The Eggnog Chronicles

Where does a heathen even begin to find comfort and joy this time of year?

Eating and drinking, of course.

I'm not going to pretend that my many deadlines haven't made this holiday season a tad more frenetic than usual, but once the holiday known as Official U.S. Work Stoppage Days begins - as it did Monday for me and probably the previous Thursday or Friday for many people - I took full advantage.

Slept in. No writing allowed. Read Sunday's paper with Mr. Wright while regretting not having pre-ordered Nate's bagels for Christmas Eve afternoon munching. Only after a walk over there left me staring at a "SOLD OUT!!! Happy holidays!" sign did I begin regretting my lack of foresight.

But the real celebrating began with a 3:00 reservation at Can Can that carried us right through until it was time to get in line at the Byrd Theater for my annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life."

And just for the record, in the quarter century I've been going to watch Jimmy Stewart regain his hope, this year was the very first time I only had to wait in one line. The master planner in my life had procured online tickets (granted, they weren't always available), allowing us to go directly to the "have tickets" line, bypassing the even longer box office line and resulting in far less shivering on Cary Street waiting time for me.

In what could only be called a Christmas Coincidence, upon arrival at Can Can the hostess led us directly to the same discreet table where we'd had our first date. Later in the meal, our server referred to the table by saying, "If you don't want to rush, this is the table for you," a fact we'd discerned on that marathon first date.

There couldn't be enough La Galope Rose to celebrate such an unlikely happenstance, though we enjoyed ourselves hugely trying, pairing it with butternut squash soup with maple creme fraiche - a marriage made in heaven, by the way - bacon and chives. A baguette as long as my forearm loaded with smoked salmon, Boursin, capers, spinach and red onion, along with a generous plate of dressed greens kept me happy while Mr. Wright tucked into Thai shrimp salad and we marveled at our holiday luck.

After two hours eating and sipping, our affable server (who was working  a 15-hour shift at the Jefferson on Christmas day) explained that we'd have to either move or leave because they had a six-top coming in. The Rose had made me bold enough to pipe up and tell him that we'd move, but we weren't leaving.

When Mr. Wright stated that we'd like to stay at that particular table, I clarified that we'd had our first date at that table.

"Oh, please stay," he said, putting one hand against his heart, grinning sweetly and scurrying off to set up the six-top to the right of us. He was still beaming at us when he returned to explain that he was getting off, but wishing us all the best.

With more La Galope awaiting us in the chilling bucket, I ordered the dessert special he'd recommended, an eggnog sorbet sprinkled with grated nutmeg and the most Christmasy dessert imaginable (sorry, buche de Noel).

Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who regretted that I'd only gotten one scoop instead of two.

Just as we finished the last of the Rose, our replacement server breezed by and we explained our predicament: we needed more pink to finish our celebration. He returned with half a bottle of La Galope and a smirk. "Another table ordered this and didn't finish it, so it's all yours."

Thanking him for the gratis wine, I shared why it made our return visit to this table even better. "Ohhh!" he said, also putting his hand over his heart.

We were unintentionally charming millennials left and right with our first date saga. It only occurred to us later that they probably thought we'd been together much longer than is actually the case.

Other than the online ticket masterstroke, the only other surprise at the Byrd was that organist Bob Gulledge was injured and out of action. Ever vigilant, manager Todd insisted we all join in for a collective get well video he shot, before substitute John DeMajo saved the day by playing the mighty Wurlitzer for the Byrd's annual Christmas singalong.

Although Todd had announced that all 1200 seats were occupied, I happen to know that the one in front of me and two beside me weren't, but still it was a near full house, meaning the balcony was opened. Turns out that's where Mac and her Mom landed, not that we knew that until after Jimmy Stewart had had his epiphany and she called my name as we exited the theater.

Start to finish, that was a Christmas eve.

Christmas day was almost as unambitious - minus the attempt at Nate's bagels and Frank Capra classic - but the real fun began when we got to Peter Chang's shortly after 4:00. The media had been clear that Chang's had been booked solid for both Eve and Day, but a phone call told us the real story: slide in between meals and you'll have no problem.

Done and done.

Can Mr. Wright and I take up residence on bar stools mid-afternoon and wile away Christmas Day with no regrets? Yes, we can.

With a Portuguese Rose stashed behind the bar, we proceeded to settle in for a leisurely meal with an ever-changing array of people on either side of us. While we nibbled on steamed vegetable dumplings (easily the most flavorful vegetable filling a dumpling has ever delivered to my mouth), we had two sets of stool mates, but by the time our entrees showed up, it was completely different people on either side.

My side even changed a third time. It's like people were stopping at a filling station, not out to savor a holiday meal.

Oddly enough, several of them wanted to order off the lunch menu, further complicating things for the bartenders, who had their hands full making libations for all the people stuck with family obligations and toddlers jumping on the banquette at their tables.

Midway through my Kung Pao chicken, mercifully downgraded from two pepper spicy to one pepper spicy after our thoughtful barkeep asked if I was really wanting it that hot (uh, no), I realized that our scallion bubble pancake hadn't yet arrived. You see, it's not just the sublime pleasure of having bread with Chinese food that I was missing, but the essential means of cooling my mouth when multiple bites of Kung Pao sauce left lingering heat there.

Our bartender looked abashed when I asked about it and returned from the kitchen assuring us it was in progress. Ten minutes later when I asked again, it was still nowhere to be found. The irony was that once it did, a second pancake arrived shortly after and I was foolhardy enough to send it away.

What did you learn this Christmas, Karen? Never pass up a chance to enjoy a bonus scallion bubble pancake when it arrives unbidden.

The only problem with Peter Chang's is that there are no dessert offerings, but the moment I overheard the bartender mention eggnog to the couple to Mr. Wright's left, my dessert radar went on high alert. When he got a second, we asked about it and his face got a devilish grin.

"Oh, it's good," he assured us, ticking off the whiskey, rum and liqueurs battling for dominance in a glass of cream and nutmeg, all in the name of holiday overindulgence. Mr. Wright immediately ordered two and Christmas got a little brighter in Scott's Addition.

It was around then that I spotted a curator/fellow music lover and his wife seated at a high table behind us and called out a greeting, leading to a quick catch-up session hindered by the hordes of wannabe diners lining the space behind the bar stools. Finally, he suggested I email him soon instead.

By then it was after 7 and every available inch of space in the restaurant was taken over by people foolish enough to show up at prime eating time at one of the mere ten restaurants open on Christmas Day. Not to sound Scrooge-like, but we had zero empathy for them.

As I sucked the final swallow of creamy eggnog up the straw, I commented to Mr. Wright what a sad sound it was to hear. As he quickly pointed out, that was an easily solved problem. No one looked more surprised than the barkeep when we asked for two more.

C'mon, everyone knows that one counts as dessert and one counts as an after-dinner drink. And on a day that mattered not one little bit to a heathen and one of the Chosen People, we were only too happy to extend our stay for the sake of more nog.

But we're also not animals, so after the second round, we decided to abdicate our stools to a latecomer who seemed willing to trade his right arm for a place to sit and eat. When we told him that we'd arrived at 4 to score the prime real estate we were now ceding to him, he realized he was in the presence of pros and thanked us appropriately.

There may be a more perfect way to observe the official U.S. Work Stoppage Days, but if it doesn't involve first date redux, an abundance of Rose and obscene amounts of eggnog, I don't see how it could have suited us better.

You don't have to ask us to please stay twice.

Cult of Personality

The day has nowhere to go but up when breakfast involves watching a stranger vomit.

For the record, the guy was a passenger in the back seat of a car stopped at a traffic light across from where my friend and I sat eating and looking out a big plate glass window. He opened the door, barfed and closed it, re-opened it, barfed again and closed it.

At that moment the guy in the front passenger seat locked eyes with me and I gave him the thumbs up. He cracked up and returned the gesture as the driver pulled away.

Must have been a helluva Sunday night is all I can say.

Tonight was all about fighting fascism, so a friend and I were among the 100 or so people who gathered at Babe's of Carytown for a reading sponsored by Chop Suey Books. It was a diverse crowd of anarchists, middle aged people, crazies ranting about the monument removal, millennials and more than a few people taking notes.

A good representation of Richmond, in other words.

In the spotlight was Mark Bray, author of "Antifa: The Anti-fascist Handbook," which came out shortly before the Charlottesville debacle, making him a hot commodity these days.

He read from the book, but the bulk of the evening was devoted to taking questions and although everyone played shy at first, eventually the questions came hard and fast and he shared what he'd learned from talking to 60 anti-fascists from 17 countries.

"Fascism is colonialism and imperialism come home to roost," he told the room and surely I wasn't the only person marveling at the astuteness of the statement.

He emphasized that the goal of antifa (and let's face it, almost everyone I know is anti-fascist) is simply preventing fascists (neo-nazis, white supremacists, KKK) from having a platform to spew their venom.

Come on, who's not on board with that?

But his greatest passion was discussing the history of fascism and anti-fascism because, well, he's a history professor at Dartmouth. But he was also part of the Occupy Wall Street protest, so he had plenty of street cred as well.

Plenty of the discussion centered around freedom of speech and whether it's a slippery slope to deny fascists a platform, but for crying out loud, we're talking about fascism here. Did we learn nothing watching Hitler, Mussolini and Franco take over after being given platforms?

What I thought was especially notable about tonight - besides the interior of Babe's with its disco ball, aquarium, paneled walls and Jell-o shots - was that over 100 people came out on a Monday evening for a book reading (unheard of and I would know since I'm usually one of 6 or 10 people at readings) about an unlikely subject like anti-fascism.

Richmond, just let me say that your coolness goes far beyond new restaurants and trendy breweries.

There were so many questions and such passionate discussion that it was close to 9 by the time we strolled down Cary Street and settled on the patio at Can Can for dinner. Lucky us, there was only one other couple out there enjoying the warm night air and they were just finishing up.

I don't know which impressed our server more, the choice of Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou or that I travel with my own metal straw. She took it for environmental savvy but I also pointed out that it keeps my lipstick off the glass and dishwashers appreciate that.

"You're so considerate!" she marveled. Too many restaurant friends not to at least try.

My crabcake was thick with lump crabmeat and the accompanying baby kale, arugula and mango salad provided a nice counterpoint to the crab's richness, while my companion's plat du jour - half a grilled chicken with obscene garlic mashed potatoes and toothsome haricots vert - was equally over the top for such simple components.

Nothing like a brasserie to overfeed us while we savored the breeze and watched the street theater of Carytown unfolding a few feet away.

And while we were bound to see a few obviously drunk people (one woman, leading her friend out of Can Can, slurring, "Did you have a good time? See? Monday's as good as Friday for having fun!") given that we were across the street from Weezie's, at no point did anyone pull up, open the car door and barf in front of us.

Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night...the way I see it, any one of them can be just as good as Friday night.

Considerate types know it just depends on what you're doing. And sometimes, who you're with.

Hi-Ho From the Starship Bridge

Gemini, pace yourself, as you have a lot to do. You might feel as if something is bothering you on a subconscious level, which could be driving you much more than you are aware. Your anger is close to the surface.

And when my anger is closest to the surface, I seek out friends who make me laugh. Tonight, that was Pru and Beau as we headed to the VMFA for the James River Film Fest's final screening of "Truffaut Hitchcock," the kind of film that causes film nerds (and, as it turns out, people of a certain age) to congregate.

I was necessarily being collected at an early hour because of my refusal to conform. When Beau and I conferred about tonight's longstanding plans, I insisted on a slightly earlier time because I needed to pick up my ticket at the member services desk before the documentary.

They, on the other hand, had printed their tickets at home. Not my style.

A ticket, a real ticket, is a souvenir of an experience. I have tickets going back to the '70s that remind me of shows and plays, but it's also the retro aspect that keeps me from printing out a ticket. Mainly, it's the fact that I don't want my entire life standardized and printed on 8 1/2 by 11" sheets of paper.

We'll just call it a quality of life issue.

Heading to the museum, we immediately dove head first into a discussion about the difficulties of living with someone after becoming accustomed to living alone. Pru was the first to admit that her eccentricities have been showing, while Beau politely reminded her that everyone involved was already well aware of them.

Mine continue to come to light the more often I invite friends to stop by.

"Truffaut Hitchcock" turned out to be a cinema buff's movie, a film about film-making, one that covered Hitch's emphasis on style, how he was responsible for the "auteur" philosophy - that a director controls the artistic statement - with his ability to "write" with the camera and how he believed that logic was dull.

Tell me about it.

In addition to Truffaut and Hitchcock's conversation, so many good directors testified: Richard Linklater, Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich and Paul Schrader, among others,expounded on subjects such as how perverted "Vertigo" is (very), how Hitch deliberately made movies that played to 2,000 people, not just one and how "Psycho" was the first movie clearly drawn from the real world, so all the more disturbing for it.

One particularly satisfying takeaway is that cinema is a visual art form firmly rooted in silent films, so the long takes and leisurely pans that today unnerve and bore millennials actually make sense when referencing earlier eras. As one of our hosts pointed out, today's films have a climax every two minutes.

I don't know about you, but I find that climaxing pace exhausting. At the very least, give me a refractory period before tossing out any more expectations.

The film left us absolutely certain of Hitch's genius, but also of Truffaut's recognition of that fact, despite his relative youth. Some men catch on more quickly than others, that's all I'm going to say.

From the museum we headed to Secco for a post-film supper among the West End types that Beau pegged as being in the wrong part of town ("She's got to get home to the Barbie Dream House," Pru quipped of a stylishly-cut blond in white shoes and pricey-looking togs) whom we ignored.

Instead, we savored a bottle of Cherrier Sancerre Rose and not even two weeks after the last time we'd had grilled asparagus with breaded fried egg, oops, Pru and I had it again. Twice. There was my smoked fish brushetta with creme fraiche (tasting like pure Sweden), a special of gnocchi with oxtail (decadent and homey simultaneously) and Beau's creative entree of fried lentil pakora with artichoke, mushroom and cashew ricotta (a master class for its marriage of flavors and contrasting textures), all of which returned to the kitchen licked clean.

Because Pru and Beau once lived across the hall from each other, they keep bringing up memories I couldn't even imagine.

"Remember back in the '80s when you and Robert used to have depressing parties?" Pru asked, recalling soirees where the men smoked pipes and mulled, the music was the "Blade Runner" soundtrack and Beau turned his living room into a starship bridge ("Of course you did," Pru sniffed), whatever that might be.

Pardon my optimism, but I can imagine nothing less appealing than heading to a depressing party, although fortunately, I hadn't been invited. Or maybe I would turn it into an upbeat party and ask for dancing instead of depression.

Our final stop was Can Can for dessert, although our mistake had been in forgetting that they had an absinthe drip or we'd have headed there directly. Despite the late hour, our barkeep happily delivered chocolate fudge pudding cakes and three absinthe drips: two made with Trinity and one old school style, made from Grand Absinthe.

My only complaint was that he didn't do the drips in front of us for the pleasure that affords.

Extolling the sublime marriage of absinthe and chocolate, he became the enabler who fueled our last few hours, including procuring a baguette for the happy couple. Inexplicably, the baguettes we'd seen lolling in a basket behind the bar earlier were tossed when the kitchen closed, despite customers who wanted to purchase them. Go figure.

Appreciating the need to pace myself, I shared my second absinthe drip with Pru as the bar began to empty out and I ignored a restaurant owner leering from a nearby stool as he sipped a glass of red wine. Had ours been a depressing party, I might have asked him to join us. I didn't.

I'm pacing myself so my eccentricities don't show any more than they have to. I've been warned I have a lot to do.

Color me ready to do it.

A Lunatic is a Minority of One

Fact #1: Watching "Nineteen Eight Four" would have been disturbing and difficult at any point in the 33 years since it came out.

Fact #2: Watching "Nineteen Eight Four" in a post-January 20th country was completely terrifying with far too many similarities to the shifting media landscape raining down alternative facts on us every day for the past 11+ weeks.

But since the Byrd Theater was showing it as part of a nationwide 90-theater movement to protest the idiot-in-chief and his proposed cuts to cultural programs like the National Endowment for the Arts and the Byrd had decided that it would be a benefit for our local NPR station, WCVE.

With a fellow screaming liberal in tow, we headed to Carytown (where he promptly locked his keys in his car, but that was a problem for later) to see a film he hadn't seen since 1984 and one I'd never seen, although both of us had read the book eons ago.

A character who rewrites history for mass consumption - instead of saying chocolate rations are being cut from 30% to 25%, he couches it as an increase from 20 to 25%, thereby ensuring the news will be received more happily - that's some scary stuff right there when you're talking about using that method on more significant issues than chocolate.

Tonight's screening was also a tribute to its star, the late John Hurt, but I didn't know until the film began that Richard Burton was in it, too. I'd call that a fine representation of major British acting talent right there.

Because I tend toward the squeamish, the torture scenes were mostly impossible for me to watch, but even hearing his agony without seeing it was still incredibly difficult.

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face forever.

And because I can't help myself, when he says "I love you" at the end, I chose to believe he meant the woman he'd been caught with and not the state that had brainwashed him. I have to think that way.

After a heavy reminder of the bleakness of what happens when a leader demands complete obedience, demonizes foreigners as enemies and makes up nonsense and calls them facts, we were subdued, starving and committed even further to the Resistance.

With just minutes to spare before the kitchen closed, Can Can took us in, fed and Loire-wined us - the bartender all the while providing his corny take on the restaurant business, alcoholism and the key role of dishwashers  - with a plat du jour of beef brisket, beer-cooked cabbage and rainbow carrots  for him and onion soup gratine and crispy Brussels sprouts for me.

When the organ-based server pointed at the ceiling and questioned the music I was enjoying, the bartender was on point, immediately dubbing it, "Booker T. and the MGs meets the Munsters" and noting a similarity to Booker T's "Green Onions," a soul classic.

By the time we finished, the staff was sweeping, wiping and putting away, a sure sign they wanted us to leave. All we asked was for a butter knife to aid in unlocking the car without a key and they were kind enough to oblige. I now know how easy popping a lock can be.

The good news is Big Brother obviously couldn't track me through my non-existent cell phone. That said, I'd be among the first charged if we had thought police and among the last willing to silence my opinions.

Choosing between freedom and happiness is not an option.

Nothing Lasts Forever

When they go low, we go high.

When our embarrassment of a leader using the first day of Black History Month to air grievances and mouth off about himself in lieu of thoughtful commentary about our country's racial history, or even current race relations starts the day, it's impossible not to cringe.

What kind of an egomaniacal twit begins a Black History Month speech with, "Well, the election it came out really well," and goes on to boast about future wins? And saying that abolitionist Frederick Douglass "did an amazing job" only confirms that he has no clue who the man was, much less what he did.

All a person can do is try to carry on with the best intentions.

So first that meant walking over to the Black History Museum for a preview of the new exhibit, "Murry DePillars: Double Vision," a retrospective of the work of a black man dedicated to both his art and education as Dean of VCU's School of the Arts for nearly 20 years.

Covering 43 years of work, I was immediately drawn to firebrand pieces such as 1968's "Aunt Jemima," showing the stereotypical figure in apron and headscarf bare-breasted and bursting out of the box of pancake mix, a spatula in her black-gloved hand. Responding to the events of the day, the background of the piece shows stars, but a closer look reveals that they're the stars on Chicago Police badges, referencing the raid on Black Panther headquarters there that year.

Or "Uncle Remus," with the titular subject emerging Samson-like from the book that bears his name, while the landscape of American culture - history textbooks, Native Americans - lies in ruins at his feet. Meanwhile, Brer Rabbit raises his gloved fist in solidarity.

Amazing, yes, but also not the kind of art you can look at and soon forget. And most definitely not the kind of art that would speak to the new administration.

Lunch involved meeting an old friend in a two-seater booth at Can Can for massive salads and even more enormous chocolate crepes filled with Nutella and Amaretto mousse while talking about the revisions he's just finished on his books and how the book covers now need to be updated as well.

Seems it's all about whatever sells.

Our most interesting conversation centered around relationships, which is interesting because in the 25 years we've been friends, I've never known him to be in one. Nevertheless, being a guy, he's an expert.

When he brought the subject up, it was with a plan (because he writes books about the best way to do things, so he's always thinking in terms of results) for how to ascertain compatibility after meeting a potential soulmate.

His plan? Once seriously attracted to someone, both parties need to write down three things they either must have or can't abide in a relationship and then swap lists to see whether they're issues the other is willing to compromise on.

His list? No high maintenance (he doesn't want to have to call someone every day), no jealous types (non-negotiable) and must be into eating somewhat healthily (this is clearly subjective since I know he doesn't eat breakfast and you know what they say about the most important meal of the day).

We bantered this subject around for so long that we began playing the what-if game. What if she's willing to take a text or email instead of a call, could he stand doing that daily? What if meeting a friend for lunch results in her giving him the silent treatment?

Compromise is all about concessions.

He's been telling me for ages that he wants to try walking with me - for so long it feels like a running gag - so once out on the sidewalk, he tells me to demonstrate the speed at which I typically walk so he can gauge whether or not he's ready to try.

Despite being in platform boots, I set off at my usual four miles per hour.

"Wow, that is kind of fast, but I'm willing to give it a shot," he tells me, although he's also a weather wimp, so I'll have to pick a temperate day. I also promise to give him a day's notice, but he wants at least two.

I'm starting to think it'll be a miracle if this outing ever takes place.

Back at my desk and busy at work, I am more than a tad surprised when an unexpected job offer comes in - not a writing job, but an editing job in one of my favorite places. It gives me pause, but I'd have to move. Am I up for that?

In the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Continuing the day's theme, I head to Cabell Library for a lecture entitled, "Is Shakespeare Beyond Race?" with GWU professor Ayanna Thompson talking about the history of race in Shakespeare and the state of diversity in it today.

The room is a diverse mix of students and the public, a fine showing for the first day of Black History Month and even a bit of a rebuke to the verbal diarrhea of our clueless leader.

Seems that 19th century black actors would don "whiteface" to perform roles such as Shylock, Macbeth and King Lear so that audiences wouldn't have to deal with seeing a black character in a classical play.

Some of the best photos and facts concerned the Federal Theater Project, part of FDR's Works Progress Administration, and its groundbreaking 1936 production of an all-black "Macbeth."

Man, how radical that must have seemed even during that socially radical time.

Thompson spoke at length about casting choices and how despite theater companies professing to use more diverse casts, the facts show a different story. Artistic directors are still afraid of alienating well-off, old, white theater audiences with too much diversity in casting.

"It's not necessary to cater to old white audiences anymore because they're not going to last forever," she said. She sited Oregon Shakespeare as an example because although their casting is about 50% people of color and 50% white, their audiences are 99% white.

What's wrong with this picture?

It was funny during the Q & A, every single person who was handed the mic began by thanking her for speaking today. "You guys are so southern polite!" she said sounding surprised.

You want southern polite, go to the Byrd Theater with a musician friend to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" like I did tonight, and you'll be taken back to the days of yes, ma'ams and yes, sirs and children who know they are supposed to speak to every adult they see in a respectful manner.

But besides polite, you'll also get a reminder of just how all-encompassing white privilege was in 1932 when the film was set, with liberal use of the n-word, a white mob looking for vigilante justice and a prosecutor's sheer incredulity that a black man could possibly feel sorry for a white woman.

You want to talk amazing, let's talk how relevant so much of the film's message still is.

Or, if you're my droll friend, you come out wondering if Jem really rolls Scout in that tire toward Boo Radley's house or if they used a stunt double, sketching out possible scenarios for my amusement. So much for deep cultural insight.

On the other hand, every day that begins with another presidential fiasco should end with this much laughter.

Painting the Town

I excel at being the extra woman.

When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.

Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.

Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.

This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.

I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.

Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.

Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.

When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.

So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.

Next time.

The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.

Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.

I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.

On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.

Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.

This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.

Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.

As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.

"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.

The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.

The East of my Youth, the West of My Future

An epic road trip called for an epic bon voyage lunch.

You know, "Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road," as Kerouac put it.

The honor of my presence was requested at Can Can at 2 p.m. by the friend doing the departing so we could have one last gabfest before she and her man took off for places unseen and adventures unimaginable as they cross the country to the West coast and back.

Unwilling to sit inside (for some unfathomable reason, the front windows were closed on this beautiful Spring day), we took a table on the patio next to the flower vendor and partially shaded by a large tree, where I heard about the minutiae of planning a trip of this kind, which involves, it seems, picnic backpacks, plastic bins for clothes and a 30-year old sleeping bag acquired by her man from redeemable points on Marlboro cigarette packs.

No less than Kerouac himself would have approved of the procurement method.

Taking Orson Welles' advice, "Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what's for lunch," we did, matching our choices to the warm day.

Both of us wound up choosing the plat du jour of seared scallops over a cucumber/avocado gazpacho with crisp seasonal veggies (beautiful radish slices as thin as a postcard) and paprika oil, an exquisite combination.

I got to hear about the itinerary, tickled to hear that the first stop was in Memphis so I could recommend a hotel right on the Mississippi where I'd stayed, then on to New Mexico next for the serious camping experience.

The funny part? My friend has never, well, actually camped.

Truth be told, I haven't either unless you count one night in the back of a VW Squareback when it was raining so hard my then-boyfriend took pity on me and set up camp in the way-back rather than subject a camping virgin to the hell of a soggy first time.

Smart man. He didn't last for other reasons, but that was his second most brilliant move in a three year relationship.

I give my girl high points for even agreeing to take this trip, although I wasn't surprised to hear that the original time frame of three months on the road has wisely been shortened to four weeks. Even so, she's a bit worried since she was more than ready to get home after only two weeks in France.

And that trip included Paris.

It's hard to say what my tolerance for such a trip might be, although the idea of fresh vistas, all-new experiences and endless conversation opportunities certainly appeal to me, even if the thought of campgrounds and sleeping bags don't.

Of course, they can always bag the trip at any point and set the GPS for Richmond, although it might be harder to do if only one person is having a miserable time.

Like Kerouac wrote, "The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view." There's only one way to get an "A" in that class and that's to strike out for places unknown.

Dessert was a given - the darkest of chocolate pot de cremes for me, profiteroles for her - as she ticked off the many tasks she still has to complete before their intended departure Thursday. She's already angling to move that to Friday so she can vacuum and change the bed linens before they go.

Just like a woman, always thinking ahead and, in this case, wanting to come home to a clean house. She's a better woman than I am for even thinking of such a thing.

After a couple of hours, we had to part ways because she had more trip errands to do and I needed to work. I expect my next contact from her will be a postcard showing fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.

Whether she makes it the entire trip sleeping in that ancient Marlboro sleeping bag or not, she will be the hero of her own epic adventure. She's got miles to go before I see her again.

But no matter, the road is life.

Skates and Unicorns

And people say I play my cards close to the vest.

To think that I could know someone for 20 years and just now find out he's not only a member of the Screen Actors' Guild, but that he was in a film with Harry Connick, Jr.? That he's been in multiple commercials? What?

The only reason it even came up was because I casually asked if he'd seen any good movies lately, at the theater or on Netflix. No, he tells me, he doesn't bother because he gets DVDs sent to his house by SAG. You know, so he can watch them and decide what to vote for.

Which, incidentally, he doesn't do. Watch or vote, that is. About all he does is pay his dues and occasionally act, it seems. But that's apparently a luxury people who bought Apple stock in 1994 have.

All this came to light over lunch at Can Can, not usually one of my first choices, except today's plat du jour was fried skate wing frite, so there was no place I'd rather have been.

I wasn't alone in that, either, since the food runner who dropped it off looked at it longingly and said, "I wish that was for me. It's amazingly good, but we only get a limited number and there's never any left by the time my shift is over."

The perfectly crispy golden exterior, the flaky white meat, the creamy butter sauce and the pile of fries the size of my head made for a pretty spectacular lunch, I have to say. Meanwhile, my friend had a Caesar salad with salmon (shoot me now) and regaled me with stories of the karate classes he's taking for the first time since college.

When he described a particularly gruesome kick to the shin that resulted in a knot the size of a baseball, I asked to see the collateral damage but he denied me a gander at the black and blue stage (I"d rather look at your legs"). Just wait till it gets to the green and yellow stage, my friend.

Not long after asking me to explain gluten and carbs - I continue to be astounded at how little basic nutritional knowledge some people have - he began telling me that he's found the easiest thing to give up in life is sweets. Conveniently, our server soon arrived with the dessert menu, explaining that the pastry chef was a CIA graduate who made everything in house.

"She's like the unicorn of Can Can," she said earnestly. "She comes in the middle of the night and then there are desserts in the morning, but people who've worked here for years have never actually seen her." When I cracked wise about the odd hours, she quipped, "Oh, it's definitely an alternative lifestyle."

Yea, and who among us doesn't have one of those?

Soon, two spoons arrived followed by three profiteroles stuffed with housemade ice cream and swimming in a bath of chocolate Chambord sauce with toffee topping. For somebody who finds it no big deal to eschew sweets, my companion's spoon worked its way down the plate almost to mine.

But then, living without sweets is an alternative lifestyle nobody really wants, or at least, nobody I want to have lunch with.

Girls on the Go

Here's to the ladies who lunch -
Everybody laugh
Lounging in their caftans
Planning a brunch -

Just two of us at Can Can, and definitely not wearing caftans. Can't say I've ever worn a caftan, although I have wondered if it's a distant cousin to the muu-muu.

We are laughing, too, because we find each other funny and it's been too long. But mostly we're gabbing non-stop with very little planning happening.

Off to the gym
Then to a fitting
Claiming they're fat 
And looking grim -

Neither of us goes to the gym, although she did mention recently taking her first exercise class on a bike while lifting weights, if that counts. And fittings? How very 1950s that sounds!

Lunch had more of a '70s feel to it. My lobster, leek and Pecorino quiche (because real women do eat it) loomed over lightly dressed mixed greens but we were both mainly into the cone of frites placed between us. Part of the privilege of age is that neither of us claims to be fat. That's a young woman's game.

And here's to the girls who play smart
Aren't they a gas?

Smart friends are the only kind of friends to have and this one definitely qualifies. Between us, we dissected the bike race, media blitzes for restaurants that never open and why some people insist on playing the popularity game Not for us.

A matinee, a Pinter play
Perhaps a piece of Mahler's -

Our entertainment was the brasserie theater of Can Can, chosen last week by my friend as our destination because, to her, it always seems sunny there, a quality that was highly desirable during that non-stop precipitation.

Older couples enjoying wine with lunch, young mothers with babies and their mother in tow, and what looked to be regulars at the bar buzzed around us. Walking in, I'd been greeted by a familiar face on his lunch break from his wine job. He was such a gentleman that he found me once he'd eaten to give me a kiss on the cheek goodbye.

And here's to the girls who play wife
Aren't they too much?

Sometimes, but not always. My friend is a wife but an interesting enough one not to need to clutch a copy of "Life" to stay in touch. She has Twitter and Facebook for that.

Another chance to disapprove
Another brilliant zinger
Another reason not to move
Another vodka stinger -

Disapprove? Not us. We decided jointly that we don't care enough to bother. We only need to approve of us and how we handle ourselves.

But disinterest, that's another story. We've got it to spare. A protracted discussion of Tinder leads to my friend announcing, "I only hope I never have to date again," effectively summing up the hopes of all single middle aged women.

And please let the record show, vodka was nowhere in evidence. Another cup of obscenely rich hot chocolate after my first? Even I couldn't manage that.

So here's to the girls on the go --
Everybody tries
Look into their eyes
And you'll see what they know
Everybody dies -

True enough, but there's so much to enjoy before getting to that. Three satisfying hours at Can Can dishing about everybody and everything, for one.

A toast to the invincible bunch
The dinosaurs surviving the crunch
Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch -

Let's do. We're a dying breed and the replacements seem lacking. Too bad there's not a Pinter play addressing that.

94 and Rising

We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave
The temperature's rising, it isn't surprising
She certainly can can-can

With a forecast of temperatures close to 100 degrees for Monday and Tuesday, I declined an invitation to the country. It was going to be too hot to head inland. Instead, I got up yesterday and started for the river.

A mile in and sweat was running down my back. Two miles in and all I could think about was a drink of water, but with cemeteries to my left and houses to my right, there was no water in sight.

I crossed my fingers that there would be a water fountain at Texas Beach, although I knew it was unlikely.

Walking through the neighborhood a different route, I came across all kinds of charming things to take my mind off my unrelenting thirst. A tidy white church tucked onto a corner, with rows of blooming roses surrounding it. A front yard garden labeled "potager" with a rainbow-colored gate behind it. A yard so full of kitsch that it was difficult to take in the hundreds of items that adorned every inch of space.

And when I got to the parking lot at Texas Beach, I was thrilled to see not one but three water fountains, one for adults, one for kids and one for dogs. Drinking greedily, I yielded the fountain to two overheated runners and headed to a bench to sit down.

On it was a large, unopened bottle of water, condensation indicating it was still somewhat cold water. I picked it up and put it back down. Looking around, I saw no one looking for their water. In that instant, it became mine.

Once hydrated, I walked down the stairs to Texas Beach to get in the river and was completely surprised to see ten Japanese rock pile statues dotting the water. I'd been down there just last Wednesday and noticed that all the pilings from last year were gone. Somebody had been busy in the past few days reconstructing them.

Let the summer begin.

Heading back up to the parking lot to start the hot walk home, I got behind two men on the staircase discussing the Koran and how "they" are just as afraid of us as we are of them. When they paused on a landing to get their breath, one guy waved me by. "I can see you're in tip top shape and we're not, so go ahead," said the one in the VCU shirt.

I don't know about all that, but I passed them anyway, refilled "my" water bottle at the fountain and slogged toward home, grateful that the water gods had looked out for me when I hadn't had the sense to bring my own.

Half a mile from home, I heard my name called and there was a friend offering me a brief home in air conditioned comfort. With over five miles of walking under my sweaty belt, I happily hopped in. Maybe my Mom's right and some days are just too hot to walk.

Awaiting me at home was an invitation to spend the day in air conditioned places of my choosing, an offer too good to refuse.

We began at Saison Market for a cold beverage before moving on to Criterion to see "Love and Mercy," the biopic about Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan, but I'm on record as loving a good true story and this one is hard to beat given its sordid elements: abusive father, controlling doctor, mental illness.

Probably most fascinating was the glimpse of Wilson's creative process as he tries to recreate the voices and sounds in his head into a record in the studio. Hearing those familiar songs broken down into the abstract components of his complicated vision was mesmerizing and all but a music lesson for the less musically savvy (read: me).

From there, we headed to the air conditioned comfort of Can Can for happy hour deals, enjoying three kinds of P.E.I. oysters (my favorite for the name alone: Salutation Cove) and a charcuterie plate with Morbier, pork pate and prosciutto-wrapped ripe cantaloupe, washed down with Muscadet.

In the bathroom, a woman was making a face at herself in the mirror, holding up a lock of hair. "Why did I spend half an hour straightening it if it's already curly again?" she asked me. Meanwhile my straight hair was losing what little body I'd forced in with a blow dryer to the heat, I pointed out.

"Your hair looks great," she claimed, but only a curly haired girl would say that. We all want what we don't have and my hair was suffering in the heat as much as hers.

From there, we braved the oven-like heat of Cary Street to walk down a few blocks to Chop Suey Books where the Music Circus was in full swing. I don't even know how many years now I've attended the annual tribute to John Cage, but at least since it was held at the old Chop Suey eight years ago.

Moving from room to room, looking at books along the way, I heard the Man About Town reading from his unfinished novel, saw a sax duo that included JC Kuhl upstairs near cookbooks and lingered to watch drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones playing percussion and song flutes. It was a far smaller Music Circus than any I'd seen before but just as cacophonous, which is exactly the point.

Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at Belmont Food Shop for appetizers of crab and avocado (one of my very favorite warm weather combos), lobster salad and, wait for it, lamb belly (obscenely delicious and one of my go-tos at Belmont).

As the crowd dwindled, the bartender got tired of the usual soundtrack ("I've been listening to it for two and a half years") and offered up his phone so I could choose some different music. Everyone knows I love playing DJ.

Hmm, so many options. I choose Strand of Oaks because I'd just seen them and Father John Misty because I'm currently infatuated with that album, eventually going with Ryan Adams because who doesn't like Ryan Adams? My date did and that's all I care about.

I couldn't leave without ordering silk pie, a crumb-encrusted dark chocolate mousse-like round that never disappoints, or a few minutes' conversation with the low key chef about his upcoming beach and fishing trip.

Sure, it would have been so easy to just go home at that point, but how could we when it was heavy metal Monday at GWARbar?

A DJ was set up just behind the stools we sat in and while I didn't recognize a single song as a series of appropriately dressed DJs took turns spinning, it's always great people watching there, whether it's poseurs or metalheads.

Not to mention that their air conditioning was working just fine and spending time in it had been our one and only goal of the day and night. We're simple people, although he was going home to sleep in air conditioned comfort while my overnight involved a ceiling fan and two auxiliary fans pointed directly at me. Bliss.

This morning, I considered routes for my walk, taking into account that it's supposed to be 99 degrees today, so desperately seeking some shade along the way.

Heading downtown, I was immediately struck by how few people were out and about. The Jehovah's Witnesses who usually set up shop near city hall were M.I.A. The lunchtime crowd appeared to have stayed inside. Even the guys who usually hang out in front of the barber shops were absent.

But a few brave souls were out. Walking down Marshall Street, from the apartment house stairs above me, I hear a man say, "There she is! There's summer!"

Looking up at him, I remark that it's not summer till next week. "It's summer today, darlin' and so are you!" he calls with a big smile. I have to assume he's referring to my wide-brimmed hat and limbs glistening with sunscreen.

"Nice sunblock!" a man with a backpack and tall walking stick calls to me from across the street, obviously not referring to my pink shorts.

We're having a heat wave, a tropical heatwave
The way that she moves, that thermometer proves
She certainly can can-can

Oh, and, for the record, under that hat that gets me so much complimentary attention, my hair most definitely does not look great. It's summer.

You Should Be Dancing

It turns out that I'm not up to the task of dancing in 5" platforms for five hours after all. But I tried.

Tonight was the Elby's, Richmond's annual awards blowout for the restaurant business. How could I miss that?

I haven't since its inception four years ago and with this year's theme, "disco," there was even less chance I wouldn't be there. Come on, the 70s? My era? I not only planned to attend in period-appropriate attire, but critique those who dared to show up in inappropriate togs.

For example: white boots, fitted dresses, sequins and anything that looked like it came straight out of the '80s. Let me assure you, I was there and I know if we were wearing it or not.

I arrived at the VMFA a few minutes early, walking in with a favorite sous chef and nabbing a Prosecco, lemon and bitters cocktail so I could lean against the ticket counter and judge everyone who arrived thereafter. It's not that I was being critical, just looking to authenticate what passed for '70s garb.

Before long, I had plenty of company: the professional eaters, the chef clad in tight pants and no shirt, the restaurant owner with a hot haircut and jumpsuit.

We all mingled until being ushered to the auditorium for the awards. Luckily for me, I found a seat near friends and settled in to see what politics had been in play to determine the winners.

New this year was an onstage band and a group of nubile dancers who launched the show with their gyrations before host Jason Tessauro proceeded to sing and dance, thus dazzling us all.

Sure, we knew he could saber a bottle of bubbly, but sing and dance in a silver lame suit? Impressive.

In his repertoire was a song set to "Copacabana" about Metzger and another set to "Bad Mama Jama" about Julia at Secco. Both were hilarious, as was a tune set to "I Will Survive" about making the drive to Lehja to eat while cheating on Lee Gregory.

I was pleased to see Acacia win as Richmond stalwart while Jackson Ward entry the Rogue Gentlemen won for best cocktail program. All hail the Ward.

When Acacia won for wine program, sommelier Thomas said that, "We all love wine," causing an audience and staff member to shout out, "Yea, we do!" Autumn Olive Farms won for purveyor of the year, thanking Manakintowne Growers for setting the bar high 29 years ago.

When Comfort's Travis Milton won innovator of the year, he took the stage in his usual jeans and plaid attire, saying, "How in the world did I beat Travis freaking Croxton?" Appalachia trumps oysters apparently.

From there, we followed the same dancers upstairs to the marble hall for the big party under the disco ball. I had no worries about my disco worthiness, having planned my ensemble based on a 1977 photo, even using jewelry and a purse from the era.

Maybe it was my '70s-appropriate outfit, but I think it's safe to say that never in my life have I been told a half dozen times how beautiful I looked. You know, it helps to have been around for the '70s the first time.

DJ Marty Key absolutely nailed the soundtrack while playing videos from the era on the marble walls, most of which I'd never seen before (pre-MTV and all that). Who knew they were making videos of those disco songs?

Friends had managed to nab a table, so I joined them with nibbles and Prosecco to discuss the award winners, many of which we thought bad choices. As far as we were concerned, politics should not play into selection.

It seemed to everyone that the party was more crowded than last year, although it may have been the way the room was laid out. I spotted a friend tending bar and we commiserated about the crowd not properly appreciating the music of the time like we did.

All we could do about it was dance, him on one side of the wine table and me on the other. Such a waste.

Making my way around the room, I ran into plenty of friends as well as several people I had met out and about who remembered me. Meanwhile, I picked up small plates from the students at Culinard, tasting through various dishes as I went.

But eventually, I gave into the disco ball, joining the crowd on the dance floor for all the classics of my youth: Chic, ABBA, Earth, Wind and Fire, Commodores. You know, that stuff holds up amazingly well on the dance floor.

All too soon, the lights came up and it was time to vacate the VMFA and head to the after party at Can Can, where DJ Marty had mysteriously transplanted himself. No videos there, but plenty of kick ass disco music - Michael Jackson, Bee Gees, Vicki Sue Robinson - that eventually got me dancing with an award winner, a wine pourer and a front of the house manager, not to mention untold strangers.

Yes, there was bumping going on.

One woman and I discoursed on Richmonders who are slow to dance even when the music is great because of whatever repressed Puritanical breeding they are saddled with. "Just get up there and move," she said of the reluctant as we grinded up against each other.

Over the course of several hours, I had deep chats with one restaurant owner, light conversation with a cheese monger and witty repartee with a butcher. Sometime around midnight, I took off my platform shoes to let my barking dogs relax.

"No, no, there's glass on the floor," a restaurant owner warned, wine bottle in hand. I was past caring. I wasn't going to stop dancing, so I'd have to take my chances with the floor.

As I did, two different people gave me a hard time because I wasn't wearing tights, something we eschewed in the disco era.

"I get the historical accuracy, but you always wear amazing tights," one nominee insisted. Not when simulating 1977, my dear.

In case you can't tell, I had a blast tonight. A camera crew came around and interviewed me (for who knows what) and when asked why I was there, I said simply for the music. To dance.

Sure, people were getting awards, but that doesn't affect me. I'm going to eat where I want to eat. I went for the music to dance. And as instructed back in the day, I didn't stop until I got enough.

Okay, I stopped when Marty stopped playing. Unfortunately, all good boogie wonderlands must end.

Only problem is, it'll be weeks before I get all the glitter out of my apartment. Small price to pay for so much fun.

Buoyant and Deep

Geminis just want to have fun.

My birthday may be officially over, but my friend's doesn't arrive until tomorrow, meaning today was celebration day for both of us.

When I picked her up at noon, I asked her husband when I needed to have her back. The last time I'd asked, he'd replied "sunrise." Much had happened since then, but I figured we had, at the very least, the shank of the afternoon to fete ourselves.

First stop: Amuse where we found seats at the bar in a dining room crowded with tables of people digging in and chatting. If you ever want to take the pulse of RVA's lunch scene, this is the place to do it.

Because it was a mutual birthday celebration, we began with Montand sparkling brut rose and a toast to our annual celebration, an afternoon of debauchery and discourse.

Our server, in the cutest black fringed skirt (which I may need to track down at H & M), assessed the situation and backed off since it was obvious we had lots to discuss before we could even look at the menu.

The stories! The pictures! The drunken videos! There was so much I needed to see and hear about.

First up was exchanging cards and gifts and while her gift to me blew me away (kicking and screaming into the 21st century), it is always words that mean the most to me.

You are still hands down the best conversationalist in the whole damn city.

So, yes, I would still marry her if she were a guy.

Eventually we got salads of local greens, candied pecans, radishes and fig vinaigrette, savoring how delicious and distinct the variety of lettuces were, tasting like Spring in every bite.

Why do some chefs drown their beautiful greens in dressing when the taste is so delightful on its own? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

Over white bean and sausage soup, mussels and sausage in white wine and garlic broth and fries (always fries), not to mention more pink bubbles, we covered it all. The Italian chef recently returned. People who don't respond to babies. Lazy people who claim to be ambitious. The new Shockoe Bottom. Why New Orleans is calling to us both. The third place.

I may not be the best damn conversationalist but I can talk ad infinitum and at some point we looked up and realized multiple hours had flown by without us even noticing.

It was time for dessert and more pink, but we needed a change of scenery.

While I may get to the museum with alarming regularity, my friend doesn't, so we walked the Art Nouveau and Art Deco galleries after lunch, she taking in the sculpture of a snake attacking a swan and both of us marveling at the fluidly designed furniture that would take up our entire bedrooms.

But at least there was some culture between the debauching.

From there we went to Can Can, easily sliding into a street parking space close to the nearly full patio. Don't these people have jobs?

I was pleasantly surprised to find the front windows wide open despite the 90+ degree heat as we installed ourselves at the bar.

Multiple bearded servers pounced on us, eager to slake our thirsts and try to tickle our fancy with dessert menus.

Gemini birthday celebrations almost demand pink, so we chose Guilhem Rose, a pale salmon color and tasting fresh as a summer day.

We narrowed our dessert choice to three ice creams - orange caramel, chocolate and vanilla- over shortbread crumbs for textural contrast, a fine choice on a sticky, hot day.

To commemorate the occasion, Friend took a photograph of us, immediately proclaiming that she looked drunk in the picture.

I didn't see it, honestly, but as soon as she posted it to Instagram, her husband commented, "Getting drunk?" so perhaps my wine goggles were already on.

But why shouldn't they be? This is the friend who essentially taught me to drink, with whom I have spent many an evening sipping and discussing our lives and loves.

She is convinced that we are responsible for keeping Broadbent Vinho Verde in business and based on many past summers, she's probably not far off.

Geminis may be many things - open minded, enthusiastic, witty - but you've got no chance getting close to one of us unless you love to talk.

Together, we happily plumb everything that comes into our heads. Sometimes there are pictures to prove it.

You Got a Face with a View

As dinner dates go, it was the best kind.

We ate and drank for hours, the conversation never waned and for the most part, the accompanying music worked.

We began our eating marathon at Secco where I enjoyed Landron "Atmospheres," a sparkling with a long finish, exactly the qualities I want in a date.

Eating commenced with country pork terrine with sundried tomato, lardo and pistachio or "fancy Spam" as my smart-assed date called it...as we ate every bite.

Next came tuna tartare with an olive tapenade while he told me about "War Horse," which he'd seen the night before.

It's interesting, some people I know who saw it loved the first act and the rest swear the second was better.

Our eating continued unabated with an especially beautifully-composed plate of beets, turnips and radish with pine nut-rosemary brittle and mounds of creme fraiche.

I like to think that even my beet-hating mother would have appreciated this sublime combination of flavors.

Secco was doing a brisk business, with people continuing to come in and fill up bar stools and tables.

Given the size of Richmond, it was inevitable that eventually one of them would be a guy I'd had a couple of dates with.

His friend, unaware, tried to sit down next to my date and me, but was quickly reminded by my former date to give us our space.

It wasn't awkward - we'd only gone out twice - but it gave my current date a chance to razz me about how androgynous and conservative he looked.

You know how dates love that.

It was somewhere around then that in the middle of Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," a terrifically romantic song and a personal favorite, our server turned it off.

I was not amused. She claimed it was because the kitchen didn't like New Wave and wanted something peppier, but I think she simply did not have an appreciation for what a masterpiece of a love song it is.

I got plenty of time
You got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up, say goodnight
Say goodnight

She switched the music to the David Bowie channel, not a bad choice, but we were soon hearing a not particularly peppy Zombies song, leaving her motives somewhat suspect.

Bubbles gone, we switched to 2007 von Hovel Scharzhofberger Riesling, done in the true German style with sweetness and good acidity.

The guy next to us had seen it on the chalkboard and been curious but not brave enough to order it and seemed happy to see us doing so.

With it, we had succulent pork cheeks with spaghetti squash and pomegranate pork jus, a dish that screamed Fall to me with its seasonal squash and pomegranate.

Meanwhile, a Psychedelic Furs song came on the radio and I saw our server make a move toward the controls, as if she might change the station again.

Fortunately she didn't for I fear owner Julia would have backhanded her for a transgression like that. Are you new here, miss?

Don't mess with the Furs at Secco.

My former date stopped by on his way out, checking with me to see what I'd been reading lately, but mostly, I think, to check out my present date.

Not that it's any of his business, but I felt sure I'd hear from him again soon.

Tonight's date was about as far from androgynous and conservative as they come, and we lingered over glasses of Domaine Faillenc Sainte Marie Corbieres Rose, full bodied and with the brilliant color of cranberry juice, while having date talk.

Of course, date talk varies from man to man, but in this case, the rapport seemed awfully good, so we ranged from D.C. mixed income housing projects to Latino art to wine tastings.

Personally, I think he liked me because I eat a lot, not something I anticipated being my strong suit.

When we finally left Secco after four hours with both of us running into all kinds of people we knew (small town and all), we saw my former date heading into the Daily. 'Nuff said.

After a walk in Carytown, we ended up at Can Can because my date was craving a big piece of red meat.

We found seats at the end of the bar and ordered animal flesh -cheeseburger frites for me and steak frites for him - and Cabernet Franc whilst an employee began scrubbing down the area behind the bar, not a very appealing thing to smell while eating.

Fortunately, good company and a pile of frites the size of my head compensate for a lot.

The less we say about it, the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong
Nothing's wrong

As dates go, last night's was sparkling and had a long finish. Best of all, an invitation for another.

Guess that this must be the place.

Which is exactly what I told Mr. Former Date when he e-mailed me this morning.

Bag It

Oh, jeez, I have to do it again.

If I'm shopping in Carytown, it must be almost Christmas.

Because I dislike shopping so much (food and wine being the exceptions), I avoid it all year long.

I know it makes me a poor excuse for a woman, but I'm good with that.

But with the holiday imminent, I had no choice. It was time to spend my money locally.

Rostov's Coffee and Tea was the first stop, a baby step toward the mass of humanity that awaited in C-town.

Which is not to say that Rostov's wasn't busy because it was.

Apparently unlike me, there are plenty of people out there who would appreciate a gift of coffee or tea.

In fact, I was shopping for one of them.

Who are these people and how did I end up on the same planet with them?

With gifts in bag, the next stop was the strip.

One good thing about shopping late is that parking spaces open up as early bird shoppers leave just as I arrive.

I began at the Bizarre Market upstairs at Chop Suey, wanting to look for homemade options.

Bingo!

From there, it was up Cary past a well-appointed busker with a microphone stand and music stand.

What happened to sitting on the sidewalk with your hat next to you?

I ran into the Man-About-Town and his face told me that the Firehouse brouhaha was weighing heavily on him.

I asked, he expounded and I heard more of the disappointing details of the ouster of the artistic director who had been instrumental in not only founding Firehouse Theater Project, but in steering it to where it is nineteen years later.

Sadly, I heard that he had resigned from the board of directors and since he was a founding member too, it was sad news indeed.

If there's any way this mess can be corrected, I hope for the sake of the theater-loving crowd in Richmond that it is.

For a pick-me-up and as part of my annual Christmas shopping tradition, the next stop was Can Can.

The bartender presumed that brunch menus were in order, but all that was required was a cup of their fabulous hot chocolate.

Not cocoa, but real French-style hot chocolate, more of a dessert than a beverage and mounded with whipped cream.

I drained my cup in a most unlady-like manner.

But then, it's that good.

Properly fortified, the last stop was For the Love of Chocolate, which was a madhouse.

Customers crammed every inch of the place and running into a familiar face (and this is a small town, so it happened a lot) inevitably caused a traffic jam.

Let's just say I got what I needed, was introduced to an artist/DJ and got the hell out of Dodge.

And as I walked out of the store, it was as if the clouds had cleared and the birds were chirping.

I was finished shopping.

Sure, I still had cooking and wrapping to do, but the stores no longer had any hold over me.

And that definitely means it's practically Christmas.

On the bright side, I don't have to shop for another year.