The Case of the Missing Red Sauce

In what may be a first, my evening began in a park.

Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.

I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.

Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.

It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.

I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.

Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.

Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.

Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.

With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.

Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.

"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.

So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?

You're breaking my heart, I told him.

"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.

At least we had humor.

What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.

"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.

Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.

Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."

He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.

The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.

Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.

But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"

Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.

"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.

Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.

The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.

I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.

Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.

This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.

45 days!

Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.

Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.

I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.

The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.

We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.

Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.

"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.

I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.

They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.

Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.

Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.

We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.

They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.

When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.

My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.

In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.

And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.

Love and Despair, No "the"

It was a good night to get called out.

Sliding into a barstool at Don't Look Back, the hirsute bartender cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "Need a menu?"

Nope, I told him, I need a Frito pie and a Coke.

"Awesome," he responded. "How simple is that?" and, I swear, not more than two minutes later I was eating.

Nearby a server informed another, "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to earn a living."

Son, you need to figure out how to do both and you'll be much happier.

I heard my name and felt a hand on my back, turning to find two wine geek friends enjoying beers, providing a welcome break from my bag o' beans, cheese and salsa which I'd been inhaling at an unladylike pace.

Both expressed their love of the Frito pie, too, before moving on to more compelling things like traveling to Spain, rose' parties and anniversary restaurants before rejoining their fellow beer drinkers.

My Frito pie scarfed, it was time to head to the Firehouse for the Listening Room.

I was delighted to walk in, drop off some cookies I'd brought and immediately see a handsome keyboard player of whom I have been a fan for something like six years now.

Since I hadn't known he was part of one of tonight's groups, it was an unexpected delight to learn I'd be hearing his mellifluous tones and agile fingers.

Taking a few steps toward my usual seat, I was stopped in my tracks by the drummer onstage doing a soundcheck with a band I didn't recognize.

He waved, I waved and, for the second time already tonight, I had the pleasure of discovering that a musician I admire was part of one of the groups playing.

The night was going very well and it had barely started.

When I arrived at "my" seat, it was to find that a music buddy had reserved it for me, lest some interloper usurp it, as has happened a few times.

First up was Chris Dowhan, a guy I've known for years, although, as I found out, not as well as I thought.

I knew Chris as a talented baker and cook. As an attentive server. As a frequent traveler to Italy who actually knows Italian. As an all-around nice guy.

And while I knew he was musically inclined, it was with a guitar.

When I saw him, I teased him, telling him not to screw up and he said that no one would know if he did.

Huh?

Emcee Chris Payne got things rolling late (a fact I may have alluded to, but only for the sake of first-timers because I wouldn't want them to think that the Listening Room isn't usually a punctual event), explaining that they were shorthanded.

That's a veiled way of saying that organizers Antonia and Jonathan are sorely missed.

He then introduced Chris Dowhan, who moved to the grand piano and announced, "This piece is in five movements and I've been working on it four or five years now."

Well, this was news.

He proceeded to play his composition sensitively and seemingly lost in it.

It didn't seem like he was even aware of the audience.

As he played, I looked around at the rapt crowd and it reminded me of another first at the Listening Room, when Antonia had curated an all-jazz evening.

And if jazz, then why not classical?

When he finished, he leaned down, picked up his beer and moved away to major applause.

I was amazed; how had I not known he had this talent? I had to find out.

During the break, I waited in line to compliment his performance, but what I really wanted was answers.

Turns out his piano playing is a solitary escape for him, something he doesn't mention to friends.

A lot of the piece had been written at night one summer when he'd worked at an Italian winery.

He'd agreed to play it in front of an audience because he'd been invited to play by a musician friend and had figured if not now, when?

I was just glad I'd been there to hear it.

Wandering around, I ran into some latecomers, including a drummer friend I see at shows where he is always fixated on the band's drummer.

Explaining that he'd missed a very cool piano piece, I assured him that the next band had a drummer he could watch.

But after four hours of drum practice today, he said he wasn't interested in any more drumming.

Kevin won't want to hear that, I told him, referring to the next band's talented drummer, familiar to me from his own band, Marionette.

"Why do you know all the drummers in town?" he asked, smiling.

Duh. They're personable guys, I told him.

And, drummers do it with rhythm, I didn't tell him.

Back in my seat, emcee Chris threw out a thanks to me for bringing cookies, causing the stranger next to me to say, "I didn't have any, but I'm sure they were good."

Isn't it gratifying how a perfect stranger can have such faith in me?

Drummer Kevin was part of Patrick Bates' band, who played next and included cello, sax, acoustic guitar and bass.

Explaining that he hadn't played a proper show in this town in a very long time, the band proceeded to prove that they should.

He dedicated the second song to Chris because, "I know how much he likes a good samba."

I liked it because the bass player played bongos, the cellist played keys and Kevin used brushes instead of sticks.

"About a month and half ago, something happened to me," Patrick said by way of introduction. "Let's see if I can get through this," as the other musicians put down their instruments and let him accompany himself solely on acoustic guitar.

It was a beautiful, if sad-sounding, song.

Lyric: Though I know it was worth the effort, There are no guarantees."

Amen.

For their last song, he said it had a chanting part toward the end and asked that we join in.

"We'll try to get the energy in the room circulating," he explained.

"There are also tabs of acid under your seats," the droll bass player added.

Truth was, there weren't, but many of us joined in on the "come together" part anyway, getting the energy going.

So it was that we started the third set with the energy well-placed.

"Thanks for hanging around," emcee Chris said from the stage. "You guys are my favorites. Don't tell the people who left."

He came clean about tonight's programs, which were suspiciously absent of the usual.

And by usual, I mean, the poster imagery, the times the sets would happen and the upcoming events on the back.

He admitted that they'd just been printed today.

Meanwhile, behind him the leader of the next band to play the smart-assed keyboard player pointed out that he'd put a "the" in front of their name when there wasn't one.

"Take out your programs and scratch off "the" in front of Mason Brothers," Chris instructed. I did.

I'm beginning to think I need to volunteer to help these poor guys out.

Last up was Mason Brothers (no "the") with mandolin, guitar, bass, drums and Ben Willson on keys, the man whose talent and humor I have been impressed by all these years.

Leader James joked about the vibe of the Listening Room being like the last season of "Lost," although Ben differed in opinion.

With no TV, I'd have no idea.

"We're One" was introduced as a "song for everyone" and showed an infectious quality while "Calling Out to You" was more plaintive.

James took a moment to acknowledge the talent that had come before, saying, "Thanks to Chris Dowhan for that piano piece. Listening, I felt love and despair, like my life and now you get bubblegum from Mason Brothers. We are one, we are one."

It was some quality self-deprecation.

After a few songs, Ben called out to Dave in the sound booth, "I'm going to need a little more keys in the monitor. I'm so needy."

That made two of us because up until then, I was straining to hear his keyboard, although fortunately his backing vocals (and joking asides) were coming through beautifully.

James cracked wise, saying, "For future Listening Rooms, I think artists should have to whisper."

At one point, listening to the band's tight and melodic roots rock, it occurred to me how far the Listening Room has come.

This is my 37th  of 39 Listening Rooms and in the beginning, such things as electric instruments, much less drums, were conspicuously absent.

Mason Brothers' last song "Ghost Season," which came from their second album and which James called "very scary," perfectly demonstrated the evolution of the music series.

It was easily one of the most rocking finishes ever at a Listening Room.

Looking around, I could see that people were as into having their faces rocked off as they'd been when Chris had been playing piano or when Patrick Bates' band had been playing a samba.

Maybe it's something for the Listening Room organizers to think about.

When the music's this good, people forget about the late start, uninformative programs and missing baked goods.

And that's without tabs of acid under their seats.