You want to spend a long holiday weekend in town? I'm your girl.
Make no mistake, if I'd gotten an invitation to the beach or river, I'd have been gone. But years gone by have also taught me the pleasures of staying in town when so many people are gone. Easy parking, half empty restaurants, leisurely pace. It's Richmond as a different animal.
Not to brag or anything, but if I'd been eager to show off the range of what Richmond has to offer, I'm not sure I could have done a finer job of doing so.
Friday night started at Hardywood for the Shangri-Lords, because a holiday weekend is best rung in with a man singing lead on girl group songs. Midway through their set, as I was admiring the matching go-go boots and stellar dance moves of the female back-up singers, a man approached me tentatively, saying, "Karen?"
Joe? That's how we wound up seated at a table with the former dean of VCU's art school and his wife, with both of the guys reveling in hearing the soundtrack of their youth. It was also, oddly enough, the second night in a row that I heard a cover of Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."
C'mon, what are the chances?
Next came a stop at Carytown Gyro, which replaced Doner Kebab - a long-time fave of Mac's and mine - and while the chicken shawarma had good flavor, they don't make their own pita and the difference was disappointing. It was justa few doors down to Garden Grove Brewing and Urban Winery for a couple of glasses of their Vidal Blanc/Chardonnay blend (which they don't bottle, an interesting side note) and a chance to enjoy the Brazilian music of Quatro na Bossa.
Unlike every other place this weekend, Garden Grove was mobbed with talkers who made hearing singer Laura Anne's beautiful voice challenging at best, so we left when the set ended. Who's so uncouth they talk loudly over such transcendent music anyway?
Saturday began with a pipeline walk before moving on to the ICA for artist Paul Rucker's talk about his exhibit, "Storm in the Time of Shelter," of colorfully patterned KKK robes and hoods and the array of lynching and anti-black memorabilia in the cases around the gallery. He was a forceful speaker on the topic of systemic and institutionalized racism, challenging the mostly white crowd on how well they knew their history.
Answer: rather poorly. But his talk was rich in commentary about the realities of race in this country circa 2018, just the kind of talk that makes white people uncomfortable. The kind of talk Mac and I seek out for that every reason.
We followed heavy talk with bagels at Nate's Bagels, notable because unlike every other visit, it was all but empty. But Nate was there and stopped to chat before heading home to his real family and leaving his bagel crew to carry on without him. And while they were out of everything bagels (holiday weekend, you know) we managed with one onion bagel and one rosemary and sea salt bagel instead.
On the plus side, I now know what something besides an everything bagel at Nate's tastes like. I've been called a creature of habit for good reason.
To fully embed a come-here into the myriad pleasures of Richmond, thrifting was also required. A stop at the Clothes Rack not only introduced a newcomer to its bargain pricing, but also provided a fitted summer wardrobe. Let's face it, we've got months of shorts-wearing weather left. The Hall Tree netted only a couple of shirts, but they were winners.
I like to remind people that recyclers do it over and over again.
Acacia offered proof positive that half the city was missing when we showed up at prime dinnertime and easily found stools at the bar, unheard of on a normal Saturday. We celebrated the first 24 hours of our extended play weekend with multiple glasses of Mimi Bulles Rose and an entire dinner (well, except for the chocolate cremeux) that had begun life in the sea: a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber, pickled onion, hard egg, radish and lettuces in a lemon dill vinaigrette, fresh caught rockfish over a luscious summer salad of heirloom tomatoes and greens in balsamic and shrimp, linguine and spinach in an obscene garlic butter sauce.
When we walked out, Cary Street was just this side of dead. On a Saturday night, mind you.
Come Sunday, we packed up an Ellwood Thompson picnic and headed to the mountains, namely King Family Winery, so that the newbie could see his first polo game. Situated under one of the few shade trees, we sipped King Family Viognier and watched riders taking their horses up and down the enormous field to score goals.
Only the obnoxious sound of an air horn marking the start and end of each chukka marred the idyllic setting at the foot of several mountains. By the time we broke camp, the staff was busy setting up for a wedding on the lawn and no doubt a glorious summer party afterward.
Polo-watching can be exhausting, which is why we only went two blocks for dinner. Tiny Victory, the colorful new Fillipino restaurant on Broad, welcomed us with a dish of shisito peppers, sweet corn on the cob, watermelon radishes and burnt honey.
Next came kinilaw of snapper with coconut, citrus and red onion, elevated with a thick shmear of avocado inside the bowl's edges. I swiped every bite of snapper with avocado as I brought it out of the bowl and then used the crispy shrimp chips to get the rest. We closed out the meal with pancit, a mixture of rice noodles, mushroom XO, Napa cabbage, spicy pickled carrot and crispy garlic that got raves from the healthy eater across from me. Me, I was already full from the first two courses.
Also, really glad to have a restaurant in that space again, given its proximity to my apartment.
Sunday meant a trip to the VMFA to see "Howardena Pindell: What Remains To Be Seen," a fascinating exhibition by a black, activist artist about whom we knew nothing. Located in two separate places in the museum, the show was enormous. Here was a woman who'd never been shy about exploring the intersection of racism, violence, feminism, slavery and exploitation since the '60s and doing it using unconventional materials like glitter, talcum powder, postcards and chads, in some cases, chads she'd taken the time to number.
Her attention to detail and the sheer amount of time her pieces took set her apart from other abstractionists of that era.
And while we'd gone to see her show, both of us were captivated by the small show of works on paper, "The Precisionist Impulse." Drawings, photographs, watercolors and prints, most - but not all - made between the World Wars showed a decidedly neo-Cubist bent and attraction to modern urban subjects such as architecture, infrastructure and mechanics.
When you talk about the benefits of a world-class museum in your home town (besides the absinthe drip upstairs at Amuse, still my favorite place to unwind at the VMFA), one of them has to be happening on a small, unexpected show (or work of art) that you hadn't come to see. It's like finding an extra Christmas gift tucked away once you start clearing out all the balled-up wrapping paper. Oh, look, something else for me?
Keeping to the theme started with Paul Rucker and continued through Howardena Pindell, "BlackkKlansman" seemed like a natural. Sure, I'd seen it, but I'd also left knowing I wanted to see it again, so here was my chance.
No surprise, Movieland wasn't the least bit crowded for a late afternoon Labor Day show, so when better for my partner-in-crime to see Spike Lee's latest? Much as I appreciated the film on many levels when Mac and I first saw it, I knew there was plenty I'd missed.
Not to mention plenty I wanted to see a second time, including that wonderful dance scene set to the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose's "Too Late to Turn Back Now." Thank you, Spike Lee, for allowing the scene to unfold languorously and not as a quick cut.
Walking out, a woman in front of me summed up her impressions. "Spike Lee always teaches you something, doesn't he?" Indeed he does.
Once out of the theater, we must have sat in the car for at least a quarter of an hour, talking about the film: how it had been made, how it must have begun shooting before the Charlottesville incidents that close out the film even happened, how much the film concerned prejudice against Jews as well as blacks.
We met the challenge of finding an open restaurant on Labor Day by heading directly to My Noodle, which was mobbed. Our table was all but on top of the table of the couple next to us, but we can ignore practically anyone with chopsticks flying into plates of broccoli and chicken in black bean sauce.
Back in the Ward, it was obvious that cars and their owners were back in the city, even if things were still a bit quiet. We figured everyone was hunkered down, gearing up for work or the upcoming school year.
Not us. Instead, we got settled on my balcony for a night devoted to listening to cover albums - "Bleeker Street: Greenwich Village in the '60s," Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl" and "If I Were A Carpenter," a '90s take on the music of the Carpenters. Overhead, puffy little clouds stayed visible in the night sky and an occasional breeze rewarded us with reasons to linger.
And if this Labor Day weekend in town was about anything, it was about the lingering. Why go when staying is this pleasurable?
That's a rhetorical question, by the way.
Showing posts with label king family winery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label king family winery. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Westbound Number 9
I'm getting good at the quick getaway.
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
No Horses, No Balls, No Regret
In the further interest of celebrating my birthday, I was invited to a polo game today.
Picnic lunch in hand, we drove to King Family Winery for the kickoff of a season of Roseland polo.
The line down the gravel driveway was long and when we got to the front, we saw why.
A woman was patiently explaining to each carload that the polo match had been canceled due to the rain-soaked field.
But, she made sure we knew there would be a rugby match instead.
Okay, so no horses, but another unlikely sport.
My first thought was, I've seen polo played a couple of times and I've never seen rugby.
Good enough.
We parked the car under a drooping pine tree and addressed the first priority: acquisition and release.
After the drive, I wanted to find the facilities plus we needed to get a bottle of wine from the tasting room.
The bathroom line was already ridiculously long, but we used our time in line to buy a bottle of Crose' Rose, so it wasn't in vain.
Bucket and bottle in hand, we marched back down the driveway past license plates from Ohio, Maryland and New Jersey and set out a blanket, chairs and foodstuffs near a boisterous group who may or may not have been from New Jersey.
My guess: yes.
Especially after I overheard one of the women ask someone, "What is it with Virginia and sunscreen? I see kids over there lining up to get sprayed with sunscreen. It's a beautiful day, no one's going to get burnt."
She was correct, it was a beautiful day, cloudless and incredibly sunny.
I figured the UV factor was probably a full-on 10.
I know I had SPF 50 slathered all over every inch of skin.
One of her friends responded, "Well, so-and-so said she once got burnt when it was only 40 degrees outside!"
Jaws dropped.
All I'm saying is, the people in front of us were not the brightest.
Meanwhile, on the polo field we saw dogs frolicking, balls being kicked, Frisbees tossed and many kites being flown.
But no sign of rugby players.
And, horror of horrors, we heard a rumor that it was going to be a touch rugby game.
Touch?
From a full-contact sport with the slogan, "The only pain in rugby is regret"?
Halfway through the Rose, I wandered down to the Port-a-potties by the horse barn where I found a far shorter line than the one inside.
When my turn came, I took care of things with my usual expediency (I am known for my brief visits), meriting applause and the remark, "Thanks, Speedy!" from the guy in line behind me when I emerged very shortly thereafter.
Everyone has to have a talent.
Back at camp, we sipped our wine (finding the 2012 more cranberry-tasting than grapefruit, which was our primary memory of the 2011), and watched the familial tableaux unfold around us.
A preppy-looking guy talking to a bunch of girls about his Cessna.
A trio of very buttoned-down looking business types, all with tattoos on their white legs.
Two little red-headed girls whose skin was burning in the sun before our very eyes.
A stocky kid from the New Jersey clan (white Oakley sunglasses, braided red and white necklace, basketball shorts so long they met his socks) wandered over to the tree under which we were sitting.
Fingering it and obviously looking for conversation, he asked me, "Why is the tree wet?' as he touched where several branches had recently been cut off.
I explained sap to him while the grown-ups with whom he'd come got progressively loopier.
After a couple hours eating, sipping and observing, we got the official word.
The rugby game wasn't going to happen.
I can't say I was sorry to miss the abomination of touch rugby, though.
Even without a game, the winery had been an ideal picnic spot for a sunny, breezy afternoon.
Driving out, I saw white chairs set up in front of an arbor and figured a wedding was in the offing on this beautiful night.
Rounding the bend in the driveway, I spotted a plein air painter perched on a hill recreating the pond below.
So the polo had been canceled and the rugby game never materialized.
It was a gorgeous day to drive to the mountains and have a birthday picnic.
Or, as the haters might say, yet another way for me to celebrate my never-ending birthday.
And the problem with that is...?
Picnic lunch in hand, we drove to King Family Winery for the kickoff of a season of Roseland polo.
The line down the gravel driveway was long and when we got to the front, we saw why.
A woman was patiently explaining to each carload that the polo match had been canceled due to the rain-soaked field.
But, she made sure we knew there would be a rugby match instead.
Okay, so no horses, but another unlikely sport.
My first thought was, I've seen polo played a couple of times and I've never seen rugby.
Good enough.
We parked the car under a drooping pine tree and addressed the first priority: acquisition and release.
After the drive, I wanted to find the facilities plus we needed to get a bottle of wine from the tasting room.
The bathroom line was already ridiculously long, but we used our time in line to buy a bottle of Crose' Rose, so it wasn't in vain.
Bucket and bottle in hand, we marched back down the driveway past license plates from Ohio, Maryland and New Jersey and set out a blanket, chairs and foodstuffs near a boisterous group who may or may not have been from New Jersey.
My guess: yes.
Especially after I overheard one of the women ask someone, "What is it with Virginia and sunscreen? I see kids over there lining up to get sprayed with sunscreen. It's a beautiful day, no one's going to get burnt."
She was correct, it was a beautiful day, cloudless and incredibly sunny.
I figured the UV factor was probably a full-on 10.
I know I had SPF 50 slathered all over every inch of skin.
One of her friends responded, "Well, so-and-so said she once got burnt when it was only 40 degrees outside!"
Jaws dropped.
All I'm saying is, the people in front of us were not the brightest.
Meanwhile, on the polo field we saw dogs frolicking, balls being kicked, Frisbees tossed and many kites being flown.
But no sign of rugby players.
And, horror of horrors, we heard a rumor that it was going to be a touch rugby game.
Touch?
From a full-contact sport with the slogan, "The only pain in rugby is regret"?
Halfway through the Rose, I wandered down to the Port-a-potties by the horse barn where I found a far shorter line than the one inside.
When my turn came, I took care of things with my usual expediency (I am known for my brief visits), meriting applause and the remark, "Thanks, Speedy!" from the guy in line behind me when I emerged very shortly thereafter.
Everyone has to have a talent.
Back at camp, we sipped our wine (finding the 2012 more cranberry-tasting than grapefruit, which was our primary memory of the 2011), and watched the familial tableaux unfold around us.
A preppy-looking guy talking to a bunch of girls about his Cessna.
A trio of very buttoned-down looking business types, all with tattoos on their white legs.
Two little red-headed girls whose skin was burning in the sun before our very eyes.
A stocky kid from the New Jersey clan (white Oakley sunglasses, braided red and white necklace, basketball shorts so long they met his socks) wandered over to the tree under which we were sitting.
Fingering it and obviously looking for conversation, he asked me, "Why is the tree wet?' as he touched where several branches had recently been cut off.
I explained sap to him while the grown-ups with whom he'd come got progressively loopier.
After a couple hours eating, sipping and observing, we got the official word.
The rugby game wasn't going to happen.
I can't say I was sorry to miss the abomination of touch rugby, though.
Even without a game, the winery had been an ideal picnic spot for a sunny, breezy afternoon.
Driving out, I saw white chairs set up in front of an arbor and figured a wedding was in the offing on this beautiful night.
Rounding the bend in the driveway, I spotted a plein air painter perched on a hill recreating the pond below.
So the polo had been canceled and the rugby game never materialized.
It was a gorgeous day to drive to the mountains and have a birthday picnic.
Or, as the haters might say, yet another way for me to celebrate my never-ending birthday.
And the problem with that is...?
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Like Shooting Fish in a Barrel
The guy with the bottle of wine approved of our Monday.
Not that I need other people's approval, but he offered it up unsolicited.
Anyway, "pretty good" is probably in the eye of the beholder, but on a hot Monday, it's hard to beat a drive to Charlottesville for an easy escape plan.
Stop #1 was Chiles Peach Orchard, passing Beagle Gap (causing me to think of my dearly departed beagle) on the winding country road that led to the orchard.
Between the cloud cover and a light breeze, it was actually a fine day to pick peaches, so we started in the main orchard where the fruit of yellow peaches was more accurately a reddish blush-color.
We agreed that the view of the rows of trees leading up and over the hill was positively Italian looking.
The trees were loaded and, with no one else in sight, we began picking fruit, intending to use it to make peach ice cream once it ripens.
It's a no-brainer; I've seen grown men go weak at the knees at the mention of peach ice cream.
Next we walked up the road a bit to the orchard where we could pick donut peaches, those lovely heirloom varieties that, to quote a peach-lover, "are smaller and cost more but are totally worth it."
Even with my peach allergy which limits how many and how often I can eat them, I'll still eat a ripe donut peach this time of year.
What's a swollen tongue and an itchy mouth when compared to the sublime taste of a ripe peach in July?
By the time we finished picking, we had nearly ten pounds of fruit and a light rain had begun so we got ourselves back to the Chile's store for cover.
Next thing we knew, it was starting to thunder over the mountaintop, so we decided to stay put and enjoy a fresh peach milkshake on the store's porch.
Sitting at a picnic table under an umbrella facing the mountains drinking peaches and cream and watching a train thread its way through the mountainous track in a steadily-falling rain is top-notch goofing off.
Eventually, we made our way to the car and set our sights on nearby King Family Winery, no easy task in what became a driving rain.
After a short roadside stop to wait out the worst of the thunderstorm, we made it to King just as another storm began pounding the polo fields.
It didn't bother us. We'd wanted to get some wine anyway (Crose Rose and Loreley), so we decided to do a tasting in the meantime.
Since our last visit for a polo match in early June, the new Viognier and Chardonnay had been released, thus providing the justification for a thorough tasting.
As a bonus, our pourer had a just-opened bottle of the 2009 Petit Verdot which he deigned to share with us.
I know it's not a grape everyone can get into, but it suits me in that way that Pinotage or Norton does.
We mentioned the train we'd just seen at the orchard and were surprised when he said he knew nothing of any nearby trains.
What? We'd been there for an afternoon and we knew about them. How could he not?
Luckily another employee walked out then and overheard us.
And he had the scoop on trains in the area.
Seems that one Claudius Crozet had been responsible for engineering the tunnels through the Blue Ridge to allow trains to cross the mountains.
The town of Crozet had grown up to house the workers who built the tunnel (before dynamite, it should be noted), he said.
So there was our mid-afternoon history lesson.
Our pourer asked where we were from and what we were doing and upon hearing our itinerary, observed, "Peaches, wine and food. Sounds like a perfect goof-off day."
It got even better when we left King Family to head into Charlottesville, passing through not one but two rainbows, one so low it appeared to be coming out of a nearby grove of trees.
We followed the end of the rainbow to Star Hill Park for happy hour on a blanket-covered bench in a deserted grassy field.
And while there were munchies, it soon became clear that our farm labor activities required more sustenance, so we drove to the downtown mall.
Agreeing to make one full loop of the mall before choosing a dinner destination, we took our time looking in shop windows and at menus before deciding on Citizen Burger Bar.
Honestly, it was as simple as I liked the way their hours were written on the white brick wall outside.
Sometimes, I'm so easy.
But I must have been hungry, too, because I was willing to overlook one of my pet peeves, the annoying four screens over the bar.
And that was before I heard that the music was all grunge, all the time, with only one side trip to Counting Crows.
Veritas sauvignon blanc allowed us to keep drinking local.
A wedge salad was notable for its Neuske's bacon and roasted garlic cloves.
Unlike at Burger Bach where the choices are "pink" and "not pink," here we had those two options plus "red."
And since it was grass-fed beef, we went red.
The Citizen burger had Gruyere cheese, black onion, rosemary aioli, iceberg and tomato on a brioche bun and getting it "red" had been the right call.
By the time the music got to Screaming Trees, we were ready to go foraging on the mall for dessert.
Splendora's Gelato lured us in and I went all Italian all the time with two scoops, one of Bacio (chocolate hazelnut crunch) and one of Stracciatella (dark chocolate flakes in cream).
If it sounds like a lot of butterfat, it was, but some people got a whopping four scoops, so I could have been far more indulgent and fit right in.
Driving home with the sky full of stars, so much easier to see so far out, was the perfect ending to a day where the hardest thing we'd done was pull fruit off of low-hanging branches.
There's a metaphor there, but I'll leave that for the non-goof-offs to figure out.
Not that I need other people's approval, but he offered it up unsolicited.
Anyway, "pretty good" is probably in the eye of the beholder, but on a hot Monday, it's hard to beat a drive to Charlottesville for an easy escape plan.
Stop #1 was Chiles Peach Orchard, passing Beagle Gap (causing me to think of my dearly departed beagle) on the winding country road that led to the orchard.
Between the cloud cover and a light breeze, it was actually a fine day to pick peaches, so we started in the main orchard where the fruit of yellow peaches was more accurately a reddish blush-color.
We agreed that the view of the rows of trees leading up and over the hill was positively Italian looking.
The trees were loaded and, with no one else in sight, we began picking fruit, intending to use it to make peach ice cream once it ripens.
It's a no-brainer; I've seen grown men go weak at the knees at the mention of peach ice cream.
Next we walked up the road a bit to the orchard where we could pick donut peaches, those lovely heirloom varieties that, to quote a peach-lover, "are smaller and cost more but are totally worth it."
Even with my peach allergy which limits how many and how often I can eat them, I'll still eat a ripe donut peach this time of year.
What's a swollen tongue and an itchy mouth when compared to the sublime taste of a ripe peach in July?
By the time we finished picking, we had nearly ten pounds of fruit and a light rain had begun so we got ourselves back to the Chile's store for cover.
Next thing we knew, it was starting to thunder over the mountaintop, so we decided to stay put and enjoy a fresh peach milkshake on the store's porch.
Sitting at a picnic table under an umbrella facing the mountains drinking peaches and cream and watching a train thread its way through the mountainous track in a steadily-falling rain is top-notch goofing off.
Eventually, we made our way to the car and set our sights on nearby King Family Winery, no easy task in what became a driving rain.
After a short roadside stop to wait out the worst of the thunderstorm, we made it to King just as another storm began pounding the polo fields.
It didn't bother us. We'd wanted to get some wine anyway (Crose Rose and Loreley), so we decided to do a tasting in the meantime.
Since our last visit for a polo match in early June, the new Viognier and Chardonnay had been released, thus providing the justification for a thorough tasting.
As a bonus, our pourer had a just-opened bottle of the 2009 Petit Verdot which he deigned to share with us.
I know it's not a grape everyone can get into, but it suits me in that way that Pinotage or Norton does.
We mentioned the train we'd just seen at the orchard and were surprised when he said he knew nothing of any nearby trains.
What? We'd been there for an afternoon and we knew about them. How could he not?
Luckily another employee walked out then and overheard us.
And he had the scoop on trains in the area.
Seems that one Claudius Crozet had been responsible for engineering the tunnels through the Blue Ridge to allow trains to cross the mountains.
The town of Crozet had grown up to house the workers who built the tunnel (before dynamite, it should be noted), he said.
So there was our mid-afternoon history lesson.
Our pourer asked where we were from and what we were doing and upon hearing our itinerary, observed, "Peaches, wine and food. Sounds like a perfect goof-off day."
It got even better when we left King Family to head into Charlottesville, passing through not one but two rainbows, one so low it appeared to be coming out of a nearby grove of trees.
We followed the end of the rainbow to Star Hill Park for happy hour on a blanket-covered bench in a deserted grassy field.
And while there were munchies, it soon became clear that our farm labor activities required more sustenance, so we drove to the downtown mall.
Agreeing to make one full loop of the mall before choosing a dinner destination, we took our time looking in shop windows and at menus before deciding on Citizen Burger Bar.
Honestly, it was as simple as I liked the way their hours were written on the white brick wall outside.
Sometimes, I'm so easy.
But I must have been hungry, too, because I was willing to overlook one of my pet peeves, the annoying four screens over the bar.
And that was before I heard that the music was all grunge, all the time, with only one side trip to Counting Crows.
Veritas sauvignon blanc allowed us to keep drinking local.
A wedge salad was notable for its Neuske's bacon and roasted garlic cloves.
Unlike at Burger Bach where the choices are "pink" and "not pink," here we had those two options plus "red."
And since it was grass-fed beef, we went red.
The Citizen burger had Gruyere cheese, black onion, rosemary aioli, iceberg and tomato on a brioche bun and getting it "red" had been the right call.
By the time the music got to Screaming Trees, we were ready to go foraging on the mall for dessert.
Splendora's Gelato lured us in and I went all Italian all the time with two scoops, one of Bacio (chocolate hazelnut crunch) and one of Stracciatella (dark chocolate flakes in cream).
If it sounds like a lot of butterfat, it was, but some people got a whopping four scoops, so I could have been far more indulgent and fit right in.
Driving home with the sky full of stars, so much easier to see so far out, was the perfect ending to a day where the hardest thing we'd done was pull fruit off of low-hanging branches.
There's a metaphor there, but I'll leave that for the non-goof-offs to figure out.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Minor Key with Straw Hat
I am not and never have been a weather wimp.
So, despite a forecast of sunny and 90 degrees, I found a willing partner to go to King Family Winery for a polo match on Sunday afternoon.
Although we arrived after the match had begun, we found an ideal spot under the shade of a large tree not far from the stables.
Yes, there was a trio already in place under the tree, but they gave us permission to join.
With a view of the action, the shade of the tree, the breeze across the field and a picnic, we were almost all set.
A detour to the tasting room yielded a bottle of Crose, a refreshing rose tasting of grapefruit and cranberry in an ice-filled bucket, and finally we wanted for nothing.
With the satisfying sound of horse hooves on the field, we opened our picnic and immediately had a guest.
The winery's corgi showed up the second I unwrapped a baguette with soprasetta on it.
And not just showed up, but sat so close that its hair tickled my bare legs.
Soon a couple with a beagle walked by and the girl called, "Love your dog!" as if this rogue corgi was mine.
I told her I was just going to say how much I liked her beagle.
Later a guy walked over to pet "my" corgi and I had to correct him, too.
I'm a beagle person, not a corgi person, just for the record. Can't you tell just by looking at me?
Polo has a certain thrilling aspect because of the presence of large animals galloping towards the edge of the field where small people sit.
But it's also because of the sense of history that comes with polo playing, as I'd been reminded more than once at the "Maharaja" exhibit yesterday.
I'm just happy somebody's playing polo regularly so I can watch the pageantry. Who wins is of no real interest to me.
Oh, this is a competition and not just spectacle?
Once the match ended, the field was fair game for the visitors so soccer balls and kites came out.
I'll take kite-flying at the beach over kite-flying anywhere else, but I have to admit they were pretty in the sky against the nearby mountains.
Many people bolted the moment the match ended, but we were not among them.
Our picnic lunch took some time to eat and who wants to rush through a bottle of rose, even when it is ridiculously quaffable on a warm day?
Once it got to be close to winery-closing time, though, we finally packed up and headed east for music.
Tonight was the first of the Fan's Meadow Park concerts (I try to make them every year), so we arrived early enough to secure a partially shaded bench for the show, no easy feat given the setting sun and the park's western orientation.
But there is a distinct pleasure to early evening summer sun. A little sweat should be par for the course in mid-June.
The park was especially pretty tonight because of the presence of dozens of paper cranes, origami-folded constructs of various pastel colors, hanging from trees and in bushes.
Young families with children were everywhere and Susan Greenbaum was playing a mix of covers and originals.
Beginning with Paul Simon, she then did a song called "Fireworks," her own "Everything But You" and even some Norah Jones.
"As long as I'm playing songs in minor keys," she said before doing a fine cover of Sting's "Fragile," and satisfying us minor key lovers.
Greenbaum reminded us from the stage that there was free ice cream courtesy of the Fan District Association and she only had to tell us once before we high-tailed it over to score some.
I chose a cone of chocolate royale and my companion got strawberry which we enjoyed back on our bench.
When we finally went to leave, we heard our names being called.
Going in to Garnett's was a friend and her beau, so we crossed the street to join them on the colorful park chairs outside the restaurant.
We heard stories of kayaking, temper tantrums (no, they don't have kids) and scalpings before he started dropping hints about pie.
Once his words sunk in and we all agreed that wine and pie were just through the nearby blue door, we got up to get some.
"I made that happen," he said under his breath, in a most satisfied tone.
And he had.
Companion and I had just had ice cream, so we weren't particularly thinking of pie then, but within moments, there was a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris on the table and pear with mixed berry pie and coconut cream pie followed in short order.
Pie and wine put us all in mind of a future time when we don't have to do anything we don't want to do.
Someone mentioned running a bed and breakfast because of the amount of free time that would allow for pie at any given moment.
Call me lucky, but I'm pretty open to pie (and wine) just about any time already.
And if they present themselves on a sunny day with the dust of the polo field and the sweat of a warm picnic already on me, all the better.
Only a weather wimp would hold that against me.
So, despite a forecast of sunny and 90 degrees, I found a willing partner to go to King Family Winery for a polo match on Sunday afternoon.
Although we arrived after the match had begun, we found an ideal spot under the shade of a large tree not far from the stables.
Yes, there was a trio already in place under the tree, but they gave us permission to join.
With a view of the action, the shade of the tree, the breeze across the field and a picnic, we were almost all set.
A detour to the tasting room yielded a bottle of Crose, a refreshing rose tasting of grapefruit and cranberry in an ice-filled bucket, and finally we wanted for nothing.
With the satisfying sound of horse hooves on the field, we opened our picnic and immediately had a guest.
The winery's corgi showed up the second I unwrapped a baguette with soprasetta on it.
And not just showed up, but sat so close that its hair tickled my bare legs.
Soon a couple with a beagle walked by and the girl called, "Love your dog!" as if this rogue corgi was mine.
I told her I was just going to say how much I liked her beagle.
Later a guy walked over to pet "my" corgi and I had to correct him, too.
I'm a beagle person, not a corgi person, just for the record. Can't you tell just by looking at me?
Polo has a certain thrilling aspect because of the presence of large animals galloping towards the edge of the field where small people sit.
But it's also because of the sense of history that comes with polo playing, as I'd been reminded more than once at the "Maharaja" exhibit yesterday.
I'm just happy somebody's playing polo regularly so I can watch the pageantry. Who wins is of no real interest to me.
Oh, this is a competition and not just spectacle?
Once the match ended, the field was fair game for the visitors so soccer balls and kites came out.
I'll take kite-flying at the beach over kite-flying anywhere else, but I have to admit they were pretty in the sky against the nearby mountains.
Many people bolted the moment the match ended, but we were not among them.
Our picnic lunch took some time to eat and who wants to rush through a bottle of rose, even when it is ridiculously quaffable on a warm day?
Once it got to be close to winery-closing time, though, we finally packed up and headed east for music.
Tonight was the first of the Fan's Meadow Park concerts (I try to make them every year), so we arrived early enough to secure a partially shaded bench for the show, no easy feat given the setting sun and the park's western orientation.
But there is a distinct pleasure to early evening summer sun. A little sweat should be par for the course in mid-June.
The park was especially pretty tonight because of the presence of dozens of paper cranes, origami-folded constructs of various pastel colors, hanging from trees and in bushes.
Young families with children were everywhere and Susan Greenbaum was playing a mix of covers and originals.
Beginning with Paul Simon, she then did a song called "Fireworks," her own "Everything But You" and even some Norah Jones.
"As long as I'm playing songs in minor keys," she said before doing a fine cover of Sting's "Fragile," and satisfying us minor key lovers.
Greenbaum reminded us from the stage that there was free ice cream courtesy of the Fan District Association and she only had to tell us once before we high-tailed it over to score some.
I chose a cone of chocolate royale and my companion got strawberry which we enjoyed back on our bench.
When we finally went to leave, we heard our names being called.
Going in to Garnett's was a friend and her beau, so we crossed the street to join them on the colorful park chairs outside the restaurant.
We heard stories of kayaking, temper tantrums (no, they don't have kids) and scalpings before he started dropping hints about pie.
Once his words sunk in and we all agreed that wine and pie were just through the nearby blue door, we got up to get some.
"I made that happen," he said under his breath, in a most satisfied tone.
And he had.
Companion and I had just had ice cream, so we weren't particularly thinking of pie then, but within moments, there was a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris on the table and pear with mixed berry pie and coconut cream pie followed in short order.
Pie and wine put us all in mind of a future time when we don't have to do anything we don't want to do.
Someone mentioned running a bed and breakfast because of the amount of free time that would allow for pie at any given moment.
Call me lucky, but I'm pretty open to pie (and wine) just about any time already.
And if they present themselves on a sunny day with the dust of the polo field and the sweat of a warm picnic already on me, all the better.
Only a weather wimp would hold that against me.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Following the First Lady
It was a field trip, but not like the ones of youth.
There was no permission slip to get signed. We didn't have to pack a lunch. And none of what we saw and learned today will show up on a quiz.
That said, we did have to be at the bus at 8 a.m., which is awfully early for people who go to bed late.
But the payoff was completely worth it; today's field trip was to three wineries in the Monticello wine region.
Accompanying us in a separate vehicle was the First Lady of Virginia.
It was better that way; we didn't have to be on our best behavior.
Our charming chauffeur, who referred to himself as Sir Richard (having been dubbed so by the Queen of England when she visited and he drove her around for Jamestown's 400th), was the best kind of designated driver.
Funny, careful and sober. He even told us what the Queen carries in her purse.
Arriving at King Family Winery to fog hanging over the mountaintops, I watched horses trotting around the polo field while the First Lady unveiled the new wine trail markers that will be put up around the state.
"Welcome to the Monticello American Viticulture Area," the large brown sign proclaimed.
Welcome indeed. Glad to be here.
Moving from the damp and cool outside air to the tasting room, I immediately sought the warmth of the enormous fireplace.
Once my bones had been warmed, I joined the rest of my group to taste through King Family's wines.
The most interesting part of what I learned from the French-born winemaker, Mattieu Finot, was that Petit Verdot is considered more masculine a grape and Merlot more feminine.
I found it not the least surprising that sex entered into winemaking.
Back on the bus, our next stop was Trump Winery, where none other than Patricia Kluge met our bus and shook our hands in greeting as we disembarked.
Hers is surely the richest (or at least formerly richest) hand I've ever shaken.
We were each handed a glass of Blanc de Blanc to refresh us after the brief trip from King Family.
She directed us to the nearby front garden where a long table for 26 had been set.
Taking her place in the center of the table across from the First Lady, Kluge stood and talked about the changes since Trump bought the winery at auction.
"Trump is big on patios," she laughed, explaining the concrete slab that the table rested on surrounded by grass. "So we now have patios everywhere."
It was actually a lovely little patio set among very tall trees and surrounded by the kind of velvety grass that mere mortals can rarely grow in their own yards.
She shared how she and Trump had met for barely three seconds when he announced, "I'll take it!"
In her opinion, she said, "We will eventually be known as a champagne house."
Soon plates of curried chicken salad were delivered to each of us and half glasses of Albemarle Sauvignon Blanc poured to accompany it..
That was followed by the classic-style Albemarle Rose, although I saw more than a couple of glasses of the gorgeous pink colored wine still sitting there at the end of the meal.
It seemed a shame to waste such a lovely Rose on a sunny day in the mountains, but then my glass held no pink.
By the time we'd tasted the Albemarle Simply Red, a medium-bodied Bordeaux-style blend, dessert was arriving.
Plates of mini-cupcakes benefited from glasses of Cru, the fortified wine that Kluge sees as their next star.
Because the cupcakes were small, some of us took that as a sign that we should taste as many as possible.
With choices of pistachio, yellow with dark chocolate icing, carrot with cream cheese icing, chocolate with coffee icing and red velvet, I opted for three of the five.
I might have even had two each of my two favorite flavors, figuring that there's no telling when next I'll be in the front garden of a winery having dessert and Cru.
Kluge offered one final toast to the First Lady, saying, "You are the first First Lady who really gives a damn about Virginia wine."
And on that note, we returned to the bus for the two-minute ride to Blenheim Winery, owned by a different kind of rich person, Dave Matthews.
There the winemaker, Kirsty Harmon, introduced herself, her Tasting Room manager Andrew ("He's our Tweeting Manager. He was keeping tabs on you at Trump. We knew when you were having cupcakes") and her Vineyard Manager, Jonas.
Once the first wine was poured, we were told to "choose your own adventure."
That meant we could stay and taste and digest our lunch. We could follow Kirsty for a winery tour or tramp behind Jonas in the vineyards.
Friend and I opted for the German-accented Jonas and a chance to see the vines up close.
He showed us Petit Verdot rows and Chardonnay rows and his passion for planting, trimming, training and in general growing grapes was evident.
Smiling broadly, he admitted, "It's a great place to work. I'm amazed every day."
I would be, too, except that I could never stand to live so far outside the city. Still, there's no denying it's a great place to visit.
We headed back out of the fields to finish the tasting and, as is traditional on field trips, Friend made a few purchases with which to remember our trip.
Bottles of wine, a Blenheim t-shirt and chocolates (four of which we devoured the moment we got back on the bus) ensured that she'd have souvenirs of our adventure.
I couldn't afford such an expenditure, but I had plenty of satisfying memories bouncing around in my head.
Foggy mountains in the morning. A roaring fire on the back of my cold legs. A sunny luncheon in the grass. Endless rows of the tiniest grape clusters imaginable.
After napping on the bus on the way home, I could practically write a paper: "How I Spent My Field Trip."
What won't be included will be the picture my friend took of me sound asleep against the bus window.
No doubt drooling.
Some visuals would only detract from the memories of a very fine field trip.
There was no permission slip to get signed. We didn't have to pack a lunch. And none of what we saw and learned today will show up on a quiz.
That said, we did have to be at the bus at 8 a.m., which is awfully early for people who go to bed late.
But the payoff was completely worth it; today's field trip was to three wineries in the Monticello wine region.
Accompanying us in a separate vehicle was the First Lady of Virginia.
It was better that way; we didn't have to be on our best behavior.
Our charming chauffeur, who referred to himself as Sir Richard (having been dubbed so by the Queen of England when she visited and he drove her around for Jamestown's 400th), was the best kind of designated driver.
Funny, careful and sober. He even told us what the Queen carries in her purse.
Arriving at King Family Winery to fog hanging over the mountaintops, I watched horses trotting around the polo field while the First Lady unveiled the new wine trail markers that will be put up around the state.
"Welcome to the Monticello American Viticulture Area," the large brown sign proclaimed.
Welcome indeed. Glad to be here.
Moving from the damp and cool outside air to the tasting room, I immediately sought the warmth of the enormous fireplace.
Once my bones had been warmed, I joined the rest of my group to taste through King Family's wines.
The most interesting part of what I learned from the French-born winemaker, Mattieu Finot, was that Petit Verdot is considered more masculine a grape and Merlot more feminine.
I found it not the least surprising that sex entered into winemaking.
Back on the bus, our next stop was Trump Winery, where none other than Patricia Kluge met our bus and shook our hands in greeting as we disembarked.
Hers is surely the richest (or at least formerly richest) hand I've ever shaken.
We were each handed a glass of Blanc de Blanc to refresh us after the brief trip from King Family.
She directed us to the nearby front garden where a long table for 26 had been set.
Taking her place in the center of the table across from the First Lady, Kluge stood and talked about the changes since Trump bought the winery at auction.
"Trump is big on patios," she laughed, explaining the concrete slab that the table rested on surrounded by grass. "So we now have patios everywhere."
It was actually a lovely little patio set among very tall trees and surrounded by the kind of velvety grass that mere mortals can rarely grow in their own yards.
She shared how she and Trump had met for barely three seconds when he announced, "I'll take it!"
In her opinion, she said, "We will eventually be known as a champagne house."
Soon plates of curried chicken salad were delivered to each of us and half glasses of Albemarle Sauvignon Blanc poured to accompany it..
That was followed by the classic-style Albemarle Rose, although I saw more than a couple of glasses of the gorgeous pink colored wine still sitting there at the end of the meal.
It seemed a shame to waste such a lovely Rose on a sunny day in the mountains, but then my glass held no pink.
By the time we'd tasted the Albemarle Simply Red, a medium-bodied Bordeaux-style blend, dessert was arriving.
Plates of mini-cupcakes benefited from glasses of Cru, the fortified wine that Kluge sees as their next star.
Because the cupcakes were small, some of us took that as a sign that we should taste as many as possible.
With choices of pistachio, yellow with dark chocolate icing, carrot with cream cheese icing, chocolate with coffee icing and red velvet, I opted for three of the five.
I might have even had two each of my two favorite flavors, figuring that there's no telling when next I'll be in the front garden of a winery having dessert and Cru.
Kluge offered one final toast to the First Lady, saying, "You are the first First Lady who really gives a damn about Virginia wine."
And on that note, we returned to the bus for the two-minute ride to Blenheim Winery, owned by a different kind of rich person, Dave Matthews.
There the winemaker, Kirsty Harmon, introduced herself, her Tasting Room manager Andrew ("He's our Tweeting Manager. He was keeping tabs on you at Trump. We knew when you were having cupcakes") and her Vineyard Manager, Jonas.
Once the first wine was poured, we were told to "choose your own adventure."
That meant we could stay and taste and digest our lunch. We could follow Kirsty for a winery tour or tramp behind Jonas in the vineyards.
Friend and I opted for the German-accented Jonas and a chance to see the vines up close.
He showed us Petit Verdot rows and Chardonnay rows and his passion for planting, trimming, training and in general growing grapes was evident.
Smiling broadly, he admitted, "It's a great place to work. I'm amazed every day."
I would be, too, except that I could never stand to live so far outside the city. Still, there's no denying it's a great place to visit.
We headed back out of the fields to finish the tasting and, as is traditional on field trips, Friend made a few purchases with which to remember our trip.
Bottles of wine, a Blenheim t-shirt and chocolates (four of which we devoured the moment we got back on the bus) ensured that she'd have souvenirs of our adventure.
I couldn't afford such an expenditure, but I had plenty of satisfying memories bouncing around in my head.
Foggy mountains in the morning. A roaring fire on the back of my cold legs. A sunny luncheon in the grass. Endless rows of the tiniest grape clusters imaginable.
After napping on the bus on the way home, I could practically write a paper: "How I Spent My Field Trip."
What won't be included will be the picture my friend took of me sound asleep against the bus window.
No doubt drooling.
Some visuals would only detract from the memories of a very fine field trip.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Three Patios, No Effort
In my family, we call this a goof off day.
In other words, we didn't have to do anything, so we spent the day doing whatever we wanted.
A road trip took us west, providing time to debate such issues as breaking the law (some people seem to think keeping up with the flow of traffic negates speed limit signs while I beg to differ) and the purpose of artistic endeavor (I don't believe creativity must be shared in order to be considered valid).
But that's what the car ride was for, to loosen our jaws before a little winery hopping.
With nary a miscalculation, we pulled into Pollak Vineyards where an affable guy was eager to pour for us.
We were soon joined by a couple and our pourer started telling them what a fertile area it was for those who enjoy tasting.
"We've got quite the happy liquid area out here," he said, detailing cideries, breweries, wineries and distilleries.
No doubt Thomas Jefferson would be proud. Or tipsy.
The bold and dark 2009 Petit Verdot was my favorite, while my companion had a tough time transitioning from the whites to the reds.
After some wine purchasing, we settled on the patio, admiring the bucolic view of water and mountains.
Next stop: King Family Vineyards.
And once again my endless talking paid off.
Tasting the 2011 Roseland, a blend of chardonnay and viognier, I commented on the wine's floral nose, a clear indication that the 40% of viognier was making its presence known.
"Oh, so you know something about wine," our pourer exclaimed. "Well, since you like viognier, I'll give you a treat."
Despite not being available for tasting due to extremely limited quantities, she went to the back and returned with a barely started bottle of the 2010 Viognier.
The honeysuckle nose and hints of peach made this mouth-filling wine a must-have to take home.
The Crose Rose, made of 100% merlot, was an easy drinking porch or picnic wine that would go down like water on a warm day.
We met the other people tasting, including two Scottish couples and another who split their time between Northern Virginia and a local town.
Explaining their local digs, she said, "We tell visitors to take a left at the silo and another left at the washing machine. No, really."
And while that sounds charmingly scenic and all, I'd slit my wrists living out so far from everything.
I'm more the visit the sticks occasionally type.
Our pourer got inquisitive, asking me what I did and about my life in general. It sort of came out of the blue.
"I want to be you," she said randomly. "I want your life." My guess would be it had something to do with her husband not taking her our very often, a fact she admitted.
We finished with the 2010 Loreley that had brought us to King Family in the first place because I knew it would appeal to my fellow wine taster.
I'm not even going to describe the look on his face after tasting Loreley's tangerine peel and peach cobbler notes.
So we got glasses of that to take to the patio with a mini picnic of a couple of cheeses to enjoy in the sunshine
As we sat facing the polo field, the stables and the mountain.
Just another goof off afternoon in Crozet.
When we finally left with viognier and Loreley in hand, it was only because the winery's patio was shutting down.
A leisurely drive to Charlottesville put us at Mas at the perfect moment.
We initially took seats at the bar and quickly recalculated, moving outside to the patio, our third of the day.
There wasn't another soul out there with us when we sat down and we were just fine with that.
It lasted less than five minutes and within fifteen, every table was taken.
As I've been reminded on several momentous occasions in my life, it's all about the timing.
I was especially enamored of a patio-sitter's t-shirt, which proclaimed, "Loud amps save lives."
Amen to that.
We were getting the benefit of the fading sun shining directly on us, so another rose seemed in order, although admittedly it wasn't going to be Virginian at Mas.
We went Lebanese instead, ordering the 2009 Chateau Musar Rose, which suited me just fine with the late sun warming my back.
To follow up our extensive cheese course, we had the bacon-wrapped dates (cliched, I know, but so good), empanadas of mushrooms, artichokes, chevre and garlic in a flaky pastry crust and thick-sliced Chorizo.
Ignoring the gaggle of chattering girls at the next table (my companion claims he has learned to tune out that frequency, but I don't have that gift), I got more wine and we decided to share a dessert before hitting the road.
Being a sucker for a good story, I wanted the dark, bitter dense chocolate mousse because it was based on the Sephardic tradition of using olive oil from Andalusia instead of dairy.
It was incredibly dark and rich, but the oil gave the finish a different mouth feel than dairy would have.
Which was only half as big a deal as upholding a Sephardic tradition of which I'd been completely unaware.
By the time we rolled back into Richmond, it was time to go to Ipanema for another dessert, more wine, and the turnstyle stylings of the Blood Brothers.
Nothing finishes off a goof-off day quite like vintage 60s and 70s music.
Tonight's was right on point, pulling more heavily from R & B than the last couple times, delivering bass lines you could feel from within.
The place was also far more packed than previous nights where my two favorite modsters crank up the energy in the room to a fever-perfect pitch.
With glasses of Primitivo (almost time to let that grape go until cooler weather returns) and a coconut creme brulee on order, we commandeered the bench for best listening and viewing position.
The server, a friend, arrived with our dessert and asked if we wanted to move to a table to more easily enjoy it.
I told her we'd be fine sharing it on the bench and asked if she'd ever seen me unable to finish a dessert in all the years she's known me.
Pausing, she smiled. "Now that I think about it, no, I can't. You always eat all your dessert."
Precisely.
Which we proceeded to do while listening to the distinctive sound of music meant to be heard on vinyl.
The Blood Brothers are as dedicated to an era and sound as they are to only playing vinyl.
BB Jamie was saying that he tracks down these great songs on vinyl, only to be unable to get them because the 45 is $70.
Even without some of those rarities, what we heard was shake your booty-worthy and as ideal an ending to a goof off day as anyone could have hoped for.
I'm going to have to agree with our pourer's earlier assessment.
I know how lucky I am to be me.
In other words, we didn't have to do anything, so we spent the day doing whatever we wanted.
A road trip took us west, providing time to debate such issues as breaking the law (some people seem to think keeping up with the flow of traffic negates speed limit signs while I beg to differ) and the purpose of artistic endeavor (I don't believe creativity must be shared in order to be considered valid).
But that's what the car ride was for, to loosen our jaws before a little winery hopping.
With nary a miscalculation, we pulled into Pollak Vineyards where an affable guy was eager to pour for us.
We were soon joined by a couple and our pourer started telling them what a fertile area it was for those who enjoy tasting.
"We've got quite the happy liquid area out here," he said, detailing cideries, breweries, wineries and distilleries.
No doubt Thomas Jefferson would be proud. Or tipsy.
The bold and dark 2009 Petit Verdot was my favorite, while my companion had a tough time transitioning from the whites to the reds.
After some wine purchasing, we settled on the patio, admiring the bucolic view of water and mountains.
Next stop: King Family Vineyards.
And once again my endless talking paid off.
Tasting the 2011 Roseland, a blend of chardonnay and viognier, I commented on the wine's floral nose, a clear indication that the 40% of viognier was making its presence known.
"Oh, so you know something about wine," our pourer exclaimed. "Well, since you like viognier, I'll give you a treat."
Despite not being available for tasting due to extremely limited quantities, she went to the back and returned with a barely started bottle of the 2010 Viognier.
The honeysuckle nose and hints of peach made this mouth-filling wine a must-have to take home.
The Crose Rose, made of 100% merlot, was an easy drinking porch or picnic wine that would go down like water on a warm day.
We met the other people tasting, including two Scottish couples and another who split their time between Northern Virginia and a local town.
Explaining their local digs, she said, "We tell visitors to take a left at the silo and another left at the washing machine. No, really."
And while that sounds charmingly scenic and all, I'd slit my wrists living out so far from everything.
I'm more the visit the sticks occasionally type.
Our pourer got inquisitive, asking me what I did and about my life in general. It sort of came out of the blue.
"I want to be you," she said randomly. "I want your life." My guess would be it had something to do with her husband not taking her our very often, a fact she admitted.
We finished with the 2010 Loreley that had brought us to King Family in the first place because I knew it would appeal to my fellow wine taster.
I'm not even going to describe the look on his face after tasting Loreley's tangerine peel and peach cobbler notes.
So we got glasses of that to take to the patio with a mini picnic of a couple of cheeses to enjoy in the sunshine
As we sat facing the polo field, the stables and the mountain.
Just another goof off afternoon in Crozet.
When we finally left with viognier and Loreley in hand, it was only because the winery's patio was shutting down.
A leisurely drive to Charlottesville put us at Mas at the perfect moment.
We initially took seats at the bar and quickly recalculated, moving outside to the patio, our third of the day.
There wasn't another soul out there with us when we sat down and we were just fine with that.
It lasted less than five minutes and within fifteen, every table was taken.
As I've been reminded on several momentous occasions in my life, it's all about the timing.
I was especially enamored of a patio-sitter's t-shirt, which proclaimed, "Loud amps save lives."
Amen to that.
We were getting the benefit of the fading sun shining directly on us, so another rose seemed in order, although admittedly it wasn't going to be Virginian at Mas.
We went Lebanese instead, ordering the 2009 Chateau Musar Rose, which suited me just fine with the late sun warming my back.
To follow up our extensive cheese course, we had the bacon-wrapped dates (cliched, I know, but so good), empanadas of mushrooms, artichokes, chevre and garlic in a flaky pastry crust and thick-sliced Chorizo.
Ignoring the gaggle of chattering girls at the next table (my companion claims he has learned to tune out that frequency, but I don't have that gift), I got more wine and we decided to share a dessert before hitting the road.
Being a sucker for a good story, I wanted the dark, bitter dense chocolate mousse because it was based on the Sephardic tradition of using olive oil from Andalusia instead of dairy.
It was incredibly dark and rich, but the oil gave the finish a different mouth feel than dairy would have.
Which was only half as big a deal as upholding a Sephardic tradition of which I'd been completely unaware.
By the time we rolled back into Richmond, it was time to go to Ipanema for another dessert, more wine, and the turnstyle stylings of the Blood Brothers.
Nothing finishes off a goof-off day quite like vintage 60s and 70s music.
Tonight's was right on point, pulling more heavily from R & B than the last couple times, delivering bass lines you could feel from within.
The place was also far more packed than previous nights where my two favorite modsters crank up the energy in the room to a fever-perfect pitch.
With glasses of Primitivo (almost time to let that grape go until cooler weather returns) and a coconut creme brulee on order, we commandeered the bench for best listening and viewing position.
The server, a friend, arrived with our dessert and asked if we wanted to move to a table to more easily enjoy it.
I told her we'd be fine sharing it on the bench and asked if she'd ever seen me unable to finish a dessert in all the years she's known me.
Pausing, she smiled. "Now that I think about it, no, I can't. You always eat all your dessert."
Precisely.
Which we proceeded to do while listening to the distinctive sound of music meant to be heard on vinyl.
The Blood Brothers are as dedicated to an era and sound as they are to only playing vinyl.
BB Jamie was saying that he tracks down these great songs on vinyl, only to be unable to get them because the 45 is $70.
Even without some of those rarities, what we heard was shake your booty-worthy and as ideal an ending to a goof off day as anyone could have hoped for.
I'm going to have to agree with our pourer's earlier assessment.
I know how lucky I am to be me.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tasting Like a Girl
Sometimes it's not where you go, but just that you're getting away.
A friend was in need of a road trip and sent me a list of options (National Zoo, Natural History Museum, river, Southern MD for crabs, and on and on), telling me to choose our destination.
I chose wineries and dinner in Charlottesville and we set off shortly after mid-day with ham biscuits and cookies in the cooler.
The bitch of it was that we hit a nearly one hour back-up twenty minutes outside of C-ville. So we sat, munched and chatted while waiting for the traffic to merge and move.
The delay changed our plans and we began our odyssey at King Family Vineyards, a stunning location from the moment we pulled in.
Bellying up to the tasting bar, we agreed to taste whatever they were pouring; sadly, that did not include the Cab Franc or Petite Verdot, two of my favorite grapes.
I liked the Crose' Rose' done in the Provence style, and the 2009 Meritage done in a Bordeaux style, but surprisingly, my/our favorite was the Loreley, a 2009 dessert wine.
Not to gush, but this "straw wine" (rather than an ice wine), a blend of Viognier and Petit Manseng, had to be one of the most delicately beautiful wines I've ever tasted.
Before I could self-edit, I described it as, "Tasting like a girl," and both our pourer and my companion agreed enthusiastically that that was a perfect description.
Tasting of tangerine, peach and gingerbread, it had the most beautiful aroma and a creamy mouth feel, but none of the excessive sugar you'd expect.
We were so impressed with it that we got two glasses of it and went outside to find a shaded table and enjoy it at our leisure.
King Family has a beautiful piece of property at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and we watched horses on the polo field as we sipped (they have weekly polo matches there on Sunday) and chatted.
A glass apiece was not sufficient, however, and we got two bottles so we could each have access to this creamy delight at home.
From there we backtracked across C-ville to Keswick Vineyards to see what they had to offer.
Their Italian grape Verdejo impressed us greatly with its drinkability and grassy notes. It was the best kind of summer wine.
The 2009 Petite Verdot had a big nose smelling of violets and with good tannins. I could see why it had won a Silver at the Virginia Governor's Cup.
But once again, we were blown away by their dessert offering, the 2009 Nektar, a dessert wine of 100% Viognier.
Neither of us are particularly inclined to dessert wines, but this high alcohol (14%) and high sugar (10%) beauty tasted like liquid apricots. Two more bottles were purchased, along with some Verdejo,
In spite of ourselves, we had become dessert wine fiends for a day and we had no idea what that was about.
While our charming pourer was having us taste Chocolate/Norton sauce over cookies (divine, really, but then I've always been a fan of the Norton grape), it occurred to me that he could be of assistance in our dinner plans.
We'd planned to return to C-ville for dinner, but I began to think that we were actually closer to Gordonsville. Correct, he confirmed. That settled it.
So it was that we went to the charming French bistro Pomme for dinner, a place I hadn't been in over five years, despite having had a superb meal there last time.
We were given the front window seat and our young server Ben was eager to be of assistance.
I asked for a glass of Ma Couleur Cotes de Provence Rose after teasing him about the few Virginia wines on the list. My friend settled on a Cotes de Rhone.
Young Ben told us the specials and there was no resisting the fish terrine, made with monkfish, sole, shrimp, scallops and red and yellow peppers with a basil aioli. I am a complete sucker for a seafood terrine.
And it was delightful, creamy ad tasting of the sea with big chunks of peppers and a house-made mayonnaise drizzled over the whole slice.
With some crusty bread, it made for a delicacy of a first course.
Ben kept trying to move us along and we kept taking our time, assuring him that we had no place to be, which seemed to perplex him.
We ordered the Hugl Gruner Veltliner to give him something to do and he ended up abdicating this responsibility to someone else. Apparently locating Austrian wine was beyond him.
House salads followed next, elevated by the soft butter lettuces and the chopped beets. They were so perfectly dressed that it led to a discussion of the scourge of overdressed restaurant salads.
The two of us negotiated about entrees, finally settling on the classic fillet de sole St. Germain (lightly breaded sole with Meuniere butter) and one of the evening's specials, fillet Mignon with lobster.
We shared these two dishes, admiring the perfection of the sole and wishing the fillet had been a tad more rare. The lobster meat was sweet and plentiful.
Eventually we stopped eating to save room for dessert, although they were out of two of their best.
The manager stopped by to pour us more wine and I commented to him on the absence of a good Virginia dessert wine on their list.
As it turned out, they were only temporarily out of the Loreley and would soon have it back on the dessert wine listing. Their stock grew hugely in our eyes when we heard this.
Despite the holes in the dessert menu, we made do with a special, Edelweiss cake (white chocolate and raspberry cake), and the perennial standby, chocolate lava cake.
The Edelweiss was the star, impressing my friend (who had visited Austria and come back desolate about dessert here) and even me, the white chocolate hater.
My friend had a coffee since he had to drive back, but being the considerate and thoughtful friend that he is, he chose a route to please me.
Instead of the obvious I-64, we came back on a secondary road, Route 33, winding our way rhrough countryside and small towns.
With daylight lasting so long, we had wonderful views of heat lightening and hills as we tore around curves and over rickety bridges (he has a fast car and a lead foot).
And he's a good and long-time friend. Did I tell him that I had a a fun day? I did, because I had.
Could I also have imagined spending that day doing the exact same thing with another? I could.
Sometimes people need to get away and the "with whom" has multiple options.
Sometimes just getting away is enough.
A friend was in need of a road trip and sent me a list of options (National Zoo, Natural History Museum, river, Southern MD for crabs, and on and on), telling me to choose our destination.
I chose wineries and dinner in Charlottesville and we set off shortly after mid-day with ham biscuits and cookies in the cooler.
The bitch of it was that we hit a nearly one hour back-up twenty minutes outside of C-ville. So we sat, munched and chatted while waiting for the traffic to merge and move.
The delay changed our plans and we began our odyssey at King Family Vineyards, a stunning location from the moment we pulled in.
Bellying up to the tasting bar, we agreed to taste whatever they were pouring; sadly, that did not include the Cab Franc or Petite Verdot, two of my favorite grapes.
I liked the Crose' Rose' done in the Provence style, and the 2009 Meritage done in a Bordeaux style, but surprisingly, my/our favorite was the Loreley, a 2009 dessert wine.
Not to gush, but this "straw wine" (rather than an ice wine), a blend of Viognier and Petit Manseng, had to be one of the most delicately beautiful wines I've ever tasted.
Before I could self-edit, I described it as, "Tasting like a girl," and both our pourer and my companion agreed enthusiastically that that was a perfect description.
Tasting of tangerine, peach and gingerbread, it had the most beautiful aroma and a creamy mouth feel, but none of the excessive sugar you'd expect.
We were so impressed with it that we got two glasses of it and went outside to find a shaded table and enjoy it at our leisure.
King Family has a beautiful piece of property at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and we watched horses on the polo field as we sipped (they have weekly polo matches there on Sunday) and chatted.
A glass apiece was not sufficient, however, and we got two bottles so we could each have access to this creamy delight at home.
From there we backtracked across C-ville to Keswick Vineyards to see what they had to offer.
Their Italian grape Verdejo impressed us greatly with its drinkability and grassy notes. It was the best kind of summer wine.
The 2009 Petite Verdot had a big nose smelling of violets and with good tannins. I could see why it had won a Silver at the Virginia Governor's Cup.
But once again, we were blown away by their dessert offering, the 2009 Nektar, a dessert wine of 100% Viognier.
Neither of us are particularly inclined to dessert wines, but this high alcohol (14%) and high sugar (10%) beauty tasted like liquid apricots. Two more bottles were purchased, along with some Verdejo,
In spite of ourselves, we had become dessert wine fiends for a day and we had no idea what that was about.
While our charming pourer was having us taste Chocolate/Norton sauce over cookies (divine, really, but then I've always been a fan of the Norton grape), it occurred to me that he could be of assistance in our dinner plans.
We'd planned to return to C-ville for dinner, but I began to think that we were actually closer to Gordonsville. Correct, he confirmed. That settled it.
So it was that we went to the charming French bistro Pomme for dinner, a place I hadn't been in over five years, despite having had a superb meal there last time.
We were given the front window seat and our young server Ben was eager to be of assistance.
I asked for a glass of Ma Couleur Cotes de Provence Rose after teasing him about the few Virginia wines on the list. My friend settled on a Cotes de Rhone.
Young Ben told us the specials and there was no resisting the fish terrine, made with monkfish, sole, shrimp, scallops and red and yellow peppers with a basil aioli. I am a complete sucker for a seafood terrine.
And it was delightful, creamy ad tasting of the sea with big chunks of peppers and a house-made mayonnaise drizzled over the whole slice.
With some crusty bread, it made for a delicacy of a first course.
Ben kept trying to move us along and we kept taking our time, assuring him that we had no place to be, which seemed to perplex him.
We ordered the Hugl Gruner Veltliner to give him something to do and he ended up abdicating this responsibility to someone else. Apparently locating Austrian wine was beyond him.
House salads followed next, elevated by the soft butter lettuces and the chopped beets. They were so perfectly dressed that it led to a discussion of the scourge of overdressed restaurant salads.
The two of us negotiated about entrees, finally settling on the classic fillet de sole St. Germain (lightly breaded sole with Meuniere butter) and one of the evening's specials, fillet Mignon with lobster.
We shared these two dishes, admiring the perfection of the sole and wishing the fillet had been a tad more rare. The lobster meat was sweet and plentiful.
Eventually we stopped eating to save room for dessert, although they were out of two of their best.
The manager stopped by to pour us more wine and I commented to him on the absence of a good Virginia dessert wine on their list.
As it turned out, they were only temporarily out of the Loreley and would soon have it back on the dessert wine listing. Their stock grew hugely in our eyes when we heard this.
Despite the holes in the dessert menu, we made do with a special, Edelweiss cake (white chocolate and raspberry cake), and the perennial standby, chocolate lava cake.
The Edelweiss was the star, impressing my friend (who had visited Austria and come back desolate about dessert here) and even me, the white chocolate hater.
My friend had a coffee since he had to drive back, but being the considerate and thoughtful friend that he is, he chose a route to please me.
Instead of the obvious I-64, we came back on a secondary road, Route 33, winding our way rhrough countryside and small towns.
With daylight lasting so long, we had wonderful views of heat lightening and hills as we tore around curves and over rickety bridges (he has a fast car and a lead foot).
And he's a good and long-time friend. Did I tell him that I had a a fun day? I did, because I had.
Could I also have imagined spending that day doing the exact same thing with another? I could.
Sometimes people need to get away and the "with whom" has multiple options.
Sometimes just getting away is enough.
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