Taking Some Air

My reputation as a heathen precedes me.

After inviting Mac to join me for some Fat Tuesday revelry, she mentioned her plans to her Mom on the phone, being sure to tell her that it was the most religious inclination she'd seen in me in our nearly two years of friendship.

My Catholic upbringing has nothing to do with it. It's all about dressing gaudy by layering on pattern, purple, green and orange (tonight while blasting Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66), eating pancakes and hearing a brass band.

We walked over to 821 Cafe for brinner (their word, not mine) and our adorable server - cut-offs, midriff and enormous red plaid flannel shirt - thanked us for reminding her it was Fat Tuesday since she'd forgotten.

Debating whether or not to share an order of buttermilk pancakes, when pressed, I had to admit that I could eat way more than half an order.

So it was that we shared an order of bacon, I got basic buttermilk pancakes, dousing half in syrup and half in strawberry jam as is my family's habit, and Mac got Union cakes, essentially the same pancakes except hers were mounded with berries, bananas and chocolate chips.

Deciding that it was an ideal evening for Espolon with pancakes, I ordered some, only to hear that they were out and that it was our server's favorite tequila, too. Seems it's what she always orders when she gets off her shift, which makes me suspect it was her fault they were out.

And I was right about the pancakes, I could devour far more than half a plate, yet I was still the recipient of pancake shaming. Mac ate exactly half her order and asked for a box, while I worked my plate down to nearly gone, yet guess who got the comments?

"Really, you can't finish that?" the server asked incredulously. "That's like four bites!" The problem was I'd been too full to eat the previous four bites, so I certainly didn't need anymore now. Convinced I'd want them later, she insisted on bringing me a box, too.

Leftovers in hand, we walked to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque which was tonight showing "Black Girl" from 1966, the first film made by a black director on the African continent and focusing on colonialism (the French in Senegal), religion, education and a host of social activism-motivated themes.

The professor giving the pre-film talk prattled on about depictions of women and race, but also casually slid into her rambling that the main character commits suicide, a fact we were both furious to be told in advance. I don't even read movie summaries because I want the story to unfold for me with no prior information.

We'll call her a spoilsport.

Because it had sub-titles, we had to put up with simplistic translations like, "I'm going for a walk" when the character actually said, "I'm going to take some air," a far more lyrical way to say the same thing. But overall, the film was a fascinating look at an unfairly tilted colonial situation, replete with mid-century modern furniture, frosted lipstick and entitled white people.

It was while we were watching the film that the skies opened up and we heard rain beating so hard on the theater's roof that it competed with the soundtrack. No dummies, we'd both brought umbrellas for just such an eventuality.

The rain had lessened but not stopped when "Black Girl" ended, so we stayed for the Q & A despite wanting to tell the prof she'd spoiled the movie for us. Stepping outside, puddles were everywhere but nothing was officially falling.

We got as far as Broad Street when a guy asked for money for food and Mac inquired if he liked pancakes. When I turned around to check, he was devouring hers as we rounded the corner to Belvidere. That's a good egg, giving up her leftover breakfast like that.

She was also stoked about heading out for a brass band, saying, "You always know how to show a girl a good time!" I pride myself on it, actually.

Our final stop was the Gypsy Room because Illegal States was playing, albeit not for another hour. We made ourselves at home at the bar next to some of the musicians getting their dinner on beforehand, several wearing Mardi Gras beads.

When the bartender asked what we'd like, I told him to slide the absinthe drip our way because tonight was going to be Mac's first absinthe drip. She'd told me recently that she wanted to try the green fairy and there's no time like the present, especially on a night devoted to one last indulgence before sacrifice season sets in tomorrow.

It's not like I don't know this stuff, it's just I have no use for practicing any of it, well, except tonight.

Once our drips were cloudy and the green fairy in attendance, we turned our attentions to nearby strangers. Her first score was a Puerto Rican drummer playing with the band tonight, while mine was a Belgian woman who just last week sold the Fan house she'd owned for decades and moved to a cottage in Goochland.

 One guy arrived with a sequined silver mask on. Another had on an '80s sweater worthy of (dare I?) Cliff Huxtable. A lawyer came in and asked for a tall bourbon and ginger. "Tall or double?" the barkeep inquired. "Tall, but that's a good question to ask, especially on Fat Tuesday!" True that.

A bearded guy showed up bemoaning the abundance of what he called neo-Christian teenagers lined up next door at the National (not exactly how I'd have described them given the number of girls in fishnets and booty shorts), only to be told it was an Excision show - dubstep, in other words.

"You mean dumbstep?" he cracked. "No, thanks."

Turns out the Belgian was the mother of one of the band's drummers and she told me that her son had no idea she was coming tonight. When a young man walked up, he didn't look surprised in the least to see his Maman, and she couldn't figure out how he knew she'd be there.

"Call it a hunch," he grinned. Leaning into the bar, he said he wanted a Hurricane. "Hey, it's Fat Tuesday," he shrugged. The bartender had already told me he'd stopped by Lady N'Awlins on his way to work in order to score a Hurricane and some of the crawfish boil they were serving up.

The drummer Mac had been talking to had warned us that the Belgian's son's drumming was going to make things loud and when I shared that with him, he looked pleased as punch. "Wait, was he saying that was a good or bad thing?" he wondered aloud.

"No, that's cool," he concluded.

One of the band's trumpet player's came over to order a drink and I couldn't resist commenting on his magnificent sweater of white elephants on a black background, curious about where one acquires such a unique garment.

"Actually, Forever 21's men's section," he admitted softly, as if it were a secret. "They have some hidden gems there."

Finally, it seemed, the 10-piece Illegal Sates - 2 trombones, sax, 2 trumpets, tuba and 4 drummers/percussionists - got started and the sound of horns and rhythm filled the low-ceilinged room in an appropriately Mardi Gras manner.

The Belgian's son had his cowbell clipped to the side of the drum hanging from a strap around his neck. These guys weren't fooling around and girls were soon dancing with abandon in front of the band, while some of us kept our dancing on our bar stools.

"I like the WASP-y guy with his eyes closed," Mac whispered about a guy standing near us and so totally grooving to the music that he seemed oblivious to the rest of us.

When the band paused between songs, the Belgian looked at me and said, "We need a samba!" Considering she had an in with the band, I told her to tell them, not me.

It was easy to get lost in the band's energetic sound and never more so than when the horns stood to the side and let the drummers and percussionists steal the show playing off each other for an extended period.

Things got so heated that one guy called out from the crowd, "Is my girlfriend on fire?"

We didn't see any girls in flames, but she could have been radiating a heat others couldn't see. No question about it, these guys were tight on a night devoted to getting loose.

That's cool. And may Lent begin now that good times have put another Fat Tuesday in the bead-bedecked rear-view mirror.

Time to Give It Up

Pancakes. It really is all about the pancakes. Okay, and the horns.

Yes, it's Shrove Tuesday and sure, that means Lent begins tomorrow but as a card-carrying heathen with no stake in any of that, all I really care about is having pancakes for dinner the night before Ash Wednesday.

Despite the cold, my plan was to walk over to 821 Cafe for a plate of Fat Tuesday flapjacks, some slathered in butter and syrup and some drowning in butter and strawberry jam. As you may have determined, with me and pancakes it's all about the butter.

I mean, it's not like I'm going to actually fast for Lent so I'll be having just as much butter for the next 40 days as the last, but I like to think it's the thought that counts.

Although 821 wasn't nearly as mobbed as I'd anticipated (although apparently this afternoon it had been a certifiable zoo), the majority of the tables were occupied. I went straight to the counter for a stool next to a young couple.

Waiting for my order to come out and reading a magazine, it suddenly occurred to me that the music was all wrong for 821. For some reason, the dulcet tones of Patsy Cline replaced the usual thrash. It was so odd I asked the bartender for the scoop.

Apparently the breakfast crew likes classic country and while he stipulated that he had very little overlap with their taste, this was the one record they all liked. "It's so sad," he said, explaining his attraction to it. "Don't worry, we'll be back to something obnoxious right after this."

I was fine with Patsy Cline, even more so when he brought my food, three plate-sized pancakes and an order of bacon. Now we were talking. I ate the first half with syrup and the second with jam, a habit I learned from my Dad, but even so, I couldn't manage to eat them all.

Midway through, I saw a familiar face approaching and there was fellow Jackson Ward neighbor and rock star Prabir, coming to inquire what had brought me out tonight. Gesturing at my plate o' pancakes, I reminded him that it was Shrove Tuesday and as a lapsed Catholic, my sacred duty to eat them.

"What's Shrove?" he asked, always eager to learn. Penance, sin, absolution, something along those lines.

When I asked why he was there, he said he'd come to eat with an old friend before meeting a new friend later. Since the "old" friend is married, I guessed that the new one was not, resulting in him making an analogy about how uncomplicated wearing my familiar pink scarf was versus putting on a new scarf and it changing who I was. What?

In other words, I feel fairly certain that he was hoping to get lucky with the later date.

I overheard the woman next to me say to her partner (who was busy on his phone) in a robotic and soothing voice, "No, honey, I've been hanging on your every word since our first date." I waited for the punch line or his reaction and none came.

Turning to her, I told her that I didn't even know her but I loved that she was able to say that even semi-convincingly without looking at him, breaking into laughter or expecting a reaction from him. He looked up and assured me it wasn't true. She corrected him and said that it was a shame that she was the only one who believed it.

Ah, the pleasures of stranger conversation.

I took the long way home, strolling through campus and hearing snippets of student chatter ("Hey, Liz, you wanna go bowling with us?"), meaning every other word was "like" and everything sounded like a question ("So we're really comfortable with each other?"). Tomorrow's leaders.

It's funny, but what struck me walking home was that it just wasn't that cold, or at least it didn't feel that cold, despite being in the 20s. After the arctic-like temperatures over the weekend, 28 feels pretty good.

But not good enough to walk another two miles for music, so I warmed up the car to go to the Broadberry for the Mardis Gras Getdown with the Big Payback and Sleepwalkers. "Bring yo' beads!" the event invitation instructed.

I had no beads, but I felt pretty sure I'd be able to score some.

Nevertheless, I showed up, money in hand, to buy admission from the two guys at the door, only to be asked for ID. I rolled my eyes and claimed not to have it, since they could tell I was plenty legal.

"Really, you don't have it?" asked the younger and more timid of the two. Nope, sure don't, I lied.

"No ID, we're just going to have to spank you!" the other guy says and the first guy looks highly uncomfortable. I think he was appalled at the guy's choice of words.

"She's seen Fifty Shades of Gray," he said, grinning at me. Nope, sure haven't. "But you know," he went on. Yes, I know a spanking reference when I hear one. I was given a wristband and allowed to enter.

Inside, beads were being distributed and placed on tables for grabbing. A handful of people had taken tonight's theme to heart when deciding what to wear, so there were colorful feather boas, hats with feathers and metallic dresses.

The one fashion statement I couldn't fathom was one I'd also seen last night at GWAR Bar: jean shorts and tights. I'm aware of this look but when it's below freezing (and last night snowing), I have difficulty understanding the choice.

Waiting for Sleepwalkers to start, I took a seat on the banquette to people watch. I saw very few people I knew despite some of Richmond's well-known jazz musicians being in the band. It could have been as simple as the snow keeping people away.

I call those people weather wimps.

I'd heard one song by Sleepwalkers on the radio and kind of liked it, but I really had no idea what their sound was like. After listening to their set, I still don't.

Their influences were all over the place with songs pulling from the Jackson 5, Led Zeppelin and a lot of '70s radio. What they did have was multiple singers and great energy and enthusiasm for their music. I would guess they also had older siblings who exposed them to their records.

During the break after their set, a couple I knew arrived and we chatted for a while. They'd just come from the VCU game which the team had apparently won handily. That was good news. said the non-sports person.

It seemed to take the Big Payback forever to get set up, but when your repertoire is pulled from the James Brown catalog, I guess everything has to be just so. Nine musicians and a lead singer dressed nattily in a suit took control of tonight's Mardi Gras festivities.

I bet it didn't take more than 30 seconds before the crowd began dancing, unable to resist two drummers, two guitarists and a horn section. The singer had nailed all the JB moves and vocal inflections (fortunately he didn't wear a bad wig mimicking the Godfather of Soul's hideous hair) to do a thoroughly convincing job onstage.

Our only job on the floor was to dance and swing our beads (I had pink and green strands) and frankly, it was harder not to dance than just to go with it. I saw one guy stand like a stone while his partner tore it up in front of him, but he was the exception.

The singer didn't hog all the spotlight, calling out to others for solos - "Come on, Suzy," to the sax player and "Get down, Bobby!" to the trumpet player. He even called local singer Sam Reed up on stage to sing a few songs and no one is going to complain about hearing her powerhouse of a voice.

He also called for some whisky shots for the band because, you know, sometimes that's what the spirit needs. Meanwhile we just kept dancing.

For that matter, we danced away Shrove Tuesday and were still dancing into Ash Wednesday, despite it technically now being Lent.

Oh, well. We probably all deserve a good spanking for that.

Throw Me Some Beads

All it took was my friend Danny's FB reminder that today is Fat Tuesday and I knew what had to be done.

But when I started checking online, it became clear that the local Catholics are weather wimps so all the church pancake dinners for Mardi Gras were already canceled.

Boo hiss.

So I did what an self-respecting totally lapsed Catholic would do: high tailed it to City Diner to eat myself stupid with pancakes before the onset of Lent, which I will, as always, ignore completely.

The lapsed life is an easy one.

I slogged through the sloppy snow covered sidewalk and through the door barely 35 minutes before the diner closes its doors, only to find just one guy at a booth and the staff already starting to clean before closing.

Without a smidgen of guilt about my eleventh hour arrival, I quickly put my order in: pancakes and bacon and step on it (okay, not that last part).

Just as I picked up the newspaper to read while I waited for my food, the door opened and a man joined me at the counter.

Without looking at the menu, he ordered the most perfect Fat Tuesday breakfast imaginable: three eggs, bacon, sausage, fried apples, creamed chipped beef, pancakes and a sausage gravy biscuit.

Needless to say, I'd been out-ordered. Even though the three pancakes on my plate were not only as big as the plate but considerably wider than my head, it was no contest.

I followed ye old family rule for eating pancakes and waffles, slathering with butter (in this case the dreaded "buttery flavored spread") and syrup and the other half with butter and strawberry jam.

Not sure why my father taught us to eat our pancakes this way, probably his own preference, but my adherence to it continues lo these many decades later.

Meanwhile, my companion's food arrived and he dove in like he hadn't eaten lately.

Which, as it turns out, he hadn't. When I cracked wise about people like us who show up at 2:00 expecting breakfast, he admitted that he'd been working a snow plow since 3:30 yesterday afternoon without stopping.

Coffee and Red Bull had sustained him as he'd made the parking lots of Chesterfield Mall, some old folks' home and several strip shopping centers safe for die hard consumers who might need to get out and shop today.

I told him I could no more work for 23 hours without eating than, well, go for 23 hours without getting out of the house and we all know that's never going to happen.

His reasoning was that the money was damn good and that it wasn't so bad in the short term because it's not like we get snow every week.

Actually, this winter it feel like every other week, but whatever.

His plan after working down every crumb on his plate was to head back to Ashland, feed his animals and crash hard until he was restored.

Makes my afternoon of interviewing a photographer and shoveling the sidewalk sound pretty lame.

Count me as one of the devoted heathens who got my Shrove Tuesday pancakes on so now I can go into Lent knowing that's done.

Yo, Danny! Laissez les bon temps rouler and all that jazz...with syrup and jam, if you please.

A Mad and Faithful Telling

I promised my mother I'd eat pancakes today

And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.

But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.

We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.

Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.

Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.

Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?

It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."

I'd say congrats were in order.

We chose the Virginia cheese plate  (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.

Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.

Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.

And that was just her.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.

A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.

After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.

"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.

By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.

What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?

If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.

It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.

So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.

Hell, yea.

Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.

One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.

The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.

Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."

I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.

The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.

"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."

I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."

You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.

At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:

Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.

I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."

You don't say?

Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.

Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.

I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.

I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.

Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."

It was never even an option.

King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.

As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.

One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"

No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.

Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.

Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.

Fair enough.

By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.

Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"

The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.

The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.

The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).

And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.

So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.

I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.

Letting the Good Times Roll in J-Ward

As a long-lapsed Catholic, it was two things that alerted me to the upcoming season of Lent.

The first was Bistro 27's chef Carlos asking me last week what I'd be giving up for Lent ("Lent," I told him) and the second was the invitation to my neighbors Bob and Steve's annual Mardi Gras extravaganza tonight.

These guys turn Jackson Ward into New Orleans for a night every year and they do it right.

The party starts at 4:00 is all I'm saying.

Beginning with the ornate decorations on their house and continuing in to the foyer, where masks, crowns and beads await incoming guests, this is a party of excesses.

Forget the copious amounts of alcohol (and I bet a lot of the guests will have forgotten it until they wake up tomorrow morning; Larry, I'm talking to you), the multiple rooms of food are obscene.

Of course there's gumbo and rice and king cake. It would still be a great party if that's all they had.

But, no, there is a to-die-for sausage and cheese dip, carved beef, turkey breasts, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses, untold vegetable dishes, breads of every kind, crudites, even cocktail wieners. I think I counted five desserts.

I've probably left out at least a half a dozen items, but there were just too many to keep track of.

Someone, not me, but someone initiated a discussion of the J-Ward restaurant scene and I was happy to chime in with my thoughts.

I had just missed neighbors Julie and Dave, the owners of the Belvidere, but I shared my opinion of their place with those who had not yet tried it (shame on them; it's right in the 'hood!).

Tarrant's delivery service was highly touted and 27's cuisine praised. One guest actually knew the Tarrant family and shared some local history with us.

Not long after, the baby was found in Bob's homemade king cake, but luckily not by me since the recipient is supposed to wash all the wine glasses and by then we were on our fourth box of glasses, if that tells you anything about the scale of the partying.

Next up was a short walk to Gallery 5 for the opening reception of Sleight of Hand II, a national juried contemporary craft exhibit.

The opening had been postponed from last week and three musical acts were to play tonight: Gills and Wings, Brad Doggett and Thomas Coleman.

As I walked in, the members of Gills and Wings were standing outside trying to finalize their set list.

"We're gonna figure this out," one of them said. That would be good, I thought.

The array of crafts was definitely more art than crafts,which was the whole concept behind the exhibition.

The pieces pushed the concept of what a craft is and most would be perceived as art objects rather than something utilitarian.

I had just missed the awards ceremony when I arrived, but the pieces were subsequently labeled with their awards for the interested viewer.

There was no shortage of unusual materials and thought-provoking imagery; the only shortage was of stereotypical "crafts."

But then, when is Gallery 5 ever stereotypical?

The DJ downstairs was actually spinning records, always a pleasure to see and hear, but his extension cord extended into the bathroom, making it impossible to close the door for privacy.

I'm no prude, but it didn't seem wise to use the facility with the open door, so I just stood there, trying to figure a solution.

Luckily a guy came along who had no problem going with the door open a crack while I averted my gaze and when he finished, he offered to hold the door so I could go in private.

He got a little too into his job, though, and when I went to leave, he hung onto that doorknob like a champ.

Just before it got weird, he felt my tug and released me.

Laissez les bon temps rouler.