Fall arrives and the play's the thing again.
I've been back from the beach for exactly 29 hours and in that time, I've eaten at 2 restaurants, been accompanied by two men, seen two plays, walked 5 miles with a friend I haven't walked with since we had a non-dotard president and interviewed a southern soul legend.
All I can say is, that's a lot to jump back into after being oceanfront for days.
For plot novelty and the elusive lesbian central character, there was Cadence Theatre's production of "Fun Home," spun from the graphic novel of the same name about a young woman growing up in Pennsylvania, discovering who she was and finally learning that her father was a closeted gay man, too.
Now there's a switch from walking on the beach.
Barely a day later, I got Virginia Repertory's production of "Shakespeare in Love," which means Tom Stoppard-written words (Is she obedient? As any mule in Christiandom!), fabulous period costumes and a plot designed for Shakespeare fans and students of love.
I will have poetry in my life!
Upstairs at Max's for dinner, we were part of the sizable pre-theater crowd, though most of them were on their way to see "Shakespeare in Love" and we weren't. But we were greeted by a favorite actor stopping by to say hello and guarantee that we'd be out in time for our curtain.
He wasn't just whistling dixie, either, because he also showed up with trifle at the end of dinner.
On the other hand, it was nothing but crickets chirping at Graffiato's, where we were the lone bar sitters and the crowd didn't even begin arriving until we were well into our roasted cauliflower, pizza and monkfish. Clearly some people didn't have a curtain to make.
The best part of coming back from the beach is all the things the beach doesn't offer, you know, plays and restaurants where people don't all wear flip-flops. Engaging my brain again and restocking on opinions and experiences.
The worst part is all these people complaining today that it's 85 degrees on the first day of fall. We've got plenty of time in the months ahead for cool, dry air and I'm going to enjoy every warm moment until I have to close my windows.
I'm also going to take the advice of the 75-year old southern soul legend, who assured me from Memphis, "Don't give up on love because love won't give up on you."
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe entire plays have been written on that subject. Turns out I go to a lot of them.
Because in addition to the beach, I will have poetry in my life.
Showing posts with label graffiato. Show all posts
Showing posts with label graffiato. Show all posts
Friday, September 22, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
Living for Right Now
We're having a heatwave, despite the calendar still reading February.
I'm not saying that because the mercury hit 74 degrees, but because today was the first day that my lipsticks should have spent the day in the refrigerator like it was June, a fact a girl only discovers once she's getting ready to go out and finds them softer than ideal.
Now that I think about it, they may have warmed up driving back from the Northern Neck - where I'd gone today to visit my parents - with the windows mostly down.
I'd gotten a late start coming back because Mom and I decided to walk down to the dock, past the two weeping willow trees she tells me have just burst into leaf the past two days and wound up sprawled in an Adirondack loveseat discussing life.
And death, as it turns out. An article in today's Washington Post "Heart to Heart: The Conversation You Least Want to Have with your Aging Parents May Be the Most Important" was the starting point, but like so many conversations with my folks, there was a fair amount of laughter, too.
When I mention how hard it would be for Dad if she should die first, she waves off the problem, saying with a smile, "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. He won't last long once I go!"
I'm not sure if she means this because he's never had to fix his own food (at 8, I once found him crawling around the kitchen floor looking for where she kept the cold cereal and had to show him which cabinet) or because he'll wither away from a broken heart.
Telling her I'd just seen "In the Heat of the Night" at the Byrd for the first time last night, we dished about her memories of the award-winning film's impact at the time and about what a handsome man Sidney Poitier had been.
A tangent from there about how I've never seen "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" had her telling me about Spencer Tracy's speech in that film about how, despite his age, he remembers with absolute clarity his feelings for his wife when they first met and fell in love and how true love endures through the years.
"He was really talking about the love of his life, Katherine Hepburn," Mom tells me with absolute certainty, although certainly with the wisdom of her own experience as well. How she recalls this particular scene after not seeing the movie in decades is beyond me, but now I'm determined to see it myself, knowing that Hepburn and Tracy were long-time lovers.
The levity returns later on the walk back to the house. Surveying the two sheds full of Dad's crap and the crumbling grape arbor, she says, "I already told him when he looks down from heaven, none of this mess will be here!"
How often do you get to have an end of life discussion and get film recommendations in the same afternoon, much less riverside with waves lapping at the sand?
Once back in the city with my half-melted lipsticks, I managed to apply them before strolling over to Graffiato to meet a friend pre-theater.
Arriving first, the bartender welcomed me back and re-introduced himself, amazing me since we'd met the first week of January when he'd obligingly served a brown liquor-drinking friend while discussing distillation methods and then completely forgotten to take my drink order. For 15 minutes.
The good news is, being ignored guarantees you'll be remembered on your next visit.
With a nod to my birthplace and an appreciation for housemade ginger beer, I was drinking a variation on the DC Mule out of a copper cup when my friend came rushing in, Christmas present in hand. Once she got a pretty, pink Paloma, it was a race to catch up with each other's lives in 35 minutes so we could make a curtain.
What always happens when we try this is that I'll ask her what's been going on in her life and she'll rush through a few highlights and then insist on hearing my goings-on. Tonight, she was particularly fond of the symmetry of the trip to Cuba story, but saved plenty of enthusiasm for the good stuff and an Italian sausage pizzeta.
We didn't shut up until we headed across the street to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre's production of "Violet," another in the Acts of Faith series.
Although I was already happy being with a long-time friend I don't get to see nearly enough of, I got more fortunate still right off the bat by winning two tickets to Cadence's next production by having my seat number drawn from a bucket.
I'm lucky
I can walk under ladders
Yes, I'm so lucky
That I'm as lucky as me
I don't think I've ever been disappointed by a Cadence production and tonight kept that streak alive with a play that managed to marry high spirited musical numbers channeling gospel and country overtones (and the crack five piece band right onstage with the actors) with a poignant story about a disfigured girl looking for more conventional beauty and a big dose of self acceptance.
That it was set in the deep south in the 1964 during the Civil Rights movement only continued the thread of so many of my outings lately. That I'd gone from watching handsome Sidney Poitier last night to almost-as-handsome Josh Marin tonight was no sacrifice at all
First you choose your road and then you take it.
As an entry in the Acts of Faith Festival, Violet's story about who chooses to love her and whether they do it for who she really is or not provided the real meat of the play and enough to justify a post-theater discussion at Quirk afterward.
The bar at Maple + Pine was full, more than a few tables held diners and staff whisked new guests and luggage to the elevator as we grabbed a bar table and settled in to dissect what we'd seen over Prosecco and chocolate pecan pie.
"Please indulge!" said the server who dropped off the goodies.
In the dessert? In a soundtrack that included Tame Impala and The XX? In the bustling scene as the bar emptied and filled back up again?
All of that and more. Mostly, we indulged in conversation about the challenges of choosing your road and allowing yourself to take the right detour if it presents itself.
Hint: it doesn't always go through Cuba.
I'm not saying that because the mercury hit 74 degrees, but because today was the first day that my lipsticks should have spent the day in the refrigerator like it was June, a fact a girl only discovers once she's getting ready to go out and finds them softer than ideal.
Now that I think about it, they may have warmed up driving back from the Northern Neck - where I'd gone today to visit my parents - with the windows mostly down.
I'd gotten a late start coming back because Mom and I decided to walk down to the dock, past the two weeping willow trees she tells me have just burst into leaf the past two days and wound up sprawled in an Adirondack loveseat discussing life.
And death, as it turns out. An article in today's Washington Post "Heart to Heart: The Conversation You Least Want to Have with your Aging Parents May Be the Most Important" was the starting point, but like so many conversations with my folks, there was a fair amount of laughter, too.
When I mention how hard it would be for Dad if she should die first, she waves off the problem, saying with a smile, "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. He won't last long once I go!"
I'm not sure if she means this because he's never had to fix his own food (at 8, I once found him crawling around the kitchen floor looking for where she kept the cold cereal and had to show him which cabinet) or because he'll wither away from a broken heart.
Telling her I'd just seen "In the Heat of the Night" at the Byrd for the first time last night, we dished about her memories of the award-winning film's impact at the time and about what a handsome man Sidney Poitier had been.
A tangent from there about how I've never seen "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" had her telling me about Spencer Tracy's speech in that film about how, despite his age, he remembers with absolute clarity his feelings for his wife when they first met and fell in love and how true love endures through the years.
"He was really talking about the love of his life, Katherine Hepburn," Mom tells me with absolute certainty, although certainly with the wisdom of her own experience as well. How she recalls this particular scene after not seeing the movie in decades is beyond me, but now I'm determined to see it myself, knowing that Hepburn and Tracy were long-time lovers.
The levity returns later on the walk back to the house. Surveying the two sheds full of Dad's crap and the crumbling grape arbor, she says, "I already told him when he looks down from heaven, none of this mess will be here!"
How often do you get to have an end of life discussion and get film recommendations in the same afternoon, much less riverside with waves lapping at the sand?
Once back in the city with my half-melted lipsticks, I managed to apply them before strolling over to Graffiato to meet a friend pre-theater.
Arriving first, the bartender welcomed me back and re-introduced himself, amazing me since we'd met the first week of January when he'd obligingly served a brown liquor-drinking friend while discussing distillation methods and then completely forgotten to take my drink order. For 15 minutes.
The good news is, being ignored guarantees you'll be remembered on your next visit.
With a nod to my birthplace and an appreciation for housemade ginger beer, I was drinking a variation on the DC Mule out of a copper cup when my friend came rushing in, Christmas present in hand. Once she got a pretty, pink Paloma, it was a race to catch up with each other's lives in 35 minutes so we could make a curtain.
What always happens when we try this is that I'll ask her what's been going on in her life and she'll rush through a few highlights and then insist on hearing my goings-on. Tonight, she was particularly fond of the symmetry of the trip to Cuba story, but saved plenty of enthusiasm for the good stuff and an Italian sausage pizzeta.
We didn't shut up until we headed across the street to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre's production of "Violet," another in the Acts of Faith series.
Although I was already happy being with a long-time friend I don't get to see nearly enough of, I got more fortunate still right off the bat by winning two tickets to Cadence's next production by having my seat number drawn from a bucket.
I'm lucky
I can walk under ladders
Yes, I'm so lucky
That I'm as lucky as me
I don't think I've ever been disappointed by a Cadence production and tonight kept that streak alive with a play that managed to marry high spirited musical numbers channeling gospel and country overtones (and the crack five piece band right onstage with the actors) with a poignant story about a disfigured girl looking for more conventional beauty and a big dose of self acceptance.
That it was set in the deep south in the 1964 during the Civil Rights movement only continued the thread of so many of my outings lately. That I'd gone from watching handsome Sidney Poitier last night to almost-as-handsome Josh Marin tonight was no sacrifice at all
First you choose your road and then you take it.
As an entry in the Acts of Faith Festival, Violet's story about who chooses to love her and whether they do it for who she really is or not provided the real meat of the play and enough to justify a post-theater discussion at Quirk afterward.
The bar at Maple + Pine was full, more than a few tables held diners and staff whisked new guests and luggage to the elevator as we grabbed a bar table and settled in to dissect what we'd seen over Prosecco and chocolate pecan pie.
"Please indulge!" said the server who dropped off the goodies.
In the dessert? In a soundtrack that included Tame Impala and The XX? In the bustling scene as the bar emptied and filled back up again?
All of that and more. Mostly, we indulged in conversation about the challenges of choosing your road and allowing yourself to take the right detour if it presents itself.
Hint: it doesn't always go through Cuba.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Is Good Enough?
Well, I certainly didn't see that coming.
The stated game plan was to discuss our 2017 resolutions. But, like every other get-together I've had this week, it was more about re-establishing contact after two weeks of holiday interruption, and if there were unstated goals, well, no one was talking about that.
Deferring to me to come up with a game plan ("I haven't looked at what's happening this week. If you know about something good - you've had great suggestions before - I'm happy to let you select"), I shared what I'd intended to do before hearing from him: go to Susan Worsham's opening at Candela Gallery.
Just like that, we had a plan. I was standing in front of one of Susan's multi-layered and metaphoric photographs when I felt a presence next to me and the evening was off and running as we made our way through the crowded galleries to talk about each picture.
My attraction to Susan's work is all about the attitude. Even the name of the show - "By the Grace of God" - is a testament to her sunny disposition and willingness to stop every single time she sees the makings of a photograph in nature or life. Not later, not come back to it. Now.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Like me, she doesn't hesitate to approach strangers, ask questions and press until she gets the affirmative answer she wants, a strategy that works as well with friendships as art.
By the time we'd made the rounds discussing what attracted us about the work, it was time to claim our seats in the overflowing room for the artist's talk.
Susan is such a disarming speaker and she quickly charmed the room with stories of how she got photos, how nerdy she could be begging people to let her take their image and stressing just how few photography classes she took before setting off to document the beautiful moments in life.
Because that, quite simply, is her goal.
To a student or aspiring photographer of any age, she had to have been positively inspiring with her message of making the time and effort to shoot no matter how indolent or uninspired they might feel.
"Photography is the only thing that keeps me from being lazy," she insisted with a huge red-lipsticked smile on her face.
Suitably artfully inspired - not that I wasn't already constantly on the lookout for the beauty in life or as Pru likes to say, "You and your flippin' silver linings!" - we made our way to My Noodle & Bar, which was packed despite the cold weather.
I'd say scoring one of the tiki huts there as our lair for dinner counts as a good thing, while using both the curtain separating us from the next booth as well as hanging our coats on hooks next to us to create the proper level of privacy provided an ideal setting for the latest installment of our ongoing conversation.
And because our booth was in the direct line of the door and the masses of cold air that poured in every time it opened and, let's get real here, I am so not built for winter.
Since it was his first time, I was pleased at how much he enjoyed his My Noodle dish while I got my standard broccoli and chicken order from my favorite server, who didn't even let me get the words out before she parroted back the rest of my order in a familiar, sing song voice.
There's a lot to be said for being a regular and having people know you.
In some ways, that was the topic of our wide-ranging conversation as he shared his adventures down south and I mine out west and we dug deep into what we hope to accomplish in 2017. His to-do list is longer, but we also had some overlap in one category, which could make things interesting.
By the time we left there, we'd both dropped some surprising news, had our usual back and forth ribbing about why he always feels the need to remind me he can't stay out late and decided we needed to make one more stop anyway.
Graffiato's won the imaginary toss.
Whistlepig Rye ignited a lively conversation with our affable bartender, who was more than happy to discuss brown spirits and distinctive distillation methods with my friend while I took mental notes. A girl never knows when whiskey knowledge will come in handy.
By the time they'd reached a consensus on what my date would drink, he got his pour and the bartender headed up the bar to assist others. Several minutes later, he returned, looking stricken because he'd never so much as inquired what I might want.
Accompanying his sincere-sounding apology was an overly generous pour of Barboursville Rose, his solicitous attention to my water glass for the remainder of the night and, when I inquired about last call half pours, his willingness to accommodate both brown and pink.
Willingness was in the air as the nature of friendships was parsed, advice about the opposite sex was offered and new boundaries were tentatively approached. Forward progress seems to be the natural result of the best ongoing conversations.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
The stated game plan was to discuss our 2017 resolutions. But, like every other get-together I've had this week, it was more about re-establishing contact after two weeks of holiday interruption, and if there were unstated goals, well, no one was talking about that.
Deferring to me to come up with a game plan ("I haven't looked at what's happening this week. If you know about something good - you've had great suggestions before - I'm happy to let you select"), I shared what I'd intended to do before hearing from him: go to Susan Worsham's opening at Candela Gallery.
Just like that, we had a plan. I was standing in front of one of Susan's multi-layered and metaphoric photographs when I felt a presence next to me and the evening was off and running as we made our way through the crowded galleries to talk about each picture.
My attraction to Susan's work is all about the attitude. Even the name of the show - "By the Grace of God" - is a testament to her sunny disposition and willingness to stop every single time she sees the makings of a photograph in nature or life. Not later, not come back to it. Now.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Like me, she doesn't hesitate to approach strangers, ask questions and press until she gets the affirmative answer she wants, a strategy that works as well with friendships as art.
By the time we'd made the rounds discussing what attracted us about the work, it was time to claim our seats in the overflowing room for the artist's talk.
Susan is such a disarming speaker and she quickly charmed the room with stories of how she got photos, how nerdy she could be begging people to let her take their image and stressing just how few photography classes she took before setting off to document the beautiful moments in life.
Because that, quite simply, is her goal.
To a student or aspiring photographer of any age, she had to have been positively inspiring with her message of making the time and effort to shoot no matter how indolent or uninspired they might feel.
"Photography is the only thing that keeps me from being lazy," she insisted with a huge red-lipsticked smile on her face.
Suitably artfully inspired - not that I wasn't already constantly on the lookout for the beauty in life or as Pru likes to say, "You and your flippin' silver linings!" - we made our way to My Noodle & Bar, which was packed despite the cold weather.
I'd say scoring one of the tiki huts there as our lair for dinner counts as a good thing, while using both the curtain separating us from the next booth as well as hanging our coats on hooks next to us to create the proper level of privacy provided an ideal setting for the latest installment of our ongoing conversation.
And because our booth was in the direct line of the door and the masses of cold air that poured in every time it opened and, let's get real here, I am so not built for winter.
Since it was his first time, I was pleased at how much he enjoyed his My Noodle dish while I got my standard broccoli and chicken order from my favorite server, who didn't even let me get the words out before she parroted back the rest of my order in a familiar, sing song voice.
There's a lot to be said for being a regular and having people know you.
In some ways, that was the topic of our wide-ranging conversation as he shared his adventures down south and I mine out west and we dug deep into what we hope to accomplish in 2017. His to-do list is longer, but we also had some overlap in one category, which could make things interesting.
By the time we left there, we'd both dropped some surprising news, had our usual back and forth ribbing about why he always feels the need to remind me he can't stay out late and decided we needed to make one more stop anyway.
Graffiato's won the imaginary toss.
Whistlepig Rye ignited a lively conversation with our affable bartender, who was more than happy to discuss brown spirits and distinctive distillation methods with my friend while I took mental notes. A girl never knows when whiskey knowledge will come in handy.
By the time they'd reached a consensus on what my date would drink, he got his pour and the bartender headed up the bar to assist others. Several minutes later, he returned, looking stricken because he'd never so much as inquired what I might want.
Accompanying his sincere-sounding apology was an overly generous pour of Barboursville Rose, his solicitous attention to my water glass for the remainder of the night and, when I inquired about last call half pours, his willingness to accommodate both brown and pink.
Willingness was in the air as the nature of friendships was parsed, advice about the opposite sex was offered and new boundaries were tentatively approached. Forward progress seems to be the natural result of the best ongoing conversations.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Get on the Bus
Some people get it and some people don't.
I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.
You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.
When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.
"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.
Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.
But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.
That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.
Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.
Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?
And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.
I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.
As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.
What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.
The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.
Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.
Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.
Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.
I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."
The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.
Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.
Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.
I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.
All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.
Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.
Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?
I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.
You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.
When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.
"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.
Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.
But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.
That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.
Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.
Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?
And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.
I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.
As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.
What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.
The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.
Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.
Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.
Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.
I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."
The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.
Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.
Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.
I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.
All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.
Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.
Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?
Sunday, February 21, 2016
The Promised Saturday Night
Nonsense coming out of a pretty woman's mouth ain't nonsense at all. It's poetry.
Which begs the question, what does that make nonsense coming out of this ordinary woman's mouth?
Had you wanted to know, you needn't have gone any further than Graffiato tonight, where a favorite girlfriend and I landed in the middle of the Saturday night rush in search of nothing more than a pizza.
The only possible place to situate our backsides was at the community table, where we were surrounded by first-time visitors, suburbanites and couples who went to college in the '70s, one of whom observed, "When I was in college, I never expected to see such undesirable people running for the Presidency."
We gave her a round of applause.
While it appeared that there were at least three dozen black-shirted servers working, service did not come quickly, so when it did arrive and knowing we had a curtain to make, we wisely cut to the chase, ordering two Proseccos and a Porky's Revenge pizza in one breath.
Somehow or another, the pig-laden pizza (Soprasetta, sausage and pepperoni) arrived prior to the bubbles, don't ask me how. When our vino did show up, my friend immediately informed our server we needed two more in an attempt to jump-start what was clearly a moribund process.
Given our time constraints, we'd no sooner polished off the stellar pizza when we requested the dessert menu, gave it a cursory glance and asked for the chocolate fudge cake with salted caramel gelato.
I mean, those second glasses of Prosecco were practically begging for an accompaniment.
As our forks slid into the cake, the foursome next to us turned their attention our way. The woman next to me leaned back and her husband leaned toward me, spoon in hand, eyes big as saucers. He didn't say a word, so I smiled at him.
"Don't you know what it looks like when a man begs?" he asked plaintively. I smiled again. Actually, yes, I do know what it looks like when a man begs, I told him sweetly.
The quartet roared. "Best retort ever!" the husband across the table from me laughed. "Good for you!"
Do I get extra points for quickness, for lying on the spur of the moment, for saying it convincingly?
Because we could see the theater from our seats, we lingered until 7:50 and still easily made our curtain for Cadence Theatre Company's "The Mountaintop," even having time to jump into a theater discussion before curtain time.
When we overheard the theater critic behind us talking about watching "the most Anglicized Italian family" and about "how foreign an ethnic family is to Richmond Baptists and Republicans," both of us swiveled in our seat, sure that he was talking about "Saturday, Sunday, Monday," a play the two of us had just seen and been underwhelmed by (where were the Italian accents, the hand gestures, the signature Neapolitan passion? All MIA).
Dissecting a disappointing play turned out to be an ideal segue to a fiercely powerful one without a weak link in the cast, albeit a cast of two.
"The Mountaintop" told the story of Martin Luther King's last night on earth, and his imagined conversation with a maid at the Lorraine Motel who brings him coffee.
During the time they smoke Pall Malls ("My Momma said those Winstons'll kill you") and talk, it gradually comes out that she's not a maid, but an angel come to prepare MLK for his final hour. But it's not all dour doings because along the way, she tells him how she'd lead the movement, informs him that god is a woman and engages him in a raucous pillow fight.
A two-actor play rests squarely on the shoulders of the talent and there was no shortage in such a compelling production.
Nailing the inflections and cadence of King's distinctive preacher-man speaking voice - when he answers the phone, it's always in a deeper, more heroic voice - Jerold Solomon conveys both the charismatic leader determined to leave the world a better place and the weary and worried Everyman who knows he's a walking target.
Commanding the stage in her turquoise blue uniform and white apron, Katrinah Carol Lewis plays Camea with all the passion of a deeply flawed woman who has a chance to redeem herself by doing this job for the woman upstairs.
She's sort of the Clarence to Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," in that she's studied her subject - his file was thicker than the one the FBI had and thicker than the Bible - and she's just as determined to earn her wings.
Let me put it another way. You know how Ginger Rogers had to do everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels?
Well, Katrinah had to portray not one, but two characters, perform a fiery monologue wearing men's shoes while standing on a bed and voice/sing a video montage of the future.
Oh, yes, and wear high heels.
While I've long been a fan of Cadence's top-notch productions, it was the first time for my friend - who worked in the theater business for years - although I'd assured her she'd be impressed.
When the play ended, she turned to me and exclaimed, "Now, that's theater!"
Neither nonsense nor poetry, that was just fact.
Which begs the question, what does that make nonsense coming out of this ordinary woman's mouth?
Had you wanted to know, you needn't have gone any further than Graffiato tonight, where a favorite girlfriend and I landed in the middle of the Saturday night rush in search of nothing more than a pizza.
The only possible place to situate our backsides was at the community table, where we were surrounded by first-time visitors, suburbanites and couples who went to college in the '70s, one of whom observed, "When I was in college, I never expected to see such undesirable people running for the Presidency."
We gave her a round of applause.
While it appeared that there were at least three dozen black-shirted servers working, service did not come quickly, so when it did arrive and knowing we had a curtain to make, we wisely cut to the chase, ordering two Proseccos and a Porky's Revenge pizza in one breath.
Somehow or another, the pig-laden pizza (Soprasetta, sausage and pepperoni) arrived prior to the bubbles, don't ask me how. When our vino did show up, my friend immediately informed our server we needed two more in an attempt to jump-start what was clearly a moribund process.
Given our time constraints, we'd no sooner polished off the stellar pizza when we requested the dessert menu, gave it a cursory glance and asked for the chocolate fudge cake with salted caramel gelato.
I mean, those second glasses of Prosecco were practically begging for an accompaniment.
As our forks slid into the cake, the foursome next to us turned their attention our way. The woman next to me leaned back and her husband leaned toward me, spoon in hand, eyes big as saucers. He didn't say a word, so I smiled at him.
"Don't you know what it looks like when a man begs?" he asked plaintively. I smiled again. Actually, yes, I do know what it looks like when a man begs, I told him sweetly.
The quartet roared. "Best retort ever!" the husband across the table from me laughed. "Good for you!"
Do I get extra points for quickness, for lying on the spur of the moment, for saying it convincingly?
Because we could see the theater from our seats, we lingered until 7:50 and still easily made our curtain for Cadence Theatre Company's "The Mountaintop," even having time to jump into a theater discussion before curtain time.
When we overheard the theater critic behind us talking about watching "the most Anglicized Italian family" and about "how foreign an ethnic family is to Richmond Baptists and Republicans," both of us swiveled in our seat, sure that he was talking about "Saturday, Sunday, Monday," a play the two of us had just seen and been underwhelmed by (where were the Italian accents, the hand gestures, the signature Neapolitan passion? All MIA).
Dissecting a disappointing play turned out to be an ideal segue to a fiercely powerful one without a weak link in the cast, albeit a cast of two.
"The Mountaintop" told the story of Martin Luther King's last night on earth, and his imagined conversation with a maid at the Lorraine Motel who brings him coffee.
During the time they smoke Pall Malls ("My Momma said those Winstons'll kill you") and talk, it gradually comes out that she's not a maid, but an angel come to prepare MLK for his final hour. But it's not all dour doings because along the way, she tells him how she'd lead the movement, informs him that god is a woman and engages him in a raucous pillow fight.
A two-actor play rests squarely on the shoulders of the talent and there was no shortage in such a compelling production.
Nailing the inflections and cadence of King's distinctive preacher-man speaking voice - when he answers the phone, it's always in a deeper, more heroic voice - Jerold Solomon conveys both the charismatic leader determined to leave the world a better place and the weary and worried Everyman who knows he's a walking target.
Commanding the stage in her turquoise blue uniform and white apron, Katrinah Carol Lewis plays Camea with all the passion of a deeply flawed woman who has a chance to redeem herself by doing this job for the woman upstairs.
She's sort of the Clarence to Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," in that she's studied her subject - his file was thicker than the one the FBI had and thicker than the Bible - and she's just as determined to earn her wings.
Let me put it another way. You know how Ginger Rogers had to do everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels?
Well, Katrinah had to portray not one, but two characters, perform a fiery monologue wearing men's shoes while standing on a bed and voice/sing a video montage of the future.
Oh, yes, and wear high heels.
While I've long been a fan of Cadence's top-notch productions, it was the first time for my friend - who worked in the theater business for years - although I'd assured her she'd be impressed.
When the play ended, she turned to me and exclaimed, "Now, that's theater!"
Neither nonsense nor poetry, that was just fact.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Garret Life
The state of tonight's unions were anything but smooth sailing.
An out of town friend called after she finished a work meeting, wanting to meet me for a drink. I had limited time because of plans to see a play, but we settled on Graffiato for a quickie.
Sitting there with a glass of Prosecco, the bartenders began to feel sorry for me after a while, unsure if my friend was going to show up or not. Finally, she walked in, only to inform me there was nowhere to park and would I come help her find a place, making for a delayed union.
A parking space was easily found but by that time, we had barely 45 minutes to chat. We might have had more, but we were too busy stuffing our faces with crack-like ciambellas - mozzarella-stuffed doughnut holes with pepperoni sauce- and a pizzette of broccolini, cherry tomatoes and Provolone to talk as much as we could have.
Promptly at 6:25, I said goodnight and went the three blocks home to meet another friend for the play. She wasn't there, there was no message from her and I was stumped. Should I stay or should I go?
I would up waiting until the last possible minute before heading down to Monumental Church for a reenactment of the plays that had been performed that night in 1811 when the theater caught fire and 72 people perished.
Bad as that tragedy was, just as great was that theater was not produced in Richmond for nearly ten years afterwards. Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare were putting on the two plays tonight in tribute to that evening and as part of their historical play reading series.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my last minute arrival, I snagged two seats in the second row pew, keeping an eye out for my friend. I was surprised to see that some attendees had arrived in period attire, looking very elegant, but also a sober reminder that 19th century female clothing would not have lent itself well to a fast getaway (perhaps the reason 54 women died and only 18 men).
The artistic director let us know that the room had challenging acoustics and difficult sight lines (and reminded us to keep the center pew doors shut), much as the original space had and encouraged people to move around if need be to hear better. The actors projected beautifully, but the domed space had a decided echo.
The first play, "The Father, or Family Feuds," was a melodrama full of dramatic pauses ("Confusion!") and over-wrought sentimentality dealing with class distinctions (poor people lived in 5th floor garrets) and how they have no regard when it comes to matters of the heart.
During the intermission, many attendees used the time to read signage about Monumental Church and photograph it, but since I'd gone on a tour of it a couple years ago, I stayed put until the play resumed, thinking it was a shame tonight's union with my play-loving friend had not come to be.
The second play, "Raymond and Agnes, or The Bleeding Nun" was the opposite of a melodrama, with the comedy very broad (bad guys played by girls using their fingers to simulate mustaches because, as we all know, bad guys always have them) but consistently hilarious.
When two male characters are heading off into the woods, they bob along, the hero galloping as if on his horse and his manservant making the appropriate clopping noises as he does so.
Favorite line: "Converse with the ladies does improve a man." You see, gentlemen, you've known that bit of wisdom since at least 1811.
Shortly after act two began, the actor playing the hero stops short and calls out, "The house is on fire!" and the play is over for tonight's audience at the same juncture it was the night of the disaster, except without the heartache and trauma.
I have to admit, as cool as it was to sit in the space where the plays originally took place (and over top of the crypt that holds many of those bodies), I couldn't quell a little, nagging worry that something bad might happen to the modern audience tonight.
Fortunately, it did not.
Leaving Monumental Church, the temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up as I crossed Broad Street to retrieve my car and make tracks for Balliceaux.
I admit, given the cold and wind, I briefly considered just going home instead, but then I'd have missed this new project by some of the best musicians in town.
Playing tonight was Plush Dagger, which meant nothing to me but the sextet's members' names were all familiar except one, so I at least knew there'd be a lot of talent onstage.
They'd just started when I walked in and the band included drums, upright bass, two trombones, sax and trumpet and they were already locked in a groove. The room was almost exclusively men, including several jazz musicians and a table that appeared to be VCU jazz studies students bobbing their heads and discussing the music earnestly in low voices.
Mixing it up with some original material by drummer Scott Clark ("Stitch," "Purple, Yellow, Green") along with new arrangements of songs such as Fred Henderson's "Little Fox Run," the band kept it tight with lots of extended soloing and seamless transitions back to full band.
"This is our response to the State of the Union," one trombonist said before they did a song called "Plush Dagger" but only after clarifying that it was also the band name. Playing, every one of them looked fully in the moment.
An out of town friend called after she finished a work meeting, wanting to meet me for a drink. I had limited time because of plans to see a play, but we settled on Graffiato for a quickie.
Sitting there with a glass of Prosecco, the bartenders began to feel sorry for me after a while, unsure if my friend was going to show up or not. Finally, she walked in, only to inform me there was nowhere to park and would I come help her find a place, making for a delayed union.
A parking space was easily found but by that time, we had barely 45 minutes to chat. We might have had more, but we were too busy stuffing our faces with crack-like ciambellas - mozzarella-stuffed doughnut holes with pepperoni sauce- and a pizzette of broccolini, cherry tomatoes and Provolone to talk as much as we could have.
Promptly at 6:25, I said goodnight and went the three blocks home to meet another friend for the play. She wasn't there, there was no message from her and I was stumped. Should I stay or should I go?
I would up waiting until the last possible minute before heading down to Monumental Church for a reenactment of the plays that had been performed that night in 1811 when the theater caught fire and 72 people perished.
Bad as that tragedy was, just as great was that theater was not produced in Richmond for nearly ten years afterwards. Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare were putting on the two plays tonight in tribute to that evening and as part of their historical play reading series.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my last minute arrival, I snagged two seats in the second row pew, keeping an eye out for my friend. I was surprised to see that some attendees had arrived in period attire, looking very elegant, but also a sober reminder that 19th century female clothing would not have lent itself well to a fast getaway (perhaps the reason 54 women died and only 18 men).
The artistic director let us know that the room had challenging acoustics and difficult sight lines (and reminded us to keep the center pew doors shut), much as the original space had and encouraged people to move around if need be to hear better. The actors projected beautifully, but the domed space had a decided echo.
The first play, "The Father, or Family Feuds," was a melodrama full of dramatic pauses ("Confusion!") and over-wrought sentimentality dealing with class distinctions (poor people lived in 5th floor garrets) and how they have no regard when it comes to matters of the heart.
During the intermission, many attendees used the time to read signage about Monumental Church and photograph it, but since I'd gone on a tour of it a couple years ago, I stayed put until the play resumed, thinking it was a shame tonight's union with my play-loving friend had not come to be.
The second play, "Raymond and Agnes, or The Bleeding Nun" was the opposite of a melodrama, with the comedy very broad (bad guys played by girls using their fingers to simulate mustaches because, as we all know, bad guys always have them) but consistently hilarious.
When two male characters are heading off into the woods, they bob along, the hero galloping as if on his horse and his manservant making the appropriate clopping noises as he does so.
Favorite line: "Converse with the ladies does improve a man." You see, gentlemen, you've known that bit of wisdom since at least 1811.
Shortly after act two began, the actor playing the hero stops short and calls out, "The house is on fire!" and the play is over for tonight's audience at the same juncture it was the night of the disaster, except without the heartache and trauma.
I have to admit, as cool as it was to sit in the space where the plays originally took place (and over top of the crypt that holds many of those bodies), I couldn't quell a little, nagging worry that something bad might happen to the modern audience tonight.
Fortunately, it did not.
Leaving Monumental Church, the temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up as I crossed Broad Street to retrieve my car and make tracks for Balliceaux.
I admit, given the cold and wind, I briefly considered just going home instead, but then I'd have missed this new project by some of the best musicians in town.
Playing tonight was Plush Dagger, which meant nothing to me but the sextet's members' names were all familiar except one, so I at least knew there'd be a lot of talent onstage.
They'd just started when I walked in and the band included drums, upright bass, two trombones, sax and trumpet and they were already locked in a groove. The room was almost exclusively men, including several jazz musicians and a table that appeared to be VCU jazz studies students bobbing their heads and discussing the music earnestly in low voices.
Mixing it up with some original material by drummer Scott Clark ("Stitch," "Purple, Yellow, Green") along with new arrangements of songs such as Fred Henderson's "Little Fox Run," the band kept it tight with lots of extended soloing and seamless transitions back to full band.
"This is our response to the State of the Union," one trombonist said before they did a song called "Plush Dagger" but only after clarifying that it was also the band name. Playing, every one of them looked fully in the moment.
And isn't that how you want everyone in a union to be, fully engaged and committed to being there? Oh, wait, maybe that's just my idea of union bliss. Responses welcome.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Run Over by a Bus
Not to start out too deep, but life is all about timing.
There have been certain instances in my life when I knew that a good thing was happening to me, but it wasn't the right time to accept it. Other times, I feel like my arms were wide open to whatever life handed me, but nothing appropriate came into them.
The biggest lesson of my life happened when I was 28 and it taught me that I have absolutely no control over what awful things could be dropped in my lap.
It was also a gift that convinced me that I'd had my lowest point and nothing could ever destroy me like that again. Of course, I was wrong.
These days, I'm really quite happy with my life, simple as it is. I feel lucky to have the people I do in my life and fortunate to still get so much pleasure out of what I do.
Would I change a few things if I could? No doubt. Am I complaining about where I am? Not a chance.
Tonight's adventure began at Graffiato's early, meaning when I walked in, it was uncrowded enough that I could actually hear the music (Goo Goo Dolls, Tom Petty, Bowie) and there were plenty of bar stools available for dinner. At that point the staff outnumbered the guests three to one and I saw more than one restaurant owner was in attendance.
Taking advantage of happy hour, Montelvini Prosecco on tap was procured, followed by a plate of cheeses- Grayson and Bianco Sardo- and meat -finocchiona, a fennel Tuscan salami, served on slate with all the usual suspects.
Pickled veggies, you are as ubiquitous as tattoos in this town.
Conversation was more focused than usual, defining, designating, qualifying and planning for a project that has its seeds in a decade-old idea.
Finally, it's time to walk the walk.
As customers - the kind who like to sit at tables and not the bar - began to arrive and with plans for a movie, we moved on to entrees: satisfying gnocchi with pork ragu and whipped ricotta followed by rich, meaty monkfish with farro and gremolata.
I'm getting used to the showmanship of the food runners who not only bring the plates but deliver a detailed explanation of what you're getting along with a spoon, whether you need it or not (um, a spoon for a meat and cheese board?).
Easy as it would have been to linger for more Prosecco, we had a movie to catch at the Westhampton, "Love is Strange" with John Lithgow and Alfred Molina.
Having just last month seen Lithgow in "The World According to Garp," although he was 38 in that and he was 69 (and playing a 79-year old) in tonight's film, it was fascinating to see a more recent representation of his superb acting skills.
The story of two gay men who have been together for 39 years was sweet, romantic and a reminder that marriage can still get a gay person let go from a church-related job. Is this not 2014?
Most of the film revolved around them having to temporarily bunk with relatives after they sell their apartment when one partner loses his job.
The story sails along with family interruptions, comic moments and couple tenderness when the two can be alone and then suddenly there's a huge surprise that I never saw coming. It's sad and surprising/not surprising at the same time.
Is anyone ever truly ready for whatever life hands them? Of course not. We adapt, adjust and regroup, we're mended at the places that broke but we're also changed for good.
Sometimes there's still time to move on changed, but not always. Who doesn't remember what our mothers told us about life being fair?
So after an exquisitely acted film, the only logical thing to do was stop for a nightcap and discuss the film, the bartender's path in life and chat with the woman who, when "Sweet Caroline" came on, told me she's been known to dance in the window of the bar when it plays.
After her jukebox picks ended, I insisted on making some of my own selections, to which she retorted, "I'll tell you if I don't like them." No doubt.
With her in mind, I went old school - Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Jackson Browne, Al Green- and she didn't badmouth a single one. That said, she was also outside smoking cigarettes much of the time.
When "Cracklin' Rosie" came on, she exploded with happiness singing along and when her man finally dragged her out, she again reminded me to come back when she's drunk so I can see her dancing in the front window.
Since it's hard to say when that might be, I stand a good chance of never seeing her dance in the window, much as I might want to. Timing.
Then again, life could surprise me with something so much better I'll forget all about her. Lucky timing.
For better or for worse, always the optimist.
There have been certain instances in my life when I knew that a good thing was happening to me, but it wasn't the right time to accept it. Other times, I feel like my arms were wide open to whatever life handed me, but nothing appropriate came into them.
The biggest lesson of my life happened when I was 28 and it taught me that I have absolutely no control over what awful things could be dropped in my lap.
It was also a gift that convinced me that I'd had my lowest point and nothing could ever destroy me like that again. Of course, I was wrong.
These days, I'm really quite happy with my life, simple as it is. I feel lucky to have the people I do in my life and fortunate to still get so much pleasure out of what I do.
Would I change a few things if I could? No doubt. Am I complaining about where I am? Not a chance.
Tonight's adventure began at Graffiato's early, meaning when I walked in, it was uncrowded enough that I could actually hear the music (Goo Goo Dolls, Tom Petty, Bowie) and there were plenty of bar stools available for dinner. At that point the staff outnumbered the guests three to one and I saw more than one restaurant owner was in attendance.
Taking advantage of happy hour, Montelvini Prosecco on tap was procured, followed by a plate of cheeses- Grayson and Bianco Sardo- and meat -finocchiona, a fennel Tuscan salami, served on slate with all the usual suspects.
Pickled veggies, you are as ubiquitous as tattoos in this town.
Conversation was more focused than usual, defining, designating, qualifying and planning for a project that has its seeds in a decade-old idea.
Finally, it's time to walk the walk.
As customers - the kind who like to sit at tables and not the bar - began to arrive and with plans for a movie, we moved on to entrees: satisfying gnocchi with pork ragu and whipped ricotta followed by rich, meaty monkfish with farro and gremolata.
I'm getting used to the showmanship of the food runners who not only bring the plates but deliver a detailed explanation of what you're getting along with a spoon, whether you need it or not (um, a spoon for a meat and cheese board?).
Easy as it would have been to linger for more Prosecco, we had a movie to catch at the Westhampton, "Love is Strange" with John Lithgow and Alfred Molina.
Having just last month seen Lithgow in "The World According to Garp," although he was 38 in that and he was 69 (and playing a 79-year old) in tonight's film, it was fascinating to see a more recent representation of his superb acting skills.
The story of two gay men who have been together for 39 years was sweet, romantic and a reminder that marriage can still get a gay person let go from a church-related job. Is this not 2014?
Most of the film revolved around them having to temporarily bunk with relatives after they sell their apartment when one partner loses his job.
The story sails along with family interruptions, comic moments and couple tenderness when the two can be alone and then suddenly there's a huge surprise that I never saw coming. It's sad and surprising/not surprising at the same time.
Is anyone ever truly ready for whatever life hands them? Of course not. We adapt, adjust and regroup, we're mended at the places that broke but we're also changed for good.
Sometimes there's still time to move on changed, but not always. Who doesn't remember what our mothers told us about life being fair?
So after an exquisitely acted film, the only logical thing to do was stop for a nightcap and discuss the film, the bartender's path in life and chat with the woman who, when "Sweet Caroline" came on, told me she's been known to dance in the window of the bar when it plays.
After her jukebox picks ended, I insisted on making some of my own selections, to which she retorted, "I'll tell you if I don't like them." No doubt.
With her in mind, I went old school - Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Jackson Browne, Al Green- and she didn't badmouth a single one. That said, she was also outside smoking cigarettes much of the time.
When "Cracklin' Rosie" came on, she exploded with happiness singing along and when her man finally dragged her out, she again reminded me to come back when she's drunk so I can see her dancing in the front window.
Since it's hard to say when that might be, I stand a good chance of never seeing her dance in the window, much as I might want to. Timing.
Then again, life could surprise me with something so much better I'll forget all about her. Lucky timing.
For better or for worse, always the optimist.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Better Than Your Dreams
It was an absolutely lovely date with myself, full of new this and new that, and right in the neighborhood, too.
With the humidity hovering at 80% but no chance of rain in the forecast, I dolled up and strolled over to the latest reason to eat four blocks from home: Graffiato.
Aware that it had just opened Wednesday, I knew enough to arrive early, sailing to the bar past disappointed people being told that the soonest a table would be available would be 10:00.
That said, any of those people could have followed my lead and sat at the bar (or even one of the rapidly filling up communal tables) rather than putting on a sad face and leaving.
Renovation on the former Popkin's space was well executed if you ignore the two screens over the bar (I can't, especially with sports on) and I easily found a seat next to a couple from Bon Air tucking into the Shire pizza with gusto.
In no time at all, we were chatting about their enthusiasm for the upcoming Southbound restaurant coming to their neck of the woods and how they hope to move into the city so they, too, can walk places.
My first choice, "Love Drunk" Rose (tag line: "When reality is better than your dreams") from Oregon had not yet arrived I was told, so I went classic with a Provence Rose, Domaine Jacourette, a pale pink delight.
The place was humming and the staff seemed enormous, black-shirted employees everywhere I looked, and within minutes, another couple took the seats to my left.
They were from the edge of the Museum District and proclaimed themselves foodies who ate out all the time, although they had to be shown where the purse hooks under the bar were.
Not a judgement, just an observation.
I took my time ordering my first course, watching one of the many bartenders make an array of complicated drinks right in front of me.
When I settled on smoked burrata with heirloom grape tomatoes, corn and arugula pesto over Billy bread, it was delivered to me by a very young looking food runner who said it was one of his two favorite dishes on the menu.
The museum couple looked over drooling, asking what I'd ordered. Turns out they'd never heard of burrata.
They were enjoying the broccolini with red pepper relish, walnuts and feta, a savory dish I'd already had at the D.C. Graffiato's last year.
A favorite local chef was having dinner at the pizza bar in the back with his family and came over to say hello and compare what we were eating.
Bon Air couple said goodnight after a discussion of Europe and empty nests and were replaced with a another couple, this one curious about the play I was going to see tonight.
Seems she'd designed an ad for Richmond Triangle Players' playbill and wanted to know if I'd seen it (not yet).
I was having no shortage of conversational partners tonight, even if everyone else was in Saturday night date mode.
From there, I ordered the Amish chicken thighs with sauteed escarole and pepperoni sauce, tasty enough although I prefer my thighs with bones.
As I was chatting to my right, couple to my left prepared to leave, tapping me on the shoulder to say goodnight and thank me for the conversation.
They'd barely left when a woman approached, asking to order a drink over me while she waited for her date to arrive.
"He's my boyfriend, but I'm 41, so it feels funny to call him that," she said, explaining that he'd been delayed.
I ask you, is man friend any better?
He soon arrived, having dropped off his 15-year old daughter at a party at a hotel (such parties didn't exist when I was 15), saying he needed a drink after all the rigmarole of getting her off to the event.
A DC Mule seemed to do the trick.
Like the other couples I'd talked to, they were impressed that it was a mere four block walk for me to Graffiato, so I asked about their home bases.
He lived on Porter Street in Manchester and she lived in the West End, but refused to call it that, stating for the record that she lived on Three Chopt ("That's the West End," he insisted).
We got to talking about how they met and she said friends had introduced them, they'd had one date but she'd realized she wasn't yet ready to date.
Eighteen months later, he asked again and they've been an item ever since.
He tried to convince me he was a bad boy, but she denied it, saying he was the nicest guy in the world.
"You have a motorcycle and race cars, but you are definitely not a bad boy," she told him with finality.
"Couldn't you at least pretend I am for my ego's sake?" he asked. They were pretty cute, but were soon called to their table and I lost them (although they asked me to come join them if I had time).
Which was fine because I had just under 15 minutes until I had to leave and my salted caramel gelato had arrived to cap off my meal.
Hopeful people were still arriving as I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that I now have one more solid choice in the 'hood for sipping and supping.
Across the street at the November Theater, people were arriving for 5th Wall Theater's production of "H2O" in the little TheaterGym space.
I chatted with one of the ticket guys, a transplanted New Yorker who'd arrived in 1995 and, like me when I got here in 1986, had a long period of adjustment to being in the south.
"I was in sales," he explained in his obvious New York accent, "and no one wanted to buy from me because I came across as not from here. Then I found out if you went to Ukrops, if they saw you there, that meant you were okay."
The Ukrops test so to speak.
Inside, my seat was primo, last row but with no chairs in front of it for a straight shot view to the stage to see what this new theater company born out of the ashes of the old Firehouse Theater could show me.
Before the play had begun, I'd heard someone say that it had no intermission and it didn't take long to see why.
The intense two-person drama focused on a self-important, successful Hollywood actor and an uptight religious fanatic who aspires to make it as an actress and it never let up.
The question was, who needed whom?
Beginning with a thwarted suicide attempt and moving through a vanity production of "Hamlet," the story was riveting because of the strength and talent of the actors, Landon Nagel and Liz Earnest, alternately tearing at each other and falling for each other.
Add in a top-notch script and some magnificently inspired direction and you get the kind of theater that first bowls you over and then gives you plenty to chew on as you leave the theater.
This was some powerful theater executed superbly.
When the play ended, the audience sat stunned, not even clapping until the lights came back up and the actors took their bows.
As for that question of who needs whom, Richmond needs 5th Wall Theater.
This from a woman who dates herself on a Saturday night and enjoys every moment of it.
With the humidity hovering at 80% but no chance of rain in the forecast, I dolled up and strolled over to the latest reason to eat four blocks from home: Graffiato.
Aware that it had just opened Wednesday, I knew enough to arrive early, sailing to the bar past disappointed people being told that the soonest a table would be available would be 10:00.
That said, any of those people could have followed my lead and sat at the bar (or even one of the rapidly filling up communal tables) rather than putting on a sad face and leaving.
Renovation on the former Popkin's space was well executed if you ignore the two screens over the bar (I can't, especially with sports on) and I easily found a seat next to a couple from Bon Air tucking into the Shire pizza with gusto.
In no time at all, we were chatting about their enthusiasm for the upcoming Southbound restaurant coming to their neck of the woods and how they hope to move into the city so they, too, can walk places.
My first choice, "Love Drunk" Rose (tag line: "When reality is better than your dreams") from Oregon had not yet arrived I was told, so I went classic with a Provence Rose, Domaine Jacourette, a pale pink delight.
The place was humming and the staff seemed enormous, black-shirted employees everywhere I looked, and within minutes, another couple took the seats to my left.
They were from the edge of the Museum District and proclaimed themselves foodies who ate out all the time, although they had to be shown where the purse hooks under the bar were.
Not a judgement, just an observation.
I took my time ordering my first course, watching one of the many bartenders make an array of complicated drinks right in front of me.
When I settled on smoked burrata with heirloom grape tomatoes, corn and arugula pesto over Billy bread, it was delivered to me by a very young looking food runner who said it was one of his two favorite dishes on the menu.
The museum couple looked over drooling, asking what I'd ordered. Turns out they'd never heard of burrata.
They were enjoying the broccolini with red pepper relish, walnuts and feta, a savory dish I'd already had at the D.C. Graffiato's last year.
A favorite local chef was having dinner at the pizza bar in the back with his family and came over to say hello and compare what we were eating.
Bon Air couple said goodnight after a discussion of Europe and empty nests and were replaced with a another couple, this one curious about the play I was going to see tonight.
Seems she'd designed an ad for Richmond Triangle Players' playbill and wanted to know if I'd seen it (not yet).
I was having no shortage of conversational partners tonight, even if everyone else was in Saturday night date mode.
From there, I ordered the Amish chicken thighs with sauteed escarole and pepperoni sauce, tasty enough although I prefer my thighs with bones.
As I was chatting to my right, couple to my left prepared to leave, tapping me on the shoulder to say goodnight and thank me for the conversation.
They'd barely left when a woman approached, asking to order a drink over me while she waited for her date to arrive.
"He's my boyfriend, but I'm 41, so it feels funny to call him that," she said, explaining that he'd been delayed.
I ask you, is man friend any better?
He soon arrived, having dropped off his 15-year old daughter at a party at a hotel (such parties didn't exist when I was 15), saying he needed a drink after all the rigmarole of getting her off to the event.
A DC Mule seemed to do the trick.
Like the other couples I'd talked to, they were impressed that it was a mere four block walk for me to Graffiato, so I asked about their home bases.
He lived on Porter Street in Manchester and she lived in the West End, but refused to call it that, stating for the record that she lived on Three Chopt ("That's the West End," he insisted).
We got to talking about how they met and she said friends had introduced them, they'd had one date but she'd realized she wasn't yet ready to date.
Eighteen months later, he asked again and they've been an item ever since.
He tried to convince me he was a bad boy, but she denied it, saying he was the nicest guy in the world.
"You have a motorcycle and race cars, but you are definitely not a bad boy," she told him with finality.
"Couldn't you at least pretend I am for my ego's sake?" he asked. They were pretty cute, but were soon called to their table and I lost them (although they asked me to come join them if I had time).
Which was fine because I had just under 15 minutes until I had to leave and my salted caramel gelato had arrived to cap off my meal.
Hopeful people were still arriving as I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that I now have one more solid choice in the 'hood for sipping and supping.
Across the street at the November Theater, people were arriving for 5th Wall Theater's production of "H2O" in the little TheaterGym space.
I chatted with one of the ticket guys, a transplanted New Yorker who'd arrived in 1995 and, like me when I got here in 1986, had a long period of adjustment to being in the south.
"I was in sales," he explained in his obvious New York accent, "and no one wanted to buy from me because I came across as not from here. Then I found out if you went to Ukrops, if they saw you there, that meant you were okay."
The Ukrops test so to speak.
Inside, my seat was primo, last row but with no chairs in front of it for a straight shot view to the stage to see what this new theater company born out of the ashes of the old Firehouse Theater could show me.
Before the play had begun, I'd heard someone say that it had no intermission and it didn't take long to see why.
The intense two-person drama focused on a self-important, successful Hollywood actor and an uptight religious fanatic who aspires to make it as an actress and it never let up.
The question was, who needed whom?
Beginning with a thwarted suicide attempt and moving through a vanity production of "Hamlet," the story was riveting because of the strength and talent of the actors, Landon Nagel and Liz Earnest, alternately tearing at each other and falling for each other.
Add in a top-notch script and some magnificently inspired direction and you get the kind of theater that first bowls you over and then gives you plenty to chew on as you leave the theater.
This was some powerful theater executed superbly.
When the play ended, the audience sat stunned, not even clapping until the lights came back up and the actors took their bows.
As for that question of who needs whom, Richmond needs 5th Wall Theater.
This from a woman who dates herself on a Saturday night and enjoys every moment of it.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Modern Love
Best kind of away weekend possible.
Hometown: eat, art, eat, sleep, eat, art, art, eat, sleep. And the latter, only because I had to.
With a mere 37 1/2 hours in Washington, the itinerary was tight, albeit good tight.
First stop: Bistrot du Coin in Dupont Circle, my old neighborhood to meet a trio of strangers for champagne and mussels.
Our French server moved around the table, asking who wanted bubbles but when he got to me, just poured without asking. Why, I asked him, hadn't he checked first?
"You look like fun," he said, as if it were obvious.
An auspicious start.
My choice to go with the Piper Heidsieck Brut champagne was the moules au Pistou (mussels with pig two ways), a savory combination of pesto, prosciutto and French ham with enough crusty bread to sop up broth until I got near exploding.
Thus fortified, my companion and I did a walk through my old neighborhood, with me looking in the windows of my former apartment on 21st Street and then the condo my ex and I bought on N Street.
My imaginary soundtrack was David Bowie's "Let's Dance," which the guy who lived under us on N Street played endlessly when it came out.
And by endlessly, I mean for hours every day for about two months.
Let's sway
You could look into my eyes
Let's sway under the moonlight
The serious moonlight
You have no idea how that album came back to me in a rush when I looked into the front window of the brownstone that used to be ours.
After the walk down Memory Lane, we walked to the Phillips Collection to see "van Gogh: Repetitions."
The downside: it was timed entry and mobbed. The upside: many of the works in the exhibit came from private collections and I will probably never see them again.
Life is a balancing act and sometimes you share space with people who were raised by wolves as you all jostle to see incomparable art.
Le sigh.
Dinner was at Del Campo, a restaurant where meat reigns no doubt due to the chef's Cuban father and Peruvian mother.
The tailored-looking restaurant is a place where smoke reigns supreme, starting with both the olive oil and sea salt imparting smoky and delicious flavors.
Because there were six of us, we got to try all kinds of things: buttery ceviche of tuna, grilled avocado, olives, burnt shallots and pistachios; decadently rich Roseda farm beef heart anticucho, tartare and quail egg on grilled polenta; to-die-for charred beets, boucheron goat cheese, beet greens, burnt onion and balsamic; empanadas of wagyu skirt steak, caramelized onions and romesco; and my least favorite (but only because I'm not especially a salmon fan unless it's smoked) ceviche of grilled salmon, rapini, citrus, pork rinds and aioli.
Throughout the evening, we would get whiffs of meat on the grill or herbs being roasted, making for a delightful smell-o-vision experience.
Since we had enough people to mitigate the guilt, we followed that with a 48-ounce dry-aged Piedmont ridge tomahawk ribeye, an obscenely large chunk o' meat that arrived with bone marrow and two sauces, chimichurri and rosemary salsa verde.
Then there were the three kinds of chorizo - house, a rustic Argentianian and blood sausage- plus micro brussels sprouts with bacon and honey, executed so beautifully the green vegetable hater liked them. Yum all around.
Our accented server also talked us into grilled jumbo head-on prawns and we proceeded to bite the head and suck the tail the traditional way.
My favorite moment came when the pickiest eater in the group ate one of my beef hearts and raved about how rich and good it tasted, proving my theory that you can't dislike something if you don't know what it is.
All in all, a most enjoyable evening that morphed into an unexpectedly late night gab fest with a guy named Matt, bowls of popcorn and a '70s soundtrack at Harry's.
Then we got up and did it all over again.
Today began with another meal, this one at Graffiatio, TV chef Mike Isabella's Italian and Jersey-inspired joint.
Going at lunch was inspired so we didn't have to deal with crowds, instead taking bar seats right in front of the wood-burning oven and ordering Prosecco on tap to start the meal.
An appetizer of broccolini with red peppers, feta and walnuts was a beautiful marriage of flavors served at room temperature, a surefire way to start the day feeling somewhat virtuous.
While we listened to a soundtrack of Passion Pit, Two Door Cinema Club and Phoenix (and agreed that the kitchen staff looked like mechanics in their grey shirts), we watched our two pizzas being exactingly placed in the carefully-tended oven.
Porky's Revenge (soprassatta, pepperoni, sausage) spoke to my morning-after need for pig while the White House (Tallegio, prosciutto, ricotta and black pepper honey) had a delicate sweetness that was habit-forming after one bite.
After lunch, we walked barely a block to the National Building museum because I wanted to see "Overdrive: L.A. Constructs the Future 1940-1990," but got waylaid.
A docent was offering a tour of the building itself, the former Pension Bureau, and we joined a couple of strangers to learn about the space that was built to house the administrative offices that served former Civil War soldiers and grew to host inaugural balls and is now a museum.
Our guide was full of information, but also a real slow talker, a repeater and if we hadn't been standing up, probably also capable of putting us to sleep.
After a half hour with him, we politely excused ourselves to go see something more stimulating, like an exhibit about how car culture defined land development in California.
I learned that all that distinctive, colorful and futuristic-looking architecture was designed to draw in people driving by at high speeds.
And how about his: there were even drive-up churches built. You could pray and be on your way.
I found myself fascinated by the contrast in photographs of Wilshire Boulevard in 1935 (mostly fields) and 1955 (a close-together community of houses taking up every available inch).
There were several wildly funny and compelling bits of film to watch including one that advocated how to enjoy fast, safe freeway driving.
I'll warn you right now, the guy who was always changing lanes like a jack rabbit ended up getting a ticket and a stern talking-to from the police officer.
As for all those freeways and speedways built in California, who knew they had 35 mph speed limits in the beginning?
The only way to follow a show about the cultural history of L.A. was with one about Paris, so we walked down to the National Gallery to see "Charles Marville: Photographer of Paris."
Chosen to document the "modernization" of Paris after Napoleon, the galleries of exquisite black and white photographs were an extraordinary look into parts of the venerable city that no longer exist today.
Because the advent of street lights was a game-changer (the nighttime being too dark to venture out into), Marville did a series on streetlights, showing the variety of styles installed, and how they varied from poorer neighborhoods to upscale ones.
There were several photographs of the public urinals installed to improve sanitation; one even had a street light installed above it.
How is it Paris had public bathrooms in the 19th century and we still do not in the 21st, asked the woman who is frequently in need of a bathroom when in public?
The exhibit was as much a cultural lesson as a visual treat since I learned so much about the remapping of Paris to widen boulevards and correct narrow, winding streets to straight ones.
Interestingly enough, when revamping the Bois de Boulogne, a large public park, the planners set about to change the straight paths within it to meandering, curved paths instead.
Sometimes the Parisians need to curve and sometimes not apparently.
But my favorite moment seeing the show came when I read an explanation for why Marville sometimes inserted a figure into his photographs.
Sometimes it was to give a sense of isolation to the setting in order to mirror the feelings many Parisians were having as their old city disappeared.
But sometimes, the figure was meant to represent a flaneur, a person who walks the streets with no purpose other than to collect impressions.
I had learned about flaneurs only yesterday while reading a book review of "Tales of Two Cities: Paris, London and the Birth of the Modern City," a look at how Paris mimicked London to become modern.
In the review, flaneurs were mentioned as having come into existence far sooner in London than in Paris solely because of the improvements there in urban design, meaning gutters, sidewalks and, yes, streetlights.
In other words, all the things that Marville had photographed. It was a delightful overlap in my ongoing cultural history education.
Because we had time, we also looked at "Yes, No, Maybe: Artists Working at Crown Point Press," a show of working proofs and edition prints by artists as varied as Chuck Close and John Cage.
We finished our afternoon at the National Gallery with a new acquisition, Dutch master Gerrit von Honthorst's "The Concert," notable for the painter's Carvaggio influences and because it's just come into the collection.
Asking at the information desk where to find it, I mispronounced "von Honthort" and the man gently corrected me.
I had no excuse except that I wasn't raised in a groot.
Art needs met, we set off for happy hour at Ambar, a Balkan restaurant with a wine list unlike any I'd ever seen.
Full of Moldovan, Serbian, Bulgarian and Slovenian choices, we chose Belje Welschriesling, a Croatian wine that tasted of stone fruits and gave us time to talk about all the art we'd just taken in.
The music varied from pop goodness from the likes of Ivy to what sounded like Balkan trance music as we drank our wine and rested our feet.
We were in no hurry after a non-stop 30 hours.
To finish out a lovely weekend, we walked down the block to Rose's Luxury, securing two stools at the cozy garden bar ("It's my favorite place in the restaurant," the hostess told us) and getting a hip hello from the bartender with the partially shaved head, pale pink sweater and pearls.
I'm not sure when she decided to take a shine to me, maybe when I gave her a hard time, maybe when I called her on a few things, but before long she was my new best friend and we were good-naturedly parrying across the bar.
While giving each other a hard time, we tore into a warm loaf of potato bread with butter topped with chives and baked potato crumbles.
Someone in Richmond needs to do this STAT.
From there, we had Kusshi oysters with a Dark and Stormy granita, but only after I gave our bartender crap about the California oysters.
Yes, I know they're all the rage out there and yes, their small size and buttery flavor were just lovely, but, as my date observed dryly, that's a mighty big footprint for a small plate.
But, yes, they were yummy and the distinctive granita was slurp-worthy.
Because we're both fried chicken devotees, we had to get the pickle-brined fried chicken, which came in a bowl with honey and benne seeds.
We weren't expecting "nuggets" but that's what we got and while they had a perfectly crispy coating, we both agreed that the only way the pickle-brined chicken could have been improved was by cooking it in bacon fat and fortunately we know a place that does just that...and much closer to home.
For our main course, we got a family-style plate of pork schnitzel with baked applesauce, sunchoke salad and fresh greens, a satisfying meal.
By then, our bartender had pointed out which server was hot for her and asked how long my date and I had been seeing each other.
Naturally, we talked about music and which shows she'd been to lately and next thing I knew, she was bringing me a dessert I hadn't asked for.
Celery root mascarpone with poached pear juice and a brown sugar and nut crumble topping was both refreshing and elegant, a lovely and unexpected treat.
Ditto when she handed me a piece of paper with her name and e-mail address on it, making me promise to contact her so we can meet up again here or there.
Until then, she promised to send me pictures of her and the cute server who likes her.
In my quest to be a modern-day flaneur, it will be one more impression to collect.
For now, still full of good food and art, it is time for this observer to sleep.
Hometown: eat, art, eat, sleep, eat, art, art, eat, sleep. And the latter, only because I had to.
With a mere 37 1/2 hours in Washington, the itinerary was tight, albeit good tight.
First stop: Bistrot du Coin in Dupont Circle, my old neighborhood to meet a trio of strangers for champagne and mussels.
Our French server moved around the table, asking who wanted bubbles but when he got to me, just poured without asking. Why, I asked him, hadn't he checked first?
"You look like fun," he said, as if it were obvious.
An auspicious start.
My choice to go with the Piper Heidsieck Brut champagne was the moules au Pistou (mussels with pig two ways), a savory combination of pesto, prosciutto and French ham with enough crusty bread to sop up broth until I got near exploding.
Thus fortified, my companion and I did a walk through my old neighborhood, with me looking in the windows of my former apartment on 21st Street and then the condo my ex and I bought on N Street.
My imaginary soundtrack was David Bowie's "Let's Dance," which the guy who lived under us on N Street played endlessly when it came out.
And by endlessly, I mean for hours every day for about two months.
Let's sway
You could look into my eyes
Let's sway under the moonlight
The serious moonlight
You have no idea how that album came back to me in a rush when I looked into the front window of the brownstone that used to be ours.
After the walk down Memory Lane, we walked to the Phillips Collection to see "van Gogh: Repetitions."
The downside: it was timed entry and mobbed. The upside: many of the works in the exhibit came from private collections and I will probably never see them again.
Life is a balancing act and sometimes you share space with people who were raised by wolves as you all jostle to see incomparable art.
Le sigh.
Dinner was at Del Campo, a restaurant where meat reigns no doubt due to the chef's Cuban father and Peruvian mother.
The tailored-looking restaurant is a place where smoke reigns supreme, starting with both the olive oil and sea salt imparting smoky and delicious flavors.
Because there were six of us, we got to try all kinds of things: buttery ceviche of tuna, grilled avocado, olives, burnt shallots and pistachios; decadently rich Roseda farm beef heart anticucho, tartare and quail egg on grilled polenta; to-die-for charred beets, boucheron goat cheese, beet greens, burnt onion and balsamic; empanadas of wagyu skirt steak, caramelized onions and romesco; and my least favorite (but only because I'm not especially a salmon fan unless it's smoked) ceviche of grilled salmon, rapini, citrus, pork rinds and aioli.
Throughout the evening, we would get whiffs of meat on the grill or herbs being roasted, making for a delightful smell-o-vision experience.
Since we had enough people to mitigate the guilt, we followed that with a 48-ounce dry-aged Piedmont ridge tomahawk ribeye, an obscenely large chunk o' meat that arrived with bone marrow and two sauces, chimichurri and rosemary salsa verde.
Then there were the three kinds of chorizo - house, a rustic Argentianian and blood sausage- plus micro brussels sprouts with bacon and honey, executed so beautifully the green vegetable hater liked them. Yum all around.
Our accented server also talked us into grilled jumbo head-on prawns and we proceeded to bite the head and suck the tail the traditional way.
My favorite moment came when the pickiest eater in the group ate one of my beef hearts and raved about how rich and good it tasted, proving my theory that you can't dislike something if you don't know what it is.
All in all, a most enjoyable evening that morphed into an unexpectedly late night gab fest with a guy named Matt, bowls of popcorn and a '70s soundtrack at Harry's.
Then we got up and did it all over again.
Today began with another meal, this one at Graffiatio, TV chef Mike Isabella's Italian and Jersey-inspired joint.
Going at lunch was inspired so we didn't have to deal with crowds, instead taking bar seats right in front of the wood-burning oven and ordering Prosecco on tap to start the meal.
An appetizer of broccolini with red peppers, feta and walnuts was a beautiful marriage of flavors served at room temperature, a surefire way to start the day feeling somewhat virtuous.
While we listened to a soundtrack of Passion Pit, Two Door Cinema Club and Phoenix (and agreed that the kitchen staff looked like mechanics in their grey shirts), we watched our two pizzas being exactingly placed in the carefully-tended oven.
Porky's Revenge (soprassatta, pepperoni, sausage) spoke to my morning-after need for pig while the White House (Tallegio, prosciutto, ricotta and black pepper honey) had a delicate sweetness that was habit-forming after one bite.
After lunch, we walked barely a block to the National Building museum because I wanted to see "Overdrive: L.A. Constructs the Future 1940-1990," but got waylaid.
A docent was offering a tour of the building itself, the former Pension Bureau, and we joined a couple of strangers to learn about the space that was built to house the administrative offices that served former Civil War soldiers and grew to host inaugural balls and is now a museum.
Our guide was full of information, but also a real slow talker, a repeater and if we hadn't been standing up, probably also capable of putting us to sleep.
After a half hour with him, we politely excused ourselves to go see something more stimulating, like an exhibit about how car culture defined land development in California.
I learned that all that distinctive, colorful and futuristic-looking architecture was designed to draw in people driving by at high speeds.
And how about his: there were even drive-up churches built. You could pray and be on your way.
I found myself fascinated by the contrast in photographs of Wilshire Boulevard in 1935 (mostly fields) and 1955 (a close-together community of houses taking up every available inch).
There were several wildly funny and compelling bits of film to watch including one that advocated how to enjoy fast, safe freeway driving.
I'll warn you right now, the guy who was always changing lanes like a jack rabbit ended up getting a ticket and a stern talking-to from the police officer.
As for all those freeways and speedways built in California, who knew they had 35 mph speed limits in the beginning?
The only way to follow a show about the cultural history of L.A. was with one about Paris, so we walked down to the National Gallery to see "Charles Marville: Photographer of Paris."
Chosen to document the "modernization" of Paris after Napoleon, the galleries of exquisite black and white photographs were an extraordinary look into parts of the venerable city that no longer exist today.
Because the advent of street lights was a game-changer (the nighttime being too dark to venture out into), Marville did a series on streetlights, showing the variety of styles installed, and how they varied from poorer neighborhoods to upscale ones.
There were several photographs of the public urinals installed to improve sanitation; one even had a street light installed above it.
How is it Paris had public bathrooms in the 19th century and we still do not in the 21st, asked the woman who is frequently in need of a bathroom when in public?
The exhibit was as much a cultural lesson as a visual treat since I learned so much about the remapping of Paris to widen boulevards and correct narrow, winding streets to straight ones.
Interestingly enough, when revamping the Bois de Boulogne, a large public park, the planners set about to change the straight paths within it to meandering, curved paths instead.
Sometimes the Parisians need to curve and sometimes not apparently.
But my favorite moment seeing the show came when I read an explanation for why Marville sometimes inserted a figure into his photographs.
Sometimes it was to give a sense of isolation to the setting in order to mirror the feelings many Parisians were having as their old city disappeared.
But sometimes, the figure was meant to represent a flaneur, a person who walks the streets with no purpose other than to collect impressions.
I had learned about flaneurs only yesterday while reading a book review of "Tales of Two Cities: Paris, London and the Birth of the Modern City," a look at how Paris mimicked London to become modern.
In the review, flaneurs were mentioned as having come into existence far sooner in London than in Paris solely because of the improvements there in urban design, meaning gutters, sidewalks and, yes, streetlights.
In other words, all the things that Marville had photographed. It was a delightful overlap in my ongoing cultural history education.
Because we had time, we also looked at "Yes, No, Maybe: Artists Working at Crown Point Press," a show of working proofs and edition prints by artists as varied as Chuck Close and John Cage.
We finished our afternoon at the National Gallery with a new acquisition, Dutch master Gerrit von Honthorst's "The Concert," notable for the painter's Carvaggio influences and because it's just come into the collection.
Asking at the information desk where to find it, I mispronounced "von Honthort" and the man gently corrected me.
I had no excuse except that I wasn't raised in a groot.
Art needs met, we set off for happy hour at Ambar, a Balkan restaurant with a wine list unlike any I'd ever seen.
Full of Moldovan, Serbian, Bulgarian and Slovenian choices, we chose Belje Welschriesling, a Croatian wine that tasted of stone fruits and gave us time to talk about all the art we'd just taken in.
The music varied from pop goodness from the likes of Ivy to what sounded like Balkan trance music as we drank our wine and rested our feet.
We were in no hurry after a non-stop 30 hours.
To finish out a lovely weekend, we walked down the block to Rose's Luxury, securing two stools at the cozy garden bar ("It's my favorite place in the restaurant," the hostess told us) and getting a hip hello from the bartender with the partially shaved head, pale pink sweater and pearls.
I'm not sure when she decided to take a shine to me, maybe when I gave her a hard time, maybe when I called her on a few things, but before long she was my new best friend and we were good-naturedly parrying across the bar.
While giving each other a hard time, we tore into a warm loaf of potato bread with butter topped with chives and baked potato crumbles.
Someone in Richmond needs to do this STAT.
From there, we had Kusshi oysters with a Dark and Stormy granita, but only after I gave our bartender crap about the California oysters.
Yes, I know they're all the rage out there and yes, their small size and buttery flavor were just lovely, but, as my date observed dryly, that's a mighty big footprint for a small plate.
But, yes, they were yummy and the distinctive granita was slurp-worthy.
Because we're both fried chicken devotees, we had to get the pickle-brined fried chicken, which came in a bowl with honey and benne seeds.
We weren't expecting "nuggets" but that's what we got and while they had a perfectly crispy coating, we both agreed that the only way the pickle-brined chicken could have been improved was by cooking it in bacon fat and fortunately we know a place that does just that...and much closer to home.
For our main course, we got a family-style plate of pork schnitzel with baked applesauce, sunchoke salad and fresh greens, a satisfying meal.
By then, our bartender had pointed out which server was hot for her and asked how long my date and I had been seeing each other.
Naturally, we talked about music and which shows she'd been to lately and next thing I knew, she was bringing me a dessert I hadn't asked for.
Celery root mascarpone with poached pear juice and a brown sugar and nut crumble topping was both refreshing and elegant, a lovely and unexpected treat.
Ditto when she handed me a piece of paper with her name and e-mail address on it, making me promise to contact her so we can meet up again here or there.
Until then, she promised to send me pictures of her and the cute server who likes her.
In my quest to be a modern-day flaneur, it will be one more impression to collect.
For now, still full of good food and art, it is time for this observer to sleep.
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