How Long is Too Long?

The thing about getting older is you realize there are no answers, only stories. Tonight brought me some really excellent storytellers.

Let's start with L. Doug Wilder, who was talking at the Library of Virginia tonight about his memoir, "Son of Virginia: Life in America's Political Arena."

The man is 84, was a state senator for 16 years, made Lieutenant Governor in 1985 and became the country's first black governor in 1989. Oh, right, and the first popularly-elected Richmond mayor in 60 years.

Naturally, he had some mighty fine stories with a history like that. Or as the RTD newsman who introduced him put it, "He's been good copy for 40 years."

From stories of his stint in the military in Korea ("My first experience being, eating and sleeping with whites, sharing the same experiences") to being appointed to the NAACP council by Thurgood Marshall ("We met at Slaughter's Hotel, where everyone met") to politics being the last thing he wanted to get involved in ("But I kept running my mouth"), he regaled us in his distinctive cadence, his voice rising and falling with inflection.

He bragged a little about his law firm being the first - black or white - in Church Hill and his back roads barnstorming campaign in which he never stayed in a hotel, only with voters ("I carried southwest Virginia, can you imagine? Show me a Democrat now who can carry southwest Virginia!").

Yes, he recalled chasing a young Arthur Ashe off the tennis courts, but he also was responsible for Ashe's body lying in state ("The last person to lie in state was Stonewall Jackson!") and 5,000 people coming to pay their respects. Well done, sir.

When asked Hillary ("She needs to be innovative and show that things won't be business as usual") or Bernie ("He's going to have a difficult time explaining socialism to a country that still fears it"), he was diplomatic, making the point that when you have a new poll come out every day, something is drastically wrong.

The fact is, he was unfailingly lively, funny and completely at ease, whether sharing anecdotes from his colorful past or taking the audience's questions. The combative Wilder of old was nowhere in evidence and the stories were pure gold.

Hate on him as a politician all you want, but as an octogenarian, the guy had spunk and a terrific memory.

Walking out, I ran into my favorite city councilman and former neighbor and his first question was about where I was off to.

That was easy: to meet a visiting septuagenarian, her former roommate (aka Pru's delightful mother) and a favorite couple at Amour for dinner.

Starting with a fun wine - a sparkling gamay called "G," fruity on the front and dry on the finish - and humor - "It'll hit the spot" - I took a seat across from the visitor from Mexico, eager to get to know the woman I'd heard so much about. The first things I learn are that she's a chef and rents part of her house on Airbnb, leaving her plenty of time to enjoy life.

Over the four hours we spend eating and drinking, one thing became obvious to us all: this tiny woman and I were cut from the same cloth. Showing me pictures of her house, I see a bedroom with violet and fuchsia walls, an orange coverlet and art everywhere. I could move in tomorrow and not change a thing.

But here's the clincher: when someone brought up that I'm a Luddite, I admitted to not having a cell phone. Her eyes lit up. "So? I don't have one either!" Beau, sitting across from me, rolled his eyes. "The two people on the planet who don't have a cell phone, right here at this table."

Lucky man. He had our undivided attention.

Bottles of beautifully crisp J. Fritsch Riesling accompany a cheese plate, a charcuterie plate, onion tarts, onion soup and two vegetarian plates while the visitor enjoys flounder and ratatouille and tells me about nursing one of the members of the New Riders of the Purple Sage.

We have an especially good time talking about how she likes to unwind and the product she's developing, which involves personal lubrication, among other things. When the subject of 15-minute orgasms comes up, everyone around the table is quick to clarify that 15 minutes is too long.

"Oh, no, it's not!" this feisty woman insists and I feel sure she knows of what she speaks.

Sure of what she wants and what she wants to know, she doesn't hesitate to ask questions ("Do you know when this fish was caught?") and impart opinions about the food ("This gelato needs salt. Just a little to brighten it up") to the owner.

Meanwhile, she regales us with tales of the recent Day of the Dead celebration just before she left Mexico, how much she was enjoying the Boathouse's oysters at lunch today and her hope to be green-lit on her flight back so her luggage doesn't get checked. She wants to return with a lot of, er, souvenirs.

When the subject of her gardener comes up, Pru interjects about how the man ogled her in the shower from above on one of her visits, causing jokes to fly. Better to be ogled than not, yes?

She pays me what is probably the best possible compliment, not because she says that I'm lovely, but because she also observes that I am completely present in the moment.

And why not? I may not get ogled from above, but there always seems to be something interesting going on right in front of me. Maybe that's the luck of getting older.

From the Lips of a Restaurant Critic

I can't imagine being a big city restaurant critic, but I was most definitely interested in meeting one.

That's how I ended up driving to Washington today to hear Ruth Reichl dish about being the New York Times restaurant reviewer for six years and the editor of Gourmet magazine for another ten.

Naturally, it was a terrible day to go the nation's capital.

The nuclear security summit that began today guaranteed closed streets, increased security and traffic slowdowns.

Large black cars, men in suits and sunglasses and motorcades were the order of the day, but I'm a native Washingtonian, so I wasn't in the least deterred.

I was amused by the warning signs as I was coming in on 395; they ominously said "DC Event. Expect Delays."

No, no, the circus being in town is an event; an international nuclear security summit is a tad more serious in my book.

Before the lecture, I was meeting a friend for dinner at Oyamel.

I'd read good things, I knew the Post's restaurant critic loved it and my friend validated it all.

They had an entire tequila menu, and after much deliberation, I got the Don Julio, recommended by a Mexican-American waitress I know; it was beautifully aged and not, as the menu noted, one of the "dry, aggressive" tequilas.

Of particular pleasure was the paper straw that came in my water glass; I can't remember the last time I used one.

During happy hour, they have a selection of tacos for $2 each and not just any tacos, but ones wrapped in their soft house made corn tortillas.

They had six different offerings and, curious about the variety, we got them all:

Grilled marinated chicken/guacamole/grilled green onions
Stew of shredded chicken/potatoes/chorizo/chipotle/red onion
Braised beef tongue/radishes/sauce of roasted pasilla chilis/tomatoes/onion/garlic
Confit of baby pig/green tomatillo sauce/pork rinds/onions/cilantro
Yucatan-style pit bbq pork/pickled red onion/Mexican sour orange
Shredded beef/ancho chili and cumin sauce/salsa of cilantro, tomatoes, onion and serrano chiles

It was my first time for tongue and it was wonderful; as a bonus, I got the whole thing because my friend wasn't interested.

We shared the rest and each had a distinct flavor profile, some hotter than others, so it would be tough to choose a favorite (okay, maybe the baby pig).

The only reason we didn't try the sauteed grasshopper taco was because it wasn't on the menu; next time we'll know to ask for it.

It did come highly recommended and even my tongue-shy friend agreed to share one with me next time.

When I slipped off to the bathroom, the very attractive woman sitting next to my friend engaged him in conversation so by the time I got back, she knew I'd come from Richmond.

Leaning across him, she unexpectedly asked what I thought of L. Doug Wilder.

As someone who did phone interviews with the man often during his tenure as mayor, I did have opinions; he can be utterly charming and funny but also stubborn and, as this woman put it, cantankerous.

Then came the kicker. "I used to date him," she divulged.

Well, well, what a good conversation starter that was! Nothing like going out of town for the scoop on a local.

Dessert was chosen by our French waiter and consisted of Oaxacan chocolate custard with Mexican-origin chocolate sorbet, passion fruit gelatin, chocolate and pumpkin seed crumble and fresh passion fruit seeds.

I might note that it was a delightful taste and texture combination and was a mere $6.

And then there was Ruth.

From her days as a member of a restaurant collective in Berkley, CA, she learned that she loved the pressure of restaurant cooking, the full dining room and row of tickets.

She also talked about how people don't just want food, they want an experience, theater even.

She acknowledged that big city critics still have power and as a result, critics must maintain anonymity in order to get a representative meal.

"Good critics give you the tools to experience it in a richer way; they give you guideposts to educate you."

She referred to social media such as Yelp, blogging and Twitter as essentially doing consumer reporting.

She said she loved the democracy of them because they don't give one person the power to decide for the consumer.

She explained her own style of reviewing when she brings friends along to "help."

They have to eat at least three courses and preferably five. They're not allowed to make any comments about the food, so as not to influence her review.

"It's not your opinion people are paying to hear," she would instruct her guests.

And they have to enjoy themselves and make it as normal an experience as possible.

Her comments about her years at Gourmet magazine were just as fascinating because, as she lamented, "I got to live through this time in magazines that will never exist again. Nobody gets to do that anymore."

By that, she was referring to staffers who were entitled to go on one research trip anywhere in the world annually as well as attend any culinary school they chose.

There were twelve test kitchens and eight people devoted to daily recipe testing.

Truly, like women wearing hats and gloves to work, that era is gone.

She doesn't blog, but does Twitter and her reason is that it's so easy.

Her tweeting intent is to point out the pleasure of the everyday, a philosophy I heartily subscribe to in my own blogging.

I'm just not succinct enough to keep it to 140 characters.

Afterwards, I got in line to meet Ruth and have her sign my book, which she'd graciously done for dozens of fans ahead of me, although I was not so demanding as to ask for her picture to be taken with me (not that I had a camera with me either).

When it was my turn at last, she asked about my interest in coming and I mentioned my enthusiasm for eating and writing about it.

Her inscription was "To Karen, Food bloggers: democracy in action. Ruth Reichl."

I couldn't have asked for a more appropriate sentiment.

So thanks to Ruth Reichl for helping me clarify part of my blog's raison d'etre; I'm helping democratize food writing, one Richmond post at a time.

Or as Ruth said, handing me back my book, "These days eaters have just as much voice as critics."

And after all, shouldn't we?