It's a pretty terrific lunch that makes people change their evening plans.
Unlike last year, I hadn't bothered with Fire, Flour and Fork at all this time around. That is, at least until today's irresistible lunch, poetically dubbed the 100 Meter Journey.
Unlike some people there, I immediately got the reference, having seen the film "The Hundred Foot Journey" last September at the Bowtie.
So I knew about the story of an Indian family (and their talented son who cooks) having to flee their home and restaurant due to political unrest before landing in France to open a restaurant, hilariously named Maison Mumbai, across the street from a one Michelin star French restaurant run by the imperious Helen Mirren.
I recall fondly that there were two romances, the young (attractive and earnest Indian chef and bike-riding French sous chef) and old (uptight French widow and garrulous Indian widower) to remind us that food and love go hand in hand. The lesson? Fine cuisine is not an old, tired marriage but a passionate affair.
The upshot of the movie was simple: food is memories.
So when I saw that Amour Wine Bistro and Curry Craft were combining forces for this 100 meter journey as part of FFF, I wanted some of that passion.
Arriving as a singleton guaranteed that I'd be seated with whomever had room for me, which negated any chance of sitting with any of the people I saw and knew.
Fortunately, though, it landed me at a table with familiar faces, two handsome guys I've repeatedly met around town at wine dinners and restaurants, where they welcomed me in. Another stray joined us and we were four.
I knew from past encounters how much fun these two can be, as evidenced by their favorite parlor game when at Lemaire. It's called "Wife, daughter, hooker?" and they play it any time they see a younger woman with an older man at the Jefferson.
Good times.
Today's journey began humorously with Kir Royals and Amour's French owner Paul welcoming us to, "Fi - ah - I hate that word - fi-ah, flour, whatever it is!"
Whatever it was, we were about to find out.
Our first course of shrimp and grits "Pondicherry," which was Curry Craft's chef Mel Oza's sassy take on the southern staple, set a high bar for the rest of the meal. Using upma with aromatic spices instead of grits, he'd created a fresh take on a ubiquitous standard.
Savoring it with Cave de Beblenheim Heimberger Pinot Blanc, I polished it off right down to the tasty nasturtium leaves adorning the plate.
My table companions had already been to multiple FFF events and proceeded to regale me with details about them, both food and people-wise. Someone mentioned that at the afterparty at Pasture last night, the chef had roasted a whole pig.
"That's right up Jason's alley," one of the guys commented, not realizing until the words came out his own cleverness given that Jason's last name is Alley. Hearing about the dinner at L'Opossum, I wasn't the least surprised to hear of the giant statue of David on the roof or the marquee name guest.
But all conversation ceased when cups of French onion consomme arrived, a crusty circle of a giant crouton atop each one and paired with another Beblenheim, this time a lovely, dry Riesling that set off the savory soup to perfection.
The last few spoonfuls of Chef Rob's soup-soaked bread were nothing short of sublime.
We were knee-deep in conversation about eating out habits - trying new places versus craving familiar favorites - when cordial glasses of Calvados sorbet arrived, fetchingly garnished with apple slices. Our table must have been very, very good because we each got two.
Okay, so they actually had a few left over and we were happy to sip more Calvados.
Sadly then, one in our group had to leave (prior engagement involving flowers), reducing us to a trio, but the loss was his.
The room was considerably louder by that point, no doubt due to several rounds of wine but also, maybe, because it was a gloomy, gray day outside and we were all comfortably ensconced inside with this parade of French and Indian-influenced food to keep us happily occupied.
Familiar faces continued to stop by my table on their path to the bathrooms, spurring discussions of thrift store dresses (hers and mine), over-priced oysters and why it's easy to skip certain restaurants.
Slow-roasted salmon with Allepy spices melted in our mouths (was that a hint of Pernod?) but just as gorgeous were the accompanying root vegetables - radishes, leeks, local carrots -and the decadent cardamom-ginger emulsion they were swimming in, washed down with Jean Sablenay Touraine Sauvignon Blanc, a seductive sipper.
By this point, we were probably three hours into our lunch and had already learned that chefs are terrible with microphones.
As we began each course, the chef who'd prepared it (Rob of Amour or Mel of Curry Craft) would talk about the dish, barely speaking into the mic and completely unintelligible from our perch in the back. But Paul, the former DJ, was a master with the mic talking about the wine pairings, projecting his voice to the rafters, even to us.
Cue disco ball. Some jobs just require an experienced DJ.
Our first red wine, Chateau Michel de Montaigne Bergerac 2012, delivered black fruit and spice, an ideal pairing for beef bourguignon with a veal demi-glace and the most adorable miniature fresh vegetables I've ever seen, truly tiny.
It was about then that my seatmate looked at his watch, wondered aloud about making his flight to Texas tonight and made an executive decision to reschedule.
For that matter, I was starting to reevaluate my own plans to go out tonight. It was already obvious that it would be well after 5:00 when this lunch finally wound down, so perhaps I should reconsider 6:00 plans.
After all, we hadn't seen the dessert cart - more lyrically labeled "le chariot de desserts" - go by yet and this Cremant d'Alsace wasn't going to drink itself.
On the cart's first pass, we snagged Lilliputian chocolate sea salt caramel creme brulees and what resembled chocolate bar bells: dark chocolate covered coconut sorbet and chocolate-covered marshmallows connected by a wooden skewer.
As owner Paul put it, "If you don't like chocolate, you're in trouble." I was in the opposite of trouble.
On the cart's next trip by, we got Chef Mel's take on a sweet course, which included rice pudding and got us talking about what an old-fashioned dessert it was.
"In my family, on Fridays, we used to have steak, Cold Duck and rice pudding," my seatmate recalled fondly. "When I got a little older, they even gave me some Cold Duck." Some parents can be so cruel.
The point of his stroll down Memory Lane? "I want my rice pudding," he announced and, let's face it, that's not something you hear every day.
And of course Chef Mel hadn't made a lackluster rice pudding. No, this one had Indian spices blended in and a compote of figs, pistachios, cardamom and red wine surrounding it. Fabulous and, I'm willing to bet, as far removed from my new friend's childhood rice pudding as imaginable.
We also had little ramekins of kulfi flavored with cacao, chilis and rose petals, a beautifully balanced marriage of unlikely flavors that ended lunch on a high note.
By this time, Paul and Mel were cracking wise about their inspiration for the lunch, joking that in lieu of flying in an Indian chef for FFF, Paul had brought in Mel from east Carytown's Indian neighborhood two blocks away.
I've heard it said that fine cuisine is a passionate affair, not an old, tired marriage. Today's lunch ably demonstrated that some people can go at it for five straight hours and keep things exciting.
And if you don't like that kind of action, my friend, you're in trouble.
Showing posts with label curry craft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label curry craft. Show all posts
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Evening as a Work of Art
For better or for worse, I have a tendency to romanticize.
So I can be completely carried away by something as simple as watching what is most likely the last moonflower of 2015 opening on my porch last night. I feel somehow wistful and anticipatory about having to wait another eight months to see one of those big, white blossoms unfurl itself right in front of my eyes.
And smells! It's rare I pass a blooming gardenia or rose bush without stopping to inhale its perfume, which manages to evoke a sense of gentleman callers on soft, summer nights, even though that's obviously never been my experience.
So naturally I am sucked in by an event called "Richmond As a Work of Art," a panel discussion at the Depot on Broad Street, about the city.
Because I absolutely do see this city as a work of art.
Since I'd never been upstairs at the Depot, I was clueless that the exact spot where I was sitting was the point at which the Ashland train would board and unload passengers on the loading platforms on either side. Nor was I aware of the existence of a viaduct that extended from that platform out the back and over Carver to Brook Road.
Truth be told, I find the notion of a train traveling over a neighborhood kind of romantic. You see my problem?
It took a good quarter of an hour for the moderator to get the ball rolling, so I used the time to catch up with an old friend who'd come in just behind me. Finally, we started.
"I'd like to achieve a Republican debate format without the..." the moderator said, trailing off. "Republicans?" my friend joked.
"The hair," Ms. Moderator finished and began the slide show. Explaining that Richmond was built on a grid, she made a case for it being a superior grid to Philadelphia's because ours isn't built around a central point. And then there's the matter of adapting a grid to Richmond's unique terrain.
I give her credit, she'd assembled a terrific panel: Bill Martin of the Valentine, mural artist Ed Trask, architecture critic Ed Slipek, architect Burt Pinnock of Baskerville and, perhaps most surprisingly, Dimitra Tsachrelia, an associate of the NYC firm that's designing the Institute for Contemporary Art a few blocks away.
After Ed Trask made a plea for bringing the viaduct back, Bill harshed his mellow by insisting that we not romanticize the building we were in. The front doors to this very building, he told us, had once been labeled "Whites" and "Coloreds," hardly a romantic memory.
Dimitra, whose honeyed Greek-accented voice had everyone leaning in to hear her pearls of architectural wisdom, had done her homework, learning that on the site of the ICA once stood a train station. She made an analogy about the new building welcoming arrivals just as the old one had.
From Burt, we heard about the renovations of the old armory into the Black History Museum, a project just a few blocks from my house. He also spoke passionately about developing a memorial at the Lumpkin's jail site, preferably a raised pavilion (100 year flood plain and all) that allows sight lines to the ongoing archaeological dig.
Mostly, they all discussed the aspirational nature of building for the future, even when you're building to memorialize people and events of the past and what a lengthy process that's traditionally been. Bill pointed out that it's always the elite few who decide what buildings will look like, not a consensus of citizens.
News to me: the main library is a building wrapped around the original building, a feat praised by the moderator, and one of which I'd been completely unaware. Not that long ago, a friend had lamented the loss of the beautiful Art Deco library when the new one was built in the '70s, and now I wonder if she knows that her beloved library lives on inside those dated-looking walls.
Kind of romantic, right, that older library just inside a newer facade? Or hearing about the city's buildings while sitting on a former train platform, looking out enormous windows where a viaduct once soared over houses?
Okay, maybe it's just me.
Black Iris was hosting Play/Things, a performance by Leslie Rogers and Nelly Kate, pulling from the gallery installation based on their cross country trip this summer, which I'd seen a few weeks ago.
The only problem? The invitation asked that we "joyously abandon romantic notions of journey and catharsis." What? Give up my notions?
Instead, we were asked to revel in the unearthing and production of art, life and mischief, aka performance art, with Nelly doing music for Leslie.
Words can't adequately convey the ruminations on the 9,000-mile journey the two women took, but let's just say it involved apologies - for potholes, for butt holes, for Santa and Santana - from behind an American flag with six silver stars, commentary about older men ogling the two of them showering outside in St. Augustine and the saga of a farmer and closet quilter, a man who took credit for many quilting practices even though he hadn't really conceived of them.
At one point, Leslie went behind a quilt she'd made in a workshop at a Nebraska museum and stripped off her clothes, replacing them with a body stocking complete with penis, a cop jacket and hat and making remarks about police policy ("Did you get your feelings hurt? Shoot. Did they get up again? Shoot." Scary, all of it.).
The piece ended with that character laying down on the map of the U.S. and pulling the American flag up over her. She laid there so long the audience wasn't sure whether to clap or not. Was the performance over? We'll never know because Black Iris started the applause and then people got up to leave.
What can you do after having your mind stimulated with musings on consumerism, feminism and nationalism but seek out food, wine and conversation? Some things call out to be shared.
The first thing I found on arriving in Carytown was a 12-piece brass band playing in front of Mongrel to an enthusiastic crowd. The band members looked young but their sound was fully formed and before long, people were dancing and applauding on the sidewalk.
I found what I was looking for at Curry Craft where I also stumbled into a favorite couple I'd not seen in months. Guilt was induced, hugs were offered and we were soon making plans for lunch and soft openings.
Sipping a Rose made from the mencia grape, I dug into pondicherry escargots, a fantastic hybrid of French and Indian featuring escargots made irresistible with pondi spices and tamarind peanut ketchup, sopping up the ketchup with garlic naan smeared with goat cheese.
It was fusion of the very best kind, enjoyed to a pulsing Bollywood beat and with friends and chef to talk to. I lost them early to the ravages of their last night's 3 a.m. bedtime (amateurs!) but made friends with a Russian (made all the more surprising because the girlfriend who'd just left was from Ukraine) and a girl who invited me to join her for a drink at Portrait House (her boyfriend having gone home tipsy to spoon with the dog).
Fortunately, they left me an excellent conversationalist with whom I could sip Rose, discuss offal and timid diners and finish out my night laughing.
I'm not romanticizing it, but I certainly enjoyed every minute of it.
So I can be completely carried away by something as simple as watching what is most likely the last moonflower of 2015 opening on my porch last night. I feel somehow wistful and anticipatory about having to wait another eight months to see one of those big, white blossoms unfurl itself right in front of my eyes.
And smells! It's rare I pass a blooming gardenia or rose bush without stopping to inhale its perfume, which manages to evoke a sense of gentleman callers on soft, summer nights, even though that's obviously never been my experience.
So naturally I am sucked in by an event called "Richmond As a Work of Art," a panel discussion at the Depot on Broad Street, about the city.
Because I absolutely do see this city as a work of art.
Since I'd never been upstairs at the Depot, I was clueless that the exact spot where I was sitting was the point at which the Ashland train would board and unload passengers on the loading platforms on either side. Nor was I aware of the existence of a viaduct that extended from that platform out the back and over Carver to Brook Road.
Truth be told, I find the notion of a train traveling over a neighborhood kind of romantic. You see my problem?
It took a good quarter of an hour for the moderator to get the ball rolling, so I used the time to catch up with an old friend who'd come in just behind me. Finally, we started.
"I'd like to achieve a Republican debate format without the..." the moderator said, trailing off. "Republicans?" my friend joked.
"The hair," Ms. Moderator finished and began the slide show. Explaining that Richmond was built on a grid, she made a case for it being a superior grid to Philadelphia's because ours isn't built around a central point. And then there's the matter of adapting a grid to Richmond's unique terrain.
I give her credit, she'd assembled a terrific panel: Bill Martin of the Valentine, mural artist Ed Trask, architecture critic Ed Slipek, architect Burt Pinnock of Baskerville and, perhaps most surprisingly, Dimitra Tsachrelia, an associate of the NYC firm that's designing the Institute for Contemporary Art a few blocks away.
After Ed Trask made a plea for bringing the viaduct back, Bill harshed his mellow by insisting that we not romanticize the building we were in. The front doors to this very building, he told us, had once been labeled "Whites" and "Coloreds," hardly a romantic memory.
Dimitra, whose honeyed Greek-accented voice had everyone leaning in to hear her pearls of architectural wisdom, had done her homework, learning that on the site of the ICA once stood a train station. She made an analogy about the new building welcoming arrivals just as the old one had.
From Burt, we heard about the renovations of the old armory into the Black History Museum, a project just a few blocks from my house. He also spoke passionately about developing a memorial at the Lumpkin's jail site, preferably a raised pavilion (100 year flood plain and all) that allows sight lines to the ongoing archaeological dig.
Mostly, they all discussed the aspirational nature of building for the future, even when you're building to memorialize people and events of the past and what a lengthy process that's traditionally been. Bill pointed out that it's always the elite few who decide what buildings will look like, not a consensus of citizens.
News to me: the main library is a building wrapped around the original building, a feat praised by the moderator, and one of which I'd been completely unaware. Not that long ago, a friend had lamented the loss of the beautiful Art Deco library when the new one was built in the '70s, and now I wonder if she knows that her beloved library lives on inside those dated-looking walls.
Kind of romantic, right, that older library just inside a newer facade? Or hearing about the city's buildings while sitting on a former train platform, looking out enormous windows where a viaduct once soared over houses?
Okay, maybe it's just me.
Black Iris was hosting Play/Things, a performance by Leslie Rogers and Nelly Kate, pulling from the gallery installation based on their cross country trip this summer, which I'd seen a few weeks ago.
The only problem? The invitation asked that we "joyously abandon romantic notions of journey and catharsis." What? Give up my notions?
Instead, we were asked to revel in the unearthing and production of art, life and mischief, aka performance art, with Nelly doing music for Leslie.
Words can't adequately convey the ruminations on the 9,000-mile journey the two women took, but let's just say it involved apologies - for potholes, for butt holes, for Santa and Santana - from behind an American flag with six silver stars, commentary about older men ogling the two of them showering outside in St. Augustine and the saga of a farmer and closet quilter, a man who took credit for many quilting practices even though he hadn't really conceived of them.
At one point, Leslie went behind a quilt she'd made in a workshop at a Nebraska museum and stripped off her clothes, replacing them with a body stocking complete with penis, a cop jacket and hat and making remarks about police policy ("Did you get your feelings hurt? Shoot. Did they get up again? Shoot." Scary, all of it.).
The piece ended with that character laying down on the map of the U.S. and pulling the American flag up over her. She laid there so long the audience wasn't sure whether to clap or not. Was the performance over? We'll never know because Black Iris started the applause and then people got up to leave.
What can you do after having your mind stimulated with musings on consumerism, feminism and nationalism but seek out food, wine and conversation? Some things call out to be shared.
The first thing I found on arriving in Carytown was a 12-piece brass band playing in front of Mongrel to an enthusiastic crowd. The band members looked young but their sound was fully formed and before long, people were dancing and applauding on the sidewalk.
I found what I was looking for at Curry Craft where I also stumbled into a favorite couple I'd not seen in months. Guilt was induced, hugs were offered and we were soon making plans for lunch and soft openings.
Sipping a Rose made from the mencia grape, I dug into pondicherry escargots, a fantastic hybrid of French and Indian featuring escargots made irresistible with pondi spices and tamarind peanut ketchup, sopping up the ketchup with garlic naan smeared with goat cheese.
It was fusion of the very best kind, enjoyed to a pulsing Bollywood beat and with friends and chef to talk to. I lost them early to the ravages of their last night's 3 a.m. bedtime (amateurs!) but made friends with a Russian (made all the more surprising because the girlfriend who'd just left was from Ukraine) and a girl who invited me to join her for a drink at Portrait House (her boyfriend having gone home tipsy to spoon with the dog).
Fortunately, they left me an excellent conversationalist with whom I could sip Rose, discuss offal and timid diners and finish out my night laughing.
I'm not romanticizing it, but I certainly enjoyed every minute of it.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Curry and Crumpets
You could say the food was as unexpected as the history lesson.
Tonight the beer-centric Cask was allowing Chef Mel from Curry Craft to turn their former garage space for the beer-inclined into Curry Cask, a one-night Indian experience. Call it what you want, it was a pop-up.
With a fellow curry fan in tow, we arrived after the bar had been filled but while tables still sat empty waiting for eager mouths. Oh, sure, the big table was already occupied with a bunch of guys deep in their beer discussion (peach ale versus Budweiser, no doubt), but they were mere window-dressing for the place.
Ignoring the blackboards touting their vast beer selection, we opted for a bottle of Hugl Gruner Veltliner to accompany our meal. The menu was simple with an appetizer and two entrees, and with the smell of cardamom scenting the air, we ordered them all.
Our server, a veteran I recognized from any number of past serving positions, warned us that the kitchen (including one guy whose t-shirt read, "I am your enemy") was rockin' it and food was likely to come out all at once, bam! style.
We might have gotten through one glass each before the plates began showing up, first a Bombay masala porker starring Sausagecraft's habanero pork sausage with tamarind-chili-cumin glaze and Bombay slaw, a stellar Indian take on a very Virginia standard (pig and slaw) that got our mouths ready for more.
Our next two plates followed almost immediately, their poppadom sitting aloft like windblown sails on a boat. One was garam masala-scented market vegetable curry over basmati rice and the other a traditional chicken tikka masala.
Their aromas were tantalizing and because Mel had made them, perfectly seasoned with nice, big chunks of vegetables in one and an abundance of chicken in the other. We had no problem trading plates and taking them down to licked-clean plates.
While we did, enjoying them immensely with the Gruner Veltliner, a nine-top that included four young children with sodas took up residence next to us. It made me wonder, what happened to to the good old days when babysitters watched kids while Mom and Dad went to adult places like beer joints without them? Would it be too much to start a movement for adults-only pop-ups?
Instead, we took the path of least resistance, getting the check and heading out to a movie at the Westhampton since that won't be possible much longer now that the building has been sold.
Besides its classic movie palace exterior, it's got that upstairs theater unlike any normal theater space. I never sit anywhere but the front row (for the leg room) which is about as close to a movie screen as anyone needs to be. The ledge also conveniently holds a box of Milk Duds.
Tonight's attraction was "The Imitation Game" about the British mathematician who more or less came up with the prototype for modern-day computers. Ordinarily, I'd have zero interest in a movie about computers, but the fact that it was based on a true story sold me.
And you can make fun of me all you want, but I had no idea who Benedict Cumberbatch was. Now that I've looked him up, I know that I must have seen him in "Atonement" and "12 Years a Slave," but apparently he didn't register at all.
If only I'd known he'd been dubbed "the thinking woman's crumpet," I might have paid attention to him sooner. Hey, I like to consider myself a thinking woman and I certainly like crumpets, if you know what I mean.
So instead, I focused on the story, more than a little fascinated that this group of mathematically-inclined nerds was able to break the Nazi's Enigma code during WW II, thereby ending the war two years earlier and saving millions of lives. To a history nerd, those are facts worth knowing.
What I found appalling about another part of the history lesson was not just his prosecution for being gay (forcing him into chemical castration to avoid prison) but that indecency with a man was still a crime as late as 1967 in Britain. Thankfully the epilogue tells us that he got a royal pardon for his "crimes" in 2013.
The man who gave us the devices we can't live without had to be "pardoned" for who he was attracted to? The man responsible for shortening the war and saving all those lives? That's a difficult history lesson to swallow.
But, curry and Milk Duds, those were pure pleasure going down.
Tonight the beer-centric Cask was allowing Chef Mel from Curry Craft to turn their former garage space for the beer-inclined into Curry Cask, a one-night Indian experience. Call it what you want, it was a pop-up.
With a fellow curry fan in tow, we arrived after the bar had been filled but while tables still sat empty waiting for eager mouths. Oh, sure, the big table was already occupied with a bunch of guys deep in their beer discussion (peach ale versus Budweiser, no doubt), but they were mere window-dressing for the place.
Ignoring the blackboards touting their vast beer selection, we opted for a bottle of Hugl Gruner Veltliner to accompany our meal. The menu was simple with an appetizer and two entrees, and with the smell of cardamom scenting the air, we ordered them all.
Our server, a veteran I recognized from any number of past serving positions, warned us that the kitchen (including one guy whose t-shirt read, "I am your enemy") was rockin' it and food was likely to come out all at once, bam! style.
We might have gotten through one glass each before the plates began showing up, first a Bombay masala porker starring Sausagecraft's habanero pork sausage with tamarind-chili-cumin glaze and Bombay slaw, a stellar Indian take on a very Virginia standard (pig and slaw) that got our mouths ready for more.
Our next two plates followed almost immediately, their poppadom sitting aloft like windblown sails on a boat. One was garam masala-scented market vegetable curry over basmati rice and the other a traditional chicken tikka masala.
Their aromas were tantalizing and because Mel had made them, perfectly seasoned with nice, big chunks of vegetables in one and an abundance of chicken in the other. We had no problem trading plates and taking them down to licked-clean plates.
While we did, enjoying them immensely with the Gruner Veltliner, a nine-top that included four young children with sodas took up residence next to us. It made me wonder, what happened to to the good old days when babysitters watched kids while Mom and Dad went to adult places like beer joints without them? Would it be too much to start a movement for adults-only pop-ups?
Instead, we took the path of least resistance, getting the check and heading out to a movie at the Westhampton since that won't be possible much longer now that the building has been sold.
Besides its classic movie palace exterior, it's got that upstairs theater unlike any normal theater space. I never sit anywhere but the front row (for the leg room) which is about as close to a movie screen as anyone needs to be. The ledge also conveniently holds a box of Milk Duds.
Tonight's attraction was "The Imitation Game" about the British mathematician who more or less came up with the prototype for modern-day computers. Ordinarily, I'd have zero interest in a movie about computers, but the fact that it was based on a true story sold me.
And you can make fun of me all you want, but I had no idea who Benedict Cumberbatch was. Now that I've looked him up, I know that I must have seen him in "Atonement" and "12 Years a Slave," but apparently he didn't register at all.
If only I'd known he'd been dubbed "the thinking woman's crumpet," I might have paid attention to him sooner. Hey, I like to consider myself a thinking woman and I certainly like crumpets, if you know what I mean.
So instead, I focused on the story, more than a little fascinated that this group of mathematically-inclined nerds was able to break the Nazi's Enigma code during WW II, thereby ending the war two years earlier and saving millions of lives. To a history nerd, those are facts worth knowing.
What I found appalling about another part of the history lesson was not just his prosecution for being gay (forcing him into chemical castration to avoid prison) but that indecency with a man was still a crime as late as 1967 in Britain. Thankfully the epilogue tells us that he got a royal pardon for his "crimes" in 2013.
The man who gave us the devices we can't live without had to be "pardoned" for who he was attracted to? The man responsible for shortening the war and saving all those lives? That's a difficult history lesson to swallow.
But, curry and Milk Duds, those were pure pleasure going down.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Food, Glorious Food
Being food curious can take all day and night.
First of all, it starts at the crack of dawn, meaning my fellow Gemini showed up at 9:30 to collect me and walk over to the Hilton Garden Inn and check in for Fire, Flour and Fork's Friday extravaganza.
People were clustered around the coffee station like it was mother's milk. When forced to, I can get up at the butt crack of dawn (though I'd prefer not to) but coffee's not what I'm looking for at that hour. Or any hour.
Our first session of the day was called "Relish Fork" with Paul Virant of Chicago's Vie restaurant talking about pickling and preserving ("Eat what you can and can what you can't") and Jamie Coffey of Williams & Sherrill making jam. Spoon jam, to be precise.
I'd never heard of spoon jam, but soon learned that it's jam made without using a hot water bath, meaning that the strawberry freezer jam I made for decades probably qualifies. Jamie's version was far more nuanced than mine, using raspberries, the juice of an orange, honey, sugar, orange zest and thyme.
Best of all, he passed around a jar of jam and little wooden spoons inscribed RVA for us to taste his beautiful jam with. When the jar was passed to me, the woman next to me told she loved my shoes. "I would wear the hell out of those." I assured her I do. Cute and comfortable wins the race.
As a lovely parting gift, Chef Virant passed out miniature jars of apple butter, pleasing me no end and sparking memories of childhood. Whenever one of my sisters or I would ask Mom for a snack, she always offered bread and apple butter.
You'd think I'd have gotten tired of it by now, but well-crafted apple butter still speaks to me. And I have to assume Chef Virant knows how to make some apple butter.
Our next session was "Biscuits of the South" for two reasons.
One, it was being given by Ronni Lundy, a founder of the Southern Foodways Alliance, and two, growing up with my Richmond grandmother living with us meant she made biscuits at least two or three times a week. Biscuits are in my blood and probably my DNA.
She began by holding up a bottle of sweet sorghum syrup and saying, "I'm gonna show you how little hillbilly children are introduced to it. It's a gateway drug," before pouring a third of the bottle into a bowl where several sticks of softened butter awaited.
Once she'd turned the yellow butter golden brown with sweet sorghum syrup, we received little ramekins of it with a biscuit. My first thought after one bite was how those hillbilly mothers had cut out a step. I always smeared my breakfast biscuits with a thick schmear of butter and then a layer of strawberry jam for sweetness.
A biscuit with sweet sorghum syrup delivers both sweet and salty in one application. Brilliant!
Lundy talked about how sweet sorghum syrup tasted of terroir, like wine, picking up mineral notes and changing from season to season.
"It's hard to make a bad biscuit and it's an art to make a good one," she informed us, saying light hands and soft wheat flour are essential. She critiqued the biscuits we were eating as having too much chew inside instead of fluff. Also, bacon grease makes great biscuits (duh).
Baking lessons aside, she also provided cultural history (cat's head biscuits are called that because they're big, like a cat's head) such as why farmers' wives made small biscuits in the morning. That way, everyone at the breakfast table - family and farmhands- got one biscuit to start eating while the next batch baked.
She talked about how when self-rising flour was developed, the public didn't embrace it, but mountain women did. Before, they'd had to measure their own leavening agents into the flour and now it was done for them.
I know my grandmother, who used no measuring to make her biscuits, took to self-rising flour from the day it came out. When she moved in with us, it was the first time I'd ever seen it.
And I could totally relate when she shared John Edgerton's axiom about how you could always tell a southerner because when biscuits were put on the table and most people took one, a southerner would take two and butter them both at once while the biscuits were still hot.
I am that person despite not being born a southerner. I suppose that comes from having a southern grandmother in the house making biscuits three times a week. I want hot, liquid butter oozing out of every bite of biscuit.
The question and answer period took us all over the place. Chef Colin Perry (and his epic mustache) of Montreal's Triple Crown Dinette (who makes 500 biscuits a weekend) was in the audience and fielded a question about adding pimento cheese to biscuit dough and why the results had been varied.
A guy in the row in front of us with a serious southern drawl raised his hand and observed about things such as pimento cheese additives, "That's not a biscuit." No indeed.
Someone asked about molasses versus sweet sorghum syrup and before she addressed that, Lundy turned to the pimento cheese maker and asked politely, "Was your question answered? Because I'm going to go down a road here."
"It's a dirt road," the southerner drawled and I laughed out loud.
After her explanation, a women told a story of meeting a couple who'd been married for 40 years, yet the wife complained that her husband still ate biscuits wrong.
Seems he would break them in half and spread his sweet sorghum syrup inside the halves while the wife was positive that the correct way was to stick your finger into the side of the biscuit to create a hole and pour the syrup in.
Forty years and that poor woman still hasn't been able to train her man how to eat a biscuit properly. I think there was a life lesson more than a culinary lesson there.
Two classes behind us, we were glad when it was lunch time, taking the secret side door to the giant sampling tent set up on Sixth Street to gobble Belmont Butchery sausage (and watch butcher Tanya debone a whole pig), Gearhart's chocolates, Rapphanock oysters, and a host of other locally made food items.
At the Virginia wine tasting table were Veritas, Pollack, Barboursville, Keswick, North Gate and Grace Estate, the latter two new to me. It's impossible to keep up with all the new Virginia wineries in spite of my best efforts.
It was inevitable that I'd run into people I knew and I did - the former co-worker, the beermiester, the kitten lover, the baker, the low key mover and shaker - and the consensus was that FFF had been meticulously planned and executed so far.
From there we went to the John Marshall ballroom where ZZQ was serving up their Texas style barbecue. Once I'd procured a plate of brisket and potato salad, I found a seat at a table of strangers, only to have the guy across from me ask, "Aren't you Karen? I think Prabir introduced us a few years ago. Don't you write a blog called I Could Go On and On?"
The woman to his left assured me that he has an unbelievable memory and does this all the time. Meanwhile, I had no problem finishing off my plate while chatting with them about their screen-printing business, which sessions they'd attended and where we were all heading next.
I'd found it impossible to pass up "Oyster Fork" with Mike Hutt of the Virginia Marine Products Board, an unabashed cheerleader for Virginia oysters.
I've done several stories on Virginia's oyster industry so while I knew almost everything he told us, a few tidbits were new to me.
The governor has declared November Virginia oyster month.Seventeen tons of oyster shells were collected last year in Richmond from festivals and restaurants (such as Lemaire, Heritage, Saison and Dutch & Co.). They love our oysters in Asia.
After being shown how to open oysters, they let us loose on two trays of bivalves, one of buttery oysters from the Rappahannock and the other seaside oysters tasting like a mouth full of ocean water.
He suggested we begin with the less salty ones, but I already know I prefer saltier so I did my damage there and damn, these were some of the briniest oysters I've ever had. Delicious.
I will give these guys credit, though, the oysters were served with no accouterments - no cocktail sauce, no lemon, no mignonette - so you were just tasting oysters and water, no adornments. If there were any oyster virgins in the room, it was the equivalent of dropping them into the deep end of the pool.
After I'd gorged on the sea, Gemini and I cut out. We weren't skipping class exactly, but we wanted some down time to assess and regroup, finding it at Saison market for a happy hour glass of Vino Verde.
Then she was off to home and hearth and I got cleaned up to go to someplace I never thought I would despite smelling it for years: the inside of the 1911 C.F. Sauer factory on Broad Street.
Walking up to the check-in desk, the woman looked at me and feigned surprise. "You, again?" FFF humor.
Being the punctual sort, I got herded into the first tour group along with a guy who'd been at my lunch table and the oyster class. When I asked what had brought him to FFF, he said simply, "I love food."
With a little probing, he shared that he'd worked in restaurants for years (including with Sean Brock back in the day), although he was no longer in the business. It's an addiction some people never get over.
Our tour guide was Sauer's marketing director and she took us up and down old staircases to see the workings of the company who puts out the spicy scents on Broad Street.
Walking in to the building, we saw a charming, wood-framed window, above which hung a sign saying "Information." I was thrilled when she told everyone to deposit their cell phone in the back room because no cameras were allowed. I was the only one who didn't have to divest myself of a device.
Sauer tours are quite a rarity, it seems.
She showed us a framed collection of awards Sauer's had won, asking if anyone had read "The Devil in the White City," (which I had) set in the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
It was at that fair that Sauer's had won their first award for purity in their products.
Walking past vintage wooden doors, a break room with library chairs and tables and machinery, we heard how Sauer's was the first to bottle extracts and the only company still using glass bottles.
All the equipment was original to the building as was the sign, "Think! This equipment pays your salary. Take care of it."
We learned that in terms of what they produce, it's predominantly pepper, garlic and cinnamon. We heard about how they still cold soak their vanilla beans in grain alcohol while other companies use a sped-up heating process much like percolating coffee.
Speaking of, the aroma of the warm, vanilla room was sublime and while others got overheated, I could have listened to her talk there all night and enjoyed that scent and temperature.
When we saw huge sacks of MSG, we all guessed it was for Asian markets, but learned that MSG is extremely popular in the American southeast. Who knew?
Filing past the president's office, we looked in to see green leather furniture, painted portraits of past Sauer presidents (it's always been a family owned business) and a fireplace mantle with one of their most popular products, jars of Duke's mayonnaise, adorning it.
After that, we stood in the office area for a Q & A, learning that in all its years, Sauer's had never laid off an employee, even during the world wars and the depression. Now, that's impressive.
Outside in Sauer's rose garden, our group was offered whiskey-based Boulevardier cocktails and hors d'oeuvres to accompany them, all under the scenic glow of the Sauer's vanilla sign, which now meant a whole lot more after 28 years in Richmond because I'd learned why their vanilla was such a big deal.
One of the Sauer men sat in a windowsill outside, sharing colorful stories about his great-grandfather's racing car habit, how they got the city to let them replace the rotting windows facing Broad Street and that multiple bands had asked to have their picture taken in front of the vanilla sign.
FYI: The answer is always no. The reason he gave was who knows what their music is like? Or if they're going to be naked in the picture?
Purity, remember?
My final FFF stop of the day was Hardywood for the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, a dine-around with local chefs.
For this portion of the never-ending FFF day, I was to meet a favorite couple who'd just come from "Spice Poker" at Curry Craft. Clearly their stomachs were bigger than mine.
Arriving before they did, I caught a few songs by Full Moon Fever, a Tom Petty cover band playing tonight as part of the "Night of the Living '70s" bill. It was particularly appropriate since it was the show I'd have attended if my friends hadn't offered me their extra FFF ticket.
When they finally showed up, full of apologies for their tardiness, I wasted no time in going inside to eat from the tables of local chefs.
As I was savoring Julep's goat stew over pumpkin, I was handed the last of Magpie's beef tongue skewers. Heritage's pumpkin gemelli with brown butter, kale and mushrooms impressed even this non-pasta lover. One chef described Metzger's trotter torchon as "an orgasm in my mouth." Blue Goat's rockfish and cooked peanuts was an unusual take on a familiar fish.
But I think my favorite was Secco's head cheese with celery slaw, a pitch perfect marriage of fat and acid.
Although beer was part of the affair, that held no interest for me, so I passed on my beer tickets to a favorite record store owner whose costume resembled a Monopoly character.
Lots of people had come in costumes, and many were clever. One friend started to explain her group's costumes and stopped. "Oh, you don't watch TV, you're out living life, so you won't know about this show."
A guy I once worked with and his girlfriend came as farm to table, him with a table draped over his shoulders, her in overalls with a pitchfork.
The one that baffled us was the girl with romaine leaves on her breasts. We puzzled and puzzled over it until I came up with a guess. Maybe she was supposed to be lett-tits.
Since we had to know, one of us went up and asked her. When I told her what my guess was, she laughed loud and hard. When her boyfriend arrived, I told him my theory and he laughed even harder. Turns out she was going for Bibb lettuce.
"But yours is so much better," she laughed. "That's what I'm coming as next year!" Who knew I was so clever?
By the time I got around to trying desserts -sarsaparilla pudding with toasted pumpkin seeds, tres leches cake, pistachio cookies with dark chocolate and fig, and pumpkin cheesecake - some chefs had already run out of their desserts.
That was okay because we were ready to move on, this time back to Curry Craft for our private after-party.
There I found a music friend at the bar, a beer rep swooning over wine and the dear friend who'd donated his FFF ticket to me tonight. After a while, a couple of restaurant owners.
Everyone wanted to hear about my FFF classes today and I obliged with tales of jam and biscuits, oysters and spices.
At one point I looked over at a friend, who'd been up since 6 a.m. this morning, and pantomimed sleeping. He pointed at me and then himself and nodded.
When I got up to say my goodnights, the male half of my couple date registered shock. Explaining that I'd been up since 8 - unusually early for me - and had another day of early morning classes tomorrow, I was leaving.
"Yea, you look tired and that never happens," he said, clearly surprised. Just this morning, a friend had e-mailed me about tomorrow night, saying, "Your energy is unrelenting!"
Honey, you've never seen me after fifteen hours of being food curious. I gotta say, being out living my life is far less tiring.
First of all, it starts at the crack of dawn, meaning my fellow Gemini showed up at 9:30 to collect me and walk over to the Hilton Garden Inn and check in for Fire, Flour and Fork's Friday extravaganza.
People were clustered around the coffee station like it was mother's milk. When forced to, I can get up at the butt crack of dawn (though I'd prefer not to) but coffee's not what I'm looking for at that hour. Or any hour.
Our first session of the day was called "Relish Fork" with Paul Virant of Chicago's Vie restaurant talking about pickling and preserving ("Eat what you can and can what you can't") and Jamie Coffey of Williams & Sherrill making jam. Spoon jam, to be precise.
I'd never heard of spoon jam, but soon learned that it's jam made without using a hot water bath, meaning that the strawberry freezer jam I made for decades probably qualifies. Jamie's version was far more nuanced than mine, using raspberries, the juice of an orange, honey, sugar, orange zest and thyme.
Best of all, he passed around a jar of jam and little wooden spoons inscribed RVA for us to taste his beautiful jam with. When the jar was passed to me, the woman next to me told she loved my shoes. "I would wear the hell out of those." I assured her I do. Cute and comfortable wins the race.
As a lovely parting gift, Chef Virant passed out miniature jars of apple butter, pleasing me no end and sparking memories of childhood. Whenever one of my sisters or I would ask Mom for a snack, she always offered bread and apple butter.
You'd think I'd have gotten tired of it by now, but well-crafted apple butter still speaks to me. And I have to assume Chef Virant knows how to make some apple butter.
Our next session was "Biscuits of the South" for two reasons.
One, it was being given by Ronni Lundy, a founder of the Southern Foodways Alliance, and two, growing up with my Richmond grandmother living with us meant she made biscuits at least two or three times a week. Biscuits are in my blood and probably my DNA.
She began by holding up a bottle of sweet sorghum syrup and saying, "I'm gonna show you how little hillbilly children are introduced to it. It's a gateway drug," before pouring a third of the bottle into a bowl where several sticks of softened butter awaited.
Once she'd turned the yellow butter golden brown with sweet sorghum syrup, we received little ramekins of it with a biscuit. My first thought after one bite was how those hillbilly mothers had cut out a step. I always smeared my breakfast biscuits with a thick schmear of butter and then a layer of strawberry jam for sweetness.
A biscuit with sweet sorghum syrup delivers both sweet and salty in one application. Brilliant!
Lundy talked about how sweet sorghum syrup tasted of terroir, like wine, picking up mineral notes and changing from season to season.
"It's hard to make a bad biscuit and it's an art to make a good one," she informed us, saying light hands and soft wheat flour are essential. She critiqued the biscuits we were eating as having too much chew inside instead of fluff. Also, bacon grease makes great biscuits (duh).
Baking lessons aside, she also provided cultural history (cat's head biscuits are called that because they're big, like a cat's head) such as why farmers' wives made small biscuits in the morning. That way, everyone at the breakfast table - family and farmhands- got one biscuit to start eating while the next batch baked.
She talked about how when self-rising flour was developed, the public didn't embrace it, but mountain women did. Before, they'd had to measure their own leavening agents into the flour and now it was done for them.
I know my grandmother, who used no measuring to make her biscuits, took to self-rising flour from the day it came out. When she moved in with us, it was the first time I'd ever seen it.
And I could totally relate when she shared John Edgerton's axiom about how you could always tell a southerner because when biscuits were put on the table and most people took one, a southerner would take two and butter them both at once while the biscuits were still hot.
I am that person despite not being born a southerner. I suppose that comes from having a southern grandmother in the house making biscuits three times a week. I want hot, liquid butter oozing out of every bite of biscuit.
The question and answer period took us all over the place. Chef Colin Perry (and his epic mustache) of Montreal's Triple Crown Dinette (who makes 500 biscuits a weekend) was in the audience and fielded a question about adding pimento cheese to biscuit dough and why the results had been varied.
A guy in the row in front of us with a serious southern drawl raised his hand and observed about things such as pimento cheese additives, "That's not a biscuit." No indeed.
Someone asked about molasses versus sweet sorghum syrup and before she addressed that, Lundy turned to the pimento cheese maker and asked politely, "Was your question answered? Because I'm going to go down a road here."
"It's a dirt road," the southerner drawled and I laughed out loud.
After her explanation, a women told a story of meeting a couple who'd been married for 40 years, yet the wife complained that her husband still ate biscuits wrong.
Seems he would break them in half and spread his sweet sorghum syrup inside the halves while the wife was positive that the correct way was to stick your finger into the side of the biscuit to create a hole and pour the syrup in.
Forty years and that poor woman still hasn't been able to train her man how to eat a biscuit properly. I think there was a life lesson more than a culinary lesson there.
Two classes behind us, we were glad when it was lunch time, taking the secret side door to the giant sampling tent set up on Sixth Street to gobble Belmont Butchery sausage (and watch butcher Tanya debone a whole pig), Gearhart's chocolates, Rapphanock oysters, and a host of other locally made food items.
At the Virginia wine tasting table were Veritas, Pollack, Barboursville, Keswick, North Gate and Grace Estate, the latter two new to me. It's impossible to keep up with all the new Virginia wineries in spite of my best efforts.
It was inevitable that I'd run into people I knew and I did - the former co-worker, the beermiester, the kitten lover, the baker, the low key mover and shaker - and the consensus was that FFF had been meticulously planned and executed so far.
From there we went to the John Marshall ballroom where ZZQ was serving up their Texas style barbecue. Once I'd procured a plate of brisket and potato salad, I found a seat at a table of strangers, only to have the guy across from me ask, "Aren't you Karen? I think Prabir introduced us a few years ago. Don't you write a blog called I Could Go On and On?"
The woman to his left assured me that he has an unbelievable memory and does this all the time. Meanwhile, I had no problem finishing off my plate while chatting with them about their screen-printing business, which sessions they'd attended and where we were all heading next.
I'd found it impossible to pass up "Oyster Fork" with Mike Hutt of the Virginia Marine Products Board, an unabashed cheerleader for Virginia oysters.
I've done several stories on Virginia's oyster industry so while I knew almost everything he told us, a few tidbits were new to me.
The governor has declared November Virginia oyster month.Seventeen tons of oyster shells were collected last year in Richmond from festivals and restaurants (such as Lemaire, Heritage, Saison and Dutch & Co.). They love our oysters in Asia.
After being shown how to open oysters, they let us loose on two trays of bivalves, one of buttery oysters from the Rappahannock and the other seaside oysters tasting like a mouth full of ocean water.
He suggested we begin with the less salty ones, but I already know I prefer saltier so I did my damage there and damn, these were some of the briniest oysters I've ever had. Delicious.
I will give these guys credit, though, the oysters were served with no accouterments - no cocktail sauce, no lemon, no mignonette - so you were just tasting oysters and water, no adornments. If there were any oyster virgins in the room, it was the equivalent of dropping them into the deep end of the pool.
After I'd gorged on the sea, Gemini and I cut out. We weren't skipping class exactly, but we wanted some down time to assess and regroup, finding it at Saison market for a happy hour glass of Vino Verde.
Then she was off to home and hearth and I got cleaned up to go to someplace I never thought I would despite smelling it for years: the inside of the 1911 C.F. Sauer factory on Broad Street.
Walking up to the check-in desk, the woman looked at me and feigned surprise. "You, again?" FFF humor.
Being the punctual sort, I got herded into the first tour group along with a guy who'd been at my lunch table and the oyster class. When I asked what had brought him to FFF, he said simply, "I love food."
With a little probing, he shared that he'd worked in restaurants for years (including with Sean Brock back in the day), although he was no longer in the business. It's an addiction some people never get over.
Our tour guide was Sauer's marketing director and she took us up and down old staircases to see the workings of the company who puts out the spicy scents on Broad Street.
Walking in to the building, we saw a charming, wood-framed window, above which hung a sign saying "Information." I was thrilled when she told everyone to deposit their cell phone in the back room because no cameras were allowed. I was the only one who didn't have to divest myself of a device.
Sauer tours are quite a rarity, it seems.
She showed us a framed collection of awards Sauer's had won, asking if anyone had read "The Devil in the White City," (which I had) set in the 1893 World Columbian Exposition in Chicago.
It was at that fair that Sauer's had won their first award for purity in their products.
Walking past vintage wooden doors, a break room with library chairs and tables and machinery, we heard how Sauer's was the first to bottle extracts and the only company still using glass bottles.
All the equipment was original to the building as was the sign, "Think! This equipment pays your salary. Take care of it."
We learned that in terms of what they produce, it's predominantly pepper, garlic and cinnamon. We heard about how they still cold soak their vanilla beans in grain alcohol while other companies use a sped-up heating process much like percolating coffee.
Speaking of, the aroma of the warm, vanilla room was sublime and while others got overheated, I could have listened to her talk there all night and enjoyed that scent and temperature.
When we saw huge sacks of MSG, we all guessed it was for Asian markets, but learned that MSG is extremely popular in the American southeast. Who knew?
Filing past the president's office, we looked in to see green leather furniture, painted portraits of past Sauer presidents (it's always been a family owned business) and a fireplace mantle with one of their most popular products, jars of Duke's mayonnaise, adorning it.
After that, we stood in the office area for a Q & A, learning that in all its years, Sauer's had never laid off an employee, even during the world wars and the depression. Now, that's impressive.
Outside in Sauer's rose garden, our group was offered whiskey-based Boulevardier cocktails and hors d'oeuvres to accompany them, all under the scenic glow of the Sauer's vanilla sign, which now meant a whole lot more after 28 years in Richmond because I'd learned why their vanilla was such a big deal.
One of the Sauer men sat in a windowsill outside, sharing colorful stories about his great-grandfather's racing car habit, how they got the city to let them replace the rotting windows facing Broad Street and that multiple bands had asked to have their picture taken in front of the vanilla sign.
FYI: The answer is always no. The reason he gave was who knows what their music is like? Or if they're going to be naked in the picture?
Purity, remember?
My final FFF stop of the day was Hardywood for the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts, a dine-around with local chefs.
For this portion of the never-ending FFF day, I was to meet a favorite couple who'd just come from "Spice Poker" at Curry Craft. Clearly their stomachs were bigger than mine.
Arriving before they did, I caught a few songs by Full Moon Fever, a Tom Petty cover band playing tonight as part of the "Night of the Living '70s" bill. It was particularly appropriate since it was the show I'd have attended if my friends hadn't offered me their extra FFF ticket.
When they finally showed up, full of apologies for their tardiness, I wasted no time in going inside to eat from the tables of local chefs.
As I was savoring Julep's goat stew over pumpkin, I was handed the last of Magpie's beef tongue skewers. Heritage's pumpkin gemelli with brown butter, kale and mushrooms impressed even this non-pasta lover. One chef described Metzger's trotter torchon as "an orgasm in my mouth." Blue Goat's rockfish and cooked peanuts was an unusual take on a familiar fish.
But I think my favorite was Secco's head cheese with celery slaw, a pitch perfect marriage of fat and acid.
Although beer was part of the affair, that held no interest for me, so I passed on my beer tickets to a favorite record store owner whose costume resembled a Monopoly character.
Lots of people had come in costumes, and many were clever. One friend started to explain her group's costumes and stopped. "Oh, you don't watch TV, you're out living life, so you won't know about this show."
A guy I once worked with and his girlfriend came as farm to table, him with a table draped over his shoulders, her in overalls with a pitchfork.
The one that baffled us was the girl with romaine leaves on her breasts. We puzzled and puzzled over it until I came up with a guess. Maybe she was supposed to be lett-tits.
Since we had to know, one of us went up and asked her. When I told her what my guess was, she laughed loud and hard. When her boyfriend arrived, I told him my theory and he laughed even harder. Turns out she was going for Bibb lettuce.
"But yours is so much better," she laughed. "That's what I'm coming as next year!" Who knew I was so clever?
By the time I got around to trying desserts -sarsaparilla pudding with toasted pumpkin seeds, tres leches cake, pistachio cookies with dark chocolate and fig, and pumpkin cheesecake - some chefs had already run out of their desserts.
That was okay because we were ready to move on, this time back to Curry Craft for our private after-party.
There I found a music friend at the bar, a beer rep swooning over wine and the dear friend who'd donated his FFF ticket to me tonight. After a while, a couple of restaurant owners.
Everyone wanted to hear about my FFF classes today and I obliged with tales of jam and biscuits, oysters and spices.
At one point I looked over at a friend, who'd been up since 6 a.m. this morning, and pantomimed sleeping. He pointed at me and then himself and nodded.
When I got up to say my goodnights, the male half of my couple date registered shock. Explaining that I'd been up since 8 - unusually early for me - and had another day of early morning classes tomorrow, I was leaving.
"Yea, you look tired and that never happens," he said, clearly surprised. Just this morning, a friend had e-mailed me about tomorrow night, saying, "Your energy is unrelenting!"
Honey, you've never seen me after fifteen hours of being food curious. I gotta say, being out living my life is far less tiring.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Heaven Knows
Sometimes a gamble pays off.
After seeing a link to band Johnnyswim's Tiny Desk Concert on NPR Monday, I gave them a listen. Why not? She's Donna Summer's daughter and they were playing UR tonight, so it seemed at the very least worth a look.
I got up from watching the NPR clip and drove directly to UR to buy a ticket for the show even though a half hour before, I'd never heard of Johnnyswim.
Sitting in my third row center seat tonight, a woman sat down next to me, also by herself. When I asked what had brought her, she told me she'd driven from Hampton after months waiting for them to play anywhere close to home.
She'd seen them open for another band last year and had been on a mission ever since to see them headline. Another good indicator that I was in the right place.
The husband and wife duo of Amanda and Abner came out with a drummer, guitarist and bassist behind them and proceeded to flirt and sing with each other while their music crossed genres of soul, country, Cuban, pop and folk.
It didn't hurt that both of them are gorgeous and obviously madly in love. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those things.
The show began with them facing each other to sing "Falling for Me." He had his acoustic guitar in hand (although Hampton woman told me he's a classically trained violinist) and she would grab the fullness of her skirt as she leaned forward and into him to sing.
I'm looking for a hand to hold me
You're just looking for a chance to bring me to my knees
After that first song, he shrugged and said, "We're Johnnyswim. This is what we do."
By that, he meant they sang well-crafted songs, both of them with fabulous voices, she swayed and sashayed and between songs they told stories and shared bits about their relationship and life.
Unlike me, there were people in the audience who knew of these guys before Monday, including one who, while they were singing "A Million Years," took it upon himself to sing the "oh, oh, oh, oh" part to perfection.
In a million years, tell me, will they think about us, dear?
Tell me will the star keep shining even when our bodies disappear?
Abner was so impressed he entreated the rest of us to join that guy and sing more of the "oh, oh" part.
"I think we can all agree that you're super sexy when you sing in Spanish," Amanda said to her husband before turning back to us. "Wouldn't you like to hear a Cuban song?" We would.
He cracked wise, asking if anyone in the crowd spoke Spanish. "Okay, so about a dozen of you will know I'm making up words," he joked before doing a beautiful song he said was a favorite of his tone-deaf father.
When he sang alone, she crouched nearby, the folds of her skirt covering her legs, staring intently at his face.
There was what he characterized as an angry song that he stopped mid-strum because he'd noticed in his shadow that his hair was looking crazy. Running his hand through it, he said, "Okay, now back to that dark, angry place."
"Live While We're Young" might as well have been their anthem as they traded off lead vocals.
Make no mistake, we'll live while we're young
We'll chase down the sun
hands off the brake
We can die when we're done.
Together they told the story of how they got engaged which involved ten days in Paris and her not knowing that's what they were going for. He was resolved to propose on the third anniversary of their first date and equally resolved not to do it at the Eiffel Tower.
They ended up on a lighted bridge after she suggested it and he said it was then that he learned that she's always right.
No wonder she said yes to his proposal. If a man thinks you're always right, he's worth hanging on to.
That experience led to "Paris in June" because everything that happens in their life is fodder for a song (or a blog, as the case may be).
Oh how lovely you seem
Each day I fall for you
and you keep falling for me
At one point, they moved away from the mics and came to the very lip of the stage, which was only a few feet in front of me, saying they were going to take us to Nashville, where they'd originally met.
They then sang off-mic, doing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song, "Jackson," although it was impossible to imagine that the fire in their marriage could ever go out.
Their first album just came out two weeks ago and it was obvious they were bursting with pride about it. It occurred to me that I was catching them at exactly the right moment, just in case the starmaker machine eventually wears them down and out.
I hope it doesn't because theirs are not only two voices that stand out head and shoulders above so much of current music, but their charmingly sweet mutual attraction is a delight to witness.
Driving home from UR, I decided to make a pit stop at Curry Craft because today is (drum roll, please) National Aperitif Day and I had nothing better to do than celebrate that.
Some would say I need to get a life.
The bartender, sure I wanted wine, was overjoyed to hear the occasion and that I was in search of a mixed drink, something I usually disdain.
The lovely pink colored libation started clean and light and as it warmed up a bit took on notes of grapefruit peel, a lovely thing to have in a glass.
As I sipped it, I struck up a conversation with a nearby bar sitter who was two days back from a week in Costa Rica, where she'd been part of a fishing group that had caught a 10' blue marlin.
Explaining that the boat captain usually did "catch and release," this time the fish became dinner because it had swallowed the hook, making release impossible.
As we chatted, it occurred to me that an apperitif is intended to whet the appetite and now that I had a bit of one, what I wanted was dessert.
The chef had recently come up with a new flavor of kulfi, so I took a chance on banana and lime, a delicately nuanced combination that sang with fresh flavor.
Trying new bands, drinks and desserts. I'm Karen and this is what I do.
After seeing a link to band Johnnyswim's Tiny Desk Concert on NPR Monday, I gave them a listen. Why not? She's Donna Summer's daughter and they were playing UR tonight, so it seemed at the very least worth a look.
I got up from watching the NPR clip and drove directly to UR to buy a ticket for the show even though a half hour before, I'd never heard of Johnnyswim.
Sitting in my third row center seat tonight, a woman sat down next to me, also by herself. When I asked what had brought her, she told me she'd driven from Hampton after months waiting for them to play anywhere close to home.
She'd seen them open for another band last year and had been on a mission ever since to see them headline. Another good indicator that I was in the right place.
The husband and wife duo of Amanda and Abner came out with a drummer, guitarist and bassist behind them and proceeded to flirt and sing with each other while their music crossed genres of soul, country, Cuban, pop and folk.
It didn't hurt that both of them are gorgeous and obviously madly in love. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those things.
The show began with them facing each other to sing "Falling for Me." He had his acoustic guitar in hand (although Hampton woman told me he's a classically trained violinist) and she would grab the fullness of her skirt as she leaned forward and into him to sing.
I'm looking for a hand to hold me
You're just looking for a chance to bring me to my knees
After that first song, he shrugged and said, "We're Johnnyswim. This is what we do."
By that, he meant they sang well-crafted songs, both of them with fabulous voices, she swayed and sashayed and between songs they told stories and shared bits about their relationship and life.
Unlike me, there were people in the audience who knew of these guys before Monday, including one who, while they were singing "A Million Years," took it upon himself to sing the "oh, oh, oh, oh" part to perfection.
In a million years, tell me, will they think about us, dear?
Tell me will the star keep shining even when our bodies disappear?
Abner was so impressed he entreated the rest of us to join that guy and sing more of the "oh, oh" part.
"I think we can all agree that you're super sexy when you sing in Spanish," Amanda said to her husband before turning back to us. "Wouldn't you like to hear a Cuban song?" We would.
He cracked wise, asking if anyone in the crowd spoke Spanish. "Okay, so about a dozen of you will know I'm making up words," he joked before doing a beautiful song he said was a favorite of his tone-deaf father.
When he sang alone, she crouched nearby, the folds of her skirt covering her legs, staring intently at his face.
There was what he characterized as an angry song that he stopped mid-strum because he'd noticed in his shadow that his hair was looking crazy. Running his hand through it, he said, "Okay, now back to that dark, angry place."
"Live While We're Young" might as well have been their anthem as they traded off lead vocals.
Make no mistake, we'll live while we're young
We'll chase down the sun
hands off the brake
We can die when we're done.
Together they told the story of how they got engaged which involved ten days in Paris and her not knowing that's what they were going for. He was resolved to propose on the third anniversary of their first date and equally resolved not to do it at the Eiffel Tower.
They ended up on a lighted bridge after she suggested it and he said it was then that he learned that she's always right.
No wonder she said yes to his proposal. If a man thinks you're always right, he's worth hanging on to.
That experience led to "Paris in June" because everything that happens in their life is fodder for a song (or a blog, as the case may be).
Oh how lovely you seem
Each day I fall for you
and you keep falling for me
At one point, they moved away from the mics and came to the very lip of the stage, which was only a few feet in front of me, saying they were going to take us to Nashville, where they'd originally met.
They then sang off-mic, doing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song, "Jackson," although it was impossible to imagine that the fire in their marriage could ever go out.
Their first album just came out two weeks ago and it was obvious they were bursting with pride about it. It occurred to me that I was catching them at exactly the right moment, just in case the starmaker machine eventually wears them down and out.
I hope it doesn't because theirs are not only two voices that stand out head and shoulders above so much of current music, but their charmingly sweet mutual attraction is a delight to witness.
Driving home from UR, I decided to make a pit stop at Curry Craft because today is (drum roll, please) National Aperitif Day and I had nothing better to do than celebrate that.
Some would say I need to get a life.
The bartender, sure I wanted wine, was overjoyed to hear the occasion and that I was in search of a mixed drink, something I usually disdain.
The lovely pink colored libation started clean and light and as it warmed up a bit took on notes of grapefruit peel, a lovely thing to have in a glass.
As I sipped it, I struck up a conversation with a nearby bar sitter who was two days back from a week in Costa Rica, where she'd been part of a fishing group that had caught a 10' blue marlin.
Explaining that the boat captain usually did "catch and release," this time the fish became dinner because it had swallowed the hook, making release impossible.
As we chatted, it occurred to me that an apperitif is intended to whet the appetite and now that I had a bit of one, what I wanted was dessert.
The chef had recently come up with a new flavor of kulfi, so I took a chance on banana and lime, a delicately nuanced combination that sang with fresh flavor.
Trying new bands, drinks and desserts. I'm Karen and this is what I do.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Devil's Time
My evening began with a lesson in self-appreciation.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Some Like It Hot
If last night's date was all about the literature, tonight's was all about the music.
He was craving spicy and suggested Lemon. I countered with Curry Craft since I hadn't been since practically the first week they opened.
You have to appreciate a guy who asks you out and then lets you dictate the destination.
It was our first date, although not our first conversation and although it had been a while, we picked up where we'd left off.
First he cracked wise about being intimidated about my superior food knowledge but I assured him eating was the surest way to learning.
"You have the best job in the world," he told me.
Well, maybe, unless you like expensive houses and jewelry but fortunately I like neither.
Although now he's a banker, he's been a musician for far longer so we had loads to talk about.
Our waitress suggested we order an appetizer to tide us over since she'd already picked up on the fact that we had much to discuss and weren't in any hurry to order.
We asked for Juhu beach-style chaat (puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions and pomegranate and spices), requesting it medium-hot, plenty of heat for me but my date was left wanting more.
Twenty minutes into the date and I already know he can handle more heat than I can.
We talked about some of the music we'd seen at the National, his years as a sound engineer and why 21st century bands are lucky to have decades worth of influences to pull from.
In one of those "we know we're the same generation" moments, we discussed the pleasures of album art and liner notes and how reading them can lead to discovering other musicians.
His tangent about "X" was exquisite.
After the third time our server came back to take our order, we took a minute to look at the menu and choose.
He went with chicken-mushroom dhaniwal, a Kashmiri-style chicken stew, while I got chicken khubani-zafrani for its spicy sauce boasting saffron, iris essence and apricots.
After enjoying tender chicken morsels with the sweetness of the fruit over basmati rice, I used garlic naan to sop up some of the beautifully fragrant sauce.
It didn't take us long to discover some of our shared soapboxes - iPods, photographing food, people not willing to pay for music - and I teased him that we sounded like fist-shaking blue-hairs.
Where we differ from true old folks is a shared passion for new music and smart-ass attitudes.
"I've always liked older women," he tells me.
I recognize a kindred geek when he tells me about his upcoming trip to Las Vegas and his intention to visit the neon museum, a place I would surely go should I ever end up in Vegas.
We talk about Chicago, a city we both enjoy, agreeing that walking it and looking up is enough to occupy entire days there.
I was impressed to hear that he'd made a record with a group of British musicians and he was impressed to hear what my first concert was.
He kept making obscure music references and I kept getting them while our poor server kept stopping by unnecessarily.
Eventually we let her box up our remains, mainly to give her something to do, but we continued to camp out.
Fortunately, it's the second night of a three-day weekend and the restaurant wasn't full, so we had no guilt about taking up space.
We did get mango kulfi, a creamy ice cream studded with cranberries and two kinds of nuts, a decadent ending to the meal, if not the conversation.
That didn't end until we looked up and realized four hours had passed.
Now he knows. Older women can go on and on.
Fortunately for the newly-dating, some men seem to like that.
He was craving spicy and suggested Lemon. I countered with Curry Craft since I hadn't been since practically the first week they opened.
You have to appreciate a guy who asks you out and then lets you dictate the destination.
It was our first date, although not our first conversation and although it had been a while, we picked up where we'd left off.
First he cracked wise about being intimidated about my superior food knowledge but I assured him eating was the surest way to learning.
"You have the best job in the world," he told me.
Well, maybe, unless you like expensive houses and jewelry but fortunately I like neither.
Although now he's a banker, he's been a musician for far longer so we had loads to talk about.
Our waitress suggested we order an appetizer to tide us over since she'd already picked up on the fact that we had much to discuss and weren't in any hurry to order.
We asked for Juhu beach-style chaat (puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions and pomegranate and spices), requesting it medium-hot, plenty of heat for me but my date was left wanting more.
Twenty minutes into the date and I already know he can handle more heat than I can.
We talked about some of the music we'd seen at the National, his years as a sound engineer and why 21st century bands are lucky to have decades worth of influences to pull from.
In one of those "we know we're the same generation" moments, we discussed the pleasures of album art and liner notes and how reading them can lead to discovering other musicians.
His tangent about "X" was exquisite.
After the third time our server came back to take our order, we took a minute to look at the menu and choose.
He went with chicken-mushroom dhaniwal, a Kashmiri-style chicken stew, while I got chicken khubani-zafrani for its spicy sauce boasting saffron, iris essence and apricots.
After enjoying tender chicken morsels with the sweetness of the fruit over basmati rice, I used garlic naan to sop up some of the beautifully fragrant sauce.
It didn't take us long to discover some of our shared soapboxes - iPods, photographing food, people not willing to pay for music - and I teased him that we sounded like fist-shaking blue-hairs.
Where we differ from true old folks is a shared passion for new music and smart-ass attitudes.
"I've always liked older women," he tells me.
I recognize a kindred geek when he tells me about his upcoming trip to Las Vegas and his intention to visit the neon museum, a place I would surely go should I ever end up in Vegas.
We talk about Chicago, a city we both enjoy, agreeing that walking it and looking up is enough to occupy entire days there.
I was impressed to hear that he'd made a record with a group of British musicians and he was impressed to hear what my first concert was.
He kept making obscure music references and I kept getting them while our poor server kept stopping by unnecessarily.
Eventually we let her box up our remains, mainly to give her something to do, but we continued to camp out.
Fortunately, it's the second night of a three-day weekend and the restaurant wasn't full, so we had no guilt about taking up space.
We did get mango kulfi, a creamy ice cream studded with cranberries and two kinds of nuts, a decadent ending to the meal, if not the conversation.
That didn't end until we looked up and realized four hours had passed.
Now he knows. Older women can go on and on.
Fortunately for the newly-dating, some men seem to like that.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Punjabi Tagging
All that was left was food and film.
I'd fed my art and music needs earlier today, leaving Saturday night for a new restaurant and a film abouttagging NYC on a summer day.
Walking into Curry Craft in Carytown, my Saturday night partner-in-crime and I had our choice of a table, a booth or the bar.
Given that they don't yet have their ABC license, the bar looked kind of abandoned so we opted for a booth.
Looking around at the saffron-colored walls, I approved of the spare decoration - a terra cotta relief, some cut-out dark wooden panels- and variety Indian music playing - traditional, dancey.
I was pleased to see that Bonvenue's sleek chandeliers had conveyed with the sale since they worked well withe the decor.
Our waiter was sweet, accommodating and friendly, and when we asked if we could order in stages, he assured us that would be fine.
First off, we asked for the paneer asparagus "Tak a Tak," a savory melange of asparagus, spiced paneer chunks, tangy green mango and garbanzo beans in a zesty glaze.
A salad of greens, sliced apples, chutney-marinated celery, dates and beet threads (so thin I would have preferred beet ribbons so I could actually taste the beet) provided a plate of appetizing flavors and only a few overly-salty bites.
We'd ordered garlic naan but regular naan showed up and we didn't complain because it was warm and soft and ideal for sopping up what was left on both plates.
A couple came in and sat down behind us but within moments of speaking to their waiter, got up and walked out, the door slamming behind them.
Apparently, they found it unacceptable that there was no booze.
Come on, people, the restaurant just opened and we all know how efficient the ABC is.
Since we were fine without, we went on to Punjabi Taari Gosht, a northern Indian-style leg of lamb curry, a pungent dish with a satisfying depth of flavor and proceeded to eat it down to the last few grains of rice.
To finish our meal, our server brought a shot glass of saunf, roasted and candied fennel seeds, intended to be poured in hour hand in a dime-sized amount and chewed as a digestif.
The sweet licorice-like flavor immediately quelled the heat from the curry and notified our bellies of the end.
We ended up very pleased with our meal.
It'll be interesting to see how extensive their craft cocktail list will be since I've heard they're looking to be both a dining and bar destination.
Bellies properly full, our next stop was the Criterion for "Gimme the Loot," a film about graffiti that won at South by Southwest's film fest.
It was a small movie in many ways - shot for next to nothing, unknown cast, odd subject matter - but big in others - a stellar soundtrack, witty commentary about urban life and strong performances by beginners.
It was really just a day in the life movie of two kids who spent their time tagging, only to be infuriated when someone tags over them.
Their major goal was to tag the Mets' giant apple at Shea Stadium, something that has apparently been a goal of taggers for twenty years.
I know that only because the movie opened with footage of an actual show shot two decades ago where a tagger talked about the holy grail of tagging the apple.
The film unfolded over a day as they try to make things happen, all the while traipsing through various boroughs of NYC, making it a terrific travelogue of the city.
One of the funniest lines came from the white girl to whom our hero is delivering weed.
She tells him his drug-dealing boss used to play golf on Cornell's team (unthinkable when it comes to street cred) and he tells her that the dealer's girlfriend is a hippie.
"She can't be a hippie because they only existed in olden times," the entitled, rich girls announces to him. "Like Victorian courtesans and Mayan princesses."
Maybe I found it funny because just this week, a 20-something friend had referred to himself and his girlfriend as hippies and this is certainly not olden times.
Now that I think about it, she did correct him, saying, "I'm a lazy hippie," so maybe it's only lazy hippies who exist in modern times.
But, wait, we all know there are plenty of old hippies to be found, even now.
They're probably the ones who spend Saturday nights doing dinner and a movie.
And god knows they don't worry about their street cred.
I'd fed my art and music needs earlier today, leaving Saturday night for a new restaurant and a film about
Walking into Curry Craft in Carytown, my Saturday night partner-in-crime and I had our choice of a table, a booth or the bar.
Given that they don't yet have their ABC license, the bar looked kind of abandoned so we opted for a booth.
Looking around at the saffron-colored walls, I approved of the spare decoration - a terra cotta relief, some cut-out dark wooden panels- and variety Indian music playing - traditional, dancey.
I was pleased to see that Bonvenue's sleek chandeliers had conveyed with the sale since they worked well withe the decor.
Our waiter was sweet, accommodating and friendly, and when we asked if we could order in stages, he assured us that would be fine.
First off, we asked for the paneer asparagus "Tak a Tak," a savory melange of asparagus, spiced paneer chunks, tangy green mango and garbanzo beans in a zesty glaze.
A salad of greens, sliced apples, chutney-marinated celery, dates and beet threads (so thin I would have preferred beet ribbons so I could actually taste the beet) provided a plate of appetizing flavors and only a few overly-salty bites.
We'd ordered garlic naan but regular naan showed up and we didn't complain because it was warm and soft and ideal for sopping up what was left on both plates.
A couple came in and sat down behind us but within moments of speaking to their waiter, got up and walked out, the door slamming behind them.
Apparently, they found it unacceptable that there was no booze.
Come on, people, the restaurant just opened and we all know how efficient the ABC is.
Since we were fine without, we went on to Punjabi Taari Gosht, a northern Indian-style leg of lamb curry, a pungent dish with a satisfying depth of flavor and proceeded to eat it down to the last few grains of rice.
To finish our meal, our server brought a shot glass of saunf, roasted and candied fennel seeds, intended to be poured in hour hand in a dime-sized amount and chewed as a digestif.
The sweet licorice-like flavor immediately quelled the heat from the curry and notified our bellies of the end.
We ended up very pleased with our meal.
It'll be interesting to see how extensive their craft cocktail list will be since I've heard they're looking to be both a dining and bar destination.
Bellies properly full, our next stop was the Criterion for "Gimme the Loot," a film about graffiti that won at South by Southwest's film fest.
It was a small movie in many ways - shot for next to nothing, unknown cast, odd subject matter - but big in others - a stellar soundtrack, witty commentary about urban life and strong performances by beginners.
It was really just a day in the life movie of two kids who spent their time tagging, only to be infuriated when someone tags over them.
Their major goal was to tag the Mets' giant apple at Shea Stadium, something that has apparently been a goal of taggers for twenty years.
I know that only because the movie opened with footage of an actual show shot two decades ago where a tagger talked about the holy grail of tagging the apple.
The film unfolded over a day as they try to make things happen, all the while traipsing through various boroughs of NYC, making it a terrific travelogue of the city.
One of the funniest lines came from the white girl to whom our hero is delivering weed.
She tells him his drug-dealing boss used to play golf on Cornell's team (unthinkable when it comes to street cred) and he tells her that the dealer's girlfriend is a hippie.
"She can't be a hippie because they only existed in olden times," the entitled, rich girls announces to him. "Like Victorian courtesans and Mayan princesses."
Maybe I found it funny because just this week, a 20-something friend had referred to himself and his girlfriend as hippies and this is certainly not olden times.
Now that I think about it, she did correct him, saying, "I'm a lazy hippie," so maybe it's only lazy hippies who exist in modern times.
But, wait, we all know there are plenty of old hippies to be found, even now.
They're probably the ones who spend Saturday nights doing dinner and a movie.
And god knows they don't worry about their street cred.
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