Sometimes all a girl needs is a valise stocked with vino and a willing partner-in-crime.
Pru had packed hers with a bottle of Moet et Chandon Brut Reserve and a bottle of Sancerre, ensuring that the evening would be a delightful one despite the face-melting heat. After her usual complaints about the heat in my apartment and insufficient tables lamps in my bedroom (I never measure up in lamp wattage), we popped the cork on the Moet and retreated to the bedroom because it's the coolest room (north-facing) and boasts three fans, all angled in her direction.
As I transferred the contents of my 20' into her 24' and the Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" played, we bantered about over-sized bras (into the trash it went), cute sandals (she's a fan of the ankle-tie green ones) and my new bathing suit (already a proven compliment-getter), until everything had a new, more spacious home and the bottle had achieved dead soldier status.
Business part of the evening complete.
That was our signal to head out into the humidity for food, which is how we landed at Max's, smack in the middle of the bar. As soon as she felt the air conditioning, she spread her arms and announced, "I may never leave here" while my focus was on the menu.
Since Max's went more casual, I'm a fan of the more bistro-like menu and felt sure she'd like it, too. After scoring a couple of splits of Cremant de Bourgogne (Pru: "I could drink this all night long"), I decided on the roasted cauliflower with a side vegetable medley, while she wanted the soup du jour, a lobster bisque, and the Little Gem lettuce salad.
We were savoring our Cremant and looking at pictures of the beach house she's rented when the bartender returned, looking apologetic. "We ran out of cauliflower. I'm sorry, but did you want to choose something else?" So we paused ogling the myriad ocean views of her rental house and I returned to the menu. "It's half price oyster night," he suggested helpfully.
Never one to turn down a briny bivalve, I asked about the oysters' salinity, which he didn't know, so another trip to the kitchen was in order. Verdict? Mid-level, somewhere between buttery and the salt bombs I love. Okay, give me a dozen.
Moments later he returned to inform me that cauliflower was back in the house and did I still want the oysters. I did not, since they were a compromise anyway. That finished, we returned to our bubbles and beach planning until the food appeared.
Having had the cauliflower before, I'm a big fan of its nutty roasted taste smothered in French onion ricotta with pickled red onion for kick. My medley was a rich mixture of carrots, peas and mushrooms in an herbed oil. Pru's bisque was nothing short of pale coral obscenity, while her salad was essentially a gussied-up wedge with much better ingredients: tons of creamy bleu cheese, loads of bacon, tomatoes, cucumber, pickled onion and a generous dressing of ranch "du Provence."
That's what I'm talking about when I say it's nice to have a French bistro a few blocks from home. Well, that and Pru's unexpected comments like, "Sometimes you just gotta speedball."
When I asked about using the loo, the bartender offered to escort us there due to its proximity to the kitchen. "Coming through!" he bellowed as we were lead past the kitchen staff. "Put your knives away!" One of the kitchen guys overheard my name and called out a cheery hello as we passed by. We got the same treatment on the way back. Hilarious.
We capped off the meal with my Coca Cola cake - the bartender assured us, "It's really chocolate cake with Coke glaze" - and her cappuccino before heading back out into the heat.
Once back at my place, we poured glasses of Sancerre, took them to my balcony and listened to Bryan Ferry, all the while trying to catch whatever night breeze was stirring as we chatted.
When we called it a night, Pru left with only a little Sancerre to prove that we'd sweated together. And for the record, there was no speed balling that I know of.
Of course, it might help if I knew what speed balling was.
Showing posts with label max's on broad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label max's on broad. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Monday, February 11, 2019
Every Day is Like Sunday
At least I was reassured that I'm a minimalist.
A few years back when I'd first met Beau, Pru had told him I was a minimalist, referring to my small apartment and limited possessions. But on his first visit here, he'd been unconvinced, mainly because I have an entire wall of book shelves.
"How can you be a minimalist with all these books?" he'd challenged me, eyeing my book collection like they were traitors to the cause.
So imagine my satisfaction in going to the Byrd Theater for the Environmental Film Fest screening of "Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things" and hearing Ryan Nicodemus, part of the duo that calls themselves The Minimalists (with attendant website and non-stop speaking engagements) explain that some minimalists do have book collections because those books provide them joy.
Vindicated.
The documentary itself did not particularly speak to me (or Mr. Wright), though, because so much of what its talking heads espoused was common sense stuff. Don't buy into the American agenda that more stuff means more happiness. Duh. Consider the ecological affects of buying and discarding short-time purchases. Well, yea. If a high-paying job means all you do is work and not enjoy yourself, you're not fully living. Not news.
Each of the smiling, beatific minimalists interviewed looked to be white and well-off (and, if they were men, bearded) with great teeth. I don't know what the connection is, but maybe minimalism means more time for oral hygiene.
We stayed for the short film "Reefs at Risk" for the simple reason that since being in Islamorada surrounded by reefs, I'm more interested in them than before. What we wound up learning was that Oxybenzone, a common ingredient in sunscreen, is lethal to coral, which is a living animal that gets stressed, just like humans.
And, man, is it stressed right now.
Turns out coral reefs have declined 99% in the Keys, along with 40% in Hawaii and 85% in the Caribbean. How's that for depressing news?
Needless to say, I came home and checked my sunscreen ingredients, ready to toss anything offensive. I mean, what's the point in going to the Environmental Film Fest if not to feel bad about yourself and hopefully bring about small, personal changes?
Don't answer that.
After doing our part to be informed and more mindful of environmental issues, we moved on to conversation and an extended meal at Max's on Broad, where a new menu had been rolled out a few days ago. Never especially attached to the old menu, I figured it was worth a short walk to see what my neighborhood Franco-Belgian restaurant was offering up.
Besides, that is, our favorite seats all the way at the end of the bar, past where it turns, and behind the gigantic espresso machine. You gotta want it to end up there.
The bartender gave her seal of approval to our choice of a Catalonian Cava and let us take all the time we wanted between courses. It probably helped that there were only a couple people at the bar at any given moment, and they were employees.
We both gave high marks to the onion and carrot-laden beef and farro soup we started with, which was hearty, beefy and perfect for dropping hunks of French bread into to absorb that broth. Surely it was our Irish and Polish peasant stock that made us wish for a vat of that soup and a full loaf of crusty bread.
Next came charred broccoli over French onion dip with salted Ricotta and pickled onions, a dish that tickled every taste bud I had and left me wishing for more. Tuna tartare with grapefruit, lime zest and shavings of cured egg yolk rested on a bed of squid ink, making for a very dramatic presentation. A curly kale caesar salad with shrimp was virtuous enough to justify salted caramel apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Sitting by the big front windows gave us a panoramic view of the rain falling on Broad Street and the limited foot traffic out in it. My best guess was that everyone was at home watching Kacey Musgraves take claim to two Grammys.
By the time we finished sipping, supping and talking about past, present and future, four hours had elapsed - nine if you count from when we began with Nate's bagels pre-Environmental Film Fest - and my neo-minimalist apartment called.
You know, the one where I'm currently reading the late Jane Juska's eminently readable "A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late Life Adventures in Sex and Romance." Talk about sparking joy, Mac's already asked to read it when I'm finished.
Because, as one of the beards with good teeth told us today, not every good minimalist has to give up her books.
A few years back when I'd first met Beau, Pru had told him I was a minimalist, referring to my small apartment and limited possessions. But on his first visit here, he'd been unconvinced, mainly because I have an entire wall of book shelves.
"How can you be a minimalist with all these books?" he'd challenged me, eyeing my book collection like they were traitors to the cause.
So imagine my satisfaction in going to the Byrd Theater for the Environmental Film Fest screening of "Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things" and hearing Ryan Nicodemus, part of the duo that calls themselves The Minimalists (with attendant website and non-stop speaking engagements) explain that some minimalists do have book collections because those books provide them joy.
Vindicated.
The documentary itself did not particularly speak to me (or Mr. Wright), though, because so much of what its talking heads espoused was common sense stuff. Don't buy into the American agenda that more stuff means more happiness. Duh. Consider the ecological affects of buying and discarding short-time purchases. Well, yea. If a high-paying job means all you do is work and not enjoy yourself, you're not fully living. Not news.
Each of the smiling, beatific minimalists interviewed looked to be white and well-off (and, if they were men, bearded) with great teeth. I don't know what the connection is, but maybe minimalism means more time for oral hygiene.
We stayed for the short film "Reefs at Risk" for the simple reason that since being in Islamorada surrounded by reefs, I'm more interested in them than before. What we wound up learning was that Oxybenzone, a common ingredient in sunscreen, is lethal to coral, which is a living animal that gets stressed, just like humans.
And, man, is it stressed right now.
Turns out coral reefs have declined 99% in the Keys, along with 40% in Hawaii and 85% in the Caribbean. How's that for depressing news?
Needless to say, I came home and checked my sunscreen ingredients, ready to toss anything offensive. I mean, what's the point in going to the Environmental Film Fest if not to feel bad about yourself and hopefully bring about small, personal changes?
Don't answer that.
After doing our part to be informed and more mindful of environmental issues, we moved on to conversation and an extended meal at Max's on Broad, where a new menu had been rolled out a few days ago. Never especially attached to the old menu, I figured it was worth a short walk to see what my neighborhood Franco-Belgian restaurant was offering up.
Besides, that is, our favorite seats all the way at the end of the bar, past where it turns, and behind the gigantic espresso machine. You gotta want it to end up there.
The bartender gave her seal of approval to our choice of a Catalonian Cava and let us take all the time we wanted between courses. It probably helped that there were only a couple people at the bar at any given moment, and they were employees.
We both gave high marks to the onion and carrot-laden beef and farro soup we started with, which was hearty, beefy and perfect for dropping hunks of French bread into to absorb that broth. Surely it was our Irish and Polish peasant stock that made us wish for a vat of that soup and a full loaf of crusty bread.
Next came charred broccoli over French onion dip with salted Ricotta and pickled onions, a dish that tickled every taste bud I had and left me wishing for more. Tuna tartare with grapefruit, lime zest and shavings of cured egg yolk rested on a bed of squid ink, making for a very dramatic presentation. A curly kale caesar salad with shrimp was virtuous enough to justify salted caramel apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Sitting by the big front windows gave us a panoramic view of the rain falling on Broad Street and the limited foot traffic out in it. My best guess was that everyone was at home watching Kacey Musgraves take claim to two Grammys.
By the time we finished sipping, supping and talking about past, present and future, four hours had elapsed - nine if you count from when we began with Nate's bagels pre-Environmental Film Fest - and my neo-minimalist apartment called.
You know, the one where I'm currently reading the late Jane Juska's eminently readable "A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late Life Adventures in Sex and Romance." Talk about sparking joy, Mac's already asked to read it when I'm finished.
Because, as one of the beards with good teeth told us today, not every good minimalist has to give up her books.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
In Daylights, In Midnights
When a David Byrne song starts feeling holiday-like, it's probably time to step away from the gift wrap and cookie sheets.
Cruising along Route 360 this morning with the sky a pale blue, the odd angle of the December sunlight in my eyes and the unnatural warmth of the car baking my brain, I unexpectedly heard holiday thankfulness in the music.
Everyday is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your super
Love one another
The mind is a soft-boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart, dear
With memories and beautiful smells
You can kind of hear it, right?
It was my final pre-Christmas visit to help Mom and Dad prepare for the onslaught of family that will descend like locusts on the Northern Neck over the next ten days, a whirlwind of wrapping presents, baking cookies and deleting photographs (don't ask) for them.
During a brief break, I showed them the SNL cold open from Saturday, the one where the cast redid "It's a Wonderful Life" into "It's a Wonderful Trump," showing that idiot what the world would have been like if he'd never been put in office by the Russians.
My uber-liberal parents loved it, though I suspect it may have been their first episode of SNL. At least they got all the political humor.
By noon, I had eaten my weight in raw eggs.
That's because I can't resist nibbling on cookie dough and today I made something like ten dozen cookies, so there was a lot of dough around. Mom and I mocked the recipe warning not to eat raw dough (because of the eggs), given that we've been doing so our entire lives and aren't likely to stop any time soon, no matter how much the medical science community tries to scare us.
As Hall and Oates once said, you've got to know that old habits die hard.
Frankly, as solidly as my days have been packed lately, I could justify dough-eating as fuel for the duration. Even for heathens like me, holiday season is a marathon, not a sprint.
It already seems like eons ago that Mr. Wright and I slipped over to the VMFA to see "Congo Masks: Masterpieces from Central Africa," but I think it might have been just last Friday. With the snowball that is my life rolling steadily downhill and getting bigger all the time, I thought it only prudent to get over there while I had a free moment.
The masks were a unique kind of artifact, but for me, it was the film of Congolese people wearing them and dancing in them that provided the best insight into why masks are so central to aspects of the culture. The films were also a fascinating timeline, since the ones from the '50s showed everyone in native dress, while the 1990 footage showed that Western clothing had reached the Congo.
I'm sorry, but it's disconcerting to see a man in a wooden mask with raffia hair wearing cargo shorts. Is there no point too remote on earth for these baggy bloomers to appear and degenerate native dress? Asking for a friend.
Most surprising was learning that masks are still being created and several newer ones are included in the show. There's one of Jesus from the second quarter of the 20th century and another of Elvis from the third quarter of the 20th century.
As to how either one wards off evil spirits, well, the signage wasn't specific about that.
Also unexpected was a gallery full of musical instruments, the kind used to create the sounds that men in masks danced to. Favorite? The wooden trapezoid slit drum which could produce a half dozen tones because of the varying thickness of its sides.
Almost as long ago was a cozy dinner at Max's, tucked away at the far end of the long bar behind the enormous coffee machine, where we were out of view of absolutely everyone else in the place. Even the bartender had trouble even seeing us to pour Blanc de Blanc or serve us dinner, but the allure of being out of sight was too good to pass up.
Equally as good was an entree that could have been the poster child for vegetarian comfort food: grilled asparagus with sauteed mushrooms and Brussels sprouts leaves over pommes aligot, aka obscene cheesy mashed potatoes.
And before you go thinking we've become some kind of healthy vegetarians, know that two courses had meat and one had chocolate, so we still have our heads about us.
By 11 we were walking over to the Ghost Light After Party at the Basement, the latest incarnation of a piano bar in J-Ward. We found a table with a view, scored glasses of Rose and watched as local theater types took turns singing whatever the hell they wanted to, even when that included "My Heart Will Go On."
As I told the evening's host when he came over to chat, Mr. Wright had scored major points early on in our acquaintance when he'd copped to a love of show tunes while straight.
Let's just say he looked positively beatific when "Seasons of Love" began, but that's always a show-stopper because everyone in the theater community apparently knows every word, so it's inevitably a group singalong.
525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunset?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles?
In laughter, in strife?
In 525,600 minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
Well, if you're asking Mr. Wright, he would say it's measured in something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. He's not wrong, either.
We didn't intend to stay until last call, but the songs kept coming - I'm not sure there's ever been a GLAP where "A Whole New World" isn't sung - and it was too much fun to tear ourselves away, so we got more Rose and stayed the course, walking home at 2 a.m. through deserted J-Ward streets.
Sunday, we started at the Byrd for that perennial mash-up of love stories, "Love Actually," which I've been informed is now actually considered a Christmas movie. Whether of not that's a fact is still up for grabs, but why wouldn't I want to see a romantic comedy with Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson and Bill Nighy?
That's some pretty appealing man meat right there, and of multiple varieties, too.
Afterwards, just to prove our range, we wound up in the front row at Gallery 5 for Silent Music Revival's holiday screening of director Jean Renoir's surrealistic 1928 film, "The Little Matchgirl." Spoiler alert: all her matches can't keep her warm and she freezes to death.
That Hans Christian Anderson was dark, I'm telling you.
Disco punk band Toxic Moxie provided an improvised soundtrack that I would put up against any SMR soundtrack I've heard and I've been going to the event practically since it began 11 years ago. Their ability to react aurally to what was happening visually onscreen was spot on and evocative in that way that synths are so good at conveying sadness.
The only problem with being non-stop busy all weekend was that Monday arrived with a to-do list for the week that encompasses all the holiday prep I've been doing for Mom but needed to do for myself plus six interviews, seven deadlines and the need to get my hired mouth to a new place multiple times, all by New Year's Eve.
And don't even get me started on the travel prep that jumps into high gear once the work obligations have been met.
Sign seen on an insurance office sign in Tappahannock this morning: "Say yes to new adventures."
Don't mind if I do. This heathen is ready to dive into the holidays solely so she can come out on the other side and get back to real life.
It may mean a lot less raw egg, but a whole lot more to look forward to. Just one question, though. How did those 525,600 minutes pass so quickly this year?
Ah, yes, the biggest adventure of them all. Talk about your whole new world...
Cruising along Route 360 this morning with the sky a pale blue, the odd angle of the December sunlight in my eyes and the unnatural warmth of the car baking my brain, I unexpectedly heard holiday thankfulness in the music.
Everyday is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your super
Love one another
The mind is a soft-boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart, dear
With memories and beautiful smells
You can kind of hear it, right?
It was my final pre-Christmas visit to help Mom and Dad prepare for the onslaught of family that will descend like locusts on the Northern Neck over the next ten days, a whirlwind of wrapping presents, baking cookies and deleting photographs (don't ask) for them.
During a brief break, I showed them the SNL cold open from Saturday, the one where the cast redid "It's a Wonderful Life" into "It's a Wonderful Trump," showing that idiot what the world would have been like if he'd never been put in office by the Russians.
My uber-liberal parents loved it, though I suspect it may have been their first episode of SNL. At least they got all the political humor.
By noon, I had eaten my weight in raw eggs.
That's because I can't resist nibbling on cookie dough and today I made something like ten dozen cookies, so there was a lot of dough around. Mom and I mocked the recipe warning not to eat raw dough (because of the eggs), given that we've been doing so our entire lives and aren't likely to stop any time soon, no matter how much the medical science community tries to scare us.
As Hall and Oates once said, you've got to know that old habits die hard.
Frankly, as solidly as my days have been packed lately, I could justify dough-eating as fuel for the duration. Even for heathens like me, holiday season is a marathon, not a sprint.
It already seems like eons ago that Mr. Wright and I slipped over to the VMFA to see "Congo Masks: Masterpieces from Central Africa," but I think it might have been just last Friday. With the snowball that is my life rolling steadily downhill and getting bigger all the time, I thought it only prudent to get over there while I had a free moment.
The masks were a unique kind of artifact, but for me, it was the film of Congolese people wearing them and dancing in them that provided the best insight into why masks are so central to aspects of the culture. The films were also a fascinating timeline, since the ones from the '50s showed everyone in native dress, while the 1990 footage showed that Western clothing had reached the Congo.
I'm sorry, but it's disconcerting to see a man in a wooden mask with raffia hair wearing cargo shorts. Is there no point too remote on earth for these baggy bloomers to appear and degenerate native dress? Asking for a friend.
Most surprising was learning that masks are still being created and several newer ones are included in the show. There's one of Jesus from the second quarter of the 20th century and another of Elvis from the third quarter of the 20th century.
As to how either one wards off evil spirits, well, the signage wasn't specific about that.
Also unexpected was a gallery full of musical instruments, the kind used to create the sounds that men in masks danced to. Favorite? The wooden trapezoid slit drum which could produce a half dozen tones because of the varying thickness of its sides.
Almost as long ago was a cozy dinner at Max's, tucked away at the far end of the long bar behind the enormous coffee machine, where we were out of view of absolutely everyone else in the place. Even the bartender had trouble even seeing us to pour Blanc de Blanc or serve us dinner, but the allure of being out of sight was too good to pass up.
Equally as good was an entree that could have been the poster child for vegetarian comfort food: grilled asparagus with sauteed mushrooms and Brussels sprouts leaves over pommes aligot, aka obscene cheesy mashed potatoes.
And before you go thinking we've become some kind of healthy vegetarians, know that two courses had meat and one had chocolate, so we still have our heads about us.
By 11 we were walking over to the Ghost Light After Party at the Basement, the latest incarnation of a piano bar in J-Ward. We found a table with a view, scored glasses of Rose and watched as local theater types took turns singing whatever the hell they wanted to, even when that included "My Heart Will Go On."
As I told the evening's host when he came over to chat, Mr. Wright had scored major points early on in our acquaintance when he'd copped to a love of show tunes while straight.
Let's just say he looked positively beatific when "Seasons of Love" began, but that's always a show-stopper because everyone in the theater community apparently knows every word, so it's inevitably a group singalong.
525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunset?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles?
In laughter, in strife?
In 525,600 minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
Well, if you're asking Mr. Wright, he would say it's measured in something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. He's not wrong, either.
We didn't intend to stay until last call, but the songs kept coming - I'm not sure there's ever been a GLAP where "A Whole New World" isn't sung - and it was too much fun to tear ourselves away, so we got more Rose and stayed the course, walking home at 2 a.m. through deserted J-Ward streets.
Sunday, we started at the Byrd for that perennial mash-up of love stories, "Love Actually," which I've been informed is now actually considered a Christmas movie. Whether of not that's a fact is still up for grabs, but why wouldn't I want to see a romantic comedy with Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson and Bill Nighy?
That's some pretty appealing man meat right there, and of multiple varieties, too.
Afterwards, just to prove our range, we wound up in the front row at Gallery 5 for Silent Music Revival's holiday screening of director Jean Renoir's surrealistic 1928 film, "The Little Matchgirl." Spoiler alert: all her matches can't keep her warm and she freezes to death.
That Hans Christian Anderson was dark, I'm telling you.
Disco punk band Toxic Moxie provided an improvised soundtrack that I would put up against any SMR soundtrack I've heard and I've been going to the event practically since it began 11 years ago. Their ability to react aurally to what was happening visually onscreen was spot on and evocative in that way that synths are so good at conveying sadness.
The only problem with being non-stop busy all weekend was that Monday arrived with a to-do list for the week that encompasses all the holiday prep I've been doing for Mom but needed to do for myself plus six interviews, seven deadlines and the need to get my hired mouth to a new place multiple times, all by New Year's Eve.
And don't even get me started on the travel prep that jumps into high gear once the work obligations have been met.
Sign seen on an insurance office sign in Tappahannock this morning: "Say yes to new adventures."
Don't mind if I do. This heathen is ready to dive into the holidays solely so she can come out on the other side and get back to real life.
It may mean a lot less raw egg, but a whole lot more to look forward to. Just one question, though. How did those 525,600 minutes pass so quickly this year?
Ah, yes, the biggest adventure of them all. Talk about your whole new world...
Saturday, September 15, 2018
The Mellow Yellow Age
Because why wouldn't you celebrate your birthday with brunch?
Queen B was celebrating her 80th at Max's on Broad and I was invited. Strangely enough, although I've celebrated my birthday in myriad ways - including years requesting a birthday dinner of cheeseburgers, which is exactly what B had asked for on her actual birthday dinner yesterday - not once have I made brunch a part of it. Some people clearly think otherwise.
So after a morning walk along Grace Street in the Fan - mind you, in 85% humidity (so beach-like I loved it) under a stormy sky - I got cleaned up and strolled over to Max'sto return to the scene of last night's tequila for the big event.
Tucked in an alcove near the front window. we had enough privacy to feel like we could talk about anything without ears around. Not that any of our conversation was particularly personal unless a woman copping to her OCD tendencies counts. Or another admitting standing naked in front of her refrigerator to cool off. Or a man confessing he lost his faith because of weather predictions.
Weaving its way through all this was a discussion of red wax lips and their edibility. As it happens, a pair resides on a stack of old books on my mantle. Also mentioned: those little wax bottles of colored sugar water.
The hostess who led us to the table jumped in on the conversation when I said something about how cold the restaurant was and Pru said she found the temperature ideal. That was the hostess' daily dilemma: she's either freezing or overheated in the restaurant every shift, sometimes resorting to drinking a glass of cold water in the walk-in. TMI? Then she handed us dinner menus and sailed off.
A minute or so later, she was back, saying, "JK! I meant to give you brunch menus!" So cute. JK.
When it came time to order, it was obvious I was the only one who'd eaten breakfast already. They all went for some sort of eggs - over hard, over medium, quiche Florentine - while I went straight for a combination that epitomizes the marriage of breakfast and lunch that is brunch.
Half a dozen Little Saint oysters on the halfshell and the pancake platter, please. With jam and syrup.
My fellow celebrants laughed out loud at my selection, but not when our server inquired which I wanted first. Then everyone got pensive and offered suggestions on timing. To me, it made the most sense to begin with pancakes and move on to bivalves. And not just any bivalves, but ones cultivated in a secluded tributary of the James by none other than the Rappahannock Oyster Company guys solely for this restaurant group.
And while they weren't nearly as briny as is my preference, I can appreciate a restaurant serving their own locally grown oysters. Next thing you know, they'll be bartering them for plumbing services.
A discussion of the '60s took the conversation into go-go boot territory and as we're all sharing stories, Queen B casually leans over to Pru and asks, "Still got yours?" Without missing a beat, Pru says out of the side of her mouth, "Of course!" Once a smart girl finds a pair of good-fitting white go-go boots, she doesn't let them go.
Since I don't wear white, it's not an issue for me.
My card for the birthday girl was opened and commented on ("The Struggle is real. Acting your age vs. giving a damn" - though we both knew that's no struggle at all), as was my gift of several pendants of Murano glass for B to transform with her brilliant jewelry-making talent.
Our affable server came and went unobtrusively as the hours passed, dropping off a small pot of coffee here, a birthday Gran Marnier creme brulee complete with lit candle there. He delivered additional OJ for Beau's Mimosa (though how does one ever have extra bubbly?) and brought me bonus mixed berry jam for my pancakes. Like our own personal Jeeves, he kept glasses filled and himself out of the way.
If I didn't know better, I'd think she was competing for my role of Suzy Silver Linings. Everyone seems to be mellowing with age lately. JK.
Queen B was celebrating her 80th at Max's on Broad and I was invited. Strangely enough, although I've celebrated my birthday in myriad ways - including years requesting a birthday dinner of cheeseburgers, which is exactly what B had asked for on her actual birthday dinner yesterday - not once have I made brunch a part of it. Some people clearly think otherwise.
So after a morning walk along Grace Street in the Fan - mind you, in 85% humidity (so beach-like I loved it) under a stormy sky - I got cleaned up and strolled over to Max's
Tucked in an alcove near the front window. we had enough privacy to feel like we could talk about anything without ears around. Not that any of our conversation was particularly personal unless a woman copping to her OCD tendencies counts. Or another admitting standing naked in front of her refrigerator to cool off. Or a man confessing he lost his faith because of weather predictions.
Weaving its way through all this was a discussion of red wax lips and their edibility. As it happens, a pair resides on a stack of old books on my mantle. Also mentioned: those little wax bottles of colored sugar water.
The hostess who led us to the table jumped in on the conversation when I said something about how cold the restaurant was and Pru said she found the temperature ideal. That was the hostess' daily dilemma: she's either freezing or overheated in the restaurant every shift, sometimes resorting to drinking a glass of cold water in the walk-in. TMI? Then she handed us dinner menus and sailed off.
A minute or so later, she was back, saying, "JK! I meant to give you brunch menus!" So cute. JK.
When it came time to order, it was obvious I was the only one who'd eaten breakfast already. They all went for some sort of eggs - over hard, over medium, quiche Florentine - while I went straight for a combination that epitomizes the marriage of breakfast and lunch that is brunch.
Half a dozen Little Saint oysters on the halfshell and the pancake platter, please. With jam and syrup.
My fellow celebrants laughed out loud at my selection, but not when our server inquired which I wanted first. Then everyone got pensive and offered suggestions on timing. To me, it made the most sense to begin with pancakes and move on to bivalves. And not just any bivalves, but ones cultivated in a secluded tributary of the James by none other than the Rappahannock Oyster Company guys solely for this restaurant group.
And while they weren't nearly as briny as is my preference, I can appreciate a restaurant serving their own locally grown oysters. Next thing you know, they'll be bartering them for plumbing services.
A discussion of the '60s took the conversation into go-go boot territory and as we're all sharing stories, Queen B casually leans over to Pru and asks, "Still got yours?" Without missing a beat, Pru says out of the side of her mouth, "Of course!" Once a smart girl finds a pair of good-fitting white go-go boots, she doesn't let them go.
Since I don't wear white, it's not an issue for me.
My card for the birthday girl was opened and commented on ("The Struggle is real. Acting your age vs. giving a damn" - though we both knew that's no struggle at all), as was my gift of several pendants of Murano glass for B to transform with her brilliant jewelry-making talent.
Our affable server came and went unobtrusively as the hours passed, dropping off a small pot of coffee here, a birthday Gran Marnier creme brulee complete with lit candle there. He delivered additional OJ for Beau's Mimosa (though how does one ever have extra bubbly?) and brought me bonus mixed berry jam for my pancakes. Like our own personal Jeeves, he kept glasses filled and himself out of the way.
All the better to celebrate the first eight decades of Queen B's colorful life...and clothing...and hair. Pru, never the romantic but always the realist, summed it up best. "Don't complain about 80 because think how good it'll seem on your next birthday!"
If I didn't know better, I'd think she was competing for my role of Suzy Silver Linings. Everyone seems to be mellowing with age lately. JK.
Throwing the Chihuahua
Turns out we're currently a sanctuary city.
All I knew when I left home was that it was raining lightly and I needed to be entertained. Walking past Gallery 5, I saw a young band knocking on the door, asking where to park to unload their equipment (I could've told them that). At Saison Market, I saw a guy smoking a cig under the awning and futher on, through the window, I could see a man on a table being tattooed. The clutch of valets at Max's were bored and teasing each other.
Inside, I could see the bar was empty. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.
The bartender poured my Espolon and the manager - whom I'd seen on my walk this very morning - greeted me for the second time today. After the bartender asked how we knew each other (the early Balliceaux days) we lighted on the subject of fashion.
She bragged about how fashionable her leopard print roller skates with the red wheels are (and I don't doubt it), sharing how she'd put them on the day they arrived and skated around her house for four hours to practice. I don't have that kind of room in my apartment, but then again, I never could skate, so it's a moot point.
I left there at 7:56 ("Cutting it kind of close, aren't you?" the other bartender asked when I said I had an 8:00 show to go to) but since I was only going a few doors down to Coalition Comedy, I still managed to be early.
The room was pretty crowded for the final installment of "Made-up Movie," an improvised film of which I'd seen none of the previous episodes. I wound up between a woman saving three seats for friends (only one showed) and two brothers from Raleigh who'd escaped Florence's impending doom by high-tailing it to Richmond.
When the one seated closest to me mentioned that they were originally from New Jersey, I asked why they'd moved to Carolina. "The weather, mostly," he said with a grimace. Since I had some recent Jersey cred, I shared that I'd gone to Wildwood for the first time in March and been wowed by the roller coaster on the beach because I'd never seen one before.
"You know we don't have those on all of our beaches, right?" he asked solicitously.
The next question out of his mouth was about how long I've lived in Richmond. Telling him it had been 30 years seemed to impress him. My question to him was about where they'd eaten beforehand.
"The back door at Tarrant's," he said, mistakenly putting the emphasis on the second syllable, like ta-RANTS. "My brother likes hole-in-the-wall places." I gently broke it to him that said hole-in-the-wall is attached to a good-sized restaurant with several sibling eateries and unless he'd ordered off the back door menu (fish tacos, fried chicken, fried fish sandwich or pizza), he'd missed the mark.
Nope, they'd ordered off the main menu, but the good news was they'd loved their food, so it went in the win column.
After he asked what I did, of course he had to ask for restaurant recommendations, dutifully noting them in his phone. When he asked for good bars, I had to explain that we don't have just bars in Virginia, but I could suggest some lounge-y places to imbibe if he was interested. He was.
Finally, the show started with a pair of guys improvising sets based on bad movie theme songs we heard a snippet of. And by bad, I mean singers like Bryan Adams and Peter Cetera. You know, the kind of singers that the army would play at top volume as a torture method or to force bad guys out of their hideaways.
Highlights included a discussion of why saying "gambling bookie" is redundant and the hilarious non-sequiter, "That's my fault because I threw a chihuahua at her?"
For the main event, the made-up movie, the audience was asked for a song lyric as a starting point. "I was gonna go to work but then I got high," one guy yelled out immediately.
"Somebody was ready," the group leader said, shaking her head and leading her crew offstage.
Easily the most amusing recurring segment of the movie involved an old grandpa who, cane slung over his shoulder and at the ready should he need it, was guarding his family's ice cream store. If anyone dared approach it, he'd demand the password. Sometimes, he'd just poke kids with his cane to scare them off.
Eventually, an 8-year old boy comes by and begins talking to him about how awful childhood is these days. "Life as a kid in the '50s, what was that like?" he eagerly asks Grandpa.
"My Mom would kick me out of the house at 5 a.m. and lock the door," he told the young whipper snapper. "I'd be out all day playing with rusty stuff. I'd come home at 11:00 at night and had to find food for myself."
I was rolling on the floor laughing (definitely more so than some of the younger people around me) and the youngster was mesmerized by tales of the glory days of childhood. "Wow, I've never even seen 11 p.m.!" he gushed. "Did you ever get to smoke cigarettes in bomb shelters?"
When the old man can't take the fawning anymore, he tries to get rid of the kid, first by giving him a pack of cigs and pointing him towards his bomb shelter. Then, it was, "Here, kid it's a rusty can. Go play!" Naturally, the kid cuts himself badly, thus ensuring the best kind of unsupervised childhood.
Hearing, "You're going straight to juvey, kid," sounded straight out of a '30s crime movie about kids gone wrong.
There were other subplots, one about a strip mall cop with an overprotective mother and one about a woman with too many ferrets and too much time to talk to them. One had to do with two college roommates, one a stoner and one a good girl, at least until she succumbs to stoner life ("Every problem has a solution and it usually comes in a bottle," she says, cradling a prescription of Oxycotin) which, of course, involved a 311 song being sung by a cast member from the sidelines.
And funny as all that was, and it kept the room laughing pretty much nonstop, nothing compared to the moment when Grandpa's long-estranged son shows up at the ice cream shop in disguise. When Grandpa tells him he recognizes him, the son explains he's stayed away because of the way his father treated him.
"But I've always been proud of you, I'm still very proud of you," the old man tells his son. And what does the son do? Wait for it: he tells his father to say it again and pulls out his phone to record the admission.
Now that's some seriously hysterical improvisation. That's Seinfeld-worthy observational humor right there. What good is hearing the words you've craved since childhood, the words that mean more to you than anything, if you don't have a video clip of it? I mean, did it even happen with no video?
And that's exactly what I'd told the Raleigh-by-way-of-New-Jersey guy when he'd asked why I was at Coalition. I always laugh when I go, sometimes a little and sometimes a whole lot.
When you mock the obsession to give up real life experience for the sake of online documentation, there's nothing funnier. Why? Because that's real life. And after all, they say comedy is just a funny way of being serious.
Beats playing with a rusty can.
All I knew when I left home was that it was raining lightly and I needed to be entertained. Walking past Gallery 5, I saw a young band knocking on the door, asking where to park to unload their equipment (I could've told them that). At Saison Market, I saw a guy smoking a cig under the awning and futher on, through the window, I could see a man on a table being tattooed. The clutch of valets at Max's were bored and teasing each other.
Inside, I could see the bar was empty. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.
The bartender poured my Espolon and the manager - whom I'd seen on my walk this very morning - greeted me for the second time today. After the bartender asked how we knew each other (the early Balliceaux days) we lighted on the subject of fashion.
She bragged about how fashionable her leopard print roller skates with the red wheels are (and I don't doubt it), sharing how she'd put them on the day they arrived and skated around her house for four hours to practice. I don't have that kind of room in my apartment, but then again, I never could skate, so it's a moot point.
I left there at 7:56 ("Cutting it kind of close, aren't you?" the other bartender asked when I said I had an 8:00 show to go to) but since I was only going a few doors down to Coalition Comedy, I still managed to be early.
The room was pretty crowded for the final installment of "Made-up Movie," an improvised film of which I'd seen none of the previous episodes. I wound up between a woman saving three seats for friends (only one showed) and two brothers from Raleigh who'd escaped Florence's impending doom by high-tailing it to Richmond.
When the one seated closest to me mentioned that they were originally from New Jersey, I asked why they'd moved to Carolina. "The weather, mostly," he said with a grimace. Since I had some recent Jersey cred, I shared that I'd gone to Wildwood for the first time in March and been wowed by the roller coaster on the beach because I'd never seen one before.
"You know we don't have those on all of our beaches, right?" he asked solicitously.
The next question out of his mouth was about how long I've lived in Richmond. Telling him it had been 30 years seemed to impress him. My question to him was about where they'd eaten beforehand.
"The back door at Tarrant's," he said, mistakenly putting the emphasis on the second syllable, like ta-RANTS. "My brother likes hole-in-the-wall places." I gently broke it to him that said hole-in-the-wall is attached to a good-sized restaurant with several sibling eateries and unless he'd ordered off the back door menu (fish tacos, fried chicken, fried fish sandwich or pizza), he'd missed the mark.
Nope, they'd ordered off the main menu, but the good news was they'd loved their food, so it went in the win column.
After he asked what I did, of course he had to ask for restaurant recommendations, dutifully noting them in his phone. When he asked for good bars, I had to explain that we don't have just bars in Virginia, but I could suggest some lounge-y places to imbibe if he was interested. He was.
Finally, the show started with a pair of guys improvising sets based on bad movie theme songs we heard a snippet of. And by bad, I mean singers like Bryan Adams and Peter Cetera. You know, the kind of singers that the army would play at top volume as a torture method or to force bad guys out of their hideaways.
Highlights included a discussion of why saying "gambling bookie" is redundant and the hilarious non-sequiter, "That's my fault because I threw a chihuahua at her?"
For the main event, the made-up movie, the audience was asked for a song lyric as a starting point. "I was gonna go to work but then I got high," one guy yelled out immediately.
"Somebody was ready," the group leader said, shaking her head and leading her crew offstage.
Easily the most amusing recurring segment of the movie involved an old grandpa who, cane slung over his shoulder and at the ready should he need it, was guarding his family's ice cream store. If anyone dared approach it, he'd demand the password. Sometimes, he'd just poke kids with his cane to scare them off.
Eventually, an 8-year old boy comes by and begins talking to him about how awful childhood is these days. "Life as a kid in the '50s, what was that like?" he eagerly asks Grandpa.
"My Mom would kick me out of the house at 5 a.m. and lock the door," he told the young whipper snapper. "I'd be out all day playing with rusty stuff. I'd come home at 11:00 at night and had to find food for myself."
I was rolling on the floor laughing (definitely more so than some of the younger people around me) and the youngster was mesmerized by tales of the glory days of childhood. "Wow, I've never even seen 11 p.m.!" he gushed. "Did you ever get to smoke cigarettes in bomb shelters?"
When the old man can't take the fawning anymore, he tries to get rid of the kid, first by giving him a pack of cigs and pointing him towards his bomb shelter. Then, it was, "Here, kid it's a rusty can. Go play!" Naturally, the kid cuts himself badly, thus ensuring the best kind of unsupervised childhood.
Hearing, "You're going straight to juvey, kid," sounded straight out of a '30s crime movie about kids gone wrong.
There were other subplots, one about a strip mall cop with an overprotective mother and one about a woman with too many ferrets and too much time to talk to them. One had to do with two college roommates, one a stoner and one a good girl, at least until she succumbs to stoner life ("Every problem has a solution and it usually comes in a bottle," she says, cradling a prescription of Oxycotin) which, of course, involved a 311 song being sung by a cast member from the sidelines.
And funny as all that was, and it kept the room laughing pretty much nonstop, nothing compared to the moment when Grandpa's long-estranged son shows up at the ice cream shop in disguise. When Grandpa tells him he recognizes him, the son explains he's stayed away because of the way his father treated him.
"But I've always been proud of you, I'm still very proud of you," the old man tells his son. And what does the son do? Wait for it: he tells his father to say it again and pulls out his phone to record the admission.
Now that's some seriously hysterical improvisation. That's Seinfeld-worthy observational humor right there. What good is hearing the words you've craved since childhood, the words that mean more to you than anything, if you don't have a video clip of it? I mean, did it even happen with no video?
And that's exactly what I'd told the Raleigh-by-way-of-New-Jersey guy when he'd asked why I was at Coalition. I always laugh when I go, sometimes a little and sometimes a whole lot.
When you mock the obsession to give up real life experience for the sake of online documentation, there's nothing funnier. Why? Because that's real life. And after all, they say comedy is just a funny way of being serious.
Beats playing with a rusty can.
Friday, September 22, 2017
No Sin, No Trespass
Fall arrives and the play's the thing again.
I've been back from the beach for exactly 29 hours and in that time, I've eaten at 2 restaurants, been accompanied by two men, seen two plays, walked 5 miles with a friend I haven't walked with since we had a non-dotard president and interviewed a southern soul legend.
All I can say is, that's a lot to jump back into after being oceanfront for days.
For plot novelty and the elusive lesbian central character, there was Cadence Theatre's production of "Fun Home," spun from the graphic novel of the same name about a young woman growing up in Pennsylvania, discovering who she was and finally learning that her father was a closeted gay man, too.
Now there's a switch from walking on the beach.
Barely a day later, I got Virginia Repertory's production of "Shakespeare in Love," which means Tom Stoppard-written words (Is she obedient? As any mule in Christiandom!), fabulous period costumes and a plot designed for Shakespeare fans and students of love.
I will have poetry in my life!
Upstairs at Max's for dinner, we were part of the sizable pre-theater crowd, though most of them were on their way to see "Shakespeare in Love" and we weren't. But we were greeted by a favorite actor stopping by to say hello and guarantee that we'd be out in time for our curtain.
He wasn't just whistling dixie, either, because he also showed up with trifle at the end of dinner.
On the other hand, it was nothing but crickets chirping at Graffiato's, where we were the lone bar sitters and the crowd didn't even begin arriving until we were well into our roasted cauliflower, pizza and monkfish. Clearly some people didn't have a curtain to make.
The best part of coming back from the beach is all the things the beach doesn't offer, you know, plays and restaurants where people don't all wear flip-flops. Engaging my brain again and restocking on opinions and experiences.
The worst part is all these people complaining today that it's 85 degrees on the first day of fall. We've got plenty of time in the months ahead for cool, dry air and I'm going to enjoy every warm moment until I have to close my windows.
I'm also going to take the advice of the 75-year old southern soul legend, who assured me from Memphis, "Don't give up on love because love won't give up on you."
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe entire plays have been written on that subject. Turns out I go to a lot of them.
Because in addition to the beach, I will have poetry in my life.
I've been back from the beach for exactly 29 hours and in that time, I've eaten at 2 restaurants, been accompanied by two men, seen two plays, walked 5 miles with a friend I haven't walked with since we had a non-dotard president and interviewed a southern soul legend.
All I can say is, that's a lot to jump back into after being oceanfront for days.
For plot novelty and the elusive lesbian central character, there was Cadence Theatre's production of "Fun Home," spun from the graphic novel of the same name about a young woman growing up in Pennsylvania, discovering who she was and finally learning that her father was a closeted gay man, too.
Now there's a switch from walking on the beach.
Barely a day later, I got Virginia Repertory's production of "Shakespeare in Love," which means Tom Stoppard-written words (Is she obedient? As any mule in Christiandom!), fabulous period costumes and a plot designed for Shakespeare fans and students of love.
I will have poetry in my life!
Upstairs at Max's for dinner, we were part of the sizable pre-theater crowd, though most of them were on their way to see "Shakespeare in Love" and we weren't. But we were greeted by a favorite actor stopping by to say hello and guarantee that we'd be out in time for our curtain.
He wasn't just whistling dixie, either, because he also showed up with trifle at the end of dinner.
On the other hand, it was nothing but crickets chirping at Graffiato's, where we were the lone bar sitters and the crowd didn't even begin arriving until we were well into our roasted cauliflower, pizza and monkfish. Clearly some people didn't have a curtain to make.
The best part of coming back from the beach is all the things the beach doesn't offer, you know, plays and restaurants where people don't all wear flip-flops. Engaging my brain again and restocking on opinions and experiences.
The worst part is all these people complaining today that it's 85 degrees on the first day of fall. We've got plenty of time in the months ahead for cool, dry air and I'm going to enjoy every warm moment until I have to close my windows.
I'm also going to take the advice of the 75-year old southern soul legend, who assured me from Memphis, "Don't give up on love because love won't give up on you."
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe entire plays have been written on that subject. Turns out I go to a lot of them.
Because in addition to the beach, I will have poetry in my life.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
No Such Thing as Too Much Cow Bell
I can't believe how lucky Richmond is to have gotten the UCI bike races.
Despite the bellyaching, fear-mongering and general trash-talking that's been going on for the past four days, the fact is that we've got an athletic event of global proportions happening on our front doorstep and it's nothing short of amazing.
Anticipating that having a bike-savvy buddy with me to answer my questions would enhance my experience, I invited a favorite cyclist to join me for an afternoon of race-watching. We met at my place and then began our adventure by walking over to the starting line at Third and Broad Streets just before everything got underway for the afternoon.
On the way, I positively glowed seeing the crowd dining and drinking al fresco in front of Max's. Back when I'd been part of the Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road, one of our suggestions had been to close off that stretch for outdoor dining. It was incredibly gratifying seeing it happening.
My biking ignorance was immediately on view since I'd had no clue that the racers came down a ramp to start their ride. It was particularly cool watching the camera on a crane follow them out of the gate and onto Third Street.
What I quickly figured out was that the spectators' role was to make as much noise as possible. Since we'd brought neither cowbells nor noisemakers, we resorted to clapping and shouting every time a cyclist went by.
And here's where my lack of knowledge reared its ugly head again. Who knew that each cyclist was preceded by a motorcycle cop and followed by a car (s) with extra bikes and bike parts?
But easily the coolest job, assuming you have nerves of steel, an adrenaline addiction and a core of sheer muscle, was the cameraman standing on a motorcycle behind the driver, filming the individual bike rider. Kids, you, too, can grow up to do this!
After watching a half dozen cyclists roll down the starting line, we made tracks for another vantage point: the corner of Belvidere and Broad where they had to make a wide left turn. But the best left turn was the one from Laurel onto Main, where they whizzed by the Altria Theater and almost took the paint of the fencing barricades where we were standing.
A woman nearby had been steadily taking pictures of them doing this sharp left and my companion began doing the same. Me, I just watched, fascinated, as these women took the turn, their bikes barely a foot and a half from the barricades. So close.
From there, we made our way down to Belvidere and Main to watch the riders begin the windy sweep over the Lee Bridge. It was here I first noticed the serious leg sweat on the cyclists. Despite the cloud cover, steady wind and cooler temperatures, these women were working it. Hard.
Next we started toward Broad on our way to watch the last leg of the course which includes bombing Main Street (and against the street's usual westward direction), climbing a steep hill on Governor's Street behind the executive mansion, a "false flat" once they turned onto Broad Street ('cause you're still coming up the last of the ascent from the Bottom) and the finish line at Fifth.
Along the way, cops smiled and said hello, friendly blue-shirted volunteers helped us cross streets like elementary school safety patrols and friends - the scuba diver, the urban planner, the gallerist, the vintage store owner -said hello.
It was like one big city-wide party.
Occasionally we passed people carrying on with the business of life, like the construction worker telling his buddies about how dehydrated his friend got after a night of drinking. "He put a Tums in his mouth before he went to bed and when he woke up, it was still there."
You don't say?
Watching the riders come down Main Street was thrilling for my biking companion and terrifying for me. They had to be going 40 mph, yet they had to brake for the sharp left onto Governor's Street and then work it up that hill.
As I was walking up it, a man with a microphone and press credentials pointed at my shirt - "Virginia is for Wine Lovers" - and said, "My wife would kill for that shirt." Luckily she wasn't around.
Everywhere, we saw people holding flags of other countries, waving them as riders went by. Cheering was mostly in English, despite the fact that so many cyclists spoke other languages. We even overheard some guys discussing whether or not the cyclists wanted people to make noise or be silent so they could concentrate.
"Are you kidding?" one said incredulously. "They want us to make noise!" Duh. Come on, the flippin' ABC was giving away cow bells to help the noise-making effort.
By the time they got up that hill and turned onto the "false flat," you could tell they were tired, or, at least, not as fresh as they'd been at the starting line. The crowds were much bigger near the finish line than any we'd seen, with spectators in the elevated VIP section and others comfortably ensconced at the usually empty T. Miller's patio in front of the Marriott.
We stopped to cheer on some of the cyclists reaching the end, but, let's face it, that's probably the least interesting part of the time trials to watch as a spectator.
In front of Eureka Workshop, we chatted with one of its staffers, who said she'd been interviewed by one of the TV stations about how the businesses along Broad were being affected by the race. Refusing to agree that the race was ruining business, she made a point to be upbeat about it all.
Of course, the reporter did her best to bait her - was it chaos? impossible to navigate?- and when she responded incredulously, they'd done a hatchet job in editing that made her sound far more negative than she'd actually been.
Likewise, when we got back from the races after walking nearly five miles and spending four hours watching the best cyclists I've ever seen, I was greeted by screeds from local media outlets bemoaning the low local attendance at area restaurants this week.
Seems all the business lately has been thanks to foreign visitors while the locals are staying away in droves. How idiotic of them.
The fact is, the city isn't hard to navigate, even with some road closures and there's a surprising abundance of parking spaces all over town. Some of us - gasp - are even walking the city to catch the races and it's been a blast.
Some cities would kill for an influx of cosmopolitan tourists and world-class athletes. Friends, if you're not taking advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the loss is yours.
We're talking half-empty restaurants and world-class leg sweat here. It's our moment in the sun, Richmond. Why on earth wouldn't we enjoy every minute of it?
You know I am.
Despite the bellyaching, fear-mongering and general trash-talking that's been going on for the past four days, the fact is that we've got an athletic event of global proportions happening on our front doorstep and it's nothing short of amazing.
Anticipating that having a bike-savvy buddy with me to answer my questions would enhance my experience, I invited a favorite cyclist to join me for an afternoon of race-watching. We met at my place and then began our adventure by walking over to the starting line at Third and Broad Streets just before everything got underway for the afternoon.
On the way, I positively glowed seeing the crowd dining and drinking al fresco in front of Max's. Back when I'd been part of the Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road, one of our suggestions had been to close off that stretch for outdoor dining. It was incredibly gratifying seeing it happening.
My biking ignorance was immediately on view since I'd had no clue that the racers came down a ramp to start their ride. It was particularly cool watching the camera on a crane follow them out of the gate and onto Third Street.
What I quickly figured out was that the spectators' role was to make as much noise as possible. Since we'd brought neither cowbells nor noisemakers, we resorted to clapping and shouting every time a cyclist went by.
And here's where my lack of knowledge reared its ugly head again. Who knew that each cyclist was preceded by a motorcycle cop and followed by a car (s) with extra bikes and bike parts?
But easily the coolest job, assuming you have nerves of steel, an adrenaline addiction and a core of sheer muscle, was the cameraman standing on a motorcycle behind the driver, filming the individual bike rider. Kids, you, too, can grow up to do this!
After watching a half dozen cyclists roll down the starting line, we made tracks for another vantage point: the corner of Belvidere and Broad where they had to make a wide left turn. But the best left turn was the one from Laurel onto Main, where they whizzed by the Altria Theater and almost took the paint of the fencing barricades where we were standing.
A woman nearby had been steadily taking pictures of them doing this sharp left and my companion began doing the same. Me, I just watched, fascinated, as these women took the turn, their bikes barely a foot and a half from the barricades. So close.
From there, we made our way down to Belvidere and Main to watch the riders begin the windy sweep over the Lee Bridge. It was here I first noticed the serious leg sweat on the cyclists. Despite the cloud cover, steady wind and cooler temperatures, these women were working it. Hard.
Next we started toward Broad on our way to watch the last leg of the course which includes bombing Main Street (and against the street's usual westward direction), climbing a steep hill on Governor's Street behind the executive mansion, a "false flat" once they turned onto Broad Street ('cause you're still coming up the last of the ascent from the Bottom) and the finish line at Fifth.
Along the way, cops smiled and said hello, friendly blue-shirted volunteers helped us cross streets like elementary school safety patrols and friends - the scuba diver, the urban planner, the gallerist, the vintage store owner -said hello.
It was like one big city-wide party.
Occasionally we passed people carrying on with the business of life, like the construction worker telling his buddies about how dehydrated his friend got after a night of drinking. "He put a Tums in his mouth before he went to bed and when he woke up, it was still there."
You don't say?
Watching the riders come down Main Street was thrilling for my biking companion and terrifying for me. They had to be going 40 mph, yet they had to brake for the sharp left onto Governor's Street and then work it up that hill.
As I was walking up it, a man with a microphone and press credentials pointed at my shirt - "Virginia is for Wine Lovers" - and said, "My wife would kill for that shirt." Luckily she wasn't around.
Everywhere, we saw people holding flags of other countries, waving them as riders went by. Cheering was mostly in English, despite the fact that so many cyclists spoke other languages. We even overheard some guys discussing whether or not the cyclists wanted people to make noise or be silent so they could concentrate.
"Are you kidding?" one said incredulously. "They want us to make noise!" Duh. Come on, the flippin' ABC was giving away cow bells to help the noise-making effort.
By the time they got up that hill and turned onto the "false flat," you could tell they were tired, or, at least, not as fresh as they'd been at the starting line. The crowds were much bigger near the finish line than any we'd seen, with spectators in the elevated VIP section and others comfortably ensconced at the usually empty T. Miller's patio in front of the Marriott.
We stopped to cheer on some of the cyclists reaching the end, but, let's face it, that's probably the least interesting part of the time trials to watch as a spectator.
In front of Eureka Workshop, we chatted with one of its staffers, who said she'd been interviewed by one of the TV stations about how the businesses along Broad were being affected by the race. Refusing to agree that the race was ruining business, she made a point to be upbeat about it all.
Of course, the reporter did her best to bait her - was it chaos? impossible to navigate?- and when she responded incredulously, they'd done a hatchet job in editing that made her sound far more negative than she'd actually been.
Likewise, when we got back from the races after walking nearly five miles and spending four hours watching the best cyclists I've ever seen, I was greeted by screeds from local media outlets bemoaning the low local attendance at area restaurants this week.
Seems all the business lately has been thanks to foreign visitors while the locals are staying away in droves. How idiotic of them.
The fact is, the city isn't hard to navigate, even with some road closures and there's a surprising abundance of parking spaces all over town. Some of us - gasp - are even walking the city to catch the races and it's been a blast.
Some cities would kill for an influx of cosmopolitan tourists and world-class athletes. Friends, if you're not taking advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the loss is yours.
We're talking half-empty restaurants and world-class leg sweat here. It's our moment in the sun, Richmond. Why on earth wouldn't we enjoy every minute of it?
You know I am.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
All Manners
I may not be a lesbian, but I can play one for an evening.
That said, it was a man who picked me up, albeit one who brought along the apple of his eye and her mother for an evening of food and frivolity.
Although I usually assert my alpha female side and am the one doing the picking up, it seemed silly for me to play driver when our destination was Max's on Broad, four blocks away from me.
Thank goodness we had a reservation at Max's because with "Chicago" playing tonight at theMosque Landmark Altria theater, the place was a zoo and we had a curtain to make.
Fortunately, our server was the deep-voiced Russell, himself an actor and singer (Mom: "I bet he's a bass"), and a master at ensuring swift and seamless food delivery in the service of making a play.
Approving our choice of a Gamay, he had the bottle out in a flash. It doesn't hurt that he's quick-witted, too. When I dithered over choosing dinner, he quipped, "We have some quiche in the back if that's what you're in the mood for."
While I didn't avail myself of it, I probably should have since I'm not sure I'll ever look at quiche the same after what I witnessed tonight. And I've been eating a lot of quiche in the past few months.
We had a front window table so I had a view of the valets as they appropriated SUVs from people with a distinctive Richmond look, or at least that's what Pru's Mom, a recent transplant back to Richmond, saw. More precisely, a lot of people had a West End look, if you know what I mean.
Our meal began with all kinds of delicacies - foie gras in truffle oil, a cheese plate complete with Tallegio and figs (so right up my alley) among other delights, and beef carpaccio with shaved Parmesan - and everyone's forks eventually making it to each plate for a sampling.
The big news at the table was about the elegant and light-filled house that's just been purchased in Church Hill, the one that'll change Pru from a long-time Fan resident to a Hill denizen. Looking at a brochure about the house, it's safe to say they found a beaut.
While Pru and her date talked about his bad habits, her Mom and I went deeper, sharing our theories on karma and paying life forward. She's a delightful woman and I can see how she could have produced my offbeat and interesting friend.
Things got very quiet at the table when our entrees arrived. Pru raved about her rockfish, but I was too busy devouring my curry chicken salad and mesclun to taste it. But I did score bites of Mom's short rib ravioli in tomato cream sauce which was decadent and meaty while the lone male in the bow tie scored highest with juicy quail.
Behind us was a Last Supper-worthy length table with over a dozen people celebrating something, making it difficult for our little four-top to hear each other except when one of them was making a toast.
When we had a moment, I heard about Pru and her Mom's upcoming trip to Europe. They came home this week to a package from the Orient Express containing luggage tags, a list of stops, a journal and other accouterments sent to upcoming passengers of the legendary train.
I wasn't the least taken aback to hear that there was a dress code (no jeans or casual attire) but I was a tad surprised that period dress was encouraged. What a fabulous way to experience Europe.
Once we got to 45 minutes until curtain, Russell was all over us like white on rice making sure that if we wanted dessert or coffee, we order it right then. I chose chocolate mousse, Pru chose Blanchard's coffee gelato from Gelati Celesti and the cute couple both wanted coffee.
Moments later Russell returned with a somber face. "Chocolate mousse has left the building," he informed me solemnly before offering me chocolate decadence gelato as his conciliatory gift for the departure of my chosen one.
"Just give her something chocolate," Pru instructed and we gobbled our gelatos before the handsome one at the table picked up the check and escorted us to the car.
Considering he was taking us to a riotously anti-male play (his choice, mind you), it was all terribly generous of him.
Tonight was closing night for "5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche" at Richmond Triangle Players and it was sold out. Milling about with the audience beforehand were cast members in pastel '50s-era dresses, Mamie Eisenhower hairdos and veiled hats.
Ushers passed out name tags (I was Ingrid) which we were expected to wear during the show as members of the Susan B. Anthony Society for the Sisters of Gertrude Stein. The play told the story of their annual quiche breakfast meeting to decide who makes the best quiche.
It wasn't long before we not only learned the group's motto, but were instructed to stand and say it in unison along with the hand motions.
No men! (think the gesture for "Stop! In the Name of Love")
No meat! (think thumbs on head, fingers wiggling like an animal)
All manners! (a lady-like curtsy)
See? I was getting the hang of this lesbian thing.
After we'd all complied, the president of the society, Lulie, points to a woman in the front row (fortunately I was in the second) named Connie for doing the "no meat!" gesture with only one hand because, "Her other hand was holding an alcoholic drink!" Shameful!
Double entendres abounded, such as when the sisters discussed what constitutes quiche. "Can you imagine putting sausage in a quiche?" Envision the hand gestures boys used to make in elementary school.
Fifties-style drama ensues when warnings go off and there's a nuclear attack, stranding them in the meeting room for the next four years. What will they do without eggs to make quiche?
The audience lost it when Ginny, the timid and over-eager to please sister, is denied access to the lone quiche and jumps on the table, crouches over it and proceeds to eat it in a way that suggested she was doing something else.
"Ooh, she's doing it right," one of the sisters moans.
Once the sisters realize what's happened and that they're stuck, they decide to come out, even entreating the audience to do the same. "Say it loud and say it proud!" The first voice from the crowd was a man's."I'm a lesbian!"
Next came a cataloging of how they knew audience members were lesbians, things such as multiple banjos. "She's definitely a lesbian because she owns stock in U-Haul!"
Considering how many same sex couples were in the room, you can imagine how many laughs all this got.
By far the funniest scene was when Dale, clad only in a '50s-era corset and stockings, makes a run to get more quiches to tide them over for the next four years.
Before the radiation outside claims her (she explodes outside a window as her fellow lesbians shriek), she and her beloved Wren have a moment putting their hands against the glass to say goodbye.
The play was a ball, campy, corny and over-the-top, although there were moments when five female voices talking/shrieking/screaming got a bit shrill.
Let's just say we laughed a lot. Walking out, I overheard a woman tell her partner, "I don't know when I've ever consistently smiled so long." She might have owned some U-Haul stock.
Not me. No men, no meat? No way.
That said, it was a man who picked me up, albeit one who brought along the apple of his eye and her mother for an evening of food and frivolity.
Although I usually assert my alpha female side and am the one doing the picking up, it seemed silly for me to play driver when our destination was Max's on Broad, four blocks away from me.
Thank goodness we had a reservation at Max's because with "Chicago" playing tonight at the
Fortunately, our server was the deep-voiced Russell, himself an actor and singer (Mom: "I bet he's a bass"), and a master at ensuring swift and seamless food delivery in the service of making a play.
Approving our choice of a Gamay, he had the bottle out in a flash. It doesn't hurt that he's quick-witted, too. When I dithered over choosing dinner, he quipped, "We have some quiche in the back if that's what you're in the mood for."
While I didn't avail myself of it, I probably should have since I'm not sure I'll ever look at quiche the same after what I witnessed tonight. And I've been eating a lot of quiche in the past few months.
We had a front window table so I had a view of the valets as they appropriated SUVs from people with a distinctive Richmond look, or at least that's what Pru's Mom, a recent transplant back to Richmond, saw. More precisely, a lot of people had a West End look, if you know what I mean.
Our meal began with all kinds of delicacies - foie gras in truffle oil, a cheese plate complete with Tallegio and figs (so right up my alley) among other delights, and beef carpaccio with shaved Parmesan - and everyone's forks eventually making it to each plate for a sampling.
The big news at the table was about the elegant and light-filled house that's just been purchased in Church Hill, the one that'll change Pru from a long-time Fan resident to a Hill denizen. Looking at a brochure about the house, it's safe to say they found a beaut.
While Pru and her date talked about his bad habits, her Mom and I went deeper, sharing our theories on karma and paying life forward. She's a delightful woman and I can see how she could have produced my offbeat and interesting friend.
Things got very quiet at the table when our entrees arrived. Pru raved about her rockfish, but I was too busy devouring my curry chicken salad and mesclun to taste it. But I did score bites of Mom's short rib ravioli in tomato cream sauce which was decadent and meaty while the lone male in the bow tie scored highest with juicy quail.
Behind us was a Last Supper-worthy length table with over a dozen people celebrating something, making it difficult for our little four-top to hear each other except when one of them was making a toast.
When we had a moment, I heard about Pru and her Mom's upcoming trip to Europe. They came home this week to a package from the Orient Express containing luggage tags, a list of stops, a journal and other accouterments sent to upcoming passengers of the legendary train.
I wasn't the least taken aback to hear that there was a dress code (no jeans or casual attire) but I was a tad surprised that period dress was encouraged. What a fabulous way to experience Europe.
Once we got to 45 minutes until curtain, Russell was all over us like white on rice making sure that if we wanted dessert or coffee, we order it right then. I chose chocolate mousse, Pru chose Blanchard's coffee gelato from Gelati Celesti and the cute couple both wanted coffee.
Moments later Russell returned with a somber face. "Chocolate mousse has left the building," he informed me solemnly before offering me chocolate decadence gelato as his conciliatory gift for the departure of my chosen one.
"Just give her something chocolate," Pru instructed and we gobbled our gelatos before the handsome one at the table picked up the check and escorted us to the car.
Considering he was taking us to a riotously anti-male play (his choice, mind you), it was all terribly generous of him.
Tonight was closing night for "5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche" at Richmond Triangle Players and it was sold out. Milling about with the audience beforehand were cast members in pastel '50s-era dresses, Mamie Eisenhower hairdos and veiled hats.
Ushers passed out name tags (I was Ingrid) which we were expected to wear during the show as members of the Susan B. Anthony Society for the Sisters of Gertrude Stein. The play told the story of their annual quiche breakfast meeting to decide who makes the best quiche.
It wasn't long before we not only learned the group's motto, but were instructed to stand and say it in unison along with the hand motions.
No men! (think the gesture for "Stop! In the Name of Love")
No meat! (think thumbs on head, fingers wiggling like an animal)
All manners! (a lady-like curtsy)
See? I was getting the hang of this lesbian thing.
After we'd all complied, the president of the society, Lulie, points to a woman in the front row (fortunately I was in the second) named Connie for doing the "no meat!" gesture with only one hand because, "Her other hand was holding an alcoholic drink!" Shameful!
Double entendres abounded, such as when the sisters discussed what constitutes quiche. "Can you imagine putting sausage in a quiche?" Envision the hand gestures boys used to make in elementary school.
Fifties-style drama ensues when warnings go off and there's a nuclear attack, stranding them in the meeting room for the next four years. What will they do without eggs to make quiche?
The audience lost it when Ginny, the timid and over-eager to please sister, is denied access to the lone quiche and jumps on the table, crouches over it and proceeds to eat it in a way that suggested she was doing something else.
"Ooh, she's doing it right," one of the sisters moans.
Once the sisters realize what's happened and that they're stuck, they decide to come out, even entreating the audience to do the same. "Say it loud and say it proud!" The first voice from the crowd was a man's."I'm a lesbian!"
Next came a cataloging of how they knew audience members were lesbians, things such as multiple banjos. "She's definitely a lesbian because she owns stock in U-Haul!"
Considering how many same sex couples were in the room, you can imagine how many laughs all this got.
By far the funniest scene was when Dale, clad only in a '50s-era corset and stockings, makes a run to get more quiches to tide them over for the next four years.
Before the radiation outside claims her (she explodes outside a window as her fellow lesbians shriek), she and her beloved Wren have a moment putting their hands against the glass to say goodbye.
The play was a ball, campy, corny and over-the-top, although there were moments when five female voices talking/shrieking/screaming got a bit shrill.
Let's just say we laughed a lot. Walking out, I overheard a woman tell her partner, "I don't know when I've ever consistently smiled so long." She might have owned some U-Haul stock.
Not me. No men, no meat? No way.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
A Walk on a Winter's Day
There's snow and then there's snow.
Today's white stuff - several inches on the ground when I finally got out of bed, the enormous flakes that suddenly dropped from the sky mid-afternoon, the delicate snow shower that fell while the sun was shining after that - was unlike any snow day in my rather long memory.
So while I attempted a walk, it soon became apparent that between the cars splashing slush on me and the wind chill factor cutting through four layers, it was going to be an abbreviated walk.
Okay, fine, I will spend the day inside working and admiring the snow from the warmth of my living room. Until about 7 p.m., that is, when cabin fever demanded that I leave the apartment and find mankind.
The closest place open was Max's on Broad, so I rounded up a Jackson Ward neighbor and we sloshed over. Almost every bar stool was taken except for the two waiting for us.
The bartender recognized me from my local vegetarian emporium and his first question was, "Did you go to Live at Ipanema last night?"
I brought him up to speed on last night's show since he hadn't worked it before moving on to wining and dining.
With glasses of a Cotes de Gascogne and a lively European cafe station playing such gems as a French version of "Cheek to Cheek" and "Italiano Mambo," it was easy to forget about the bad weather outside.
The music reached its apogee with a French-accented woman singing "Love Will Tear Us Apart," possibly a high point in unlikely cover songs.
A favorite actor who waits tables there came over to say hello and we compared notes on what plays we'd seen lately. When he heard about my upcoming plans to see "Tartuffe," rife with whip smart and lightening speed dialog, he proclaimed, "Oh, but you, you'll have no problem keeping up, that's for sure."
It's nice to be thought of as quick on the uptake.
For dinner, my friend went hearty with a beef burgundy but I stayed simple with a salami, brie and fennel melt sandwich with a side of apple and fennel slaw.
I liked everything about the sandwich- its crusty roll, abundance of toothsome salami and oozing cheese - but the wan and out of season tomato slices were a waste of time and I quickly discarded them.
In season, people, let's serve what's in season, shall we?
Just as we were finishing, another neighbor came in, like us looking for an escape from his house. Everyone claims to love a snow day, but some of us really don't want to be trapped at home for too long.
He was eager to show off pictures of his new puppy, but I was more interested in images of the paintings he's been working on lately.
I own one of his pieces and while he'd shared some tidbits about the inspiration for the large scale work when he'd given it to me, tonight he confessed that the central theme of it was "the one that got away."
He said that if I went home and looked in the upper corner of the painting, I'd even see her name and, sure enough, I looked when I got home and there it is, buried among dabs of paint.
Personally, I find a romance in him having created this enormous painting for a woman who will never see it...or know that she was the one that got away.
I am nothing if not a romantic at heart.
We left the painter to his phone and pictures of his puppy, heading to Bellytimber for music and Guggenheim Malbec.
Our waitress was only 19, so she brought the bottle of wine to us already open, but boasted that it was okay for her to pour for us, which made no sense. What a tangled web the VA ABC weaves for us and the underage set.
Playing tonight were The English Majors, a math rock band (get it?), and Chris Brockaw, a former member of Coedine and on his way to open for Bob Mould.
The show had originally been scheduled for my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, but the weather had prevented them from opening today.
The English Majors were minus a major tonight but played a short set anyway, with guitarist PJ saying about the closer, "This next song is a cover. Listen for the melody," before doing a cover of the timeless "California Dreamin."
I'll admit, Bellytimber is not a big favorite of mine and the non-stop procession of overly drunk guys coming through the door all night didn't help change that much.
Some guys all but veered into the wall as they came through the glass-paned door, also challenging for those already seeing double and triple.
But the company was good, friends had been playing music and on a snowy night, you have to allow for cabin fever drunks wandering in off the streets.
Introducing himself as from Seattle, Chris Brokaw and his fuzz pedals were up against a bunch of drunks shouting at each other, but his quiet resolve to play his brooding music won out, at least for those of us up front and listening.
He began with a couple of songs from "Gambler's Ecstacy" before moving through his catalog of dark lyrics and catchy guitar, even including the century old American folk song, "Stagger Lee."
It was a shame that so few people made it out to hear him tonight because he was seriously talented and singing densely beautiful songs.
And to think I could have been at home making hot chocolate in my pajamas instead.
Wait, I don't have pajamas. No, I made the right choice.
Today's white stuff - several inches on the ground when I finally got out of bed, the enormous flakes that suddenly dropped from the sky mid-afternoon, the delicate snow shower that fell while the sun was shining after that - was unlike any snow day in my rather long memory.
So while I attempted a walk, it soon became apparent that between the cars splashing slush on me and the wind chill factor cutting through four layers, it was going to be an abbreviated walk.
Okay, fine, I will spend the day inside working and admiring the snow from the warmth of my living room. Until about 7 p.m., that is, when cabin fever demanded that I leave the apartment and find mankind.
The closest place open was Max's on Broad, so I rounded up a Jackson Ward neighbor and we sloshed over. Almost every bar stool was taken except for the two waiting for us.
The bartender recognized me from my local vegetarian emporium and his first question was, "Did you go to Live at Ipanema last night?"
I brought him up to speed on last night's show since he hadn't worked it before moving on to wining and dining.
With glasses of a Cotes de Gascogne and a lively European cafe station playing such gems as a French version of "Cheek to Cheek" and "Italiano Mambo," it was easy to forget about the bad weather outside.
The music reached its apogee with a French-accented woman singing "Love Will Tear Us Apart," possibly a high point in unlikely cover songs.
A favorite actor who waits tables there came over to say hello and we compared notes on what plays we'd seen lately. When he heard about my upcoming plans to see "Tartuffe," rife with whip smart and lightening speed dialog, he proclaimed, "Oh, but you, you'll have no problem keeping up, that's for sure."
It's nice to be thought of as quick on the uptake.
For dinner, my friend went hearty with a beef burgundy but I stayed simple with a salami, brie and fennel melt sandwich with a side of apple and fennel slaw.
I liked everything about the sandwich- its crusty roll, abundance of toothsome salami and oozing cheese - but the wan and out of season tomato slices were a waste of time and I quickly discarded them.
In season, people, let's serve what's in season, shall we?
Just as we were finishing, another neighbor came in, like us looking for an escape from his house. Everyone claims to love a snow day, but some of us really don't want to be trapped at home for too long.
He was eager to show off pictures of his new puppy, but I was more interested in images of the paintings he's been working on lately.
I own one of his pieces and while he'd shared some tidbits about the inspiration for the large scale work when he'd given it to me, tonight he confessed that the central theme of it was "the one that got away."
He said that if I went home and looked in the upper corner of the painting, I'd even see her name and, sure enough, I looked when I got home and there it is, buried among dabs of paint.
Personally, I find a romance in him having created this enormous painting for a woman who will never see it...or know that she was the one that got away.
I am nothing if not a romantic at heart.
We left the painter to his phone and pictures of his puppy, heading to Bellytimber for music and Guggenheim Malbec.
Our waitress was only 19, so she brought the bottle of wine to us already open, but boasted that it was okay for her to pour for us, which made no sense. What a tangled web the VA ABC weaves for us and the underage set.
Playing tonight were The English Majors, a math rock band (get it?), and Chris Brockaw, a former member of Coedine and on his way to open for Bob Mould.
The show had originally been scheduled for my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, but the weather had prevented them from opening today.
The English Majors were minus a major tonight but played a short set anyway, with guitarist PJ saying about the closer, "This next song is a cover. Listen for the melody," before doing a cover of the timeless "California Dreamin."
I'll admit, Bellytimber is not a big favorite of mine and the non-stop procession of overly drunk guys coming through the door all night didn't help change that much.
Some guys all but veered into the wall as they came through the glass-paned door, also challenging for those already seeing double and triple.
But the company was good, friends had been playing music and on a snowy night, you have to allow for cabin fever drunks wandering in off the streets.
Introducing himself as from Seattle, Chris Brokaw and his fuzz pedals were up against a bunch of drunks shouting at each other, but his quiet resolve to play his brooding music won out, at least for those of us up front and listening.
He began with a couple of songs from "Gambler's Ecstacy" before moving through his catalog of dark lyrics and catchy guitar, even including the century old American folk song, "Stagger Lee."
It was a shame that so few people made it out to hear him tonight because he was seriously talented and singing densely beautiful songs.
And to think I could have been at home making hot chocolate in my pajamas instead.
Wait, I don't have pajamas. No, I made the right choice.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
When the Weather Outside is Frightful
It's the inverse snow effect.
As soon as it's forecast, as soon as everyone starts announcing closings, I begin plotting where I can go that's still open.
While I understand that snow makes many people want to cocoon, making soup and hot chocolate, I begin to feel claustrophobic and in dire need of conversation.
Mercifully, there are solutions for that, like making tracks for a neighborhood bistro, in this case Max's on Broad.
Trudging the sidewalks, umbrella in hand, I remembered meeting a Canadian at the now-defunct Belvidere on Broad during a snowstorm a few years back.
He was highly amused, scornful even, by the way Virginians used umbrellas for snow, not that that prevented me from having an umbrella in hand tonight.
Max's was far busier than I expected (one of the valets said he'd already parked eight cars), with a large group upstairs and a smattering of men drinking downstairs.
Fortunately for me, one of them was a friend so I joined him at the end of the bar.
Anticipating that my meal was going to start with French onion soup given the tingling in my toes, I began with Didier Desvignes Domaine du Calvaire de Roche-Gres Fleurie because I love how the gamay grape's acidity cuts through the richness of a soup like that.
My friend joined me in his own bowl of soup while I heard about the headaches of his day, not the least of which was the weather because he's in the restaurant business.
When he asked me about the writing life, I had to admit that bad weather days are kind of great for me because I'm less tempted to head out and about so I stay in and meet deadlines instead.
It leaves me feeling quite virtuous, but starved for conversation, not an issue when you run into a chatty friend.
He told me about a big party he and his sweetheart are planning, one with a budget that exceeds my quarterly income, and one to which I will be invited.
With snow swirling outside and a surprising number of people walking and biking down Broad Street, we moved on to dinner.
I chose the Crab Louie cocktail which I'd had before while he got all manly on me, ordering a NY strip with Bernaise and frites.
Like last time, I was impressed with the amount of crabmeat and abundance of lumps, but tonight's had a decidedly pasteurized taste, leading us to conclude it was probably canned crabmeat, something I prefer to avoid, having grown up in Maryland with particular crab preferences.
But with enough lemon juice and a bit of salt, I managed.
By the time we ordered dessert, the group had left and restaurant employees were starting to arrive at the bar. The music went from Edith Piaf to the Head and the Heart, a sure sign that the evening was winding down.
Friend had chosen the trifle, a mistake because what arrived was nothing like trifle, more like a misguided deconstruction with alternate ingredients.
I chose the cream puff which turned out to be three puffs, a bonus, but the ganache was milk chocolate and not dark chocolate, a miscalculation in my book given the sweetness of the cream filling.
Since my friend had pushed his trifle aside after two bites, I gave him a cream puff for a consolation prize.
We talked about a recent article of NYC food critics' pet restaurant peeves - server phrases like "no problem" and "what are we thinking for dinner?" among them- as we finished up our wine.
It was when we saw our first snow plow lumbering down Broad Street (blade up, mind you), that we broke camp and headed out past the valets huddled in the makeshift vestibule into the blustery night.
In my book, it was still ridiculously early, but at least I'd gotten some conversation out of my system.
Sometimes that's all I need. Sometimes, more.
As soon as it's forecast, as soon as everyone starts announcing closings, I begin plotting where I can go that's still open.
While I understand that snow makes many people want to cocoon, making soup and hot chocolate, I begin to feel claustrophobic and in dire need of conversation.
Mercifully, there are solutions for that, like making tracks for a neighborhood bistro, in this case Max's on Broad.
Trudging the sidewalks, umbrella in hand, I remembered meeting a Canadian at the now-defunct Belvidere on Broad during a snowstorm a few years back.
He was highly amused, scornful even, by the way Virginians used umbrellas for snow, not that that prevented me from having an umbrella in hand tonight.
Max's was far busier than I expected (one of the valets said he'd already parked eight cars), with a large group upstairs and a smattering of men drinking downstairs.
Fortunately for me, one of them was a friend so I joined him at the end of the bar.
Anticipating that my meal was going to start with French onion soup given the tingling in my toes, I began with Didier Desvignes Domaine du Calvaire de Roche-Gres Fleurie because I love how the gamay grape's acidity cuts through the richness of a soup like that.
My friend joined me in his own bowl of soup while I heard about the headaches of his day, not the least of which was the weather because he's in the restaurant business.
When he asked me about the writing life, I had to admit that bad weather days are kind of great for me because I'm less tempted to head out and about so I stay in and meet deadlines instead.
It leaves me feeling quite virtuous, but starved for conversation, not an issue when you run into a chatty friend.
He told me about a big party he and his sweetheart are planning, one with a budget that exceeds my quarterly income, and one to which I will be invited.
With snow swirling outside and a surprising number of people walking and biking down Broad Street, we moved on to dinner.
I chose the Crab Louie cocktail which I'd had before while he got all manly on me, ordering a NY strip with Bernaise and frites.
Like last time, I was impressed with the amount of crabmeat and abundance of lumps, but tonight's had a decidedly pasteurized taste, leading us to conclude it was probably canned crabmeat, something I prefer to avoid, having grown up in Maryland with particular crab preferences.
But with enough lemon juice and a bit of salt, I managed.
By the time we ordered dessert, the group had left and restaurant employees were starting to arrive at the bar. The music went from Edith Piaf to the Head and the Heart, a sure sign that the evening was winding down.
Friend had chosen the trifle, a mistake because what arrived was nothing like trifle, more like a misguided deconstruction with alternate ingredients.
I chose the cream puff which turned out to be three puffs, a bonus, but the ganache was milk chocolate and not dark chocolate, a miscalculation in my book given the sweetness of the cream filling.
Since my friend had pushed his trifle aside after two bites, I gave him a cream puff for a consolation prize.
We talked about a recent article of NYC food critics' pet restaurant peeves - server phrases like "no problem" and "what are we thinking for dinner?" among them- as we finished up our wine.
It was when we saw our first snow plow lumbering down Broad Street (blade up, mind you), that we broke camp and headed out past the valets huddled in the makeshift vestibule into the blustery night.
In my book, it was still ridiculously early, but at least I'd gotten some conversation out of my system.
Sometimes that's all I need. Sometimes, more.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Hearts and Pearls
That's one off my list.
I knocked off one of the 1001 movies you must see before you die, "Sherlock Jr." at the Silent Music Revival tonight at Gallery 5.
The classic 1924 Buster Keaton movie got a boost with an improvised soundtrack by the Green Boys, the handsome Fredericksburg band with slide guitar, doublebass and mandolin, along with the usual suspects.
Host Jameson had created the perfect pairing with the tale of a lowly film projectionist who yearns to be a detective and gets his chance when a rival for his love steals a watch and pawns it.
He warned us to look out for a scene where Buster jumped off a train and into a water torrent because during that scene, the actor had broken his neck, unbeknownst to him.
I have to say, it's more than a little unsettling to watch an actor do his own stunt, knowing that his neck is being broken in the process.
But most of the film was laugh-out-loud funny and the Green Boys' accompaniment was ideal- energetic, homey and with just enough twang to convey our hero's everyman status.
As a bonus, I loved all the scenes of '20s-era California, so much simpler a time.
All the cool kids were there- the scientist bearing chocolate he shared with me, the DJ who'd had a sad morning (our third meeting in as many days), the printmaker whose prints I'd coveted earlier today, the harmonium player about to go out on tour.
It was a record crowd in Gallery 5, where, mercifully, the heating system had been restored after Friday night's breakdown, and they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate them all.
Judging by all the laughter during the movie and the heartfelt applause afterwards, I'd say it was a perfect marriage of film and music.
But then, that's what Jameson does best. I should know; I've been going since 2007 when he used to do it in Rumors boutique for a dozen people.
When I left there, it was to go to Max's on Broad for a bite where a familiar actor friend greeted us and before long, the scientist and his date showed up, too.
The music was ideally suited to the room - Billy Holiday, Edith Piaf- and we started with an extremely generous serving of steak tartare, made all the richer with an egg yolk and a creamy pesto to take it over the top.
I followed meat with meat with a French dip with Gruyere, horseradish and red onion on a baguette with asparagus on the side, a sandwich so tasty I shared a bite with the scientist despite his date's surprised look.
The way I see it, if a man offers me his chocolate, the least I can do is offer him a bite of my roast beast in return.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I knocked off one of the 1001 movies you must see before you die, "Sherlock Jr." at the Silent Music Revival tonight at Gallery 5.
The classic 1924 Buster Keaton movie got a boost with an improvised soundtrack by the Green Boys, the handsome Fredericksburg band with slide guitar, doublebass and mandolin, along with the usual suspects.
Host Jameson had created the perfect pairing with the tale of a lowly film projectionist who yearns to be a detective and gets his chance when a rival for his love steals a watch and pawns it.
He warned us to look out for a scene where Buster jumped off a train and into a water torrent because during that scene, the actor had broken his neck, unbeknownst to him.
I have to say, it's more than a little unsettling to watch an actor do his own stunt, knowing that his neck is being broken in the process.
But most of the film was laugh-out-loud funny and the Green Boys' accompaniment was ideal- energetic, homey and with just enough twang to convey our hero's everyman status.
As a bonus, I loved all the scenes of '20s-era California, so much simpler a time.
All the cool kids were there- the scientist bearing chocolate he shared with me, the DJ who'd had a sad morning (our third meeting in as many days), the printmaker whose prints I'd coveted earlier today, the harmonium player about to go out on tour.
It was a record crowd in Gallery 5, where, mercifully, the heating system had been restored after Friday night's breakdown, and they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate them all.
Judging by all the laughter during the movie and the heartfelt applause afterwards, I'd say it was a perfect marriage of film and music.
But then, that's what Jameson does best. I should know; I've been going since 2007 when he used to do it in Rumors boutique for a dozen people.
When I left there, it was to go to Max's on Broad for a bite where a familiar actor friend greeted us and before long, the scientist and his date showed up, too.
The music was ideally suited to the room - Billy Holiday, Edith Piaf- and we started with an extremely generous serving of steak tartare, made all the richer with an egg yolk and a creamy pesto to take it over the top.
I followed meat with meat with a French dip with Gruyere, horseradish and red onion on a baguette with asparagus on the side, a sandwich so tasty I shared a bite with the scientist despite his date's surprised look.
The way I see it, if a man offers me his chocolate, the least I can do is offer him a bite of my roast beast in return.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Crab and Camp Jingle
It was the borrowed boyfriend redux.
I made it home from a foggy day at the river with just enough time to shower off the dust and debris from another 17 trips up and down two flights of stairs to complete the tree decoration and final adorning of my parents' house.
With tight hamstrings and taut calves, I changed clothes and personas to meet a charming man who is not my own.
No, he belongs to a workaholic friend who is not the fan of theater I am, so we'd made plans for dinner and a play.
He wanted to meet at Max's on Broad, fine by me since it's mere blocks from home and I had very limited time to get properly outfitted for a night at Richmond Triangle Players.
Since neither of us had been up there, we chose the upstairs dining room to eat and were fittingly greeted by a local actor I know.
If anyone understands how to get people in and out in time to make a curtain, it was this guy.
With the balmy-like temperatures outside, I started by ordering a glass of Jean-Mauraice Raffault Chinon Rose, getting major props from the actor who said it was one of his faves, and that he'd taken a bottle of it home just last night.
All around us were other people who looked theater-bound, although the boyfriend and I agreed that in all likelihood, they were on their way to see "Fiddler on the Roof" around the corner at Virginia Rep.
As he noted, we were on the young end of the demographic and that's saying something.
We both started with the Crab Louis cocktail, a surprisingly large mound of lump crabmeat and three cocktail shrimp.
Blame my Maryland childhood, but I still get a little thrill when I see a big pile of picked crab I can just inhale without any effort on my part.
Next I had a half hanger steak salad which my date labeled as "eating healthy" but given the abundance of medium rare red meat and bleu cheese on it, I'm sure there was at least some artery-clogging going on.
The boyfriend told me about his recent trips to Ireland and Nashville and wanted to hear about my recent weekend in Washington, leading to a discussion of career servers and how the Richmond restaurant scene could use the kind of people who make service their profession and not something they do in between other jobs or pursuits.
People can dream, can't they?
Before we knew it, it was time to get to Richmond Triangle Players in Scott's Addition for "It's a Fabulous Life."
Who else would produce a play based on "It's a Wonderful Life," where the protagonist's crisis necessitates him seeing what his life would have been like if he'd been born straight?
Perish the thought, of course.
Our hero, a gay playwright, is frustrated with his latest play, a gay Christmas musical where he's stepped into the role of Randolph, the gay reindeer.
He wants to write something universal instead of all the gay-themed plays he's become known for. To that end, he's already cut "I Came Upon a Midnight Queer" from the play.
There was an explanation of the difference in a vicious queer and an evil queer (it's all in how they tell you how you look).
The crowd loved the big, musical number, "The Pole Got Hot," which ended with all the dancers in g-strings of Santa hats.
By the end of the first act, our hero Joe has done it, he's wished that he were never born gay and that's when his angel shows up.
But unlike in "Wonderful Life" where the angel comes down to help a man so he can finally get his wings, this gay angel already has his.
So why's he down helping a lost soul?
Well, the standard-issue wings are white and he doesn't want to wear white after Labor Day so he's hoping to earn some lavender wings.
"Helluva Time in Heaven!" gave us angels in gold lame briefs that allowed plenty of, um, detail and movement.
The boyfriend and I had seats in different rows, but just behind each other and during the intermission, a man came over and asked if he could sit in the empty chair next to me.
Looking at the guy on my right, he checked first, asking, "Does she bite?"
"Yes, but in a really good way," my seatmate claimed as if he knew.
"Ooooh, your tights are fab!" the newcomer said, complimenting the perennially-popular Berlin tights.
He started right in asking me if I came to RTP often, what brought me in and if I knew any of the actors in the show, so I wanted to know something about him.
A Texan here visiting, he'll be directing an upcoming show at RTP and wanted to get a feel for the stage and sight lines.
I immediately explained that as a short person, I'd missed some great dance moves by Joe and the angel because of where they were on the stage and he said he'd take that into consideration.
Always doing my part for the vertically-challenged.
The second act started with Joe dressed impossibly preppy now and singing "Great to Be Straight," admitting, "It's dull but I can't complain" and extolling the virtues of wings, titties and baseball.
Who knew those things defined the straight man?
I loved that the play was set in Richmond, so when Joe runs into a gay man from his past and they try to figure out how they knew each other, the guy assumes it's his looks.
As in, he'd been on the cover of Gay Fitness and Gay RVA. "Or maybe you saw me in Style Weekly?" he guesses, pulling an issue of Style out and flashing a picture of himself from a real issue.
Joe slowly discovers that when one thing changes, everything changes. "I don't seem to be able to dance anymore," he laments.
Just another straight guy problem.
It was some time after we heard a lovely rendition of "We Three Queens from Oregon Are" that Joe finally comes to his senses and wants his true self back, problems and all.
When his angel instructs him to close his eyes and click his heels together three times, he looks down and sees Joe is wearing loafers, the ultimate straight man embarrassment.
By the time he returns to his real life, it's time for the audience singalong to the Hawaiian-flavored "Come on A Wanna Laya Christmas."
First the gays were instructed to sing along and then the straights, who unexpectedly turned out to be louder, causing the drag queen playing Mrs. Claus (Liza Minnelli-style, of course) to express surprise at how many of us were in her midst.
It's scary, we're everywhere.
The show closed with the affirming "God Bless the Road Less Traveled By" with the characters taking the time to appreciate who they were and how they got to that place.
Like in the classic "It's a Wonderful Life," it was a reminder during the bustle of the holidays to pause and be grateful for how each of us matters to others.
I like to think that there are a number of boyfriends I mattered to, some my own, some belonging to others.
Sending him home to his beloved, at the end of the night I thanked tonight's borrowed one for several things- for not wearing loafers, for being able to dance and especially for treating me to a lovely evening.
Some boyfriends you send home, others you want to keep. Maybe even bite in a good way.
I made it home from a foggy day at the river with just enough time to shower off the dust and debris from another 17 trips up and down two flights of stairs to complete the tree decoration and final adorning of my parents' house.
With tight hamstrings and taut calves, I changed clothes and personas to meet a charming man who is not my own.
No, he belongs to a workaholic friend who is not the fan of theater I am, so we'd made plans for dinner and a play.
He wanted to meet at Max's on Broad, fine by me since it's mere blocks from home and I had very limited time to get properly outfitted for a night at Richmond Triangle Players.
Since neither of us had been up there, we chose the upstairs dining room to eat and were fittingly greeted by a local actor I know.
If anyone understands how to get people in and out in time to make a curtain, it was this guy.
With the balmy-like temperatures outside, I started by ordering a glass of Jean-Mauraice Raffault Chinon Rose, getting major props from the actor who said it was one of his faves, and that he'd taken a bottle of it home just last night.
All around us were other people who looked theater-bound, although the boyfriend and I agreed that in all likelihood, they were on their way to see "Fiddler on the Roof" around the corner at Virginia Rep.
As he noted, we were on the young end of the demographic and that's saying something.
We both started with the Crab Louis cocktail, a surprisingly large mound of lump crabmeat and three cocktail shrimp.
Blame my Maryland childhood, but I still get a little thrill when I see a big pile of picked crab I can just inhale without any effort on my part.
Next I had a half hanger steak salad which my date labeled as "eating healthy" but given the abundance of medium rare red meat and bleu cheese on it, I'm sure there was at least some artery-clogging going on.
The boyfriend told me about his recent trips to Ireland and Nashville and wanted to hear about my recent weekend in Washington, leading to a discussion of career servers and how the Richmond restaurant scene could use the kind of people who make service their profession and not something they do in between other jobs or pursuits.
People can dream, can't they?
Before we knew it, it was time to get to Richmond Triangle Players in Scott's Addition for "It's a Fabulous Life."
Who else would produce a play based on "It's a Wonderful Life," where the protagonist's crisis necessitates him seeing what his life would have been like if he'd been born straight?
Perish the thought, of course.
Our hero, a gay playwright, is frustrated with his latest play, a gay Christmas musical where he's stepped into the role of Randolph, the gay reindeer.
He wants to write something universal instead of all the gay-themed plays he's become known for. To that end, he's already cut "I Came Upon a Midnight Queer" from the play.
There was an explanation of the difference in a vicious queer and an evil queer (it's all in how they tell you how you look).
The crowd loved the big, musical number, "The Pole Got Hot," which ended with all the dancers in g-strings of Santa hats.
By the end of the first act, our hero Joe has done it, he's wished that he were never born gay and that's when his angel shows up.
But unlike in "Wonderful Life" where the angel comes down to help a man so he can finally get his wings, this gay angel already has his.
So why's he down helping a lost soul?
Well, the standard-issue wings are white and he doesn't want to wear white after Labor Day so he's hoping to earn some lavender wings.
"Helluva Time in Heaven!" gave us angels in gold lame briefs that allowed plenty of, um, detail and movement.
The boyfriend and I had seats in different rows, but just behind each other and during the intermission, a man came over and asked if he could sit in the empty chair next to me.
Looking at the guy on my right, he checked first, asking, "Does she bite?"
"Yes, but in a really good way," my seatmate claimed as if he knew.
"Ooooh, your tights are fab!" the newcomer said, complimenting the perennially-popular Berlin tights.
He started right in asking me if I came to RTP often, what brought me in and if I knew any of the actors in the show, so I wanted to know something about him.
A Texan here visiting, he'll be directing an upcoming show at RTP and wanted to get a feel for the stage and sight lines.
I immediately explained that as a short person, I'd missed some great dance moves by Joe and the angel because of where they were on the stage and he said he'd take that into consideration.
Always doing my part for the vertically-challenged.
The second act started with Joe dressed impossibly preppy now and singing "Great to Be Straight," admitting, "It's dull but I can't complain" and extolling the virtues of wings, titties and baseball.
Who knew those things defined the straight man?
I loved that the play was set in Richmond, so when Joe runs into a gay man from his past and they try to figure out how they knew each other, the guy assumes it's his looks.
As in, he'd been on the cover of Gay Fitness and Gay RVA. "Or maybe you saw me in Style Weekly?" he guesses, pulling an issue of Style out and flashing a picture of himself from a real issue.
Joe slowly discovers that when one thing changes, everything changes. "I don't seem to be able to dance anymore," he laments.
Just another straight guy problem.
It was some time after we heard a lovely rendition of "We Three Queens from Oregon Are" that Joe finally comes to his senses and wants his true self back, problems and all.
When his angel instructs him to close his eyes and click his heels together three times, he looks down and sees Joe is wearing loafers, the ultimate straight man embarrassment.
By the time he returns to his real life, it's time for the audience singalong to the Hawaiian-flavored "Come on A Wanna Laya Christmas."
First the gays were instructed to sing along and then the straights, who unexpectedly turned out to be louder, causing the drag queen playing Mrs. Claus (Liza Minnelli-style, of course) to express surprise at how many of us were in her midst.
It's scary, we're everywhere.
The show closed with the affirming "God Bless the Road Less Traveled By" with the characters taking the time to appreciate who they were and how they got to that place.
Like in the classic "It's a Wonderful Life," it was a reminder during the bustle of the holidays to pause and be grateful for how each of us matters to others.
I like to think that there are a number of boyfriends I mattered to, some my own, some belonging to others.
Sending him home to his beloved, at the end of the night I thanked tonight's borrowed one for several things- for not wearing loafers, for being able to dance and especially for treating me to a lovely evening.
Some boyfriends you send home, others you want to keep. Maybe even bite in a good way.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Universal Communication
You have to admire a man who's willing to destroy his own art.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
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