Fourth time's the charm apparently.
It's not like I hadn't been on the canal boat tour before because I had, dating back as far as 2008 and as recently as 2017. But this was the first time that it was just me, my date and the boat's captain and who am I to complain about a private tour?
You know me, I'll revel in it.
Even better, our captain was a Scotsman, complete with accent ("goods" sounded like "gutes") and tales from his recent trip back to Glasgow, where improbably, he experienced only one hour of rain over ten days. I'm here to tell you I was only in Scotland for three days and, with the exception of one hour, it rained, snowed, hailed or sleeted the entire time. When I mentioned I had a friend who lives in Barrhead, we were instant buddies.
But I digress.
The idea of taking the canal boat tour had been based solely on the glorious weather which was mid-70s, sunny and breezy without a drop of humidity in the air. And while I love my humidity, it gets mighty hot on the canal when it's hanging in the air. Besides, if a boat tooling along the canal wasn't the ideal place to be from 6 to 7:00, it was pretty darn close.
Since I'd been on the tour before, one thing I'd learned was that each captain has his own spiel and they differ. Our Scotsman, for instance, made no mention of the canal as a natural habitat - great blue herons, turtles - as several past guides had.
Instead, he was all about the history, some of it old hat (the spy Elizabeth van Lew posing as a mumbling homeless person to gather intel) and some of it new to me. Captain Dave explained that Tobacco Row had come to be because all the tobacco companies wanted the easy access to boats bringing in tobacco leaf, so they all built warehouses long the canal.
Seems it didn't take long for everyone to realize that the warehouses were prone to flooding and the companies fled for higher ground. All, that is, except Philip Morris, who stayed put. Interesting how that decision played out in the long run. I mean, let's not forget that as recently as 1984 (!!), Richmond held the National Tobacco Festival, complete with parade and Tobacco Queen and who do you suppose helped finance the festivities?
Call for Philip Morris (how's that for dating myself?).
The best part of being on a private tour (even if it was accidental) was having the ability to move around the boat to see whatever we wanted to or escape the sun while Captain Dave regaled us with obscure information, his enthusiasm for the local history evident in every obscure fact he shared. That and not having strangers' bodies blocking the breeze.
After disembarking, we headed up the hill toward Elizabeth van Lew's old estate (now a school) and onward to Dutch & Co. for dinner. The dining room was filling up but the bar was wide open except for a couple of women discussing what's wrong with men and relationships at the far end. And rather loudly, I might add.
Fortunately, nothing that a little Rose of Cinsault couldn't blot out.
Turns out it's Crabcake Week in Richmond and it's to benefit Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay, a worthy cause if ever there was one. Given my childhood in Maryland, I couldn't help but order Dutch's version given that they were baked, not fried, and served with succotash. I believe I've gone on record as saying that good succotash makes me weak in the knees and this was the first I've had this year.
But before that came an amuse bouche of a tiny pea shoot meringue with cilantro cream, followed by fave bean crostini, a fine starter that layered Sub Rosa bread with mashed fava beans, spicy Capicola (oh, how I've missed you, Capicola!) and a drizzle of honey. The bread and spread made a glorious backdrop for the killer one-two punch of the meat's spice and the honey's sweetness.
Then the crabcakes showed up and the swooning began. Two fat filler-less crabcakes (as in gluten-free, so zero bread binder) looked more like lump crab patties than traditional crabcakes, bound only with a little mayo, mustard and egg. To take them over the top was lobster roe butter sauce and a healthy helping of bacon-studded succotash with fresh fava beans and sweet corn.
Be still my heart (and belly).
I'd have scarfed them down even if it didn't aid the Bay, though I'll admit I felt a little more virtuous for knowing it did.
When it came time for dessert, I passed right over the regular dessert menu for a special of phyllo dough-wrapped chocolate cake, topped with chocolate ganache and orange marmalade. After I ordered it, the bartender double-checked to make sure I understood about the phyllo dough part, aka the buttery, crispy "leaves" surrounding the chocolate center. Seems several women have ordered it and then been upset that it's not just chocolate cake.
It reminded me of that time I ordered Spam at Ste. Ex in D.C., only to have the sever ask if I knew what Spam was. Well, duh. Why do you think I ordered it, son?
Anyway, the dessert was a brilliant take on an old standard, the phyllo's outer crispiness a satisfying textural contrast to the soft, dark center it encased. At my date's suggestion, we savored it with glasses of Ten Year Old Tawny Port, all but ensuring that we weren't going anywhere anytime soon.
But as Captain Dave had told us at the beginning of the cruise, what's the hurry? We'd sailed the seas, had a private history lesson, saved the Bay and outlasted the men-bashers.
I'd say that's more than enough for a Monday night.
Showing posts with label dutch & co. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dutch & co. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
Thursday, April 26, 2018
Tell It To Me Slowly
Give me Constable-like skies and I will rise to the occasion.
I will walk bare-legged to the river to hear it roar.
I will spend the afternoon planting flowers in my garden because, with 20 hours of rain in the last day and a half, the soil is easy to dig and the bare spots are calling for color. It's not misting, but there's definitely moisture all around, and it's somewhere in between warm and cool. The air feels like no temperature at all.
I will take two hours to add dozens of annuals and perennials to my pocket garden, mostly in spots south of the heirloom pink rose bushes and west of the miniature rose that came with the garden.
I will get overly warm, damp from mist and finish up fully filthy under a moody sky.
I will feel like I'm driving into a storm as we head east to Church Hill for dinner under dramatically-lit sunset clouds.
I will taste Spring with Dutch & Co.'s chilled pea soup with practically a salad on top in the way of chili shrimp, peanuts and pea shoots. I will sample braised beef cheek, while eating salmon rillette and fried chili cauliflower. I will share a stroopwaffle with caramel, all accompanied by La Galope Rose.
I will listen to records with Holmes and Beloved for the first time since before Thanksgiving and I will want to hear the Zombies. From the opening notes of "Time of the Season," I'm reminded not only of how effortlessly cool sounding it was, but how well it's held up. It's 50 years old, for cryin' out loud.
I will stand in the street when I leave Homes' house to study the still painterly clouds trying to unsuccessfully block the moon in the night sky.
I will remember how Beloved asked me if it was all worth it and I said an unequivocal yes without hesitation.
I will appreciate again of what a beautiful Constable day it was.
I will walk bare-legged to the river to hear it roar.
I will spend the afternoon planting flowers in my garden because, with 20 hours of rain in the last day and a half, the soil is easy to dig and the bare spots are calling for color. It's not misting, but there's definitely moisture all around, and it's somewhere in between warm and cool. The air feels like no temperature at all.
I will take two hours to add dozens of annuals and perennials to my pocket garden, mostly in spots south of the heirloom pink rose bushes and west of the miniature rose that came with the garden.
I will get overly warm, damp from mist and finish up fully filthy under a moody sky.
I will feel like I'm driving into a storm as we head east to Church Hill for dinner under dramatically-lit sunset clouds.
I will taste Spring with Dutch & Co.'s chilled pea soup with practically a salad on top in the way of chili shrimp, peanuts and pea shoots. I will sample braised beef cheek, while eating salmon rillette and fried chili cauliflower. I will share a stroopwaffle with caramel, all accompanied by La Galope Rose.
I will listen to records with Holmes and Beloved for the first time since before Thanksgiving and I will want to hear the Zombies. From the opening notes of "Time of the Season," I'm reminded not only of how effortlessly cool sounding it was, but how well it's held up. It's 50 years old, for cryin' out loud.
I will stand in the street when I leave Homes' house to study the still painterly clouds trying to unsuccessfully block the moon in the night sky.
I will remember how Beloved asked me if it was all worth it and I said an unequivocal yes without hesitation.
I will appreciate again of what a beautiful Constable day it was.
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
With Filter Clogged
A restaurant-owning friend once told me that the best part of his place being closed on Mondays was that Dutch & Co. was open.
I'm inclined to agree and I'm only a lowly freelance writer. But the last few days - because of course I had to work every day of the long holiday weekend - involved some mind-expanding interviews that, while enriching, left me with lots to ponder.
There was the couples counselor who broke down the stages of a relationship, what happens in each one and, more importantly, why they happen and what you can do to address them. I shouldn't be surprised at how much you can learn about yourself and your relationships simply by talking to an expert.
Then there was the historian and author who explained the Virginia roots of today's radical right to demonstrate how the country got itself into the worst political crisis in living memory. She'd done a fascinating research job linking up all the balls that have been in play since the mid-1950s to lead us to this unenviable place we find ourselves in 2017.
And by "lots to ponder," I also mean "in need of bubbles and conversation."
I found both when the Lady G scooped me up and I directed her to Dutch & Co. - a place she'd somehow never been - past all kinds of traffic jams, police cars with lights on and fender benders. Holy cow, did everyone forget how to drive over the long weekend?
If the stretch between Jackson Ward and Church Hill is any indication, they sure did.
The restaurant was an oasis of calm with a sole bar sitter our only competition for the bartender's attention. He had no problem talking Lady G into the cocktail of the evening, an appealing reddish concoction called Your Pal and starring Rye and Campari among other things. Sitting next to my Cava on the bar, the two drinks made a festive holiday tableau.
Because it had been seven weeks since we'd last met up, we were both bursting with trials, tribulations and totally trivial anecdotes, so we just alternated opening our mouths to debrief the other. We both have out-of-town sisters and had seen them, so that's a reliably rich vein to mine. Thanksgiving tales were inevitable, but so was fine-tuning our road trip plans.
It was only because we both paused to catch our breath that the bartender had a moment to inquire after our appetites. Given how much more we had to cover, it seemed easiest just to order everything on the bar menu, two glasses of Cava and get back to it.
What finally shut us up was the arrival of food. We slathered pork fat biscuits - so rich they felt heavy - with butter and applebutter. Panko-crusted fried cauliflower got the spicy Chinese treatment with chile sauce, scallions, cucumbers and basil, causing Lady G to note, "I could eat this all night long."
We wrapped smoked salmon rillette in salmon skin blinis and topped them with chive yogurt. And to satisfy our love of brine and off-season longing for the beach, we slurped Ruby Salt oysters from the Eastern Shore with abandon.
Once we'd achieved an elegant sufficiency, we went back to swapping stories. She won the evening hands down with a crazy story about a psychic sending her a message from her dead husband about his favorite Honda lawnmower requiring attention.
Don't you know Lady G immediately informed her current husband that the mower had needs?
"And this is what I love about him," she shared, laughing hilariously. "He went right out to the garage to check on it." Turns out the mower was in such desperate need of a new air filter that he was amazed it was still running, so he replaced that, changed the oil and sharpened the blades.
When she reported this back to the friend who knows the psychic, she learned that there was an additional message for her from her first love, this one presumably about something other than power tools, but Lady G has yet to reach her to find out.
The bartender had no trouble interesting us in dessert, although we eschewed a menu and just asked for whatever was chocolate. We're simple women, really. That resulted in salt-dusted chocolate semi-freddo showing up, adorned with plum slices that had been stirred with aged balsamic, all of it over a puddle of extra virgin olive oil.
It was a perfectly lovely marriage of sweet and savory and only derailed our back and forth briefly.
Since I'm not in a relationship, all the conversation about dealing with a man came from her. Since I get out far more than she does, I was the one telling her about the plays and cabarets I'd recently seen, although not one but two friends had invited her to join them for "Legally Blond" and she'd declined both offers.
I got that. We're not the legally blond types, if you know what I mean.
And speaking of, I couldn't help but notice the black pom-pom earrings set against a blond up-do on a favorite stylish waitress. Complimenting her on them, she said, "You know I love to thrift," and I did from past conversations (we're like-minded in that respect). Seems she'd bought a black sweater with small pom-poms around the neck and had removed two, glued them to earring backs and voila! Instant DIY earrings.
"They sell pom-poms in all colors, so you could do the same with a lighter color that would show up on a brunette," she suggested. A fine idea if I wore earrings (I don't) or had pierced ears (nope) or was crafty (please!).
Meanwhile, the bartender complimented our style, telling us we'd done it right, leisurely sampling around the menu to give the newbie a sense of the kitchen and the vibe. Safe to say it's not my first rodeo.
By the time the last of the bubbles was finished, the dining room was well over half full, including several restaurant people enjoying their evening off.
"We should come back here next time," Lady G announced, although next time's location won't get decided until next time. "This place is perfect."
Not news to me or my restaurant friend. Hell, her psychic probably already knew that.
I'm inclined to agree and I'm only a lowly freelance writer. But the last few days - because of course I had to work every day of the long holiday weekend - involved some mind-expanding interviews that, while enriching, left me with lots to ponder.
There was the couples counselor who broke down the stages of a relationship, what happens in each one and, more importantly, why they happen and what you can do to address them. I shouldn't be surprised at how much you can learn about yourself and your relationships simply by talking to an expert.
Then there was the historian and author who explained the Virginia roots of today's radical right to demonstrate how the country got itself into the worst political crisis in living memory. She'd done a fascinating research job linking up all the balls that have been in play since the mid-1950s to lead us to this unenviable place we find ourselves in 2017.
And by "lots to ponder," I also mean "in need of bubbles and conversation."
I found both when the Lady G scooped me up and I directed her to Dutch & Co. - a place she'd somehow never been - past all kinds of traffic jams, police cars with lights on and fender benders. Holy cow, did everyone forget how to drive over the long weekend?
If the stretch between Jackson Ward and Church Hill is any indication, they sure did.
The restaurant was an oasis of calm with a sole bar sitter our only competition for the bartender's attention. He had no problem talking Lady G into the cocktail of the evening, an appealing reddish concoction called Your Pal and starring Rye and Campari among other things. Sitting next to my Cava on the bar, the two drinks made a festive holiday tableau.
Because it had been seven weeks since we'd last met up, we were both bursting with trials, tribulations and totally trivial anecdotes, so we just alternated opening our mouths to debrief the other. We both have out-of-town sisters and had seen them, so that's a reliably rich vein to mine. Thanksgiving tales were inevitable, but so was fine-tuning our road trip plans.
It was only because we both paused to catch our breath that the bartender had a moment to inquire after our appetites. Given how much more we had to cover, it seemed easiest just to order everything on the bar menu, two glasses of Cava and get back to it.
What finally shut us up was the arrival of food. We slathered pork fat biscuits - so rich they felt heavy - with butter and applebutter. Panko-crusted fried cauliflower got the spicy Chinese treatment with chile sauce, scallions, cucumbers and basil, causing Lady G to note, "I could eat this all night long."
We wrapped smoked salmon rillette in salmon skin blinis and topped them with chive yogurt. And to satisfy our love of brine and off-season longing for the beach, we slurped Ruby Salt oysters from the Eastern Shore with abandon.
Once we'd achieved an elegant sufficiency, we went back to swapping stories. She won the evening hands down with a crazy story about a psychic sending her a message from her dead husband about his favorite Honda lawnmower requiring attention.
Don't you know Lady G immediately informed her current husband that the mower had needs?
"And this is what I love about him," she shared, laughing hilariously. "He went right out to the garage to check on it." Turns out the mower was in such desperate need of a new air filter that he was amazed it was still running, so he replaced that, changed the oil and sharpened the blades.
When she reported this back to the friend who knows the psychic, she learned that there was an additional message for her from her first love, this one presumably about something other than power tools, but Lady G has yet to reach her to find out.
The bartender had no trouble interesting us in dessert, although we eschewed a menu and just asked for whatever was chocolate. We're simple women, really. That resulted in salt-dusted chocolate semi-freddo showing up, adorned with plum slices that had been stirred with aged balsamic, all of it over a puddle of extra virgin olive oil.
It was a perfectly lovely marriage of sweet and savory and only derailed our back and forth briefly.
Since I'm not in a relationship, all the conversation about dealing with a man came from her. Since I get out far more than she does, I was the one telling her about the plays and cabarets I'd recently seen, although not one but two friends had invited her to join them for "Legally Blond" and she'd declined both offers.
I got that. We're not the legally blond types, if you know what I mean.
And speaking of, I couldn't help but notice the black pom-pom earrings set against a blond up-do on a favorite stylish waitress. Complimenting her on them, she said, "You know I love to thrift," and I did from past conversations (we're like-minded in that respect). Seems she'd bought a black sweater with small pom-poms around the neck and had removed two, glued them to earring backs and voila! Instant DIY earrings.
"They sell pom-poms in all colors, so you could do the same with a lighter color that would show up on a brunette," she suggested. A fine idea if I wore earrings (I don't) or had pierced ears (nope) or was crafty (please!).
Meanwhile, the bartender complimented our style, telling us we'd done it right, leisurely sampling around the menu to give the newbie a sense of the kitchen and the vibe. Safe to say it's not my first rodeo.
By the time the last of the bubbles was finished, the dining room was well over half full, including several restaurant people enjoying their evening off.
"We should come back here next time," Lady G announced, although next time's location won't get decided until next time. "This place is perfect."
Not news to me or my restaurant friend. Hell, her psychic probably already knew that.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Summer in the City
Summer has arrived on my balcony with the magic of my first moonflower blooming.
Just after July 4th, I did a double take when a friend - unhappy about July's heat - tried to cheer herself up, saying, "Summer is halfway over already!"
Clearly she's the type who measures Summer by Memorial to Labor Day parameters rather than by its feel. Granted, we're on the other side of the solstice and losing a little light every evening, but you can't convince me summer is half over already.
Even technically speaking (not my strong suit), we're just over a month into a three-month season, so the way I see it, we've got plenty of summer left to savor.
Just this morning, we'd been walking down by the river and spotted a couple setting up a hammock by the water's edge. When we walked past them after putting our legs in the water, the hammock was zipped shut on top and limbs were poking out on several sides. We didn't know what was going on inside the hammock, but we had a pretty good guess: summer shenanigans.
Just the kind of thing that should accompany moonflowers, nearly daily dunks in the river and the bounty of the season.
The latter was on full display on the menu at Dutch & Co., where the owner greeted us and commented on the Miramar show at Sub Rosa we'd all attended last week.
"That was just magical, wasn't it?" she mused before marveling at the cool things that go in in Richmond when you're not paying attention (or, as is often the case with restaurant types, when you're working). It was indeed a glorious experience.
And while tonight's lacked the dulcet tones of live music, the meal was superb, beginning with a special of a fried soft shell crab posed in mid-dance over a bowl of chilled corn bisque, slurped while sipping Mont Gravet Rose.
A neighborhood couple sat down next to us at the bar and we joked about people who need the privacy of sitting at a table. Not us, not them, we laughed. But their conversation once they turned back to each other centered entirely around their jobs and employers, resulting in boring work-speak for hours.
Don't call it a retreat, call it a workshop if you want corporate to pay for it. Don't take this wrong, but here's how you should handle that situation with an employee next time. Have you ever had to put together a report you knew no one would read?
While I'm inclined to think that food this good deserves more interesting subject matter, I also know that everyone's idea of sparkling conversation is different.
A favorite server came over to talk beach trips and before long, we were trading favorite places to eat when we're on the Outer Banks. I always appreciate hearing about places on the bypass, because I seldom discover them on my own.
Good-sized Ruby Salt oysters from the eastern shore provided the same salty mouthfeel as the waves that had smacked us in the face on our Sandbridge outing Monday. My date, who'd only had his first Old Salt a few weeks back, is showing great promise as a fellow oyster hound.
Even better, rather than a discussion of work while we devoured his mahi mahi with summer tomatoes, we took turns answering questions from a New York Times article explaining how the questions and answers are meant to encourage self-disclosure because mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.
You also get to hear some really great stories.
We traded answers right through a chocolate semifreddo with a mound of blackberries that managed to feel both indulgent and light as summer at the same time before taking the rest of the questions elsewhere to answer while listening to the Hues Corporation, the Chi-Lites and the Bluenotes.
What was interesting was that the 36 questions are meant to be asked in order and we didn't always do that, yet we managed to uncover all kinds of revelations we'd never have likely gotten to without the questions.
It was also impossible not to acknowledge that we might have answered some questions very differently 20 years ago.
Because what are the long days and warm nights of summer for if not to enjoy leisurely meals and outings while getting to know someone?
The way this optimist sees it, I've got months of summer magic and moonflowers left.
Just after July 4th, I did a double take when a friend - unhappy about July's heat - tried to cheer herself up, saying, "Summer is halfway over already!"
Clearly she's the type who measures Summer by Memorial to Labor Day parameters rather than by its feel. Granted, we're on the other side of the solstice and losing a little light every evening, but you can't convince me summer is half over already.
Even technically speaking (not my strong suit), we're just over a month into a three-month season, so the way I see it, we've got plenty of summer left to savor.
Just this morning, we'd been walking down by the river and spotted a couple setting up a hammock by the water's edge. When we walked past them after putting our legs in the water, the hammock was zipped shut on top and limbs were poking out on several sides. We didn't know what was going on inside the hammock, but we had a pretty good guess: summer shenanigans.
Just the kind of thing that should accompany moonflowers, nearly daily dunks in the river and the bounty of the season.
The latter was on full display on the menu at Dutch & Co., where the owner greeted us and commented on the Miramar show at Sub Rosa we'd all attended last week.
"That was just magical, wasn't it?" she mused before marveling at the cool things that go in in Richmond when you're not paying attention (or, as is often the case with restaurant types, when you're working). It was indeed a glorious experience.
And while tonight's lacked the dulcet tones of live music, the meal was superb, beginning with a special of a fried soft shell crab posed in mid-dance over a bowl of chilled corn bisque, slurped while sipping Mont Gravet Rose.
A neighborhood couple sat down next to us at the bar and we joked about people who need the privacy of sitting at a table. Not us, not them, we laughed. But their conversation once they turned back to each other centered entirely around their jobs and employers, resulting in boring work-speak for hours.
Don't call it a retreat, call it a workshop if you want corporate to pay for it. Don't take this wrong, but here's how you should handle that situation with an employee next time. Have you ever had to put together a report you knew no one would read?
While I'm inclined to think that food this good deserves more interesting subject matter, I also know that everyone's idea of sparkling conversation is different.
A favorite server came over to talk beach trips and before long, we were trading favorite places to eat when we're on the Outer Banks. I always appreciate hearing about places on the bypass, because I seldom discover them on my own.
Good-sized Ruby Salt oysters from the eastern shore provided the same salty mouthfeel as the waves that had smacked us in the face on our Sandbridge outing Monday. My date, who'd only had his first Old Salt a few weeks back, is showing great promise as a fellow oyster hound.
Even better, rather than a discussion of work while we devoured his mahi mahi with summer tomatoes, we took turns answering questions from a New York Times article explaining how the questions and answers are meant to encourage self-disclosure because mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.
You also get to hear some really great stories.
We traded answers right through a chocolate semifreddo with a mound of blackberries that managed to feel both indulgent and light as summer at the same time before taking the rest of the questions elsewhere to answer while listening to the Hues Corporation, the Chi-Lites and the Bluenotes.
What was interesting was that the 36 questions are meant to be asked in order and we didn't always do that, yet we managed to uncover all kinds of revelations we'd never have likely gotten to without the questions.
It was also impossible not to acknowledge that we might have answered some questions very differently 20 years ago.
Because what are the long days and warm nights of summer for if not to enjoy leisurely meals and outings while getting to know someone?
The way this optimist sees it, I've got months of summer magic and moonflowers left.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Don't You Forget About Me
If you were a betting person, you'd put your money on restaurants being dead the Monday after three nights of Valentine's Day celebrations.
You'd lose that money, at least, if you used Dutch & Co. as the measuring stick, you would.
Despite this morning's layer of snow with a crunchy topping of ice followed by rain - or maybe because of it since some people used that minor weather event as a lame excuse to close when it's far more likely they were just plumb worn out after catering to love birds all weekend - D & C were doing a brisk business.
We had our choice of seats at the bar when we arrived, but half an hour later, it was slim pickin's. And of course, there were plenty of industry people out on a Monday night: a wine store owner, a couple of restaurant owners, two wine reps with a lovely Spanish winemaker in tow.
The barkeep is one of my favorites with his low-key and dry demeanor and he soon set us up with a bottle of Badenhorst Secateurs before getting back to the non-stop business of making beautiful cocktails right in front of us.
Since the $5 chalkboard is always my starting point, I was happy to check out a new offering - rabbit pate with pickled mustard seed and apple - and one of my long-time favorites, smoked salmon blini, while having a mini-history lesson on which presidents appointed which Supreme Court justices. To help things along, I'd brought along a chart with the breakdown going back to Nixon.
In these busy times, a girl takes her history lessons where she finds them.
Dutch & Co.'s latest Monday enticement is a separate pasta menu (although we debated the validity of including a risotto as a pasta) created by new Chef de Cuisine Paul, who hails from Burlington, Vermont, as did my ex who also got tired of the cold and moved south.
So what better way to assess Paul's skills than by trying his new mini-menu?
My choice was a decadent gnocchi with Sweet Grass dairy Asher bleu cheese and pine nuts that melted in my mouth while my date opted for the equally rich but more toothsome spaghetti alla Carbonara with bacon, Parmesan, black pepper, egg and parsley.
Because who doesn't like nice fat chunks of bacon in their pasta?
Since it would hardly be fitting to end on anything but a sweet note, we did, and not just because of a lovely chocolate cremeux accompanied by a cinnamon fritter (fried dough, yum), pear chutney and hazelnut crumbles but because of what we drank with it: glasses of Navarre Pineau des Charentes Rose, a gorgeous and slightly funky fortified Cabernet Sauvignon that the bartender admitted was his favorite thing to drink in the house.
What he said.
Because we'd begun the evening early, there was time for a stop at the Hill Cafe for a sampler of '80s and '90s music, where we decided that a good president (Clinton) made for depressing music and a bad president (Reagan) made for upbeat music.
I feel pretty sure there's a thesis just waiting to happen there.
The bartender introduced himself, poured us Graham Beck Brut Rose (it was most definitely a South African-leaning evening and talk of passport renewals ensued) and said that his first concert had been the "Get It Together" tour at the Coliseum featuring Run DMC and the Beastie Boys.
He recalled walking past Sixth Street Marketplace that night and feeling extremely white.
Because it's the Hill, there was the usual assortment of neighbors and oddballs coming and going - the regular in the hat at the end stool who seemed to know anyone who came in, the drunk-looking woman who only wanted a shot of Espolon and who obviously didn't need it, the loud talkers and drunk girls with southern accents - while it turned out I knew most of the cigarette-smoking kitchen staff from other restaurants.
Man, that's an incestuous little world.
The roads, which had been icy and slick in places on the drive over were now clear and perfectly safe, and the temperature had easily risen ten degrees since I'd left my house. And to think some people closed tonight for "weather."
Get it together, people, or you're likely to miss out. Don't bet on me joining your ranks.
You'd lose that money, at least, if you used Dutch & Co. as the measuring stick, you would.
Despite this morning's layer of snow with a crunchy topping of ice followed by rain - or maybe because of it since some people used that minor weather event as a lame excuse to close when it's far more likely they were just plumb worn out after catering to love birds all weekend - D & C were doing a brisk business.
We had our choice of seats at the bar when we arrived, but half an hour later, it was slim pickin's. And of course, there were plenty of industry people out on a Monday night: a wine store owner, a couple of restaurant owners, two wine reps with a lovely Spanish winemaker in tow.
The barkeep is one of my favorites with his low-key and dry demeanor and he soon set us up with a bottle of Badenhorst Secateurs before getting back to the non-stop business of making beautiful cocktails right in front of us.
Since the $5 chalkboard is always my starting point, I was happy to check out a new offering - rabbit pate with pickled mustard seed and apple - and one of my long-time favorites, smoked salmon blini, while having a mini-history lesson on which presidents appointed which Supreme Court justices. To help things along, I'd brought along a chart with the breakdown going back to Nixon.
In these busy times, a girl takes her history lessons where she finds them.
Dutch & Co.'s latest Monday enticement is a separate pasta menu (although we debated the validity of including a risotto as a pasta) created by new Chef de Cuisine Paul, who hails from Burlington, Vermont, as did my ex who also got tired of the cold and moved south.
So what better way to assess Paul's skills than by trying his new mini-menu?
My choice was a decadent gnocchi with Sweet Grass dairy Asher bleu cheese and pine nuts that melted in my mouth while my date opted for the equally rich but more toothsome spaghetti alla Carbonara with bacon, Parmesan, black pepper, egg and parsley.
Because who doesn't like nice fat chunks of bacon in their pasta?
Since it would hardly be fitting to end on anything but a sweet note, we did, and not just because of a lovely chocolate cremeux accompanied by a cinnamon fritter (fried dough, yum), pear chutney and hazelnut crumbles but because of what we drank with it: glasses of Navarre Pineau des Charentes Rose, a gorgeous and slightly funky fortified Cabernet Sauvignon that the bartender admitted was his favorite thing to drink in the house.
What he said.
Because we'd begun the evening early, there was time for a stop at the Hill Cafe for a sampler of '80s and '90s music, where we decided that a good president (Clinton) made for depressing music and a bad president (Reagan) made for upbeat music.
I feel pretty sure there's a thesis just waiting to happen there.
The bartender introduced himself, poured us Graham Beck Brut Rose (it was most definitely a South African-leaning evening and talk of passport renewals ensued) and said that his first concert had been the "Get It Together" tour at the Coliseum featuring Run DMC and the Beastie Boys.
He recalled walking past Sixth Street Marketplace that night and feeling extremely white.
Because it's the Hill, there was the usual assortment of neighbors and oddballs coming and going - the regular in the hat at the end stool who seemed to know anyone who came in, the drunk-looking woman who only wanted a shot of Espolon and who obviously didn't need it, the loud talkers and drunk girls with southern accents - while it turned out I knew most of the cigarette-smoking kitchen staff from other restaurants.
Man, that's an incestuous little world.
The roads, which had been icy and slick in places on the drive over were now clear and perfectly safe, and the temperature had easily risen ten degrees since I'd left my house. And to think some people closed tonight for "weather."
Get it together, people, or you're likely to miss out. Don't bet on me joining your ranks.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Why I Was Here
Pouring rain separates the geeks and the eaters from the weather wimps.
Tonight's installment of VCU's speaker series, "Race, Citizenship and Memory in the South" brought Dr. James Loewen, author of "Lies My Teacher Told Me," to the student commons to discuss "What Does the Civil War Mean in Richmond Today?"
Come on, wouldn't you be curious?
When I left Jackson Ward, the rain was so faint I barely needed an umbrella, By the time I got half a mile away, the skies had opened up and zealots were probably building an ark. Even a good espadrille can't save your feet from puddles as deep as the curb.
Despite the gushing sky, easily 80% of the students had no umbrellas and it couldn't have been that they'd been caught unaware. It's been raining off and on the entire day with a forecast of rain all week. Heck, even during the brief moments when rain and thunderstorms weren't predicted today, it was still supposed to be 100% humidity.
The crowd had plenty of drenched students but also a fair number of adults show up, so many, in fact, that the powers that be eventually realized they needed to put out more chairs for the standing masses.
But the crowd definitely skewed young and when he used the phrase "Perry Mason moment," and asked how many people knew who Perry Mason was, fewer than 20 people raised their hands.
Most were like the girl who came in and spotted the Asian guy with the perfectly-manicured Mohawk and blurted out, "What are you doing here?" and when he told her he came because it sounded interesting, she turned to her vapid-looking girlfriend and asked, "Are we at the right thing?"
No, honey, unfortunately you are, although you will get nothing out of the time spent listening to this man.
Loewen began by justifiably bragging that his book was the best-selling book (1.5 million copies) by a living sociologist. And, yes, it's a book about history.
He was a good speaker, engaging the audience, moving around and not reading some pre-packaged lecture. A real character, too, not shy about sharing his opinions or suggesting what we, the audience, could do to bring about change.
Part of his cred came from having taught at the blackest university (Tupelo) and the whitest (Vermont). At Tupelo, he'd been appalled at the history knowledge of incoming freshman, only to find that it was based on the BS history (bad sociology) that was being taught at Mississippi's black high schools.
People like Loewen don't accept crap like that, so he set out to write a Mississippi history book for use in K-12 classrooms. The school board rejected it, he took them to court, won and it was accepted.
Seems the white members of the school board objected to the state's real history being taught. As the quite humorous (and white) Loewen put it, "You don't have to be white to get history wrong, but it helps."
You don't have to be engaging or amusing to give a humanities lecture, but it helps, too.
Richmond - or at least tonight's audience - acquitted itself beautifully when he quizzed us on why South Carolina seceded from the Union. Slavery? States' rights? Lincoln? Tariffs and taxes?
The largest contingent voted for slavery, which was the correct answer, although in the scores of other cities he's posed this question to, an average of 65% of people think it was about states' rights.
That, my friends, is because of how the history books have been written for far too long (basically since 1890). Nationally, only 20% of people queried know that slavery was the real reason, providing the motivation for him to try to change that.
He made a case for how since 2000, Richmond has revised its thinking on Civil War and slavery history, citing examples - Ralph White's "stealth" markers on the Slave Trail, the Reconciliation statue - and suggesting we do more, like re-contextualizing Monument Avenue with accurate and complete historical markers.
And, hey, if markers that don't toe the white supremacy historical line cause the monuments to be defaced or vandalized, so be it. Loewen means business. He also suggested a sesquicentennial event to mark Reconstruction, a period he says needs to be better taught, more widely acknowledged and remembered for the widespread misinformation disseminated since this crucial period.
So while Loewen didn't have the hellfire and brimstone delivery of a Cornel West, his was a completely fascinating look at how whites whitewashed history for generations of neo-Confederates, a term I'd never fully understood until tonight.
Kids, this is why sometimes we have to go out in the pouring rain
Which it was still doing when the lecture ended, but now I had the luxury of time to find somewhere to eat, winding up at the Roosevelt since it had been ages since I'd dined there.
You'd think a dark and stormy Tuesday night would make for easy seating, but the place was packed with a wait for bar stools and my stomach was having none of it, so I moved on to Dutch & Co., where things were far more civilized and a stool awaited me.
From it I had a picture-perfect view of the downpour silhouetted against the street light. Given how warm it was outside, a server and I discussed how much better it would be if we were ensconced on the porch of a beach (or river) house watching the rain instead.
And although my water view was nothing more than the stream of storm runoff rushing down 27th Street, the food was fabulous.
Worth going out in the pouring rain for.
I started with slices of frankfurter sausage over turnip green puree with a killer hash of sweet potato, onion and turnip seasoned with fermented lemon drop pepper, while talking about the bike race with all the Church Hill residents around me. Everyone had been wowed by the spectacle of the bikers and the sheer magnitude of the crowds.
A fashionista type spotted my waterlogged espadrilles and mentioned that this is the time of year she scouts the DSW website for cute shoes on sale and buys them for next year. I'm not sure I've ever been that forward thinking about shoes.
Some would say this makes me a failure as a female.
After the amazingly good housemade root beer I'd had last night, I asked what their current soda was, only to learn that the soda-maker is off on his honeymoon this week. And while I'll gladly forgo a soda for the sake of a cause as romantic as a honeymoon, I heard the happy couple is currently on an island off the coast of South Carolina, no doubt as soggy as we are here.
Not that honeymooners should require sunshine to have a good time.
My next course was scallop ceviche with garlic lime chutney, cilantro, tostones and crispy shallots on Bibb lettuce with -surprise! - whipped bone marrow. The point, I soon learned, was for the fat of the marrow to mitigate the heat of the chilis. Brilliant.
I got a ringing endorsement of the Peter Chang's at the beach, both about the quality of the food and the surprise of a dim sum menu. Surely, two of us decided, it's not too late for one more day getaway to the beach, especially with a superb dinner at the end of it?
By the time I finished eating and chatting, the dining room was down to two tables and the bar crowd and since it was pouring again, it didn't seem likely that there'd be another rush. You know how some people hole up once it starts to rain cats and dogs.
Which is great if you're on your honeymoon.
For the rest of us, there are southern lessons to be learned and fine foods to be eaten. At my age, I don't have to ask a friend. I was at the right things.
Tonight's installment of VCU's speaker series, "Race, Citizenship and Memory in the South" brought Dr. James Loewen, author of "Lies My Teacher Told Me," to the student commons to discuss "What Does the Civil War Mean in Richmond Today?"
Come on, wouldn't you be curious?
When I left Jackson Ward, the rain was so faint I barely needed an umbrella, By the time I got half a mile away, the skies had opened up and zealots were probably building an ark. Even a good espadrille can't save your feet from puddles as deep as the curb.
Despite the gushing sky, easily 80% of the students had no umbrellas and it couldn't have been that they'd been caught unaware. It's been raining off and on the entire day with a forecast of rain all week. Heck, even during the brief moments when rain and thunderstorms weren't predicted today, it was still supposed to be 100% humidity.
The crowd had plenty of drenched students but also a fair number of adults show up, so many, in fact, that the powers that be eventually realized they needed to put out more chairs for the standing masses.
But the crowd definitely skewed young and when he used the phrase "Perry Mason moment," and asked how many people knew who Perry Mason was, fewer than 20 people raised their hands.
Most were like the girl who came in and spotted the Asian guy with the perfectly-manicured Mohawk and blurted out, "What are you doing here?" and when he told her he came because it sounded interesting, she turned to her vapid-looking girlfriend and asked, "Are we at the right thing?"
No, honey, unfortunately you are, although you will get nothing out of the time spent listening to this man.
Loewen began by justifiably bragging that his book was the best-selling book (1.5 million copies) by a living sociologist. And, yes, it's a book about history.
He was a good speaker, engaging the audience, moving around and not reading some pre-packaged lecture. A real character, too, not shy about sharing his opinions or suggesting what we, the audience, could do to bring about change.
Part of his cred came from having taught at the blackest university (Tupelo) and the whitest (Vermont). At Tupelo, he'd been appalled at the history knowledge of incoming freshman, only to find that it was based on the BS history (bad sociology) that was being taught at Mississippi's black high schools.
People like Loewen don't accept crap like that, so he set out to write a Mississippi history book for use in K-12 classrooms. The school board rejected it, he took them to court, won and it was accepted.
Seems the white members of the school board objected to the state's real history being taught. As the quite humorous (and white) Loewen put it, "You don't have to be white to get history wrong, but it helps."
You don't have to be engaging or amusing to give a humanities lecture, but it helps, too.
Richmond - or at least tonight's audience - acquitted itself beautifully when he quizzed us on why South Carolina seceded from the Union. Slavery? States' rights? Lincoln? Tariffs and taxes?
The largest contingent voted for slavery, which was the correct answer, although in the scores of other cities he's posed this question to, an average of 65% of people think it was about states' rights.
That, my friends, is because of how the history books have been written for far too long (basically since 1890). Nationally, only 20% of people queried know that slavery was the real reason, providing the motivation for him to try to change that.
He made a case for how since 2000, Richmond has revised its thinking on Civil War and slavery history, citing examples - Ralph White's "stealth" markers on the Slave Trail, the Reconciliation statue - and suggesting we do more, like re-contextualizing Monument Avenue with accurate and complete historical markers.
And, hey, if markers that don't toe the white supremacy historical line cause the monuments to be defaced or vandalized, so be it. Loewen means business. He also suggested a sesquicentennial event to mark Reconstruction, a period he says needs to be better taught, more widely acknowledged and remembered for the widespread misinformation disseminated since this crucial period.
So while Loewen didn't have the hellfire and brimstone delivery of a Cornel West, his was a completely fascinating look at how whites whitewashed history for generations of neo-Confederates, a term I'd never fully understood until tonight.
Kids, this is why sometimes we have to go out in the pouring rain
Which it was still doing when the lecture ended, but now I had the luxury of time to find somewhere to eat, winding up at the Roosevelt since it had been ages since I'd dined there.
You'd think a dark and stormy Tuesday night would make for easy seating, but the place was packed with a wait for bar stools and my stomach was having none of it, so I moved on to Dutch & Co., where things were far more civilized and a stool awaited me.
From it I had a picture-perfect view of the downpour silhouetted against the street light. Given how warm it was outside, a server and I discussed how much better it would be if we were ensconced on the porch of a beach (or river) house watching the rain instead.
And although my water view was nothing more than the stream of storm runoff rushing down 27th Street, the food was fabulous.
Worth going out in the pouring rain for.
I started with slices of frankfurter sausage over turnip green puree with a killer hash of sweet potato, onion and turnip seasoned with fermented lemon drop pepper, while talking about the bike race with all the Church Hill residents around me. Everyone had been wowed by the spectacle of the bikers and the sheer magnitude of the crowds.
A fashionista type spotted my waterlogged espadrilles and mentioned that this is the time of year she scouts the DSW website for cute shoes on sale and buys them for next year. I'm not sure I've ever been that forward thinking about shoes.
Some would say this makes me a failure as a female.
After the amazingly good housemade root beer I'd had last night, I asked what their current soda was, only to learn that the soda-maker is off on his honeymoon this week. And while I'll gladly forgo a soda for the sake of a cause as romantic as a honeymoon, I heard the happy couple is currently on an island off the coast of South Carolina, no doubt as soggy as we are here.
Not that honeymooners should require sunshine to have a good time.
My next course was scallop ceviche with garlic lime chutney, cilantro, tostones and crispy shallots on Bibb lettuce with -surprise! - whipped bone marrow. The point, I soon learned, was for the fat of the marrow to mitigate the heat of the chilis. Brilliant.
I got a ringing endorsement of the Peter Chang's at the beach, both about the quality of the food and the surprise of a dim sum menu. Surely, two of us decided, it's not too late for one more day getaway to the beach, especially with a superb dinner at the end of it?
By the time I finished eating and chatting, the dining room was down to two tables and the bar crowd and since it was pouring again, it didn't seem likely that there'd be another rush. You know how some people hole up once it starts to rain cats and dogs.
Which is great if you're on your honeymoon.
For the rest of us, there are southern lessons to be learned and fine foods to be eaten. At my age, I don't have to ask a friend. I was at the right things.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
3 Blokes and a Bird
To dare is to do. At any rate, so says the Tottenham Hotspur Football Club.
I know this solely because of a promise made to James, an English stranger I met tonight at Dutch & Co., which is where I ended up for dinner. It was so civilized when I arrived, only a half dozen tables occupied, although the bar was full except for two stools. I only needed one.
It took me until after a glass of the house Rose arrived (all the way from Languedoc) and my salmon rilletes with salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt were set down in front of me to meet the adjacent Brit couple.
I'd already compared day trips with one of the servers, hearing a glowing report of Yorktown beach (although I can do without a stop at the outlets) and a so-so one of Buckroe Beach, a place she hadn't been since she was four.
Coincidentally, one of the first pictures of me after birth is my Dad holding me at Buckroe Beach, him clad in only a bathing suit, me in nothing but a pink and white checked diaper and I haven't been back, either.
Another of Dutch's lovelies and I began with summer hair challenges - we both see humidity as our enemy but for different reasons- and moved on to the need to make over our living space occasionally.
After ten years with chartreuse walls, she'd switched to a far more neutral color recently and was reveling in the change. I'd done some rearranging myself a few months ago and still delight in the new look nearly every day.
But now the dining room was filling up and my conversational partners had work to do, so I turned to the Brits, who were curious if I lived in the neighborhood. When I mentioned Jackson Ward, they admitted to no knowledge of it.
"I'm not even going to pretend like I know where that is," he told me charmingly.
Turns out they'd only been residents for six weeks after moving from Williamsburg, although they'd already established Dutch & Co. as their go-to restaurant because it was across the street. The one place they had ventured out for had disappointed (had I known them then, I'd have saved them the trip), so they wanted a recommendation.
Needless to say, they're thrilled with Richmond's dining scene, and, in fact, Richmond in general compared to W-burg. "Everyone there is sedate and dull, even the University students," James said, speaking the unspoken about William and Mary students.
It was while we were talking about all the things they needed to check out here that he shared that they were about to go on holiday to...wait for it...England. On the itinerary for their trip was a visit to White Hart Lane stadium (a 19th century stadium, he bragged) so James could see his long-time favorite team, the Hotspurs, play a home game.
Despite being a fan since the Spurs won the championship in 1961, he'd yet to see them play. "It's on my bucket list to see them win the championship again," he said, beaming.
I explained that you don't get to make other people do what you want on your bucket list.
"Oh, no, probably not, right?' he said matter-of-factly in his clipped British accent. Since I had no idea where Tottenham was beyond his description of north London, I was told to look at a map when I got home. Done.
He could tell me that because he's a Virginia historian who used to be director of Jefferson studies at Monticello, which I found hilarious, necessitating me pointing out that we 'd needed to import an Englishman to help us understand TJ, yet another in a long string of embarrassments for the Yanks.
But now he works with the Jamestown Rediscovery Foundation, so he's currently over the moon about the four bodies discovered under the ruins of a historic Jamestown church. And it wasn't just the bodies that got him excited, but a small silver box they also found that looks to have been a Catholic reliquary (but not like with a thumb in it because I asked) belonging to one of the dead men.
Hmm, what are good god-fearing Episcopalian colonials doing with a Catholic object? You can just imagine the issues that brings up.
After they left for their house almost diagonally across from the restaurant, I ordered the crispy fried trotter pate with tomato confit and arugula, which arrived just as the two guys did who filled the Brits' stools.
With no trouble, I quickly established that the duo were IT nerds ("But cool nerds," the one wearing the high top Chuck Taylors said) who work for MCV four days a week and then go back to their real lives in small town Georgia and Houston respectively.
It was their first time at Dutch & Co. and the one next to me, we'll call him Georgia, wanted to know what I was eating with such pleasure. Figuring him for a pig lover after he said he was a meat and potatoes kind of guy, I raved about the dish, omitting that it was made from pigs' feet.
He not only ordered it, but loved it. Score one for me.
Because they live at the Hilton Garden which is half a mile from my house, I was curious about which neighborhood restaurants they frequented Monday through Thursday. Of course they'd hit the overpriced average ones, so I reassured them about a few places they'd heard about but not been.
Just call me a servant to the cause.
When they asked if there was trivia anywhere tonight, the barkeep (wearing the cutest red print vintage dress and weeks away from moving to J-Ward) piped up suggesting New York Deli. Houston looked at me quizzically as if I were the fun expert. "Will we have fun drinking and hanging out there?"
There was a 20-year age difference between the two. Um, you will but Georgia is going to tire of that scene pretty quickly.
Then again, to dare is to do, my friend. Cool nerds should take a Tuesday trivia night out over going back to the hotel any time. I'm not even cool and I know I would.
I know this solely because of a promise made to James, an English stranger I met tonight at Dutch & Co., which is where I ended up for dinner. It was so civilized when I arrived, only a half dozen tables occupied, although the bar was full except for two stools. I only needed one.
It took me until after a glass of the house Rose arrived (all the way from Languedoc) and my salmon rilletes with salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt were set down in front of me to meet the adjacent Brit couple.
I'd already compared day trips with one of the servers, hearing a glowing report of Yorktown beach (although I can do without a stop at the outlets) and a so-so one of Buckroe Beach, a place she hadn't been since she was four.
Coincidentally, one of the first pictures of me after birth is my Dad holding me at Buckroe Beach, him clad in only a bathing suit, me in nothing but a pink and white checked diaper and I haven't been back, either.
Another of Dutch's lovelies and I began with summer hair challenges - we both see humidity as our enemy but for different reasons- and moved on to the need to make over our living space occasionally.
After ten years with chartreuse walls, she'd switched to a far more neutral color recently and was reveling in the change. I'd done some rearranging myself a few months ago and still delight in the new look nearly every day.
But now the dining room was filling up and my conversational partners had work to do, so I turned to the Brits, who were curious if I lived in the neighborhood. When I mentioned Jackson Ward, they admitted to no knowledge of it.
"I'm not even going to pretend like I know where that is," he told me charmingly.
Turns out they'd only been residents for six weeks after moving from Williamsburg, although they'd already established Dutch & Co. as their go-to restaurant because it was across the street. The one place they had ventured out for had disappointed (had I known them then, I'd have saved them the trip), so they wanted a recommendation.
Needless to say, they're thrilled with Richmond's dining scene, and, in fact, Richmond in general compared to W-burg. "Everyone there is sedate and dull, even the University students," James said, speaking the unspoken about William and Mary students.
It was while we were talking about all the things they needed to check out here that he shared that they were about to go on holiday to...wait for it...England. On the itinerary for their trip was a visit to White Hart Lane stadium (a 19th century stadium, he bragged) so James could see his long-time favorite team, the Hotspurs, play a home game.
Despite being a fan since the Spurs won the championship in 1961, he'd yet to see them play. "It's on my bucket list to see them win the championship again," he said, beaming.
I explained that you don't get to make other people do what you want on your bucket list.
"Oh, no, probably not, right?' he said matter-of-factly in his clipped British accent. Since I had no idea where Tottenham was beyond his description of north London, I was told to look at a map when I got home. Done.
He could tell me that because he's a Virginia historian who used to be director of Jefferson studies at Monticello, which I found hilarious, necessitating me pointing out that we 'd needed to import an Englishman to help us understand TJ, yet another in a long string of embarrassments for the Yanks.
But now he works with the Jamestown Rediscovery Foundation, so he's currently over the moon about the four bodies discovered under the ruins of a historic Jamestown church. And it wasn't just the bodies that got him excited, but a small silver box they also found that looks to have been a Catholic reliquary (but not like with a thumb in it because I asked) belonging to one of the dead men.
Hmm, what are good god-fearing Episcopalian colonials doing with a Catholic object? You can just imagine the issues that brings up.
After they left for their house almost diagonally across from the restaurant, I ordered the crispy fried trotter pate with tomato confit and arugula, which arrived just as the two guys did who filled the Brits' stools.
With no trouble, I quickly established that the duo were IT nerds ("But cool nerds," the one wearing the high top Chuck Taylors said) who work for MCV four days a week and then go back to their real lives in small town Georgia and Houston respectively.
It was their first time at Dutch & Co. and the one next to me, we'll call him Georgia, wanted to know what I was eating with such pleasure. Figuring him for a pig lover after he said he was a meat and potatoes kind of guy, I raved about the dish, omitting that it was made from pigs' feet.
He not only ordered it, but loved it. Score one for me.
Because they live at the Hilton Garden which is half a mile from my house, I was curious about which neighborhood restaurants they frequented Monday through Thursday. Of course they'd hit the overpriced average ones, so I reassured them about a few places they'd heard about but not been.
Just call me a servant to the cause.
When they asked if there was trivia anywhere tonight, the barkeep (wearing the cutest red print vintage dress and weeks away from moving to J-Ward) piped up suggesting New York Deli. Houston looked at me quizzically as if I were the fun expert. "Will we have fun drinking and hanging out there?"
There was a 20-year age difference between the two. Um, you will but Georgia is going to tire of that scene pretty quickly.
Then again, to dare is to do, my friend. Cool nerds should take a Tuesday trivia night out over going back to the hotel any time. I'm not even cool and I know I would.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
A Winter Night
Truth be told, it was not how I would have wanted to celebrate Robert Burns' birthday.
In a perfect world, I'd have been eating haggis, neeps and tatties while listening to "Address to a Haggis," followed by a dram of whiskey and the singing of "Old Lange Syne."
But in the true spirit of making the most of a Saturday night, I got myself to Dutch & Co. instead. There, I spied a barkeep hand-bottling eye-catching "adult sodas," for a function tomorrow. The deliberate motions of squeezing the simple device to put orange bottle caps in place was very satisfying to watch.
Our conversation revolved around his backyard gardening with plans for a greenhouse and hoop houses to extend the season for vegetables for the restaurant and herbs for the bar. Honeysuckle for syrups, is already in abundance, as it tends to be all over Richmond.
A major reason for my affection for Dutch & Co. is their $5 menu which reliably offers some of the most creative small plates in the entire city. My first tonight was a dreamy salmon tartar, sunny and orange in color and accompanied by salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt.
While I was savoring every bite, I was busy discussing tomorrow's big Elby's party, which had everyone abuzz with its disco theme. As I explained to the several on the staff, my ensemble for the party is almost exactly a copy of the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977 when I was headed to a waterfront restaurant and, yes, a disco to ring in 1978.
Don't tell me what disco was because I was there.
My second course was duck liver mousse on grilled bread, two generous slabs that almost certainly shut down my arteries after the first few bites. The tang of pickled carrots and onions, the crunch of nuts and the spice of gremolata made for perfectly balanced flavor in every decadent bite.
Meanwhile, a couple came in and joined me at the bar, then another while behind me, the dining room was filling up quickly.
My final course was venison pastrami atop warm turnip risotto, a glorious combination that the kitchen took over the top with balsamic mushrooms to add a sweet complement to the savory.
As I was declining dessert for lack of room, the woman at the bar nearest me looked over and said she recognized me. One well placed question and we recognized each other as friends of a certain man known for prodigious restaurant-going and spreadsheets devoted to finding the ideal woman.
They live in the Museum District and it was their first visit to Dutch & Co., and she was already proclaiming the duck breast the best she'd ever eaten. I assured her that its liver was every bit as fabulous as the breast.
Before I left, we made plans to have our mutual friend set up an evening so we can all get together and gorge.
On my way to the car, I passed a couple walking two of the liveliest beagles, both adorable. The smaller one had so much personality I couldn't help but squat down and spend some time rubbing its velvety ears. It was almost as satisfying as dessert and far less filling.
Then it was over the river to Crossroads for a little night music. Garden and Gun magazine had recommended Another Roadside Attraction for its vaudeville take on Americana and that was enough to lure me.
I found a seat at a table with a couple who lived one house away and we wiled away the time until the band began chatting. They highly recommended I come sometime for Sunday's Bland Street Jam, where they'd recently seen a bill so diverse it included R & B, opera and Hank Williams covers. "You never know who will take the stage!" she raved.
Another Roadside Attraction - husband and wife Lucy and Jordan- was a colorful duo with a distinctive array of instruments including a guitarron like you see mariachi bands play ("also a flotation device for small children," he joked), three banjos, guitar, washboard, kazoo, harmonica and drums made of plastic buckets and suitcases.
Both had terrific voices, enthusiasm and the ability to trade off instruments all night long. They started with songs with country-like titles, meaning they included parentheses, such as "If My Baby was Made of Strudel (I'd Eat Strudel All the Time).
They did a kids' song called "Johnny Rebek" that had Lucy playing a washboard outfitted with tin cans for drumming, bells and whistles using metal-tipped gloves to strike everything.
Mostly, though, they did original material like "The World Ain't No Oyster," following that line with, "but it's yours to hold." Jordan, in homemade striped pants, gave a short dissertation on loons and then followed with a song about the birds, competing with the milkshake maker as he sang.
One of my favorites was "Breakfast with You," a song listing just about every breakfast food ("The waffle iron's hot") and why he wanted to share them with his honey. I think it had to do with sleepovers and happily ever after.
Wayne the Train's "Juke Joint Jumping" seamlessly segued into "Blue Suede Shoes" and Jordan's hip shimmying, to the delight of the crowd.
Hands down, they got the most laughter from "Roadside Miracle Mustache Wax," partly with lines like "Those stray hairs will be a thing of the past" but probably also because of Jordan's magnificently waxed beard and 'stache. Lucy, in a colorful handmade skirt. more than held her own on xylophone despite the absence of any facial hair.
You know what, Garden and Gun had been right on. With their amalgamation of ragtime, mariachi, vaudeville and Americana, Another Roadside Attraction was one of a kind entertainment. By the end, they had us all singing the refrain "Fancy pants" while doing jazz hands on the chorus.
That was after Jordan insisted we all pick up one of their hand-stamped books of matches. Or a CD. "They're marked $15, but it's donation based. Pay $7 and you win. Pay $20 and we win."
Hell, we'd already won by showing up and letting them go full tilt at us cabaret-style. Jordan, with his Kona coffee-fueled energy and Lucy, with her low-key presence and exquisite voice, were the best thing Roanoke has sent to Richmond in a while.
With apologies to Robert Burns, my heart might have wanted to be in the Highlands tonight, but I couldn't have had a better time than I did.
Longing for haggis was a thing of the past.
In a perfect world, I'd have been eating haggis, neeps and tatties while listening to "Address to a Haggis," followed by a dram of whiskey and the singing of "Old Lange Syne."
But in the true spirit of making the most of a Saturday night, I got myself to Dutch & Co. instead. There, I spied a barkeep hand-bottling eye-catching "adult sodas," for a function tomorrow. The deliberate motions of squeezing the simple device to put orange bottle caps in place was very satisfying to watch.
Our conversation revolved around his backyard gardening with plans for a greenhouse and hoop houses to extend the season for vegetables for the restaurant and herbs for the bar. Honeysuckle for syrups, is already in abundance, as it tends to be all over Richmond.
A major reason for my affection for Dutch & Co. is their $5 menu which reliably offers some of the most creative small plates in the entire city. My first tonight was a dreamy salmon tartar, sunny and orange in color and accompanied by salmon skin blinis and chive yogurt.
While I was savoring every bite, I was busy discussing tomorrow's big Elby's party, which had everyone abuzz with its disco theme. As I explained to the several on the staff, my ensemble for the party is almost exactly a copy of the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977 when I was headed to a waterfront restaurant and, yes, a disco to ring in 1978.
Don't tell me what disco was because I was there.
My second course was duck liver mousse on grilled bread, two generous slabs that almost certainly shut down my arteries after the first few bites. The tang of pickled carrots and onions, the crunch of nuts and the spice of gremolata made for perfectly balanced flavor in every decadent bite.
Meanwhile, a couple came in and joined me at the bar, then another while behind me, the dining room was filling up quickly.
My final course was venison pastrami atop warm turnip risotto, a glorious combination that the kitchen took over the top with balsamic mushrooms to add a sweet complement to the savory.
As I was declining dessert for lack of room, the woman at the bar nearest me looked over and said she recognized me. One well placed question and we recognized each other as friends of a certain man known for prodigious restaurant-going and spreadsheets devoted to finding the ideal woman.
They live in the Museum District and it was their first visit to Dutch & Co., and she was already proclaiming the duck breast the best she'd ever eaten. I assured her that its liver was every bit as fabulous as the breast.
Before I left, we made plans to have our mutual friend set up an evening so we can all get together and gorge.
On my way to the car, I passed a couple walking two of the liveliest beagles, both adorable. The smaller one had so much personality I couldn't help but squat down and spend some time rubbing its velvety ears. It was almost as satisfying as dessert and far less filling.
Then it was over the river to Crossroads for a little night music. Garden and Gun magazine had recommended Another Roadside Attraction for its vaudeville take on Americana and that was enough to lure me.
I found a seat at a table with a couple who lived one house away and we wiled away the time until the band began chatting. They highly recommended I come sometime for Sunday's Bland Street Jam, where they'd recently seen a bill so diverse it included R & B, opera and Hank Williams covers. "You never know who will take the stage!" she raved.
Another Roadside Attraction - husband and wife Lucy and Jordan- was a colorful duo with a distinctive array of instruments including a guitarron like you see mariachi bands play ("also a flotation device for small children," he joked), three banjos, guitar, washboard, kazoo, harmonica and drums made of plastic buckets and suitcases.
Both had terrific voices, enthusiasm and the ability to trade off instruments all night long. They started with songs with country-like titles, meaning they included parentheses, such as "If My Baby was Made of Strudel (I'd Eat Strudel All the Time).
They did a kids' song called "Johnny Rebek" that had Lucy playing a washboard outfitted with tin cans for drumming, bells and whistles using metal-tipped gloves to strike everything.
Mostly, though, they did original material like "The World Ain't No Oyster," following that line with, "but it's yours to hold." Jordan, in homemade striped pants, gave a short dissertation on loons and then followed with a song about the birds, competing with the milkshake maker as he sang.
One of my favorites was "Breakfast with You," a song listing just about every breakfast food ("The waffle iron's hot") and why he wanted to share them with his honey. I think it had to do with sleepovers and happily ever after.
Wayne the Train's "Juke Joint Jumping" seamlessly segued into "Blue Suede Shoes" and Jordan's hip shimmying, to the delight of the crowd.
Hands down, they got the most laughter from "Roadside Miracle Mustache Wax," partly with lines like "Those stray hairs will be a thing of the past" but probably also because of Jordan's magnificently waxed beard and 'stache. Lucy, in a colorful handmade skirt. more than held her own on xylophone despite the absence of any facial hair.
You know what, Garden and Gun had been right on. With their amalgamation of ragtime, mariachi, vaudeville and Americana, Another Roadside Attraction was one of a kind entertainment. By the end, they had us all singing the refrain "Fancy pants" while doing jazz hands on the chorus.
That was after Jordan insisted we all pick up one of their hand-stamped books of matches. Or a CD. "They're marked $15, but it's donation based. Pay $7 and you win. Pay $20 and we win."
Hell, we'd already won by showing up and letting them go full tilt at us cabaret-style. Jordan, with his Kona coffee-fueled energy and Lucy, with her low-key presence and exquisite voice, were the best thing Roanoke has sent to Richmond in a while.
With apologies to Robert Burns, my heart might have wanted to be in the Highlands tonight, but I couldn't have had a better time than I did.
Longing for haggis was a thing of the past.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
From Richmond with Love
Now that Zagat has named Church Hill one of the ten hot food neighborhoods around the U.S., it seemed like a good night to remind myself why.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
When I pulled into Dutch & Co., there was one regular at the bar and a favorite bartender behind it. He had a quizzical look on his face and immediately said, "I expected you would be at Alton Brown tonight." Too costly, I explained and he nodded knowingly.
He said one of their staff had spotted Alton at Sub Rosa Bakery earlier when she went to pick up bread for the restaurant. And that was after he'd been to Lamplighter, Black Sheep, Saison and Sally Bell's.
Richmond will wear your tail out.
Before long, I overheard two servers trying to decide on the evening's music, pleased as could be when they went with Washed Out. As one server put it, "Kinda mellow, not too loud, sort of druggy."
That's my idea of an ideal sonic landscape for a fine meal.
As he was pouring the house white wine - the crisp La Galope Sauvignon Blanc - the barkeep made a few recommendations for eating and I took him at his word.
I'd already been eyeing one of the blackboard specials - white anchovies with beluga lentils, cucumber, apple and watermelon radish - and his praise of the dish was all I needed. The combination was full of contrasts (texture, sweet/salty) and the glistening tiny beluga lentils were perfectly cooked.
In between our conversations about Fire, Flour and Fork and the dangers of Richmond becoming a big-time food town, it was hard not to notice the bartender adding sugar and mixing a vat behind the bar. Turns out he's working on a batch of root beer to go with the back door dogs next week.
Since I'm a huge fan of root beer, he gave me a taste of the still-brewing liquid, explaining that the sugar at this point was to feed the yeast and aid fermentation, not for sweetening's sake. We puzzled over how root beer is a love it or hate it beverage with few people neutral about it.
"I just assumed everybody grew up with it and loved it, like me," he shrugged. Amen. I have five sisters and they all hate it while my parents and I love it. Go figure.
For my next course, I had a killer plate of jerked blood sausage with plantain cornbread, coconut-braised nuts, Aji dulce peppers and plum slices. An unabashed fan of blood sausage, I was especially taken with the coconut-braised nuts, a unique rendering of something hard and savory into something sweet and tender. Leave it to the D & Co guys.
The pleasure of dining alone is all about the conversations you overhear. One was about Katie Ukrop saying that she'd gone into Graffiato's and not seen a single face she recognized. That dovetails with my Graffiato's experience, where everyone around me at the bar was from the counties, on the scent of a celebrity chef.
Another came from a gentleman approaching the bartender asking when the neighborhood had been gentrified. Um, sir, it's still a work in progress.
Witness the guy on a bike pulling a suitcase on wheels as I walked to my car. Th-thump, th-thump.
My second pit stop of the evening was at Camden's for a screening of "From Italy With Love," a quasi-reality show where three Americans get whisked off to Italy to prove they can live and cook as Italians.
Good luck with that. I've been to Italy and they're a different breed.
The screening began with wine, hardly surprising since the sponsor of the show was Zonin Family Estates, owners of nine Italian wineries. Given a choice of Chianti or Prosecco, I took a few sips of the former before switching to the latter.
A guy near me observed, "I think there's nothing wrong with starting the day with bubbly. If you're going to drink before noon, it should be sparkling." He should know; he said he's woken up in bar in the morning before.
The small crowd who'd gathered to watch the screening was a lively, wine-drinking bunch and wasted no time in mocking the TV show, which began with a very Olive Garden-like look. From there, it showed the three (embarrassing) American contestants as they arrived in Italy and were welcomed into the bosom of an Italian family.
Perhaps it was the wine, but from there, we were catcalling the contestants and mocking their selection since they clearly had no cooking or wine skills to speak of. When told to cook whole branzino, one guy admitted he'd not only never cooked fish, he didn't even like to eat it.
And you got selected for an Italian cooking show?
They went to a jovial butcher in Tuscany who graded their meat cutting and cooking skills, finding them lacking. Their final stop was a Zonin winery where the hapless trio attempted to blend wines. Epic fail.
Not so for those of us watching because we were enjoying Zonin's wine along with house-cured salami, prosciutto and pastrami along with cheeses, pickled vegetables and more of the wines while making non-stop commentary about the show.
As a people, Americans represent so poorly as to be comical.
Twenty minutes after the show ended, two women showed up to join the party, delayed by Alton Brown's performance at CenterStage, bearing pictures and tales of over-sized E-Z Bake ovens and songs about shrimp.
In a typical only-in-Richmond moment, one of the women turned out to be the girlfriend of a long-time music friend, a talented singer and drummer I've known for years. I knew as much about her boyfriend as she did.
One of the guys at the party had me in stitches joking about some of the attendees and their resemblance to the clueless contestants on "From Italy With Love." Meanwhile, we wasted no time sipping the very Prosecco so prominently placed in the show we were watching.
Conversation flowed with the attendees, ranging from William Shatner to Pulp to Dr. Who (who?). A guy told me I seemed "very cool" while some of the attendees did not (he pointed out examples and grinned). One guy leaned in close and asked what I do.
Apparently I go behind Zagat and watch Italian reality TV...and that's not the half of it.
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