Snazzy, Brassy and Razamatazzy

We started with three dames, one guy and finished up with four dames, one guy. Estrogen flowed.

From a table all the way in the back of Metzger, we sipped Hugl Rose while destroying the Restaurant Week menu course by course. That it was done to a killer soundtrack by Mr. Fine Wine only guaranteed that there was no place I'd rather have been, despite the RW hordes.

Crab croquettes rested on a wave of honeyed skyr (the Icelandic dairy product that's not sure if it's a cheese or yogurt) that had me wanting to lick the plate while Pru announced about her pierogi with peas, quark and mint, "I could eat an entire bowl of these."

My roast chicken alone was out of this world, but the rye berries and pops of pickled celery elevated it to fancy chicken, while Beau's ramp tagliatelle starred black trumpet mushrooms, black garlic, breadcrumbs and a cured egg yolk and could not have been any fresher tasting. Queen B swooned over her enormous wiener schnitzel, while Pru was bested by a massive pork chop with spaetzle and pork jus.

Metzger is not for the faint of appetite, even with so-called RW portions.

Much of the dinner conversation was given over to the impending visit of Burger, a family friend of Pru and Queen B's whom I've already met several times, enough times to eat multiple meals, take him on one of my death walks and go dancing with him (the others having opted out). With his return this time, we discussed ways to amuse him without leaving him so worn out he requires a nap after every activity (aka middle aged man syndrome).

Desserts of mint panna cotta and dark chocolate tortes took us into the dining room's busy hour as the place filled up around us with intentional Restaurant Week patrons. We, on the other hand, had been unaware walking, rolled the dice won handily.

For me, the musical high point of the evening was hearing through the grapevine from one of the owners that as long as Metzger is open, Mr. Fine Wine will be playing. Period. As if I wasn't already a devoted fan of the kitchen, no restaurant in town has a soundtrack that can compare.

It was only once the dessert plates had been cleared that we looked at the time and realized we had more than enough to order another bottle of Rose and linger to the vintage soul music playing. Our server looked askance, as if she'd never heard of people ordering wine after dinner, but brought it anyway.

It's certainly not the first time I've walked out of a restaurant with a corked bottle in my bag and I feel quite certain it won't be the last.

Our evening's preliminary entertainment was "Dames at Sea," a 70s spoof of glitzy Busby Berkley-style musicals like "42nd Street" that Swift Creek Mill Theatre had last staged 26 years ago.

Hmm, let's see, 1992, I was living a wholly different life than today but I'd also never seen "Dames at Sea" and I love a good dancing-focused musical. This one had the all the usual tropes: fading star, wide-eyed kid fresh off the bus from Nowheresville, a couple of  peppy sailors and a chorus girl with a heart of gold.

I can't help but appreciate a musical that begins with an overture and the 8-piece orchestra added much to the musical numbers such as "That Mister Man of Mine," with the Pru-appropriate lyric, "He wants me back but he can't afford me." Few can, my dear, very few.

"When it comes to naval affairs, I've been compared to John Paul Jones," says Mona, the aging diva, who only liked men of experience and rank to steer her rudder. Pru and I concurred on the value of such a stipulation.

The second act was even more fun than the first, set, as it was, on the USS Courageous with a sign near where we were seated that read, "Poop Deck" with an arrow pointing off stage away from actors in lederhosen and dirndl skirts tapping their hearts out.

Let's just say that a good time was had by all.

Naturally, we closed out the evening on Pru's screened porch at the manse, a given because of the temperate weather and how long it had been since we had a good catch-up session. Joining tonight's rap session was a newcomer and former Church Hill resident who's recently moved out past Varina.

It was fascinating watching her take in our whirlwind of a conversation with its constantly changing focus (if you can't keep up, just excuse yourself and go to bed) and emphasis on experiences and opinions.

Next thing I knew, Beau was pulling out an old photo of himself - easily 40 pounds heavier and without the magnificent swoop to his hair that he now dazzles strangers and friends alike with - and talking about how he ended up a svelte, stylish man about town. Spoiler alert: Pru had a hand in it, having somewhat tactfully suggested that he could dress more to his advantage with a few changes.

We stayed far later than probably any of us intended on a school night, so the thunderstorms were just starting to roll in as I left Church Hill and drove home through deserted streets that will soon be even quieter as the students in my neighborhood clear out.

Even better, my conversational affairs are soon to go from idling back to 100 mph with May kicking in. Can. Not. Wait.

Anything for You

Every window open. 'Nuff said.

These past two days have been glorious reminders that spring really is coming, that this dreadful winter is winding down and my favorite time of the year about to unfold. For the past two days, it's been warm enough to walk bare-legged (instead of in leggings) and leave the windows up night and day (necessitating more mindfulness about how loud I play my records).

Spring, how I've looked forward to your arrival.

After my walk, the real tragedy of yesterday's 81-degree sunshine was how much of it I had to spend inside doing interviews and at a board meeting when all I really wanted to do was goof off outside. Didn't Confucius say something about how it sucks to be a grown-up sometimes?

Happily, once all that played out I had dinner plans that involved a window seat, my favorite restaurant soundtrack and a Metzger virgin, a surefire recipe for a fabulous evening.

Because Fate seems to be keeping an eye on me of late, it was as I was busy explaining to my date that the vintage soul music we were listening to was courtesy of DJ Mr. Fine Wine that one of the owners came over to give me news he knew I'd want to hear: Mr. Fine Wine is coming back to Metzger for another late night dance party to grace us with his stellar DJ skills.

And he was right, this was indeed wonderful news - I would dance to Mr. Fine Wine anytime he's willing to come down from N.J. - at least I thought so right up until he told us the date. Uh oh, no go, some of us will be out of town for the big event.

Evidently the disappointment was written all over my face because the owner was quick tor reassure me. "I know how you enjoy these, that's why I wanted to tell you" he said. "Don't worry, we're gonna have him back in the fall, too."

Whew, except fall seems like a lifetime away to someone currently reveling in spring. On the other hand, who doesn't like having something - dance parties, vacations, music shows - to look forward to?

More good news arrived with the oyster selections, which included Morattico Creeks from the Northern Neck town where my parents live and Blackberry Points, my choice to accompany my Hugl Rose, because our server assured me they were the brinier of the two and briny is always my goal with bivalves.

Our server kept coming over to take our order before we'd made any decisions, so I finally quashed that with a fib, telling her it was a first date and we were trying to get acquainted before ordering. It wasn't true, but she got the hint.

After caving to decorum, we shared a mustard green salad gussied up with beets and blood oranges, beer-battered cauliflower with white anchovies and garlic crisps and whole roasted maitake with potato rosti in a garlic cream sauce, an obscene take on a vegetarian entree, though probably not as obscene as the dark chocolate torte I only managed to finish half of.

Although we lingered over wine and dinner for three-plus hours (twitterpation will do that to you), it was still as warm as afternoon when we walked out, a reality that felt nothing short of miraculous after so many months of winter's unpleasantness.

Today was even better because it was already warm when I woke up and headed to the river, which is still teasing me by keeping the pipeline inaccessible from Brown's Island. Seems like ages since I could get on it from the west side, what with all the rain coming down from the mountains the past month.

That's not a complaint. With life so good these days, I can take a little inconvenience.

Tonight's outing involved Lady G accompanying my hired mouth to dinner, our first chance to catch up since our superb road trip to Philly last month. Much conversation was involved because although I don't want to say there's been a seismic shift in my world since then, there's been a seismic shift in my world since then.

And no one wants to make her friend cry with good news, but it beats making her cry with bad news, right?

Her main request for the evening had been that we have a smart cocktail, so we celebrated afterward at the Jasper, where the front windows were open to the Friday night bustle of Carytown and the place was packed.

Snagging a small table under a window, Lady G ordered the Spaniard on the recommendation of our Spanish-blooded server (the Old Overholt rye didn't hurt, either) while I stayed true to form with a glass of Domaine Brazilier Brut from the Loire Valley. Despite having recently polished off a full dinner and dessert, we saw no reason not to dive into hen liver mousse with red onion gelee, slathering it on baguette slices with impunity, or maybe just giddiness.

Spring seems to be having all kinds of effects on people right now. I know all I can do is smile.

Quelle Night!

I'm clawing my way back from illness to my real life.

After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I  felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.

A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.

Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.

Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.

In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.

I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.

Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.

But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.

It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.

I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.

Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").

Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.

Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.

My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.

While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.

I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.

And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.

My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.

Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.

I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.

The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.

Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.

Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.

I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.

Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.

Or at least I am.

Days of Wine and Roses

How better to impress out-of-towners than with flower power?

The garden and art-loving visitors arrived from points north only to be bundled back into the car so we could go to the VMFA. Destination: "Art of the Flower: Van Gogh, Manet and Matisse."

Detour: Amuse for brunch. They were mobbed on arrival, so we waited for a table in the groovy green chairs in the corner where the hospitable barkeep delivered the absinthe drip and four glasses.

After positioning sugar cubes on absinthe spoons and lighting them, she left us to monitor our own drips. Considering it was the visitors' first foray into absinthe, they were surprisingly quick to master the technique.

We'd barely begun sipping from the green fairy when we were told our table was ready. She accompanied us there.

Beginning with carb loading - breakfast bread with mixed berries, buttermilk biscuits with pimento cheese, sweet pickles and butter - we passed the time until our orders arrived telling jokes, including a mother's favorite. One of us even deigned to share a knock knock joke.

After getting our enthusiastic server's thumbs up on the Dutch Baby ("my favorite!"), a puffed pancake-like concoction of bacon, scallions, goat cheese and arugula, I had to admit he was right on. Light yet filling, the meaty chunks of bacon made the dish.

After my companions had polished off rave-worthy corned beef hash and eggs, a salad Nicoise and today's quiche, we headed downstairs to visually feast on floral still lifes.

For a sunny Sunday afternoon, the show was quite well attended, no doubt due to just having opened Friday. And it's a stunner, too, as much for the gorgeous paintings as for an art history lesson in the progression of French floral painting it delivers.

Since it's only my first time seeing the exhibit, I'm sure my favorites will change, but for today, I chose three.

It's hard to imagine something more romantic an artist could offer his love than Henri Fantin-Latour's "The Engagement Still Life," given to fiance Victoria Dubourg to seal the deal. I particularly liked the glass of wine in the composition, a promise, perhaps, of good times ahead.

Making my way through the next gallery, a loud-voiced young man said to his companion, " Hey! Have you read these signs on the wall? They're more interesting than the paintings." He then proceeded to read several of them to her loudly.

I decided it must be his first time in a museum and tunes him out.

Mary Cassatt's "Lilacs in a Window" was bound to catch my eye because lilacs are my favorite flower. There'd also been a Manet of "Vase of White Lilacs and Roses" which I also lingered on, but decided I preferred Cassatt's because her vase sat in a greenhouse or conservatory next to an open window where you could almost smell the warm air.

And the very last painting in the show, Matisse's "Still Life with Pascal's 'Pensees,'" spoke to me because of its appealing components: a cup and saucer, a book and a vase of anemones, a flower I love, all sitting next to a lace-curtained window. It's the kind of tableau that would give me pleasure every time I looked at it.

Just don't hold me to those favorites because I have no doubt that on my next visit to see the exhibition, I'll exercise my female prerogative to change my mind and fall in love with something else.

In the next-to-last gallery, I overheard a couple sitting on a bench talking. When he mentioned Iceland and and film, I knew he had to be talking about "Land Ho," the movie I'd just seen because it was showing again tonight.

So I asked.

Sure enough, he'd been looking online for opinions to decide if they should see it. Go, I told him, if only to see the beauty of Iceland. But if you're over 60 (and they looked like they were), you'll love the story, too.  "Thank you so much for telling us that," he said. "I was going to pass it on it after reading some online reviews but I'd much rather have a real person tell me to go."

There was my good deed for the day and I went back to looking at the last gallery.

Unused to absinthe in the afternoon, my companions demanded naps afterwards, leaving me to enjoy my Washington Post on the balcony outside in the late afternoon sunshine while they dozed.

When we reconvened, they were still wiping sleep out of their eyes ("That absinthe kicked my butt!" the professor acknowledged) and I was rarin' to go. This time, it was eastward ho to Metzger because two of the group had once lived in Germany.

Given the dearth of restaurants open on Sunday night, we shouldn't have been surprised to find a full dining room when we got there. Luckily, three bar stools soon opened up and one of us was willing to stand until a fourth came available.

Vintage soul serenaded us, a bottle of Hugl Rose was delivered and we got into a discussion of what everybody was currently reading.

Three of us listened fascinated to a description of Jose Saramago's "The History of the Siege of Lisbon," a book about a proofreader who decides to add the word "not" to a sentence which causes repercussions for himself and historians.

Fascinating as I'm finding it, my current book, "1965: The Year That Revolutionized Music," seemed shallow in comparison.

From there, we devoured smoked trout rillettes and chicken liver mousse with carrot jam (which came across more like marmalade), two excellent starters and the latter one I seem to get every time I go.

Conversation concerned birth order and how parents take fewer pictures of each successive child. My parents have albums aplenty with photos of me, the oldest, and hardly any of my youngest sister (the sixth). The exception that proves the rule was the middle son who said there were fewer pictures of him than his younger brother.

I mentioned some t-shirts I'd seen recently that perfectly summed up birth order differences:

I'm the oldest. I'm the reason they made the rules
I'm the middle child. I'm the reason they needed the rules.
I'm the youngest. What rules?

All I know is, the best thing about being the oldest of six girls was that I never had to wear a hand-me-down dress. What I did have, though, was the strictest upbringing in the family. I still haven't decided whether that was a good thing or not.

For dinner, I chose mette - hand-cut sirloin tartare with a tiny farm egg and grilled bread - enjoying perfectly seasoned meat made richer once I broke the yolk atop it ("Are you going to have all your courses on bread?" I was asked). The beer-brined pork chop the youngest son let me taste was delicious, too, although not quite fatty enough for my taste.

People continued to arrive as we ate and I spotted a friend come in with three strangers. When he came over to say hello, I learned that he was on a business dinner entertaining travel writers so he'd been on an all-day eating marathon at restaurants throughout the city.

The funniest thing he said was that he'd just come from a restaurant that had a Richard Gere menu and that I absolutely had to check it out. It gets odder because someone had noticed earlier that there was a picture of Richard Gere hanging in Metzger's kitchen.

Why Richard? Inquiring minds want to know.

He went off to eat with the travel writers (there's a job I could get used to) and I ate a dessert of three housemade gelatos: tequila/kumquat (which had a very long finish), a decadent chocolate and the most ethereal of all, creme fraiche, its flavor heightened with lemon. Each had an incredibly creamy mouthfeel.

And while it would have been great at that point to push the tables aside, dim the lights, crank the soul music and dance 'till dawn, my posse was ready for bed. That's right, the three people who'd napped were pooped while the one who'd walked four miles this morning was looking for some action.

Must be that oldest child stamina.