Never let it be said that rain keeps me at home.
Or anything else for that matter.
The soggy night began at Stuzzi with a seat at the bar in front of the pizza oven.
Playing on the nearby screen was "Marriage, Italian Style," and as much as I hate screens in restaurants, watching the magnificent Sophia Loren and the handsome Marcello Mastroianni romp through '60s-era Italy was surprisingly appealing.
The plan was to have a glass of Chianti and a margherita pizza and be done with it.
But things seldom work out the way you expect them to and my fellow pizza lover and I ended up with pasta fagioli, especially satisfying for the prosciutto and mussels.
I had to admit, I was also curious about the Steven Spielberg Zoone, a spicy Asian-based sauce (I know, right?) served over fried calamari.
After a taste, I could see why the director had ordered it delivered to him so many times while he was filming in Richmond.
The owner came over to check if we were putting grated Parmesan on our pizza (we had) and to remind us that that wasn't the Neapolitan way.
I felt no shame since I have not a drop of Italian blood, but he laughed and admitted to doing the same.
"Don't worry, my father puts cheese on his linguine and clam sauce," he said, eyebrows raised in horror. "They shoot you for that in Italy."
Seems a little harsh.
Next we tried what he called cheese triangles, but what were really Mozzarella in Carrozza, little grilled sandwiches of Mozzarella, prosciutto and basil and tasty on their own or with a touch of Spielberg's sauce on them.
So much for sticking to a simple little supper of pizza and grape.
Next up was my first Limoncello cream, which seemed more like a dessert with its sweet creaminess than a digestivo like regular Limoncello, but I managed to down it nonetheless.
That didn't prevent having dessert, something the chalkboard called "strawberry tiramisu in a glass."
It was sort of a deconstructed tiramisu with Grappa-soaked ladyfingers and strawberry cream with whipped cream on top.
Surprisingly, the Grappa was an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the strawberries, and obscenely alcoholic.
Note to self: refrain from over-indulging while watching a gorgeous 30-year old physical specimen like Sophia Loren while gorging to avoid self-flagellation.
So, yes, I was in a food coma by the time I got to Balliceaux.
The 17-piece RVA Big Band, with two members in knit caps and on in a trucker cap, was still getting situated when we slid into a booth.
"Thanks for bearing the rain," the bandleader said in greeting. "You're a small but mighty audience."
And we were, all eighteen of us, but the number grew as they began to play.
The usual cadre of young girls in sexy dresses was notably absent tonight, no doubt unwilling to risk their cute shoes or straightened hair, even for the sake of swinging music.
The first set was dedicated to more classic stuff, pieces like "My One and Only Love," while the second set jumped forward in time and momentum.
I suspected as much when, after the break, the bass player benched his upright and strapped on his electric bass, the better to make contorted bass player faces.
If you've ever paid attention to bass players, you know the ones I'm talking about.
It was during that set that the keyboard player and drummer got a workout, to songs like Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne."
Before we knew it, the bandleader announced the last song, "so we can all get out of here."
Which wasn't really necessary because it was pouring even harder by that point.
Truth is, the small and mighty among us could have sat there indefinitely had they been willing to play on.
But never let it be said that the rain keeps me from leaving, either.
No weather wimp here.
Showing posts with label margherita pizza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label margherita pizza. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
In the Eye of the Beholder
The art was all about the breakup.
The meal was all about the date.
The music was all about the girl getting it.
I got the ball rolling at an empty Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and a Todd S. Hale art show.
There were two distinct groups, the colorful one of acrylics with oil or enamel on wood panels and the black and white one of charcoal on paper.
The first group were larger and abstract with occasional recognizable features like leaves, bones and drips. There was a certain exuberance to them.
But it was the other six pieces, the charcoals, that really captured me.
The series, called "The Vegetable Mind," began with a feathery branch-looking image, morphing into something fuller and multi-branched.
By the fourth one, it was starting to look head-like. The fifth looked like a guy violently shaking his head, with hair flying everywhere.
In the last was a dark head portrait of a guy with the saddest eyes and mouth.
A server saw me studying them and we got to talking about the series. She said that the artist had said that he had been going through the aftermath of a breakup when he'd done them.
Now I got in. Well, I didn't just get it, I felt his pain.
It was right there for all to see, much like a lot of my writing for several years. Plain as the noses on our faces.
That information led to a discussion with her of art history in general.
It's her major and my degree, so we'd found kindred souls to geek out with about all things art.
And, believe me, that doesn't happen very often.
Let's just say I don't often find someone who wants to discuss German expressionism, so when I do, I'm all over it.
All of a sudden I looked up and realized that I'd promised to be somewhere and I wasn't there.
Somebody was in the mood for pizza, so we made the trek to Stuzzi and found stools at the bar.
Next to us were a couple on a date and she was especially eager to chat us up.
Frankly, she was offering up way more information than I wanted to hear, but there was a once-trapped, now free air to her and she was ready to over-share.
In a nutshell: married at nineteen, three sons in short order, years of boredom and decades later, escapee.
She mentioned that in one of her son's high school yearbooks, a friend of his had admitted that he wanted to have sex with her.
Her son also showed up at Stuzzi shortly thereafter. You know, because everyone wants their 27-year old son on their date.
It's times like that when a person appreciates that a margherita pizza only takes 90 seconds to arrive.
Not that she didn't try to restart the conversation again, but with wine and food now, we at least had an out.
We finished with a Nutella and banana-stuffed calzone as big as my head and oozing sweetly dark creaminess.
My favorite part of everything she was over-sharing came when she looked at me and said, "You're smarter than I am."
I can only hope. And a lot more discreet, too.
Balliceaux called to us next for the RVA Big Band, a seventeen-piece that half-filled the room with its sheer size.
It was my first time seeing this new project, sort of a Devil's Workshop for the new decade.
I recognized several familiar faces in the band (including two favorites, Jason Scott and Marcus Tenney) and even more in the crowd.
The music ranged from newer to classic selections and their rendition of "Back to the Apple" by Count Basie closed out the first set with a swing that could make a person's hips move involuntarily.
It was dance music, pure and simple. Hips should move.
They had a girl on baritone sax and the big, deep solos coming out of her slender form elicited comments like, "Get it, girl!" from fellow musicians and audience members.
During the break, I spoke to a couple of jazz lovers, a student of jazz studies who was playing in the band along with the pros and a music-loving friend who was as impressed with a Monday night show as I was.
I'm thrilled that they're trying it out as a weekly series since it's often tough to find live music on a Monday.
When we finally decided to leave, it was mainly because I'd been up since the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., something I never do and am not very good at.
Looking back at the evening, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
I don't have that sad broken-up look that Hale's art did, I didn't waste decades in a suffocating marriage, and a guy told me I had the legs of a sixteen-year old.
And all that was before I got to hear seventeen talented musicians play music for me while I lounged on a vintage love seat.
You just never know.
Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday, Monday, it was all I'd hoped it would be.
The meal was all about the date.
The music was all about the girl getting it.
I got the ball rolling at an empty Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and a Todd S. Hale art show.
There were two distinct groups, the colorful one of acrylics with oil or enamel on wood panels and the black and white one of charcoal on paper.
The first group were larger and abstract with occasional recognizable features like leaves, bones and drips. There was a certain exuberance to them.
But it was the other six pieces, the charcoals, that really captured me.
The series, called "The Vegetable Mind," began with a feathery branch-looking image, morphing into something fuller and multi-branched.
By the fourth one, it was starting to look head-like. The fifth looked like a guy violently shaking his head, with hair flying everywhere.
In the last was a dark head portrait of a guy with the saddest eyes and mouth.
A server saw me studying them and we got to talking about the series. She said that the artist had said that he had been going through the aftermath of a breakup when he'd done them.
Now I got in. Well, I didn't just get it, I felt his pain.
It was right there for all to see, much like a lot of my writing for several years. Plain as the noses on our faces.
That information led to a discussion with her of art history in general.
It's her major and my degree, so we'd found kindred souls to geek out with about all things art.
And, believe me, that doesn't happen very often.
Let's just say I don't often find someone who wants to discuss German expressionism, so when I do, I'm all over it.
All of a sudden I looked up and realized that I'd promised to be somewhere and I wasn't there.
Somebody was in the mood for pizza, so we made the trek to Stuzzi and found stools at the bar.
Next to us were a couple on a date and she was especially eager to chat us up.
Frankly, she was offering up way more information than I wanted to hear, but there was a once-trapped, now free air to her and she was ready to over-share.
In a nutshell: married at nineteen, three sons in short order, years of boredom and decades later, escapee.
She mentioned that in one of her son's high school yearbooks, a friend of his had admitted that he wanted to have sex with her.
Her son also showed up at Stuzzi shortly thereafter. You know, because everyone wants their 27-year old son on their date.
It's times like that when a person appreciates that a margherita pizza only takes 90 seconds to arrive.
Not that she didn't try to restart the conversation again, but with wine and food now, we at least had an out.
We finished with a Nutella and banana-stuffed calzone as big as my head and oozing sweetly dark creaminess.
My favorite part of everything she was over-sharing came when she looked at me and said, "You're smarter than I am."
I can only hope. And a lot more discreet, too.
Balliceaux called to us next for the RVA Big Band, a seventeen-piece that half-filled the room with its sheer size.
It was my first time seeing this new project, sort of a Devil's Workshop for the new decade.
I recognized several familiar faces in the band (including two favorites, Jason Scott and Marcus Tenney) and even more in the crowd.
The music ranged from newer to classic selections and their rendition of "Back to the Apple" by Count Basie closed out the first set with a swing that could make a person's hips move involuntarily.
It was dance music, pure and simple. Hips should move.
They had a girl on baritone sax and the big, deep solos coming out of her slender form elicited comments like, "Get it, girl!" from fellow musicians and audience members.
During the break, I spoke to a couple of jazz lovers, a student of jazz studies who was playing in the band along with the pros and a music-loving friend who was as impressed with a Monday night show as I was.
I'm thrilled that they're trying it out as a weekly series since it's often tough to find live music on a Monday.
When we finally decided to leave, it was mainly because I'd been up since the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., something I never do and am not very good at.
Looking back at the evening, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
I don't have that sad broken-up look that Hale's art did, I didn't waste decades in a suffocating marriage, and a guy told me I had the legs of a sixteen-year old.
And all that was before I got to hear seventeen talented musicians play music for me while I lounged on a vintage love seat.
You just never know.
Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday, Monday, it was all I'd hoped it would be.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Italian Philosophy
Life is like a doughnut.
Tonight that doughnut was actually a zeppole because it's Lent.
I know that only because not one, but two restaurant owners I know have told me they've given up red wine for Lent.
A Catholic friend finds it hysterical that you can give up one color or another wine instead of actually making a sacrifice and just, oh, say, give up wine altogether.
I don't know about that but I am Italian-savvy enough to know that zeppoles are only baked after Ash Wednesday.
And while I'm certainly not up on my religious holidays, I did walk by a church on Grace Street last Wednesday that said, "Ash Wednesday, Come in for Quiet Reflection."
I'm not much on ashes or quiet reflection, but I'm all about the custard-filled doughnuts Stuzzi makes every Lenten season.
So after dutifully finishing my margherita pizza and Primitivo, I happily shared with an Italian all that dough and cream and powdered sugar that are a metaphor for life.
The hard part outside with the reward inside and just enough sweetness all around to keep you coming back for more.
I'm thinking life just may be as simple as that.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Her Manly Appetite
I don't eat a margherita pizza like a Neopolitan woman, or so I was told tonight.
We were at Stuzzi for dinner and because it's Monday, the place was a zoo. Once I scored a stool, I waited for my girlfriend to show up. In the meantime, any number of people came in, including several bearded regulars to whom the bartender asked, "Peroni and pizza?" to imperceptible nods.
You have to appreciate a woman who knows what men want.
One guy told me that he knows better than to bring a friend on Monday nights given the mayhem. Now he tells me, I thought. Once my friend made her belated arrival, we began with a bottle of Prosecco and traded tales of our recent exploits (she'd discovered that cayenne and chile powder are not interchangeable).
Working our way through margherita pizzas, the owner came over to say hello and observe our eating progress. My plate was empty but my friend's was not. She'd eaten the center of the pizza, leaving the circular outer crust intact.
"That's how the women in Naples eat their pizza," he explained. "Only three hundred calories if you eat the center."'
Meanwhile you could have rolled a marble across my plate it was so empty. I'd be a disgrace to Italian womanhood except that my ancestry is Irish.
He also told us that the traditional wine to accompany pizza in Naples is il Grotta del Sole Gragnano della Penisola, saying that they carried both the dry and sweet versions of this sparkling red wine.
We opted for dry and enjoyed glasses of the very purple and slightly bitter bubbles, although I still have no idea how well it pairs with pizza since mine was long gone. Even the music had a decided Italian influence with Patrizio Buanne breaking up the Van Morrison and Band of Horses with which it was interspersed.
My friend thought Buanne's voice was so romantic that she jotted down his name so she could share it with her boyfriend.
But then, unlike me, she probably has a boyfriend because she eats like a woman. I'll know for next time.
We were at Stuzzi for dinner and because it's Monday, the place was a zoo. Once I scored a stool, I waited for my girlfriend to show up. In the meantime, any number of people came in, including several bearded regulars to whom the bartender asked, "Peroni and pizza?" to imperceptible nods.
You have to appreciate a woman who knows what men want.
One guy told me that he knows better than to bring a friend on Monday nights given the mayhem. Now he tells me, I thought. Once my friend made her belated arrival, we began with a bottle of Prosecco and traded tales of our recent exploits (she'd discovered that cayenne and chile powder are not interchangeable).
Working our way through margherita pizzas, the owner came over to say hello and observe our eating progress. My plate was empty but my friend's was not. She'd eaten the center of the pizza, leaving the circular outer crust intact.
"That's how the women in Naples eat their pizza," he explained. "Only three hundred calories if you eat the center."'
Meanwhile you could have rolled a marble across my plate it was so empty. I'd be a disgrace to Italian womanhood except that my ancestry is Irish.
He also told us that the traditional wine to accompany pizza in Naples is il Grotta del Sole Gragnano della Penisola, saying that they carried both the dry and sweet versions of this sparkling red wine.
We opted for dry and enjoyed glasses of the very purple and slightly bitter bubbles, although I still have no idea how well it pairs with pizza since mine was long gone. Even the music had a decided Italian influence with Patrizio Buanne breaking up the Van Morrison and Band of Horses with which it was interspersed.
My friend thought Buanne's voice was so romantic that she jotted down his name so she could share it with her boyfriend.
But then, unlike me, she probably has a boyfriend because she eats like a woman. I'll know for next time.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
I Did Not Talk into That Phone
If there's a line to sit at the bar on a Monday night, it must be Stuzzi.
As pizza lovers and cheapskates throughout Richmond know, on Mondays they do Margherita pizzas for a buck.
There are plenty of candy bars that cost more than that, so naturally the lines form.
Instead of waiting behind the girl who informed us she was ahead of us in line, we allowed ourselves to be led to the far end of the bar where there was a bit of space, albeit with no stools.
An overly-friendly guy came up to make small talk with us about the Blue Goat and as I was responding to his first question, my friend cut me off.
"We need to order wine, so save your answer for after we do that," she instructed.
Apparently she'd had a stressful day and needed her wine sooner rather than later.
The end result was that the guy disappeared immediately, no doubt worried that she'd turn that tone on him. Frankly, I didn't blame him.
We appreciated our server's honesty when we inquired about a particular wine ("Nobody who orders it likes it") and instead got the Volpetti Frascati Superior.
Not long afterwards, the couple next to us turned over their stools in a time-honored Monday tradition.
That's one thing about Mondays at Stuzzi; people generally get in, eat cheap and get out. Turnover is rapid.
But since we'd ordered a bottle, we saw no reason to hurry.
When our Margheritas arrived, I inquired after some Parmesan cheese.
Not surprisingly, the tiny ramekin of cheese cost exactly as much as the pizza. One dollar.
Before me sat the best and worst restaurant deals in RVA. But even combined, my meal was a steal.
As we ate, my friend showed me pictures on her phone of the townhouse she's thinking of renting.
In a moment of what could only be called blackmail threatening, she mentioned that she still had the picture of me using her cell phone when we were in DC last month.
And, just for the record, I wasn't using the phone; I was looking up something online to show someone.
Nevertheless, she's already shown that picture to one mutual friend who delighted in seeing evidence of me using a dreaded mobile unit.
How in the world do public figures think they can get away with anything with practically everyone (except me) a potential photographer?
How much is Parmesan cheese worth to someone being blackmailed?
How long can the line get for $1 pizzas?
No comment.
As pizza lovers and cheapskates throughout Richmond know, on Mondays they do Margherita pizzas for a buck.
There are plenty of candy bars that cost more than that, so naturally the lines form.
Instead of waiting behind the girl who informed us she was ahead of us in line, we allowed ourselves to be led to the far end of the bar where there was a bit of space, albeit with no stools.
An overly-friendly guy came up to make small talk with us about the Blue Goat and as I was responding to his first question, my friend cut me off.
"We need to order wine, so save your answer for after we do that," she instructed.
Apparently she'd had a stressful day and needed her wine sooner rather than later.
The end result was that the guy disappeared immediately, no doubt worried that she'd turn that tone on him. Frankly, I didn't blame him.
We appreciated our server's honesty when we inquired about a particular wine ("Nobody who orders it likes it") and instead got the Volpetti Frascati Superior.
Not long afterwards, the couple next to us turned over their stools in a time-honored Monday tradition.
That's one thing about Mondays at Stuzzi; people generally get in, eat cheap and get out. Turnover is rapid.
But since we'd ordered a bottle, we saw no reason to hurry.
When our Margheritas arrived, I inquired after some Parmesan cheese.
Not surprisingly, the tiny ramekin of cheese cost exactly as much as the pizza. One dollar.
Before me sat the best and worst restaurant deals in RVA. But even combined, my meal was a steal.
As we ate, my friend showed me pictures on her phone of the townhouse she's thinking of renting.
In a moment of what could only be called blackmail threatening, she mentioned that she still had the picture of me using her cell phone when we were in DC last month.
And, just for the record, I wasn't using the phone; I was looking up something online to show someone.
Nevertheless, she's already shown that picture to one mutual friend who delighted in seeing evidence of me using a dreaded mobile unit.
How in the world do public figures think they can get away with anything with practically everyone (except me) a potential photographer?
How much is Parmesan cheese worth to someone being blackmailed?
How long can the line get for $1 pizzas?
No comment.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Settling on a 7-Year Plan at Sette
If I needed an antidote to having recently seen True Grit, I got it tonight at the Westhampton seeing Another Year.
As a fan of director Mike Leigh's films, I knew to expect an ensemble of strong actors playing ordinary people, with loads of dialog and no pat happy endings.
Because the film is about a long-time happily married couple and the dysfunctional friends that are attracted to their stability, it was easy to see it first as a contrast between those lucky enough to find their soul mates and thrive together and those who don't.
But Leigh's films are so beautifully paced, unfolding in a decidedly un-cinematic way, that instead of focusing on the relationship haves and have nots, I found myself instead just enjoying the rarity of watching a long-time couple (frequently drinking wine and making pithy observations to each other) who still truly appreciate each other.
And I'm not totally unfamiliar with the concept anyway.
My parents are still more than happy with each other and I know two couples who continue to be poster children for long-term successful relationships.
Still, despite the overall darkness of the film, watching two people interact so intimately and satisfyingly made for a most affirming movie experience and one far more to my taste than a Western (even one with great language) ever could.
I had popcorn and Milk Duds at the movie because the box office guy gave me a free small popcorn voucher and a $2 candy voucher and I fell prey to both
"You want butter on that?" Duh. "You know 80% of people get their popcorn buttered?" Why eat it otherwise?.
Despite that, I went straight from the theater to Sette for dinner. The place was full of people on a Monday night.
Approaching the bar, the two people there immediately fled, causing me to say to the bartender, "I don't always have that effect on people."So you usually attract 'em?" he cracked.
Well, not necessarily, but clearing the room was a little disconcerting. Fortunately, a couple soon arrived and sat down near me, proving that I wasn't still repelling others.
The bartender told me that it was margarita/margherita night, meaning $3 margaritas and $7 margherita pizzas.
"It's a great deal. Some of the frozen pizzas cost almost that much," he claimed, ever the salesman (and the second of the day to target me).
Deal or not, I could never be sold on a margarita, even given that tequila is the only thing I drink besides wine. Why on earth would anyone mess up fine tequila with anything but a slow-melting ice cube? But of course, margaritas so seldom involve fine tequila.
So I went with montepulciano d'abruzzo, and after enjoying my wine for a while, I let him convince me to try the margherita. Let's face it, if a pizza place can't do a margherita right, what hope is there for more elaborate variations?
I tend to stick to white pizzas, but Sette's fire-roasted tomato sauce was amply covered with Mozzarella and shredded basil, and I found it quite tasty, even more so after the bartender had grated a generous amount of Parmesan over it.
True, my plate looked like a blood bath when I finished due to extraneous tomato sauce, but that's a white pizza-loving girl's prerogative. Some, yes, all, no.
We chatted about his seven-year plan because he intends to leave the country at that point. He was feeling quite superior because his ex-wife just got pregnant with her new husband so her seven-year plan has now morphed into an 18-year plan.
Ouch. Sucks to be her, we agreed.
He asked and I had to admit that I don't have a seven-year plan, although I wouldn't mind it involving being part of a long-time couple-to-be, happily contrasting with all my dysfunctional friends.
And I already know how to drink wine and make pithy observations about others. It'll be just like in a Mike Leigh movie, except without the British accents.
And maybe better teeth.
As a fan of director Mike Leigh's films, I knew to expect an ensemble of strong actors playing ordinary people, with loads of dialog and no pat happy endings.
Because the film is about a long-time happily married couple and the dysfunctional friends that are attracted to their stability, it was easy to see it first as a contrast between those lucky enough to find their soul mates and thrive together and those who don't.
But Leigh's films are so beautifully paced, unfolding in a decidedly un-cinematic way, that instead of focusing on the relationship haves and have nots, I found myself instead just enjoying the rarity of watching a long-time couple (frequently drinking wine and making pithy observations to each other) who still truly appreciate each other.
And I'm not totally unfamiliar with the concept anyway.
My parents are still more than happy with each other and I know two couples who continue to be poster children for long-term successful relationships.
Still, despite the overall darkness of the film, watching two people interact so intimately and satisfyingly made for a most affirming movie experience and one far more to my taste than a Western (even one with great language) ever could.
I had popcorn and Milk Duds at the movie because the box office guy gave me a free small popcorn voucher and a $2 candy voucher and I fell prey to both
"You want butter on that?" Duh. "You know 80% of people get their popcorn buttered?" Why eat it otherwise?.
Despite that, I went straight from the theater to Sette for dinner. The place was full of people on a Monday night.
Approaching the bar, the two people there immediately fled, causing me to say to the bartender, "I don't always have that effect on people."So you usually attract 'em?" he cracked.
Well, not necessarily, but clearing the room was a little disconcerting. Fortunately, a couple soon arrived and sat down near me, proving that I wasn't still repelling others.
The bartender told me that it was margarita/margherita night, meaning $3 margaritas and $7 margherita pizzas.
"It's a great deal. Some of the frozen pizzas cost almost that much," he claimed, ever the salesman (and the second of the day to target me).
Deal or not, I could never be sold on a margarita, even given that tequila is the only thing I drink besides wine. Why on earth would anyone mess up fine tequila with anything but a slow-melting ice cube? But of course, margaritas so seldom involve fine tequila.
So I went with montepulciano d'abruzzo, and after enjoying my wine for a while, I let him convince me to try the margherita. Let's face it, if a pizza place can't do a margherita right, what hope is there for more elaborate variations?
I tend to stick to white pizzas, but Sette's fire-roasted tomato sauce was amply covered with Mozzarella and shredded basil, and I found it quite tasty, even more so after the bartender had grated a generous amount of Parmesan over it.
True, my plate looked like a blood bath when I finished due to extraneous tomato sauce, but that's a white pizza-loving girl's prerogative. Some, yes, all, no.
We chatted about his seven-year plan because he intends to leave the country at that point. He was feeling quite superior because his ex-wife just got pregnant with her new husband so her seven-year plan has now morphed into an 18-year plan.
Ouch. Sucks to be her, we agreed.
He asked and I had to admit that I don't have a seven-year plan, although I wouldn't mind it involving being part of a long-time couple-to-be, happily contrasting with all my dysfunctional friends.
And I already know how to drink wine and make pithy observations about others. It'll be just like in a Mike Leigh movie, except without the British accents.
And maybe better teeth.
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