Covers and Cocktails

If you were from Atlanta, you'd be mighty impressed with my evening.

It started at Hardywood for Cover to Cover: Back to Black, a performance of Amy Winehouse's music. What you have to understand is that I was never a big Amy fan, more of an appreciator of her talent. Unlike the performers involved, I certainly didn't know most of her material.

But that's why you go.

Host Matt Shofner began by high-fiving the band, an appropriate move given how talented these guys are, before calling up Carolyn Meade - nailing it in a sleeveless yellow dress, red belt an shoes and red head scarf over long beehive brunette hair.

If possible, her voice was even more spot-on that her ensemble.

Within two songs, she'd turned that brewery into a jazz club by singing the first two songs off Amy's Frank album (the one that references Frank Sinatra), nailing the singer and the song.

Midway through the first set, the heavens opened up and rain came down, causing Matt to say, "Hopefully, this rain will cool things off or at least not steam things up," before  removing his loafers and donning a pair of very high-heeled red pumps ("Any chance to get into pumps, I take it. I'm short, that's the only reason) to sing "F*ck Me Pumps."

Fabulous as Matt's version of the song was, it was rocking the world of the two hatted bros in front of me, who proceeded to look dumbfounded at each other, snap pictures and try to prove that they weren't staring, but staring repeatedly.

As the troupe of actors moved through the album, the trumpet player joined them late. "That's how you do it, you just walk onstage and a do a trumpet solo," Carolyn said of the less than punctual horn player.

The absolute funniest moment of the entire show was when Matt got up there to explain what was going on. "These Cover to Cover shows are a chance to introduce you people to the people who are actors in this town doing live theater like this in actual live theaters. It's a way to let you know that Richmond has an amazing theater scene."

It was like those disturbing "human zoos" that the British had in past centuries where they "exhibited" Africans as some rare species. What he was telling the beer-soaked crowd was that this was an "actors' zoo." Look, but don't stick your hand in.

And, by all means, learn something here.

After Frank, there was an intermission before getting back to black for the second act.

During that time, I gleaned from a woman her first concert (John Denver at 14 with her parents and Boston in 1977 on her own), but the best story was about the time she saw George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers. An Innocent at the time, she'd been surprised when a guy in the row in front of her turned and offered her a joint.

Flash forward to VCU, they re-meet, date and then go off and each marry someone else for 20 years. They reconnected post-divorces and have now been married for 11 years. "We're having a ball," she beamed. We were fine until she shared that she'd driven alone to Merriweather Post Pavilion to see the Eagles before they broke up and then she was dead to me.

I can forgive many things, but not the Eagles.

Back to Black began with Matt singing "Rehab" and a girl walking by me with her phone and hard box of Marlboros tucked into her cleavage. Then Maggie, looking out-of-this world gorgeous in a leopard print dress and gray pumps, positively purred "You Know I'm No Good."

I think it was as Durron was knocking it out of the park with "Me and Mr. Jones" that I overheard the people next to me marveling about the music. "I'm used to bar cover bands!" one guy lamented. Another girl arrived in front of me, pointed to the stage and told her friend, "It's so weird! He's like my neighbor!"

Seems she'd never suspected her neighbor had musical/theatrical talent, so she'd come to the actor zoo to see for herself. It wasn't long before another clutch of females began discussing what a great cover band they were, necessitating a friend explaining that these were not musicians but people who worked in theaters. The girl talking made them sound very exotic.

Saying that they were going to do an obscure song, Maggie noted, "We're giving you an education." It was absolutely true. I'd known nothing from Frank but by the third song knew I needed to own it. The things you can learn at Cover to Cover are enough to make it worth hanging out in a beer joint.

And then Matt announced the last song "to play you guys out into the night" and the three-set Amy Winehouse extravaganza wound down with the crowd singing and dancing along.

They played me right out into the night and over to Balliceaux for the final night before they close for three months. After countless nights spent there, I knew enough to arrive sufficiently early to nab a stool and enjoy the view and close service.

When my favorite bartender there asked if I wanted tequila, I surprised the hell out of him by requesting a cocktail. I watched him make it while chatting with a wine shop owner sipping Mezcal, which turned out to be part of my drink, along with Aperol, Yellow Chartruese, habanero shrub and grapefruit juice, a complex and blushingly pink sipper he claimed was a riff on the classic Corpse Reviver.

I only hope it wasn't a comment on how I looked.

Before long, a guy came up to get a drink and immediately complimented my hair and introduced himself. He was visiting from Atlanta and wanted to hear more about Richmond. When he pulled his friend over to introduce, I recognized a J-Ward neighbor.

Soon we were a trio at the bar, discussing all they'd been doing in RVA and DC over the past four days. Their itinerary had included four shows- Phantagram (neighbor's fave of the four), Billy Idol ("Vegas-ready"), St, Vincent and Hot Chip ("A sausage fest!") and countless meals and cocktails.

When the Atlanta guest kept looking at his phone, I called him on it and he explained succinctly, "I'm Tinder-ing the hell out of this town while I'm here." Swipe away.

In between tangents, I spotted or spoke to the chef, the organizer, the trombone player, the comedienne, the non-drinker and probably others I've already forgotten due to having my first two cocktails tonight.

I heard about all the things they'd done here and what was still on their agenda for tonight. When invited to join them at Strange Matter, I declined. One instructed the other to finish up so they could pay their tab and get on to next party.

"Drink that last sip! There are sober children in Africa!" Mr. J-Ward cracked, Now that's some quick thinking.

Balliceaux had become a fire hazard by then with people continuing to arrive and need drinks while only a trickle left. Visiting the back room, the Atlantan summed up the scene back there like this, "Music's funk and hip hop. It's a bunch of hipsters steeped in nostalgia." Some would call that tragic.

When I went back there myself, I saw that DJ Michael Murphy and a drummer had the crowd dancing the way he does every time he DJs. No way to know if the crowd was especially worked up about it being the final night (at least for a while) or just enjoying the usual Saturday night dance party.

I was doing both. Here's hoping Balliceaux returns.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Can't say which was better, the first part of the evening or the last.

I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.

Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.

Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.

With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic  onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.

Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.

Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.

After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.

She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.

The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.

Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.

Someone had to do it.

Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.

The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.

"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.

Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?

To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.

World of Strange Arrangements

On the longest day of the year, I've got nothing but time.

So when a friend calls to suggest happy hour, something she never does, I am on board immediately.

We agree on Bistro 27 and are the first customers at the bar.

Despite the nearly perfect weather, we do not sit on the patio, a choice which later pays off when a keg explodes, dousing the bartender and manager with beer.

It's pretty funny to see the manager's shirt and short hair wet but even better to see the barkeep's longer hair and bangs dripping with suds.

Hazard of the business, I suppose, but highly hilarious.

We dive into the happy hour menu with mussels in red sauce, two kinds of fries and a caprese salad.

There's a lot to be said for dirt cheap food this good.

A large party arrives and mills about but we ignore them to talk to a just-arrived bartending friend about honeysuckle syrup, $2 baguettes and the foibles of ABC agents.

Restaurant people always have the best stories.

When we part, it is half an hour till sunset, so I spend the next hour at home on my balcony, watching the longest day of the year fade into dusky then inky blue.

Once it is fully night and the sky is dark, I head off to Belmont Food Shop to meet a friend in from out of town.

The bar has only one seat free but there's a sweater on the bar stool, so I have to ask.

It belongs to neither the man on my left nor the woman on my right.

Score! We have a winner and I have a seat, close enough to hear the '20s music playing behind the bar.

Eventually people nearby leave and I move to a space with two adjacent stools.

Of all things, I see Virginia's indigenous grape on the wine list, and order a glass of Horton Norton in honor of my friend, the Norton enthusiast.

It's a tad on the foxy side, but it'll pair just fine with the cook's plate I've ordered.

My friend soon arrives from Washington, as does my cook's plate, and I'm good to go with both.

On the slate are sliced lamb belly, crab and avocado, smoked salmon with roe on cukes, chicken rilletes with a duck heart, duck confit, chicken gizzards, pig's feet, buttered radishes, grilled bread, frisse and pickled fennel.

It's both a heart attack and heaven on a plate and I dive in immediately.

The bartender has already told me that the lamb belly is his favorite thing in the restaurant right now and given its meaty goodness (it's better than a steak), I can understand why.

I slather the fatty rilletes on bread, revel in how the gizzards were cooked in fat and in between every fatty, salty bite, have a piece of tart pickled fennel.

My out-of-town friend tries a bite, then another and is soon raving over the quality and the price of the plate, guessing that it would cost more than twice the price in D.C.

Yet another reason why I live here and not there now.

We pick away at the delectables on the slate while he fills me in on his latest project, an homage to his father, and I regale him with some tid-bits from my trip to Italy last Fall.

A couple comes in looking for food only to be told that at that hour, only the cook's plate is being served.

Without batting an eyelash, I become the salesman to convince them to stay for this array of body parts - hearts, feet, gizzards - and they do.

I am not, however, able to talk them into Virginia's indigenous grape.

The chef comes out to have a well-earned beer and we all get into a discussion of farmers' markets.

When I allow as how I only go to the Byrd Market, I am asked what I buy since it does not appear to them that I ever cook at home.

Hello, I do eat meals besides dinner at home.

I sense that my traveling friend is fading fast, no surprise since it took him four and a half hours to get here from Washington.

When he asks about coffee, I insist he wait until our next stop to caffeinate.

Balliceaux not only provides the cup of joe he needs but also great energy with two DJs because tonight is No Richmond, a night of post-punk.

I run into three friends, including the unlikeliest of shoegazers, before I even make it halfway back.

After my visitor sucks back his liquid energy, I order a glass of wine and lead him to the back where a dance party is in full swing.

We find a good spot just outside the glut of dancers where we have room to move in place as well as observe the dance floor action.

My friend comments (and perhaps judges) that none of the guys move their upper bodies when they dance.

The crowd floods the dance floor for "Dancing with Myself" but I get the biggest kick out of ABC's "Look of Love," another song that thrills the crowd.

Before long, my friend comments that it smells like a boys' locker room in there, but for me it's all about sound, so the smell is irrelevant.

I am having a ball dancing in situ, so much so that one friend presumes I'm drunk (not even close) and another tells me how girlish I look (even less likely).

Must be all this beautiful daylight today. Happy summer solstice to me.