Stupid Girl, Only Happy When it Rains

When someone writes, "It was cool hanging out with you," couldn't they be saying you make them forget about the heat?

I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.

Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.

My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.

Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.

Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.

To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.

We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.

For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.

Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.

Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."

A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.

As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.

Permanently? We shall see.

August and Everything After

It was one of those evenings when I had to pay the piper.

Since I'd gone to see a documentary this afternoon, that meant that instead of happy hour, I was busy working.

I hate when that happens.

It's bad anytime, but especially during the summer when all I want is to be out having a good time.

So I plowed through my work so I could get to something more pleasurable.

And with nothing on my calendar tonight, that meant I was free to find a friendly spot to linger, eating and drinking.

Hello, Amour.

I strolled in to French gypsy music, past tables of happy-looking diners and took up residence at the end of the bar.

There was one guy at the other end of the bar already eating and drinking.

While he had an array of glasses in front of him, I zeroed in on the Le Petit Rouviere Rose, dry and tasting like berries.

I adore this time of year when my Rose choices are as plentiful as Hanover tomatoes and watermelons.

August, in other words.

By this point, I was hungry so before I crossed over into hangry territory, I started ordering.

Deviled taters brought herb-roasted baby red potatoes filled with deviled egg salad and drizzled with lemon truffle honey, a sweet touch to complement the savory base.

Crispy baked prosciutto cups with shaved Parmesan and tomato/basil soubise sat on tiny slices of fresh tomato, each a perfectly flavorful bite.

Giving in to temptation, I couldn't resist having the watermelon gazpacho I'd loved last time I'd had it.

My fellow bar sitter was having it for the first time and moaning in delight at the delicacy of flavor, the hint of sweetness and the accompanying pickled yellow pepper.

"This is too good to be on a bar menu!" he insisted before I pointed out that as bar sitters, we, of all people, should appreciate an elevation of bar food.

"This is almost worthy of a Michelin star!" he protested.

Shut up and eat, I suggested. Be glad there's bar food this good available.

Last up I had the house-smoked pork belly with creamed cannellini beans, a barbecue-inspired gastrique and candied bacon.

The south had finally risen in Amour.

It was time for some more wine and this time I went with La Bastide Saint Dominique Grenache, which the owner recommended as an easy-drinking, fruity, summer red.

Given the month, the time of night and the kind of day, all three of those descriptors suited me.

A man I recognized came in; we'd met at Belmont Food Shop a while back and he not only remembered me, but my occupation.

He claimed his memory was due to a pretty face, but I'd heard that line before.

A lawyer, he was working on a brief that was due by 8 a.m. tomorrow, but he affably joined our conversation, drinking coffee while we forged ahead with our wine.

I can feel for an early-morning wake-up call, but I cannot drink caffeine in solidarity.

Eventually the conversation moved on to the restaurants of Rockett's Landing and Casa del Barco's extensive tequila list.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover another tequila devotee at the bar and he told me of his attempts to find what are considered the ten best tequilas in the U.S., only to be thwarted by the Virginia ABC.

Now there's a surprise.

Favorite line of the night: "If you don't share wine, you're just an alcoholic."

Oh, there was sharing.

And with the piper paid, a lovely evening surely worthy of a Michelin star.