You Can Leave Your Hat On

As surprising days go, this one had a lot to recommend it.

Today's road trip took me to Petersburg in the pouring rain, to a house where Lincoln met Grant to talk about the end of the Great Unpleasantness. War mongering aside, I was there to try on hats and admire a rather eclectic and enormous collection of stuff that resided in this house.

After establishing that my head is a large - no surprise since this is something my sisters and I have always been known for, along with disproportionately long legs and short cracks - I tried on gorgeously wide-brimmed hats that had the effect of almost making me look like a Southern belle and cloche styles that evoked flappers.

There was even one black and straw hat similar to the one purchased by Lynda Carter, which was a particularly interesting coincidence since Wonder Woman figured prominently in my plans once I returned to the capital city.

That's right, VCU's Cabell Library had put Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane on display for today only, complete with background and history. If it tells you anything, it was displayed at the Smithsonian on April 1 last year.

Now here's the real joke: I knew nothing about Wonder Woman. Never read the comic, never saw the '70s show, never even knew the super-hero premise. Which was exactly why I thought it kind of important to attend Jill Lepore's talk on "The Secret History of Wonder Woman," also the title of her book, and gain a little insight on the subject.

That meant inserting myself into an auditorium with lots of students in it, students who actually said things like, "Yea, but then you're going to have to deal with a bunch of young millennials who are sweaty and drunk."

The superior-sounding guy who said this couldn't have been more than nineteen. Hysterical.

Better yet, Lepore's talk turned out to be just the kind of cultural history that fascinates me.

In short order, she explained '70s "jiggle TV," which included both "Wonder Woman" (her twin brother's favorite) and "The Man from Atantis" (hers), which apparently involved Patrick Duffy pre-"Dallas" in a yellow Speedo ("So he was practically naked") and moved back in time to the excessive violence of 1930s male-dominated comic books.

A public opinion poll asked if Wonder Woman should be allowed to join the Justice Society as a means of establishing a standard of strong and courageous womanhood and enough people said yes to make it happen.

Where things got interesting was with the writer, William Marston, an avowed supporter of women's rights, a man who said that women like Wonder Woman should rule the world. A man who as a college freshman had been a member of Men for Women's Suffrage. A man who lived not only with his wife, but with a graduate student with whom he fathered two children.

A man who also invented the lie detector, wrote silent films for D.W. Griffith, penned a book called "Emotions for Normal People" and then detailed why certain behaviors should be considered normal (they weren't at the time). An odd bird, for sure.

What was so compelling was how her research showed that it was Marston's interests - in women's voting rights, in porn, in bondage, in birth control - that were being popularized through the character of Wonder Woman in her sassy costume and kinky boots based on a Vargas Girl from "Esquire" magazine.

I tell you what, it was a damn informative lecture, all the more so for how Lepore repeatedly pointed out how little women's history is taught in our schools. Middle-aged woman throughout the room invisibly raised their fists in support.

She made a terrific case for Wonder Woman tying together first and second wave feminism, a lesson most of the students could have used had they not already dipped out.

Walking home afterwards was exciting in that way that weather suddenly takes precedence over everything else. A fierce wind was whipping my hair and skirt but it was also eerily warm with an incredibly menacing sky, no doubt a foreshadowing of the bad news that awaited me there.

Bingo at Gallery 5 was canceled. Aw, man. I love my bingo nights.

Just as I was allowing that change in my plans to sink in, the tornado sirens cranked up like we were in Oklahoma or something. And not once, but several times until finally the torrential winds and rain began and I couldn't see across the street anymore.

I'll be honest with you, though, initially I wasn't sure what the sirens meant. It's not like we hear them in Richmond much ever, but luckily we have the Internets to fill in the gaps in our knowledge.

My magic screen tells me there was a tornado in Chester at 5:52 that's supposed to pass over downtown/VCU at 6:10, so I figure I'll get cleaned up and go eat once the danger has passed.

Say, 6:20 or so.

Heading over to the Roosevelt, the sirens start up again, but in the distance, so I don't worry about it too much. It's not like there are cows or single-wides in the neighborhood to go flying past me, right?

Since the really pounding rain seems to come in waves, I spend time sitting in the car once I get to Church Hill, waiting for the rain to slacken enough to make a break for it. Even with flowered boots and a raincoat, I'm a little soggy on arrival.

Taking a seat at the bar, I find that most of the people around me are neighbors who'd sought refuge once they heard a storm was coming. Apparently it's less common to hear the sirens and leave for another neighborhood like some of us had.

Meanwhile, a woman near me was seriously freaked out, not by the potential of wind and rain damage, but by a yellow egg that kept showing up in different places around her house without her or her husband moving it. First it was on the table, then on the windowsill, then inside a candle with a lid on it and this was causing her some genuine consternation. Floorboards creaking at night weren't helping, either.

Trying to reassure her, I explained that my parents' house has a ghost - they even know her name: Bertha - and they've all peacefully co-existed for 32 years. You can't let a little thing like paranormal activity weird you out.

Turns out she could.

Just about the time I'd decided what I wanted for dinner, the bartender showed up with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and a recitation of the specials, which naturally changed my order entirely.

A warm, wet night like this felt beachy, you know, wild and watery, just perfect for a fried trout sandwich with hot sauce and cole slaw, the piece of trout hanging off the seeded bun by about three inches on either side, jutting into the fries.

Just what you ought to be eating when you have damp hair and bare feet inside rubber boots.

Next to me, a woman who lived four blocks away worked on a cheeseburger while we discussed the dining scene and how glad she was to have bought a house in Church Hill five years ago.

I still say it's too disconnected for my taste - I want to be able to walk most anywhere I might want to go - but I know plenty of people who like that about it.

Fish gone, I told the bartender I wanted dessert and he knew what I wanted without asking, or at least made the right guess. Trying to resist chocolate pudding with orange zest was futile, so I didn't.

"Wine and chocolate, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?" he inquired with a grin.

Actually, I hope it does.

Monday, Monday, Can't Trust That Day

We could call this chapter "Tales of a Misspent Monday" and leave it at that.

In my defense, I worked way more of the weekend than usual and from the moment I got up until early afternoon today.

So when my lunch date e-mailed me sounding desperate ("Come now...! FAST!"), what could I do but change into a lunch dress and go fetch him?

Fast!

So we set out for Arcadia, found it closed and settled on M Bistro, a place I hadn't been in a couple of years.

We arrived toward the end of lunch, but the cool, masculine-looking interior and eager-beaver young server welcomed us in.

If I could have, I would have carded him.

Our first choice for wine was a 2011 Louis Jadot Macon Villages chardonnay, but they were out of it and our tender server suggested that the Kendall Jackson Vintners' Reserve chardonnay was "just the same."

Well, except that both friend and I knew that the French wine is unoaked while the Californian definitely finishes with oak.

We got it anyway. It's just afternoon wine.

Last time I'd been in, I'd been quite happy with my lobster roll, so I ordered it again (despite the change to it being billed as lobster and crab salad on a "rustic roll," whatever that might be) while Friend tried a crabacake over tomato salad.

What arrived looked nothing like the lobster roll of M's early days...or anything seen in New England.

The roll was round and dusted with flour and the filling was mostly crab with only incidental pieces of lobster claw meat.

Harrumph.

Pushing the flour-dusted roll aside, I begrudgingly ate the crab/lobster salad while my friend noted, "You don't like it, do you?"

It just wasn't anything like a true New England lobster roll anymore.

On the plus side, Friend said his crabcake salad was excellent and he plowed through it while telling me about his recent vacation in Philly.

Now, I've only been in Philly four times in the past eight years, so I'm no expert, but I do know I've enjoyed eating, walking and seeing all the art when I have been there, so I was eager to hear his stories.

$24 drinks, nine hour stints in the art museum, and 100 miles of walking told me everything I needed to know about their sojourn.

All he wanted in return was an update on my personal life (while giving running commentary, natch) so I obliged.

Needless to say, we ended up being the last lunch customers of the day, although Friend did take the time to teach the newbie server how to properly open a bottle of wine.

Somebody's got to teach the youth of today tomorrow's wine-pourers.

While debating the finer points of my life, we got a slice of lemon/coconut pie with strawberry coulis to help pass the time.

Now here's where the afternoon took a turn for the indulgent.

Coming back into town from Rockett's Landing, Friend suggested a stop at the Jefferson for an afternoon cap(?).

If there isn't such a thing, we were open to creating it.

We landed at TJ's, which was empty of any human life except a server, and here we finally got glasses of the un-oaked Macon Villages we'd been denied earlier.

In my never-ending quest to derail the best intentions of my friends, I suggested getting the Chesapeake dip (ham, crab, artichoke hearts in a creamy Gouda dip), knowing  my companion doesn't eat pork.

He waved off my concerns, assuring me if he can't see the ham, he's fine with it.

Now there's a man with religious convictions.

Promptly at 4, our server informed us that TJ's was closing, necessitating a trip upstairs to Lemaire if we wanted to continue our conversation.

We did.

I wanted to hear about his business plans, he wanted to hear about my gallivanting, so we climbed the grand staircase to finish our talking.

Midway through our conversation and his Cosmo (some of us were opting out by that point), his boss called and I took the phone to provide the alibi for why he'd been "detained."

I didn't even try to make up a story, opting instead for the bald-faced truth.

And while I don't know that I convinced the boss of the worthiness of our afternoon's endeavor, he at least accepted that Friend had needed some away time.

Sometimes you just gotta stand up to the big guy.

After dropping him off, I came home to find that no one desperately needed me and none of my hoped-for responses had arrived, so I was free and clear to continue my debauched Monday.

After a respite to gather my forces, I headed up the big hill to the Roosevelt to take advantage of their new Monday hours.

I'd heard they'd been slammed last Monday, but by the late hour I arrived, things were positively civilized.

I sat down next to two guys at the bar who were gracious enough to welcome me into the fold.

When the bartender brought my water, I requested a straw and he returned with one, the kind that bends to make straw-sipping so much more ergonomic.

"Wow, bendy straws and Cheerwine, that's the Roosevelt for you," one of the guys drolly observed with a smile.

I feel like that's a left-handed compliment of the highest order since there are many ways I could summarize the Roosevelt, but none so charmingly succinct.

I started with the oyster, corn and bacon stew, a gut-filling bowl of the richest stew full of sweet corn, salty bacon and buttery oysters.

Given the afternoon I'd had, it was clear my Richmond grandmother had been right with her predictions and I was going straight to hell in a hand basket.

Honestly, it's probably the first time in my life I ate an entire bowl of oyster stew by myself.

Just to ensure that my arteries close up entirely tonight, I followed that with one of tonight's specials, pulled pork under cole slaw and over house baked beans.

It was like a picnic on a plate but a picnic for two and I was, alas, just one.

As I worked my pig down, I overheard the guys next to me and gleaned that they were about to open a new business.

Never shy about my eavesdropping, I listened as they talked with a couple who'd joined them about the "wild, wild west days of Oregon Hill" and living in Jackson Ward back when fathers who were cops told their daughters not to.

That was before I moved here seven years ago, not that my father (who was not a cop) didn't approve of me moving to the neighborhood where his father worked his entire life (the Richmond Dairy, three blocks away).

Eventually, I insinuated myself into their conversation with the couple and soon learned that congratulations were in order.

After three and a half years of plugging away in Church Hill, the two guys are opening a brewery in Scott's Addition and they'd gotten the approval today.

That was something to celebrate and we toasted their success with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and whatever beer they were drinking (not their own).

Now that's a couple of guys who are going places.

No doubt they spend their afternoons more gainfully occupied than some of us.

Bravo, gents. To each his own.

All My Silver Dreams

Be still, my heart, what an evening.

I got the ball rolling when I met a friend at The Roosevelt for their new early bird menu I'd been hearing so much about.

We took seats at the bar, the only two free when I arrived, affirming how popular the idea of cheap eats done right is.

With a glass of Gabrielle Rause Vin de Gris in hand, I listened as my friend told me all the fascinating stuff she'd recently learned about historical botany.

Now I know if I see elephant's ear growing in a yard, it was probably originally an African-American home.

Same with certain varieties of rose. Who knew?

Looking at the early menu, I forced myself to look beyond the fried oyster sliders and ordered a crabcake sandwich with slaw and spicy mayo while Friend kept it lighter with a salad of watermelon, roasted beets, avocado and Feta over Green Goddess dressing.

Tasty as her salad looked (and I probably will order it next time I'm in), my big fried crabcake sandwich oozing with slaw was just the ticket to kick off a night of pure pleasure.

And at the early bird price, I've no doubt I'll be back to experience more of that special menu.

Over restaurant gossip, hearing about her remodeling plans and a discussion of what poor communicators men can be, we wiled away the better part of two hours.

As the sun got slightly lower in the Church Hill sky, I finished up with a slice of coconut cake, a cake near and dear to my heart, as anyone who has ever been smitten with me can attest.

Then it was down the hill and back up again to the National.

Earlier, I'd gotten an invitation to go see Bio Ritmo tonight, but I'd declined, saying, "I'll be with Local Natives...in heaven."

Three and a half months after I'd bought a ticket for this show, it was finally happening.

Good thing I'd finally learned patience.

What I couldn't understand was that it hadn't sold out in advance, since Local Natives had sold out not one but two nights back in early April at the 9:30 Club.

I made sure to arrive in time for openers Ex Cops, a five piece with a male and female singer and lots of jangly guitar.

My only complaint with their sunny hook-driven pop was how songs seemed to abruptly end rather than be finished off.

Singer Amalie wandered offstage early on, returning to explain, "I broke my tambourine into 4,000 pieces the other night so I got another one from someone in the audience but now I've lost that. I'm going to use Natives' tambourine but I won't lose it."

And she didn't.

Just as their set of dream pop was ending, there was a huge influx of people to the venue, making me think maybe the show had finally sold out at the eleventh hour.

During the break I stayed put in front of the sound booth so as not to lose my prime position, leaving me free to eavesdrop on those around me.

"I don't want to go talk to those girls. I don't like girls who don't like other girls," a girl said to her boyfriend.

"I don't know what they were 'cause I only heard their last song. It was kind of dark and scary," a girl explained to a newcomer.

Clearly she had heard what I'd just heard through a completely different prism because I had heard neither dark nor scary, just happy indie pop.

Finally the lights were dimmed and, inexplicably, Bowie's "Young Americans" blasted from the sound system.

Even odder, the people around me sang along, many of them singing "young America," but who am I to correct them?

Local Natives took the stage and began their set with the first song off of their new album "Hummingbird," a record I obsessively listened to for the first two months I had it.

That wasn't going to thrill a girl I'd overheard earlier who'd asked her friend if she'd heard "Hummingbird" yet.

"No, I only like their first one, "Gorilla Manor" so I didn't really try to listen much to the new one before I came tonight."

Your loss, honey.

I'd been introduced to it by a music-lover who told me back in February that it was the best album of 2013 so far and I agreed after the first listen.

Tonight's sixteen-song set took nine songs from "Hummingbird," six from "Gorilla Manor" and one, "Warning Sign" from the Talking Heads.

Like I'd predicted, I was in heaven.

The way-too-brief "Ceilings," a song another music lover had told me he couldn't get past on the album because of its gorgeous chords and harmonies, took my breath away live.

Walk around till 3 a.m.
Tell me what I know again
To keep myself from second guessing

All my silver dreams bring me to you

Hold the summer in your hands
Till the summer turns to sand
We were staring at our ceilings

Thinking of what we'd give
To have one more say of sun
One day of sun

Tonight was the band's last night in the U.S. for a while and they said they were happy being sent off from Richmond.

"It's beautiful here," guitarist Ryan said. "I've spent some time with the Ken Burns Civil War series and here it is. We're from California where an old building is, like, 1920."

Next was "Shapeshifter," another from their first album, which inevitably got a part of the crowd worked up every time they dipped back that far.

All the songs feature upbeat guitars, exquisite three-part harmonies and the tastiest of drumming, so while I'd have been fine with them playing "Hummingbird" start to finish, everything else was gravy.

Fact is, their music makes me (and everyone else I saw) want to alternately swoon and dance and if that's not a feat, I don't know what is.

"I see a group of people down there singing every word," observed keyboardist and singer Kelcey. "It's so cool to hear you singing songs we wrote in our bedrooms."

For me, it was so cool to hear live songs that I've been playing endlessly on repeat for months.

After closing with the aching "Bowery," they came back for a three-song encore and with every note, I dreaded the end of it all.

"Sun Hands" was the final song, an appropriate one for its tribal feel and the crowd did their part, singing along at the top of their lungs.

It was such an incredible ending and since I was at the show alone, when the lights came up, I had no one to whom I could express my excitement about what I'd just experienced.

I turned around to the sound guy directly behind me and smiled what surely must have been a shit-eating grin for how satisfied I was with my night.

His face broke out in the widest of smiles and without missing a beat, he reached down and handed me the band's set list for the night.

Heaven, I'm in heaven...

Got Me Some Tail

Southern met fantasy tonight, not once, but twice.

The unexpected began at the Roosevelt, where I ran into a friend and heard of her passage to India, got the latest local restaurant scuttlebutt from a cheap food lover and heard of the challenges of composing music for Tic-Tacs.

One of my favorite moments came when I was told that a friend, when asked the source of her recent hangover, had responded, "Karen."

Since I'm not the boss of her, I'm sure I don't know what she's talking about.

We ordered a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris (the one the winemaker calls a "happy mistake") at a mostly empty bar.

Bartender T got as far as telling us the first special - pigs' tails in a bourbon barrel teriyaki sauce - before we ordered it.

The Roosevelt's chef is the one who first introduced me to crispy fried pig's head many moons ago, so if he was offering up tail tonight, I wanted in.

The sauce was finger-licking' good on the outer thick crispy part of the tails while the inner fatty bits were just obscene.

Wisely, there were pickled veggies to balance the palate and no doubt help digest all that fat.

When all was said and done, we left a pile of little round bones on a sticky plate.

And went to the bathroom to wash our hands.

As the room began to fill up, we got our next dish, octopus fried rice.

Clearly the usually southern kitchen was having Asian fantasies tonight.

The fried rice had the freshest-tasting tiny sliced carrots and corn in it while the octopus was perfectly cooked.

And a great, big fried egg sat atop the whole thing, its bright yellow yolk imparting an unbelievable richness to the already-decadent flavors.

But two dishes in and we were already getting stuffed.

No fools, we followed such rich food with a lighter course to clear our arteries while we still had feeling in our left arms.

Roasted beet and watermelon salad with Caramont goat cheese and lemon oil was a refreshing break but it was the avocado mousse on it that took it over the top.

The creaminess of the avocado enhanced both beets and melon in an unexpectedly complementary way.

Over a discussion of noun and verb usage (no, really), we finished our wine while sharing a slice of Coca Cola cake, not because we needed it but because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Three layer cake after pigs' tails, why it's simply how it's done in the south.

That, or the wine was doing the ordering.

Best overheard conversation:

#1: I keep forgetting I'm in this country and want to say bonjour when I talk to people.

#2: Man, don't worry about it. Say whatever you want. This is America!

Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up.

After losing my dinner companion to the daily grind, I made the cultural shift from Church Hill to the near west end and the Westhampton Theater.

I was there to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild," the Sundance grand jury prize winner and the one all the critics have been raving about.

It wasn't hard to see why.

The beautifully shot story of bayou folks who live on the wrong side of the levee used two first-time actors in the lead roles of father and daughter.

Watching non-actors carry a completely believable story about a Katrina-like storm that all but wipes out their tiny community was mesmerizing.

Mostly a hardscrabble story, at times it had a certain poignant humor.

When the father tells the little girl about her long-missing mother, he says, "She was so pretty, she never had to turn the stove on. She'd just walk in the kitchen and the water would start boiling."

Now that's pretty.

The movie's story of natural devastation and the resulting loss was wrapped around a fantasy element of nature being out of whack (Katrina being proof of that).

As a result, ice caps melt, ancient beasts are released from ice blocks and begin to roman the world, threatening even the bayou.

I'd be the first to admit I'm not much on fantasy, whether in books or movies. I'm more the non-fiction type.

But actually, there was so much honesty about the devotion of the small group of delta dwellers refusing to abandon their homes even after a mandatory evacuation, that I could swallow a few stampeding beasts as part of the plot.

And I'm glad I did. The moving story was unlike anything I've ever seen before.

Sometimes you need a little fiction to remind you of the basic tenets of life and death.

The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.

I guess Sundance proves that the talented ones can make this stuff up...beautifully.

Sir Duke-era Dating

Say it's the late '40s.

You want to take your date out for an evening she'll appreciate without breaking the bank.

Probably you find a good, reasonably-priced restaurant to take her to.

If you're particularly clever, you go to some place like Garnett's, where they have a date night special every night from 6-9:00.

You impress your date with a lovely summer, easy-drinking wine like Gabriele Rause Vin de Gris, which just happens to be part of the date night package.

Both of you choose an entree to enjoy while you listen to appropriately literate, hook-laden music from Jason Collett, he of the uber-talented collective Broken Social Scene.

Needless, to say, your date is enchanted.

You finish the meal with the black and white cake with coffee frosting

It's the kind of frosting that is more fat than sugar, but since it's just after the war years, everyone's still in the habit of not over-using luxuries like sugar.

You linger, finishing the wine until the moon is fully high in the sky.

Wisely, you'd already planned to walk to your next stop, Ballcieaux for the RVA Big Band.

Because, let's face it, the war's over and it's time to celebrate.

Dancing cheek to cheek with a woman is a pleasure you lived without for too long.

You steer your date to the back banquette, which you share with another couple sitting very close.

The bandleader informs the crowd that it's the bass sax player's birthday  (she looks impossibly young no matter what her age) and one of the trombone players' last nights with the big band.

Suddenly, you and your date are sharing not just swing music, but a couple of special occasions.

Does she sit a little closer because of it?

All around you, other tables are eating, drinking and watching the band.

This is the norm at a club with a live band in the late '40s.

The bandleader dedicates the next piece to Doug Richards, a local musician who also teaches in the VCU Jazz Studies program.

In all likelihood, most of the musicians in the big band have studied under him at one time or another.

He is the eminence gris. albeit a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing one in a bar stool.

"This is Far East Suite," the bandleader says. "Doug Richards made sure I heard it a long time before I would have otherwise."

You realize that if your date is not impressed by this exquisite Duke Ellington composition, she's not worthy anyway.

As luck has it, she swoons over it, her legs keeping time with the music.

By the time you walk the five blocks back to the car, you feel certain she'll say yes to another date.

She does, as surely as the Allies beat the enemy.

It's good to be dating circa 1946.

Easy and with a swing beat.

Kicking It Old School

It could have been an evening from another era.

Beginning at Garnett's for dinner, our foursome wrapped itself around the end of the bar for dinner.

The low-key Garnett's vibe belies the pleasing little wine list and on a cool June night, it feels like a place my parents could have frequented.

All around us couples are having dinner while '50s music plays and people eat simple, affordable food.

I kept it basic with Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and the farmer's salad of romaine, apple, cheddar, bacon and creamy sesame dressing.

No doubt it would have seemed like a very exotic salad back when that lunch counter was first built into that space.

Tonight it just seemed like a classic trifecta of flavors.

The four of us ate and chatted about the oddest assortment of things: a former dance club in the Bottom, the importance of an audience and revisiting old haunts.

As two of the group prepared to leave, two more friends came in for wine and dessert, conveniently the course we were about to enjoy ourselves.

Yellow cake with strawberry filling and strawberry frosting did the trick while listening to their travel plans.

Sure, in 1957 you could do Europe on $5 a day (and there was a guidebook to prove it) but these days the cost is a tad higher, as my friends are discovering.

Their company was an unexpected treat and when we all said goodnight, two of us made our way to Balliceaux.

The RVA Big Band was in full swing but we managed to score a booth in between songs.

It was the best seat I've ever had for the big band, ideal for hearing the huge sound ("a sea of sound," a companion noted) of seventeen instruments.

Most songs aren't introduced, but one melody was immediately recognizable. I just couldn't place it.

From what I was sure was a standard, the bandleader went on to say, "I'm going to introduce this one," as they segued into "The Jazz Police," the bass player switching to an electric.

The variety is always part of the appeal.

From the vantage point of the booth, we had a sweeping view of the room and the crowd seems to grow steadily larger every time I'm there.

There was a definite look to tonight's crowd; the women especially were looking very stylish, some almost retro in backless and strapless dresses.

Dare I say "Mad Men"-like?

Despite the enhanced wardrobe, the prevailing beverage of choice in the room for both musicians and patrons was cans of PBR.

I have to appreciate a room that caters to a big band-loving, can-swilling crowd.

A couple came over and asked f they could sit in the other side of our booth and we invited them in.

He could tell she wasn't enjoying herself and when he finally said, "We'll listen to just one more," she rolled her eyes and responded, "Whatever you want."

But then a funny thing happened. She started getting into it and when he picked up his phone to leave, she shook her head no.

A convert had been made to Team RVA Big Band.

During the break, I set off to find out what the name of the song I'd recognized was.

I asked a sax player who had no idea what he'd just played.

I moved on to a second sax player. He, too, was clueless, even after shuffling through the music on his stand.

Alright, boys, if you can't help me, step out of the way and let me ask someone who can.

A woman.

Approaching the slender woman who plays alto sax, I inquired of her what I'd heard and not been able to name.

"My One and Only Love," she informed me.

Of course!

I knew it from a favorite jazz record, "John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman," just the kind of song men would have once used to woo women back in the days of lunch counters like Garnett's and big bands playing local clubs.

And as many times as I've played the record, I'd never heard it live until my favorite seventeen-piece neatly took care of that tonight.

Simple pleasures, mid-century-style. With a PBR chaser.

He Wants, She Wants

Should I know what do I want to do with the next year, or even five years, of my life?

I got to thinking about that because it's been a day to listen to my friends' plans for the future.

Out of the blue, I heard how they have decided to make sharp turns and try something completely different with their lives.

Although the first had been a surprise, I knew there was news with the friend I met for happy hour. He'd said so when he asked me to meet him at Garnett's.

Although fairly low key on arrival, the joint was soon jumping with a butt in nearly every seat.

And I've been told that that's the goal of a restaurant owner.

I started with the Gabriele Rausse rose, which didn't displace King Family's Crose' as my favorite Virginia pink, but satisfied nonetheless.

While my friend told me about his upcoming career change, we took advantage of the $3 happy hour specials.

Devils on horseback (bacon wrapped dates), tea sandwiches of ham and garlic ailoi on crostini, and white bean spread with avocado on crostini made for a tasty little sampling of flavors.

As I listened to how my friend's commuting miles will go from hundreds of miles a week to barely 50 a week, I could tell he's been overdue for a change.

I don't have commuting issues, but maybe there's some other facet to my life that needs addressing.

For our discussion of winery work, classic French bubbles and over-hyped restaurants, I switched to Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.

It's such a familiar and easy-drinking wine.

Which is sort of a description of Garnett's for me: familiar and easy.

In the few feet between our table and getting something from my car, I first ran into my organizer friend having dinner with her mom (Mom said, "I've heard  about you!").

Stepping outside, I then ran into the beekeeper holding a vase of wilted flowers ("Love your hair!").

God knows if I'd walked to the end of the block who else I might have met.

We finished our rendezvous by walking across the street to Meadow Park to discuss Antero, hip-hop versus country (he plays in both kinds of bands) and the suitability of Civil War monuments in the capital of the Confederacy.

Only when the fireflies appeared did we break camp so he could start his long commute home.

With no cultural destination tonight, I decided to revisit Six Burner since the recent relaunching had been too mobbed to get a handle on the new vibe.

Luckily, a holdover from the old vibe is half off on wines by the glass on Tuesdays, so I tried the elegant Stefano Massone Gavi for four bucks.

Glass in hand, the next thing I noticed was how much louder the music was than it used to be.

Amen to that.

Tonight it was set on a Pandora station with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings as the starting point.


Okay, maybe not my first choice, but way better than the soft jazz that used to be standard play.

It must be a new direction because they're also going to do live music on Wednesday nights. And beer specials.

What? Toto, I don't think we're in Six Burner anymore. Except we were.

There was a lively trio at the bar and he was chiding her about lifestyle choices.

"You said you wanted to participate in my debauchery and reckless behavior. Did we not do that this weekend?" she inquired rhetorically. "Yes, we did!"

Brilliant. Always remind a man what he said he wanted.

I lost interest in them when my arugula salad with goat cheese and roasted beets arrived, notable for the warm, lightly salted beets (red and striped) contrasting with the peppery arugula.

The salad was a conscience salve for my other choice, crispy pork belly confit with a fried duck egg and jalapeno johnny cakes covered in Highland County maple syrup.

The pork belly may have been a tad too salty but the sweetness of the syrup made it less of an issue.

Meanwhile the giant duck egg coated everything in an obscene richness.

Dessert was a moot point because the syrup had more than satisfied my sweet tooth.

But even without dessert, I now had a much better read on the "new" Six Burner.

Louder, cheaper, more varied menu, better music.

Always give a woman what she wants and she'll keep coming back.

Even if she has no idea where she's going forward.

The question is, does she really need to?

A + B = C

It's a dilemma: where do you take a food-loving friend when he visits from out of town?

Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.

After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.

Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.

I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.

Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.

Score one.

Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.

My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.

As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.

He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.

If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.

No reevaluation was required.

He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.

After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.

He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.

According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.

It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.

Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.

The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.

I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.

That's probably why I keep doing it.

Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.

Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.

Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).

As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.

Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.

It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.

My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.

I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.

By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.

Score two.

Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.

We had, although the bar was still hopping.

I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.

My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.

Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.

Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.

Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.

Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.

Score three.

It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.

And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.

Bet I get invited back up.