Unofficially, Summer has been kicked off.
Friday night's dinner at Flora was winding down when one of the managers overheard me telling Pru and Beau a story involving Jello shooters at the Free Love Nursing Home, spurring her to tell me about the latest thing on their late-night drink menu: Jello shooters. And not your average vodka and fruit variety, but a Pimm's Cup Jello shooter, complete with tiny bits of cucumber on top. A grown-up shooter.
We'll take three, please.
The ample shooters were every bit as refreshing as you'd expect, but given that a Pimm's Cup is Pru's official Summer drink, it seemed only right to toast to my upcoming favorite season as part of the shooting.
Mind you, this was exactly what we womenfolk needed after a lengthy explanation to Beau about why the phrase "the rabbit died" is synonymous with getting pregnant. Pru, incredulous that he'd never made the connection between the two phrases, was gobsmacked when he said it seemed illogical to think that rabbits had ever been sacrificed for the sake of a pregnancy test. What else, she queried, could the phrase have meant?
I've since asked three other men if they understood the phrase's meaning, only to discover they were as unaware as Beau. Mars and Venus, I tell you what.
Pru put it most hilariously by asking Beau, "Oh, you think the doctor's office should have a rabbit hutch out back?" when he mused about the inconvenience of nabbing rabbits for testing.
After seeing Cadence Theatre's production of "Appropriate" about a family so dysfunctional it made all of us feel better, Pru was moved to observe, "Not the play I want to die in." One can only hope to have that choice.
Back at Pru's manse, we met up with Hotdog, an old family friend who'd flown in from Arizona while we were at the play and had been awaiting our arrival. The goal was to add him into our wide-ranging porch conversation - which only concluded shortly before 2 a.m. - while listening to music from 1969, the year he'd graduated high school.
That meant everything from the Beatles to Norman Greenbaum. "I wonder if he'd have had more hits if he'd changed his name?" Pru mused.
That kind of late night meant the morning came quickly, all the more so because I'd promised Hot Dog that he could walk with me after he'd emailed asking if I'd take him on a fun walk. The "fun" part was undoubtedly meant to convey that he wasn't up to another serious walk like the one I'd taken him on during a previous visit when I'd led him all over Manchester and back, to the tune of 6+ miles and a man who needed a nap afterward.
Today's was far more circumspect in length, less because of his request than that I needed to get back to pack my car and head out to the Outer Banks. That's right, it was another chance to set Summer in motion by returning to the little cottage I rent every year.
Hot Dog was good enough to help me load my car up after the walk and then Uber whisked him away and I headed to the ocean, stopping only at Adam's Country Store for an RC Cola (which the owner was kind enough to open for me) and a bag of local peanuts.
I enjoyed both as a I drove, following an older Jeep with faded OBX license plates, a bumper sticker that read, "Local as it gets" and another sticker that said "Tunnel Pass."
When I got to the bridge in Currituck, it turned out to be a throwback crossing because the old span is being renovated, meaning both directions are traveling on the same bridge, which is how I remember getting to the Outer Banks as a kid, but not in recent decades.
Then I got to the cottage, the same one I've been staying at since the early '90s and, yet again, time has marched on. Every year, the real world (the 21st century one) encroaches a little more on my favorite cottage, this year evidenced by a keyless entry (no more going to the realty office to pick up keys) and a new window a/c unit in the living room (bedroom units were put in 4 years ago, much to my dismay).
Clearly I'm the last person on earth who wants a true old school beach experience sans TV, conditioned air and phone.
Today was cool, but the ocean breeze was stellar - briny and brisk - and the sky so dark blue it almost hurt your eyes to stare at it. The cottage next door is occupied, but most of the ones around here are not, making for an especially low-key start to Summer at the beach with my usual crew.
After a late dinner, everyone headed outside to admire the full moon aka the pink moon that signals the start of a new season, one I've been eagerly awaiting. Some might say that the only thing missing was Pimm's Cup Jello shooters with which to toast such a gorgeous night sky.
Personally, I'm not wishing for a single thing with my best Summer ever beginning. My invisible bumper sticker reads, "Happy as it gets."
Showing posts with label flora. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flora. Show all posts
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
To Neck, To Love, To Propose
My thinking was, if it's warm enough to be on the roof, it's warm enough to be by the bay.
So when a certain pink hotel-owning woman made an executive decision and posted it online - 63 degrees in November? That's enough for us to open Q Rooftop for a drink or two and watch a spectacular fall sunset. Bring a coat and scarf and come on up! - I naturally took note and mentioned it to Mac on our sunny walk along the river this morning.
Only then did it occur to me that weather fine enough for rooftop sipping combined with neither of us having to work today was practically a blueprint pointing us in the direction of Merroir. It didn't hurt that we both love a good road trip, either.
By 2:00, we were en route with her Sirius radio set to the '70s station - because Al Wilson's "Show and Tell" guarantees a good time - and by 3:00, easing down winding Locklie's Road, where the absence of leaves on the trees meant we spotted the brilliant, blue water far sooner than a summer visit allows.
We'd missed the lunch crowd, beat the dinner crowd and had our choice of tables, asking only for one in full sunlight.
The moon was already rising in the sky as we ordered a dozen Old Saltes and settled back to watch a sailboat, masts down, glide into the marina next door. Fate was smiling on us because instead of 12, 15 briny oysters arrived on our platter and we slurped them down like we'd just walked four miles. Oh, wait...
Within minutes, we realized how impeccable our timing was as a foursome joined us outside and a busload of people arrived in the parking lot. The latter (oyster tourists, perhaps?) were apparently on some sort of guided tour where they were led to the dockside building were oyster spat are nurtured to learn about aquaculture, but not to the tables to partake of the fruits of that labor. Tragic, really.
Recognizing us for the starving women we were, our server came back to recite the specials and we gave two the immediate nod: brussels sprouts with cherries and honey, and tuna tacos.
When I mentioned that I was tempted by the fish cakes over mesclun on the menu because they hadn't been on the menu last time I was there, our server tells us that the menu had been changed only yesterday and they'd been added. When I ask what kind of fish, she says rockfish and Mac swoons. We'll take them, too.
When the food arrived, we dove right in, so when she returned not too terribly long after to check on us, asking, "You ladies need any...oh, no, you don't," she was laughing as she looked at two empty plates and two more that were down to the last few bites.
No shame in a healthy appetite.
By that point, the tour bus had pulled around and was casting an enormous shadow on the area where the foursome was sitting enjoying their Stingrays (nice, but not nearly salty enough for some of us) and don't you know that one of the women at the table (the one wearing shorts) marched right over to that bus driver and asked him to pull up enough to give us back our sunlight?
On a day as fine as today, nobody wants their mellow harshed and if buses must be moved, so be it.
It was when I was coming back from the bathroom - still located outside, which Mac and I think is one of Merroir's most honest features - that I was spotted by the long-time chef I'd first met on my initial visit back in June 2012 when I'd interviewed him. I rave about the rockfish cakes, he grins, shrugs and says, "Tis the season."
Next thing I know, he's coming out to the porch to meet me for a quick catch-up session and bear hug. Just as I'm letting go, he squeezes me again and jokes, "It's so great to see you. Wanna go neck?" and cracks me up. When I tell Mac about it, she laughs, too, wondering who says "neck" anymore."
Middle-aged chefs?
The sun is dropping below the tree line when we finally pull away from the water, but we're both happier for having spent the time with a view of the moon rising, birds soaring and boat traffic.
Once back in J-Ward, we did the only sensible thing and strolled over to Quirk Hotel to ride the elevator to the Q rooftop bar. After all, Mac had never been, it had been over a year since I had and, frankly, we had nothing better to do. Sure, we'd missed the sunset, but drinks and views awaited us.
The real pleasure was how uncrowded it was. Because I'd only been during peak season in the past, I was unprepared for how spacious it felt with less than 20 people up there. As we were ordering, a guy paying his check pointed out how he'd expected it to feel colder and it wasn't. It was lovely.
Even so, Mac couldn't resist an Irish coffee, saying yes to the bartender when she offered both Jameson's and Bailey's, while I toasted the night sky with a plastic Christmas-decorated party cup two thirds full of Prosecco. I feel certain that's not a standard pour, not that I told her how to do her job.
Taking our libations in hand, we walked the perimeter of the rooftop so Mac could admire the views east, west and south, from whence the breeze was coming.
As it turned out, it was a new experience for me, too, since I'd never been up there in the dark before. The red and green traffic lights of Broad Street looked particularly seasonal and festive, but the most striking vista was the twin up-lit spires of the Mosque against a fading red horizon.
Once we'd finished sipping our drinks on a bench facing south and toward the river, we meandered back to my house and Mac's car, because of course the night wasn't over with Secretly Y'All starting in less than an hour.
Now I'm going to sound like the old-timer talking about how I've been going to Secretly Y'all for storytelling for years except that now it's so crowded that Mac and I couldn't even find seats despite arriving 35 minutes before it began. Insert shaking fist. As my theater critic friend and I discussed, Secretly Y'All has completely outgrown the space at Flora, unless the goal is to worry the fire marshal and make people shed clothing because it's so warm with body heat.
We plastered ourselves against the back wall with one stool between us for stories around tonight's theme, "This Doesn't End Well." As it turned out, that applied to more than the stories.
There was one about an 18-year old and his friends involving their shared love of trespassing and climbing on top of buildings that ended with a drunk girl duct-taped to a table and a friend in intense groin pain from a fall, but, as Mac pointed out, who doesn't have one of those stories?
Another involved a woman who was trying to say yes to life and wound up encouraging a sociopath (yes, I'll go to the park with you, yes, I'll give you my phone number, yes, I'll answer the door at all hours) who lived in the apartment beneath hers and kept a lizard farm in his old TV. So many red flags.
Then there was the guy who retired two weeks ago and couldn't stop talking. There are only three rules at Secretly Y'All: the story must be true, no notes are allowed and you must keep your story to 7 minutes. A bell rings at 6 minutes to give you a heads up and you wind things up quickly when you hear it. This guy showed up with notes (not used, thank heavens) and then proceeded to tell us about what the social climate was like in 1969, what the effects of Hurricane Camille were on Nelson County and a thousand other rambling details while ignoring the bell ringing every minute for about 12 or 13 minutes. Ouch.
We heard from a woman with a drinking problem assuming you think 12 glasses of wine and 9 gin and tonics in one night is problematic. No? How about after imbibing all that, she's outside a bar trying to make herself barf so she can go back in and drink some more? That one ended with, "Hi, I'm Sarah and I'm an alcoholic." Who knew we were going to an AA meeting?
One story involved a guy in traffic with no A/C flipping off another car and the guy following him and putting a pistol to his head. He got out of it by telling the guy that the finger wasn't for him, it was for the world and then spinning a tale about his wife and best friend's infidelity that had the pistol guy feeling sorry for him. If this sounds like it didn't end badly, please know that he still had no A/C after the guy left.
Finally, there was a guy who told a story of trying to avoid a crashed car on Powhite Parkway and then skidding on ice right into it. When another car skidded and headed for them both, he was hit, run over and his head pinned under the car's axle, getting third degree burns on his shoulders. Miraculously, once at the hospital, he was fine except for the burns. The worst part, he said, was seeing his mother's reactions to his situation.
With a theme like tonight's we were bound to hear some awful stories, but that one ended with the storyteller seriously choked up and trying to convey what he'd learned. "Fall in love with your existence," he directed the overflow crowd in a voice thick with emotion.
He even thanked his girlfriend for sticking by him during his difficult recovery, calling her up on stage to show his appreciation. And wouldn't you just know, after hearing an array of stories - awful, overly revealing, trite, uninteresting - he dropped to one knee and proposed to her right in front of all of us.
The question took longer to sink in for her than it did for the crowd who began cheering and applauding for what we'd just witnessed. Organizer Kathleen took control back by going to the mic and saying, "I don't know if that fits tonight's theme, but congratulations!"
Proof positive that sometimes you've got to ignore the theme and show and tell with your heart.
Meanwhile, I love my existence, but I'd heard all the bad endings I needed for one night. And on that note, Mac and I called it a day. A very fine day.
So when a certain pink hotel-owning woman made an executive decision and posted it online - 63 degrees in November? That's enough for us to open Q Rooftop for a drink or two and watch a spectacular fall sunset. Bring a coat and scarf and come on up! - I naturally took note and mentioned it to Mac on our sunny walk along the river this morning.
Only then did it occur to me that weather fine enough for rooftop sipping combined with neither of us having to work today was practically a blueprint pointing us in the direction of Merroir. It didn't hurt that we both love a good road trip, either.
By 2:00, we were en route with her Sirius radio set to the '70s station - because Al Wilson's "Show and Tell" guarantees a good time - and by 3:00, easing down winding Locklie's Road, where the absence of leaves on the trees meant we spotted the brilliant, blue water far sooner than a summer visit allows.
We'd missed the lunch crowd, beat the dinner crowd and had our choice of tables, asking only for one in full sunlight.
The moon was already rising in the sky as we ordered a dozen Old Saltes and settled back to watch a sailboat, masts down, glide into the marina next door. Fate was smiling on us because instead of 12, 15 briny oysters arrived on our platter and we slurped them down like we'd just walked four miles. Oh, wait...
Within minutes, we realized how impeccable our timing was as a foursome joined us outside and a busload of people arrived in the parking lot. The latter (oyster tourists, perhaps?) were apparently on some sort of guided tour where they were led to the dockside building were oyster spat are nurtured to learn about aquaculture, but not to the tables to partake of the fruits of that labor. Tragic, really.
Recognizing us for the starving women we were, our server came back to recite the specials and we gave two the immediate nod: brussels sprouts with cherries and honey, and tuna tacos.
When I mentioned that I was tempted by the fish cakes over mesclun on the menu because they hadn't been on the menu last time I was there, our server tells us that the menu had been changed only yesterday and they'd been added. When I ask what kind of fish, she says rockfish and Mac swoons. We'll take them, too.
When the food arrived, we dove right in, so when she returned not too terribly long after to check on us, asking, "You ladies need any...oh, no, you don't," she was laughing as she looked at two empty plates and two more that were down to the last few bites.
No shame in a healthy appetite.
By that point, the tour bus had pulled around and was casting an enormous shadow on the area where the foursome was sitting enjoying their Stingrays (nice, but not nearly salty enough for some of us) and don't you know that one of the women at the table (the one wearing shorts) marched right over to that bus driver and asked him to pull up enough to give us back our sunlight?
On a day as fine as today, nobody wants their mellow harshed and if buses must be moved, so be it.
It was when I was coming back from the bathroom - still located outside, which Mac and I think is one of Merroir's most honest features - that I was spotted by the long-time chef I'd first met on my initial visit back in June 2012 when I'd interviewed him. I rave about the rockfish cakes, he grins, shrugs and says, "Tis the season."
Next thing I know, he's coming out to the porch to meet me for a quick catch-up session and bear hug. Just as I'm letting go, he squeezes me again and jokes, "It's so great to see you. Wanna go neck?" and cracks me up. When I tell Mac about it, she laughs, too, wondering who says "neck" anymore."
Middle-aged chefs?
The sun is dropping below the tree line when we finally pull away from the water, but we're both happier for having spent the time with a view of the moon rising, birds soaring and boat traffic.
Once back in J-Ward, we did the only sensible thing and strolled over to Quirk Hotel to ride the elevator to the Q rooftop bar. After all, Mac had never been, it had been over a year since I had and, frankly, we had nothing better to do. Sure, we'd missed the sunset, but drinks and views awaited us.
The real pleasure was how uncrowded it was. Because I'd only been during peak season in the past, I was unprepared for how spacious it felt with less than 20 people up there. As we were ordering, a guy paying his check pointed out how he'd expected it to feel colder and it wasn't. It was lovely.
Even so, Mac couldn't resist an Irish coffee, saying yes to the bartender when she offered both Jameson's and Bailey's, while I toasted the night sky with a plastic Christmas-decorated party cup two thirds full of Prosecco. I feel certain that's not a standard pour, not that I told her how to do her job.
Taking our libations in hand, we walked the perimeter of the rooftop so Mac could admire the views east, west and south, from whence the breeze was coming.
As it turned out, it was a new experience for me, too, since I'd never been up there in the dark before. The red and green traffic lights of Broad Street looked particularly seasonal and festive, but the most striking vista was the twin up-lit spires of the Mosque against a fading red horizon.
Once we'd finished sipping our drinks on a bench facing south and toward the river, we meandered back to my house and Mac's car, because of course the night wasn't over with Secretly Y'All starting in less than an hour.
Now I'm going to sound like the old-timer talking about how I've been going to Secretly Y'all for storytelling for years except that now it's so crowded that Mac and I couldn't even find seats despite arriving 35 minutes before it began. Insert shaking fist. As my theater critic friend and I discussed, Secretly Y'All has completely outgrown the space at Flora, unless the goal is to worry the fire marshal and make people shed clothing because it's so warm with body heat.
We plastered ourselves against the back wall with one stool between us for stories around tonight's theme, "This Doesn't End Well." As it turned out, that applied to more than the stories.
There was one about an 18-year old and his friends involving their shared love of trespassing and climbing on top of buildings that ended with a drunk girl duct-taped to a table and a friend in intense groin pain from a fall, but, as Mac pointed out, who doesn't have one of those stories?
Another involved a woman who was trying to say yes to life and wound up encouraging a sociopath (yes, I'll go to the park with you, yes, I'll give you my phone number, yes, I'll answer the door at all hours) who lived in the apartment beneath hers and kept a lizard farm in his old TV. So many red flags.
Then there was the guy who retired two weeks ago and couldn't stop talking. There are only three rules at Secretly Y'All: the story must be true, no notes are allowed and you must keep your story to 7 minutes. A bell rings at 6 minutes to give you a heads up and you wind things up quickly when you hear it. This guy showed up with notes (not used, thank heavens) and then proceeded to tell us about what the social climate was like in 1969, what the effects of Hurricane Camille were on Nelson County and a thousand other rambling details while ignoring the bell ringing every minute for about 12 or 13 minutes. Ouch.
We heard from a woman with a drinking problem assuming you think 12 glasses of wine and 9 gin and tonics in one night is problematic. No? How about after imbibing all that, she's outside a bar trying to make herself barf so she can go back in and drink some more? That one ended with, "Hi, I'm Sarah and I'm an alcoholic." Who knew we were going to an AA meeting?
One story involved a guy in traffic with no A/C flipping off another car and the guy following him and putting a pistol to his head. He got out of it by telling the guy that the finger wasn't for him, it was for the world and then spinning a tale about his wife and best friend's infidelity that had the pistol guy feeling sorry for him. If this sounds like it didn't end badly, please know that he still had no A/C after the guy left.
Finally, there was a guy who told a story of trying to avoid a crashed car on Powhite Parkway and then skidding on ice right into it. When another car skidded and headed for them both, he was hit, run over and his head pinned under the car's axle, getting third degree burns on his shoulders. Miraculously, once at the hospital, he was fine except for the burns. The worst part, he said, was seeing his mother's reactions to his situation.
With a theme like tonight's we were bound to hear some awful stories, but that one ended with the storyteller seriously choked up and trying to convey what he'd learned. "Fall in love with your existence," he directed the overflow crowd in a voice thick with emotion.
He even thanked his girlfriend for sticking by him during his difficult recovery, calling her up on stage to show his appreciation. And wouldn't you just know, after hearing an array of stories - awful, overly revealing, trite, uninteresting - he dropped to one knee and proposed to her right in front of all of us.
The question took longer to sink in for her than it did for the crowd who began cheering and applauding for what we'd just witnessed. Organizer Kathleen took control back by going to the mic and saying, "I don't know if that fits tonight's theme, but congratulations!"
Proof positive that sometimes you've got to ignore the theme and show and tell with your heart.
Meanwhile, I love my existence, but I'd heard all the bad endings I needed for one night. And on that note, Mac and I called it a day. A very fine day.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Tiki and Tacky
We'll call it the kick-off to the holiday season.
Walking to the car when my posse came to pick me up, I saw Pru had her window down as she greeted me with one word. "Outfit?" I understood that to mean that she didn't recognize the dress under my unbuttoned coat and wanted a look-see at my latest thrift store find.
She not only approved of the red/gray/black chevron pattern but agreed with me that the $6 dress had my name written all over it. It makes it so much easier to shop when that's the case.
We were the first diners in Flora and our server recognized me immediately. "I've waited on you before, haven't I?" she inquired. Why, yes, I recall your face, too, but how do you remember one customer out of scores? Well done there.
When I requested a complicated yet sassy drink with no limitations on flavor profile, she grinned at my description and said she couldn't wait to pass my order on to the bartender. Pru seconded the order because who wants simple when complex is an option?
What neither of us could have expected was for her to return with a cookie-jar sized ceramic pineapple, complete with leaf-like lid. When she pulled off the top, there were two bendable straws, a pink paper umbrella for adornment and two very happy women to drink it.
The unlikely part of all that is that earlier when Beau had notified me of pick-up time, he'd commented on the grilled shark tacos we were both looking forward to and then on the unseasonable weather.
"I guess I'll wear shorts! 70!" he enthused, to which I'd responded, "Windows wide open! Wish we had a tiki bar to go to!" Ask and ye shall recieve, it seems.
What we didn't get was shark tacos because they're no longer on the menu, although the shrimp ceviche with watermelon, radishes, jalapenos and red onion I had instead was every bit as stellar as the tacos had been.
And that was after we'd had a leisurely first course of tomatillo and habanero salsa (too hot for anyone but Beau), not one but two orders of black bean dip topped with requeson and ancho chile oil (easily the most elevated black bean dip I've ever had), guacamole with queso cotija and ancho (still the best in town) and another salsa of tomatoes and pepitas (delicious but it had stiff competition for our attention).
No exaggeration, we went through three bowls of salty chips just to get all that to our mouths.
With this crew, we usually trade bites of entrees, but it was all any of us could do to finish what was on our own plates after such an indulgent first course. And there was no way on earth Pru and I could finish that punch bowl of a drink, try as we did.
En route to Richmond Triangle Players, we drove Monument Avenue to see what holiday lights were up on the grand houses that line it - even though I'm inclined to think it's a tad early for all that - as a prelude to the two David Sedaris seasonal plays we were about to see.
"Season's Greetings" featured the consistently excellent Jacqueline Jones as Jocelyn, the opinionated matriarch of a suburban family dictating the annual Christmas newsletter for friends and families, circa 1995. Jones is a master at skirting that line between sweet as pie and judgmental as hell, always with a smile on her face.
Where it got Sedaris hilarious were her rantings about having to care for her daughter's crack baby and put up with the 22-year old daughter (in a skirt the size of a beer koozie) her husband had fathered in Vietnam and who had shown up on their door step.
Naturally it ends up with death, incomplete Christmas shopping and complete empathy for Jocelyn.
Even more well-known, "The Santaland Diaries" starred Robert Throckmorton as a Sedaris stand-in for his time spent working as Crumpet the elf in Santaland at Macy's in New York, a job that not only requires wearing green velvet and red and white striped socks, but one that would pluck anyone's last nerve.
Along the way, we got a Billie Holiday impersonation, plenty of sexual innuendo and a sense of the challenges involved in dealing with photo-obsessed parents and demanding children when your job is to be an enthusiastic elf at all times. It's enough to drive a person to write.
Jumpin' jingle bells, it's not even December and it feels like the season of ask and you shall receive is already in full swing.
Yo, Santa, I've got a request or two and I'm not talking about tiki drinks...
Walking to the car when my posse came to pick me up, I saw Pru had her window down as she greeted me with one word. "Outfit?" I understood that to mean that she didn't recognize the dress under my unbuttoned coat and wanted a look-see at my latest thrift store find.
She not only approved of the red/gray/black chevron pattern but agreed with me that the $6 dress had my name written all over it. It makes it so much easier to shop when that's the case.
We were the first diners in Flora and our server recognized me immediately. "I've waited on you before, haven't I?" she inquired. Why, yes, I recall your face, too, but how do you remember one customer out of scores? Well done there.
When I requested a complicated yet sassy drink with no limitations on flavor profile, she grinned at my description and said she couldn't wait to pass my order on to the bartender. Pru seconded the order because who wants simple when complex is an option?
What neither of us could have expected was for her to return with a cookie-jar sized ceramic pineapple, complete with leaf-like lid. When she pulled off the top, there were two bendable straws, a pink paper umbrella for adornment and two very happy women to drink it.
The unlikely part of all that is that earlier when Beau had notified me of pick-up time, he'd commented on the grilled shark tacos we were both looking forward to and then on the unseasonable weather.
"I guess I'll wear shorts! 70!" he enthused, to which I'd responded, "Windows wide open! Wish we had a tiki bar to go to!" Ask and ye shall recieve, it seems.
What we didn't get was shark tacos because they're no longer on the menu, although the shrimp ceviche with watermelon, radishes, jalapenos and red onion I had instead was every bit as stellar as the tacos had been.
And that was after we'd had a leisurely first course of tomatillo and habanero salsa (too hot for anyone but Beau), not one but two orders of black bean dip topped with requeson and ancho chile oil (easily the most elevated black bean dip I've ever had), guacamole with queso cotija and ancho (still the best in town) and another salsa of tomatoes and pepitas (delicious but it had stiff competition for our attention).
No exaggeration, we went through three bowls of salty chips just to get all that to our mouths.
With this crew, we usually trade bites of entrees, but it was all any of us could do to finish what was on our own plates after such an indulgent first course. And there was no way on earth Pru and I could finish that punch bowl of a drink, try as we did.
En route to Richmond Triangle Players, we drove Monument Avenue to see what holiday lights were up on the grand houses that line it - even though I'm inclined to think it's a tad early for all that - as a prelude to the two David Sedaris seasonal plays we were about to see.
"Season's Greetings" featured the consistently excellent Jacqueline Jones as Jocelyn, the opinionated matriarch of a suburban family dictating the annual Christmas newsletter for friends and families, circa 1995. Jones is a master at skirting that line between sweet as pie and judgmental as hell, always with a smile on her face.
Where it got Sedaris hilarious were her rantings about having to care for her daughter's crack baby and put up with the 22-year old daughter (in a skirt the size of a beer koozie) her husband had fathered in Vietnam and who had shown up on their door step.
Naturally it ends up with death, incomplete Christmas shopping and complete empathy for Jocelyn.
Even more well-known, "The Santaland Diaries" starred Robert Throckmorton as a Sedaris stand-in for his time spent working as Crumpet the elf in Santaland at Macy's in New York, a job that not only requires wearing green velvet and red and white striped socks, but one that would pluck anyone's last nerve.
Along the way, we got a Billie Holiday impersonation, plenty of sexual innuendo and a sense of the challenges involved in dealing with photo-obsessed parents and demanding children when your job is to be an enthusiastic elf at all times. It's enough to drive a person to write.
Jumpin' jingle bells, it's not even December and it feels like the season of ask and you shall receive is already in full swing.
Yo, Santa, I've got a request or two and I'm not talking about tiki drinks...
Friday, October 27, 2017
Ripe on the Bough
You just don't expect certain things.
Almost as unlikely as a guy rapping on a rock in the James - which I saw today - was having a friend volunteer to see a Eugene O'Neill play - and a near tragedy at that - with me.
Leave it to Pru to be attracted to the literate.
But even a literary type would be a fool to see a brooding play like "Desire Under the Elms" on an empty stomach, although deciding on a restaurant became the challenge of the morning given that it's Restaurant Week and we wanted nothing to do with any of that.
After extensive back and forth, geography determined our choice and we landed at Flora, mere blocks from Firehouse Theatre. She'd made a reservation, which had seemed unnecessary at the time, but proved to be prescient when the restaurant filled up around us during the course of our meal.
Perhaps we aren't the only ones bent on avoiding the amateur crowds.
Because it was happy hour, we had no excuse not to eat half price tacos, choosing three chicken tinga (her fave) and three fried catfish with radish slices, cabbage and chipotle mayo (mine), along with a ramekin of obscene queso fundido with chorizo and a side of the best guacamole in town, thanks to queso cojita and ancho.
If we were going to watch a modern American tragedy, we were going to be well fed Americans first.
We made it as far as three of the five blocks we needed to go before an SUV driven by a moron talking on his phone pulled out from an alley mere feet in front of us. My response was to scream at the top of my lungs, while Pru wisely slammed on the brakes in that way that makes you feel like a cartoon car standing on its front tires.
And don't you know, the idiot never so much as glanced at us as he continued yakking on his phone. I suppose it makes us bad people to hope he dies a lingering, unpleasant death?
Inside the Firehouse, each person was given a tiny bag of gravel ("You'll see why") and told to pass it on because if the recipient brought it back to Firehouse, they'd get a dollar. And while clearly the dollar was not the incentive, talking about the play was.
Brilliant enough that I give them an "A" for creativity.
Further in, I chatted with a theater critic friend about the latest local media misfire, agreeing that the public doesn't want to hear the excuse "human error" or how woefully understaffed print publications are these days.
On a more positive note, he also gave me a heads up about CAT Theater's upcoming production by David Lindsay-Abaire, the very same production that Pru had mentioned as recently as dinner, no doubt an indicator I need to score tickets.
Firehouse's producing artistic director Joel elaborated on the gravel, explaining how difficult it was for them to convince people how great this rarely-produced work by a heavy playwright is, not to mention how ineffectual it was for them, Firehouse, to try to convince people that their lives would be empty without seeing it (a line that got a big laugh and probably increased the number of people who'll pass on their bag o' gravel on to someone).
I hope it works because "Desire Under the Elms" was impressively staged, beautifully lit and managed to pack an incredible number of emotions into an hour and forty minutes.
Much of the appeal came from watching Landon Nagel effortlessly inhabit the character of Eben, the sensitive younger son of an overbearing father on a New England farm that was mostly rock. Sure, he hates Dad and misses his dead mother, but he does his work and only occasionally slips off to see a prostitute in town.
And he might have lived out his life like that if Dad - a blustery Alan Sader again playing the difficult old man role - hadn't brought home a new wife, a schemer who wanted a farm of her own.
But Dad did and next thing you know, we're embroiled in a saga of Greek proportions - adultery, lies, jealousy and, of course, infanticide. Eugene O'Neill, remember?
As the object of Eben's lust and eventually love, the actress who played Abbie didn't fully inhabit the character's emotions to the point that I ever felt her longing, lust or pain - much less the loss of her child - as deeply as should have been conveyed.
Pru was more succinct, summing up her performance as, "Willing, naked and able."
Even so, it was completely engrossing, not to mention utterly satisfying, to watch the words and story of a major playwright like O'Neill play out live. A a devoted theater-goer who'd only seen "Long Day's Journey Into Night," I'd been sadly deficient in O'Neill performances.
Dare I say that my life is no longer empty because I saw it? Well, it's still got a significant hole or two, but it's also infinitely better for having seen tonight's production.
Once I finish mulling it over, you can bet I'll be passing on my gravel to encourage someone else to witness this classic.
"It's a great game - the pursuit of happiness," O'Neill wrote. Not only great, but lifelong.
Personally, I think not pursuing would be the tragedy.
Almost as unlikely as a guy rapping on a rock in the James - which I saw today - was having a friend volunteer to see a Eugene O'Neill play - and a near tragedy at that - with me.
Leave it to Pru to be attracted to the literate.
But even a literary type would be a fool to see a brooding play like "Desire Under the Elms" on an empty stomach, although deciding on a restaurant became the challenge of the morning given that it's Restaurant Week and we wanted nothing to do with any of that.
After extensive back and forth, geography determined our choice and we landed at Flora, mere blocks from Firehouse Theatre. She'd made a reservation, which had seemed unnecessary at the time, but proved to be prescient when the restaurant filled up around us during the course of our meal.
Perhaps we aren't the only ones bent on avoiding the amateur crowds.
Because it was happy hour, we had no excuse not to eat half price tacos, choosing three chicken tinga (her fave) and three fried catfish with radish slices, cabbage and chipotle mayo (mine), along with a ramekin of obscene queso fundido with chorizo and a side of the best guacamole in town, thanks to queso cojita and ancho.
If we were going to watch a modern American tragedy, we were going to be well fed Americans first.
We made it as far as three of the five blocks we needed to go before an SUV driven by a moron talking on his phone pulled out from an alley mere feet in front of us. My response was to scream at the top of my lungs, while Pru wisely slammed on the brakes in that way that makes you feel like a cartoon car standing on its front tires.
And don't you know, the idiot never so much as glanced at us as he continued yakking on his phone. I suppose it makes us bad people to hope he dies a lingering, unpleasant death?
Inside the Firehouse, each person was given a tiny bag of gravel ("You'll see why") and told to pass it on because if the recipient brought it back to Firehouse, they'd get a dollar. And while clearly the dollar was not the incentive, talking about the play was.
Brilliant enough that I give them an "A" for creativity.
Further in, I chatted with a theater critic friend about the latest local media misfire, agreeing that the public doesn't want to hear the excuse "human error" or how woefully understaffed print publications are these days.
On a more positive note, he also gave me a heads up about CAT Theater's upcoming production by David Lindsay-Abaire, the very same production that Pru had mentioned as recently as dinner, no doubt an indicator I need to score tickets.
Firehouse's producing artistic director Joel elaborated on the gravel, explaining how difficult it was for them to convince people how great this rarely-produced work by a heavy playwright is, not to mention how ineffectual it was for them, Firehouse, to try to convince people that their lives would be empty without seeing it (a line that got a big laugh and probably increased the number of people who'll pass on their bag o' gravel on to someone).
I hope it works because "Desire Under the Elms" was impressively staged, beautifully lit and managed to pack an incredible number of emotions into an hour and forty minutes.
Much of the appeal came from watching Landon Nagel effortlessly inhabit the character of Eben, the sensitive younger son of an overbearing father on a New England farm that was mostly rock. Sure, he hates Dad and misses his dead mother, but he does his work and only occasionally slips off to see a prostitute in town.
And he might have lived out his life like that if Dad - a blustery Alan Sader again playing the difficult old man role - hadn't brought home a new wife, a schemer who wanted a farm of her own.
But Dad did and next thing you know, we're embroiled in a saga of Greek proportions - adultery, lies, jealousy and, of course, infanticide. Eugene O'Neill, remember?
As the object of Eben's lust and eventually love, the actress who played Abbie didn't fully inhabit the character's emotions to the point that I ever felt her longing, lust or pain - much less the loss of her child - as deeply as should have been conveyed.
Pru was more succinct, summing up her performance as, "Willing, naked and able."
Even so, it was completely engrossing, not to mention utterly satisfying, to watch the words and story of a major playwright like O'Neill play out live. A a devoted theater-goer who'd only seen "Long Day's Journey Into Night," I'd been sadly deficient in O'Neill performances.
Dare I say that my life is no longer empty because I saw it? Well, it's still got a significant hole or two, but it's also infinitely better for having seen tonight's production.
Once I finish mulling it over, you can bet I'll be passing on my gravel to encourage someone else to witness this classic.
"It's a great game - the pursuit of happiness," O'Neill wrote. Not only great, but lifelong.
Personally, I think not pursuing would be the tragedy.
Friday, September 1, 2017
Dirty Jersey
Crossing state lines took a backseat to music.
Our plans to head to the Potomac to eat crabs got moved, so we did the most unlikely thing: went to see a film about hip hop in a theater populated by old white people. I kid you not.
The movie was Patti Cake$, the venue was Movieland and the draw was that the producer - a former Richmonder who graduated Collegiate - would be in the house to take questions afterward.
But apparently Michael Gottwald's parents had put out the word to their circle and the result was a theater full of people who needed to be warned ahead of time that the previews could be unpleasant. What they didn't warn the comfortable and economically-advantaged audience concerned the movie itself.
Let's face it, you can't tell the story of a white, plus-sized female wanna-be rapper from New Jersey (so of course the movie began with a Springsteen song) without a fair amount of violence, explicit language and bathroom stall vomiting. Gasps were heard around us more than once.
Mac and I, on the other hand, saw all the appeal that the Sundance crowd had seen in the story of a young woman pursuing her unlikely dream with the unabashed support of her Nana and the eventual support of her mother, a singer who never realized her dreams.
At the Q & A, it was obvious the crowd was still trying to wrap its head around why a nice white boy from Richmond had gotten behind a film about a rapper, albeit a white rapper. Gottwald explained that his job as producer was to find people with a vision and help them realize it, but the audience was slow to grasp that.
We left the country club set behind to head to Doner Kebab for shawarmas, where a gracious table of young middle eastern men engaged in a spirited conversation insisted on moving their table over to our bench once our food arrived.
Their English was accented and their manners were impeccable, allowing us to enjoy our meal outside in the soft summer air that I fear is no longer the norm.
The final stop of the evening was Flora for Mikrowaves' CD (and tape) release show. We started at the front bar, Mac with a Bad and Boozy cocktail (come on, it's a great name) and me with the complete opposite: Espolon over one giant cube.
Making our way to the back room, we eventually found stools along the back wall and settled in for the 12-piece Brunswick, with their usual healthy dose of horns, percussion and young man energy.
Looking around the room, Mac commented that she couldn't recall the last time she'd been in a room with so many men. I guess I don't even notice that anymore after so many years of going to shows.
That said, I ran into plenty of men I knew: two sax players, a bass player intently studying lead singer Eddie playing the bass, the trumpet player I last saw at the beach, a sous chef from Pasture who recognized me before I recognized him and then pulled me into a deep conversation.
Meanwhile, over at the bar, we spotted a woman balancing her butt cheeks on two different bar stools, an interesting act of balancing.
And Mikrowaves, so they don't start playing until 11:30, well, they're nine musicians who never disappoint. Since Mac hadn't seen them, she'd asked one of the musicians what their music was like, only to be told it was an amalgamation of many things, all emanating from Eddie's active brain.
Now watching their set of old and new music unfold from atop the back most bar table, she nodded, agreeing that it wasn't any one thing. There's Eddie's soulful voice, there's that standout horn section, and don't forget the Caribbean and African influences - wait, is that blues I'm hearing? - and a terrific rhythm section.
In short order, many in the room began dancing. Mac had to leave because of an early wake-up call, so I climbed off the table and joined the dancing throngs.
Crabs will still be there next week and butt cheeks may fall, but there's only one Mikrowaves release show.
Our plans to head to the Potomac to eat crabs got moved, so we did the most unlikely thing: went to see a film about hip hop in a theater populated by old white people. I kid you not.
The movie was Patti Cake$, the venue was Movieland and the draw was that the producer - a former Richmonder who graduated Collegiate - would be in the house to take questions afterward.
But apparently Michael Gottwald's parents had put out the word to their circle and the result was a theater full of people who needed to be warned ahead of time that the previews could be unpleasant. What they didn't warn the comfortable and economically-advantaged audience concerned the movie itself.
Let's face it, you can't tell the story of a white, plus-sized female wanna-be rapper from New Jersey (so of course the movie began with a Springsteen song) without a fair amount of violence, explicit language and bathroom stall vomiting. Gasps were heard around us more than once.
Mac and I, on the other hand, saw all the appeal that the Sundance crowd had seen in the story of a young woman pursuing her unlikely dream with the unabashed support of her Nana and the eventual support of her mother, a singer who never realized her dreams.
At the Q & A, it was obvious the crowd was still trying to wrap its head around why a nice white boy from Richmond had gotten behind a film about a rapper, albeit a white rapper. Gottwald explained that his job as producer was to find people with a vision and help them realize it, but the audience was slow to grasp that.
We left the country club set behind to head to Doner Kebab for shawarmas, where a gracious table of young middle eastern men engaged in a spirited conversation insisted on moving their table over to our bench once our food arrived.
Their English was accented and their manners were impeccable, allowing us to enjoy our meal outside in the soft summer air that I fear is no longer the norm.
The final stop of the evening was Flora for Mikrowaves' CD (and tape) release show. We started at the front bar, Mac with a Bad and Boozy cocktail (come on, it's a great name) and me with the complete opposite: Espolon over one giant cube.
Making our way to the back room, we eventually found stools along the back wall and settled in for the 12-piece Brunswick, with their usual healthy dose of horns, percussion and young man energy.
Looking around the room, Mac commented that she couldn't recall the last time she'd been in a room with so many men. I guess I don't even notice that anymore after so many years of going to shows.
That said, I ran into plenty of men I knew: two sax players, a bass player intently studying lead singer Eddie playing the bass, the trumpet player I last saw at the beach, a sous chef from Pasture who recognized me before I recognized him and then pulled me into a deep conversation.
Meanwhile, over at the bar, we spotted a woman balancing her butt cheeks on two different bar stools, an interesting act of balancing.
And Mikrowaves, so they don't start playing until 11:30, well, they're nine musicians who never disappoint. Since Mac hadn't seen them, she'd asked one of the musicians what their music was like, only to be told it was an amalgamation of many things, all emanating from Eddie's active brain.
Now watching their set of old and new music unfold from atop the back most bar table, she nodded, agreeing that it wasn't any one thing. There's Eddie's soulful voice, there's that standout horn section, and don't forget the Caribbean and African influences - wait, is that blues I'm hearing? - and a terrific rhythm section.
In short order, many in the room began dancing. Mac had to leave because of an early wake-up call, so I climbed off the table and joined the dancing throngs.
Crabs will still be there next week and butt cheeks may fall, but there's only one Mikrowaves release show.
Saturday, June 3, 2017
Cross the Sea
I don't believe I've ever been so glad to see May end.
That's a pretty remarkable statement coming from someone who's always adored stretching out her birthday and diving into the start of warm weather, but, man, this has been a tough May.
June kicked off with a leisurely lunch on the Chickahominy, talking with the couple I'd gone to visit about everything from what she was reading that I haven't - Joan Didion's "White Album" (the successor to "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," which I have read) - to a house concert with an environmentally conscious vegan potluck.
She had me in stitches talking about the oblivious hipsters who'd brought dried out Trader Joe's jicama, wrapped in plastic and boasting an enormous carbon footprint as their offering. "My beet hummus was the only homemade thing there!" she marveled.
Of course there were Oreos because no vegan potluck is complete without them.
Now that I see how far out they live, I am terribly impressed at how often I run into them at events in the city.
The first Music in the Garden at the Valentine for the season not only delivered good tunes (the always satisfying odd time signatures of Rattlemouth's world beats and an all-acoustic version of reggae band Mighty Joshua, complete with acoustic bass guitar and pump organ, but the soft opening of Garnetts at the Valentine.
It was also a chance for Mac and I to catch up after May had messed with us both, leaving us with the mixed emotions of having weathered a sea of storms.
Good thing we're both optimists.
We ate at a table with an older woman with a pronounced Boston accent despite having left that city to go to college in West Virginia where she met her husband and then settled in Virginia. Fifty years later, her vowels were still instantly recognizable as Beantown's.
Low humidity and a gentle breeze made it a beautiful night for live music in the Valentine's garden under an enormous magnolia tree in full bloom that we guessed had to be pre-Civil War judging by its girth. During the break between bands, we headed inside the museum so she could see "Hearts on our Sleeves," the new fashion exhibit I was happy to see a third time.
That 1970 cocktail dress with ruffled bell sleeves had my name written all over it.
And because there's no reason to go to only one show when you can go to two, I also landed at Flora for the Kia Cavallaro EP release show. Incredibly, it was my first time in Flora's back room for music, a fact that boggled not only my mind but that of one of the long-time managers, too.
"How is that possible?" she wanted to know.
I have to assume I've been remiss on my musical devotion and that's nothing I want to brag about. See: life's been a little rough lately. Begone, May.
Kia's sound had been described as homespun songs that weave together dreams and roots music and her fretless banjo certainly contributed to that rootsiness, while her little girl voice gave the songs an appealing earnest innocence.
But where she was truly in a league of her own was that she wore tap shoes and tapped out some rhythm to accompany herself and ensure that every part of her body was making music. It was nothing short of delightful and in the most unexpected way.
Next up was Kenneka Cook whom, coincidentally, I'd first seen last year at one of the Valentine's Music in the Garden shows as she layered her rich voice over beats.
Ordering wine, I got into conversation with three guys I know to varying degrees. One said he had a long history with smart women, one accused me of making people like me and one chided me for not replying to his "what are you up to?' message the day before.
I wanted to explore the first, I disagreed with the second and I reminded the third that I can't spend the abundant time on social media that he does.
Right now, I'm just trying to sort through the wreckage of May and come out happier in June. I keep reminding myself that all I can do is keep my head down and continue working on becoming a better me. I need to do this because it's overdue.
And as Didion famously wrote, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." I tell myself scores every single day.
That's a pretty remarkable statement coming from someone who's always adored stretching out her birthday and diving into the start of warm weather, but, man, this has been a tough May.
June kicked off with a leisurely lunch on the Chickahominy, talking with the couple I'd gone to visit about everything from what she was reading that I haven't - Joan Didion's "White Album" (the successor to "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," which I have read) - to a house concert with an environmentally conscious vegan potluck.
She had me in stitches talking about the oblivious hipsters who'd brought dried out Trader Joe's jicama, wrapped in plastic and boasting an enormous carbon footprint as their offering. "My beet hummus was the only homemade thing there!" she marveled.
Of course there were Oreos because no vegan potluck is complete without them.
Now that I see how far out they live, I am terribly impressed at how often I run into them at events in the city.
The first Music in the Garden at the Valentine for the season not only delivered good tunes (the always satisfying odd time signatures of Rattlemouth's world beats and an all-acoustic version of reggae band Mighty Joshua, complete with acoustic bass guitar and pump organ, but the soft opening of Garnetts at the Valentine.
It was also a chance for Mac and I to catch up after May had messed with us both, leaving us with the mixed emotions of having weathered a sea of storms.
Good thing we're both optimists.
We ate at a table with an older woman with a pronounced Boston accent despite having left that city to go to college in West Virginia where she met her husband and then settled in Virginia. Fifty years later, her vowels were still instantly recognizable as Beantown's.
Low humidity and a gentle breeze made it a beautiful night for live music in the Valentine's garden under an enormous magnolia tree in full bloom that we guessed had to be pre-Civil War judging by its girth. During the break between bands, we headed inside the museum so she could see "Hearts on our Sleeves," the new fashion exhibit I was happy to see a third time.
That 1970 cocktail dress with ruffled bell sleeves had my name written all over it.
And because there's no reason to go to only one show when you can go to two, I also landed at Flora for the Kia Cavallaro EP release show. Incredibly, it was my first time in Flora's back room for music, a fact that boggled not only my mind but that of one of the long-time managers, too.
"How is that possible?" she wanted to know.
I have to assume I've been remiss on my musical devotion and that's nothing I want to brag about. See: life's been a little rough lately. Begone, May.
Kia's sound had been described as homespun songs that weave together dreams and roots music and her fretless banjo certainly contributed to that rootsiness, while her little girl voice gave the songs an appealing earnest innocence.
But where she was truly in a league of her own was that she wore tap shoes and tapped out some rhythm to accompany herself and ensure that every part of her body was making music. It was nothing short of delightful and in the most unexpected way.
Next up was Kenneka Cook whom, coincidentally, I'd first seen last year at one of the Valentine's Music in the Garden shows as she layered her rich voice over beats.
Ordering wine, I got into conversation with three guys I know to varying degrees. One said he had a long history with smart women, one accused me of making people like me and one chided me for not replying to his "what are you up to?' message the day before.
I wanted to explore the first, I disagreed with the second and I reminded the third that I can't spend the abundant time on social media that he does.
Right now, I'm just trying to sort through the wreckage of May and come out happier in June. I keep reminding myself that all I can do is keep my head down and continue working on becoming a better me. I need to do this because it's overdue.
And as Didion famously wrote, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." I tell myself scores every single day.
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Death is Like Chesterfield County
What begins with doughnuts and slapstick and ends with wine glass holder necklaces?
Another day in the life, of course.
Although I'm constitutionally opposed to events that begin at 10:30 a.m., I made an exception for James River Film Festival's Slapstick and Donuts program, not because I'm a huge fan of slapstick (I'm not especially) or because I thought they'd have my favorite chocolate-frosted cake doughnuts (they didn't) but because special guest filmmaker Guy Maddin was going to be there.
Other plans were going to prevent me from seeing any of his films the rest of the day, so it was my only chance to hear what brilliance might trip off his Canadian lips and that's what had me walking to the Bijou first thing in the morning.
Krispy Kreme doughnuts were laid out along with coffee, so I snagged a chocolate frosted one (though I've never understood why KK puts chocolate frosting on an already-glazed doughnut) and found a seat near a woman with a cup of coffee. when I challenged her on not having a doughnut (she'd already scarfed one) she challenged me back on not having any caffeine. Fair enough.
It was while a Laurel and Hardy short with a very young Jean Harlow (in which a baby chick was pulled out of a man's beard) and a Buster Keaton film were shown on 16 mm with the reassuring purring of the film projector the only sound that I realized that almost all of the belly laughs I was hearing around me were coming from men.
When I'm watching Buster Keaton balancing a ladder across a fence with cops on both ends trying to get to him and he's balancing precariously near the center, all I can think of is him cracking his head open when he falls while guys nearby laughed uproariously.
Then Maddin was introduced.
Laughing about Richmond, he joked, "If you don't get 'em with tobacco, you get 'em with Krispy Kreme," but he also raved about watching film on 16 mm and the accompanying clatter of a film projector. Reminding us how fragile nitrate film was and how it could cause projector fires, he commented that it would be nice to arrange an outdoor screening of a nitrate film where the projector could safely burst into flames.
It goes without saying I'd attend that.
We finished with Charlie Chaplin's "Easy Street," which I'd seen before, and I strolled home before noon, something that doesn't happen too often. After a few hours spent listening to my most recent used record acquisitions - Teddy Pendergrass, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, the Chi-Lites - I got ready for my couple date.
Flora, in the former Balliceaux space, welcomed us with a booth near the front and a stream of familiar faces - my favorite server from 821 Cafe who'd jumped ship to work here, a longtime Balliceaux server who runs the show and one of the owners thrilled to not be cooking southern - that had me jumping up and out of the booth repeatedly.
The changes to the decor were subtle yet made a statement that this was no longer Balliceaux. The porthole windows stayed (as well they should for the complete uniqueness) but the windows over the steps no longer open (a feature associated too much with Balliceaux). Bright pinks and greens, a peeling door covered with bright pots of succulents and textured walls contributed to a welcoming interior that hinted at Mexico without being cliched.
Conversation, as usual, swung wildly, with Pru getting major laughs for her matter of fact, "You know what's underrated? Chervil!" sending us off on a discussion of sorrel and other less common greens. Beau was also responsible for a bit of gum-flapping just to hear himself be corny, but we mostly ignored what Pru called his "murder of prose." Good times.
With a Spanish Rose that was tailor-made for the food's Oaxacan flavor profile, we dove into queso fundido with Chorizo, crunchy sticks of jicama with chili, lime and salt (and the ideal counterpoint to the queso's obscene creamy richness) and not one but two plates of what I will just go ahead and dub the most sensational and complex guacamole in Richmond, enhanced as it was by queso cotija and ancho.
Not content to be full when we could be stuffed, we moved on to pork shoulder tacos, tamale in banana leaf with mole negro and my choice, grilled shark tacos with a killer chipotle mayonnaise, cabbage, radish slices and a flurry of scallions. Every dish was solidly on point, although our final course of chocolate soup with marshmallows was a lighter milk chocolate than would've been my preference, not that I didn't finish it anyway.
We walked out agreeing that Flora should be part of our date rotation going forward. I say me having a date more often would be an even better plan, but some things are seemingly more difficult to achieve than well-executed Oaxacan food in the former capital of the Confederacy. Go figure.
Sitting chatting before we went to the theater, Beau mentioned Alanis Morrissette's song "Thank You" and specifically the line, "How about them transparent angling carrots?" and how he thought it referred to those crystal pendants people wear.
Funny, but I had to admit that I'd always thought the line was, "How about them transparent dangling carrots?" as a metaphor for always reaching for what you'll never attain. Invoking the power of his phone, we learned I was right. Don't mess with me and lyrics, I know my dangling parts.
Quill Theater was performing "The Heir Apparent" at VMFA, where we took seats in the fourth row and began scanning the Saturday night crowd. Beau got busy trying to adjust his new hearing aid so that it would pick up salient points but tune out Pru and I kvetching.
Our back and forth about his selective hearing got the attention of the couple behind us and the wife explained that it had taken much cajoling to get her husband to be tested and get an aid himself. "It's a man thing," she explained with the wisdom of a well-dressed 75-year old woman who's done it all.
Talk centered on how it's mainly certain shrill female frequencies that both men can't hear and Beau admitted that on occasion he turns his hearing aid down so he doesn't have to hear or respond. Immediately, the husband piped up, saying, "That's a secret you should not have given away!" He also admitted to Pru and me that he loved talking to pretty women and did so with gusto.
The play was fun and funny, an adaptation of a 17th century French play spoken in pentameter, so a pleasure to listen to, and nicely interspersed with references to the present day with comments like, "Of course, if we had national health insurance..."
Even better were local references. When a character asked what dying was like, another quipped, "Chesterfield County!" Amen, brothers and sisters, we can all get behind this one.
Like a Shakespearean comedy, we had masks and lovers, wills and death, plotting and scheming and a cast up to the verse, my favorite being Adam Valentine who made the Crispin character the one to watch at all times.
Post-show discussion went down at the Rogue Gentlemen for cocktails, mine embarrassingly dubbed a "wine glass holder necklace" but made delicious with dry Rose, Cochaca, Pimms, lime, pineapple and mint simple syrup and served in an hourglass-shaped orange-colored tumbler, easily the grooviest glass on the bar despite stiff competition.
As for the music, Whitney Houston first caught my ear, followed by the Carpenters (a favorite of both Beau and mine), which caused Pru to joke, "Omygod, everyone gets a sandwich!" which left the rest of us in stitches.
Mars and Venus used well-crafted cocktails as a means of discussing differences, but that chasm may never be closed. Trying to explain some sophomoric male humor while sipping our cocktails, Beau announced, "I'm 13 in all the right ways!" to which Pru responded, "There are no right ways."
How about them transparent dangling carrots?
Another day in the life, of course.
Although I'm constitutionally opposed to events that begin at 10:30 a.m., I made an exception for James River Film Festival's Slapstick and Donuts program, not because I'm a huge fan of slapstick (I'm not especially) or because I thought they'd have my favorite chocolate-frosted cake doughnuts (they didn't) but because special guest filmmaker Guy Maddin was going to be there.
Other plans were going to prevent me from seeing any of his films the rest of the day, so it was my only chance to hear what brilliance might trip off his Canadian lips and that's what had me walking to the Bijou first thing in the morning.
Krispy Kreme doughnuts were laid out along with coffee, so I snagged a chocolate frosted one (though I've never understood why KK puts chocolate frosting on an already-glazed doughnut) and found a seat near a woman with a cup of coffee. when I challenged her on not having a doughnut (she'd already scarfed one) she challenged me back on not having any caffeine. Fair enough.
It was while a Laurel and Hardy short with a very young Jean Harlow (in which a baby chick was pulled out of a man's beard) and a Buster Keaton film were shown on 16 mm with the reassuring purring of the film projector the only sound that I realized that almost all of the belly laughs I was hearing around me were coming from men.
When I'm watching Buster Keaton balancing a ladder across a fence with cops on both ends trying to get to him and he's balancing precariously near the center, all I can think of is him cracking his head open when he falls while guys nearby laughed uproariously.
Then Maddin was introduced.
Laughing about Richmond, he joked, "If you don't get 'em with tobacco, you get 'em with Krispy Kreme," but he also raved about watching film on 16 mm and the accompanying clatter of a film projector. Reminding us how fragile nitrate film was and how it could cause projector fires, he commented that it would be nice to arrange an outdoor screening of a nitrate film where the projector could safely burst into flames.
It goes without saying I'd attend that.
We finished with Charlie Chaplin's "Easy Street," which I'd seen before, and I strolled home before noon, something that doesn't happen too often. After a few hours spent listening to my most recent used record acquisitions - Teddy Pendergrass, Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, the Chi-Lites - I got ready for my couple date.
Flora, in the former Balliceaux space, welcomed us with a booth near the front and a stream of familiar faces - my favorite server from 821 Cafe who'd jumped ship to work here, a longtime Balliceaux server who runs the show and one of the owners thrilled to not be cooking southern - that had me jumping up and out of the booth repeatedly.
The changes to the decor were subtle yet made a statement that this was no longer Balliceaux. The porthole windows stayed (as well they should for the complete uniqueness) but the windows over the steps no longer open (a feature associated too much with Balliceaux). Bright pinks and greens, a peeling door covered with bright pots of succulents and textured walls contributed to a welcoming interior that hinted at Mexico without being cliched.
Conversation, as usual, swung wildly, with Pru getting major laughs for her matter of fact, "You know what's underrated? Chervil!" sending us off on a discussion of sorrel and other less common greens. Beau was also responsible for a bit of gum-flapping just to hear himself be corny, but we mostly ignored what Pru called his "murder of prose." Good times.
With a Spanish Rose that was tailor-made for the food's Oaxacan flavor profile, we dove into queso fundido with Chorizo, crunchy sticks of jicama with chili, lime and salt (and the ideal counterpoint to the queso's obscene creamy richness) and not one but two plates of what I will just go ahead and dub the most sensational and complex guacamole in Richmond, enhanced as it was by queso cotija and ancho.
Not content to be full when we could be stuffed, we moved on to pork shoulder tacos, tamale in banana leaf with mole negro and my choice, grilled shark tacos with a killer chipotle mayonnaise, cabbage, radish slices and a flurry of scallions. Every dish was solidly on point, although our final course of chocolate soup with marshmallows was a lighter milk chocolate than would've been my preference, not that I didn't finish it anyway.
We walked out agreeing that Flora should be part of our date rotation going forward. I say me having a date more often would be an even better plan, but some things are seemingly more difficult to achieve than well-executed Oaxacan food in the former capital of the Confederacy. Go figure.
Sitting chatting before we went to the theater, Beau mentioned Alanis Morrissette's song "Thank You" and specifically the line, "How about them transparent angling carrots?" and how he thought it referred to those crystal pendants people wear.
Funny, but I had to admit that I'd always thought the line was, "How about them transparent dangling carrots?" as a metaphor for always reaching for what you'll never attain. Invoking the power of his phone, we learned I was right. Don't mess with me and lyrics, I know my dangling parts.
Quill Theater was performing "The Heir Apparent" at VMFA, where we took seats in the fourth row and began scanning the Saturday night crowd. Beau got busy trying to adjust his new hearing aid so that it would pick up salient points but tune out Pru and I kvetching.
Our back and forth about his selective hearing got the attention of the couple behind us and the wife explained that it had taken much cajoling to get her husband to be tested and get an aid himself. "It's a man thing," she explained with the wisdom of a well-dressed 75-year old woman who's done it all.
Talk centered on how it's mainly certain shrill female frequencies that both men can't hear and Beau admitted that on occasion he turns his hearing aid down so he doesn't have to hear or respond. Immediately, the husband piped up, saying, "That's a secret you should not have given away!" He also admitted to Pru and me that he loved talking to pretty women and did so with gusto.
The play was fun and funny, an adaptation of a 17th century French play spoken in pentameter, so a pleasure to listen to, and nicely interspersed with references to the present day with comments like, "Of course, if we had national health insurance..."
Even better were local references. When a character asked what dying was like, another quipped, "Chesterfield County!" Amen, brothers and sisters, we can all get behind this one.
Like a Shakespearean comedy, we had masks and lovers, wills and death, plotting and scheming and a cast up to the verse, my favorite being Adam Valentine who made the Crispin character the one to watch at all times.
Post-show discussion went down at the Rogue Gentlemen for cocktails, mine embarrassingly dubbed a "wine glass holder necklace" but made delicious with dry Rose, Cochaca, Pimms, lime, pineapple and mint simple syrup and served in an hourglass-shaped orange-colored tumbler, easily the grooviest glass on the bar despite stiff competition.
As for the music, Whitney Houston first caught my ear, followed by the Carpenters (a favorite of both Beau and mine), which caused Pru to joke, "Omygod, everyone gets a sandwich!" which left the rest of us in stitches.
Mars and Venus used well-crafted cocktails as a means of discussing differences, but that chasm may never be closed. Trying to explain some sophomoric male humor while sipping our cocktails, Beau announced, "I'm 13 in all the right ways!" to which Pru responded, "There are no right ways."
How about them transparent dangling carrots?
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