World of Strange Arrangements

On the longest day of the year, I've got nothing but time.

So when a friend calls to suggest happy hour, something she never does, I am on board immediately.

We agree on Bistro 27 and are the first customers at the bar.

Despite the nearly perfect weather, we do not sit on the patio, a choice which later pays off when a keg explodes, dousing the bartender and manager with beer.

It's pretty funny to see the manager's shirt and short hair wet but even better to see the barkeep's longer hair and bangs dripping with suds.

Hazard of the business, I suppose, but highly hilarious.

We dive into the happy hour menu with mussels in red sauce, two kinds of fries and a caprese salad.

There's a lot to be said for dirt cheap food this good.

A large party arrives and mills about but we ignore them to talk to a just-arrived bartending friend about honeysuckle syrup, $2 baguettes and the foibles of ABC agents.

Restaurant people always have the best stories.

When we part, it is half an hour till sunset, so I spend the next hour at home on my balcony, watching the longest day of the year fade into dusky then inky blue.

Once it is fully night and the sky is dark, I head off to Belmont Food Shop to meet a friend in from out of town.

The bar has only one seat free but there's a sweater on the bar stool, so I have to ask.

It belongs to neither the man on my left nor the woman on my right.

Score! We have a winner and I have a seat, close enough to hear the '20s music playing behind the bar.

Eventually people nearby leave and I move to a space with two adjacent stools.

Of all things, I see Virginia's indigenous grape on the wine list, and order a glass of Horton Norton in honor of my friend, the Norton enthusiast.

It's a tad on the foxy side, but it'll pair just fine with the cook's plate I've ordered.

My friend soon arrives from Washington, as does my cook's plate, and I'm good to go with both.

On the slate are sliced lamb belly, crab and avocado, smoked salmon with roe on cukes, chicken rilletes with a duck heart, duck confit, chicken gizzards, pig's feet, buttered radishes, grilled bread, frisse and pickled fennel.

It's both a heart attack and heaven on a plate and I dive in immediately.

The bartender has already told me that the lamb belly is his favorite thing in the restaurant right now and given its meaty goodness (it's better than a steak), I can understand why.

I slather the fatty rilletes on bread, revel in how the gizzards were cooked in fat and in between every fatty, salty bite, have a piece of tart pickled fennel.

My out-of-town friend tries a bite, then another and is soon raving over the quality and the price of the plate, guessing that it would cost more than twice the price in D.C.

Yet another reason why I live here and not there now.

We pick away at the delectables on the slate while he fills me in on his latest project, an homage to his father, and I regale him with some tid-bits from my trip to Italy last Fall.

A couple comes in looking for food only to be told that at that hour, only the cook's plate is being served.

Without batting an eyelash, I become the salesman to convince them to stay for this array of body parts - hearts, feet, gizzards - and they do.

I am not, however, able to talk them into Virginia's indigenous grape.

The chef comes out to have a well-earned beer and we all get into a discussion of farmers' markets.

When I allow as how I only go to the Byrd Market, I am asked what I buy since it does not appear to them that I ever cook at home.

Hello, I do eat meals besides dinner at home.

I sense that my traveling friend is fading fast, no surprise since it took him four and a half hours to get here from Washington.

When he asks about coffee, I insist he wait until our next stop to caffeinate.

Balliceaux not only provides the cup of joe he needs but also great energy with two DJs because tonight is No Richmond, a night of post-punk.

I run into three friends, including the unlikeliest of shoegazers, before I even make it halfway back.

After my visitor sucks back his liquid energy, I order a glass of wine and lead him to the back where a dance party is in full swing.

We find a good spot just outside the glut of dancers where we have room to move in place as well as observe the dance floor action.

My friend comments (and perhaps judges) that none of the guys move their upper bodies when they dance.

The crowd floods the dance floor for "Dancing with Myself" but I get the biggest kick out of ABC's "Look of Love," another song that thrills the crowd.

Before long, my friend comments that it smells like a boys' locker room in there, but for me it's all about sound, so the smell is irrelevant.

I am having a ball dancing in situ, so much so that one friend presumes I'm drunk (not even close) and another tells me how girlish I look (even less likely).

Must be all this beautiful daylight today. Happy summer solstice to me.

Sprouting Sprigs at a Wine Dinner

There are wine dinners and then there are wine dinners. Tonight's Farmers' Dinner at Sprout featuring Manakintowne Specialty Growers and Virginia wines was outstanding.

Sprout's usually casual, funky ambiance was transformed by china, candles and flowered napkins into a chic little bistro full of foodies and wine enthusiasts. Even owners Jamie and Laurie were looking especially fine tonight. Since they're usually closed on Sundays, the whole thing felt a little like a stealth get-together.

The folks from Manakintowne Growers were there and were introduced. The wine representative outlined the wine to come and what it would be paired with.

She had asked Chef Charlie to speak about his food, but he'd declined saying only, "I know it's good." Having known Charlie for close to five years now, that's about what I would expect him to say.

And it was good, very good. The first course was a salad of mixed greens, including fennel, kale, arugula, cilantro, green tomatoes, red onions, local apples and toasted seeds in a toasted seed dressing. The Barboursville Brut, the ideal start to the meal, held its own with the mouth-watering selection of greens.

Next up was a winter squash ravioli with pumpkin, Twin Oaks tofu and local feta paired with Horton Petit Manseng. I wasn't familiar with the grape, so I got a kick out of learning that this southwestern French wine was used to baptize kings instead of water. How lucky are we that this grape does so well in our Virginia soil?

The wine had beautiful aromas and as much as I liked the first sip, it was after the first bite of the creamy ravioli that it became obvious how well it had been matched to the dish. I couldn't help having more of this rich full-bodied dry white wine. Yum.

The main course was Polyface chicken ballantine, boned and stuffed with sausage, apples and oysters over a turnip puree with chard. The combination of flavors, reminiscent of Thanksgiving, called for something un-wimpy to stand up to it and the Horton Norton succeeded admirably.

After having read Todd Kliman's book about the Norton grape, The Wild Vine, this past summer and tasting various Nortons around the state to supplement my reading, I already knew I was a fan of this grape.

It's known as one of those that people either love or hate (probably more of the latter). My table mate (another solo diner) hadn't had it, but she took one sip and pronounced, "Funky! I love it!" mirroring my feelings about Dr. Norton's discovery. More Norton, please.

Our last course was a rosemary berry chocolate torte served with the Horton Xoco chocolate wine. So that you know, Chef Charlie used to be the pastry chef at Balliceaux and I was devoted to his desserts there.

Many was the time that I'd go in and have wine and dessert and he'd always come out and solicit my opinion about his latest creation. So I knew going in that tonight's dessert would be spectacular.

The little round torte was thickly iced with rosemary and chile-infused ganache. The red coulis on the plate was made from, among other things, beets and purple carrots, conveying a natural sweetness. The whipped cream on top was dense and cocoa dusted. Divine does not begin to describe it.

Each plate came with a sprig of rosemary on it and my table mate pointed and said, "Look, your sprig is blooming." Given my recent change in direction, it seemed an appropriate metaphor. As she noted, no one else's sprig was in flower. I'll take it.

The Xoco worked well with the dessert, although it wasn't to my taste once the torte was history. As our wine rep told us, there is no middle of the road with this wine. I would say it has its place with the right dessert, but it was a bit much for me.

When Charlie came out finally, he suggested we tell our friends about the new wine dinner series at Sprout and I told him that was a bad idea.

If we go blabbing about it, our spots may be snapped up next time and then where will we be? I'm kidding of course, but at $35 all inclusive, this meal is easily the best wine dinner deal in the city. Creative food, great ambiance and an interesting crowd added up to something special on a Sunday night.

As I was leaving, I stopped to talk to owner Jamie about the new stage they've just put in the back room. I'd seen my first show on it Friday night and wanted him to know how much a short person appreciated the raised musicians. He's tall, but he got it.

And since they weren't having music at Sprout tonight, I made my way to Grace Street for the latest installment of Live at Ipanema, featuring the honey-voiced Lydia Ooghe. The usual suspects were there, musicians, DJs, my Folk Fest drummer friend and even my new show buddy put in an appearance.

With no fanfare or introduction, Lydia (and the always-impressive Trey Pollard on pedal steel and Jake Thro on bass and backing vocals) launched into her set and the crowd quieted right down, all except for the overly-loud trio at the end of the bar.

Since these shows are recorded, most people have the courtesy not to compete with the music, but not these three. I saw several people cast dirty looks their way but they were oblivious. Ah, well. I just tuned them out as Lydia no doubt did.

Afterwards, I had a chance to work the room, reliving the Sufjan show with the Richmond Scene and discussing the upcoming week's amazing lineup of shows with a musician friend, a guy who has three shows this week. Bring it on, we agreed.

There are Sunday nights and then there are Sunday nights. This was one of the really good ones.