friendship has its priveleges, but that's not one. I've got no problem with a man's hand being in that place as long as it's the right man, preferably someone who appreciates that undersung curve.
Love is like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack. ~ Rilke
Tonight, the swingin' was mutual, the food was superb and the Beaujolais Noveau was drinkable. I don't know that you could ask for more the day after the third Thursday in November.
Well, of course I could, but I'd be discreet enough to ask for it silently. Final feelings and all...
Thursday, July 13, 2017
The Disadvantages of You
A river is a poor substitute for the ocean.
Even so, if I had to drive an hour to do an interview today (and I did -deadlines, you know), at least it was in Tappahannock on Prince Street half a block from the Rappahannock River and with a splendid view of the bridge.
The rest of the evening was given over to meeting for dinner with friends curious about the changes in my relationship status and particularly, who I'd been at the beach with, a subject best not discussed in a public restaurant.
Waiting for them to arrive and join me, I chatted with a woman planning to catch a 7:55 plane to NYC, a conversation of soulmates when we realized how strongly we both feel about consumer waste. That was us debating plastic bags, to-go containers and the cost to the earth of making them. When she got ready to go, she even asked for a recommendation of a local cab company, the better to support the local economy.
A four-top arrived but requested a table for five, explaining that their friend Brad was stuck on 95 but would arrive soon. A Camden's regular showed up with not one but two men and later asked me sotto voce what I thought of her new boyfriend, whispering, "And he's 15 years younger!"
You go, girl, although I've lessened the age gap in my latest outing to some success, admittedly only because the age is attached to someone so nice. Still younger, just not so much.
Holmes and Beloved arrived and a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre Rose was opened as we started to catch up after a month and a half. When the subject of my beach foray arose, we put it hold until our post-dinner listening party began.
In the meantime, I kept my beach seafood streak going with mahi-mahi over rice pilaf with yellow pepper coulis followed by chocolate pate, while the happy couple did their own damage to lamb and classic lasagna while watching the overwrought Kirk Douglas/Cyd Charisse vehicle,"Two Weeks in Another Town," and admiring the fine Corinthian leather of the film's cars.
Over a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre, we analyzed a Washington Post article, "Five Myths about Hippies," the better to clarify that hippies were more of a '70s thing than '60s and that their legacy - casual sex, yoga, relaxed dress standards - are now utterly mainstream.
Regardless, I still think of myself as an old hippie.
When I mentioned that the Byrd had been showing "Dr. Zhivago" this afternoon but I'd missed it by being on the Northern Neck, Holmes cracked me up by describing it as the longest and most boring movie imaginable. When we moved on to the movie's theme song, he had no memory, so Beloved began humming "Lara's Theme."
Holmes winced and asked plaintively, "Can we hear it in clarinet, not kazoo?" Ouch. Personally, I couldn't even manage kazoo.
Over the two hours we lingered, I heard about their upcoming weekend plans on Solomon's Island to celebrate Beloved's birthday (a fine trip idea I may want to emulate with another beach lover), a trip that will kick off with a stop at Cap'n Billy's, a favorite crab shack of mine, too.
Before long, we moved on to Holmes' man-cave for a swinging listening party that ran from Julie London to Artie Shaw.
Holmes gifted me with some duplicate albums by the Brass Ring that he was given: "The Disadvantages of You" and "Sunday Night at the Movies" because what woman doesn't need a couple more brass band albums to add to her collection?
Conversation included a request for a full recounting of my beach jaunt - the food! the walks! the kites! - but quickly centered around a frank discussion of my last relationship, curiosity about my new attempt at one and a consideration of my overall relationship picture.
Let's just say their advice dovetailed exactly with that of the New Zealand winemaker's words of wisdom from a few weeks ago.
Because with enough Rose, friends will tell you exactly what they think of your past and present while remaining firmly in your corner.
As Holmes so sweetly put it, "I just want you to be happy."
As we said goodnight with the moon hanging high in the sky at the end of Grove Avenue, my new-to-me albums tucked under my arm, I felt lucky to have friends rooting for me and my happiness.
The disadvantages of my past are practically public record, but the potential advantages of my present and future feel like they're laid out against the bluest of skies. That those skies are filled with an assortment of clouds inspiring the two of us to share the fanciful figures we each see in them says enough.
No one tells you that the game is about to begin. You just jump in and hope for the best.
Even so, if I had to drive an hour to do an interview today (and I did -deadlines, you know), at least it was in Tappahannock on Prince Street half a block from the Rappahannock River and with a splendid view of the bridge.
The rest of the evening was given over to meeting for dinner with friends curious about the changes in my relationship status and particularly, who I'd been at the beach with, a subject best not discussed in a public restaurant.
Waiting for them to arrive and join me, I chatted with a woman planning to catch a 7:55 plane to NYC, a conversation of soulmates when we realized how strongly we both feel about consumer waste. That was us debating plastic bags, to-go containers and the cost to the earth of making them. When she got ready to go, she even asked for a recommendation of a local cab company, the better to support the local economy.
A four-top arrived but requested a table for five, explaining that their friend Brad was stuck on 95 but would arrive soon. A Camden's regular showed up with not one but two men and later asked me sotto voce what I thought of her new boyfriend, whispering, "And he's 15 years younger!"
You go, girl, although I've lessened the age gap in my latest outing to some success, admittedly only because the age is attached to someone so nice. Still younger, just not so much.
Holmes and Beloved arrived and a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre Rose was opened as we started to catch up after a month and a half. When the subject of my beach foray arose, we put it hold until our post-dinner listening party began.
In the meantime, I kept my beach seafood streak going with mahi-mahi over rice pilaf with yellow pepper coulis followed by chocolate pate, while the happy couple did their own damage to lamb and classic lasagna while watching the overwrought Kirk Douglas/Cyd Charisse vehicle,"Two Weeks in Another Town," and admiring the fine Corinthian leather of the film's cars.
Over a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre, we analyzed a Washington Post article, "Five Myths about Hippies," the better to clarify that hippies were more of a '70s thing than '60s and that their legacy - casual sex, yoga, relaxed dress standards - are now utterly mainstream.
Regardless, I still think of myself as an old hippie.
When I mentioned that the Byrd had been showing "Dr. Zhivago" this afternoon but I'd missed it by being on the Northern Neck, Holmes cracked me up by describing it as the longest and most boring movie imaginable. When we moved on to the movie's theme song, he had no memory, so Beloved began humming "Lara's Theme."
Holmes winced and asked plaintively, "Can we hear it in clarinet, not kazoo?" Ouch. Personally, I couldn't even manage kazoo.
Before long, we moved on to Holmes' man-cave for a swinging listening party that ran from Julie London to Artie Shaw.
Holmes gifted me with some duplicate albums by the Brass Ring that he was given: "The Disadvantages of You" and "Sunday Night at the Movies" because what woman doesn't need a couple more brass band albums to add to her collection?
Conversation included a request for a full recounting of my beach jaunt - the food! the walks! the kites! - but quickly centered around a frank discussion of my last relationship, curiosity about my new attempt at one and a consideration of my overall relationship picture.
Let's just say their advice dovetailed exactly with that of the New Zealand winemaker's words of wisdom from a few weeks ago.
Because with enough Rose, friends will tell you exactly what they think of your past and present while remaining firmly in your corner.
As Holmes so sweetly put it, "I just want you to be happy."
As we said goodnight with the moon hanging high in the sky at the end of Grove Avenue, my new-to-me albums tucked under my arm, I felt lucky to have friends rooting for me and my happiness.
The disadvantages of my past are practically public record, but the potential advantages of my present and future feel like they're laid out against the bluest of skies. That those skies are filled with an assortment of clouds inspiring the two of us to share the fanciful figures we each see in them says enough.
No one tells you that the game is about to begin. You just jump in and hope for the best.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Calling CRS What It Is
I have many concerns today, but one of the most important concerns our Attorney General's terminal case of CRS, as in "can't remember shit."
The sheer number of times that man's answer amounted to, "Not that I recall" or "I don't recall that" was nothing short of jaw-dropping, even for a 70-year old. When he said, "I don't want to be rushed this fast. It makes me nervous," he sounded doddering and old, as if keeping up with rapid fire questioning was beyond him.
Remind me, please, how long Hillary sat - cool, calm and collected - answering endless questions and we'll go from there.
How is it okay to have a man in charge of the U.S. Justice Department who a) was named after the president of the Confederacy and the general who bombarded Fort Sumter, thus starting the Civil War and b) who has zero ability to recall, well, anything of importance?
A woman can watch only so much of that testimony on the tiny video of her computer before needing to seek the solace of others as outraged as she is. I took shelter at Camden's because there I knew I'd find the TV on and the vocal critics of questionable AGs in attendance.
As a bonus, I got to hear from the recent Bonnaroo attendee about his sore 20-year old body, the result of four days of twerking non-stop while on mushrooms. Ah, youth.
As I'd anticipated, of all the bands he saw, it was The XX's show that he deemed truly epic. He was particularly scathing about the Red Hot Chili Peppers all but phoning in their performance and dubbed U2 merely "good."
And for this people are willing to live in a field and bathe in a fountain for four days? I think not. And don't get me started on the guy taking a glitter bath - is that like birds taking a dirt bath?
On the latest in a string of ungodly hot days, few things could have been as appealing as a salad special of chilled shrimp and radishes with micro-greens and Meyer lime for piquancy. When the bartender-turned-IT student who sat down nearest me ordered the same, his enthusiasm for the spot-on summer combination matched mine exactly.
Watching the analysis of Sessions' testimony threaded through with election results ensured that the bar sitters (and occasionally, those paying their check nearby) kept up a running commentary about unfolding events. My favorite had to be Pelosi saying that she thinks the narcissist is going to self-impeach, an appealing outcome if ever there was one.
Speaking of narcissists, the subject came up closer to home when a woman mentioned that her father was one and pulled out a photo of him modeling to prove it.
Although bearded and dressed in appropriate lumberjack attire, she assured us he'd never so much as cut off a tree branch. But he's got a great Dad beard and apparently they're in high demand as the beard grooming industry moves into the coveted and expanding bearded Boomer demographic.
My Cava-fueled dinner continued with a perfectly lovely flounder over white beans and greens, a plate I would have licked clean if I'd not already done the same to its shrimp and radish predecessor.
Discussion of today's events inevitably drew in other customers, my favorite being the woman who overheard me questioning the wisdom of an AG with CRS and felt gratified since that had been a major sticking point for her as well.
It was while enjoying a chocolate pate with nut crust ("Let's just call it what it is," implored the bartender-turned-IT student, "Fudge!") that we dove into the subject of the white patriarchy (hello, Republicans repeatedly interrupting Senator Kamala Harris for her audacity to press Sessions on not answering her questions) and how, amazingly, there are still people who deny such a state exists.
Of course, there are still those who fail to acknowledge that the Confederates were committing treason, so I shouldn't be surprised at any sort of deniers, I suppose.
My good fortune was having a terrific meal with a rotating company of similarly-minded voters dropping in and out of a wide-ranging conversation about the state of this administration. With comparisons in mind, someone piped up asking how long Watergate lasted and two of us were quick to recall, "An entire summer."
With no precedent for self-impeachment, looks like we'll have to just wait and see, an excruciating proposition.
Surrounding myself with good food and like-minded liberals makes it somehow easier to bear.
Chocolate pate doesn't hurt, either.
The sheer number of times that man's answer amounted to, "Not that I recall" or "I don't recall that" was nothing short of jaw-dropping, even for a 70-year old. When he said, "I don't want to be rushed this fast. It makes me nervous," he sounded doddering and old, as if keeping up with rapid fire questioning was beyond him.
Remind me, please, how long Hillary sat - cool, calm and collected - answering endless questions and we'll go from there.
How is it okay to have a man in charge of the U.S. Justice Department who a) was named after the president of the Confederacy and the general who bombarded Fort Sumter, thus starting the Civil War and b) who has zero ability to recall, well, anything of importance?
A woman can watch only so much of that testimony on the tiny video of her computer before needing to seek the solace of others as outraged as she is. I took shelter at Camden's because there I knew I'd find the TV on and the vocal critics of questionable AGs in attendance.
As a bonus, I got to hear from the recent Bonnaroo attendee about his sore 20-year old body, the result of four days of twerking non-stop while on mushrooms. Ah, youth.
As I'd anticipated, of all the bands he saw, it was The XX's show that he deemed truly epic. He was particularly scathing about the Red Hot Chili Peppers all but phoning in their performance and dubbed U2 merely "good."
And for this people are willing to live in a field and bathe in a fountain for four days? I think not. And don't get me started on the guy taking a glitter bath - is that like birds taking a dirt bath?
On the latest in a string of ungodly hot days, few things could have been as appealing as a salad special of chilled shrimp and radishes with micro-greens and Meyer lime for piquancy. When the bartender-turned-IT student who sat down nearest me ordered the same, his enthusiasm for the spot-on summer combination matched mine exactly.
Watching the analysis of Sessions' testimony threaded through with election results ensured that the bar sitters (and occasionally, those paying their check nearby) kept up a running commentary about unfolding events. My favorite had to be Pelosi saying that she thinks the narcissist is going to self-impeach, an appealing outcome if ever there was one.
Speaking of narcissists, the subject came up closer to home when a woman mentioned that her father was one and pulled out a photo of him modeling to prove it.
Although bearded and dressed in appropriate lumberjack attire, she assured us he'd never so much as cut off a tree branch. But he's got a great Dad beard and apparently they're in high demand as the beard grooming industry moves into the coveted and expanding bearded Boomer demographic.
My Cava-fueled dinner continued with a perfectly lovely flounder over white beans and greens, a plate I would have licked clean if I'd not already done the same to its shrimp and radish predecessor.
Discussion of today's events inevitably drew in other customers, my favorite being the woman who overheard me questioning the wisdom of an AG with CRS and felt gratified since that had been a major sticking point for her as well.
It was while enjoying a chocolate pate with nut crust ("Let's just call it what it is," implored the bartender-turned-IT student, "Fudge!") that we dove into the subject of the white patriarchy (hello, Republicans repeatedly interrupting Senator Kamala Harris for her audacity to press Sessions on not answering her questions) and how, amazingly, there are still people who deny such a state exists.
Of course, there are still those who fail to acknowledge that the Confederates were committing treason, so I shouldn't be surprised at any sort of deniers, I suppose.
My good fortune was having a terrific meal with a rotating company of similarly-minded voters dropping in and out of a wide-ranging conversation about the state of this administration. With comparisons in mind, someone piped up asking how long Watergate lasted and two of us were quick to recall, "An entire summer."
With no precedent for self-impeachment, looks like we'll have to just wait and see, an excruciating proposition.
Surrounding myself with good food and like-minded liberals makes it somehow easier to bear.
Chocolate pate doesn't hurt, either.
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Do You Come Here Often?
I have sunk to a new low: I watched "America's Got Talent" tonight.
Truth is, I didn't go to watch reality TV or even any TV at all, I went for dinner. And I got that in a light, weather-appropriate lemon/thyme/chicken soup - the thyme having grown just outside the restaurant - and a crab melt with dilled Havarti on housemade grilled bread accompanied by Prosecco.
Delicious, all.
But apparently a rumor had been going around the restaurant that Puddles the Clown (whom everyone but me seems to remember as Big Mike from his years in local band the Useless Playboys) would be on the show tonight. Hence the viewing party.
Despite sitting through some of the most inane performances imaginable - a dog who could read a flashcard and bark the number on it; a man who danced with a blow-up doll; and perhaps most appallingly, an 8 and 9 year old gaudily-clad "couple" (she wearing far too much lipstick in that Jon-Benet Ramsey creepy way) dancing together suggestively - Puddles never came on.
I don't know if you can appreciate what a punch to the gut it is to watch a show such as "AGT" when you haven't watched TV (beyond the presidential debates and election results) in decades, but the show aside, even the commercials are excruciatingly bad.
I was gobsmacked to see that after each segment of the show, we'd be shown a promo for the next section and it would inevitably contain the funniest moment to come. Seeing that scene, albeit out of context, ensured that there would be little to no pleasure in seeing it in context and why would you want to spoil the most amusing bits in advance?
Is this sort of mindlessness how we wound up with a "super-callous-fragile-racist-sexist-not-my-POTUS" in the first place? Who can watch this stuff on a regular basis and not want to poke their eyes out?
Don't answer that. I'm not judging, I'm just incredulous.
In other news, a website called Room 5 has decreed that, "Richmond has emerged as the gay capital of the South," and I couldn't be prouder.
I was one of several bar sitters tonight who had to admit (for me, the second time in a week) that I've never once in three decades in this town been to Godfrey's drag brunch. Oh, I've seen the queens taking a smoke break on Grace Street while the music pumps inside and you can hear the women's hoots and hollers bouncing off the duct work, but I've never been among the hooters.
Our server explained that you always wind up spending too much money and you go in late morning and emerge as the day slides into evening, but that it's all totally worth it. Judging by the lines of eager customers I've seen, I'm inclined to believe her.
Believing that there's any justifiable reason to spend another minute of my life watching TV, however? Not so much.
Good luck in the next round, Puddles, but you'll have to win without me watching.
I've sacrificed all the brain cells I can spare without getting any pleasure in return. Frankly, I have better things to do in the gay capital of the South.
Truth is, I didn't go to watch reality TV or even any TV at all, I went for dinner. And I got that in a light, weather-appropriate lemon/thyme/chicken soup - the thyme having grown just outside the restaurant - and a crab melt with dilled Havarti on housemade grilled bread accompanied by Prosecco.
Delicious, all.
But apparently a rumor had been going around the restaurant that Puddles the Clown (whom everyone but me seems to remember as Big Mike from his years in local band the Useless Playboys) would be on the show tonight. Hence the viewing party.
Despite sitting through some of the most inane performances imaginable - a dog who could read a flashcard and bark the number on it; a man who danced with a blow-up doll; and perhaps most appallingly, an 8 and 9 year old gaudily-clad "couple" (she wearing far too much lipstick in that Jon-Benet Ramsey creepy way) dancing together suggestively - Puddles never came on.
I don't know if you can appreciate what a punch to the gut it is to watch a show such as "AGT" when you haven't watched TV (beyond the presidential debates and election results) in decades, but the show aside, even the commercials are excruciatingly bad.
I was gobsmacked to see that after each segment of the show, we'd be shown a promo for the next section and it would inevitably contain the funniest moment to come. Seeing that scene, albeit out of context, ensured that there would be little to no pleasure in seeing it in context and why would you want to spoil the most amusing bits in advance?
Is this sort of mindlessness how we wound up with a "super-callous-fragile-racist-sexist-not-my-POTUS" in the first place? Who can watch this stuff on a regular basis and not want to poke their eyes out?
Don't answer that. I'm not judging, I'm just incredulous.
In other news, a website called Room 5 has decreed that, "Richmond has emerged as the gay capital of the South," and I couldn't be prouder.
I was one of several bar sitters tonight who had to admit (for me, the second time in a week) that I've never once in three decades in this town been to Godfrey's drag brunch. Oh, I've seen the queens taking a smoke break on Grace Street while the music pumps inside and you can hear the women's hoots and hollers bouncing off the duct work, but I've never been among the hooters.
Our server explained that you always wind up spending too much money and you go in late morning and emerge as the day slides into evening, but that it's all totally worth it. Judging by the lines of eager customers I've seen, I'm inclined to believe her.
Believing that there's any justifiable reason to spend another minute of my life watching TV, however? Not so much.
Good luck in the next round, Puddles, but you'll have to win without me watching.
I've sacrificed all the brain cells I can spare without getting any pleasure in return. Frankly, I have better things to do in the gay capital of the South.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Midnight Love and Cheap Cigarettes
And other tales from 36 hours with a Kiwi.
One minute I'm at a wine dinner with "my" people and next thing I know, I'm having breakfast for the second day in a row with someone I didn't know a day and a half ago.
Camden's wine dinner Thursday night featured the bounty of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand courtesy of Supernatural Wines and the invitation carried a clear warning, "These are pricey, high acid wines with as much character as the man who runs the company (the ladies will love him! the men will envy him!)."
It didn't take much to round up four wine-lovingsots friends to join me for the wine and wisdom of a stylish and soft spoken Kiwi.
His small production wines made for wonderful pairings from a chef who excels at playing food and wine matchmaker.
The "Supernatural" organic and bio-dynamic Sauvignion Blanc sang with oysters and pear slaw, "Spook Light, a skin-fermented Pinot Gris, made for a killer pairing with housemade Merguez, Kielbasa, Point Reye's Bleu and Manchego and finally, "Green Glow" skin-fermented Sauvignon Blanc was swoon-worthy with grilled swordfish over red wheatberry salad with dill butter sauce.
By the time the dinner was finished, I'd learned that our visitor had spent the day being ferried around by wine reps and was hoping to experience Richmond a tad more fully. Enter yours truly, with offers to show him some of the good stuff in his free time.
Turns out the appeal of a sunny tour guide negates any loose plans he might have been entertaining about getting right to work in the morning. For me, here's my chance to make a visitor love Richmond in record time.
My main challenge is that New Zealanders are unaccustomed to humidity and soon every square inch of his face and arms are covered in beads of sweat. I assure him he'll adjust but the crescent shaped sweat stains on the front of his shirt reappear periodically.
Two topics dominate our walk: architecture and trees. He's agog at the former because so much of New Zealand's is modern and not architect-designed and charmed by the second's lush feel.
We start at Perly's - but not too early because of how late the post-wine dinner salon had gone - because I sense he'll need a sturdy breakfast to overcome last night and stand up to what I have planned.
He immediately orders the Schnorrer, a platter laden with poached eggs, roast beef, his first potato latkes and rye toast, which I suggested he order since we were in a Jewish deli. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say he found the meal life-giving.
From there we walked to a nearby market so he could score cigarettes at which point, sated and with nicotine coursing through his veins, he decided to blow off work entirely. I led him directly to Steady Sounds where we both found some gems in a batch of used records recently arrived while he also picked up the new "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
It was when I took my records to the counter to pay that I saw the familiar face of the owner as he was busy pricing even more fresh used arrivals. Glancing at my purchases - Janet Jackson, The Persuasions, Marvin Gaye - he inquires, "Karen, need any "Midnight Love?"
If my mind didn't live in the gutter, I might have responded with anything other than "always," but what he meant was Marvin's final studio album from 1982 and, yes, I needed it for $4.
By this point, the visitor had proven his mettle and quite happily accompanied me all over town.
After dropping off our purchases, I led him to the river through the gauntlet of RiverRock preparations, so he could experience the pipeline walkway, to the point that he was even game when I suggested we remove our shoes and wade through the last stretch still underwater.
Don't try this yourselves, kids, I am a pro.
Because other, lesser guides (aka wine reps) had raved about the T Pot Bridge to him, we lapped that, too, but I didn't sense he liked it better than the pipeline. Who would?
By the time I'd walked his Kiwi butt off, he was crying uncle for a seat inside and a glass of wine. I ensured both by landing at Saison Market where we indulged in New Zealand wine, (albeit not his, which was being stocked on the shelf as we watched), sipping glasses of Cambridge Road Vineyard's orange wine, the appealingly funky Cloud Walker.
And speaking of, the sky suddenly darkened and rain poured down on the hot streets out front for exactly two minutes while we drank, and then it was back to being a sunny day.
We slurped Wicomico oysters and a cheese plate at Camden's while discoursing on literature and indie book stores with the she-woman happy hour chef fan club. Then it was on to music and cocktails at Savory Grain, where Mikrowaves' horn section kept the vibe soulful and lead singer Eddie welcomed all the visitors from other countries in the audience (I may have mentioned my companion's provenance to him) with a smirk.
Of course there had to be another late night cigarette run, then GWARbar, which was his idea because he'd been taken there Wednesday night at 1:57 a.m. and wanted a fuller experience.
Leave it to me to make sure he had it with Espolon and warm pork rinds.
To the delight of both of us, one of the kitchen guys decided there had been quite enough metal playing at GWARbar for one Saturday evening and proceeded to go pop on us and I mean pop: Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Toto.
Kiwi even requested a classic - America's "Horse With No Name" - and was obliged within three songs. Claims he likes the beat, surely a rare compliment for such a mellow '70s band.
Naturally a former denizen of London is a fan of electronica and dance music.
Eating breakfast at the counter of 821 Cafe this morning to thrash music ("Not exactly your normal cafe music, hmm?" he observes drolly), I pointed out that we'd eaten an awful lot of meals together lately for people who'd been complete strangers as recently as Thursday afternoon.
"When are you coming to visit New Zealand?" he asks in between sips of a Bloody Mary made with Texas Beach Bloody mix, a reference I have to explain since I hadn't included Texas Beach on our stroll. Instagram photos naturally ensued.
Like the rye toast yesterday, the biscuit on his plate was completely my idea since he was unfamiliar with them and needed a lesson on southern eating. "It's kind of big, isn't it?" he wonders before I suggest adding butter.
A tour guide's work is never finished.
At least it doesn't end officially until you've walked your guest to get cigarettes yet again ("They're so cheap!" he marvels, always followed by an earnest, "I'm going to quit very soon")) and waited with him for his train to arrive - mind you, over an hour late - enjoying possibly the last conversation you may have with this person.
Neither love nor envy were on the table, but the 11th hour dynamic certainly made for compelling trackside diversion. How unlikely and ultimately enjoyable to spend such focused time with someone you're unlikely to see again.
It was a pleasure, in other words.
Let's just call it a fabulously accented kick-off to my impending birthday. Character reigned supreme.
One minute I'm at a wine dinner with "my" people and next thing I know, I'm having breakfast for the second day in a row with someone I didn't know a day and a half ago.
Camden's wine dinner Thursday night featured the bounty of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand courtesy of Supernatural Wines and the invitation carried a clear warning, "These are pricey, high acid wines with as much character as the man who runs the company (the ladies will love him! the men will envy him!)."
It didn't take much to round up four wine-loving
His small production wines made for wonderful pairings from a chef who excels at playing food and wine matchmaker.
The "Supernatural" organic and bio-dynamic Sauvignion Blanc sang with oysters and pear slaw, "Spook Light, a skin-fermented Pinot Gris, made for a killer pairing with housemade Merguez, Kielbasa, Point Reye's Bleu and Manchego and finally, "Green Glow" skin-fermented Sauvignon Blanc was swoon-worthy with grilled swordfish over red wheatberry salad with dill butter sauce.
By the time the dinner was finished, I'd learned that our visitor had spent the day being ferried around by wine reps and was hoping to experience Richmond a tad more fully. Enter yours truly, with offers to show him some of the good stuff in his free time.
Turns out the appeal of a sunny tour guide negates any loose plans he might have been entertaining about getting right to work in the morning. For me, here's my chance to make a visitor love Richmond in record time.
My main challenge is that New Zealanders are unaccustomed to humidity and soon every square inch of his face and arms are covered in beads of sweat. I assure him he'll adjust but the crescent shaped sweat stains on the front of his shirt reappear periodically.
Two topics dominate our walk: architecture and trees. He's agog at the former because so much of New Zealand's is modern and not architect-designed and charmed by the second's lush feel.
We start at Perly's - but not too early because of how late the post-wine dinner salon had gone - because I sense he'll need a sturdy breakfast to overcome last night and stand up to what I have planned.
He immediately orders the Schnorrer, a platter laden with poached eggs, roast beef, his first potato latkes and rye toast, which I suggested he order since we were in a Jewish deli. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say he found the meal life-giving.
From there we walked to a nearby market so he could score cigarettes at which point, sated and with nicotine coursing through his veins, he decided to blow off work entirely. I led him directly to Steady Sounds where we both found some gems in a batch of used records recently arrived while he also picked up the new "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
It was when I took my records to the counter to pay that I saw the familiar face of the owner as he was busy pricing even more fresh used arrivals. Glancing at my purchases - Janet Jackson, The Persuasions, Marvin Gaye - he inquires, "Karen, need any "Midnight Love?"
If my mind didn't live in the gutter, I might have responded with anything other than "always," but what he meant was Marvin's final studio album from 1982 and, yes, I needed it for $4.
By this point, the visitor had proven his mettle and quite happily accompanied me all over town.
After dropping off our purchases, I led him to the river through the gauntlet of RiverRock preparations, so he could experience the pipeline walkway, to the point that he was even game when I suggested we remove our shoes and wade through the last stretch still underwater.
Don't try this yourselves, kids, I am a pro.
Because other, lesser guides (aka wine reps) had raved about the T Pot Bridge to him, we lapped that, too, but I didn't sense he liked it better than the pipeline. Who would?
By the time I'd walked his Kiwi butt off, he was crying uncle for a seat inside and a glass of wine. I ensured both by landing at Saison Market where we indulged in New Zealand wine, (albeit not his, which was being stocked on the shelf as we watched), sipping glasses of Cambridge Road Vineyard's orange wine, the appealingly funky Cloud Walker.
And speaking of, the sky suddenly darkened and rain poured down on the hot streets out front for exactly two minutes while we drank, and then it was back to being a sunny day.
We slurped Wicomico oysters and a cheese plate at Camden's while discoursing on literature and indie book stores with the she-woman happy hour chef fan club. Then it was on to music and cocktails at Savory Grain, where Mikrowaves' horn section kept the vibe soulful and lead singer Eddie welcomed all the visitors from other countries in the audience (I may have mentioned my companion's provenance to him) with a smirk.
Of course there had to be another late night cigarette run, then GWARbar, which was his idea because he'd been taken there Wednesday night at 1:57 a.m. and wanted a fuller experience.
Leave it to me to make sure he had it with Espolon and warm pork rinds.
To the delight of both of us, one of the kitchen guys decided there had been quite enough metal playing at GWARbar for one Saturday evening and proceeded to go pop on us and I mean pop: Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Toto.
Kiwi even requested a classic - America's "Horse With No Name" - and was obliged within three songs. Claims he likes the beat, surely a rare compliment for such a mellow '70s band.
Naturally a former denizen of London is a fan of electronica and dance music.
Eating breakfast at the counter of 821 Cafe this morning to thrash music ("Not exactly your normal cafe music, hmm?" he observes drolly), I pointed out that we'd eaten an awful lot of meals together lately for people who'd been complete strangers as recently as Thursday afternoon.
"When are you coming to visit New Zealand?" he asks in between sips of a Bloody Mary made with Texas Beach Bloody mix, a reference I have to explain since I hadn't included Texas Beach on our stroll. Instagram photos naturally ensued.
Like the rye toast yesterday, the biscuit on his plate was completely my idea since he was unfamiliar with them and needed a lesson on southern eating. "It's kind of big, isn't it?" he wonders before I suggest adding butter.
A tour guide's work is never finished.
At least it doesn't end officially until you've walked your guest to get cigarettes yet again ("They're so cheap!" he marvels, always followed by an earnest, "I'm going to quit very soon")) and waited with him for his train to arrive - mind you, over an hour late - enjoying possibly the last conversation you may have with this person.
Neither love nor envy were on the table, but the 11th hour dynamic certainly made for compelling trackside diversion. How unlikely and ultimately enjoyable to spend such focused time with someone you're unlikely to see again.
It was a pleasure, in other words.
Let's just call it a fabulously accented kick-off to my impending birthday. Character reigned supreme.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Backwash and Extreme Cooties
The beauty of my day would be all the people who supplied what I need.
There was the friend willing to walk to Big Secret at the crack of dawn (10:50) for sandwiches from Nate's Bagels, thus ensuring us first place in the line.
I took my everything bagel with a schmear of scallion cream cheese and he took his baker's wife on an everything bagel before we made our way to Saadia's Juicebox for the first offering of the Mozart Festival.
Situated on a cushion on the floor with a skylight view of a treetop blowing in the wind, we heard a flute duo, the Chamber Chicks ( a quintet of woodwinds) and an octet arrangement originally written for six and since transcribed for eight, because, as one of the oboe players noted, it was obvious something was missing.
Morecowbell oboe. Two were added.
There was the IT geek friend willing to assess my computer needs with only a few instances of mocking my ancient computer, slow Internet and complete cluelessness when it comes to ram and operating systems. Fortunately, he determined my needs are small and easily satisfied.
Then there was the sextet of friends - couples, all - who gathered with me for a Rhone wine dinner at Camden's, one which began as a lesson on E Guigal (a winery and negociant, notable for being hands-on and not the silver spoon types) and ended up as conversational free-for-all after all the other guests had vacated the premises.
In between, we ate like we were hiking the Appalachian Trail, beginning with Comte, house baguettes and toasted walnuts accompanied by a Cotes du Rhone Blanc with a mouthfeel so soft, the friend with the green eyes said, it was like a pillow she wanted to sink into.
From the newlywed about her husband's house improvements: "He got wine drunk and ordered bidets."
A Rose from Tavel played up the sublime smokiness of house-smoked N.C. trout peeking out under a micro-green salad with champagne and caper dressing.
From the Claudine Longet fan about our server, the VCU Prof: "She used to make us martinis the color of moonlight."
Everyone was ga-ga for housemade sausage with wilted spring greens (their bitterness a stellar counterpoint to the sausage's richness) paired with Cote du Rhone rouge
From the musician who'd called me last week about Robyn Hitchcock's appearance at Plan 9: "Matthew Southern Comfort's is the best version of "Woodstock."
"Hermitage" made roasted ham and sage-stuffed pork loin shine and the friend who'd returned from South Africa with 21 bottles of wine in his suitcase deemed it his favorite wine of the night.
From the man with the dangling ears: "That's a civilized mob if they get paid in Rose."
Not that anyone at the table had any room left, the final course of sour cream-topped lamb stew over dumplings served with Chateaneuf du Pape was magnificent - earthy, rich and more than capable of standing up to lamb even by this late point in the festivities.
From he who shall not be named about how people pre-gamed before the wine dinner: "She ate lasagna and I did tequila shots."
I did nothing of either sort, but as we've established, my needs are small and easily satisfied. Just not often enough.
There was the friend willing to walk to Big Secret at the crack of dawn (10:50) for sandwiches from Nate's Bagels, thus ensuring us first place in the line.
I took my everything bagel with a schmear of scallion cream cheese and he took his baker's wife on an everything bagel before we made our way to Saadia's Juicebox for the first offering of the Mozart Festival.
Situated on a cushion on the floor with a skylight view of a treetop blowing in the wind, we heard a flute duo, the Chamber Chicks ( a quintet of woodwinds) and an octet arrangement originally written for six and since transcribed for eight, because, as one of the oboe players noted, it was obvious something was missing.
More
There was the IT geek friend willing to assess my computer needs with only a few instances of mocking my ancient computer, slow Internet and complete cluelessness when it comes to ram and operating systems. Fortunately, he determined my needs are small and easily satisfied.
Then there was the sextet of friends - couples, all - who gathered with me for a Rhone wine dinner at Camden's, one which began as a lesson on E Guigal (a winery and negociant, notable for being hands-on and not the silver spoon types) and ended up as conversational free-for-all after all the other guests had vacated the premises.
In between, we ate like we were hiking the Appalachian Trail, beginning with Comte, house baguettes and toasted walnuts accompanied by a Cotes du Rhone Blanc with a mouthfeel so soft, the friend with the green eyes said, it was like a pillow she wanted to sink into.
From the newlywed about her husband's house improvements: "He got wine drunk and ordered bidets."
A Rose from Tavel played up the sublime smokiness of house-smoked N.C. trout peeking out under a micro-green salad with champagne and caper dressing.
From the Claudine Longet fan about our server, the VCU Prof: "She used to make us martinis the color of moonlight."
Everyone was ga-ga for housemade sausage with wilted spring greens (their bitterness a stellar counterpoint to the sausage's richness) paired with Cote du Rhone rouge
From the musician who'd called me last week about Robyn Hitchcock's appearance at Plan 9: "Matthew Southern Comfort's is the best version of "Woodstock."
"Hermitage" made roasted ham and sage-stuffed pork loin shine and the friend who'd returned from South Africa with 21 bottles of wine in his suitcase deemed it his favorite wine of the night.
From the man with the dangling ears: "That's a civilized mob if they get paid in Rose."
Not that anyone at the table had any room left, the final course of sour cream-topped lamb stew over dumplings served with Chateaneuf du Pape was magnificent - earthy, rich and more than capable of standing up to lamb even by this late point in the festivities.
From he who shall not be named about how people pre-gamed before the wine dinner: "She ate lasagna and I did tequila shots."
I did nothing of either sort, but as we've established, my needs are small and easily satisfied. Just not often enough.
Monday, February 13, 2017
Available, Complicated, Taken
Aphrodisiac: food, drink or drug that stimulates sexual desire
So says Merriam-Webster, but would I really get any argument if I amended that definition a tad?
Aphrodisiac: food, drink, drug or 82-degree weather in mid-February that stimulates sexual desire
When you get up at 11 and it's already 70, your first order of business is opening every window in the apartment and then picking the music with which to launch such a day.
Joni Mitchell's "Court and Spark" at top volume does the trick quite nicely.
Walking toward the river, the first person who speaks to me is a guy driving down Marshall Street who calls out, "Hey, Mama," and makes a peace sign out the driver's window in my direction. I return same. Heading downhill through downtown feels like it's Folk Fest weekend because of the sheer number of pedestrians, cyclists and cars all going in the exact same direction.
Brown's Island may as well have had a festival going on for the masses of humanity spread out over it picnicking, strolling, lolling, sunning and, yes, on their cell phones, while the Pipeline walkway and its rocks and beaches were as congested as I'd ever seen them, even in summer.
Back at home, I put Joan Armatrading's "Walk Under Ladders" on the turntable and let "I'm Lucky" - a particularly apt reminder on such a glorious day - blast out my open windows and to the street below.
I have a theory that when the mercury goes up, so should the volume of the music, but more testing is in order.
Although I briefly considered attending another belly dancing technique class, I couldn't stand the thought of being inside with no open windows, so I read on the balcony instead, my pleasure tempered only by the knowledge that the warmth was to be short-lived.
Fortunately, my evening promised aphrodisiacs and a liberal sprinkling of "my people" at a pre-Valentine's wine dinner at Camden's, where the chef thanked the room for giving up Rick Astley at the National for his dinner and compensated with a vintage soul soundtrack.
Newlyweds Beckham and Beauty were already waiting for me (he having foregone a soccer game to be here) at a tucked-away table under an open window, making for the best possible seats on a still-balmy evening. Reminding them that tonight's menu pulled from the "Intercourses Cookbook," meaning all the recipes contained aphrodisiacs, Beckham smiled widely.
"I guess I know what we're doing after dinner," he said to his blushing bride. As well you should, my friend.
Pru and Beau arrived and we were all soon sipping and swooning over Schramsburg Vineyards yeasty "Mirabelle" Brut and nibbling croustades of house-smoked salmon and goat cheese.
When the handsome wine rep came to our table to explain the wine, he struggled to find the best verb to describe the winery's practice of moving the bottles of bubbly ever-so-slightly during fermentation to achieve such creamy mouthfeel.
He began with shake, which sounded too strong, then used agitate, which sounded even more violent and as he searched for a better word, Beckham suggested, "Fondle?"
Given tonight's theme, it got full confirmation from the table and I imagine his Mirabelle spiel will never be the same.
And while Beau had come to the dinner without any intention of buying wine, Pru let slip, "It is only for conversational purposes that I mention how much I like these bubbles," and bubbles were ordered.
The newlyweds were peppered with questions about their second wedding and month-long honeymoon (which included frequent beach outings, petting cheetahs, multiple wineries and enough indulgent time that each read a book a week) in South Africa, where the groom had discovered that South African-made pants were better tailored to his body, which he described as, "Large thighs and junk in the trunk."
But it was while he was trying to explain points of reference that he wisely resorted to drawing a map for clarification.
"Ah, handmade Google," Beau cracked about the ancient and noble art of cartography being executed in real time as we dove into Parmesan oysters accompanied by Virginia Dare Winery's "Two Arrowheads," a fragrant blend of Viognier and Roussanne named after a legend about a white ghost.
I was the first, but far from the only, wine lover to question a California winery called Virginia Dare, but we got the full scoop from the handsome one and I, for one, was satisfied to hear that it had its origins in a Norfolk winery and scuppernong grapes before heading westward ho.
The oysters were also the departure point for an 1871 tract being read that said that coastal men were less salacious due to their seafood diet.
"Coastal living is less stressful," Beckham observed, making me think maybe I should have taken that job at the beach after all.
As it turned out, we were only drinking the Virginia Dare because the wine that was originally chosen for this course, Taken Wine Company's "Available," was unavailable. You read right.
Happily that was not the case with their "Complicated" Chardonnay which showed up next and prompted the comment, "Available is unavailable, but of course complicated shows up. Isn't that always the way?" Pru shared that a wise woman had once told her that all men fell into one of three categories: gay, married or leaving on Tuesday.
I don't know about all that, but I'm here to tell you that "Complicated" was as perfect a pairing with crab quesadillas and peach salsa as could be hoped for.
We heard about Pru's new wine jail - emptying boxes meant 74 of 96 bottle slots were immediately filled - which Beau had assembled this weekend.
Dreary as that job sounded to me, he felt differently. Assembly held no appeal for any of the women at the table, yet when he asked of Beckham, "Do you like putting together Ikea furniture?" his answer was an enthusiastic, "I love it!"
Is it too far of a stretch to see a Venus/Mars metaphor there?
Spirits were high by the time Taken Winery's "Taken," a blend of Cabernet and Merlot, was poured (oh, and all those "takens" in the names? Because all the good wines names were taken by the time this winery needed some) and plates of coffee-rubbed lamb leg with warm artichoke and potato salad arrived.
We heard from the newlyweds how they'd re-created their first date by going to Secco and then on to L'Opossum for dinner, causing Beauty to reminisce about all the cocktails he'd ordered for her ("He quoted NPR on a first date, but he could have been roofie-ing me, for all I knew!").
And they say romance is dead.
The bill for the evening was high and, according to him, although she's the type to share costs, she didn't argue all that hard about paying her share that night. Mainly, she was wildly impressed because, "He hadn't tried to whip a kiss out," which may be one of my all-time favorite new phrases.
Instead he married her less than two years after laying eyes on her. Here's a couple who went straight from available to taken with nary a complicated phase to be found.
A nose of rose petals introduced us to Banfi "Rosa Regale," a sparkling red ("Italian, who else?" someone joked) made with the Brachetto grape in Italy's Piedmont region, that provided a delicately sweet accompaniment to housemade cheese and chocolate pate with pine nut cookies to close out the meal.
But with "my people," the final food course rarely means the end of the evening, and we were soon enjoying additional glasses of "Rosa Regale" with a small dish of conversation hearts (GOT LUV? mine asked) and random loopy conversation.
Their honeymoon had been a month too short. Beau's bittersweet chocolate cake had pleased him but not Pru. Jackass versus jackess.
So what did we learn tonight besides the limits of our waistbands and livers?
Manteo was chief of the Croatan tribe. Coastal men have it going on. And nothing sets the scene for a fine meal with friends like a sunny day.
Meanwhile, it is only for conversational purposes that I mention that not whipping a kiss out on a first date may just be the finest way to court before sparking.
Assuming no one's leaving on Tuesday.
So says Merriam-Webster, but would I really get any argument if I amended that definition a tad?
Aphrodisiac: food, drink, drug or 82-degree weather in mid-February that stimulates sexual desire
When you get up at 11 and it's already 70, your first order of business is opening every window in the apartment and then picking the music with which to launch such a day.
Joni Mitchell's "Court and Spark" at top volume does the trick quite nicely.
Walking toward the river, the first person who speaks to me is a guy driving down Marshall Street who calls out, "Hey, Mama," and makes a peace sign out the driver's window in my direction. I return same. Heading downhill through downtown feels like it's Folk Fest weekend because of the sheer number of pedestrians, cyclists and cars all going in the exact same direction.
Brown's Island may as well have had a festival going on for the masses of humanity spread out over it picnicking, strolling, lolling, sunning and, yes, on their cell phones, while the Pipeline walkway and its rocks and beaches were as congested as I'd ever seen them, even in summer.
Back at home, I put Joan Armatrading's "Walk Under Ladders" on the turntable and let "I'm Lucky" - a particularly apt reminder on such a glorious day - blast out my open windows and to the street below.
I have a theory that when the mercury goes up, so should the volume of the music, but more testing is in order.
Although I briefly considered attending another belly dancing technique class, I couldn't stand the thought of being inside with no open windows, so I read on the balcony instead, my pleasure tempered only by the knowledge that the warmth was to be short-lived.
Fortunately, my evening promised aphrodisiacs and a liberal sprinkling of "my people" at a pre-Valentine's wine dinner at Camden's, where the chef thanked the room for giving up Rick Astley at the National for his dinner and compensated with a vintage soul soundtrack.
Newlyweds Beckham and Beauty were already waiting for me (he having foregone a soccer game to be here) at a tucked-away table under an open window, making for the best possible seats on a still-balmy evening. Reminding them that tonight's menu pulled from the "Intercourses Cookbook," meaning all the recipes contained aphrodisiacs, Beckham smiled widely.
"I guess I know what we're doing after dinner," he said to his blushing bride. As well you should, my friend.
Pru and Beau arrived and we were all soon sipping and swooning over Schramsburg Vineyards yeasty "Mirabelle" Brut and nibbling croustades of house-smoked salmon and goat cheese.
When the handsome wine rep came to our table to explain the wine, he struggled to find the best verb to describe the winery's practice of moving the bottles of bubbly ever-so-slightly during fermentation to achieve such creamy mouthfeel.
He began with shake, which sounded too strong, then used agitate, which sounded even more violent and as he searched for a better word, Beckham suggested, "Fondle?"
Given tonight's theme, it got full confirmation from the table and I imagine his Mirabelle spiel will never be the same.
And while Beau had come to the dinner without any intention of buying wine, Pru let slip, "It is only for conversational purposes that I mention how much I like these bubbles," and bubbles were ordered.
The newlyweds were peppered with questions about their second wedding and month-long honeymoon (which included frequent beach outings, petting cheetahs, multiple wineries and enough indulgent time that each read a book a week) in South Africa, where the groom had discovered that South African-made pants were better tailored to his body, which he described as, "Large thighs and junk in the trunk."
But it was while he was trying to explain points of reference that he wisely resorted to drawing a map for clarification.
"Ah, handmade Google," Beau cracked about the ancient and noble art of cartography being executed in real time as we dove into Parmesan oysters accompanied by Virginia Dare Winery's "Two Arrowheads," a fragrant blend of Viognier and Roussanne named after a legend about a white ghost.
I was the first, but far from the only, wine lover to question a California winery called Virginia Dare, but we got the full scoop from the handsome one and I, for one, was satisfied to hear that it had its origins in a Norfolk winery and scuppernong grapes before heading westward ho.
The oysters were also the departure point for an 1871 tract being read that said that coastal men were less salacious due to their seafood diet.
"Coastal living is less stressful," Beckham observed, making me think maybe I should have taken that job at the beach after all.
As it turned out, we were only drinking the Virginia Dare because the wine that was originally chosen for this course, Taken Wine Company's "Available," was unavailable. You read right.
Happily that was not the case with their "Complicated" Chardonnay which showed up next and prompted the comment, "Available is unavailable, but of course complicated shows up. Isn't that always the way?" Pru shared that a wise woman had once told her that all men fell into one of three categories: gay, married or leaving on Tuesday.
I don't know about all that, but I'm here to tell you that "Complicated" was as perfect a pairing with crab quesadillas and peach salsa as could be hoped for.
We heard about Pru's new wine jail - emptying boxes meant 74 of 96 bottle slots were immediately filled - which Beau had assembled this weekend.
Dreary as that job sounded to me, he felt differently. Assembly held no appeal for any of the women at the table, yet when he asked of Beckham, "Do you like putting together Ikea furniture?" his answer was an enthusiastic, "I love it!"
Is it too far of a stretch to see a Venus/Mars metaphor there?
Spirits were high by the time Taken Winery's "Taken," a blend of Cabernet and Merlot, was poured (oh, and all those "takens" in the names? Because all the good wines names were taken by the time this winery needed some) and plates of coffee-rubbed lamb leg with warm artichoke and potato salad arrived.
We heard from the newlyweds how they'd re-created their first date by going to Secco and then on to L'Opossum for dinner, causing Beauty to reminisce about all the cocktails he'd ordered for her ("He quoted NPR on a first date, but he could have been roofie-ing me, for all I knew!").
And they say romance is dead.
The bill for the evening was high and, according to him, although she's the type to share costs, she didn't argue all that hard about paying her share that night. Mainly, she was wildly impressed because, "He hadn't tried to whip a kiss out," which may be one of my all-time favorite new phrases.
Instead he married her less than two years after laying eyes on her. Here's a couple who went straight from available to taken with nary a complicated phase to be found.
A nose of rose petals introduced us to Banfi "Rosa Regale," a sparkling red ("Italian, who else?" someone joked) made with the Brachetto grape in Italy's Piedmont region, that provided a delicately sweet accompaniment to housemade cheese and chocolate pate with pine nut cookies to close out the meal.
But with "my people," the final food course rarely means the end of the evening, and we were soon enjoying additional glasses of "Rosa Regale" with a small dish of conversation hearts (GOT LUV? mine asked) and random loopy conversation.
Their honeymoon had been a month too short. Beau's bittersweet chocolate cake had pleased him but not Pru. Jackass versus jackess.
So what did we learn tonight besides the limits of our waistbands and livers?
Manteo was chief of the Croatan tribe. Coastal men have it going on. And nothing sets the scene for a fine meal with friends like a sunny day.
Meanwhile, it is only for conversational purposes that I mention that not whipping a kiss out on a first date may just be the finest way to court before sparking.
Assuming no one's leaving on Tuesday.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Dance on Thru to the Other Side
Let the record show that these words actually came out of Pru's mouth today at 7:34 p.m.
Every day is fun.
To be clear, I do think that every day is fun - for one reason or another, no matter how minuscule - but to know Pru is to expect the darkest possible expression of everything, so when I asked her what fun things were on her agenda this week, I was shocked to hear something so unlikely from her.
My fun came in waves, beginning with a walk, but not the pipeline walk I'd wanted because Tuesday's residual rain overflow stopped me in my tracks when I tried to access the pipeline, but a brisk walk nonetheless.
At Studio Two Three's winter print fair this afternoon, I chatted with the enthusiastic printmaker recently tied up with birthing a baby, planning the print fair and tying up the loose ends on expansion, all activities that require an abundance of youthful exuberance and non-stop energy.
Just give me print fairs, another Galentine's Day dance and a go-go night and I'm good. Granted, others may need more from a print collective.
Perhaps most importantly, I snagged a fabulous print (8/25 because 2/25 had a blue smudge I couldn't quite get over) by local Rellie Brewer called "Dance Thru," and picturing two people who could have escaped from "Harold and the Purple Crayon" caught up together.
Embracing? Dancing? Definitely intertwined. As my guitarist friend put it so well today, "Any music that makes me move involuntarily is always the experience I am hoping for."
With most of "my people" otherwise occupied, it was Pru and Beau who met me for a wine dinner at Camden's focused on holiday indulgences that began with Biutiful Brut Cava alongside a crab and shrimp salad with horseradish salsa (the kick on the finish alone was worth the price of admission) that devolved into an overview of sparkling maintenance.
Back in the late '90s, a new woman in my life had decided I was a worthy friend once she learned that I always had a chilled bottle of something sparkling in my fridge. You never know when it'll come in handy, after all.
"We have that in common," Pru said authoritatively. "People always say don't open a bottle for me because you'll have to drink it or you'll have a half-full bottle open. Doesn't apply. Not gonna happen. Who do they think I am?"
Fact is, some people are always at the ready with a bottle of fun.
Layers of flavor showed up in roasted butternut squash soup with goat cheese crema as well as in the mineral-forward Jean-Marc Brocard Kimmeridgien that Pru and I could have sipped all day long without complaint.
Turns out the secret of the soup was chicken and pig stock, leading to an expose of Pru's soup needs. "I've learned to keep her in ham hocks," Beau said drolly about three recent batches of soup that began with hocks and ended in happiness.
It was during the pairing of Laurent Martray Brouilly "Vieilles Vignes" with chicken galantine (the word, incidentally, one vowel off the dance I so enjoyed last February) alongside cranberry chutney and celery salad that conversation turned to people with celery issues.
There were two at the bar, both grown men, yet they handled the dish differently. One saw the hated celery as integral to the dish's appeal despite his lack of fandom and ate every bite, while the other stacked his celery to one side of the plate as if it had cooties.
Instead of focusing on celeriac nonsense, I thought it wiser to move on to debt murders. You know, like if I murder someone for you, then you'll have to murder someone for my friend and eventually, he/she for me. Simple.
Not wanting to upset the apple cart but unable to resist, I pointed out that I had no one I wanted dead, because I had no good reason to wish it so. What are the reasons to sign on for a murder pact anyway, I wondered aloud. Love? Revenge? Money?
My life may be fun, but it's not entangled enough for one of those reasons to inspire me to take a life or contract someone to do so for me.
Seeing a woman in gauchos - easily the most unflattering piece of clothing ever foisted on womankind - we digressed to the understandable appeal for men of cross-dressing (they really don't have the clothing options we do), kilt-wearing (I'm all for it) and why both are still seen as outside the norm.
Best random commentary: "You've been watching a lot of Eddie Izzard, haven't you?" And the problem with that is...?
You wanna talk fun? How about eating house-smoked and cured ham with whipped sweet potatoes and ham gravy while sipping Banshee Pinto Noir and arguing whether Bermuda or the Outer Banks is more worthy of someone's vacation days?
Personally, I could have a lot of fun on either trip, so you make the call and I'll pack my bag.
Whenever I eat ham, I am reminded of my mother's devotion to the "magical beast" capable of providing breakfast, lunch or dinner, not to mention soup to die for, and her lifelong justification for always having one in the fridge.
Like always having a bottle of bubbles around, it only makes good sense. Just in case.
The mustard greens showed up late to the party of roasted lamb lollipops, purple fingerling potatoes and mushroom duxelle (though everyone was too polite to make them feel bad about it) set to the liquid notes of Finca la Mata Tempranillo for a hearty final course.
Meanwhile, Pru regaled us all with reasons to visit her slice of Mexican mountain heaven, reasons that included the largest Democratic ex-pat community, a muscular gem expert with gleaming skin at La Cucaracha and late night shopping expeditions that end with sipping bubbles overlooking the town.
Sounds like we'd have fun, fun, fun till Beau stopped supplying the ham hocks or someone got murdered, whichever came first.
Besides, any adventure that involves me having a good time is always the experience I am hoping for.
Every day is fun.
To be clear, I do think that every day is fun - for one reason or another, no matter how minuscule - but to know Pru is to expect the darkest possible expression of everything, so when I asked her what fun things were on her agenda this week, I was shocked to hear something so unlikely from her.
My fun came in waves, beginning with a walk, but not the pipeline walk I'd wanted because Tuesday's residual rain overflow stopped me in my tracks when I tried to access the pipeline, but a brisk walk nonetheless.
At Studio Two Three's winter print fair this afternoon, I chatted with the enthusiastic printmaker recently tied up with birthing a baby, planning the print fair and tying up the loose ends on expansion, all activities that require an abundance of youthful exuberance and non-stop energy.
Just give me print fairs, another Galentine's Day dance and a go-go night and I'm good. Granted, others may need more from a print collective.
Perhaps most importantly, I snagged a fabulous print (8/25 because 2/25 had a blue smudge I couldn't quite get over) by local Rellie Brewer called "Dance Thru," and picturing two people who could have escaped from "Harold and the Purple Crayon" caught up together.
Embracing? Dancing? Definitely intertwined. As my guitarist friend put it so well today, "Any music that makes me move involuntarily is always the experience I am hoping for."
With most of "my people" otherwise occupied, it was Pru and Beau who met me for a wine dinner at Camden's focused on holiday indulgences that began with Biutiful Brut Cava alongside a crab and shrimp salad with horseradish salsa (the kick on the finish alone was worth the price of admission) that devolved into an overview of sparkling maintenance.
Back in the late '90s, a new woman in my life had decided I was a worthy friend once she learned that I always had a chilled bottle of something sparkling in my fridge. You never know when it'll come in handy, after all.
"We have that in common," Pru said authoritatively. "People always say don't open a bottle for me because you'll have to drink it or you'll have a half-full bottle open. Doesn't apply. Not gonna happen. Who do they think I am?"
Fact is, some people are always at the ready with a bottle of fun.
Layers of flavor showed up in roasted butternut squash soup with goat cheese crema as well as in the mineral-forward Jean-Marc Brocard Kimmeridgien that Pru and I could have sipped all day long without complaint.
Turns out the secret of the soup was chicken and pig stock, leading to an expose of Pru's soup needs. "I've learned to keep her in ham hocks," Beau said drolly about three recent batches of soup that began with hocks and ended in happiness.
It was during the pairing of Laurent Martray Brouilly "Vieilles Vignes" with chicken galantine (the word, incidentally, one vowel off the dance I so enjoyed last February) alongside cranberry chutney and celery salad that conversation turned to people with celery issues.
There were two at the bar, both grown men, yet they handled the dish differently. One saw the hated celery as integral to the dish's appeal despite his lack of fandom and ate every bite, while the other stacked his celery to one side of the plate as if it had cooties.
Instead of focusing on celeriac nonsense, I thought it wiser to move on to debt murders. You know, like if I murder someone for you, then you'll have to murder someone for my friend and eventually, he/she for me. Simple.
Not wanting to upset the apple cart but unable to resist, I pointed out that I had no one I wanted dead, because I had no good reason to wish it so. What are the reasons to sign on for a murder pact anyway, I wondered aloud. Love? Revenge? Money?
My life may be fun, but it's not entangled enough for one of those reasons to inspire me to take a life or contract someone to do so for me.
Seeing a woman in gauchos - easily the most unflattering piece of clothing ever foisted on womankind - we digressed to the understandable appeal for men of cross-dressing (they really don't have the clothing options we do), kilt-wearing (I'm all for it) and why both are still seen as outside the norm.
Best random commentary: "You've been watching a lot of Eddie Izzard, haven't you?" And the problem with that is...?
You wanna talk fun? How about eating house-smoked and cured ham with whipped sweet potatoes and ham gravy while sipping Banshee Pinto Noir and arguing whether Bermuda or the Outer Banks is more worthy of someone's vacation days?
Personally, I could have a lot of fun on either trip, so you make the call and I'll pack my bag.
Whenever I eat ham, I am reminded of my mother's devotion to the "magical beast" capable of providing breakfast, lunch or dinner, not to mention soup to die for, and her lifelong justification for always having one in the fridge.
Like always having a bottle of bubbles around, it only makes good sense. Just in case.
The mustard greens showed up late to the party of roasted lamb lollipops, purple fingerling potatoes and mushroom duxelle (though everyone was too polite to make them feel bad about it) set to the liquid notes of Finca la Mata Tempranillo for a hearty final course.
Meanwhile, Pru regaled us all with reasons to visit her slice of Mexican mountain heaven, reasons that included the largest Democratic ex-pat community, a muscular gem expert with gleaming skin at La Cucaracha and late night shopping expeditions that end with sipping bubbles overlooking the town.
Sounds like we'd have fun, fun, fun till Beau stopped supplying the ham hocks or someone got murdered, whichever came first.
Besides, any adventure that involves me having a good time is always the experience I am hoping for.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Mambo Italiano
Bite your teeth into the ass of life and drag it to you.
What better way to bite the ass of life while also celebrating the 20th anniversary of "Big Night" than with a Big Night wine dinner with friends old and new at Camden's?
The usual suspects - Pru, Beau, Beckham and the Beauty - were joined by a new face from the neighborhood, only two months into his return to Richmond after forays to Baton Rouge and Atlanta.
The Barrister, as he was immediately dubbed, proved a worthy addition to the group and seemed unfazed by our ricocheting conversations, despite having been warned by the chef that we were a handful.
But most of the tables were similarly enthralled with their tablemates since the chef had made a point of combining reservations to create groups of 5 or 6, the better to appreciate a truer "Big Night" experience. My guess would be that we weren't the only table to make a new friend or two over five courses while the movie played and the music was set to Louis Prima.
This is a restaurant! This is not a f*cking school!
Good thing because all of us would have gotten marked down for talking out of turn.
In true "Big Night" style, platters of food and bottles of wine were dropped off at each table for people to enjoy family style and woe to the server who tried to remove a bottle that still contained a few sips in it from ours.
Tellingly, she only tried that once.
Starting with zuppa Toscana accompanied by Monferrato Bianco Giabine, we were fully into our food-friendly wines and elaborate meal before some of my fiends even realized that the Barrister was as new to me as to them. "Everyone gets along with you!" Pru said by way of explanation for her assumption that Barr and I were BFFs.
The handsome Vittorio Fracchia of Sulin Winery paused at our table to introduce himself, explaining that he was the fifth generation of his wine-making family, but all I could think of was the scores of women that five generations of his male Italian ancestry must have gone through.
Speaking from experience with Italian men, I feel certain had I said it, he would have taken it as a compliment.
Tri-color risotto - pink seafood, white cheese and green spinach - resembled the Italian flag and was paired with the winery's crowd-pleasing Chardonnay while discussing the rigors of jury duty. As a juror for a murder trial, Pru had been appalled at the quality of the experience.
"Exhibit A was a Hennessy bottle!" she said to laughter. "All the character witnesses were wearing orange prison jumpsuits." New black, right?
"Here's your first Barbera of the evening," our server (and VCU prof) said, causing Beckham and I to swoon a bit at the prospect of more Barbera to come. What a lovely and extremely rare thing to be told, we agreed.
You could hear the oohs and ahhs at every single table when a whole roasted rockfish complete with cherry tomato eye was dropped off at each, along with roasted hens, grilled asparagus and roasted beets to go with glasses of the appealing Aleramo Barbera.
I can't speak to how refined the other tables were about de-boning and serving their rockfish, but from where I sat, it was a joint venture, hands-on continuum that ensured everyone had their fingers in that succulent fish at some point.
The chef went table to table, amusing himself with how each table autopsied the secondi course. I can't even recall the last time I ate so much rockfish at one sitting or enjoyed it more.
Goddamn it, I should kill you! This is so f*cking good, I should kill you!
Rapidly approaching full-as-a-tick territory, we nonetheless soldiered on happily because next up was suckling pig (the photo posted on Facebook earlier in the day showed us what the poor thing looked like before it got shredded and brought to us) to be washed down with Barbaresco Brasal Fracchia and savored listening to Vittorio's heartfelt ode to the Nebbiolo grape.
In this arena (and probably others) Vittorio and I are in complete agreement.
All the while conversation swirled from board games to restaurants to Beckham and the Beauty's envy-worthy plans to get married in South Africa in less than 8 weeks. When the topic turned to drink and why we do, Beauty made sure Barr understood that we don't drink because we have to.
Pru set the record straight quickly. "Not gonna lie, sometimes I do. I do have to." Beau would undoubtedly be qualified to attest to this.
The earlier promise of more Barbera was fulfilled with Barbera Ornella accompanied by the culinary orgy that is timpano, a pastry-covered "drum" holding ziti, cheese, sauce, meatballs, hard-boiled eggs and sausage and that, by all rights, none of us should have had the room to attempt.
We dove in with abandon.
When to-go boxes were brought out after tables threw up the white flag in surrender to the final dish, we quickly determined that we needed boxes for everyone. Despite the appearance of three couples, we were a six-top, all of whom lived separately.
When the chef walked around tossing Squirrel Nut Zippers in front of each guest, it was the signal that the dinner portion of the big night was over, and that the Presidential debate portion was about to begin. Moving to the bar for a better view of the screen, we settled in for some Italian wine-fueled commentary as the nominees faced off.
Every time Trump used his favorite adjective, we'd hoot and holler "tremendous!" to show our disdain for his limited vocabulary and braggadocio. How can anyone watch him say, "No puppet. You're the puppet" and not expect to hear "na-na-na-na-na" next?
Beckham and the Beauty drifted out into the night before Trump had insisted he won't necessarily accept the election's results and sometime around midnight, Pru and Beau took charge of our friend and deposited the Barrister at his home five blocks away (and, yes, he'd gotten major points for walking to dinner).
Conversation didn't end then, not with the Prof there bringing up assorted salacious topics such as, "A dude better be able to - we'll sub in "perform oral sex" for how she actually phrased it - like a champ" and, "You got a sweet ass, Karen" to round out the evening.
We're not talking life here and it's not like she tried to bite it or anything.
Primo, do you know why this night is happening?
No.
Because it has to happen.
And this, as you may have guessed, was how we dragged ourselves to it.
What better way to bite the ass of life while also celebrating the 20th anniversary of "Big Night" than with a Big Night wine dinner with friends old and new at Camden's?
The usual suspects - Pru, Beau, Beckham and the Beauty - were joined by a new face from the neighborhood, only two months into his return to Richmond after forays to Baton Rouge and Atlanta.
The Barrister, as he was immediately dubbed, proved a worthy addition to the group and seemed unfazed by our ricocheting conversations, despite having been warned by the chef that we were a handful.
But most of the tables were similarly enthralled with their tablemates since the chef had made a point of combining reservations to create groups of 5 or 6, the better to appreciate a truer "Big Night" experience. My guess would be that we weren't the only table to make a new friend or two over five courses while the movie played and the music was set to Louis Prima.
This is a restaurant! This is not a f*cking school!
Good thing because all of us would have gotten marked down for talking out of turn.
In true "Big Night" style, platters of food and bottles of wine were dropped off at each table for people to enjoy family style and woe to the server who tried to remove a bottle that still contained a few sips in it from ours.
Tellingly, she only tried that once.
Starting with zuppa Toscana accompanied by Monferrato Bianco Giabine, we were fully into our food-friendly wines and elaborate meal before some of my fiends even realized that the Barrister was as new to me as to them. "Everyone gets along with you!" Pru said by way of explanation for her assumption that Barr and I were BFFs.
The handsome Vittorio Fracchia of Sulin Winery paused at our table to introduce himself, explaining that he was the fifth generation of his wine-making family, but all I could think of was the scores of women that five generations of his male Italian ancestry must have gone through.
Speaking from experience with Italian men, I feel certain had I said it, he would have taken it as a compliment.
Tri-color risotto - pink seafood, white cheese and green spinach - resembled the Italian flag and was paired with the winery's crowd-pleasing Chardonnay while discussing the rigors of jury duty. As a juror for a murder trial, Pru had been appalled at the quality of the experience.
"Exhibit A was a Hennessy bottle!" she said to laughter. "All the character witnesses were wearing orange prison jumpsuits." New black, right?
"Here's your first Barbera of the evening," our server (and VCU prof) said, causing Beckham and I to swoon a bit at the prospect of more Barbera to come. What a lovely and extremely rare thing to be told, we agreed.
You could hear the oohs and ahhs at every single table when a whole roasted rockfish complete with cherry tomato eye was dropped off at each, along with roasted hens, grilled asparagus and roasted beets to go with glasses of the appealing Aleramo Barbera.
I can't speak to how refined the other tables were about de-boning and serving their rockfish, but from where I sat, it was a joint venture, hands-on continuum that ensured everyone had their fingers in that succulent fish at some point.
The chef went table to table, amusing himself with how each table autopsied the secondi course. I can't even recall the last time I ate so much rockfish at one sitting or enjoyed it more.
Goddamn it, I should kill you! This is so f*cking good, I should kill you!
Rapidly approaching full-as-a-tick territory, we nonetheless soldiered on happily because next up was suckling pig (the photo posted on Facebook earlier in the day showed us what the poor thing looked like before it got shredded and brought to us) to be washed down with Barbaresco Brasal Fracchia and savored listening to Vittorio's heartfelt ode to the Nebbiolo grape.
In this arena (and probably others) Vittorio and I are in complete agreement.
All the while conversation swirled from board games to restaurants to Beckham and the Beauty's envy-worthy plans to get married in South Africa in less than 8 weeks. When the topic turned to drink and why we do, Beauty made sure Barr understood that we don't drink because we have to.
Pru set the record straight quickly. "Not gonna lie, sometimes I do. I do have to." Beau would undoubtedly be qualified to attest to this.
The earlier promise of more Barbera was fulfilled with Barbera Ornella accompanied by the culinary orgy that is timpano, a pastry-covered "drum" holding ziti, cheese, sauce, meatballs, hard-boiled eggs and sausage and that, by all rights, none of us should have had the room to attempt.
We dove in with abandon.
When to-go boxes were brought out after tables threw up the white flag in surrender to the final dish, we quickly determined that we needed boxes for everyone. Despite the appearance of three couples, we were a six-top, all of whom lived separately.
When the chef walked around tossing Squirrel Nut Zippers in front of each guest, it was the signal that the dinner portion of the big night was over, and that the Presidential debate portion was about to begin. Moving to the bar for a better view of the screen, we settled in for some Italian wine-fueled commentary as the nominees faced off.
Every time Trump used his favorite adjective, we'd hoot and holler "tremendous!" to show our disdain for his limited vocabulary and braggadocio. How can anyone watch him say, "No puppet. You're the puppet" and not expect to hear "na-na-na-na-na" next?
Beckham and the Beauty drifted out into the night before Trump had insisted he won't necessarily accept the election's results and sometime around midnight, Pru and Beau took charge of our friend and deposited the Barrister at his home five blocks away (and, yes, he'd gotten major points for walking to dinner).
Conversation didn't end then, not with the Prof there bringing up assorted salacious topics such as, "A dude better be able to - we'll sub in "perform oral sex" for how she actually phrased it - like a champ" and, "You got a sweet ass, Karen" to round out the evening.
We're not talking life here and it's not like she tried to bite it or anything.
Primo, do you know why this night is happening?
No.
Because it has to happen.
And this, as you may have guessed, was how we dragged ourselves to it.
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Until the Poets Run Out of Rhyme
Despite what a girl thought last night, we do not have a drive-thru.
~sign outside the Village
Infrequent are the days I can start out with gay rights, move seamlessly through Van McCoy to lap steel and wind down watching a blowhard being thrown under the bus.
Tangentially, there was chocolate times two.
My interest was piqued in the Cabell Library's panel discussion on "The Struggle for Recognition of VCU's First Gay Student Group 1974-76" because of the student activist era, with a pinch of historical curiosity since I wasn't in Richmond in the '70s.
Read aloud by multiple people on the panel, the history of VCU's first gay student organization was a study in tenacity when the university's Board of Visitors refused official recognition to the group for fear it would encourage borderline students to become homosexuals.
That's right, VCU was sanctioning prejudice in 1974 (barely a year after homosexuality was removed from the official list of psychiatric disorders, mind you), which may help explain how sodomy wasn't legalized until 2003.
Truly, my mind boggles at the thought that it's only been 13 years.
But props to VCU's Gay Alliance of Students for enlisting the American Civil Liberties Union and fighting it all the way to the U.S. Court of Appeals, even if it did necessitate raising $300 in filing fees.
That's what doughnut sales and fundraisers at the Cha Cha Palace are for, right? Man, the '70s were simpler times.
Maybe it was all the bicentennial bullshit, but in 1976, the court soundly rejected VCU's argument, setting a precedent for gay student groups at colleges across the country.
That history alone would have been worth hearing, but the panel discussion provided four students from that original group, sharing their memories and insights about their historic quest to organize.
The funniest comments came from a panelist who'd been a straight advocate for the group back in the day and she began by saying, "I now know why I'm a gay person" and explaining how it took 8 years to become gay, but, "I'm so grateful."
We've come a long way, baby.
Listening to the radio getting ready to go out, the DJ played a Van McCoy-penned hit that was instantly familiar, but not from the disco era with which I associated his music.
No, 1965's "Baby I'm Yours" sung by a singer named Barbara Lewis was one of those songs you've heard 100 times but never really knew anything about.
But now I know Van was just honing his chops for the tsunami that would be "The Hustle."
Closer to evening, I headed to a favorite pocket park for the music event that relies on community not computers (no social media invitations), only to run into friends galore before the trio began playing under the trees.
Milling about were the dance party king, the international touring musician, the master looper, the passionate teacher, the bagel-maker and the scientist who, in his usual fashion, pulled out a bar of Ritter Sport dark chocolate with whole hazelnuts to offer me some.
You never travel without chocolate, I commented in appreciation. "What would that be like?" he quipped, offering me more.
Lucky me, I've never run into him at an event that he didn't have chocolate at the ready.
Playing al fresco tonight was acoustic guitarist and vocalist Andy Jenkins, sitting atop a picnic table, backed by the incomparable Cameron Ralston on bass and Alan Parker on electric guitar.
"Even in an intimate setting, I'm awful at banter, but I hope everyone is doing well," Andy told the crowd of 60 or so as they sat drinking out of growlers, munching on steamed shrimp and chewing the bones of pizza.
His plaintive songs told stories of being stoned, the Shenandoah Valley and finishing a book, while twice Cameron swapped his electric for an upright bass and once Alan sat cross-legged on the brick to play lap steel (a friend whispered, "Alan's talent is so ridiculous") for a song about a lazy man falling in love again.
And then it was fully dark, the sun having set as we enjoyed the music, and time to go to Camden's for tonight's VEEP debate, only to learn that the presenting sponsor of the debate was Anheuser Busch.
American politics in action, brought to you by cheap beer. Unseemly or not? Discuss.
My favorite honey-dripping southern accent was there with her "Big Daddy" (as she calls her handsome husband of decades) and sufficient smart-assed comments to carry us through the debate while parrying with other political junkies around us.
There was just enough time for supper - a special of seared scallops over wheatberry salad followed by chocolate pate pie - before glasses of Gruner Veltliner were topped off and the Virginian took the stage to sacrifice his own likability for the sake of prosecuting the absent Republican nominee.
It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it tonight.
What was fascinating, at least to this Democrat, was how easily and nonchalantly Pence threw the non-tax paying candidate under the bus, rarely bothering to defend his main man but clearly setting the stage for his own run in four years.
Tim Kaine, don't worry, we know you're a far more measured man than you were able to display tonight and we completely understand why you had to keep interrupting and pushing points about the buffoon who shall not be named.
What I would have liked to have seen, at least once or twice, was his wife Anne's reaction as he was thrust into the role of eviscerating a potato-looking megalomaniac to his self-serving minion. Because I do think she'll be his until 2 and 2 are 3, until the mountain crumbles to the sea.
Tuesday amused me in all kinds of ways.
~sign outside the Village
Infrequent are the days I can start out with gay rights, move seamlessly through Van McCoy to lap steel and wind down watching a blowhard being thrown under the bus.
Tangentially, there was chocolate times two.
My interest was piqued in the Cabell Library's panel discussion on "The Struggle for Recognition of VCU's First Gay Student Group 1974-76" because of the student activist era, with a pinch of historical curiosity since I wasn't in Richmond in the '70s.
Read aloud by multiple people on the panel, the history of VCU's first gay student organization was a study in tenacity when the university's Board of Visitors refused official recognition to the group for fear it would encourage borderline students to become homosexuals.
That's right, VCU was sanctioning prejudice in 1974 (barely a year after homosexuality was removed from the official list of psychiatric disorders, mind you), which may help explain how sodomy wasn't legalized until 2003.
Truly, my mind boggles at the thought that it's only been 13 years.
But props to VCU's Gay Alliance of Students for enlisting the American Civil Liberties Union and fighting it all the way to the U.S. Court of Appeals, even if it did necessitate raising $300 in filing fees.
That's what doughnut sales and fundraisers at the Cha Cha Palace are for, right? Man, the '70s were simpler times.
Maybe it was all the bicentennial bullshit, but in 1976, the court soundly rejected VCU's argument, setting a precedent for gay student groups at colleges across the country.
That history alone would have been worth hearing, but the panel discussion provided four students from that original group, sharing their memories and insights about their historic quest to organize.
The funniest comments came from a panelist who'd been a straight advocate for the group back in the day and she began by saying, "I now know why I'm a gay person" and explaining how it took 8 years to become gay, but, "I'm so grateful."
We've come a long way, baby.
Listening to the radio getting ready to go out, the DJ played a Van McCoy-penned hit that was instantly familiar, but not from the disco era with which I associated his music.
No, 1965's "Baby I'm Yours" sung by a singer named Barbara Lewis was one of those songs you've heard 100 times but never really knew anything about.
But now I know Van was just honing his chops for the tsunami that would be "The Hustle."
Closer to evening, I headed to a favorite pocket park for the music event that relies on community not computers (no social media invitations), only to run into friends galore before the trio began playing under the trees.
Milling about were the dance party king, the international touring musician, the master looper, the passionate teacher, the bagel-maker and the scientist who, in his usual fashion, pulled out a bar of Ritter Sport dark chocolate with whole hazelnuts to offer me some.
You never travel without chocolate, I commented in appreciation. "What would that be like?" he quipped, offering me more.
Lucky me, I've never run into him at an event that he didn't have chocolate at the ready.
Playing al fresco tonight was acoustic guitarist and vocalist Andy Jenkins, sitting atop a picnic table, backed by the incomparable Cameron Ralston on bass and Alan Parker on electric guitar.
"Even in an intimate setting, I'm awful at banter, but I hope everyone is doing well," Andy told the crowd of 60 or so as they sat drinking out of growlers, munching on steamed shrimp and chewing the bones of pizza.
His plaintive songs told stories of being stoned, the Shenandoah Valley and finishing a book, while twice Cameron swapped his electric for an upright bass and once Alan sat cross-legged on the brick to play lap steel (a friend whispered, "Alan's talent is so ridiculous") for a song about a lazy man falling in love again.
And then it was fully dark, the sun having set as we enjoyed the music, and time to go to Camden's for tonight's VEEP debate, only to learn that the presenting sponsor of the debate was Anheuser Busch.
American politics in action, brought to you by cheap beer. Unseemly or not? Discuss.
My favorite honey-dripping southern accent was there with her "Big Daddy" (as she calls her handsome husband of decades) and sufficient smart-assed comments to carry us through the debate while parrying with other political junkies around us.
There was just enough time for supper - a special of seared scallops over wheatberry salad followed by chocolate pate pie - before glasses of Gruner Veltliner were topped off and the Virginian took the stage to sacrifice his own likability for the sake of prosecuting the absent Republican nominee.
It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it tonight.
What was fascinating, at least to this Democrat, was how easily and nonchalantly Pence threw the non-tax paying candidate under the bus, rarely bothering to defend his main man but clearly setting the stage for his own run in four years.
Tim Kaine, don't worry, we know you're a far more measured man than you were able to display tonight and we completely understand why you had to keep interrupting and pushing points about the buffoon who shall not be named.
What I would have liked to have seen, at least once or twice, was his wife Anne's reaction as he was thrust into the role of eviscerating a potato-looking megalomaniac to his self-serving minion. Because I do think she'll be his until 2 and 2 are 3, until the mountain crumbles to the sea.
Tuesday amused me in all kinds of ways.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Passport in Order
I am not a political junkie, despite coming from the loins of two such people.
For the most part, I stay out of the fray, basing my political opinions on what I read since I don't watch TV or listen to radio news.
If you want the truth, I don't generally bother watching debates, either - can't remember the last one I saw - because I'd just as soon read the analysis the next day to assess who said what and how they handled themselves.
But.
In my decades as a registered voter, I have never felt the queasiness I feel this year and, like most Americans, my opinion of this election cycle is shared by everyone, as in every single person I know. I honestly can't say I've met a single Trump supporter, making it even harder for me to fathom the human beings who support this wing nut.
So, yes, Virginia, when I saw there was a debate-watching party at Camden's, I made it part of my evening's plans after wine on the porch and dinner out with Pru, who good-naturedly agreed to end the evening with politics.
Since we were a few minutes late arriving, the attentive crowd was already intent on the screen when we walked in, accepted the glasses of Rose and plate of fried chicken wings we were handed and took up our position standing next to a late-blooming political junkie and a visiting North Carolinian.
That's right, this debate was important enough to stand for an hour and a half.
Since my only frame of reference for Trump was the Internet snippets liberal friends have posted, I was there to see how the man held up over the long haul, not that an hour and a half should be especially long should you be President.
First of all, if his long-dead Scottish mother wasn't rolling over in her grave, then that's proof that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
I have never seen such a deplorable lack of manners, especially for someone who somehow believes he'd be a fine leader of the free world. In the "everything I needed to know, I learned in kindergarten" category, interrupting someone, shouting them down while speaking, is certainly on the list, along with other basic rules of civility.
Play fair.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Share everything.
Perhaps the Donald didn't go to kindergarten. He clearly never learned to speak in coherent sentences (or maybe he and Sarah Palin went to the same kindergarten).
It was satisfying hearing the cheers when Hillary nailed something ("I have a feeling that by the end of the evening I'll be blamed for everything.") and when Trump had yet another misstep ("That makes me smart"), as if the room was all on the same wavelength.
The only two Trump supporters sitting in the back slipped out of their seats and left before the debate ended, effectively confirming even their mortification with the candidate.
But everyone's still terrified on some level because we just don't know what'll happen in November. My favorite Virgo is looking at New Zealand and my biggest fan emailed this morning, saying, "Want to move to Canada, Sweden, Bali?"
Trump's finest moment came when he said, "We are a nation that is seriously troubled."
Yes, yes we are, but at the possibility that a loser like you could represent and govern us.
Even a non-political junkie with a penchant for Rose and wings has that much sense.
For the most part, I stay out of the fray, basing my political opinions on what I read since I don't watch TV or listen to radio news.
If you want the truth, I don't generally bother watching debates, either - can't remember the last one I saw - because I'd just as soon read the analysis the next day to assess who said what and how they handled themselves.
But.
In my decades as a registered voter, I have never felt the queasiness I feel this year and, like most Americans, my opinion of this election cycle is shared by everyone, as in every single person I know. I honestly can't say I've met a single Trump supporter, making it even harder for me to fathom the human beings who support this wing nut.
So, yes, Virginia, when I saw there was a debate-watching party at Camden's, I made it part of my evening's plans after wine on the porch and dinner out with Pru, who good-naturedly agreed to end the evening with politics.
Since we were a few minutes late arriving, the attentive crowd was already intent on the screen when we walked in, accepted the glasses of Rose and plate of fried chicken wings we were handed and took up our position standing next to a late-blooming political junkie and a visiting North Carolinian.
That's right, this debate was important enough to stand for an hour and a half.
Since my only frame of reference for Trump was the Internet snippets liberal friends have posted, I was there to see how the man held up over the long haul, not that an hour and a half should be especially long should you be President.
First of all, if his long-dead Scottish mother wasn't rolling over in her grave, then that's proof that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
I have never seen such a deplorable lack of manners, especially for someone who somehow believes he'd be a fine leader of the free world. In the "everything I needed to know, I learned in kindergarten" category, interrupting someone, shouting them down while speaking, is certainly on the list, along with other basic rules of civility.
Play fair.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Share everything.
Perhaps the Donald didn't go to kindergarten. He clearly never learned to speak in coherent sentences (or maybe he and Sarah Palin went to the same kindergarten).
It was satisfying hearing the cheers when Hillary nailed something ("I have a feeling that by the end of the evening I'll be blamed for everything.") and when Trump had yet another misstep ("That makes me smart"), as if the room was all on the same wavelength.
The only two Trump supporters sitting in the back slipped out of their seats and left before the debate ended, effectively confirming even their mortification with the candidate.
But everyone's still terrified on some level because we just don't know what'll happen in November. My favorite Virgo is looking at New Zealand and my biggest fan emailed this morning, saying, "Want to move to Canada, Sweden, Bali?"
Trump's finest moment came when he said, "We are a nation that is seriously troubled."
Yes, yes we are, but at the possibility that a loser like you could represent and govern us.
Even a non-political junkie with a penchant for Rose and wings has that much sense.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Setting Sail on the Oregon Trail
Conclusion: apparently if I'm drinking Elizabeth Chambers wines, there are cookies involved.
The connection was set in stone last summer after missing the originally scheduled appointment and showing up with locally-baked cookies as a peace offering for tardiness.
As it turned out, baked good were hardly necessary given the laid back attitude of our Oregon come-here pourer, who gushed about mossy rooves, gray skies and a wine scene small enough to be groovy, unlike California, from whence she'd come.
And, of course, the micro-boutique wines had been fabulous, so my hand was in the air when I got an invitation to an Elizabeth Chambers wine dinner at Camden's. Pru and Beau, being devoted fans of the pinot noir grape, were my date.
Tucked into a table amidst cartons of grape juice from various winemaking regions, we happily held court, with both the wine rep and the winery rep stopping by periodically to school us on what had been poured, why it was significant and how it fit into the winery's repertoire.
Beginning the evening with Silvan Ridge 2014 Pinot Gris paired with watermelon and tomato salad with feta and micro-basil felt like a summery rebuke to the damp, gray skies outside, so sunny was the salad and wine combo.
And, really, it only takes one glass of Pinot Gris to get a party started when I'm seated with these two. After a spirited discussion, Beau leaned over to Pru, smiling, saying, "Did I hear you say I was right?'
Without so much as missing a beat, Pru came back with, "You'll never get it in writing!" True as that might be, I've no doubt that just the satisfaction and memory of her words will live on in perpetuity for him.
It was while we sipped Silvan Ridge 2013 Pinot Noir that our wine rep explained the 1979 medallion on the bottle's label, touting the winery as one of the oldest in Oregon. When he spoke of earnest young people moving to the area in the late '70s to work the soil and eventually grow grapes, I felt the vibe.
So these were hippie types who moved up from California looking for fresh, cheap dirt, eh? The wine rep laughed and said I'd nailed it, mentioning that in the early years, the hippies focused on growing, with no clear sense of what.
"Then they'd take a bottle of their finished product to the nearest agriculture school and ask for an analysis. They'd say, tell me what we've got because they had no idea. For them, it was all about the dirt and the growing." Yea, yea, they probably had terrariums, too, and plants growing in the back of their VW Bugs, just like I did.
Far out, man, that's an interesting way to launch a state's wine industry.
We enjoyed the light red wine with grilled asparagus wrapped in housemade ham over local greens and goat cheese creme fraiche, a dish that got high marks all around and a gold star for the ham.
But the wine that Pru and Beau were instantly enamored with was Elizabeth Chambers Cellars 2013 Winemaker's Cuvee, a Wine Enthusiast 93-point selection with notes of French oak and a lingering finish.
"We want this one, don't we?" Pru asked of Beau after she'd finished her first sip. While Beau is known to be among the most agreeable people on the planet, his heartfelt agreement seemed to come more from an appreciation of the elegant and complex Pinot Noir than a slavish desire to please the little woman.
It was served with pan-roasted Pacific salmon over beet carpaccio with poached Black Mission figs, which inevitably led to a fig discussion given the passion Pru and I carry for figs of any stripe. The recent planting of a fig tree at her Church Hill manse has not yet produced fruit, but we continue to be hopeful given her great success raising figs when she lived on Mulberry Street.
Segueing from fruit to body parts, Pru explained the weenus to us, pulling on hers and sharing that a person's age could be determined by their weenus. Is it dark or red, dry-skinned or pliant, or, god forbid, nothing more than an unappealing stop for a pair of lips kissing up a woman's arm?
You make the call.
Like a pair of prize fighters slugging it out, in the fourth round Elizabeth Chambers 2012 Temperance Hill vineyard Pinot Noir took on roasted Hudson Valley duck breast with fingerling potatoes and mixed roasted olives, the fat and saltiness standing up to the sturdy, tannic and expensive ($52 a bottle) wine for a most-evenly matched round.
One wouldn't be half as good without the other.
Because Beau was wearing a black t-shirt under a cream-colored button down, Pru called him on it, leading to a discussion of one of the silliest fashion accessories we could think of: dickies.
I'm not gonna lie, I had a couple in middle school, but I can't recall that they lasted much later than when the hippies started growing grapes in Oregon.
"When are the dickies coming back?" Pru mused to no real answers.
Just when we thought dinner was finished, dark chocolate cookies with sea salt arrived and my night was complete with the sweet being the final punctuation to a long, savory sentence. I, alone, had two.
By then, the room was noisy with wine-lubricated conversations, including ours which ranged from '70s decor - green and silver bamboo wallpaper, mirrored walls with distinctive gold filigree designs on the mirror tiles - to misheard conversations.
Referencing her favorite hippie chick's new-found passion for weed brownies and holding up her own chocolate cookie, Pru observed the contrast, noting, "There's no pot in here" and took a bite.
Beau, whose years in the Navy ensure that he only hears half of our conversations and who'd conveniently forgotten his ear trumpet, replied, "Yes, it is warm."
Say goodnight, wine lovers. It's already Wednesday.
The connection was set in stone last summer after missing the originally scheduled appointment and showing up with locally-baked cookies as a peace offering for tardiness.
As it turned out, baked good were hardly necessary given the laid back attitude of our Oregon come-here pourer, who gushed about mossy rooves, gray skies and a wine scene small enough to be groovy, unlike California, from whence she'd come.
And, of course, the micro-boutique wines had been fabulous, so my hand was in the air when I got an invitation to an Elizabeth Chambers wine dinner at Camden's. Pru and Beau, being devoted fans of the pinot noir grape, were my date.
Tucked into a table amidst cartons of grape juice from various winemaking regions, we happily held court, with both the wine rep and the winery rep stopping by periodically to school us on what had been poured, why it was significant and how it fit into the winery's repertoire.
Beginning the evening with Silvan Ridge 2014 Pinot Gris paired with watermelon and tomato salad with feta and micro-basil felt like a summery rebuke to the damp, gray skies outside, so sunny was the salad and wine combo.
And, really, it only takes one glass of Pinot Gris to get a party started when I'm seated with these two. After a spirited discussion, Beau leaned over to Pru, smiling, saying, "Did I hear you say I was right?'
Without so much as missing a beat, Pru came back with, "You'll never get it in writing!" True as that might be, I've no doubt that just the satisfaction and memory of her words will live on in perpetuity for him.
It was while we sipped Silvan Ridge 2013 Pinot Noir that our wine rep explained the 1979 medallion on the bottle's label, touting the winery as one of the oldest in Oregon. When he spoke of earnest young people moving to the area in the late '70s to work the soil and eventually grow grapes, I felt the vibe.
So these were hippie types who moved up from California looking for fresh, cheap dirt, eh? The wine rep laughed and said I'd nailed it, mentioning that in the early years, the hippies focused on growing, with no clear sense of what.
"Then they'd take a bottle of their finished product to the nearest agriculture school and ask for an analysis. They'd say, tell me what we've got because they had no idea. For them, it was all about the dirt and the growing." Yea, yea, they probably had terrariums, too, and plants growing in the back of their VW Bugs, just like I did.
Far out, man, that's an interesting way to launch a state's wine industry.
We enjoyed the light red wine with grilled asparagus wrapped in housemade ham over local greens and goat cheese creme fraiche, a dish that got high marks all around and a gold star for the ham.
But the wine that Pru and Beau were instantly enamored with was Elizabeth Chambers Cellars 2013 Winemaker's Cuvee, a Wine Enthusiast 93-point selection with notes of French oak and a lingering finish.
"We want this one, don't we?" Pru asked of Beau after she'd finished her first sip. While Beau is known to be among the most agreeable people on the planet, his heartfelt agreement seemed to come more from an appreciation of the elegant and complex Pinot Noir than a slavish desire to please the little woman.
It was served with pan-roasted Pacific salmon over beet carpaccio with poached Black Mission figs, which inevitably led to a fig discussion given the passion Pru and I carry for figs of any stripe. The recent planting of a fig tree at her Church Hill manse has not yet produced fruit, but we continue to be hopeful given her great success raising figs when she lived on Mulberry Street.
Segueing from fruit to body parts, Pru explained the weenus to us, pulling on hers and sharing that a person's age could be determined by their weenus. Is it dark or red, dry-skinned or pliant, or, god forbid, nothing more than an unappealing stop for a pair of lips kissing up a woman's arm?
You make the call.
Like a pair of prize fighters slugging it out, in the fourth round Elizabeth Chambers 2012 Temperance Hill vineyard Pinot Noir took on roasted Hudson Valley duck breast with fingerling potatoes and mixed roasted olives, the fat and saltiness standing up to the sturdy, tannic and expensive ($52 a bottle) wine for a most-evenly matched round.
One wouldn't be half as good without the other.
Because Beau was wearing a black t-shirt under a cream-colored button down, Pru called him on it, leading to a discussion of one of the silliest fashion accessories we could think of: dickies.
I'm not gonna lie, I had a couple in middle school, but I can't recall that they lasted much later than when the hippies started growing grapes in Oregon.
"When are the dickies coming back?" Pru mused to no real answers.
Just when we thought dinner was finished, dark chocolate cookies with sea salt arrived and my night was complete with the sweet being the final punctuation to a long, savory sentence. I, alone, had two.
By then, the room was noisy with wine-lubricated conversations, including ours which ranged from '70s decor - green and silver bamboo wallpaper, mirrored walls with distinctive gold filigree designs on the mirror tiles - to misheard conversations.
Referencing her favorite hippie chick's new-found passion for weed brownies and holding up her own chocolate cookie, Pru observed the contrast, noting, "There's no pot in here" and took a bite.
Beau, whose years in the Navy ensure that he only hears half of our conversations and who'd conveniently forgotten his ear trumpet, replied, "Yes, it is warm."
Say goodnight, wine lovers. It's already Wednesday.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Moaning and Needing
The young handsome friend put it best: "You had me at Loire."
Admitting that his top three wine regions are Loire, Rhone and Piemonte, he was one of six who said yes to joining me at Camden's for a Loire wine dinner with echoes of my summer vacation there just last month.
Man, a lot's happened since then.
Oysters Chenonceau - fried local oysters over corn cakes with housemade ham and sage aioli - kicked things off with Grenadiere Muuscadet 2014, but in my mind, I was back at Chenonceau looking out a castle window to see a stand-up paddleboarder working his way down the river toward me.
I was happy to hear Holmes let slip that while combing the stacks of his vinyl collection recently, "Valley of the Dolls" fell out of the stack. That's the kind of unexpected treasure he doesn't want us to know he has, but will no doubt launch our next record-listening party.
The prize for the freshest-tasting course went to Cherrier Menetou Salon paired with house-cured (not smoked) salmon with a killer gremolata that made the wine and fish sing and Gruyere crisps.
For entertainment value between courses and knowing full well I'd shock the table, I shared my day spent deep in the bowels of the West End at Bugstock, leading to a discussion of how un-developed the East End is despite its proximity to downtown.
Holmes knew why. "I tried living in Varina and there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing," he informed us, although that was 1974, so surely it was even less desirable then. Still, I gave him points for trying to be a pioneer.
The next wine - Pierne Prieur Sancerre Rose - was deemed the holy grail, partially because two of my female friends had never had a Sancerre Rose (Beloved was actually moaning while the Lovely One summed it up with, "I need more Roses like this").
Don't we all?
We lapped it up happily with a charcuterie plate heavy with housemade country pate, local prosciutto, housemade pastrami and pork confit, leading to spirited conversation about mustard's place at the pinnacle of the condiment pyramid. I even overheard whispering about a mustard museum.
The chef instructed our table sotto voice not to eat all our food with the Rose because we were being treated to a bonus secret wine he had received in error from a trip to Chateau de Miniere.
Bulles de Miniere Rouge was a gloriously fruity dry, dark red sparkling wine that immediately enraptured the handsome one, especially with the confit, and turned off Pru who generally loves anything French. Go figure.
Vacations were a big topic between courses, so we heard about an upcoming Las Vegas adventure (Penn & Teller and rock climbing), a Northern Neck getaway to replace one abruptly canceled (two meals already planned) and the trip that had me pea green with envy (not that I wouldn't have loved either of the others as well): four weeks in South Africa over the winter holidays.
Sigh.
Plates of roasted lamb lollipops atop fingerling sweet potatoes (a new obsession for me) with a salty tapenade to complete the sweet/salty dynamic accompanied by St. Nicolas de Bourgueil l'Elegante 2012 and my plate was notable because I had an extra pop to make up for being inadvertently shorted on the charcuterie.
And, really, can a girl ever have too many lamb lollipops?
The wine, made with 25-year old vines, got us reminiscing about how when Beau had joined our group, he'd been a California Cabernet Sauvignon kind of a drinker. "But I learned the error of my ways," he admitted bravely, but with a grin.
Holmes shocked everyone by pulling out his pocket antique collection, namely his flip phone, and sharing that it was a hand-me-down. "Why would anyone give you that phone?" Pru wanted to know, but some questions have no answers.
Others, such as, "Are you buying the Sancerre Rose?" were immediately answered with, "A lot!"
The final course - very French - was a cheese plate with herbed chevre, French 60% cream Brie, housemade farmer's cheese and the ideal sweet note, a housemade almond cookie, With those delights we sipped Domaine du Clos de L'Epinay Sparkling Vouvray, reminding me of several meals that began with these stellar Loire bubbles.
"Brie with wine and figs doesn't suck," the handsome one noted in the evening's funniest understatement.
As usual, some of the best lines of the night came courtesy of Holmes late in thewine drinking meal, as in, "Was Funky Joe ever even in a closet?" I'd like to say I recall the answer, but it may have been swallowed up by the table's laughter.
Which is exactly why I usually have my friends at "wine dinner." Loire was just icing on the cake.
Admitting that his top three wine regions are Loire, Rhone and Piemonte, he was one of six who said yes to joining me at Camden's for a Loire wine dinner with echoes of my summer vacation there just last month.
Man, a lot's happened since then.
Oysters Chenonceau - fried local oysters over corn cakes with housemade ham and sage aioli - kicked things off with Grenadiere Muuscadet 2014, but in my mind, I was back at Chenonceau looking out a castle window to see a stand-up paddleboarder working his way down the river toward me.
I was happy to hear Holmes let slip that while combing the stacks of his vinyl collection recently, "Valley of the Dolls" fell out of the stack. That's the kind of unexpected treasure he doesn't want us to know he has, but will no doubt launch our next record-listening party.
The prize for the freshest-tasting course went to Cherrier Menetou Salon paired with house-cured (not smoked) salmon with a killer gremolata that made the wine and fish sing and Gruyere crisps.
For entertainment value between courses and knowing full well I'd shock the table, I shared my day spent deep in the bowels of the West End at Bugstock, leading to a discussion of how un-developed the East End is despite its proximity to downtown.
Holmes knew why. "I tried living in Varina and there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing," he informed us, although that was 1974, so surely it was even less desirable then. Still, I gave him points for trying to be a pioneer.
The next wine - Pierne Prieur Sancerre Rose - was deemed the holy grail, partially because two of my female friends had never had a Sancerre Rose (Beloved was actually moaning while the Lovely One summed it up with, "I need more Roses like this").
Don't we all?
We lapped it up happily with a charcuterie plate heavy with housemade country pate, local prosciutto, housemade pastrami and pork confit, leading to spirited conversation about mustard's place at the pinnacle of the condiment pyramid. I even overheard whispering about a mustard museum.
The chef instructed our table sotto voice not to eat all our food with the Rose because we were being treated to a bonus secret wine he had received in error from a trip to Chateau de Miniere.
Bulles de Miniere Rouge was a gloriously fruity dry, dark red sparkling wine that immediately enraptured the handsome one, especially with the confit, and turned off Pru who generally loves anything French. Go figure.
Vacations were a big topic between courses, so we heard about an upcoming Las Vegas adventure (Penn & Teller and rock climbing), a Northern Neck getaway to replace one abruptly canceled (two meals already planned) and the trip that had me pea green with envy (not that I wouldn't have loved either of the others as well): four weeks in South Africa over the winter holidays.
Sigh.
Plates of roasted lamb lollipops atop fingerling sweet potatoes (a new obsession for me) with a salty tapenade to complete the sweet/salty dynamic accompanied by St. Nicolas de Bourgueil l'Elegante 2012 and my plate was notable because I had an extra pop to make up for being inadvertently shorted on the charcuterie.
And, really, can a girl ever have too many lamb lollipops?
The wine, made with 25-year old vines, got us reminiscing about how when Beau had joined our group, he'd been a California Cabernet Sauvignon kind of a drinker. "But I learned the error of my ways," he admitted bravely, but with a grin.
Holmes shocked everyone by pulling out his pocket antique collection, namely his flip phone, and sharing that it was a hand-me-down. "Why would anyone give you that phone?" Pru wanted to know, but some questions have no answers.
Others, such as, "Are you buying the Sancerre Rose?" were immediately answered with, "A lot!"
The final course - very French - was a cheese plate with herbed chevre, French 60% cream Brie, housemade farmer's cheese and the ideal sweet note, a housemade almond cookie, With those delights we sipped Domaine du Clos de L'Epinay Sparkling Vouvray, reminding me of several meals that began with these stellar Loire bubbles.
"Brie with wine and figs doesn't suck," the handsome one noted in the evening's funniest understatement.
As usual, some of the best lines of the night came courtesy of Holmes late in the
Which is exactly why I usually have my friends at "wine dinner." Loire was just icing on the cake.
Monday, March 14, 2016
No Angora Underwear Ever
You go to a wine pairing dinner to learn about new wines, sure, but if you play your cards right, you pick up so much more.
The key is inviting the right crowd to fill out your table and the half dozen friends who joined me for an Italian dinner at Camden's more than qualified, from the humorist wearing a PETA - as in "People Eating Tasty Animals" - t-shirt, to the techie expert on call all night in case of an IT emergency ("I forgot how to Snapchat!"), to the guy who met a first date at Millie's only to discover she smelled like a grandmother (i.e., mothballs and lavender) and talked about her cats all evening.
A perfectly cast evening, in other words.
Early on, a stylish friend right down to her coordinating jewelry looked at me and suggested I remove my blazer to reveal my dress, amending, "Or is part of your ensemble?" Rarely has my attire been so flattered. I could only aspire to ensemble.
Jim Hutton of Vias Imports, a fount of information, was our genial host and took top ensemble honors doing it in his snazzy blue checked blazer, starting us off with Castelvero Cortese, an easy-drinking sipper we slurped happily with chicken liver mousse slathered on toasted bread adorned with red onion and arugula.
The upshot? A fabulous beginning all but guaranteeing that everyone had stinky breath from the get-go.
Naturally given the setting and this crowd, the topic of overindulging came up.
"If I slept with my clothes on, I was probably drunk," Young Blood shares, remembering her first date with her favorite man, a master of the cocktail. Pru recalls waking up with pajamas on and earrings off and no memory of either happening.
Holmes, ever the expert on such things, adds, "You did it yourself. No guy would bother taking off the earrings."
You can't argue with that kind of male logic.
Things started to get rowdy when the Stefanini Selse Soave was poured, as everyone at the table agreed that it was the kind of warm weather sipper that could keep a woman happy all summer. With it, we noshed on marinated white anchovy and roasted red pepper salad, although not everyone was the fan of tiny fish that some of us were.
Appropriately given Saturday night's time change, the subject of variations in sunsets/sunrises in different locales was discussed - how Nova Scotia would prefer not to be on EST given their location, how much later West Coast sunsets are than here and how difficult it would be to deal with Scandanavia's extensive darkness.
Amazingly (or not given the high octane evening) we had enough experts at the table to confirm that Iceland has the highest alcoholism rate and the highest reading rate (no surprise, either one), but somehow got off on a tangent about Icelandic angora sweaters.
"You can never wear Icelandic angora underwear ever," Pru shared with all the authority of Joan Crawford on the subject of wire hangers. "Your parts will be on fire."
Word to the wise there.
Next arrived the ideal Springtime red wine, Fuedo Santa Tresa Cerasuolo di Vittoria, a blend of Nero d'Avola and Frappato that was made for the seared sea scallops swimming in a tomato and olive ragout, a sop-worthy dish of the highest order, especially given the chef's terrific focaccia.
Before each course, Jim gave us the savvy lowdown on the upcoming wine, rife with location and terroir details, grape history and winery specifics, but the moment he finished, it was always Holmes who chimed in with his favorite stat, using his best commercial announcer voice. "And, it's 13.5% alcohol!"
Seared duck breast with toothsome lentils, bitter greens and blackberry jus paired magnificently with Pecchino San Luigi Dogliani and the retelling of the worst first date ever.
Seems her date was so drunk she wound up having to pay for dinner and drive him home, where she discovered he still lived with his Dad, who opened the door. Said date proceeded to give her a consolation prize of a Glamour Shot of himself just as his girlfriend pulls up.
But, wait, here's the kicker: Dad invites her in for a drink with him. We were awestruck. None of us could top this story and we all had far more years of bad dating experience to pull from.
Officially, the meal concluded with Tenuta Pederzana Gibe Lambrusco, because what great Italian party doesn't end with red bubbles?
It was a huge hit with my group as we tucked into cannolis stuffed with chocolate mousse and a puddle of berry compote and bantered about renting a beach house ("You don't have to wear pajamas if you share a bed with me," one friend promised mischievously ) with this crew for the ultimate party week.
We shared more dating horror stories - "I didn't date for three years, then I tried a year of art, yoga and dating. The art went well..." - and far too many bubbles, the time change decidedly working in our favor because none of us were feeling the actual time, despite the reality of early mornings facing us all. Yes, even me.
But, alas, eventually we set glasses aside and our Italian party began breaking up.
And while I can't speak for the other six miscreants, I, for one, did not sleep in my ensemble.
The key is inviting the right crowd to fill out your table and the half dozen friends who joined me for an Italian dinner at Camden's more than qualified, from the humorist wearing a PETA - as in "People Eating Tasty Animals" - t-shirt, to the techie expert on call all night in case of an IT emergency ("I forgot how to Snapchat!"), to the guy who met a first date at Millie's only to discover she smelled like a grandmother (i.e., mothballs and lavender) and talked about her cats all evening.
A perfectly cast evening, in other words.
Early on, a stylish friend right down to her coordinating jewelry looked at me and suggested I remove my blazer to reveal my dress, amending, "Or is part of your ensemble?" Rarely has my attire been so flattered. I could only aspire to ensemble.
Jim Hutton of Vias Imports, a fount of information, was our genial host and took top ensemble honors doing it in his snazzy blue checked blazer, starting us off with Castelvero Cortese, an easy-drinking sipper we slurped happily with chicken liver mousse slathered on toasted bread adorned with red onion and arugula.
The upshot? A fabulous beginning all but guaranteeing that everyone had stinky breath from the get-go.
Naturally given the setting and this crowd, the topic of overindulging came up.
"If I slept with my clothes on, I was probably drunk," Young Blood shares, remembering her first date with her favorite man, a master of the cocktail. Pru recalls waking up with pajamas on and earrings off and no memory of either happening.
Holmes, ever the expert on such things, adds, "You did it yourself. No guy would bother taking off the earrings."
You can't argue with that kind of male logic.
Things started to get rowdy when the Stefanini Selse Soave was poured, as everyone at the table agreed that it was the kind of warm weather sipper that could keep a woman happy all summer. With it, we noshed on marinated white anchovy and roasted red pepper salad, although not everyone was the fan of tiny fish that some of us were.
Appropriately given Saturday night's time change, the subject of variations in sunsets/sunrises in different locales was discussed - how Nova Scotia would prefer not to be on EST given their location, how much later West Coast sunsets are than here and how difficult it would be to deal with Scandanavia's extensive darkness.
Amazingly (or not given the high octane evening) we had enough experts at the table to confirm that Iceland has the highest alcoholism rate and the highest reading rate (no surprise, either one), but somehow got off on a tangent about Icelandic angora sweaters.
"You can never wear Icelandic angora underwear ever," Pru shared with all the authority of Joan Crawford on the subject of wire hangers. "Your parts will be on fire."
Word to the wise there.
Next arrived the ideal Springtime red wine, Fuedo Santa Tresa Cerasuolo di Vittoria, a blend of Nero d'Avola and Frappato that was made for the seared sea scallops swimming in a tomato and olive ragout, a sop-worthy dish of the highest order, especially given the chef's terrific focaccia.
Before each course, Jim gave us the savvy lowdown on the upcoming wine, rife with location and terroir details, grape history and winery specifics, but the moment he finished, it was always Holmes who chimed in with his favorite stat, using his best commercial announcer voice. "And, it's 13.5% alcohol!"
Seared duck breast with toothsome lentils, bitter greens and blackberry jus paired magnificently with Pecchino San Luigi Dogliani and the retelling of the worst first date ever.
Seems her date was so drunk she wound up having to pay for dinner and drive him home, where she discovered he still lived with his Dad, who opened the door. Said date proceeded to give her a consolation prize of a Glamour Shot of himself just as his girlfriend pulls up.
But, wait, here's the kicker: Dad invites her in for a drink with him. We were awestruck. None of us could top this story and we all had far more years of bad dating experience to pull from.
Officially, the meal concluded with Tenuta Pederzana Gibe Lambrusco, because what great Italian party doesn't end with red bubbles?
It was a huge hit with my group as we tucked into cannolis stuffed with chocolate mousse and a puddle of berry compote and bantered about renting a beach house ("You don't have to wear pajamas if you share a bed with me," one friend promised mischievously ) with this crew for the ultimate party week.
We shared more dating horror stories - "I didn't date for three years, then I tried a year of art, yoga and dating. The art went well..." - and far too many bubbles, the time change decidedly working in our favor because none of us were feeling the actual time, despite the reality of early mornings facing us all. Yes, even me.
But, alas, eventually we set glasses aside and our Italian party began breaking up.
And while I can't speak for the other six miscreants, I, for one, did not sleep in my ensemble.
Monday, February 15, 2016
All Eyes on Cool Beans
Valentine's Day in the rear view mirror (with apologies for my tardiness):
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
Monday, February 1, 2016
Three's Company
Bigger isn't always better.
Often when I'm going to a wine dinner, I assemble a party-sized group around me, a chance to catch up with friends and savor wine and food pairings over the course of an evening. Only problem is, there are so many conversations going on at once, that's it's easy to miss out on one on one interactions.
Tonight I kept it intimate.
It was just me and a favorite couple and it wound up being a most enjoyable wine dinner because of it.
He and I have been friends for six years, having met over his bar and forming a solid friendship in no time. She's the smart and personable girlfriend I helped him win (dating tips from one who's been there), not that he needed much assistance given his looks, talent and charm.
Our table a trois was situated in front of the "fireplace" at Camden's, putting us out of the fray but within earshot of the '80s British soundtrack: Bowie, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talk Talk. My youth, in other words.
Ancient Peaks Winery out of Paso Robles provided all the wines and I have to say, most were atypical Central Coast wines and that's a good thing.
Representing Ancient Peaks was Chris, a genial fellow who began by explaining why their wines were better than the average Central Coast bear, namely five distinct soil types, winds and an unusually cool growing environment.
The difference became obvious with the first wine, a Sauvignon Blanc that tasted more of tropical fruit and apple than the traditional grapefruit, and a fine pairing for brined shrimp salad with kiwi in cucumber. "I haven't tasted anything this fresh-tasting in a while," my friend commented, devouring his.
After being asked about how it was I began my writing career, I blathered so long I was still sipping my wine long after my companions' plates had been cleared and our server was making jokes at my expense.
Don't ask me to talk because I am a blabbermouth.
The elegant Zinfandel that accompanied Virginia's Mountain View Farms Marmac Cheddar (plus grapes, almonds, pear and crackers) was as unlike a typical California Zin as we could hope for and a genius pairing with the wine. I could have sipped that all evening long.
We took our time with this course, discussing back stories and tales of love while eating our way through the massive platter of food.
When Chris came over to talk about the wine, he made the point that Ancient Peaks was still doing Zin the way California had been doing it 40 years ago. "We're behind the times," he explained and our palates were the better for it.
Accidentally, the three of us got off on a deep discussion of home and home meals and what that meant to each of us while being poured Merlot and served California's favorite cut, tri-tip steak, along with braised chicory, horseradish cream and fried oysters.
The Merlot had fabulous structure, nice acidity, gorgeous mouthfeel and wasn't overly alcoholic, all in all everything balanced so perfectly it dispelled the myth of flaccid Merlot.
My male friend was happiest once a big bowl of pork stew with onions, potatoes and carrots arrived, as much because of the chunks of venison sausage and perfect farm egg as for Renegade, the big red blend of Syrah, Petit Verdot and Malbec that accompanied it.
Chris shared that the name had to do with the historic ranch where the winery is located and the notorious James Brothers who hid out there for a while between 1869 and 1872. It would have been a terrific wine anyway, but it got even better with a story behind it while that killer stew was the ultimate crowd-pleaser.
Needless to say, we weren't paying any attention to the other tables with all the lively conversation going on at ours, but that's exactly why tonight's smaller gathering was so satisfying. All three of us learned things about each other we'd never known before, but I'm willing to bet all of us learned stuff in general from the brilliance of others.
I'm happy to report that dark chocolate pate with a schmear of cranberry accompanied our last wine, a Cabernet Sauvignon with a blackberry nose, the grapes for which used to be sold directly to the house of Mondavi for their blending purposes.
Now that Paso Robles has been designated its own AVA, you'd better believe those grapes are staying where they're grown. They didn't stay long in our wine glasses, though, because of the appealing black cherry and cocoa notes. Yum, in other words.
We lingered, talking about hot dogs versus sausage, how it is that people no longer feel like they have to follow the rules and why I should have visited my friend in Denver while he was living there. They worked out their wine order while a woman at another table bought a piece of art off the wall. Strangers told us goodbye as they left.
Best of all, I got to be part of every conversation because it was just us three, which, when you're eating and drinking, is definitely not a crowd.
It's actually kind of civilized. And as our host had said, civilized folk belong in chairs, not bar stools.
Even when they're the last to leave. As usual.
Often when I'm going to a wine dinner, I assemble a party-sized group around me, a chance to catch up with friends and savor wine and food pairings over the course of an evening. Only problem is, there are so many conversations going on at once, that's it's easy to miss out on one on one interactions.
Tonight I kept it intimate.
It was just me and a favorite couple and it wound up being a most enjoyable wine dinner because of it.
He and I have been friends for six years, having met over his bar and forming a solid friendship in no time. She's the smart and personable girlfriend I helped him win (dating tips from one who's been there), not that he needed much assistance given his looks, talent and charm.
Our table a trois was situated in front of the "fireplace" at Camden's, putting us out of the fray but within earshot of the '80s British soundtrack: Bowie, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talk Talk. My youth, in other words.
Ancient Peaks Winery out of Paso Robles provided all the wines and I have to say, most were atypical Central Coast wines and that's a good thing.
Representing Ancient Peaks was Chris, a genial fellow who began by explaining why their wines were better than the average Central Coast bear, namely five distinct soil types, winds and an unusually cool growing environment.
The difference became obvious with the first wine, a Sauvignon Blanc that tasted more of tropical fruit and apple than the traditional grapefruit, and a fine pairing for brined shrimp salad with kiwi in cucumber. "I haven't tasted anything this fresh-tasting in a while," my friend commented, devouring his.
After being asked about how it was I began my writing career, I blathered so long I was still sipping my wine long after my companions' plates had been cleared and our server was making jokes at my expense.
Don't ask me to talk because I am a blabbermouth.
The elegant Zinfandel that accompanied Virginia's Mountain View Farms Marmac Cheddar (plus grapes, almonds, pear and crackers) was as unlike a typical California Zin as we could hope for and a genius pairing with the wine. I could have sipped that all evening long.
We took our time with this course, discussing back stories and tales of love while eating our way through the massive platter of food.
When Chris came over to talk about the wine, he made the point that Ancient Peaks was still doing Zin the way California had been doing it 40 years ago. "We're behind the times," he explained and our palates were the better for it.
Accidentally, the three of us got off on a deep discussion of home and home meals and what that meant to each of us while being poured Merlot and served California's favorite cut, tri-tip steak, along with braised chicory, horseradish cream and fried oysters.
The Merlot had fabulous structure, nice acidity, gorgeous mouthfeel and wasn't overly alcoholic, all in all everything balanced so perfectly it dispelled the myth of flaccid Merlot.
My male friend was happiest once a big bowl of pork stew with onions, potatoes and carrots arrived, as much because of the chunks of venison sausage and perfect farm egg as for Renegade, the big red blend of Syrah, Petit Verdot and Malbec that accompanied it.
Chris shared that the name had to do with the historic ranch where the winery is located and the notorious James Brothers who hid out there for a while between 1869 and 1872. It would have been a terrific wine anyway, but it got even better with a story behind it while that killer stew was the ultimate crowd-pleaser.
Needless to say, we weren't paying any attention to the other tables with all the lively conversation going on at ours, but that's exactly why tonight's smaller gathering was so satisfying. All three of us learned things about each other we'd never known before, but I'm willing to bet all of us learned stuff in general from the brilliance of others.
I'm happy to report that dark chocolate pate with a schmear of cranberry accompanied our last wine, a Cabernet Sauvignon with a blackberry nose, the grapes for which used to be sold directly to the house of Mondavi for their blending purposes.
Now that Paso Robles has been designated its own AVA, you'd better believe those grapes are staying where they're grown. They didn't stay long in our wine glasses, though, because of the appealing black cherry and cocoa notes. Yum, in other words.
We lingered, talking about hot dogs versus sausage, how it is that people no longer feel like they have to follow the rules and why I should have visited my friend in Denver while he was living there. They worked out their wine order while a woman at another table bought a piece of art off the wall. Strangers told us goodbye as they left.
Best of all, I got to be part of every conversation because it was just us three, which, when you're eating and drinking, is definitely not a crowd.
It's actually kind of civilized. And as our host had said, civilized folk belong in chairs, not bar stools.
Even when they're the last to leave. As usual.
Friday, November 27, 2015
My Dinner with Strangers
I credit a yellow Siegel's Ham apron and the Curtis Mayfield radio station with carrying me through Thanksgiving with soul and style.
For the 3rd annual Orphans' Thanksgiving, I volunteered as a server, lugging platters loaded with turkey and gravy, mashed and sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts and top-on carrots, cranberries and stuffing and so ridiculously heavy it felt like I was carrying a small child atop the platter.
There were the usual odd demands ("I can't eat lettuce, so can I have a spinach salad instead?"), adorable couples (two bottles of Avinyo Pettilant and a celebration of it being no family, just them) and a lecherous man trying to get his drink on as quickly as possible ("I'll have a Leffe Blonde beer and a glass of Cotes du Rhone right away") while throwing sexual innuendo my way (caught it, returned it and moved on).
I had a ball watching as a trio of girlfriends moved through their wining and dining right into a food coma, occasionally joining in their discussions of womanhood circa 2015 and subsequent laughter about almost everything.
Best of all, few people hurried through their turkey day feast. There was lingering, there was non-stop conversation and there was plenty of spirited imbibing. Unlike at Grandma's, no one had to watch their intake lest they say something that might set off a relative's ire, so it felt more like an extended dinner party.
By 7:00, the last few people were finally moving on to whatever it is people do on Thanksgiving night. Me, I finally had my gravy-laden feast accompanied by several wines and a piece of non-traditional chocolate pate pie slathered in fresh whipped cream.
Another Thanksgiving in the rear view mirror of life. Of course I'm thankful for my interesting little life. Do I desire more? Hell, yes.
For the 3rd annual Orphans' Thanksgiving, I volunteered as a server, lugging platters loaded with turkey and gravy, mashed and sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts and top-on carrots, cranberries and stuffing and so ridiculously heavy it felt like I was carrying a small child atop the platter.
There were the usual odd demands ("I can't eat lettuce, so can I have a spinach salad instead?"), adorable couples (two bottles of Avinyo Pettilant and a celebration of it being no family, just them) and a lecherous man trying to get his drink on as quickly as possible ("I'll have a Leffe Blonde beer and a glass of Cotes du Rhone right away") while throwing sexual innuendo my way (caught it, returned it and moved on).
I had a ball watching as a trio of girlfriends moved through their wining and dining right into a food coma, occasionally joining in their discussions of womanhood circa 2015 and subsequent laughter about almost everything.
Best of all, few people hurried through their turkey day feast. There was lingering, there was non-stop conversation and there was plenty of spirited imbibing. Unlike at Grandma's, no one had to watch their intake lest they say something that might set off a relative's ire, so it felt more like an extended dinner party.
By 7:00, the last few people were finally moving on to whatever it is people do on Thanksgiving night. Me, I finally had my gravy-laden feast accompanied by several wines and a piece of non-traditional chocolate pate pie slathered in fresh whipped cream.
Another Thanksgiving in the rear view mirror of life. Of course I'm thankful for my interesting little life. Do I desire more? Hell, yes.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Letting 'Em Down Easy
Today is National Start Your Own Country Day, which I neither did nor celebrated, but it's also the last day of Virginia Cider week, and that one I addressed.
Blue Bee Cider and Camden's Dogtown Market - which could arguably be considered a modest attempt at starting the chef's own little universe, if not country - were doing a pairing dinner to celebrate the seasonal apple harvest.
Seeing as how I was solo (and keeping my pours short to accommodate an early morning), I took my place at the end of the bar, next to a favorite beer geek and close to the cider queen, Courtney, to sip easy-drinking Winesap on Tap, poured out of growlers from the cidery next door.
Now there's a short distribution route.
That's when the music hit me. Bluegrass had been chosen as cider-appropriate and it was sounding more like a hoedown and less like eating music than anything I could think of short of death metal. I offered my opinion that although I enjoy bluegrass, the music was ill-suited for a five-course meal and was told that nothing suited cider better than banjo-picking.
"Don't we have too many teeth to listen to this kind of music?" the beer geek asked rhetorically. Yes. Yes, we do.
Winesap apple-roasted chicken salad "kotopoulopita" was introduced by the chef as, "kinda Greek-like, but not at all really," but the raves I heard were about how fabulous they were with phyllo dough encasing the savory chicken mixture.
One woman was so taken with the dish that she asked if it might show up on the regular menu sometime. Not a chance, she was told - turns out the chef hates dealing with phyllo. It was tasty while it lasted.
Beer Geek told me about his recent trips to Key West, Burlington, Vermont, Indiana and Appomattox, sharing photographs - yes, kids, actual hard copy pictures, not digital files - of his progress around the country.
Sharp cheddar and walnut fondue with housemade potato chips was described by the chef as, "Snack food, yea!" while I would call it flat out obscene and a lovely pairing with Charred Ordinary (and a language lesson for those who didn't understand that ordinary was the word for tavern in Colonial times). Tiny jam jars held the rich, nut-studded fondue, which had some people using their finger to get every last drop out of the jar.
A particularly fast, twangy piece came on and Beer Geek observed, "I feel like I'm robbing a bank!" about the silent movie-sounding soundtrack. So I wasn't the only one objecting to the frenetic pace of bluegrass while eating.
In simplistic terms, the next course was hops and hot dogs. I mean, technically, it was Hopsap Shandy (a hops-infused cider) with killer housemade bratwurst, pickled mustard seeds and housemade pretzel sticks. The satisfying explosion of the seeds when bitten provided the same pleasure as popping bubble wrap, but in my mouth, so not nearly as annoying to those around me.
A woman made the comment that Chef Andy had "spoiled her" for other restaurants because he makes so much of his food in house, pointing to this course as a perfect example of that. She'd recently been in Washington and been appalled at what she had to pay for lesser quality.
Another woman pointed out that she only moved to Richmond eight months ago and already feels like she spends all her time eating out because it's the city-wide pastime. And her point was...?
Aragon, which Blue Bee's Courtney described as the ideal bridge between those who've only tasted "six-pack ciders" and the next level of liquid apple drinking, was paired with braised pork shoulder over spaetzel with "Smokey Jus."
I'm sorry, but when I see "Smokey Jus" on the menu, it looks like a name to me and I assume he's a far-flung cousin of Smokey Robinson or a regular at Smoeky Joe's Cafe, while the beer geek thought it sounded like a cowboy's name. Let's rustle up some grub, Smokey Jus.
Semantics aside, the dish was a bowl of winter comfort, long-cooked and deeply flavorful.
Coming around to offer more cider, my server raised an eyebrow when I declined. "You're letting me down, Karen," she announced. "Complaining about the music, not drinking much. Who are you?"
One of the couples at the dinner had the distinction of being there to celebrate both their birthdays today. They live on Floyd Avenue, my home for 13 years, and I went over to chat with them about the old 'hood. You see, today I'd driven down Floyd only to see that a roundabout is being installed at Dooley Avenue.
Floyd, I hardly know ye!
They inform me that another will go at Belmont and the speed limit will drop to 20 mph, all part of the Floyd Avenue bike route. This is all terrific news, but none of it helped me when I moved in back in '93."
Of course we discuss InLight, which was practically in their backyard this year.
"I loved how diverse it was, " the birthday girl said. "And everyone was smiling!" Further proof that my thesis - that InLight is the visual equivalent of the Folk Fest with wide appeal and a solid 8-year history - is a sound one, if I do say so myself.
Cupcakes tricked out with lighted birthday candles were delivered to the happy couple and the room gave them a round of applause, presumably for making it this far in life. Or maybe just to temporarily drown out the music.
Back in my seat, another rapid-fire bluegrass song plucked at my last nerve, with BG noting, "Okay, this song was used in "Bonnie and Clyde." So we were back to music to rob banks by, lord help us. A server hilariously began clogging behind the bar.
Firecracker, a dessert cider, was made with ginger-infused eau de vie and was our final pour. Courtney said she wanted a dominant ginger taste and got it, noting that she's had ginger-infused ciders that barely whispered their gingerness.
"It's an expensive ingredient," she said assertively. "I wanted my cider to taste like it." Mission accomplished. Paired with goat cheese mousse with sweet pickled Black Twig apples and graham cracker crumbles, the Firecracker was everything you expect a feisty ginger to be.
The kind of cider that says in its own liquid way, if you don't like me, move on, buster. Go start your own country, or maybe your own restaurant where you can make all the rules.
And for heaven's sake, turn off that damn bluegrass while people are eating.
Blue Bee Cider and Camden's Dogtown Market - which could arguably be considered a modest attempt at starting the chef's own little universe, if not country - were doing a pairing dinner to celebrate the seasonal apple harvest.
Seeing as how I was solo (and keeping my pours short to accommodate an early morning), I took my place at the end of the bar, next to a favorite beer geek and close to the cider queen, Courtney, to sip easy-drinking Winesap on Tap, poured out of growlers from the cidery next door.
Now there's a short distribution route.
That's when the music hit me. Bluegrass had been chosen as cider-appropriate and it was sounding more like a hoedown and less like eating music than anything I could think of short of death metal. I offered my opinion that although I enjoy bluegrass, the music was ill-suited for a five-course meal and was told that nothing suited cider better than banjo-picking.
"Don't we have too many teeth to listen to this kind of music?" the beer geek asked rhetorically. Yes. Yes, we do.
Winesap apple-roasted chicken salad "kotopoulopita" was introduced by the chef as, "kinda Greek-like, but not at all really," but the raves I heard were about how fabulous they were with phyllo dough encasing the savory chicken mixture.
One woman was so taken with the dish that she asked if it might show up on the regular menu sometime. Not a chance, she was told - turns out the chef hates dealing with phyllo. It was tasty while it lasted.
Beer Geek told me about his recent trips to Key West, Burlington, Vermont, Indiana and Appomattox, sharing photographs - yes, kids, actual hard copy pictures, not digital files - of his progress around the country.
Sharp cheddar and walnut fondue with housemade potato chips was described by the chef as, "Snack food, yea!" while I would call it flat out obscene and a lovely pairing with Charred Ordinary (and a language lesson for those who didn't understand that ordinary was the word for tavern in Colonial times). Tiny jam jars held the rich, nut-studded fondue, which had some people using their finger to get every last drop out of the jar.
A particularly fast, twangy piece came on and Beer Geek observed, "I feel like I'm robbing a bank!" about the silent movie-sounding soundtrack. So I wasn't the only one objecting to the frenetic pace of bluegrass while eating.
In simplistic terms, the next course was hops and hot dogs. I mean, technically, it was Hopsap Shandy (a hops-infused cider) with killer housemade bratwurst, pickled mustard seeds and housemade pretzel sticks. The satisfying explosion of the seeds when bitten provided the same pleasure as popping bubble wrap, but in my mouth, so not nearly as annoying to those around me.
A woman made the comment that Chef Andy had "spoiled her" for other restaurants because he makes so much of his food in house, pointing to this course as a perfect example of that. She'd recently been in Washington and been appalled at what she had to pay for lesser quality.
Another woman pointed out that she only moved to Richmond eight months ago and already feels like she spends all her time eating out because it's the city-wide pastime. And her point was...?
Aragon, which Blue Bee's Courtney described as the ideal bridge between those who've only tasted "six-pack ciders" and the next level of liquid apple drinking, was paired with braised pork shoulder over spaetzel with "Smokey Jus."
I'm sorry, but when I see "Smokey Jus" on the menu, it looks like a name to me and I assume he's a far-flung cousin of Smokey Robinson or a regular at Smoeky Joe's Cafe, while the beer geek thought it sounded like a cowboy's name. Let's rustle up some grub, Smokey Jus.
Semantics aside, the dish was a bowl of winter comfort, long-cooked and deeply flavorful.
Coming around to offer more cider, my server raised an eyebrow when I declined. "You're letting me down, Karen," she announced. "Complaining about the music, not drinking much. Who are you?"
One of the couples at the dinner had the distinction of being there to celebrate both their birthdays today. They live on Floyd Avenue, my home for 13 years, and I went over to chat with them about the old 'hood. You see, today I'd driven down Floyd only to see that a roundabout is being installed at Dooley Avenue.
Floyd, I hardly know ye!
They inform me that another will go at Belmont and the speed limit will drop to 20 mph, all part of the Floyd Avenue bike route. This is all terrific news, but none of it helped me when I moved in back in '93."
Of course we discuss InLight, which was practically in their backyard this year.
"I loved how diverse it was, " the birthday girl said. "And everyone was smiling!" Further proof that my thesis - that InLight is the visual equivalent of the Folk Fest with wide appeal and a solid 8-year history - is a sound one, if I do say so myself.
Cupcakes tricked out with lighted birthday candles were delivered to the happy couple and the room gave them a round of applause, presumably for making it this far in life. Or maybe just to temporarily drown out the music.
Back in my seat, another rapid-fire bluegrass song plucked at my last nerve, with BG noting, "Okay, this song was used in "Bonnie and Clyde." So we were back to music to rob banks by, lord help us. A server hilariously began clogging behind the bar.
Firecracker, a dessert cider, was made with ginger-infused eau de vie and was our final pour. Courtney said she wanted a dominant ginger taste and got it, noting that she's had ginger-infused ciders that barely whispered their gingerness.
"It's an expensive ingredient," she said assertively. "I wanted my cider to taste like it." Mission accomplished. Paired with goat cheese mousse with sweet pickled Black Twig apples and graham cracker crumbles, the Firecracker was everything you expect a feisty ginger to be.
The kind of cider that says in its own liquid way, if you don't like me, move on, buster. Go start your own country, or maybe your own restaurant where you can make all the rules.
And for heaven's sake, turn off that damn bluegrass while people are eating.
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