Cheetos, Snails and Heartache

I felt frisky with a full moon due tonight, starting my evening at a motel.

Well, not an actual motel, but a motel-themed movie complete with motel-themed snackage.

In conjunction with the Library of Virginia's "No Vacancy: Remnants of Virginia's Roadside Culture" exhibit about motels along Route 1, which I'd seen and raved about here, they were showing Wes Anderson's directorial debut, "Bottle Rocket," a film which (no surprise) I'd never seen, much less on the big screen.

It's an established fact that my personal filmography is appalling.

They did it up right, too, with a spread of items you might find in motel vending machines, stuff like banana marshmallow pies, bags of chips, candy bars, Twinkies and glass bottles of soda.

Munching on Cheetos, I mingled with the small group of oddballs who, like me, would come to the state library for a crime comedy caper, overhearing a young woman say she'd never had a Twinkie.

I don't even want to know how this is possible.

After an introduction about the film (Owen and Luke Wilson's debut feature roles), we got down to the story of three guys in Texas, a 75-year plan for a life of crime and, most surprisingly, a sweet, little love story within all that.

The movie began with Owen Wilson uttering "ca caw!"

I don't know if you've ever had a man "ca caw!" under your window to alert you to his presence, but I have. Let's just say the film hooked me from the get-go.

To allow time for additional snacking, there was an intermission in the middle of the 90-minute film and during it, a guy I've run into at events before came up to talk to me.

He always asks me what bands I've seen lately and this time he also wanted to know who I thought was the best songwriter in Richmond.

For the fanzine he's planning on writing. And as if my opinion matters.

When the movie got ready to restart, he asked to join me in my row, which turned out to be interesting mainly because he laughed at stuff I didn't find funny and what made me chuckle didn't seem to effect him at all.

Translation: he'd never be dating material.

After the film and despite the junk food consumed in the name of motel culture, I headed south to La Parisienne for dinner.

The lights were low and a half dozen tables held duos and trios, so I took a seat at the bar where the dateless sit.

My server recommended the Laurent Miquel Nord Sud Syrah and who am I to ignore a recommendation from a Frenchman for an earthy wine with just a touch of minerality?

The music was stellar, pulling in songs by Donkey and Thom Yorke, although I think I was the only one paying attention when his "Black Swan" came on with its endless lyrics of "Cause this is f*cked up, f*cked up."

An autumn salad of greens, cooked apple slices, blue cheese and walnuts was followed by escargots and lots of crusty bread sopping of garlicy butter.

I was ready to stop there, but my server was having none of it, asking if I wanted more wine.

When I declined, he poured some in my glass anyway. "Just a taste," he winked.

It was half a glass, I pointed out. "That's a French taste," he insisted. As it happened, it went just fine with my dessert, a bittersweet chocolate mousse with Chantilly cream.

We got into a discussion of good chocolate, with his vote going to the Spanish for the best chocolate going. Well, he admitted, except for the Belgians.

"And I do buy Lindt," he said sheepishly, explaining it was an easy go-to because of widespread availability.

I didn't have the heart to tell him I buy Chocolove and not just because of the poetry inside.

True, it's made with Belgian chocolate but it's also made in Colorado, surely an abomination to a Frenchman.

I kept my secret so he wouldn't lose all respect for me.

My last stop was Balliceaux to see Those Manic Sea, a three-piece dressed in black, and with a twist on the cliched lead singer role: he isn't a real person.

Instead, a TV is mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice are on the TV singing while the band plays live.

I'd seen them last May and recognized the singer, Ben, at once from any number of other bands he's been in.

So I knew the drill and started scanning the room, sure that Ben was somewhere in the audience and, sure enough, there he was, near the back and grinning like a fool as the crowd watched him sing to muscular post punk sound coming from the live members of the band.

And speaking of that crowd, it was interesting, if a tad vanilla.

An unusually high percentage of guys were wearing suit jackets or blazers, including one who had on a navy pin-striped suit jacket while sporting a nose ring.

No judging here, just fact reporting.

I saw a girl in a black and white geometric sweater I swear I had in 1985. Who knows, maybe she bought it at a thrift store after I donated it.

It was some time after the song "Outlier" and before "Headache/Heartache" that the drummer left the stage and passed out his drumsticks to eager fans.

Remember the good old days when drummers used to just throw them into the crowd? When did things get so civilized anyway?

Next thing I knew, Ben was coming toward me, arms outstretched. Nothing like hugging the man whose face is singing the songs everyone is listening to.

We talked about the non-moving crowd, how they didn't seem to know how to react to the music. His theory was that usually the lead singer puts off an energy for the crowd to respond to so with only a monitor, they had nothing to feed off of.

The obvious thing would have been for him to jump on stage, but he's supposed to keep a low, unobtrusive profile at their gigs, so that wasn't going to happen.

After a discussion of shows I'd recently seen (he always asks) and how we both need to see new local super-group Avers, he melted back into the crowd who were still unaware of his double presence in the room.

"Thanks for helping us celebrate our birthday!" the guitarist said before the final song, about the time that balloons suddenly appeared bouncing around over the heads of the crowd.

Their set wound down with the guitarist playing that last song standing on the bass drum and the drummer attempting to fire something (confetti? t-shirts? a bottle rocket?) out of a tube which failed to ejaculate.

He shrugged, grinned and gave up, ending the set.

It was enough.

Short of a night in a Route 1 motel, I'd had a French taste of everything I needed for one full moon night.

"Ca caw" aside, that is.

Life is Beautiful

We're getting down to the wire.

My oh-so pregnant friend and I thought it best to schedule a long lunch before she becomes unexpectedly unavailable for lunch or anything else.

It was a no-brainer to end up at La Parisienne, our favorite obscure getaway for its sunny ambiance and patio.

Since we'd been in last, there had been some changes.

Now that they do a regular salsa dancing night, the dessert case is gone and a settee has replaced a couple of the former high tables.

Since we arrived toward the end of the lawyers' lunch hour (the building is crawling with them), we had no difficulty finding a shady outside table.

She orders the exact same salad and fries lunch every time we go while I switch it up, this time choosing the La Parisienne crepe, a combination of city ham and Swiss cheese.

I just like the sound of "city ham."

When I went to pay, she wasn't having any of it.

"My treat because I'm proud of you for starting to date," she said, beaming.

Now that's a good friend.

We sat outside in the afternoon sun talking about the men in my life - a couple of new suitors and a recurring character, someone she remembers me seeing a couple of years back.

From her, I heard about work frustrations and the impending life change of adding a baby to her already-hectic world.

I wouldn't want her life right now and she certainly wouldn't want mine.

On the other hand, in many ways, we are two of a kind.

To that point, a familiar face passed by us, spotted her, looked over at me and we watched as he realized that while he knew us both separately, he hadn't realized we knew each other.

His restaurant and music worlds were colliding right before his eyes.

"Did you see him get that "of course they're friends" look?" my friend laughed. I had.

We lingered outside so long that our poor server kept coming out just to check on us when there was nothing to check.

Eventually we got the hint and moved on.

Since we don't know how much more girl time we have, we were reluctant to end our date.

Instead, we drove to Bev's in Carytown for ice cream, something I'd suggested weeks ago after seeing the Big Star documentary when she'd declined.

Today, looking at the Labor Day weekend and the symbolic end of summer, it seemed like an ideal way to wrap up our afternoon.

She got fudge swirl and I asked for mint chocolate chip, but was served chocolate chip.

Close enough.

Today it was the company and the occasion that mattered more than anything else.

It'll be interesting to see where the two of us are next time we can wile away an afternoon like we did today.

Here's to change and whatever it may bring.

A Ripping Good Time

We should confine ourselves to conversation and not attempt anything intelligent.

So wrote Noel Coward, inspiring a decidedly urbane evening.

A favorite girlfriend reported to Jackson Ward exactly on time, notable because she is usually not the punctual sort.

The conversation began the moment we were in the car together, both of us unwilling to wait to hear the latest.

Stop #1 was Virginia Rep's box office to score rush tickets and where the ticket seller informed me that there are three other people with my exact name in their database.

I was a little surprised, never having met another.

Tickets in hand, we got ourselves downtown for a little pre-theater supper by candlelight.

As many times as I've had lunch at La Parisienne, I'd only been there once at night and that was before they had a full dinner menu.

Our host led us to a two-top by the big front window, advising us to, "Imagine you're in New York City."

After a few minutes ensconced at our table, my friend dryly noted, "Well, it could be New York except there's no people walking by."

She had a point.

We began with glasses of Cotes du Rhone and a little verbal volleying with our server whom, we learned, was named after his grandfather and father, meaning he used his middle name.

I assumed that meant his predecessors had a different middle name, but I was mistaken.

He was a most affable guy, friendly and willing to accommodate our truncated visit, even bringing us an extra table when we ran out of room on ours.

We started with caramelized onion dip with fried crepe chips, surprised at the huge mound of salted and seasoned chips that accompanied the tiny ramekin of dip.

The richness of the dip soon explained itself as the reason why so many crepes had died in service to it.

Once we heard tonight's specials, we chose one of them, a half a lobster tail with Chimay sauce and a carrot slaw over micro-greens.

When we informed our server of our ignorance of Chimay, he offered that it was a reduction of a beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium, "And that's about the extent of what I know."

I like a man who acknowledges his limitations.

All that mattered was we both got a piece of a lobster tail and I got a nice little slaw and salad because my girlfriend doesn't care for mayo.

Next came Zee Onion Soup, a house specialty and ideal when you're sitting next to a window on a cold evening.

It arrived a bit tepid, but our gracious server whisked it back to the kitchen and returned the two crocks piping hot.

The owner came over and when I asked about the music they have on the second Tuesdays of the month, he did a little hip shake, saying, "You should come and dance the salsa."

I clarified my (sadly) rhythm-less state, citing my whiteness, and he laughed saying, "They look at me and think I can dance when I can't. I'm the same as you!"

So we were looking at a man who can't dance because he's white and French, I suppose.

Although we were rapidly running out of time to make our curtain, we couldn't leave without a sweet, choosing a cream puff from the front case rather than something off the dessert menu.

To accompany it, we had a Merlot/Grenache blend from Pomerol in the heart of Burgundy, with dark fruit, a little spiciness and beautiful balance.

Then, like Cinderella's clock chiming midnight, we jumped in the car and headed up the hill to the November Theater.

If I'd forgotten for a minute that it was First Friday art walk, I was soon reminded as clueless pedestrians stepped off curbs against the traffic lights again and again.

"You're better than me," my friend noted." I'd have never seen them and they'd have been hood ornaments."

It's better that I drive when we are downtown.

We made it into the theater and our second row left seats (surprisingly good for last minute and cheapo) with time left to peruse the program.

When the curtain came up on Noel Coward's "Hay Fever," it was on a lovely set of the drawing room of an English country house, complete with windows overlooking the garden and staircase to the second floor.

Not to mention being immediately plunged into the wildly dysfunctional Bliss family and their full house of weekend guests.

I warned him not to expect good manners.

With a writer father and a retired actress mother, the grown Bliss children, Sorel and Simon, are very aware that their family is weird.

And not just aware, but completely accepting of it.

We're very slapdash.

All the members of the very bohemian Bliss family are appalled to learn that each has invited a guest for the weekend without the rest of the family's knowledge.

Needles to say, afternoon tea is very stilted with so many unwanted visitors.

You do say ripping things.

During the first intermission, two women came to stand and chat behind me and I overheard them trying to one-up each other.

"My husband died in 2007," one said about coming to the theater alone.

"I lost mine in 2001," the other countered. "Boy, it goes so fast, doesn't it?"

Anybody got a tissue?

The second act begins after dinner and the fun begins as they all try to play a parlor game involving adverbs and guessing,

These games are too brainy for me.

The cast was extremely high energy, with Irene Ziegler leading the charge as the matriarch, all high drama and garden hats.

I'm a big fan of Molly Hood, who played Myra, one of the visitors, and here she was a saucy brunette, but as always, her diction was superb.

It was great fun seeing Maggie Roop as Jackie, a flapper with no confidence, smiling and crying at the same time, as she tries to navigate a houseful of insanity.

Once the game dissolves, the oddest people pair up and next thing we knew, there was a whole lot of kissing going on.

I never realize how dead I am until I meet people like you.

But it's the Bliss family, so it's kissing for kissing's sake and no one's really in love.

You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.

After the second intermission, it was the next morning and by now all the guests have realized they are visitors at a nuthouse and go to pack.

Do you think they know they're mad?

By the time the Bliss family convenes for breakfast, it's back to business as usual, meaning endless bickering, sibling smackdowns and general chaos.

They never even notice when the guests sneak out the door to escape back to London.

Given so much witty dialog, all kinds of era-appropriate costume changes and two intermissions, I was amazed to find us out on Broad Street only a little after 10:00.

I feel certain Noel Coward would have expected our sophisticated little evening to have lasted a tad longer.

Fortunately, the conversation we'd confined ourselves to had been outstanding, so we'd barely missed anything intelligent at all.

Maybe that just means we're okay with being slapdash.

In the Glory Hole

The Frenchman wasn't worried about his wife. The Italians broke into song at every chance.

Just another continental afternoon.

A girlfriend picked me up and whisked me off to La Parisienne for lunch where we walked in and were stopped by a line winding its way from the counter to the door.

This is a popular place at midday.

Finally at the front of the line, I ordered a bowl of today's soup, a roasted corn and steak, and met my friend at the bar to eat it.

She was doing her usual salad and fries, meaning I snagged a few still hot and steaming.

The owner came over to say hello and I greeted him with a continental kiss, leaving a print on one check.

When the chef walked out and spotted it, his only acknowledgement to his boss was, "You can sleep at my house when your wife sees that."

We lingered for another hour chatting, getting a taste of a new sandwich that's going on the menu in March (lox with a dill yogurt sauce and slaw on a crusty baguette), giving it an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Following so much French was so much Italian at the madhouse that is the last week of Chihuly at VMFA.

I waited in line for fifteen minutes just to pick up tickets for the film, "Chihuly and the Masters of Venice," which I'd ordered in advance.

The film introduced two Italian masters, one of glass blowing and one of glass sculpture, and the projects they worked on with Team Chihuly.

Lino, the master blower, explained that he listened to what the glass told him to do and then executed it.

The pieces he created with the team began as being Art Deco-inspired and gradually became something more offbeat.

Or, as Lino put it, "More American than Venetian."

Not always a good thing, but in this case, fantastical glass pieces, some reaching almost four feet high.

I cracked up at a scene of him leading the worshipful glass acolytes in singing "Volare" in the workshop.

Later he cooked massive pasta meals for the entire crew, saying he'd chosen cooking over raising children when his wife gave him a choice.

Smart man.

Pino was the handsome glass sculptor, considered the best in the world.

Not surprisingly, he also sang while he worked, sometimes Italian songs and other times "Old MacDonald Had a Farm."

His elaborate glass sculpture series of putti on and holding animals was a fascinating process to watch.

He sliced the glass, making legs and a butt crack. He crafted elaborate curl hair for the putti. Heads were attached once body details were complete.

"Putti are happiest in glass," he pronounced, relegating marble, metal and painted putti to second class.

And he can because he's the master.

Watching the American team work with the Italians, it was clear that they were in awe of what they were experiencing.

As one of them said, "I feel like we're learning centuries of technique from two guys."

Yes, but two Italian guys.

The kind who don't worry about their wives noticing lipstick prints on their cheeks.

Because they're Italian masters.

E-I-E-I-O.

Walked and Debriefed

You say tomato, I say tomahto.

You could call it a girls' day out or you could call it a mutual debriefing.

It began with a mile and a half walk downtown to La Parisienne, during which the information sharing started in earnest.

She, with multiple visits to Italy under her belt, wanted to hear about my escapades in Italia.

In return, she had scads of information about what had been going on here in my absence.

Apparently despite some people's protestations to the contrary, life went on in Richmond while I was absent.

We passed a sign saying, "It's Friday! Hug a friend," so I did, right there on the sidewalk.

Arriving at the restaurant, we both agreed that the best part about it is that we never see anyone we know.

It's like having lunch in another city.

Granted, that's probably because there are plenty of suits and high-powered-looking types there and we're anything but.

Still, it feeds our fantasy that we've escaped.

Being women, we played good eater/bad eater roles, having salads (I did the Lyonnaise, also known as the bacon and bleu) with a side of their outstanding fries.

We compared impressions of Italy, important cultural conversations that women have.

Like what the hell is in the water to make a woman's hair (whether curly or straight) turn into straw while there?

And why do Italian women have an affinity for plain-sight bras of colorful hues?

And most importantly, the splendor of corner gelaterias and the importance of ordering Italian-style.

When it came time for the RVA scoop, she made sure I knew about the latest Twitter wars, which new places she'd tried and the trials of dealing with clueless types.

While she enjoyed a cappuccino, I had crepes with rum  and lemon juice, a light yet sweet ending to my meal.

Walking back up the hills the mile and a half home, we wandered block to block, the better to check out what you can't from a car.

There was Social Consignment with its lovely pink-upholstered chair, a new southern style restaurant advertising a half rack of ribs lunch special (who wouldn't need a nap after a lunch like that?) and checked out the progress on the upcoming Rappahannock River Oyster Company and Tarrant's renovations.

I care more about one than the other.

After a stop at the Hoppy Dog, we moseyed back to my place for another quarter hour of catch-up.

You say ketchup, I say catch up.

Four hours with a girlfriend is the best kind of Friday imaginable.

Old Monkey Lunch

Sometimes it's a friend's job to correct a glaring omission.

So when a friend suggests lunch and I know he's been to France four times, I instinctively suggest La Parisienne, sure it will please him.

And when I am a few minutes late arriving, I find him already ensconced at the bar, a glass of Rose in hand.

Pleasure is written all over his face.

His first statement is all-encompassing. "I'm glad to see you so happy."

When I thank him for noticing, he tells me he wasn't even trying to notice, but that it was obvious.

This is what we call a very good and observant friend.

After intense discussion, we settle on a buckwheat crepe aux champignons roughly the size of the plate and oozing with wild mushroom duxelle with a fried egg on top.

Friend had actually asked for a raw egg, Parisian style, but we all know that Virginia's nanny state would never allow such a dangerous thing.

Cooked egg aside, my friend is immediately transported to France with the first bite and is rapturous.

He continues the egg theme with a Croque Madame and I opt for the shrimp-stuffed avocado over greens.

When our plates are delivered, owner Ali is suddenly in front of me.

"You should be drinking wine with that," he instructs with a smile. How can I not concede to a Frenchman's greater gustatory sensibility?

A glass of Sancerre does indeed complete my simple French lunch.

Ali introduces us to his mother visiting from Paris. The stylish woman knows no English but gives our repast an approving mother look.

When her meal is finished, she heads out for a proper after-meal stroll. Ali rolls his eyes, but I point out that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

"In French, that saying translates as you can't teach an old monkey to make new faces," he laughs.

I like their way better.

We finish with housemade truffles and Friend has an espresso as we discuss European coffee preferences with my favorite server.

Not ever having been a coffee drinker, I take his word that Illy is unacceptable while he marvels that I've lived a full life without daily caffeine.

Who needs coffee when I'm busy proving that you can teach an old monkey to make new faces?

Mine is apparently obviously and ridiculously happy looking.

Even without the Sancerre.

The Measurement of Lunch

It's bound to be a girly lunch when it starts with taking your girlfriend's measurements.

Upper bust, bust, lower bust, waist, hips, shoulder to knee, nipple to nipple.

Yea, I have no earthly idea why that measurement was required, but who am I to question what she needed?

I was just the one with the tape measure.

From there we drove downtown to La Parisienne where the few tables on the sidewalk were full.

Inside seemed shaded and cool compared to the city street outside, but we chose salads to go with warm weather we'd just left.

I tried La Lyonaise (aka bacon and blue), a blend of frisee and arugula, seared lardons, bleu cheese, red onion and an egg poached in sherry Dijon vinaigrette that gave me all kinds of the strong flavors I crave.

The busty one got La Parisienne with lettuces, roasted chicken, ham, hard boiled eggs, potato, celery and tomatoes in mustard vinaigrette and said it was excellent.

We shared an order of Belgian fries because we have never lunched there without sharing fries and we weren't willing to risk doing so today.

Some records are worth keeping intact.

I always find the crowd at La Parisienne interesting because it's not my usual.

There are so many suits, so many high-maintenance-looking women, so many focused -looking people who clearly have far more important jobs than I've ever had.

And yet they must like crepes and croquettes and zee onion soup as much as I do.

Food, the great equalizer.

My friend was so busy sharing juicy gossip that a server kept trying to take her plate before she could finish eating.

I was so busy listening that I just kept inhaling fries.

By the time we walked out, we'd killed a couple of hours in the blink of an eye.

Walking back to the car, we passed Kanawha Plaza and realized that we should have spent some of our time there enjoying the Friday afternoon sunshine.

Oh, well, live and learn.

It's tough to stay focused when you start out with nipple to nipple.

What Was I Thinking?

I tend to believe a Frenchman when he talks about food.

So when Friend and I walked into La Parisienne for lunch and the familiar Frenchman behind the counter tells me to get the special, blanquette de veau, because "It's the most French of dishes," I do.

I'm that easy.

The generous-sized bowl of veal chunks in a mushroom and carrot mirepoix over rice was simple, satisfying and way more than I could finish.

Especially because I needed to save room for some of my friend's frites.

We took our time lunching and chatting about the important things in life: restaurant copycats, kind men and how to take a compliment.

She pointed out how helpful it would have been to have gotten a call from her older self to her younger one with advice.

You know, stuff like, "You'll never look hotter! Show it off while you can."

Or, "His band sucks!"

Maybe even, "Quit wasting your time with him and move on!"

If only.

For dessert, I tried one of the dark chocolate-covered vanilla confections in the case while Friend had a mocha coffee drink.

Even if I did drink coffee, which I don't, there'd be no way I could sub out coffee for chocolate.

And I wouldn't have needed my older self to call me with that bulletin when I was a young thing.

Like knowing when to listen to a Frenchman, some facts of life are understood young.

Or, at the very least, younger.

Ardently Pursuing Health

You'd be surprised how many Frenchmen want to walk around with lipstick kisses on their cheeks.

Or maybe you wouldn't.

A friend and I walked into La Parisienne during high lunch mode. The place was positively bustling with activity and after the sharp windy cold, it felt warm and inviting inside.

The owner walked up to greet us, offering his cheek for a continental greeting. Being a regular customer, I obliged.

Today's frigid temperatures made Zee Onion Soup too appealing to pass up and my friend shared her frites and mac and cheese, so there were carbs galore.

Midway through our meal, the owner came back for a second kiss on the other cheek, much to the amusement of the two lawyer types at the adjoining table.

"He's your blotter," one observed. Indeed.

A belated Christmas present from my favorite Gemini came in the form of a book, "The Happy Table of Eugene Walter: Southern Spirits in Food and Drink" along with a card saying, "It's hard to pick out a gift for the woman who has read everything."

As we sat in front of the south-facing window, my friend noted that she liked this place so much because it was so cheerful and I knew what she meant.

Let's just say that it wasn't our first lunch there together.

We talked about couples and finances, emotionally unavailable men and married couples with open marriages.

And, for the third time, the owner came up looking for a replacement for the lip print that he had inadvertently wiped off.

He must have read the same article in  today's "The Telegraph" that I had.

The science reporter confirmed that it's far healthier to greet someone with a Continental kiss than a handshake during cold and flu season.

Still, if I'd known how much kissing I was going to do at lunch, I'd have brought along extra lipstick.

Annihilation Matches

I did my best to lower my debauchery quotient tonight and still had a very fine evening.

Desperately seeking culture, I began at Quirk Gallery for the preview of the new exhibit, "Grab It!" a show about annihilation and humor.

The premise of it was pretty basic: if the world is actually going to end, what soft and cuddly things do you need?

Seven artists interpreted this challenge in a variety of ways. Each collection came in a suitcase, the better to grab and go.

One group was all knitted objects, another was all animals. Phil Barbato (the master of soft art) included only one creature, a pink octopus holding a toothbrush.

Personally, my teeth are of no concern to me when we get to the end.

Diane Koss' choices were arranged in two fabulous suitcases, one purple and one pink.

I only wish my luggage was pink and purple. One figure hung from the ceiling and others reached their tentacles up toward it.

I loved how Brigid Bartels used a Starlite blue train case to hold her grouping. It was exactly like the train case my Richmond grandmother used on visits to us when I was a kid.

The award for most masculine went to Oura Sananikone's collection of a plush pair of glasses (so like Oura's own), a bow, arrows and quiver (but soft), a knife and a bottle of spirits, all done in black, gray and brown.

Clearly Oura was thinking more rationally than emotionally and the result was decidedly right-brained.

As I made my way toward the front of the gallery, I made a stop to look at Matt Lively's show, wishing I could afford a print of his "Deer Treehouses," a fantastically detailed image of a treehouse in the deer's antlers.

Up front, I ran into a friend, a Frenchman, with whom I chatted about the cold. He asked me where I was headed.

Appropriately enough, it was to La Parisienne for music and a bite.

"Maybe you will meet your match there," he said encouragingly. I said I wasn't necessarily seeking a Frenchman and he broke it down for me.

"I'm from Northern France," he explained, "but most men from there are a little cold, very practical. You'd be fine with a man from Southern France or even an Italian. They're neighbors, so they're like the French in what matters."

Questioning what that meant, he said, "They're going to want to pinch you and touch you."

I see.

La Parisienne was my destination because, despite several lunches there, I'd not experienced their Thursday night dinners with live jazz.

Walking in, the first person I saw was a friend, another Frenchman, already clearing his work-weary head with the music. He invited me to join his table.

Before long, the owner came over to welcome me, a gracious habit I saw extended to every person who came in the door.

The three-piece combo playing under low lighting gave a warm vibe to a space I knew only as a lunch hotspot. Okay, this was going to work for me.

Happily, I wasn't the only single (male or female) in addition to work groups, couples and girls' night out tables.

The wine was perfectly lovely, Chateau Cissac. tasting of blackberries with a little spice.

Out of nowhere, a bartender friend walked up to our table and hugged me, shaking his head and saying, "You know everybody."

Not even close. Still, it's nice to happen into an impromptu get-together and he joined us.

Since it was my first dinner foray, I wanted a sampling of what was on the menu.

The country pate wrapped in pastry was venison tonight and came with a winter slaw to cut the richness.

The wings were marinated in Harissa paste so they packed some serious heat. The tartine au jardin with goat cheese, radish and olives was a rustic pleasure.

But I'd have to say my favorite was La Parisienne's take on French onion dip, oh-so much richer and tasting of caramelized onions than the American version could ever hope to be.

It was served with a crepe chips, an ideal use for leftover crepes at the end of the restaurant's day. Crisply fried and lightly salted, they were addicting, especially with that dip.

Our little group alternated listening to the music with chatter about cruises ("3 a.m. and I'm walking the deck with two drinks and smoking cigarettes. What are they gonna do, throw me off the boat?"), retirement ("I don't want to live any one place, just travel non-stop") and crowded bars ("The Fire Marshall was standing outside just hoping he could close us down").

Turns out that the weekly live music nights have brought in a procession of jazz musicians who try out on the spot for a chance at getting into the weekly rotation.

Singers, horn players, you name it, they stop by, listen a while and play a song or two after the break to see if they're worthy.

I love the democracy of it, a subject we also discussed tonight (the French version versus the American version).

So much good wine, food, music and talk tonight that I forgot all about the Frenchman's prediction.
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Besides, everyone knows you never find a match when you're looking for one. And your match never comes in the package you expect.

The jury's still out on the pinching.

The French Paradox

You have to love a lunch date that begins with a walk, even if the Sysco truck did almost mow us down.

But by walking later than usual and with a girlfriend, I seemed to throw off my regulars.

I'm not sure if I'm invisible when I walk with someone else or if they were trying to leave us to our conversation, a major one about my potential love life.

Even without the usual greetings from the parking lot attendant, the homeless man and the laundromat owner breaking up my walk, it was one of the best in recent memory because of the company.

As much as I enjoy walking alone, there's a lot of pleasure in having a companion who can keep up.

My, doesn't that just sum up my philosophy about life?

For lunch, I suggested La Parisienne since I'm so fond of it and so she could try someplace new.

It's such a sunny spot with glass walls, a bustling clientele of suits and enough variety on the menu to give me different choices every time I'm in there (this was my third visit).

This time that meant crepes a la Reine with pulled chicken in a mushroom veloute, arriving folded in a large square with slits cut in it to expose the filling.

It was so generous and so well flavored that I shared it with my friend in exchange for some of her excellent Belgian frites.

My friend liked the place as much as I did, marveling at the easy parking directly out front (most of the clientele walks), the attention to detail and the friendliness of the staff.

As we were sitting there enjoying our lunch, the owner came over to see how we liked our food.

Raving about the flavor of the crepe, he told us with a mock sad face that his biggest seller is the chicken on ciabatta, possibly the least French of all the dishes on the menu.

Tragic, yes, but at least I wasn't part of the problem.

At least not part of that problem.

Bien Sur, I Want to Go Back

Dis donc, is a quick service French restaurant an oxymoron?

It's a moot point because it's not American quick like McDonald's, but La Parisienne Bistro and Cafe is definitely French.

Looking around the downtown spot, my friend was convinced that it was part of a chain.

Tastefully decorated with dark wood and high ceilings, everything was in place down to the smallest details.

Little Eiffel Tower place card holders for order numbers. Large embossed white paper placemats, a charming addition to every table.

"This has got to be a chain," my friend insisted. He works in a restaurant, so he said it with assurance; everything was too perfectly done according to him.

We obligingly stepped out of line to order once we saw the menu and realized that this was going to take some time to decide between crepes, starters, salads, entrees and sandwiches.

My friend was disappointed to hear that breakfast service ended at 11, but happy to find a Croque Madame (pan-fried French country bread with pulled chicken and Gruyere) with a poached egg on top and house-made chips on the side.

I had the open-face avocado topped with a zesty shrimp salad on a bed of mesclun and grape tomatoes.

Mine came out first, with an apology to my friend. "Yours will be right up. The egg is just about finished poaching."

When his delectable-looking sandwich arrived, my friend starting grilling the poor man about the decor and whether this was a chain.

"No, we did it all ourselves," he explained sincerely. "We're French!"

That shut him up and we began eating our delicious dejeuner without another word about chain restaurants.

I had been offered bread to accompany my salad, but had opted for sharing my friend's chips instead, an excellent decision

Their thick crispiness was a nice contrast to the creaminess of the avocado and the shrimp.

Over on his plate, the combination of his thick grilled sandwich with an egg made for a filling dish that he generously shared with me.

I should have eaten more of it than I did because by the time he finished, he was too full for dessert.

This was a tragedy because La Parisienne boasted a case of delectable looking sweets and we'd already ogled everything from chocolate torts with caramel sauce to miniature eclairs to Napoleons.

And now he didn't want any of it. Unacceptable.

Zut alors, I need to pick a more appropriate lunching partner when next eating at La Parisienne.

Which will no doubt be soon and may even begin with dessert, just to be safe.