I'm just checking in. I see you're enjoying Chicago full on. Let me know when you're back, would love to hear more about your adventures in person. Do we need to make a porch date? ~ Pru
Um, yes.
Far be it for me to turn down an invitation to spend time blathering on the porch of Pru's manse. After a day spent trying to get back in the Richmond groove - laundry, setting up interviews, doing a rewrite, mopping floors - I was more than happy to brave the rain for an evening with friends.
Ever the hostess with the mostess, Pru soon had Beau pouring us glasses of J. Mourat Rose to accompany a dinner scored at the new Church Hill location of 8 1/2: arugula salad, white pizza and red pizza with sausage and mushrooms, savored on the porch while a light rain fell all around us.
Group consensus: 8 1/2's pizza tops Dinamo's, not that any of us would turn down Dinamo's pie.
And sure, we began the evening with a discussion of what I'd seen, done and eaten in Chicago, including my fondness for the Carbide & Carbon Building because its design resembles that of a champagne bottle, complete with dark green terra cotta tower and gold leaf accents to mimic the foil around the cork, but eventually moved on.
When Pru put me in charge of music, I asked if she had any restrictions on my choice. None, she claimed, at least until I told Alexa to play the Carpenters (a favorite of both Beau and I) and she groaned loudly. Looking for something completely different, I asked Alexa for Bon Jovi and she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. That's when Queen B stepped in and suggested Barbra Streisand and everyone finally seemed okay with the music.
Don't tell me not to live
Just sit and putter
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter
Don't bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade
Once the music was settled, the three womenfolk united to do an intervention on Beau who has an unfortunate habit of looking at his cell phone while lively conversation is taking place around him. And lively conversation with a guest present, at that.
While he swears he can multi-task, after the second time he started asking questions that had been covered in a conversation only moments earlier, we saw no option but to insist he step away from the phone. He couldn't, of course, but settled for cradling it in his lap and periodically making longing glances in its direction. Once an addict, always an addict.
Relationships turned out to be a hot topic, little surprise given how fascinated everyone is with the turn of my love life, but for a change, the focus was on Pru and Beau. That two people could meet in college, go their separate ways in terms of marriage and children, and somehow find their way back to each other 30 years later is nothing short of extraordinary.
That when they first began dating, Pru - in her usual straight forward manner - had told Beau that he was good raw material and just needed some guidance is proof positive that you can say anything if it's to the right person.
Beau, who decided last night to name his as yet unwritten autobiography "From Under the Swoop," a tribute to his magnificent mane of hair and its come-hither swoop in the front, admitted that he'd never stopped thinking about Pru in the intervening three decades. Now that's romance.
It was going on 11 p.m. and I'd been there for over four hours when I began my exit strategy. Not so fast, Pru insisted, you were invited over to share some juice, so sit back down and start spilling.
Hadn't I raved about our meals at the Purple Pig and Marisol? Did she want me to tell her about my other favorite buildings?
"You're not gushing as much as last time," Pru worried. "What's up?"
I'm just trying to contain my over-the-top happiness and not subject everyone I see to it, I explained. You want me to gush, I'll sit back down and gush. Happily.
Speaking of, just after Beau had observed that the Rose was having far more of an effect on me than it was on him, he'd had an epiphany. "Oh, wait," he insisted. "You've got Rose on top of euphoria, don't you?"
Sure do. And I'm hoping to live out the rest of my life that way. My parade is too fabulous to be affected by rain...or anything else.
Sorry, I just can't help myself.
Showing posts with label church hill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label church hill. Show all posts
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Saturday, July 30, 2016
You Can't Fix Stupid but You Can Vote It Out
Hostesses need not worry about small talk at parties these days with such an historically significant election at hand.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Friday, July 10, 2015
You Are My Richmond Hero
Some might be surprised how much wine is required when invited to a nibble and a nip at Pru's. Not me.
Heading to the mansion on Church Hill through construction traffic, I saw a license plate that said it all: "ETA soon." That said, it took me 40 minutes to traverse the couple of miles from Jackson Ward.
Fortunately, there was wine awaiting me, specifically the Danielle de l'Ansee Sauvignon Blanc Pru had fallen in love with last month, and three people who loved to talk. As if by a fashion directive, the day's lingering heat had resulted in all the women sporting paper-thin cotton dresses with boho roots in the styles of the '70s.
The evening of spirited conversation covered topics was as varied as the people in the room. A discussion of old-fashioned sleep bras led to a male guest positing that perhaps he should wear a sleep cup. "A sleep cod piece!" Pru interjected, no doubt inspired by our upcoming plans to see "Hamlet" at Agecroft.
Our hostess, who has gone on record as saying she could exist solely on hors d'oeuvres, laid out a tasty spread of same, including what the former Mexico dweller dubbed "a salad on bread," a savory layering of guacamole, radishes and hard cooked eggs on toasted baguettes adorned with EVOO and smoked sea salt that made for a practically perfect flavor combination with just the right amount of chew.
The music was vintage soul and while it wasn't quite a dance party (other than our dance moves riding the new stair lift), Al Green, the O'Jays and Aretha provided a rollicking soundtrack to the evening, sometiems lost under the raucous laughter.
It was while drinking Argyle Sparkling Brut Rose, an offering from the recent Oregon outing, that it was agreed by everyone in the room that while Pru comes across as sweet and low key, she's really every bit as much aninstigator troublemaker rapscallion firecracker as I am.
During a dedicated fashion discussion (hello, palazzo pants' comeback), Pru's Beau looked surprisingly interested, a fact we attributed to his female-centric upbringing. He's that rare male who not only notices hair and clothing changes and looks, but kindly mentions them to the woman rather than keeping them to himself. That's a man who'll go far with my people.
Our little group got along so well we wound up making plans to see a couple of Irish plays dubbed O'Theater at O'Toole's, an evening bound to be a blast in the back room. Fish and chips ought to be just the right accompaniment.
Maybe it was bottle number three - Miraval Rose - talking, but we got off on the topic of senior sex - how we're all hoping there's no cut-off point for a sex life's regularity. Needless to say, my randy parents came up as examples of making adjustments to keep things frisky.
I'm sure I was a bad influence, keeping the 9 to 5 set at the party up far too late, but then, isn't that why people invite me over for a nibble and a nip in the first place? I'll bet they were in bed before I crested the hill.
Heading westward ho, I had to pass right by Patrick Henry Pub and since I couldn't think of a single reason not to stop, I did. Within a minute of walking in I had an Espolon and within three minutes, a guy who works as an illustrator at the Martin Agency had come over to join me for conversation.
I guess I'd turned on my forehead sign "Talk to Me" without realizing it.
It worked out well because he'd lived in Portland briefly so we had lots to talk about comparing the two cities, praising Richmond's superiority and its lively arts scene before moving on to chatting abut each other's lives as the bar carried on around us. I'd lucked into a terrific conversationalist.
All because of a nibble and a nip, as the invitation promised, at Pru's, It may not be on my license plate, but ETA: Whenever I get home.
Heading to the mansion on Church Hill through construction traffic, I saw a license plate that said it all: "ETA soon." That said, it took me 40 minutes to traverse the couple of miles from Jackson Ward.
Fortunately, there was wine awaiting me, specifically the Danielle de l'Ansee Sauvignon Blanc Pru had fallen in love with last month, and three people who loved to talk. As if by a fashion directive, the day's lingering heat had resulted in all the women sporting paper-thin cotton dresses with boho roots in the styles of the '70s.
The evening of spirited conversation covered topics was as varied as the people in the room. A discussion of old-fashioned sleep bras led to a male guest positing that perhaps he should wear a sleep cup. "A sleep cod piece!" Pru interjected, no doubt inspired by our upcoming plans to see "Hamlet" at Agecroft.
Our hostess, who has gone on record as saying she could exist solely on hors d'oeuvres, laid out a tasty spread of same, including what the former Mexico dweller dubbed "a salad on bread," a savory layering of guacamole, radishes and hard cooked eggs on toasted baguettes adorned with EVOO and smoked sea salt that made for a practically perfect flavor combination with just the right amount of chew.
The music was vintage soul and while it wasn't quite a dance party (other than our dance moves riding the new stair lift), Al Green, the O'Jays and Aretha provided a rollicking soundtrack to the evening, sometiems lost under the raucous laughter.
It was while drinking Argyle Sparkling Brut Rose, an offering from the recent Oregon outing, that it was agreed by everyone in the room that while Pru comes across as sweet and low key, she's really every bit as much an
During a dedicated fashion discussion (hello, palazzo pants' comeback), Pru's Beau looked surprisingly interested, a fact we attributed to his female-centric upbringing. He's that rare male who not only notices hair and clothing changes and looks, but kindly mentions them to the woman rather than keeping them to himself. That's a man who'll go far with my people.
Our little group got along so well we wound up making plans to see a couple of Irish plays dubbed O'Theater at O'Toole's, an evening bound to be a blast in the back room. Fish and chips ought to be just the right accompaniment.
Maybe it was bottle number three - Miraval Rose - talking, but we got off on the topic of senior sex - how we're all hoping there's no cut-off point for a sex life's regularity. Needless to say, my randy parents came up as examples of making adjustments to keep things frisky.
I'm sure I was a bad influence, keeping the 9 to 5 set at the party up far too late, but then, isn't that why people invite me over for a nibble and a nip in the first place? I'll bet they were in bed before I crested the hill.
Heading westward ho, I had to pass right by Patrick Henry Pub and since I couldn't think of a single reason not to stop, I did. Within a minute of walking in I had an Espolon and within three minutes, a guy who works as an illustrator at the Martin Agency had come over to join me for conversation.
I guess I'd turned on my forehead sign "Talk to Me" without realizing it.
It worked out well because he'd lived in Portland briefly so we had lots to talk about comparing the two cities, praising Richmond's superiority and its lively arts scene before moving on to chatting abut each other's lives as the bar carried on around us. I'd lucked into a terrific conversationalist.
All because of a nibble and a nip, as the invitation promised, at Pru's, It may not be on my license plate, but ETA: Whenever I get home.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Shock of the New
Let's just say it's satisfying to know that I can still surprise people.
Sometimes it's a literal surprise like when I came downstairs tonight to go out and surprised a guy hanging over the fence that fronts my little city garden. Camera in hand, he was shooting close-ups of my geraniums, daisies and roses, so nothing nefarious was going on, but he jumped up guiltily when I approached, asking, "Whatcha doin'?"
Once I calmed him down, assuring him I had no problem with him photographing my garden (it's not even the first time someone's done it), we quickly became friends as he shot more and showed me some of the images. The one of a bee on a lily stem was especially dazzling. After he told me he lives just down the street, he asked if he could come back and shoot my cannas once the buds open.
I don't think it was a metaphor for anything, but I'm not ruling it out yet.
I've surprised people several times lately because I had on jeans or shorts, stopping even close friends accustomed to seeing me only in skirts and dresses in their tracks. It's happened with three of my favorite bartenders this month- including tonight with the one whose silk-screened print hangs in my dining room - when I've ordered a cocktail.
"I have to say I'm a little in shock right now," he says with a proper stunned look after I order an Alright, Alright at the Roosevelt's bar. But even the one who recently told me he thinks I'd look great in jeans can't be surprised that I'd be attracted to a mezcal cocktail with pineapple, yellow Chartreuse, lime and cardamom, all flavors I like.
Of course, no one is surprised that when a bar-wide discussion of the origin of the phrase "alright, alright" comes up, I neither know the reference nor the film that spawned it. Sorry to be predictable sometimes, but I cannot be a continuous source of amazement to people.
The clatter of diners at all but two tables prevented me hearing the music, but not from eating, beginning with scallop crudo admirably set off with pickled ramps, cucumber chunks, capers and XO sauce for some kick, until I was joined by a restaurateur glad to see me but weary after dealing with a weekend full of problems requiring attention. It's a lament I've heard before.
My second course was pork belly over cheese grits with peanuts, exactly the kind of dish with which the Roosevelt built its reputation, and now carried on with a twist by Chef Mike Braune of whom I was a fan back when he was at Secco. After the delicacy of the seafood, the fatty richness of the pig felt indulgent.
It wasn't long before we were joined by a dedicated wine geek who'd been shut out at Ellwood Thompson and now wanted rum punch and the bluefish entree. This led to picture sharing of a recent luncheon feast at Edo's that featured wine, whole branzino (only problem: the eyeballs were a little dry), hangar steak, broccolini and three kinds of pasta that looked like it could have fed four rather than two.
Another story (alas, no pictures) involved going to the movies to see "Spy" and taking a really excellent bottle of Pinot Noir which they sipped out of paper cups, thus taking "Spy" to a whole new level. I was asked about my latest movie and recommended "Love and Mercy" highly as much for the thoughtful filmmaking as the well-told story.
By the time the evening ended, it was just us and the five-top in the window and judging by their loud hootin' and hollerin', they may have imbibed more but I doubt their conversation was any better.
When I got out of my car at home, my neighbor was sitting on his porch and called me over. "Would you like a beer?' he offered, apparently ever the good host. When I declined, he broadened the invitation, saying he also had Gatorade or water. "Would you like to sit down and talk?" was his final offer. Better not.
If he knew me, he'd have undoubtedly been surprised as hell to hear me turn down any chance to talk. Instead, he accepted it, telling me how really nice I looked in my shorts.
Alright, alright. If he only knew.
Sometimes it's a literal surprise like when I came downstairs tonight to go out and surprised a guy hanging over the fence that fronts my little city garden. Camera in hand, he was shooting close-ups of my geraniums, daisies and roses, so nothing nefarious was going on, but he jumped up guiltily when I approached, asking, "Whatcha doin'?"
Once I calmed him down, assuring him I had no problem with him photographing my garden (it's not even the first time someone's done it), we quickly became friends as he shot more and showed me some of the images. The one of a bee on a lily stem was especially dazzling. After he told me he lives just down the street, he asked if he could come back and shoot my cannas once the buds open.
I don't think it was a metaphor for anything, but I'm not ruling it out yet.
I've surprised people several times lately because I had on jeans or shorts, stopping even close friends accustomed to seeing me only in skirts and dresses in their tracks. It's happened with three of my favorite bartenders this month- including tonight with the one whose silk-screened print hangs in my dining room - when I've ordered a cocktail.
"I have to say I'm a little in shock right now," he says with a proper stunned look after I order an Alright, Alright at the Roosevelt's bar. But even the one who recently told me he thinks I'd look great in jeans can't be surprised that I'd be attracted to a mezcal cocktail with pineapple, yellow Chartreuse, lime and cardamom, all flavors I like.
Of course, no one is surprised that when a bar-wide discussion of the origin of the phrase "alright, alright" comes up, I neither know the reference nor the film that spawned it. Sorry to be predictable sometimes, but I cannot be a continuous source of amazement to people.
The clatter of diners at all but two tables prevented me hearing the music, but not from eating, beginning with scallop crudo admirably set off with pickled ramps, cucumber chunks, capers and XO sauce for some kick, until I was joined by a restaurateur glad to see me but weary after dealing with a weekend full of problems requiring attention. It's a lament I've heard before.
My second course was pork belly over cheese grits with peanuts, exactly the kind of dish with which the Roosevelt built its reputation, and now carried on with a twist by Chef Mike Braune of whom I was a fan back when he was at Secco. After the delicacy of the seafood, the fatty richness of the pig felt indulgent.
It wasn't long before we were joined by a dedicated wine geek who'd been shut out at Ellwood Thompson and now wanted rum punch and the bluefish entree. This led to picture sharing of a recent luncheon feast at Edo's that featured wine, whole branzino (only problem: the eyeballs were a little dry), hangar steak, broccolini and three kinds of pasta that looked like it could have fed four rather than two.
Another story (alas, no pictures) involved going to the movies to see "Spy" and taking a really excellent bottle of Pinot Noir which they sipped out of paper cups, thus taking "Spy" to a whole new level. I was asked about my latest movie and recommended "Love and Mercy" highly as much for the thoughtful filmmaking as the well-told story.
By the time the evening ended, it was just us and the five-top in the window and judging by their loud hootin' and hollerin', they may have imbibed more but I doubt their conversation was any better.
When I got out of my car at home, my neighbor was sitting on his porch and called me over. "Would you like a beer?' he offered, apparently ever the good host. When I declined, he broadened the invitation, saying he also had Gatorade or water. "Would you like to sit down and talk?" was his final offer. Better not.
If he knew me, he'd have undoubtedly been surprised as hell to hear me turn down any chance to talk. Instead, he accepted it, telling me how really nice I looked in my shorts.
Alright, alright. If he only knew.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
From Richmond with Love
Now that Zagat has named Church Hill one of the ten hot food neighborhoods around the U.S., it seemed like a good night to remind myself why.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
War and Work
Productive, yes; social enough, not even close.
My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.
When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.
My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.
Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated byQuakers Richmond Friends Meeting.
Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.
After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.
Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.
Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .
Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.
Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.
Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.
My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.
My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.
When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.
My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.
Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated by
Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.
After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.
Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.
Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .
Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.
Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.
Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.
My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Downtown Soulville Cobbler
The cheese let us down, so we had to punt.
Pru had been dying to join me for not so classic movie night, so we made plans that tonight would finally be the night that she'd get to join me for some classic cheesy film.
So you can imagine her disappointment when I checked on the film only to discover that tonight's installment wasn't happening.
We were too late to catch an early movie and Pru gets up too early to attend a late one, so we found ourselves without plans.
That's where the punting came in. When all else fails, there's always the fallback: eat, drink and be merry.
Off we went for our second foray to Metzger, where unlike last time, we found a civilized room not so full we felt guilty for lingering.
When I chose the light and crisp Anton Bauer Rose, Pru followed suit, trusting me on this one.
As we sipped our pink and looked over the menu, we both noticed the stellar music playing, vintage soul worthy of doing the pony or the frug to, but not a single recognizable song in the bunch. Outstanding.
It's rare I'm so taken with the music in a restaurant when I don't recognize it, but this was classic '60s obscurities that made us both want to dance Hullabaloo-style on our bar stools.
We were told it was dollar oyster night, something I would ordinarily jump on, but that dozen I'd had after breakfast had done me for the day.
A girl doesn't need an oyster overdose.
After hearing the specials, we chose squash blossoms stuffed with housemade herbed quark with tomato puree and a divine side salad of baby sliced zucchini in dill creme fraiche.
The dish was absolutely killer and that zucchini salad was so incredibly delicious it could have stood on its own.
Meanwhile, I heard about and saw pictures from Pru's annual river retreat, a long, debauched weekend of food, drink and laughter.
If only she'd remembered to bring underwear.
Next came a summer bean salad of green beans, kidney beans, rye berries, cured duck breast and quark, a unique combination not seen just anywhere.
And if it sounds like we were being overrun with quark, remember this began as a night devoted to cheese, so we had no problem with it.
The sausage board brought all kinds of Sausagecraft deliciousness to enjoy with grainy mustard: earthy Amerikrainer with sharp cheddar cheese and pickled cherry peppers, grilled franks and rough-hewn Nuremberg.
By the time the board was down to the last piece of frank, I deferred to Pru who refused on the grounds that she'd reached an elegant sufficiency.
Never one to give up on eating when dessert can still be had, I inquired about the sweet possibilities.
But it was when the bartender came over to suggest that we have more Rose and wait for the blueberry cobbler to come out of the oven (a mere ten minutes more, we were promised) that I pulled rank and said yes to the wait.
Unbeknownst to Pru - who assumed my devotion to chocolate precluded all other desserts - I am devoted to cooked blueberries, whether in pie, cobbler or crisp form
When the steaming hot dish of lusciously-colored cobbler arrived, we were warned to wait lest we burn our tongues.
It wasn't easy and the minute scoop of ice cream barely held its own against the heat before we dug in.
Well worth the wait, my only quibble would be that it was more crisp than cobbler, although, truth be told, I prefer crisp to cobbler, so it was a score for me.
Ditto the music, which was delighting me with every new-to-me song that played. Thanks, Mr. Fine Wine.
Some cheesy movie nights just weren't meant to be and sometimes that's a good thing.
Pru had been dying to join me for not so classic movie night, so we made plans that tonight would finally be the night that she'd get to join me for some classic cheesy film.
So you can imagine her disappointment when I checked on the film only to discover that tonight's installment wasn't happening.
We were too late to catch an early movie and Pru gets up too early to attend a late one, so we found ourselves without plans.
That's where the punting came in. When all else fails, there's always the fallback: eat, drink and be merry.
Off we went for our second foray to Metzger, where unlike last time, we found a civilized room not so full we felt guilty for lingering.
When I chose the light and crisp Anton Bauer Rose, Pru followed suit, trusting me on this one.
As we sipped our pink and looked over the menu, we both noticed the stellar music playing, vintage soul worthy of doing the pony or the frug to, but not a single recognizable song in the bunch. Outstanding.
It's rare I'm so taken with the music in a restaurant when I don't recognize it, but this was classic '60s obscurities that made us both want to dance Hullabaloo-style on our bar stools.
We were told it was dollar oyster night, something I would ordinarily jump on, but that dozen I'd had after breakfast had done me for the day.
A girl doesn't need an oyster overdose.
After hearing the specials, we chose squash blossoms stuffed with housemade herbed quark with tomato puree and a divine side salad of baby sliced zucchini in dill creme fraiche.
The dish was absolutely killer and that zucchini salad was so incredibly delicious it could have stood on its own.
Meanwhile, I heard about and saw pictures from Pru's annual river retreat, a long, debauched weekend of food, drink and laughter.
If only she'd remembered to bring underwear.
Next came a summer bean salad of green beans, kidney beans, rye berries, cured duck breast and quark, a unique combination not seen just anywhere.
And if it sounds like we were being overrun with quark, remember this began as a night devoted to cheese, so we had no problem with it.
The sausage board brought all kinds of Sausagecraft deliciousness to enjoy with grainy mustard: earthy Amerikrainer with sharp cheddar cheese and pickled cherry peppers, grilled franks and rough-hewn Nuremberg.
By the time the board was down to the last piece of frank, I deferred to Pru who refused on the grounds that she'd reached an elegant sufficiency.
Never one to give up on eating when dessert can still be had, I inquired about the sweet possibilities.
But it was when the bartender came over to suggest that we have more Rose and wait for the blueberry cobbler to come out of the oven (a mere ten minutes more, we were promised) that I pulled rank and said yes to the wait.
Unbeknownst to Pru - who assumed my devotion to chocolate precluded all other desserts - I am devoted to cooked blueberries, whether in pie, cobbler or crisp form
When the steaming hot dish of lusciously-colored cobbler arrived, we were warned to wait lest we burn our tongues.
It wasn't easy and the minute scoop of ice cream barely held its own against the heat before we dug in.
Well worth the wait, my only quibble would be that it was more crisp than cobbler, although, truth be told, I prefer crisp to cobbler, so it was a score for me.
Ditto the music, which was delighting me with every new-to-me song that played. Thanks, Mr. Fine Wine.
Some cheesy movie nights just weren't meant to be and sometimes that's a good thing.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Early Morning Singing Song
"You're the best date ever!" my girlfriend said when I dropped her at her car.
It had been a pretty terrific evening, if I do say so myself.
Our first stop was at Metzger Bar & Butchery in Church Hill where, despite the early hour, almost every seat was taken. And this is only their second night in business.
Looking at the heavily Austrian and German wine list, my eye went right to Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt, as did my mouth after being poured a glass of the crisp, pale pink wine. Pru followed suit despite no familiarity with the grape.
She's a trusting one.
Being book nerds, we couldn't help but try to discern the titles of the books stacked on shelves behind the bar - "The Germans," "Berlin" and, best of all, "The Complete Works of Kafka" while another shelf held more utilitarian subjects such as meat and fish.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a former co-worker, actually two of them, asking for cocktail recommendations. I demurred to the bartender but enjoyed a bit of chit-chat with them anyway.
It was warm in Metzger, probably partly because of the crowd but also because its windows face westward and the late afternoon sun was doing its thing.
Eventually, one of the servers closed the window shades, but that still left the glass door radiating its greenhouse effect, so he taped butcher paper (appropriate, huh?) over the door and scrawled "We are open" on the outside of it.
The music was lost to the din, but the bustling staff kept us hydrated while we chose a few things from the kitchen.
Carrot salad, a standout of whole baby carrots, parsnips, frisee and caraway in a parsnip puree was so good Pru observed, "If someone served that to me every day, I would eat it."
True story.
Like the couple next to us, we ordered the smoked trout rillettes (because they'd already run out of head cheese, an amazing and encouraging thing for Richmond) colorfully adorned with pickled onion and parsley.
When I asked why they'd come in, they said it had been to get a chicken. "Now, four drinks later and two appetizers, we're going to get that chicken and get out of here." When I heard how close they live, I told them I foresaw danger with Metzger for them.
When the former co-worker friend went to leave, he stopped by momentarily. "Stay gorgeous, stay articulate and keep writing!" he said by way of farewell.
Always my goal, friend.
I saw several Church Hill residents come in and have to wait for tables, and while we felt their pain, we just ordered more wine and dessert.
First come, first served is a cliche for a reason.
In our defense, we wasted no time gobbling up small pieces of chocolate doppelbock cake (because you know it had to be chocolate) resting on salted caramel (be still, my heart) aside buttermilk ice cream with pretzel crumb for textural contrast scattered around.
Yes, it was as fabulous as it sounds.
As we went to leave, I saw another former co-worker (what is this, RTD old home night?) waiting for a table and stopped to catch up with her. Pru amused herself by chatting with a couple she didn't know after she heard the woman ask for Chardonnay.
By the time I turned to fetch her, the woman was happily sipping a glass of Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt and Pru, who an hour and a half earlier had no knowledge of this wine, was now clucking with satisfaction at having made a fan of this stranger.
Leaving the hungry masses to an able kitchen (and knowing we'll be back soon), we were westbound to the Firehouse Theater to see the tribal love-rock musical, "Hair."
That's right, it's the dawning of the age of Aquarius and Pru and I had been beyond excited to see this play, me especially because I'd never seen even the film.
For that matter, I'd never seen the Firehouse without a raised stage, but tonight it was just assorted rugs on the floor and pieces of fabric in door openings. Very atmospherically groovy.
Director Jase Smith came out, explaining that he hadn't yet been born in 1967 when "Hair" debuted. Luckily, his parents had been hippie types, so he had a frame of reference. "Are you ready to rock?" he roared and we answered affirmatively.
I'll be honest, I'm a big fan of Nick Aliff's and he did a superb job in the role of Berger the free spirit, his big, beautiful voice singing to the rafters and his playful personality - he dances with abandon, something I love to see -pervading the group.
Plus he took off his pants after the first song and it's hard to argue with a man's partial nudity right off the bat.
One thing I would argue with was that some (not all, some were spot on) of the costumes were wrong, just wrong. As in, they looked like the misconception of someone who wasn't around in the '60s re-imagining the '60s, maybe from bad movies or TV. The belts, for example, some of the women wore were just ridiculous looking.
But patched jeans? Absolutely realistic. Referring to it as pot and not weed? Right on. The Afro on one of the black guys? You bet.
But the story of a tribe of kids trying to figure out life, love, the sexual revolution and Vietnam was fascinating for how many cultural buttons the play's writers made sure to push, like the friendly musical competition of "Black Boys" and then "White Boys."
And maybe it's my age, but the songs held up. "Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In," "Hair," "Easy to Be Hard" and my personal favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," were thoroughly enjoyable to hear reinterpreted in the 21st century.
The play even ended with a be-in, and the cast inviting members of the audience to join them onstage to dance.
Tonight was preview night, so the cast was looking for audience reaction to help them develop the production. My wish (besides attention to those few awful and incorrect costumes) would be for the cast to project better, as many lyrics were lost to anyone beyond the front row.
I'd love to go back in a couple weeks and see how the young cast settles into their characters and the era. You gotta believe that the earth says hello.
When we left the love fest of "Hair," it was only to head down the block to the Camel, where I immediately ran into a favorite songbird for the second time in four days. "Are you here to see the Hi-Steps?" she asked eagerly.
You bet, I am, sweetheart. What could be better after a rock musical about the '60s than some vintage '60s soul music?
There wasn't much time left in their set, but any time listening to the Hi-Steps is well worth it (see: Curtis Mayfield's "Movin' on Up"). Even Pru, a first-timer, had to marvel at their polished sound and soulful male and female vocalists.
When the band began the slow burn of "Try a Little Tenderness," she didn't even look at me, she just murmured, "Ooh, good song!," smiling all the while.
But they're all good songs and with a three-piece horn section blasting and the bass line thumping, it was a fitting way to end our eventful hot date.
Never let it be said that I don't know how to show a date a good time.
It had been a pretty terrific evening, if I do say so myself.
Our first stop was at Metzger Bar & Butchery in Church Hill where, despite the early hour, almost every seat was taken. And this is only their second night in business.
Looking at the heavily Austrian and German wine list, my eye went right to Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt, as did my mouth after being poured a glass of the crisp, pale pink wine. Pru followed suit despite no familiarity with the grape.
She's a trusting one.
Being book nerds, we couldn't help but try to discern the titles of the books stacked on shelves behind the bar - "The Germans," "Berlin" and, best of all, "The Complete Works of Kafka" while another shelf held more utilitarian subjects such as meat and fish.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a former co-worker, actually two of them, asking for cocktail recommendations. I demurred to the bartender but enjoyed a bit of chit-chat with them anyway.
It was warm in Metzger, probably partly because of the crowd but also because its windows face westward and the late afternoon sun was doing its thing.
Eventually, one of the servers closed the window shades, but that still left the glass door radiating its greenhouse effect, so he taped butcher paper (appropriate, huh?) over the door and scrawled "We are open" on the outside of it.
The music was lost to the din, but the bustling staff kept us hydrated while we chose a few things from the kitchen.
Carrot salad, a standout of whole baby carrots, parsnips, frisee and caraway in a parsnip puree was so good Pru observed, "If someone served that to me every day, I would eat it."
True story.
Like the couple next to us, we ordered the smoked trout rillettes (because they'd already run out of head cheese, an amazing and encouraging thing for Richmond) colorfully adorned with pickled onion and parsley.
When I asked why they'd come in, they said it had been to get a chicken. "Now, four drinks later and two appetizers, we're going to get that chicken and get out of here." When I heard how close they live, I told them I foresaw danger with Metzger for them.
When the former co-worker friend went to leave, he stopped by momentarily. "Stay gorgeous, stay articulate and keep writing!" he said by way of farewell.
Always my goal, friend.
I saw several Church Hill residents come in and have to wait for tables, and while we felt their pain, we just ordered more wine and dessert.
First come, first served is a cliche for a reason.
In our defense, we wasted no time gobbling up small pieces of chocolate doppelbock cake (because you know it had to be chocolate) resting on salted caramel (be still, my heart) aside buttermilk ice cream with pretzel crumb for textural contrast scattered around.
Yes, it was as fabulous as it sounds.
As we went to leave, I saw another former co-worker (what is this, RTD old home night?) waiting for a table and stopped to catch up with her. Pru amused herself by chatting with a couple she didn't know after she heard the woman ask for Chardonnay.
By the time I turned to fetch her, the woman was happily sipping a glass of Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt and Pru, who an hour and a half earlier had no knowledge of this wine, was now clucking with satisfaction at having made a fan of this stranger.
Leaving the hungry masses to an able kitchen (and knowing we'll be back soon), we were westbound to the Firehouse Theater to see the tribal love-rock musical, "Hair."
That's right, it's the dawning of the age of Aquarius and Pru and I had been beyond excited to see this play, me especially because I'd never seen even the film.
For that matter, I'd never seen the Firehouse without a raised stage, but tonight it was just assorted rugs on the floor and pieces of fabric in door openings. Very atmospherically groovy.
Director Jase Smith came out, explaining that he hadn't yet been born in 1967 when "Hair" debuted. Luckily, his parents had been hippie types, so he had a frame of reference. "Are you ready to rock?" he roared and we answered affirmatively.
I'll be honest, I'm a big fan of Nick Aliff's and he did a superb job in the role of Berger the free spirit, his big, beautiful voice singing to the rafters and his playful personality - he dances with abandon, something I love to see -pervading the group.
Plus he took off his pants after the first song and it's hard to argue with a man's partial nudity right off the bat.
One thing I would argue with was that some (not all, some were spot on) of the costumes were wrong, just wrong. As in, they looked like the misconception of someone who wasn't around in the '60s re-imagining the '60s, maybe from bad movies or TV. The belts, for example, some of the women wore were just ridiculous looking.
But patched jeans? Absolutely realistic. Referring to it as pot and not weed? Right on. The Afro on one of the black guys? You bet.
But the story of a tribe of kids trying to figure out life, love, the sexual revolution and Vietnam was fascinating for how many cultural buttons the play's writers made sure to push, like the friendly musical competition of "Black Boys" and then "White Boys."
And maybe it's my age, but the songs held up. "Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In," "Hair," "Easy to Be Hard" and my personal favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," were thoroughly enjoyable to hear reinterpreted in the 21st century.
The play even ended with a be-in, and the cast inviting members of the audience to join them onstage to dance.
Tonight was preview night, so the cast was looking for audience reaction to help them develop the production. My wish (besides attention to those few awful and incorrect costumes) would be for the cast to project better, as many lyrics were lost to anyone beyond the front row.
I'd love to go back in a couple weeks and see how the young cast settles into their characters and the era. You gotta believe that the earth says hello.
When we left the love fest of "Hair," it was only to head down the block to the Camel, where I immediately ran into a favorite songbird for the second time in four days. "Are you here to see the Hi-Steps?" she asked eagerly.
You bet, I am, sweetheart. What could be better after a rock musical about the '60s than some vintage '60s soul music?
There wasn't much time left in their set, but any time listening to the Hi-Steps is well worth it (see: Curtis Mayfield's "Movin' on Up"). Even Pru, a first-timer, had to marvel at their polished sound and soulful male and female vocalists.
When the band began the slow burn of "Try a Little Tenderness," she didn't even look at me, she just murmured, "Ooh, good song!," smiling all the while.
But they're all good songs and with a three-piece horn section blasting and the bass line thumping, it was a fitting way to end our eventful hot date.
Never let it be said that I don't know how to show a date a good time.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Hiking for Quiche and Snark
"Duh" is apparently the new shorthand for, "Gosh, golly, Karen, you're right."
I discovered this after sending an old friend a message: "You, me, lunch. Too long since we caught up, mister."
He accepted my invitation with, "Duh!? Let's do a hike and have lunch here tomorrow. I made the best Italian sausage quiche ever today. Nom, nom, nom."
I met him at his Church Hill apartment, getting my first full tour since my last visit had come when he'd first moved in and wasn't ready to show me the disorder.
Today I found the charming space crammed with all kinds of his finds, not surprising because he's a long timepack rat collector.
An enormous painting by local Sally Bowring rested on the mantle.
Nearby, a vintage fiddle from the '60s sat in its case.
In the kitchen, I saw campaign posters for Johnson/Humphrey ("Support USA") and Mondale/Ferraro on the walls.
He suited up so we could head out on our urban hike before enjoying the promised lunch.
Blazing a trail through the old neighborhood, around buildings, down stairs, from overlooks and back up steep hills, I eventually warmed up, no small task given the occasional snowflake and my friend's slower pace.
I heard of his women troubles, made easier by giving all three interested parties the stiff arm, and how happy he was just enjoying working on himself rather than a relationship.
We talked about Santa Barbara, a place I've visited and one under consideration for him if he chooses to abandon the Commonwealth.
Conveniently, we ended up at WPA Bakery where a plate of caneles arrived on the counter just as we did and four of them had to come home with us.
Back at his cozy digs, his two large cats hovered about as he prepared salads and the promised quiche for our lunch.
Because he's known me for almost four years, he's comfortable reminding me of things like how I can sound snarky when my intent is quite the opposite.
Likewise, I can remind him that he's not going to meet any new women to stiff arm if he doesn't get out more at night.
He was right about his quiche, a savory combination of sausage, mushrooms and cheese, admitting that he'd already earmarked half a piece for a midnight snack later tonight.
Better yet, I thought, was to earmark two pieces for later and invite someone over whom he didn't want to stiff arm.
Duh!?
I discovered this after sending an old friend a message: "You, me, lunch. Too long since we caught up, mister."
He accepted my invitation with, "Duh!? Let's do a hike and have lunch here tomorrow. I made the best Italian sausage quiche ever today. Nom, nom, nom."
I met him at his Church Hill apartment, getting my first full tour since my last visit had come when he'd first moved in and wasn't ready to show me the disorder.
Today I found the charming space crammed with all kinds of his finds, not surprising because he's a long time
An enormous painting by local Sally Bowring rested on the mantle.
Nearby, a vintage fiddle from the '60s sat in its case.
In the kitchen, I saw campaign posters for Johnson/Humphrey ("Support USA") and Mondale/Ferraro on the walls.
He suited up so we could head out on our urban hike before enjoying the promised lunch.
Blazing a trail through the old neighborhood, around buildings, down stairs, from overlooks and back up steep hills, I eventually warmed up, no small task given the occasional snowflake and my friend's slower pace.
I heard of his women troubles, made easier by giving all three interested parties the stiff arm, and how happy he was just enjoying working on himself rather than a relationship.
We talked about Santa Barbara, a place I've visited and one under consideration for him if he chooses to abandon the Commonwealth.
Conveniently, we ended up at WPA Bakery where a plate of caneles arrived on the counter just as we did and four of them had to come home with us.
Back at his cozy digs, his two large cats hovered about as he prepared salads and the promised quiche for our lunch.
Because he's known me for almost four years, he's comfortable reminding me of things like how I can sound snarky when my intent is quite the opposite.
Likewise, I can remind him that he's not going to meet any new women to stiff arm if he doesn't get out more at night.
He was right about his quiche, a savory combination of sausage, mushrooms and cheese, admitting that he'd already earmarked half a piece for a midnight snack later tonight.
Better yet, I thought, was to earmark two pieces for later and invite someone over whom he didn't want to stiff arm.
Duh!?
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Take It Easy
So, Holmes says and the night is on.
I am curious about Dutch and Co. and he and his beloved agree to go along for the ride.
I'd tempted Holmes and Co. out to Church Hill to check out the handiwork of Aziza's former chef, whose food I'd introduced them to almost three years ago, here.
We arrive to find three bar stools empty, although they are not three adjacent bar stools.
The hostess makes an adjustment and we are seated together, not surprisingly near someone Holmes knows..
Initial impression: it looks surprisingly like the Roosevelt, right down to the ceiling and chandelier.
My small group requests Brandbourg Pinot Noir, all the more enthusiastically when we hear that its limited distribution means Dutch & Co. is one of the few local places offering it.
Who doesn't like to be exclusive? Some of us are so easily led.
SubRosa Bakery (mere blocks away) bread arrives in a napkin charmingly closed with a clothes pin stamped D & Co.
Second impression: the vibe is low-key and there is no need to be cool here.
Like we could if we tried.
Even Holmes had to admit that the vibe was terribly comfortable, demanding nothing more than admiring the tin ceiling, slurping the Pinot Noir and savoring every bite that came from the kitchen.
I couldn't resist beginning with what the kitchen called porridge.
Please, sir, more.
It was a savory/sweet concoction that involved malted barley, smoked maitake mushrooms, roasted pear, kale and almond cream.
The mushrooms are so earthy as to be like chewing dirt, a much tastier thing than it probably sounds.
As someone who eats oatmeal every day, let me just say that this porridge was the exact opposite of oatmeal.
Predominantly savory, the dish had occasional flashes of sweetness with the pear and almond cream, but mostly stuck to the savory side. Every bite delivered savory where I expected sweet, an exquisite play on my taste buds.
It didn't taste like anything else in Richmond.
Both my companions had the perfect egg (a former Aziza staple and aptly named) with cured salmon, herbs, sprouted quinoa, braised cabbage and cumin yogurt.
As Holmes pointed out, it sounds like a lot, but once you break it down, it's mighty satisfying, especially that buttery salmon.
Tonight's special was three Anderson's Neck oysters for five bones, so Holmes generously ordered oysters for everyone.
It's been a good week for tasting brine, that's all I'm saying.
After another bottle, I ordered the pork and winter squash rillette with honey-roasted nuts, pig skin cornbread, cabbage and cumin yogurt.
Creamy rillette and hot and dense cornbread were a match made in heaven.
Meanwhile, the hanger steak and smoked pork belly with celery root, persimmon, bitter greens and ginger herb sauce impressed Homes and the missus no end.
"I thought those were carrots," Holmes said of the brightly-colored persimmons.
At one point, Holmes turned to me and had to admit, "I like the relaxed vibe here. They didn't spend a million dollars redecorating and it's comfortable."
True that and the food was just as impressive as when I'd first taken them to Aziza.
For our next course, we looked at the dessert menu, deciding on the honey pot and the chocolate.
The winter's honey pot was made of warm milk, honey, pound cake, lavender ice cream, assorted citrus and candied nuts.
Holmes' beloved had spotted it before she'd even decided on dinner; it was that appealing and unique.
It arrived in a little ceramic honeypot decorated with bees. When the guy next to us ordered it, his came in a straw-colored honeypot sans bees.
I forsook the caramel waffle (for which our server gave us hell) for the chicory chocolate toffee cake with orange ginger Chantilly, candied fennel and olive oil anglaise.
By the time we finished, most of the room had cleared out and we had little desire to be the "campers" of the room.
Abandoning Church Hill, we headed back downtown for a nightcap.
By default, Tarrant's won out, offering one last glass and a couple of sassy barkeeps.
A bottle of Prosecco greased the wheels for a discussion of the 130 herbs in Green Chartreuse, reminding me of covering that topic recently with another bartender.
This one suggested we add the Green Chartreuse to our bubbly, an unlikely but totally doable combination.'
"Green Chartreuse is like Lalique glass," my comrade-in-art-history observed.
Well put, my friend, even if no one else besides me knows what you mean.
We sipped the 130 herbs in a very un-monk-like fashion, but quite appreciative of the unusual flavors.
It was almost as satisfying as finding a relaxed vibe in a trendy, new Church Hill eatery.
Fact was, I owed them one after our last meal out a few weeks ago where I'd chosen a dud and we'd all paid the price.
You ebb and you flow, my friends. It's all an experience, right?
I am curious about Dutch and Co. and he and his beloved agree to go along for the ride.
I'd tempted Holmes and Co. out to Church Hill to check out the handiwork of Aziza's former chef, whose food I'd introduced them to almost three years ago, here.
We arrive to find three bar stools empty, although they are not three adjacent bar stools.
The hostess makes an adjustment and we are seated together, not surprisingly near someone Holmes knows..
Initial impression: it looks surprisingly like the Roosevelt, right down to the ceiling and chandelier.
My small group requests Brandbourg Pinot Noir, all the more enthusiastically when we hear that its limited distribution means Dutch & Co. is one of the few local places offering it.
Who doesn't like to be exclusive? Some of us are so easily led.
SubRosa Bakery (mere blocks away) bread arrives in a napkin charmingly closed with a clothes pin stamped D & Co.
Second impression: the vibe is low-key and there is no need to be cool here.
Like we could if we tried.
Even Holmes had to admit that the vibe was terribly comfortable, demanding nothing more than admiring the tin ceiling, slurping the Pinot Noir and savoring every bite that came from the kitchen.
I couldn't resist beginning with what the kitchen called porridge.
Please, sir, more.
It was a savory/sweet concoction that involved malted barley, smoked maitake mushrooms, roasted pear, kale and almond cream.
The mushrooms are so earthy as to be like chewing dirt, a much tastier thing than it probably sounds.
As someone who eats oatmeal every day, let me just say that this porridge was the exact opposite of oatmeal.
Predominantly savory, the dish had occasional flashes of sweetness with the pear and almond cream, but mostly stuck to the savory side. Every bite delivered savory where I expected sweet, an exquisite play on my taste buds.
It didn't taste like anything else in Richmond.
Both my companions had the perfect egg (a former Aziza staple and aptly named) with cured salmon, herbs, sprouted quinoa, braised cabbage and cumin yogurt.
As Holmes pointed out, it sounds like a lot, but once you break it down, it's mighty satisfying, especially that buttery salmon.
Tonight's special was three Anderson's Neck oysters for five bones, so Holmes generously ordered oysters for everyone.
It's been a good week for tasting brine, that's all I'm saying.
After another bottle, I ordered the pork and winter squash rillette with honey-roasted nuts, pig skin cornbread, cabbage and cumin yogurt.
Creamy rillette and hot and dense cornbread were a match made in heaven.
Meanwhile, the hanger steak and smoked pork belly with celery root, persimmon, bitter greens and ginger herb sauce impressed Homes and the missus no end.
"I thought those were carrots," Holmes said of the brightly-colored persimmons.
At one point, Holmes turned to me and had to admit, "I like the relaxed vibe here. They didn't spend a million dollars redecorating and it's comfortable."
True that and the food was just as impressive as when I'd first taken them to Aziza.
For our next course, we looked at the dessert menu, deciding on the honey pot and the chocolate.
The winter's honey pot was made of warm milk, honey, pound cake, lavender ice cream, assorted citrus and candied nuts.
Holmes' beloved had spotted it before she'd even decided on dinner; it was that appealing and unique.
It arrived in a little ceramic honeypot decorated with bees. When the guy next to us ordered it, his came in a straw-colored honeypot sans bees.
I forsook the caramel waffle (for which our server gave us hell) for the chicory chocolate toffee cake with orange ginger Chantilly, candied fennel and olive oil anglaise.
By the time we finished, most of the room had cleared out and we had little desire to be the "campers" of the room.
Abandoning Church Hill, we headed back downtown for a nightcap.
By default, Tarrant's won out, offering one last glass and a couple of sassy barkeeps.
A bottle of Prosecco greased the wheels for a discussion of the 130 herbs in Green Chartreuse, reminding me of covering that topic recently with another bartender.
This one suggested we add the Green Chartreuse to our bubbly, an unlikely but totally doable combination.'
"Green Chartreuse is like Lalique glass," my comrade-in-art-history observed.
Well put, my friend, even if no one else besides me knows what you mean.
We sipped the 130 herbs in a very un-monk-like fashion, but quite appreciative of the unusual flavors.
It was almost as satisfying as finding a relaxed vibe in a trendy, new Church Hill eatery.
Fact was, I owed them one after our last meal out a few weeks ago where I'd chosen a dud and we'd all paid the price.
You ebb and you flow, my friends. It's all an experience, right?
Friday, December 21, 2012
Double Dutch Yum
'Tis the season to be indulgent.
To that end, the not-yet-open new restaurant Dutch and Co. in Church Hill was offering to-go lunches today.
While they're putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, they decided to tease Richmond with their to-go lunch program.
As a long-time fan of Acacia's very occasional to-go lunch program, I was all about it.
And while I don't usually get up much before lunchtime and Dutch & Co. was only serving from 11:30 to 1:00, it seemed worth making an adjustment for.
So while I didn't get up up until 11, all I had to do was skip my morning oatmeal and fruit to be in Church Hill by 11:40 to collect a brown box.
They were serving right out of the kitchen door onto 27th Street, making for a mix of clandestine and casual.
The guy in line behind me peered around me at the kitchen, saying, "Wow, that's a great ceiling!"
The pressed tin beauty was handsome and, as I said to him, no doubt the dining room will be even more so.
On the menu today was a triumvirate of Church Hill talent.
Meat master Chef Caleb had made sandwiches of housemade country pork pate with Brie, mustard and pickled fennel.
And get this: it was served on Sub Rosa bread, made by the talented baker Evrim a few blocks away.
With the sandwich came a savory salad of mixed greens, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts taking up half the box with its generous portion.
Dessert came courtesy of WPA Bakery, caddy-cornered from Dutch & Co., and encased in a wax-paper envelope.
It was a canele, a small French pastry with a soft center and a nice thick crust.
Yea, so for my first meal of the day, I was happily chowing down on an incredibly rich sandwich along with a mound of seasoned greens less than an hour after I woke up.
And you know what? Neither my stomach nor my body clock objected to country pate before noon.
As a matter of fact, they kind of reveled in it.
Sometimes you just need to start the day as indulgently as possible.
Once I finished, I did my usual walk through the cold, windy air, but with a feeling that the long holiday weekend had officially begun.
Once home, the phone rang and a friend who lives in Church Hill called to give me the inside scoop on a new restaurant in his neighborhood.
Picking pate out my teeth, I told him I was well aware of Dutch & Company.
He was sorry to have missed the tease of a boxed lunch.
I'm only sorry I have to wait to be indulged again by the new kids on the block.
Way to go, Church Hill.
To that end, the not-yet-open new restaurant Dutch and Co. in Church Hill was offering to-go lunches today.
While they're putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, they decided to tease Richmond with their to-go lunch program.
As a long-time fan of Acacia's very occasional to-go lunch program, I was all about it.
And while I don't usually get up much before lunchtime and Dutch & Co. was only serving from 11:30 to 1:00, it seemed worth making an adjustment for.
So while I didn't get up up until 11, all I had to do was skip my morning oatmeal and fruit to be in Church Hill by 11:40 to collect a brown box.
They were serving right out of the kitchen door onto 27th Street, making for a mix of clandestine and casual.
The guy in line behind me peered around me at the kitchen, saying, "Wow, that's a great ceiling!"
The pressed tin beauty was handsome and, as I said to him, no doubt the dining room will be even more so.
On the menu today was a triumvirate of Church Hill talent.
Meat master Chef Caleb had made sandwiches of housemade country pork pate with Brie, mustard and pickled fennel.
And get this: it was served on Sub Rosa bread, made by the talented baker Evrim a few blocks away.
With the sandwich came a savory salad of mixed greens, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts taking up half the box with its generous portion.
Dessert came courtesy of WPA Bakery, caddy-cornered from Dutch & Co., and encased in a wax-paper envelope.
It was a canele, a small French pastry with a soft center and a nice thick crust.
Yea, so for my first meal of the day, I was happily chowing down on an incredibly rich sandwich along with a mound of seasoned greens less than an hour after I woke up.
And you know what? Neither my stomach nor my body clock objected to country pate before noon.
As a matter of fact, they kind of reveled in it.
Sometimes you just need to start the day as indulgently as possible.
Once I finished, I did my usual walk through the cold, windy air, but with a feeling that the long holiday weekend had officially begun.
Once home, the phone rang and a friend who lives in Church Hill called to give me the inside scoop on a new restaurant in his neighborhood.
Picking pate out my teeth, I told him I was well aware of Dutch & Company.
He was sorry to have missed the tease of a boxed lunch.
I'm only sorry I have to wait to be indulged again by the new kids on the block.
Way to go, Church Hill.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Replacement
I gotta give Church Hill props.
My photographer friend and I had plans to meet at Proper Pie and when they weren't open, we headed a few blocks further to eat instead.
Remember when the Church Hill choices used to be A or B for lunch?
Anthony's on the Hill welcomed us in with "Papa Was a Rolling Stone," a friendly server in the most beautiful red lipstick and a lunch menu of sandwiches, salads and pizza.
Everyone else eating there was male and seemed to be going for pizza.
Friends and I took the front window table just in time to see a guy walking a beagle go by, so the view was good.
The front door of the restaurant is so heavily weather-stripped that it took a concerted effort to close it, which most people coming and going didn't bother to do.
Every time I felt that cold, damp air across my fuchsia legs, I'd dutifully get up and close the door properly.
I didn't mind; it was worth it for the warmth (which Friend was getting from his Rostov's coffee, or as he out it, "Adding some blood to the coffee in my veins").
Looking at the menu, Friend and I decided we wanted the same thing: the Italian.
Only difference was he wanted his hot and I wanted mine cold.
The way I see it, an Italian is enough without adding in heat, too.
I liked that the sandwiches came with a small salad dressed in balsamic, although my friend found it unimpressive.
The sandwiches, though, were excellent - full of quality cold cuts, roasted red pepper and a generous serving of Provolone.
As we sat there eating, more customers came in and left the door open.
When I went to get up to close it, I felt a hand on my shoulder and the owner insisted that he'd take care of it.
I was too full for dessert, but Friend couldn't resist the cannoli and even offered me a bite as we sat there lingering over a fine lunch.
Then the beagle and his person returned and I headed outside to say hello to Townes, a velvety soft beagle who seemed to be enjoying the rainy day.
When I got back to the table, my friend said that Townes had looked longingly at me when I walked away.
It's good to be missed.
And sometimes it's good to miss out on your first choice when the replacement turns out to be so pleasurable.
Props, Anthony.
My photographer friend and I had plans to meet at Proper Pie and when they weren't open, we headed a few blocks further to eat instead.
Remember when the Church Hill choices used to be A or B for lunch?
Anthony's on the Hill welcomed us in with "Papa Was a Rolling Stone," a friendly server in the most beautiful red lipstick and a lunch menu of sandwiches, salads and pizza.
Everyone else eating there was male and seemed to be going for pizza.
Friends and I took the front window table just in time to see a guy walking a beagle go by, so the view was good.
The front door of the restaurant is so heavily weather-stripped that it took a concerted effort to close it, which most people coming and going didn't bother to do.
Every time I felt that cold, damp air across my fuchsia legs, I'd dutifully get up and close the door properly.
I didn't mind; it was worth it for the warmth (which Friend was getting from his Rostov's coffee, or as he out it, "Adding some blood to the coffee in my veins").
Looking at the menu, Friend and I decided we wanted the same thing: the Italian.
Only difference was he wanted his hot and I wanted mine cold.
The way I see it, an Italian is enough without adding in heat, too.
I liked that the sandwiches came with a small salad dressed in balsamic, although my friend found it unimpressive.
The sandwiches, though, were excellent - full of quality cold cuts, roasted red pepper and a generous serving of Provolone.
As we sat there eating, more customers came in and left the door open.
When I went to get up to close it, I felt a hand on my shoulder and the owner insisted that he'd take care of it.
I was too full for dessert, but Friend couldn't resist the cannoli and even offered me a bite as we sat there lingering over a fine lunch.
Then the beagle and his person returned and I headed outside to say hello to Townes, a velvety soft beagle who seemed to be enjoying the rainy day.
When I got back to the table, my friend said that Townes had looked longingly at me when I walked away.
It's good to be missed.
And sometimes it's good to miss out on your first choice when the replacement turns out to be so pleasurable.
Props, Anthony.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
As Good as Instanbul
It takes a lot to get me somewhere by 11:00 on a Saturday morning.
A new bakery can do it.
WPA (Well-Made Pastry Alliance) Bakery in Church Hill was doing their trial run for coffee and pastries, so I joined the detoured throngs trying to wind their way around the marathon.
What felt like hours later (damn marathoners!), I finally got up to the hill.
I'd been in the space before when it was House of Homemades. but it's far more charming now that baker David will be beating and folding there.
Ipanema and Garnett's have long been my go-to dessert spots thanks to David's oven magic.
And now he has his own place so I can get his goodies all day, every day.
A bakery case greets you when you walk in and the wall is lined with tables and chairs.
There's a rolling pin rack on the back wall.
A red chandelier hangs over the counter and WPA-era posters abound.
Some are reproductions - "Eat fruit, Be healthy!" and some had been re-imagined by baker and artist David - "Save Your Eyes, Use Your Pie Goggles."
My favorite? "Simplicity is the key to successful living."
Spread out for the public to taste were an array of David's baked goodies.
I had the blackberry muffins full of plump berries and the sticky buns, notable in that they were not disgustingly sweet like so many sticky buns are.
The buttermilk pie with blueberry sauce came highly recommended from a neighborhood guy who chatted me up.
"This reminds me of the pastries I had in Istanbul," he shared as he ate.
Clearly I looked like someone who likes discussing foreign pastry.
"There are bakeries on every block in Istanbul," he continued. "When I was there, I ate pastries five times a day. I gained twelve pounds in a week and a half. Turkish bakeries are the best. You could go there just for the pastry and ignore what a cosmopolitan city it is."
It's satisfying to know that I can be recognized by a stranger for the pastry lover that I am.
Even better, to get reinforcement that my simple life is what makes me successful.
At least that's how I feel when I have my pie goggles on.
A new bakery can do it.
WPA (Well-Made Pastry Alliance) Bakery in Church Hill was doing their trial run for coffee and pastries, so I joined the detoured throngs trying to wind their way around the marathon.
What felt like hours later (damn marathoners!), I finally got up to the hill.
I'd been in the space before when it was House of Homemades. but it's far more charming now that baker David will be beating and folding there.
Ipanema and Garnett's have long been my go-to dessert spots thanks to David's oven magic.
And now he has his own place so I can get his goodies all day, every day.
A bakery case greets you when you walk in and the wall is lined with tables and chairs.
There's a rolling pin rack on the back wall.
A red chandelier hangs over the counter and WPA-era posters abound.
Some are reproductions - "Eat fruit, Be healthy!" and some had been re-imagined by baker and artist David - "Save Your Eyes, Use Your Pie Goggles."
My favorite? "Simplicity is the key to successful living."
Spread out for the public to taste were an array of David's baked goodies.
I had the blackberry muffins full of plump berries and the sticky buns, notable in that they were not disgustingly sweet like so many sticky buns are.
The buttermilk pie with blueberry sauce came highly recommended from a neighborhood guy who chatted me up.
"This reminds me of the pastries I had in Istanbul," he shared as he ate.
Clearly I looked like someone who likes discussing foreign pastry.
"There are bakeries on every block in Istanbul," he continued. "When I was there, I ate pastries five times a day. I gained twelve pounds in a week and a half. Turkish bakeries are the best. You could go there just for the pastry and ignore what a cosmopolitan city it is."
It's satisfying to know that I can be recognized by a stranger for the pastry lover that I am.
Even better, to get reinforcement that my simple life is what makes me successful.
At least that's how I feel when I have my pie goggles on.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Tales of Romance at Cucina
It's embarrassing how little I know of getting around in Church Hill.
Sure, I can get to the Roosevelt or Alamo, but that's about it.
So when a friend suggested lunch at a new place on the Hill, his neighborhood now since a recent move, I had to call (gasp!) him to get the specifics of getting there.
And, yes, I know it's barely two and a half miles from home.
But with exacting directions, I was able to find his new digs and we sat on his front porch while he drank his life-giving coffee wearing a hat that said, "Bartenders are gods."
Once properly caffeinated, the god and I made our way to Street Deli.
The charming little spot got high points right away for its cool, stone floor and tables laden with goodies like homemade coconut and chocolate cake.
As an enormous catering order was being loaded into a van, we ordered our lunch.
I couldn't resist the albacore tuna stuffed Hanover tomato (although it arrived minus the billed pesto cheese tortellini) and my friend got a turkey pesto panini.
While our food was being concocted, we went outside to the little patio area next door.
Technically, it doesn't belong to the owners, but their next-door neighbor (and landlord) cleared a space for al fresco dining.
The little enclosed area was winsome, with clay pots, an old tire-less scooter acting as outdoor sculpture and all kinds of blooming plants scattered around.
As we sat there eating our food, dog walkers from the nearby pet sitting service strolled by and people trickled in and out of the deli.
Over triple chocolate cake, Friend and I traded stories of the pleasures and pitfalls of dating at our age, citing how both good and bad traits are more firmly entrenched in a person.
I shared how I had once been informed that I was in a romance (unbeknownst to me) and he threw his head back laughing at me.
No big deal, because we've been friends long enough that he has a right to laugh at me when I'm that dense.
I'm just glad that he's found someone to appreciate his great qualities: perseverance, humor and a willingness to be open to whatever comes along.
His hat got it wrong.
It's smart, thoughtful men of a certain age who are gods.
But then who's going to put that on a hat?
Sure, I can get to the Roosevelt or Alamo, but that's about it.
So when a friend suggested lunch at a new place on the Hill, his neighborhood now since a recent move, I had to call (gasp!) him to get the specifics of getting there.
And, yes, I know it's barely two and a half miles from home.
But with exacting directions, I was able to find his new digs and we sat on his front porch while he drank his life-giving coffee wearing a hat that said, "Bartenders are gods."
Once properly caffeinated, the god and I made our way to Street Deli.
The charming little spot got high points right away for its cool, stone floor and tables laden with goodies like homemade coconut and chocolate cake.
As an enormous catering order was being loaded into a van, we ordered our lunch.
I couldn't resist the albacore tuna stuffed Hanover tomato (although it arrived minus the billed pesto cheese tortellini) and my friend got a turkey pesto panini.
While our food was being concocted, we went outside to the little patio area next door.
Technically, it doesn't belong to the owners, but their next-door neighbor (and landlord) cleared a space for al fresco dining.
The little enclosed area was winsome, with clay pots, an old tire-less scooter acting as outdoor sculpture and all kinds of blooming plants scattered around.
As we sat there eating our food, dog walkers from the nearby pet sitting service strolled by and people trickled in and out of the deli.
Over triple chocolate cake, Friend and I traded stories of the pleasures and pitfalls of dating at our age, citing how both good and bad traits are more firmly entrenched in a person.
I shared how I had once been informed that I was in a romance (unbeknownst to me) and he threw his head back laughing at me.
No big deal, because we've been friends long enough that he has a right to laugh at me when I'm that dense.
I'm just glad that he's found someone to appreciate his great qualities: perseverance, humor and a willingness to be open to whatever comes along.
His hat got it wrong.
It's smart, thoughtful men of a certain age who are gods.
But then who's going to put that on a hat?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Tastier Than a Laundromat
I'm a big fan of the neighborhood market and even more so when it includes freshly-made food.
My regular Monday lunch buddy and I made our second attempt at House of Homemade today after they'd been closed for a catering gig when last we tried.
The new Church Hill spot is adorable, offering limited essentials for nearby residents, but it's a thoughtful inventory.
The eggs are local (22 miles) and brown. Two varieties of tomatoes were available, along with potatoes and local greens.
Milk, organic oatmeal and peanut butter (breakfast and lunch!), Flour Garden breads, and Tall Bike Coffee, both beans and prepared are for sale.
But we were there to eat from the small but appealing menu.
The Renaissance sandwich was homemade curried chicken salad with raisins, toasted almonds, field greens and cilantro on a multi-grain bread.
Its curry flavor was perfect: subtly spicy with enough sweetness from the raisins for a nice contrast.
With it, we got a quarter pound of one of their four prepared salads to share. The garbanzo-lime salad was a definite winner too, with bits of red pepper and onion.
We devoured our meal at one of the two tables in the big front window of the place, watching as Hill residents jogged and strolled by.
For dessert, we chose a dark chocolate cupcake with orange cream icing and although the cake was a tad on the dry side (it was just after the weekend, though), the orange cream icing was out of this world.
It didn't hurt that it came with a big hunk of dark chocolate sticking out of it, either.
We asked what the space used to be and learned it was a laundromat and, long ago, a diner (perfect, I thought).
Back when it was a laundromat with no change machine, customers knew to go to the house across the street for change.
If you yelled up, an upper floor resident would lower a bucket on a rope, you'd put your bills in and he'd send down quarters.
I wanted to know if he took a cut, but the counter girl today didn't know for sure.
It only makes sense. Operational costs and all.
After a satisfying lunch and agreeing that we'll be back, Friend and I braved the VCU campus for the Libraries Book Sale, my first time scrounging their stacks.
I've been getting queasy lately because I am on the last book of my former stack.
Not having more books at the ready makes a devoted reader question the meaning of life.
And while I've still got 500 pages to go in Arthur Miller's autobiography, it'll be a less anxious read knowing I have others waiting in the wings.
We had no problem finding a parking space, but it limited us to a mere hour.
And there was so much to look through! I spent so much time looking at albums that when our time ran out, I'd only found two books.
Biographies of George S. Kaufman and Noel Coward should up my theatrical literacy, but they're not nearly enough to ease my book stack unrest.
Fortunately, the sale runs through Friday. And next time I'll walk so time won't be an issue.
Stack anxiety makes a smart girl plan ahead.
My regular Monday lunch buddy and I made our second attempt at House of Homemade today after they'd been closed for a catering gig when last we tried.
The new Church Hill spot is adorable, offering limited essentials for nearby residents, but it's a thoughtful inventory.
The eggs are local (22 miles) and brown. Two varieties of tomatoes were available, along with potatoes and local greens.
Milk, organic oatmeal and peanut butter (breakfast and lunch!), Flour Garden breads, and Tall Bike Coffee, both beans and prepared are for sale.
But we were there to eat from the small but appealing menu.
The Renaissance sandwich was homemade curried chicken salad with raisins, toasted almonds, field greens and cilantro on a multi-grain bread.
Its curry flavor was perfect: subtly spicy with enough sweetness from the raisins for a nice contrast.
With it, we got a quarter pound of one of their four prepared salads to share. The garbanzo-lime salad was a definite winner too, with bits of red pepper and onion.
We devoured our meal at one of the two tables in the big front window of the place, watching as Hill residents jogged and strolled by.
For dessert, we chose a dark chocolate cupcake with orange cream icing and although the cake was a tad on the dry side (it was just after the weekend, though), the orange cream icing was out of this world.
It didn't hurt that it came with a big hunk of dark chocolate sticking out of it, either.
We asked what the space used to be and learned it was a laundromat and, long ago, a diner (perfect, I thought).
Back when it was a laundromat with no change machine, customers knew to go to the house across the street for change.
If you yelled up, an upper floor resident would lower a bucket on a rope, you'd put your bills in and he'd send down quarters.
I wanted to know if he took a cut, but the counter girl today didn't know for sure.
It only makes sense. Operational costs and all.
After a satisfying lunch and agreeing that we'll be back, Friend and I braved the VCU campus for the Libraries Book Sale, my first time scrounging their stacks.
I've been getting queasy lately because I am on the last book of my former stack.
Not having more books at the ready makes a devoted reader question the meaning of life.
And while I've still got 500 pages to go in Arthur Miller's autobiography, it'll be a less anxious read knowing I have others waiting in the wings.
We had no problem finding a parking space, but it limited us to a mere hour.
And there was so much to look through! I spent so much time looking at albums that when our time ran out, I'd only found two books.
Biographies of George S. Kaufman and Noel Coward should up my theatrical literacy, but they're not nearly enough to ease my book stack unrest.
Fortunately, the sale runs through Friday. And next time I'll walk so time won't be an issue.
Stack anxiety makes a smart girl plan ahead.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Sticky Fingers
When my Church Hill-living friends rave about their neighborhood, I nod.
And then there's the but...
My passion for Jackson Ward aside, I couldn't live in a neighborhood with so few restaurants.
And yet after last night's kick-ass meal at the Roosevelt, I was right back on the Hill for lunch today at OMG Cafe.
And frankly, OMG. The menu was well-priced, with everything from a bologna burger to curry chicken with palm-rolled dumplings and steamed cabbage.
Tempting as they both were, I went straight for the OMG chicken and waffle with blueberries, as did my friend.
I figured they must be good because the mother and two sons at the next table had all ordered them, too.
When the youngest boy's plate was delivered before his mother's, he wasted no time in folding his hands and saying grace, not about to wait for her food to arrive to dig into his own.
His t-shirt said "Blame My Sister" but I'd be inclined to blame the chicken and waffles.
My friend and I both liked the sleek interior with its ten-seat bar, four high two-tops and back table done in green, silver and black.
I was especially enamored of the music which began with Marsha Ambrosius' soulful song stylings and segued into Evelyn "Champagne" King.
There is a particular high unlike any other when you are eating fried chicken with your syrup-sticky fingers and "Love Come Down" comes on the sound system at just the right volume.
My friend's grin was as satisfied as mine. "I haven't heard this song in forever," he agreed.
OMG, now I want to go back and order the lake trout sandwich and see what comes on the stereo with that.
And then there's the but...
My passion for Jackson Ward aside, I couldn't live in a neighborhood with so few restaurants.
And yet after last night's kick-ass meal at the Roosevelt, I was right back on the Hill for lunch today at OMG Cafe.
And frankly, OMG. The menu was well-priced, with everything from a bologna burger to curry chicken with palm-rolled dumplings and steamed cabbage.
Tempting as they both were, I went straight for the OMG chicken and waffle with blueberries, as did my friend.
I figured they must be good because the mother and two sons at the next table had all ordered them, too.
When the youngest boy's plate was delivered before his mother's, he wasted no time in folding his hands and saying grace, not about to wait for her food to arrive to dig into his own.
His t-shirt said "Blame My Sister" but I'd be inclined to blame the chicken and waffles.
My friend and I both liked the sleek interior with its ten-seat bar, four high two-tops and back table done in green, silver and black.
I was especially enamored of the music which began with Marsha Ambrosius' soulful song stylings and segued into Evelyn "Champagne" King.
There is a particular high unlike any other when you are eating fried chicken with your syrup-sticky fingers and "Love Come Down" comes on the sound system at just the right volume.
My friend's grin was as satisfied as mine. "I haven't heard this song in forever," he agreed.
OMG, now I want to go back and order the lake trout sandwich and see what comes on the stereo with that.
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