No parasol shame.
If that isn't already a thing, I'm calling it right here. There are so many reasons - the strength of the late afternoon summer sun, my experienced skin, hello, common sense - to carry an umbrella when I choose to walk outside and don't care to wear a hat.
The last few days, it's become a new habit to bring my own shade, like I did tonight for nearly a mile to meet Pru and Beau for dinner at Lucca Enoteca. The occasion was cashing in one of my birthday presents, namely a ticket for tonight's Eddie Izzard show across the street at CenterStage.
I'd nudged Beau about dinner reservations last week, knowing that half the show's attendees wouldn't think that far ahead. Not only did they not, some were foolish enough to walk into the packed restaurant as late as 7:00 and think they were going to be seated.
Fools.
We, on the other hand, were tucked in a corner table in the front window, away from the fray and with a fine view of the growing mob of Izzard fans directly in our sight lines. Color us surprised that people began lining up to get in two hours before the performance even began.
Not us. We devoted 99% of those hours to eating and drinking, aided and abetted by the affable bartender subbing as our server because of the full house, while being honest enough to share that despite the kitchen staff being well-coordinated and running up to speed, the front of the house was green and struggling a tad.
A large tad.
It didn't affect us as I introduced them to Lucca's sublime octopus and potato salad, or as we munched through a meat and cheese tray and an exquisitely flavorful salad of beets, golden raisins and pistachios before polishing off one crostada, hazelnut, and two panna cottas under macerated fruit.
Passing through the harried-looking staff replete, we made it across the street with time to spare.
Now it's confession time. When Beau had gifted me with a ticket for this show for my birthday back in May, I had zero idea who Eddie Izzard was. It's not like I wasn't grateful for the gift, just clueless about what it was.
My benefactors were amazed at my ignorance.
"Well, did you at least look him up on YouTube to get an idea what to expect?" Pru asked logically. Of course I didn't. Would I look at a trailer before going to see an unknown film? Not on your life.
When the usher who seated us admitted that she had no idea who he was (but that the show had sold out), I confided to her that I didn't know either, that I was just there because of a birthday present.
"Ooh, happy birthday!" she squealed.
With no idea of what to expect, I was delighted by it all. The light show, the backdrop of a large target with a man's form on it (so Bond!), Eddie coming out with a bowler hat and cane before tossing them away, all of it.
"He's dead sexy," Pru had warned me, as if ten seconds of watching him wouldn't have told me so.
But that initial excitement was trumped many times over once he began sharing his thoughts, riffing on everything and letting loose a stream of simply yet brilliantly-stated opinions about gods, politics and transvestites, among which he counts himself.
Did I mention there was even Virginia humor?
He blasted the three holdouts to the metric system: Liberia, Myanmar and that other third world country, the U.S. He reminded us that Britain had a civil war first. He insisted that he gave Richmond its first German comedy sketch. "Lord of the Rings" was dissected with a chicken deciding to keep the ring.
How many comedians are able to work in Charles I, "It's A Wonderful Life" and the Magna Carta into their act? I love my comedy with a side of European history ("What do you mean you lost France?").
Within minutes, I was worshiping at the feet of this intellectual liberal with even more opinions than me, plus a penchant for make-up that began at age four. Thank heavens I had on fabulous Berry Seductive lip stain so I could hold up my head in front of this wondrous specimen.
His was just such a wickedly smart humor.
"Humanity can go backwards," he began. "As shown by a recent referendum vote in my country. So now you know how to vote in your election." Weighted pause. "I'm not telling you what to do, but do not vote for Donald Trump."
Cheers and applause.
There was an entire bit on the use of the term "et voila" and its practical application, a recurring joke throughout the night. He discoursed on how the English language developed so oddly that four seemingly similar words - cough, bough, dough and through - could each be pronounced differently.
When non-English speakers question how we understand the differences in pronunciation given nearly identical spellings, he nailed the English/American response. "We just know."
Pru and I about lost it when he explained himself as an "action transvestite," someone who digs both action movies and make-up commercials. "Yippee-ki-yay, motherf*cker," he purred.
Particularly hilarious were his rants about gods, which detoured into human sacrifice, god's absence at every major crisis in the world and the problems of being a transvestite in biblical times.
"What did transvestites do in those days? Say I wanna wear Mary Magdalene's outfit!" (Response: "You already are!")
The Kracken made several appearances including one where it came out and started stamping on things willy-nilly. "Basically, right wing foreign policy," he joked to prolonged clapping.
I saw an usher tell a guy to quit filming the show and not long after, Eddie called out a guy in the third row, saying, "Is someone taking photos? Please turn that thing off so you stop bothering your neighbors and stop doing it every few seconds or it's a video!"
How refreshing to expect the audience to stay in the moment.
An extended segment on the folly of dressage - he called it "like riding into a cabinet and parking" - showed his command of physical humor while saying it made the horses look sneaky like burglars demonstrated his offbeat wit.
"There's no burglary in dressage," he deadpanned. Nor is there any shame in coming late in the game to the Eddie Izzard fan club.
How do you know if a smart man with razor sharp humor is worth walking miles for under your parasol? You just know.
Showing posts with label lucca. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lucca. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Dont Tell Me What the Poets are Doing
Wear sunscreen.
Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.
Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.
I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.
On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.
So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).
The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.
Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.
Floss.
I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."
We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.
After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.
For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.
Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.
"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.
Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.
Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.
Travel.
And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.
Advice is a form of nostalgia.
Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.
Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.
Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.
I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.
On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.
So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).
The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.
Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.
Floss.
I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."
We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.
After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.
For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.
Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.
"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.
Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.
Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.
Travel.
And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.
Advice is a form of nostalgia.
Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Different From the Rest
Let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls.
When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.
Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.
Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.
Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.
From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.
Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").
A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.
Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.
With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.
The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.
From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.
Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?
Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.
Just in case anyone's keeping score.
When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.
Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.
Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.
Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.
From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.
Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").
A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.
Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.
With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.
The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.
From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.
Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?
Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.
Just in case anyone's keeping score.
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