It's been a while since anyone complimented me on my firm handshake.
But that's exactly how the Dutchman in the blue/green house greeted me after I said hello and extended my hand. And that's before I'd even handed off a bottle of J. Mourat Rose to him as a contribution to the evening's festivities.
My partner-in-crime/favorite traveling companion and I were there, in fact, for sipping and nibbly bits (as Pru likes to call them) accompanied by travel conversation - past and future - with he and his artist wife. But that came after admiring the art-filled house they'd completely renovated four years ago - including removing the balustrade from the staircase, turning mere steps into an eye-catching architectural focal point - and her compact backyard studio.
Part of the conversation was about change. Because he was Dutch and part of her youth had been spent in Europe, both carried memories of a time when far fewer tourists crowded desirable destinations. After dealing with massive crowds in Madrid and Amsterdam a while back, she'd had enough (her term was "a meltdown") and was ready to go home if they couldn't find a place less clogged with tourists and selfie sticks.
As someone who refused to even go in the Louvre gallery where the Mona Lisa hung for exactly that reason, I felt her pain. What was astounding was her adoring husband's reaction: he immediately returned all the tickets that had been procured for the remainder of their itinerary and instead found a small village in southernmost Italy for them to spend the rest of their vacation time.
Like any sane people, they were soon seduced by the region, resulting in them now owning a house there. Even better, a house they let out to close friends. And while I didn't yet qualify, my handsome partner apparently does, so for such a devoted planner, this was the kickoff for him to start another planning binge.
When we weren't talking travel, the womenfolk were comparing notes about how we got to Richmond in the first place. I thought I'd had it bad arriving here from D.C. in 1986 and first living in Chesterfield County before high-tailing it to the city, but she took the prize when she shared that she'd arrived in Colonial Heights in 1983. Ye gads.
After checking out the area, she'd promptly driven home to Boston, a reaction I find completely understandable. No intelligent, much less creative, woman should have had to live in Richmond back then and yet here we were: two survivors and glad we'd stayed.
As we got up to go, I was asked about my favorite restaurant (no one such thing, but I do have multiple top choices) but I turned the question on my hosts, who copped to liking Fat Dragon, Bacchus and Galley.
So after we'd said our good-byes, I thought our next stop should be Galley Market so I could deflower a Giustino's pizza virgin while furthering the travel talk. For the first time, I sat at a table among the shelves of groceries, rather than the counter. A Greek salad was followed by a Bianca (yes, I know I'm a creature of habit, but I wanted to make sure his first pie experience was one I could vouch for) and a whole lot of talking about everything. Like we do.
I was especially taken by his assessment of our long weekend in Irvington about how we have more conversation than any other two people would even think possible, much less intensely pleasurable. And he's right.
Walking to the river with Mac yesterday, she commented how my blog posts continue to sound giddy, even as I really do try to rein in my euphoria when blogging. "I love that you're so happy," she told me, cracking wise about my rose-colored glasses.
And it only took 32 years from my arrival in Richmond to get to that beatific point. And if I thought that time flew by, it's nothing compared to the warp speed that's become my new normal. It's like what the late, great Anthony Bourdain said. "Your body is not a temple, it's an amusement park. Enjoy the ride."
Enjoying. Every. Second.
Showing posts with label galley market. Show all posts
Showing posts with label galley market. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Talking About Soft Stuff
Hello, April. Surprise me, sure, but please don't fool me.
Mac's been at the ocean, I'd been at the river and we agreed that we were overdue to convene and debrief. It was as easy as me suggesting a gangster movie and her having the bright idea to begin with Giustino's pizza and our date was planned.
When I went to pick her up, it was obvious we were on the same hopeful weather page, since we both showed up in open shoes and jean jackets as if it were 70 degrees rather than 55. I blame it on water-focused weekends and our eternal optimism.
At Galley Market, we joined a much older couple eating dinner at the counter, or rather, him patiently waiting while she, hunched over her plate as if it could be taken away from her at any moment, slowly and methodically chewed each bite while staring at the counter.
I came this close to finally breaking bad and ordering something other than the Bianca pizza I've had every other time, really, I did, especially after spotting a Popeye pizza special (sauteed mushrooms and spinach), but I was saved from leaving my comfort zone when Mac ordered it first, effectively guaranteeing me a Popeye sample.
What are girlfriends for, after all?
I'll tell you what, they're for justifying a dessert both of us were too full to eat but nonetheless managed to devour. Walking toward the Byrd, Mac wanted to duck into Sugar & Twine to get a muffin for breakfast, which is where we spotted a housemade "Little Debbie" and next thing you know, we're looking at walls covered in American scene painter J. Bohannon's canvases and digging into our tower of chocolate and whipped cream.
The only downside? No room for popcorn once we made it to the Byrd. Instead, Mac showed me some of the men currently trying to win her favor online and we marveled at how some men have no clue which photos they shouldn't post if they're hoping for a favorable response.
A surprising number of people showed up for a Monday night gangster film. For a change, there was no introduction, no mention at all of today being the first day of Gangster Month at the Byrd or any fun facts about Edward G. Robinson's starmaker turn in 1931's "Little Caesar." We were on our own with a movie designated one of those that must be seen before we die.
Let's see, '30s cliches abounded: every man wore a hat, most used cigarette cases, wore spats, cops were all Irishmen and the death penalty was carried out with a hangman's noose. Absolutely no background music. And love? "Nothing! Less than nothing! Soft stuff." Tough guy jargon.
When the film ended in a brief 79 minutes, we both marveled at how almost cartoon-like it had been. Or, more accurately, how practically every crime movie for the past 87 years owes something (and in many cases, almost everything) to "Little Caesar." From drive-by shootings to personifying firearms, this is the movie that set the template that shaped our notion of gangster films.
"You want me? You're going to have to come get me!"
I wanted Mac and all the shared updates possible. You better believe I'll come get her if it means a night full of girltalk, gangsters and the best crust in town.
Best ever. No fooling.
Mac's been at the ocean, I'd been at the river and we agreed that we were overdue to convene and debrief. It was as easy as me suggesting a gangster movie and her having the bright idea to begin with Giustino's pizza and our date was planned.
When I went to pick her up, it was obvious we were on the same hopeful weather page, since we both showed up in open shoes and jean jackets as if it were 70 degrees rather than 55. I blame it on water-focused weekends and our eternal optimism.
At Galley Market, we joined a much older couple eating dinner at the counter, or rather, him patiently waiting while she, hunched over her plate as if it could be taken away from her at any moment, slowly and methodically chewed each bite while staring at the counter.
I came this close to finally breaking bad and ordering something other than the Bianca pizza I've had every other time, really, I did, especially after spotting a Popeye pizza special (sauteed mushrooms and spinach), but I was saved from leaving my comfort zone when Mac ordered it first, effectively guaranteeing me a Popeye sample.
What are girlfriends for, after all?
I'll tell you what, they're for justifying a dessert both of us were too full to eat but nonetheless managed to devour. Walking toward the Byrd, Mac wanted to duck into Sugar & Twine to get a muffin for breakfast, which is where we spotted a housemade "Little Debbie" and next thing you know, we're looking at walls covered in American scene painter J. Bohannon's canvases and digging into our tower of chocolate and whipped cream.
The only downside? No room for popcorn once we made it to the Byrd. Instead, Mac showed me some of the men currently trying to win her favor online and we marveled at how some men have no clue which photos they shouldn't post if they're hoping for a favorable response.
A surprising number of people showed up for a Monday night gangster film. For a change, there was no introduction, no mention at all of today being the first day of Gangster Month at the Byrd or any fun facts about Edward G. Robinson's starmaker turn in 1931's "Little Caesar." We were on our own with a movie designated one of those that must be seen before we die.
Let's see, '30s cliches abounded: every man wore a hat, most used cigarette cases, wore spats, cops were all Irishmen and the death penalty was carried out with a hangman's noose. Absolutely no background music. And love? "Nothing! Less than nothing! Soft stuff." Tough guy jargon.
When the film ended in a brief 79 minutes, we both marveled at how almost cartoon-like it had been. Or, more accurately, how practically every crime movie for the past 87 years owes something (and in many cases, almost everything) to "Little Caesar." From drive-by shootings to personifying firearms, this is the movie that set the template that shaped our notion of gangster films.
"You want me? You're going to have to come get me!"
I wanted Mac and all the shared updates possible. You better believe I'll come get her if it means a night full of girltalk, gangsters and the best crust in town.
Best ever. No fooling.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
What She's Having
Certain sounds are positively unmistakable.
So when I walked out of my apartment this afternoon into the hallway to the sounds of a woman crying, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohohohoh!" from behind the back apartment door, I knew exactly what I was hearing: neighbor sex.
And while we've all heard fake sex in movies, I can't say I've ever heard a woman climax live before. Granted, it sounds just like the simulated variety (see: "When Harry Met Sally"), but it somehow made me feel like an audio voyeur, not that my overhearing it was intentional.
All I needed was bananas and kleenex at the grocery store, for cryin' out loud (intentional, yes).
As I was headed down the steps toward the front door, her shrieks got louder, she reached that final "Ooooooooh!" and I felt obligated to let myself out and lock the door as silently as possible. But why? I'm not the one who was broadcasting my business, I was simply on my way out.
I know some people like a sandwich after having sex, but I'd only heard sex, so what I wanted was a pizza from Galley Market and I couldn't think of a single reason not to drive to southside to get one. I'd been craving another since I'd had my first a month ago.
When I ordered my Bianca pizza - house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil on a crust with the chew of a fine baguette - I told the cashier I felt kind of lame ordering the exact same pizza I'd ordered last time.
"No shame in that," he assured me. "I go back and forth between the Bianca and the Grape & Gorgonzola, so I'm almost as bad."
Waiting at the counter for my pie to bake, I noticed a new piece of red neon announcing "Giustino's Pizza" hanging from the ceiling, an addition since my first visit giving credit to the multi-talented percussionist and pizza-maker who I could see busy in the kitchen through the open doors.
When he spotted me, he came out to say hello and I shared that I'd left Jackson Ward to come to southside for his outstanding crust and pitch perfect toppings. When I told him I've also been telling everyone I know to go eat his pie, he wrapped me in a bear hug, apologizing in advance for getting flour all over me.
What's a little flour between cook and eater?
It was everything I could do to drive that Bianca home before diving in. I thought I might arrive home to hear round two in progress, so I entered tentatively, but all was quiet on the back apartment front.
No shame in that. Sometimes once is enough.
So when I walked out of my apartment this afternoon into the hallway to the sounds of a woman crying, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohohohoh!" from behind the back apartment door, I knew exactly what I was hearing: neighbor sex.
And while we've all heard fake sex in movies, I can't say I've ever heard a woman climax live before. Granted, it sounds just like the simulated variety (see: "When Harry Met Sally"), but it somehow made me feel like an audio voyeur, not that my overhearing it was intentional.
All I needed was bananas and kleenex at the grocery store, for cryin' out loud (intentional, yes).
As I was headed down the steps toward the front door, her shrieks got louder, she reached that final "Ooooooooh!" and I felt obligated to let myself out and lock the door as silently as possible. But why? I'm not the one who was broadcasting my business, I was simply on my way out.
I know some people like a sandwich after having sex, but I'd only heard sex, so what I wanted was a pizza from Galley Market and I couldn't think of a single reason not to drive to southside to get one. I'd been craving another since I'd had my first a month ago.
When I ordered my Bianca pizza - house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil on a crust with the chew of a fine baguette - I told the cashier I felt kind of lame ordering the exact same pizza I'd ordered last time.
"No shame in that," he assured me. "I go back and forth between the Bianca and the Grape & Gorgonzola, so I'm almost as bad."
Waiting at the counter for my pie to bake, I noticed a new piece of red neon announcing "Giustino's Pizza" hanging from the ceiling, an addition since my first visit giving credit to the multi-talented percussionist and pizza-maker who I could see busy in the kitchen through the open doors.
When he spotted me, he came out to say hello and I shared that I'd left Jackson Ward to come to southside for his outstanding crust and pitch perfect toppings. When I told him I've also been telling everyone I know to go eat his pie, he wrapped me in a bear hug, apologizing in advance for getting flour all over me.
What's a little flour between cook and eater?
It was everything I could do to drive that Bianca home before diving in. I thought I might arrive home to hear round two in progress, so I entered tentatively, but all was quiet on the back apartment front.
No shame in that. Sometimes once is enough.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Daybreak Ain't No Time for Gullibility
Talk about your unlikely double feature after eating a musician's pie...
For those of us who've been eagerly following the dough-making journey of a certain local percussionist for months, the payoff finally arrived last Thursday when he announced to the Facebook world, "It happens tomorrow! Come and kick my ass! Please!"
"It" was the pizza-making operation at the new Galley Market and the photo he posted showed stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, so, sure, I was curious, although southside isn't exactly part of my regular rotation. Then he posted a picture of his Bianca pizza with house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil and I couldn't schedule a time to get over there soon enough.
As it happened, tonight I was headed to southside for the final installment of the International Film Series and what could be more perfect than pie to sustain me through two movies?
After ordering from the cashier, I nabbed a stool at the counter to wait for my Bianca to emerge from the oven. To kill time, I picked up the Richmond Times Disgrace laying on the counter only to see some editorial adjustments to a front page article.
A headline that read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in Certain Cases?" had been altered to read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in All Cases?" with the word "YES!" scribbled at the end of the question. No, tell us how you really feel.
I glanced at my horoscope for today - "Gemini, gullibility will be your downfall"- and decided I didn't need to to be told the obvious yet again. Fortunately, my pie arrived and I have to say, Giustino knows how to make a damn good pie: the crust was as satisfyingly chewy as a good baguette and the cheeses were portioned exactly right with just a hint of Gorgonzola on the finish.
Oh, great, now I'm going to have to drive to southside for really excellent pizza.
I only had to drive back to Westover Hills to see the black and white 1955 film, "Death of a Cyclist," which, being mid-century Spanish (and directed/written by Javier Bardem's uncle), managed to roll adultery, a hit and run, a grading scandal at university and a whole lot of metaphors about Franco and the hollowness of war - with a lot of moody Hitchcockian cinematography and a dash or two of film noir tropes - into a completely engrossing realist film about guilt and class.
Of course, in 1955, there was no getting away with misdeeds without punishment, so our adulterers and murderers paid the ultimate price (with a solid dose of Catholicism for good measure) for breaking multiple commandments.
But woman does not live by pizza and realism alone, so I wound up at the Byrd Theatre standing in line outside waiting for the theater to clear and freezing while doing it. Around me, fools in short sleeves shivered visibly.
The first distraction was the organizers of tonight's event coming by to give everyone a raffle ticket for a chance to win a free ticket to see John Waters when he comes to the Byrd to do his Christmas show.
Then there were the inane conversations I had no choice but to overhear. In front of me were two people arguing whether mushrooms counted as a veggie or a fungus, a disagreement they gave up only when she mentioned she was wearing a Dad sweater for warmth.
"It's a nice sweater, so why isn't your Dad still wearing it?" the bearded one inquired of the "Cosby" show-era relic. "Cause it's from the '80s and you don't get to wear it in the '80s and still wear it," she explained matter-of-factly. "So only 20-somethings can wear Dad sweaters now?" he wondered. "Right. He's 65, so he can't wear this," she proclaimed, ending the conversation.
You can only imagine how glad I was that the line began moving to go inside. Soon I was comfortably ensconced in one of the new seats for a black comedy crime film courtesy of Movie Club Richmond's screening of the John Waters classic, "Serial Mom."
Next to me was a young woman who recently moved here from Alabama and had come to see her second John Waters movie, "Crybaby" having been the first. I advised her to go back further in his catalog and see what John Waters' films were like before he rated Hollywood stars and bigger budgets.
When it came time to pull raffle tickets, manager Todd strolled up the aisle to get a patron to pull one out of the popcorn bucket. "I know exactly who I can ask to do it," he said, heading directly to me. It was probably a good thing that I didn't pull my own number.
I hadn't seen "Serial Mom" since it came out in 1994, so while I recalled the basic premise, I'd forgotten just how graphic and dark it was when bodies began stacking up almost from the movie's beginning. I know for sure that the quintet sitting behind me weren't prepared for such a black comedy as they continually commented on what was happening as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes.
My guess is they hadn't even seen "Crybaby."
One thing that occurred to me as the saga unfolded was how dated some of the references were, to the point that many millennials probably didn't get them at all. Richard Speck? Premiere magazine? Jason Priestly? Franklin Mint? Did they even recognize the Barry Manilow song "Daybreak?"
And you should have heard the groans when a character at the video store said how much she liked Bill Cosby's funny films. Way too soon.
But I have to admit I wasn't without knowledge myself. When I first saw the movie, I'd only just barely learned who L7 was, so I got a kick out of seeing them perform as Camel Lips during the raucous club scene.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, unlike the Spanish realism I'd enjoyed earlier, this was a movie with a psychotic central character, much use of the "pussy" word and no retribution for bad behavior whatsoever.
Sort of reminded me of our current administration. Leave it to John Waters to predict the future.
For those of us who've been eagerly following the dough-making journey of a certain local percussionist for months, the payoff finally arrived last Thursday when he announced to the Facebook world, "It happens tomorrow! Come and kick my ass! Please!"
"It" was the pizza-making operation at the new Galley Market and the photo he posted showed stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, so, sure, I was curious, although southside isn't exactly part of my regular rotation. Then he posted a picture of his Bianca pizza with house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil and I couldn't schedule a time to get over there soon enough.
As it happened, tonight I was headed to southside for the final installment of the International Film Series and what could be more perfect than pie to sustain me through two movies?
After ordering from the cashier, I nabbed a stool at the counter to wait for my Bianca to emerge from the oven. To kill time, I picked up the Richmond Times Disgrace laying on the counter only to see some editorial adjustments to a front page article.
A headline that read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in Certain Cases?" had been altered to read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in All Cases?" with the word "YES!" scribbled at the end of the question. No, tell us how you really feel.
I glanced at my horoscope for today - "Gemini, gullibility will be your downfall"- and decided I didn't need to to be told the obvious yet again. Fortunately, my pie arrived and I have to say, Giustino knows how to make a damn good pie: the crust was as satisfyingly chewy as a good baguette and the cheeses were portioned exactly right with just a hint of Gorgonzola on the finish.
Oh, great, now I'm going to have to drive to southside for really excellent pizza.
I only had to drive back to Westover Hills to see the black and white 1955 film, "Death of a Cyclist," which, being mid-century Spanish (and directed/written by Javier Bardem's uncle), managed to roll adultery, a hit and run, a grading scandal at university and a whole lot of metaphors about Franco and the hollowness of war - with a lot of moody Hitchcockian cinematography and a dash or two of film noir tropes - into a completely engrossing realist film about guilt and class.
Of course, in 1955, there was no getting away with misdeeds without punishment, so our adulterers and murderers paid the ultimate price (with a solid dose of Catholicism for good measure) for breaking multiple commandments.
But woman does not live by pizza and realism alone, so I wound up at the Byrd Theatre standing in line outside waiting for the theater to clear and freezing while doing it. Around me, fools in short sleeves shivered visibly.
The first distraction was the organizers of tonight's event coming by to give everyone a raffle ticket for a chance to win a free ticket to see John Waters when he comes to the Byrd to do his Christmas show.
Then there were the inane conversations I had no choice but to overhear. In front of me were two people arguing whether mushrooms counted as a veggie or a fungus, a disagreement they gave up only when she mentioned she was wearing a Dad sweater for warmth.
"It's a nice sweater, so why isn't your Dad still wearing it?" the bearded one inquired of the "Cosby" show-era relic. "Cause it's from the '80s and you don't get to wear it in the '80s and still wear it," she explained matter-of-factly. "So only 20-somethings can wear Dad sweaters now?" he wondered. "Right. He's 65, so he can't wear this," she proclaimed, ending the conversation.
You can only imagine how glad I was that the line began moving to go inside. Soon I was comfortably ensconced in one of the new seats for a black comedy crime film courtesy of Movie Club Richmond's screening of the John Waters classic, "Serial Mom."
Next to me was a young woman who recently moved here from Alabama and had come to see her second John Waters movie, "Crybaby" having been the first. I advised her to go back further in his catalog and see what John Waters' films were like before he rated Hollywood stars and bigger budgets.
When it came time to pull raffle tickets, manager Todd strolled up the aisle to get a patron to pull one out of the popcorn bucket. "I know exactly who I can ask to do it," he said, heading directly to me. It was probably a good thing that I didn't pull my own number.
I hadn't seen "Serial Mom" since it came out in 1994, so while I recalled the basic premise, I'd forgotten just how graphic and dark it was when bodies began stacking up almost from the movie's beginning. I know for sure that the quintet sitting behind me weren't prepared for such a black comedy as they continually commented on what was happening as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes.
My guess is they hadn't even seen "Crybaby."
One thing that occurred to me as the saga unfolded was how dated some of the references were, to the point that many millennials probably didn't get them at all. Richard Speck? Premiere magazine? Jason Priestly? Franklin Mint? Did they even recognize the Barry Manilow song "Daybreak?"
And you should have heard the groans when a character at the video store said how much she liked Bill Cosby's funny films. Way too soon.
But I have to admit I wasn't without knowledge myself. When I first saw the movie, I'd only just barely learned who L7 was, so I got a kick out of seeing them perform as Camel Lips during the raucous club scene.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, unlike the Spanish realism I'd enjoyed earlier, this was a movie with a psychotic central character, much use of the "pussy" word and no retribution for bad behavior whatsoever.
Sort of reminded me of our current administration. Leave it to John Waters to predict the future.
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