Everybody Dance Now

Girls just want to have fun.

That's how the three of us decided to meet up at Don't Look Back for food and girl talk.

The toast said it all.

"Here's to being friends in real life and not just on Facebook or when we end up at the same show."

Once of us arrived a few minutes late to find my dear friends patiently waiting until I arrived to commence drinking.

Ladies! The first rule of the night is that merriment waits for no woman, least of all me.

Much as I wanted to sit with my cute friend with the hovering husband at the bar, she was facing the TV and I just can't stomach a screen.

Even on election night.

Periodically, her eyes would grow wide ("Really, West Virginia? How can you be Republican?" leading to a discussion of Robert Byrd) or she'd provide a brief update.

I must have been impressive ordering my Cazadores on the rocks from the extensive tequila menu because one friend followed suit and asked for the same.

Once we put our orders in, we got down to the real business of the evening.

One of the highlights, surely, was, "Guys that like metal are the hottest."

I've got no actual proof of that, but the source was impeachable.

Somehow I managed to score the last chicken skin taco in the house and added on a fish taco for good measure.

Mid-meal and endless chatter about dating, the Boss came on and one friend squealed, "Springsteen? I am in love with this moment!"

Her point was valid; if you don't ever stop and truly savor such moments, you're cheating yourself.

Meanwhile back at our storytime, we held hands as we  heard tales of the highest romance - dancing lessons, shared meals and obscure music.

Was any relationship ever born out of more important components?

I was caught off guard when Tom Petty came on and one friend exclaimed, "This just keeps getting better and better!"

Hell, I knew that even before I heard Petty's distinctive nasal tones.

Nostalgia reigned supreme as we heard tales of first dates, one of which occurred on MySpace circa 2005

If that isn't the cutest (if a tad dated) story ever, I don't know what is.

There was one story of a couple having met in person (gasp!) pre-2005.

I think I even recall a fist in the air at our table when "Dancing in the Dark" came on.

We talked about the necessity of sexual chemistry, of being friends first and of having someone from whom you could learn things (say politics, music or movement).

By the time the music was more up my alley ("It's My Life") we were deep in on older/younger men, Myers Briggs ("You're an ENFP, aren't you?" I was asked) and how some people have been too stressed by the election to sleep for the past two days (don't look at me).

It got real, too, with discussion of the potential election results, with one friend saying the obvious first, "It really all comes down to Roe v. Wade" and me chiming in about legislating women's bodies.

If it sounds like it was anything but a blast, I've failed to convey what compelling and amusing company these two are.

The first casualty of our marathon session was the poor soul who'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. to vote.

When we lost her, we consoled ourselves with the thought that there's always a next time.

What also occurred to me was that it was still relatively early.

Halfway across Cary Street to my car, I did a U-turn and decided to head to Secco.

Conveniently, my remaining friend was across the street and curious.

"Where are you going?" she inquired when she saw me about-face.

I didn't really have a plan, but there was definitely room in my night for a glass of wine and maybe even dessert.

Random conversation would be a bonus.

All of a sudden, in the middle of the street, she was on board.

The bar was full, so we took a table and wine lists.

Next thing I know, my eyes are bugging out of my head and I'm grinning ear to ear.

There on the wine list is 2011 A. Occhipinti SP68, the Nero d'Avola and Frappato blend I'd had my last night in Rome, here.

Earthy and tasting of raspberries, it was everything I remembered from my Roman holiday finale.

Feminine and elegant. Delicate with lots of finesse. A bio-dynamic wine made by a talented, groovy woman.

Even better, it was right here in Richmond and I could drink it on this side of the Atlantic.

I did. My friend did, too, saying she liked that it had a story with it (my story of that night, but a story nonetheless).

Such a beautiful and evocative wine demanded accompaniment, so I also ordered chocolate budino with olive oil gelato and toasted pine nuts.

It may be an Italian dessert, but it wasn't one I'd run across in Italy.

So as to confuse me, it arrived looking like small round cake but turned out to be more custard or pudding-like, with the consistency of a chocolate satin cream.

Paired with the uber-rich tasting gelato and toasted pignoli, it was a dessert worthy of the beautiful Sicilian wine I was drinking.

Go Secco.

A friend came over to hear about the Red Baraat show I'd seen at UR, here, and I enjoyed telling him how much fun it had been to be told by the band to dance for two straight hours.

As we sat there chatting about companionship, absent pajamas and being winked at, I couldn't help but think about how satisfying it is to go through life and continue to meet people you want to add in.

Note to self: loving this moment.

Birthday Scrapple

We have established that I'm a fan of the Roosevelt.

Hell, I was a fan of Lee Gregory's cooking back when he was at Six Burner and no one was paying attention.

So of course now that he's cooking up all kinds of fresh takes on southern cuisine, I'm bound to show up in Church Hill regularly.

Tonight it was at that perfect moment when the crowds had not yet descended and there were plenty of spaces at the bar.

We assumed the position and ordered a bottle of Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris, a particularly lovely white Pinot Noir.

My favorite Church Hill neighbor was there, the man I'd met the first week The Roosevelt opened.

"It's so good to see you again, Karen," he said very sweetly.

He'd already ordered his dinner and was planning to finish his beer, take his dinner the block home and eat it in the recliner watching his favorite show.

I could appreciate his plan but couldn't ever do it myself.

The early evening light was sublime in the room, highlighting every corner of the room and eliminating the need for artificial light.

And I found friends in attendance.

I wished the birthday boy many happy returns ("They say it's your birthday, Well, it's my birthday, too, yea") and had an animated discussion of the recent Ghostlight Afterparty with another of the attendees.

Bartender T's understated charms were working the bar hard, but he found time to tell us the specials, and thus decide our fate.

We started light with Virginia crab, bacon, grilled corn, avocado and lemon vinaigrette.

Huge hunks of backfin met creamy avocado while tender pea shoots held it all together. A fine start.

One of my old Floyd Avenue neighbors came over to say hello. It was his first time at The Roosevelt and he was happy to see a familiar face.

He admitted his confirmed bachelorhood, gave a nod to strong-willed women and confirmed a reliance on the same restaurants and dishes, all for lack of nerve.

I've seen it time and time again; if they stay single too long, they become cat-petting, Hulu-watching amoebas who rarely leave the house except to run errands (surely a code word for something far more boring even than errands).

Next up was the standout of the evening, a lamb scrapple.

And, unlike in Washington, D.C. where I last ordered scrapple, I wasn't asked if I knew what scrapple was.

Made of lamb belly (oh, my!) and lamb shoulder, cornmeal and spices, it arrived with a soft cooked egg atop it and a divine chimichurra sauce.

I don't care what you think of scrapple, whether you've had it and hated it or accept it as a necessary evil, this scrapple was heavenly.

Coarse and savory, it became something sublime when coated with the yolk of an egg.

It was my companion's first-ever scrapple but his affection for lamb made that a moot point.

On a roll now, we moved on to the pork belly with pickled green strawberries, regular strawberries and pork rinds.

Fatty, sweet, fatty, tart, fatty, crunch - every flavor and every texture came through on this dish.

Yes, pork belly has been done to death, but this was absolutely a new take on it.

Not surprisingly, we also succumbed to one of the evening's specials, fried chicken skin and chicken oysters with a Sriracha/honey sauce.

It's a rare and wonderful week when you get chicken skin two days in a row.

Licking our fingers, we were unexpectedly greeted by friends coming from Eric Schindler Gallery, a place we'd intended to visit tonight had our taste buds not insisted we remain within spitting drooling distance of Lee's kitchen.

Our buttermilk panna cotta then arrived (creamy mouthfeel, slightly tangy flavor and fresh strawberries atop it all ) and we decided to enjoy it outside while chatting up our friends.

Which hill towns should be visited in Italy? Why do middle schoolers think probability and balls are so funny? If a father finds a hangover amusing, does that bode well for the future groom?

There wasn't enough Vin de Gris at The Roosevelt to solve such major issues, but we tried anyway, as customers strolled by and buses charged around the traffic circle in the moonlight.

The waning crescent moon overhead is still in Aries, no doubt gathering its strength to soon deliver Gemini, my sign.

Tonight's feast of scrapple and chicken skin were just the kickoff to my upcoming birthday week celebration.

How long can I stretch out this birthday revelry?

Stay tuned. I'll do my best.