It's My Thing

You know how they say a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse?

Well, Tobacco Company is as good as Hardywood to a music-loving non-beer drinker.

Which means that after my hired mouth and posse finished dinner and a friend was too tired for fun, I found myself alone at Tobacco Company to see the Hi Steps on a Friday night.

Taking a seat on the far side of the bar, a tequila discussion ensued with the white-shirted bartender before Don Julio landed in front of me. A couple at the end of the bar asked of him what kind of music the band would be playing and his best guess was jazz, based on their instruments.

Unwilling to let him put misinformation out there, I corrected him. Vintage R & B, I shared. Motown even. Smiles abounded.

Not long after, a guy sat down next to me wanting more information about the band. I supplied it, sharing how good they were, and he decided to stay.

"I used to live in Detroit," he said, smiling. "I've got Motown in my veins." Well, my friend, then you're going to have a good time.

Visiting from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he turned out to be a music-loving radiologist in town to teach a class. Already, he'd had lunch at Bistro Bobette, dinner at Magpie (where he'd been forewarned about the 'hood and I un-warned him) and to the Country Club of Virginia.

I've gone on record as being no fan of the Tobacco Company or its clientele (the kind who order "three Fireballs and a Budweiser"), but I do so enjoy the Hi Steps, so I ignored my aversion for a chance to kick off my soul-filled weekend appropriately.

It only took the first few strains of "Let's Stay Together" for my new friend to thank me profusely for the recommendation. A huge Stevie Wonder fan, he totally dug hearing "Superstition" and raved about the musicianship on "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."

Between songs we chatted, during which time I learned that his first concert was 38 Special opening up for Journey in 1980. Nice. Hold on loosely, baby.

I think he decided he was going to talk to me when I pointed out that singer Butterfly's mic wasn't high enough in the mix and he pegged me for a music lover.

As the Hi Steps began winning over the drunken, shouting crowd with gems such as "Chain, Chain, Chain" and "It's Your Thing," a highly perfumed, overly made-up blond asked if the stool next to me was taken and sat down.

Explaining that she was in town from Minneapolis to visit her hospitalized brother, she was at T.C. with her sister who'd been part of a rehearsal dinner upstairs on the third floor.

Given that this woman was no spring chicken, I inquired about the wedding party's age. Uh-huh. The groom is 50-something and the bride-to be is 25. "They have a pre-nup," she informed me. Good thing.

"I give it six months," Blondie said, promising to point them out when they came downstairs to the bar.

Rather than discuss the obvious, I asked about her first show only to learn that she'd grown up in Richmond and her inaugural concert had been Foreigner at the Coliseum in 1984.

When I replied, "Wow, Foreigner," she seemed to take it as an insult, quickly sharing that she'd been to plenty of shows since.

"I saw Bon Jovi there, too," she said eagerly. "And Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. And Roger Waters doing "The Wall." And Barbra Streisand. And Bob Seger." I told her that was plenty of proof that she was a true-blue music lover.

All of a sudden, there were shrieks and the crowd behind us against the big front windows began making noise. Turning, I saw that many of them had their phones out and trained on the sidewalk outside the window.

A fight had broken out in front of TC and it wasn't even midnight yet. Give me strength. Even worse was the knee jerk reaction of the crowd to immediately begin filming it.

Meanwhile, a guy comes over and orders a double Amaretto as the bartender is lining up ten Jager Bombs for another wedding party. Kids, it's going to be a looong wedding day if you keep drinking that stuff tonight.

By now, the Hi Steps had a full crowd dancing in front of them while they played Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" and "Try a Little Tenderness." The bartender sashayed over and gave me a thumbs up, saying, "You were right!" about the band. Duh.

I noticed a shy, quiet looking man across the bar eating a sandwich and fries and after a bit, he had a bartender put some of his fries on a separate plate and send them over to a couple of older women at the end of the bar. After delivering them, the bartender pointed out the man to the women and he saluted them with a smile.

Honestly, I might prefer that a man sent me fries rather than buy me a drink at that point in the evening.

And speaking of such, after Blondie and her sister left for the club downstairs (thankfully taking her noxious cloud of perfume with her), a guy took her stool to order drinks and pay for them.

But when the check arrived, he squinted at it and handed it to me. "Can I use your eyes?" he asked. $34.68, I told him, but why in the world are you asking a woman of my advanced age, sharing it to prove my point.

"God, I'm ten years younger than you," he said, leaning in closer and staring. "You look beautiful! Is that your husband next to you?" Nope. "Can I buy you a drink?" Nope.

When I spotted a white van pull up in front of TC and a gaggle of drunk girls spill out of it, I commented to the bartender that that was the last thing they needed given the already large, loud and drunken crowd.

He agreed, acknowledging that the music was the only redeeming part of the evening. It was true, throughout the night, all three of the bartenders had been dancing behind the bar as they poured and served to the irresistible sounds of the band.

During the band's break, Mr. Ann Arbor pointed to a screen where a referee had been trampled and was laying motionless on the field face down. Watching the replay, he diagnosed what had happened to the man's leg when two large players had collided over him.

That led to discussion of sports and his teams: Lions, Tigers and Wolverines, apparently. Sounds one step removed from the "Wizard of Oz" to me.

When I explained that I grew up in a Redskins family, he first made a joke ("I hear the Redskins are thinking of changing their name. They're dropping the 'Washington' part" Ba-dum-bum) and then told me we were lucky to have Kirk Cousins quarterbacking because he'd played at Michigan State, clearly a good thing in his opinion.

But mostly we talked music while the band played songs like "Movin' On Up" and he raved about the keyboard player's prowess or the guitar player's effortless licks. Seems he'd also been at TC last night and seen a lackluster duo so he was hugely impressed with what he saw tonight.

Yea, the Hi Steps will do that to a music lover.

Realizing the late hour (and the fact that he had to be up at 6 a.m. to teach), he finally said, "Okay, I'm going to have a Fireball to remember Richmond by and then go." Since he'd already said he'd never even heard of a Fireball, I was a tad surprised.

He should have known by the bartender's face (a grimace) when he asked about it, but he bravely took a sip and turned to me. "Don't bother getting a Fireball." Don't worry.

After a killer rendition of "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," I walked up to the stage and gave bandleader Jason a salute and a thanks for the terrific night of music.

The cobblestone streets were freshly wet from rain and the booty-short crowd was out en masse headed to clubs.

Don't drink beer, don't care for the crowd at Hardywood, but I've been to all kinds of shows there because the music appealed.

Crowd-wise, TC is far worse with golf shirts and Rumpilminz drinkers, but they at least carry tequila, so there was no reason to miss the Hi Steps.

I may not have lived in Detroit, but I got a little Motown in my veins, too. And while I'm at it, as a public service I'm willing to share my eyes with a blind horse.

Or man, as the case may be.

Beat It

It's not often I'm willing to  wait in line for an hour and a quarter, but for Henley Street's Annual Bootleg Shakespeare, I do.

Happily and with my mouth running to my friend about the past few months of my life for entertainment, we stayed until we scored two fifth row seats before looking for a place to eat.

Given the limited time we had, we settled for a restaurant in the parking lot, Ledo's Pizza.

And there I had a bit of a cultural shock.

There were individual TVs at some of the tables. Not at the one we chose, you can be sure, but within view at a half dozen booths.

Please tell me this isn't the wave of the future.

Even the manager coming over to check on us and, seeing our glasses of red wine and white pizza with bacon, saying he was going to bring over the bottle of wine and get us drunk (we declined) couldn't compensate.

I'm sorry; a booth with a TV ensures no conversation and that's exactly what we saw. Silent people eating together without sharing a word.

Tragic.

Luckily, seeing "Troilus and Cressida" made up for it all.

The bootleg experience, with the actors bringing their own costumes and props and  having no rehearsals except the day of the show, is one guaranteed to delight.

The actors experience things as the audience does and the results are always hilarious.

The evening always starts with a drawing and this year first prize was a basket with a plastic sword, a Cressida doll and a box of Trojans. Brilliant.

And this year, Henley had chosen a problem play, one I had never seen produced, so that was yet another exciting element.

It's a long play, too, but the energy of the actors kept things moving and there was enough comedy, bawdy and otherwise, around the tragedy and history to make the evening pass in a flash.

The story was mostly about the warring between the Trojans and Greeks but also about the doomed love affair of Troilus and Cressida.

To be wise and love
Exceeds man's might

Duh. So there's a truism as old as mankind.

Achilles, played by Joe Carlson, strutted around in his underwear and an open robe, lusting after men and powdering his privates.

Cynde Liffick played Agamemnon in a red shirt and black leather jacket, but it was her one sequined glove that made the costume.

She got a well-deserved round of applause for delivering the endless list of the the dead and wounded.

I always find that Adam Mincks, here as Aeneas, makes me laugh out loud and he did it many times tonight.

A scene where he handed a half-eaten apple to the old man Nestor and then kept checking on it with sly glances had the audience in stitches.

And the very old Nestor, played by Liz Blake-White, was the physical comedy of the play, moving slowly as if with great age and often being scooped up by another character to move her along.

Her line, "I'll hide my silver beard in a golden beaver," was met with outbursts of laughter from many.

Women are angels wooing.


As many times as I've seen Foster Solomon in a production, this was the first time I saw him play big and dumb.

It was, in fact, his big fight with Hector, played by Matt Hackman, that put the audience over the top.

Their staged fight segued into the dance moves for MJ's "Beat It" with the entire cast joining in. It was amazing just how well they pulled off the moves at a moment's notice, especially the big, dumb Ajax.

And his line about "The policy of those crafty, swearing rascals is not proved worth a blackberry...or maybe a Droid," showed his improvisational skills.

Being a punk version of Shakespeare, many actors wore T-shirts ("Survival Tonight Mandatory") and lip "piercings" that were removed for kissing scenes.

Cressida, played by Zoe Speas, was flawless in her belted body suit, ripped fishnets and spot-on delivery.

In a scene about her frustration over losing Troilus she ad-libbed about tearing out her "awesome" hair, a nod to her spiky and fashionable haircut.

It was little things like when Cressida left for Greece and Troilus came out in the next scene with an "X" over his heart.

A very sweet and touching statement.

Being a problem play, nothing was really resolved at the end. There were dead people, as usual, but no reunited lovers or unmasked characters.

Just like real life, I suppose.

Sigh.

We chose Fanhouse for a post-theater cocktail and walked into a mixologist extravaganza, not completely unusual there since Bobby Kruger runs the place, but even the guests were the talented sort tonight.

A high point of the night was when four of them combined resources to create one cocktail.

First one chose a gin, then Frangelico was added by another, then bitters by someone else and the final ingredients by the fourth.

They brainstormed on garnishes and toppings, but the final result was quite tasty, said the non-gin drinker (okay, me).

A group came in and order Jager bombs and as I saw Bobby making them, I asked if his soul was dying a little.

"Yea," he admitted, "But not as bad as if they'd asked for appletinis."

Everything is relative.

Or, as he pointed out, "We have competing demographics in here tonight."

Now that was some restaurant diplomacy.

A low point of the evening was when the volume on the sound system got turned up for R Kelly, making conversation impossible ("Everyone wants to hear R Kelly loud," Bobby insisted), until enough customers requested it be lowered.

But when the '80s arrived in the musical form of the Outfield's "Your Love," and the volume was again raised, there was much singing along and drumming on the bar.

I did neither, but to the observant type, my thoughts were all there.

They always are if you're paying attention.

There's language in her eye, her check, her lip
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out
At every joint and motive of her body.

Bottoming Out after Saturday in the Slip

I don't wait for engraved invitations anymore. I ask. And sometimes I get text-like responses.

So where have u been recently? I was thinking a bit later in the evening. 8 or 830 ish. What say? U going to some show later?

This quasi-invitation came from half of one of my favorite couples when I suggested a Saturday night couple date.

We established that I had no music plans for the evening (I know, a rarity on a weekend night) and I listed out my recent destinations. Result: Bistro Bobette at 815.

Crossing Cary Street to get to Bobette, a cab driver called out to me, "Hey, you in the black dress, you got a nice butt." Thus I was welcomed to Shockoe Slip.

I was greeted with hugs and kisses and Mas de la Dame Rose was offered before I could ask for it; my friends shortly arrived. 

It was a good foodie night at Bobette's bar, with a nearby trio of guys (including the Welshman still hoping for lip prints on his shirttail) eating even more than the three of us did. We don't often see that.

Every time they liked something, they ordered another dish of it. Ah, so these were smart men.

I was eager to hear about my friends' recent jaunt to DC; they'd done eleven restaurants in 2 1/2 days. Even I was impressed.

But tales of food can't match the real thing, so we wasted no time in availing ourselves of two of tonight's specials.

The rabbit pate with hazelnuts had a subtly rich flavor enhanced by the accompanying lentils. The lamb heart was rich, rare and as easy to cut as butter. I'd eat it anyway, but I'm hoping that eating heart improves one's love life.

After such rich starters, we naturally opted for more of the same, choosing a special of spicy rack of lamb and the mixed grill of quail, beef and bacon-wrapped pork.

The seven lamb lollipops were done in a spicy jus boasting coriander for flavor and crunch; sauteed pattypan squash and tomatoes accompanied it.

The chef himself doesn't usually care for lamb, but loves this locally grown lamb for its young, white meat. I could see why.

As for the mixed grill, how can you go wrong with fowl, cow and pig on one plate? The quail especially was melt-in-your mouth succulent.

Midway through dinner, a new couple joined us at the bar . In an odd coincidence, the female half of that couple, like the female of the couple I was with, was Russian.

They hit it off like a house on fire, alternating between Russian and English as they discussed god-knows what animatedly. 

It was pretty cute to see, like two stray dogs discovering that they liked to play together.

They paused only when the lavender ice cream came out with its distinctive aroma and high butterfat. 

I admit I had one sachet moment, but the flavor was so beautiful that I, like the others, was quickly won over.

We saw a loopy woman led out by her husband after she fell asleep in her chair. No one at her table seemed to find anything unusual about her post-dinner snooze while they chatted, but it seemed very odd to us.

As the last customers in the place, but not yet out of conversation,we decided to move the party six blocks east to Mint.

Of course, Saturday night parking in the Bottom is problematic at best and the omnipresent cops with their cars blocking half the intersections don't make it any easier.

We arrived just as the last diners were leaving, so Julep became Mint right before our eyes.

Shades were lowered and the music went from restaurant-stuffy to very cool. I heard a band I loved, the Budos Band, a ten-piece on Daptone records which says a lot, doing instrumental soul music.

One of the servers took note of it and came over and said, "This sounds like music from a '70s King Fu movie." 

He then proceeded to do bad lip synched dialog to simulate such a movie for our amusement. But the music reference was apt, I'd have to say. And I want more.

And then the Russian and her boyfriend showed up and it was a full-on party.

Mixologist Bobby told me about his ever-evolving drink list and then acknowledged the inevitable.

"You want a Don Julio?" he asked with a touch of resignation in his voice. I just nodded.

But when he brought it to me, it was more than just tequila and a slow-melting cube.

"I know you're a purist, so I only put the ground mustard seed on part of the rim," he said with a smile. 

He'd also slipped in a lime twist, no doubt to make himself feel better about having to pour such a boring drink. And as it turned out, the mustard seed was a nice touch.

Once I began sipping, I heard about one of his new creations, a tequila and absinthe drink with an avocado yogurt, which sounded so wonderful that I had to taste it.

Okay, so I might consider a cocktail if it contained that many things I love.

For entertainment value, Bobby told us about having run over a passed-out guy on the 14th Street bridge late last night. 

It wasn't so bad; Bobby was on his bike and only ran over the guy's foot and the guy never even stirred. 

Of course, it scared Bobby to death, though, so he called for non-emergency help and an ambulance was dispatched to help drunk guy get off the bridge.

If not for Bobby, he'd have probably slept it off on the sidewalk till daybreak, woken up and strolled home feeling much better.

What lesson can we learn here?

If not for going out all the time, I'd never get to hear such great stories. Or an evening of Russian conversation.

I wouldn't get to try mustard seed with tequila. Or find out that I might have the potential to be a cocktail drinker.

And then there was the cabbie commentary on my backside. I just can't get that kind of thing at home.

At least not yet. I remain eternally optimistic.