All About the Mayo

When you send a friend an e-mail with the subject line "ARGHHHHH!" and she responds by suggesting lunch the next day, she is a very good friend.

We met at Mint, a place I hadn't been in ages, and she was already happily ensconced at a front window table when I arrived.

We were a study in contrasting mornings, since she'd been up since 6 a.m. and already had all kinds of colorful spreadsheets and accomplishments under her belt, while all I'd managed in the hour I'd been up was fruit and a walk.

But I'd run into three familiar faces on that walk, one Listening Room regular in his work clothes (although I recognized the ponytail from behind), a delivery guy who shook his head, laughing, and said, "Still walking the streets, huh?" and a loose-limbed artist who said, "Yo!" and is the source of one of the pieces that hangs on my wall.

Perhaps that accounted for our different takes on bevvies.

"I think I might want a wee glass of wine," she said. "What day is it? Tuesday? That's a good reason."

Explaining to our server that she'd already had three cups of coffee, he quipped, "So you need to come down now."

Wisely, I matched her Pinot Grigio with a Coke.

I was eager to see the menu since I'd heard that Julep's executive chef, Randy, had taken up residence at Mint for a while to re-tool the menu.

That was all the encouragement I needed when I saw a shrimp salad sandwich listed.

Nobody much does shrimp salad anymore, so I was curious.

My cute friend was craving meat, so she ordered a bleu brie kobe beef burger with port wine reduction and our gracious (and funny) server allowed us to get side salads instead of the usual side choices, pickle chips, french fries or truffle potato salad.

While waiting for our food to arrive, we discussed her introversion.

As I already knew, she's happiest at home in pajamas with her Kindle while I require outside stimulation.

Turns out she's getting plenty of stimulation at home because she's currently reading "Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man."

Besides lots of laughs, she said it's the kind of read where she's thinking, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, ooh, I didn't know that," a learning experience, so to speak.

Our eats arrived, looking perfectly scrumptious and we tucked into them immediately.

The sex reader is a mayo-phobe, and while I'm no fan of it either (I can tolerate it in small amounts as a binding agent), she was sure she'd hate my shrimp salad.

Wrong. Not only was it not a gloppy mayo mess, but the smoked tomato aioli that bound it together was stellar, subtle yet flavorful enough to let the shrimp shine through.

Even better, it was made with fresh corn, always a welcome addition to any kind of salad in my opinion.

As I always do, I managed to tear up the roof of my mouth on the sourdough toast of the sandwich, but that's a personal failing.

Meanwhile, she shared a bite of her juicy bleu brie burger, notable for its moistness even though cooked to her requested well-done temperature.

I was doing alright for someone who hadn't even been up two hours yet.

We'd decided to forsake appetizers in hopes of dessert (I do admire a place that has a beignet of the day), but I almost didn't get what I wanted.

When our server mentioned Duke's chocolate cake, I knew that he was talking about that vintage recipe that uses Duke's mayo instead of eggs.

My friend, however, had to ask and when she understood the Duke's part, made a face.

I gently explained that no mayo would appear to be present when the cake arrived.

"It's not like it has mayo icing or anything," our affable server inserted.

Trusting us both, she agreed and the enormous piece of iced chocolate cake with real whipped cream and berries assuaged any concerns she had about the dreaded mayo.

Apparently it tasted really good with her fourth cup of coffee, too.

I had to thank her for her rescue efforts, turning my "arghhhh" into a much better frame of mind after unloading and hearing affirmation that nothing beats intense intellectual conversation for some people.

This extrovert is one of those people and so is the friend who saved my day.

What day is it? Tuesday? That's a good day to lunch with an introvert.

Loved It to Death

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

We'll paraphrase "old" and instead say "longtime" as in I met up with a friend of more than a few years at Mint.

I would never say she's old but our friendship certainly is.

Surprised to be the first person at the bar, the bartender informed me that I wasn't, that a group had just left.

My bar stool wasn't warm enough to prove him right.

My friend soon joined me and we took advantage of happy hour, she with a bourbon barrel stout and me with an Italian Cabernet.

We had so much to talk about, important stuff like ghettos, butt plug orders and trips to Paris, before we even looked at the menu.

It came down to pulled pork johnny cake "tacos" and a lobster corn dog with peach basil mustard sauce.

The tacos I'd had before so knew I liked the pig/slaw combo but the dog was new to me and, like I told my friend, how can you go wrong with what is essentially lobster meat and a crusty corn muffin?

That's right, you can't.

After discussing how we plan to end our lives, we parted ways on Main Street with plans to meet up this weekend.

Properly fortified with red wine and extensive laughter, I made the short drive to the Firehouse Theater for this month's Listening Room curated by WRIR's Eric Walters.

This was the "something new" part since I hadn't seen any of the bands before.

Emcee Chris took the stage sporting a new haircut and looking very handsome.

He admitted to being a tad unprepared with his announcements, seeking some information from the audience.

"It takes a village," he explained about using the crowd for specifics. "This first guy is the Michael Phelps of the Listening Room. This is his third Listening Room in a row and his fourth in a year."

It was Michael Coleman, drummer of Nettles and Hill and Wood and he began by saying that he had just made his Kickstarter goal today.

It must have been a good omen for him because his set was spot-on, his voice soulful and heartfelt.

With Rusty also playing guitar, Michael went through several of the songs from his upcoming album, including the title track "Precious Time."

Acknowledging Rusty "makes me sound so good," he told of how he'd met Rusty at a show and how "he basically forced his way into my musical world."

"I called the next morning," Rusty joked along. "I sent flowers."

I say if a guy's going to force himself on you, that's the least he can do.

Their guitar interplay was beautiful on "New Beginning," but it was "Never Let You Go" that provided  my favorite of his lyrics.

I've been making choices I've never made

It had been during Michael's set that I'd felt chilly and put on my sweater. Without a word exchanged my buddy in the next seat, Andrew, handed me his hoodie for my (presumably chilly) legs.

There was my something borrowed.

During the break I scored my second Dixie doughnut and saw a guy I was sure I knew but couldn't place.

Fortunately he recognized me too and made the connection, resulting in a blast from the past for both of us.

Knot Boxes played next and they were a trio of mandolin, fiddle and guitar.

Lead singer/guitarist Rebecca had a quiet voice and demeanor but her sidemen shone with enthusiasm as they played their takes on traditional and original songs.

"We arrange or derange them our way," Rebecca  said to laughter.

When she turned to Eric for the key and he told her E flat, she grinned at the crowd, saying, "At the Listening Room the audience hears everything."

We do and we like it.

Eric also shared that, "The name of our band is Knot Boxes and we formed two days ago. We're very excited about it."

Several musicians expressed how impressed they were that the band had recorded and mastered their album only two days ago and were selling it tonight.

Favorite lyric: "I bet your sad heart is breaking every moment I'm not there."

By the time Chris took the stage to introduce the last band, the crowd had thinned. "The level of musician ship is very high tonight," he said, stating the obvious.

It was about to get higher with Brooklyn's Jus Post Bellum, a quartet who had just played live on Eric's show.

"Eric hosted us on Wide Ear Folk and it was the first time we all played together on the radio," guitarist and vocalist Geoffrey said, looking quite dapper in a black hat. "We're getting off to a spoiled start on our several weeks' tour."

Bass player Daniel had a dramatic and distinctive way of flinging his arms to his sides in between playing his parts. Drummer Zach had a magnificent head of red curly hair. Vocalist Hannah sang like an angel in red lipstick.

They played several songs from their album of folk-tinged history songs, things like, "Be Each Man Judged," the title track, "Devil Winter" and closed with "That Old Pine Box."

At one point, Geoffrey consulted with the others about the next song before telling us, "We're having a band fight right now."

"Very quietly," agreed Daniel smiling.

Favorite lyric: "I only want you to love me to death."

When their dynamic set ended, the crowd went crazy clapping.

At least those left went crazy for having seen such talented musicians playing a distinctly different sound, one of lyrical melancholy with a sense of history, a truly unique sound.

This is where I get on my soapbox.

I am a big proponent of the two-band Listening Room for one reason only and it has nothing to do with  me.

It's because when there are three bands, it's inevitable that a good portion of the crowd leaves during the break before the third band.

It happened again tonight and it's a real shame that any music fan in Richmond missed hearing Jus Post Bellum because it was getting late.

And there, people, is my something blue.

Other than that, it was a happily-ever-after kind of an evening.

The kind to which I will always say "I do."

The Romance of Being a Muse

There are few pleasures that satisfy me on the level that having poetry read to me does.

That it was a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet doing the reading made it all the better.

Add in his deeply resonant and cadenced voice and I was practically ready to swoon.

VCU was hosting poet Yusef Komunyakaa tonight so I called up a fellow poetry lover to take it in with me.

Arriving at the Singleton Center to be greeted by the same smiling face that had greeted me at the Listening Room two nights ago was an unexpected treat.

Inside we found a mostly full auditorium and scored good seats among the crowd of poetry lovers and students.

VCU's head librarian noted that honors students would need to sign a sheet to get extra credit for attending while the rest of us got it automatically.

Because when it comes right down to it, life is all about the extra credit.

And then Yusef Komunyakaa took the stage.

Explaining that poetry for him was about confrontation and celebration, he began reading at a measured pace that commanded the room.

"I am a riddle to be unraveled," he read from "When Eyes Are on Me," echoing a sentiment I've often had.

In "How Is It?" he wrote "My muse is holding me prisoner," acknowledging that "I think she knows with her kisses in my mouth, I could walk on water."

That strikes me as very confident muse.

After years of dealing with his Vietnam war experience in his work, he said that in 2002 he'd promised himself that he wouldn't write about it anymore.

He then proceeded to write "Grenade" about the fourteen young black soldiers who threw themselves on grenades during combat.

"Your body doesn't belong to your mind and soul."

The mental imagery that it conjured up was heart-wrenching.

One poem he recited without reading to a responsive audience reaction, including nodding and clapping, almost testifying.

More than a few people were taking pictures, which seemed a tad distracting given the emotional weight of the man's words.

He closed with "My Father's Love Letters," a poem about the letters he wrote out for his father to his absent and abused mother, before taking questions from the audience.

Walking out afterwards took a minute of adjustment back to the real world after being lost in Komunyakaa's words and voice so completely.

But we made the transition and deposited ourselves at Mint, the only restaurant I know of with four toilet paper holders in each bathroom stall.

There's a certain kind of brilliance in that, I think.

The place was packed, very loud and as lively as could be. We lucked into a couple vacating their barstools and sat down quickly before someone else did.

With Tiamo Pinot Grigio in hand, we raised our glasses to poetry and started ordering food.

I fell hard for the complementary flavors of the pulled pork barbecue, pickled slaw and johnny cake taco, a steal at three bucks.

The crispy cider-braised pork belly was decent, but the collard greens were notable for their exquisite
flavoring in the greens, so good that a friend who doesn't usually like their bitterness said she loves this version.

They were perfectly seasoned I'd agree.

Bacon-wrapped dates took a step out of the ordinary with chipotle butter adding some heat.

The couple next to us, who had never heard of bacon-wrapped dates (!) before, became overwhelmed with the sweet richness of the dates, leaving the last one stripped of its bacon and headed to the trashcan.

At least they didn't waste the bacon.

A grilled baby romaine salad had Creole Cesar dressing and sharp white cheddar, but it was the grilling that distinguished it.

My fellow poetry lover and I were both eager to try the beignet of the day (she was even hoping for a cup of chickory coffee, but alas), even after our server referred to them as "doughnut holes."

Gosh, I don't know why they don't call them that at Cafe du Monde.

Today's flavor was banana, not a favorite flavor for either of us.

Yesterday's flavor had been blueberry (which we'd have loved) and white chocolate preceded that, but we decided to give banana beignets a shot.

The three hot doughnut holes came with macerated strawberries and fresh blueberries and had a distinctly un-banana like flavor, which suited us just fine.

Meanwhile, I said hello to several people I knew: the friend with the tights fetish, the former neighbor who teased me about not going out enough and the new mom showing off baby pictures.

It was only once a guy came up and sat next to me that I decided I wanted to go. He asked me my name, put his hand on my hip and reeked of alcohol.

Looking him in the eye, I removed his hand from my hip and moved away

Undaunted, he proceeded to do the same to my friend.

Walking out together, she and I agreed that there are some places no guy is allowed to touch unless he's your main squeeze.

And your hip is one of them.

Because your body doesn't belong to anyone you don't want it to.

Confrontation and celebration, it's not just in poetry, it's life.

It's just more beautiful in poetry.

Mint Condition

While even I want a win, some of us will be forever grateful for screen-less bars.

Which was not the case at Mint, but that didn't stop me.

A friend wanted to meet and check out the former Davis and Main location and see what had been wrought.

So there we were at the crack of cocktail hour, me talking to a friend of the bartender and her hurrying along, doing her best to be punctual for a change.

The (non) mint green door was propped wide open,a  delightful thing on this very warm March evening.

Inside, the lack of air conditioning gave a tropical vibe to the room, pleasing me no end and making for a comfortably warm room.

Forgive me, but I think air conditioning should be outlawed in March.

I have to admit that like what they've done to the formerly claustrophobic and very '80s space.

The soft green walls, black and white photographs by a local photographer, even the owner's and her children's initials  carved into the bottom step are all indications that some thought went into the new space.

Even better, 60% of the wines by the glass are from Virginia.

The percentage drops to 25% on the bottled list, but, all things considered, that's still a better than average percentage.

But we sold out the Commonwealth for Italy and ordered a bottle of Di Lenardo Pinot Grigio looking for some relief from the warmth.

A known bartender was running the show and he immediately began giving us both a hard time.

On the other hand, it was nice to see him in jeans instead of black pants for a change, so we took it.

It was amazing how quickly the space began to fill up: it's still the soft opening but people streamed in as if it were the be all, end all on a Thursday night.

And not even night; it was early evening and still quite light out.

Have I mentioned how fond I am of the time change?

Despite my friend's plans to leave shortly for a wine dinner, we couldn't help but peruse the menu, finding lots of Southern-influenced dishes on it.

Several are showing up everywhere these days, like deviled eggs, poutine, cracklins and pimento cheese.

But there were some interesting things too. Burrata grilled cheese on sourdough, pulled pork barbecue Johnny cake taco and, my personal favorite, the beignet of the day.

With a limited amount of time together, Friend and I covered the important stuff like men, work and travel plans.

But we did get food.

Mussels simmered in ham hock (or hack, as the menu indicated) broth with fernet, butter and cabbage.

A wedge salad with black pepper buttermilk ranch, bacon and tomatoes topped by root beer batter onion rings.

Their signature fried dill pickle chips.

The mussel broth was buttery rich if overly cabbage-tart, the wedge was under-dressed and the fried pickles provided both a salty and crunchy quality.

I found it interesting that the soundtrack for the most part was dead-on 90s. Occasionally we'd hear a 21st century song, say Modest Mouse, but not often.

Checking with the bartender, I was assured us that this was the chosen mix.

No complaints from me. At least it wasn't classic rock or worse. But still.

Once my friend left for her wine dinner, I enjoyed the company of any number of strangers, most of whom had a direct connection to the owner.

When I got ready to leave, it was with the knowledge that Mint has the potential to do several things right.

They do late night seven days a week and they do brunch both weekend days, long a pet peeve of mine.

Ergo, I'll be back if they can pull both off.

From there, it was on to Secco to escape Mint's two screens. Yes, I wanted VCU to win, but I didn't need to see it happen.

I have faith that it would without me watching.

Secco was far more civilized and I dove right into a wine off their secret stash list, the Saetti Lambrusco Seco, a dry, organic sparkler with a stitched label.

I kid you not, when the bartender let me feel the stitched label (front and back), I was sold. Luckily for me, it also offered tannins and fizz, so I was more than happy.

Things continued to get even better when my house-made potato gnocchi with sea urchin butter and mustard greens arrived.

I'm a huge fan of gnocchi, but this buttery seaside take made me swoon with pleasure at both the mouth feel and the flavors.

I may have even told my server that there was something sexual about it. It was indulgent in the most obscene way.

Naturally I followed that with another taste delight, this time a special. Lightly fried sweetbreads were prepared with onion salsify and sorrel for a unique take on glands.

Or, as a bartender friend once referred to them, grown-up chicken nuggets.

Yes, that's a disservice to sweetbreads, but I understand  where he was coming from on that.

Tonight's soundtrack was especially satisfying after the earlier trip down Memory Lane, offering up, as it did, the XX, Passion Pit and Seawolf.

Thank you, Secco, for saving me from the nineties.

I chatted up the women next to me who had the gall to ask why there was no screen.

Before the bartender could explain that owner Julia would never allow such a thing, I got up on my soapbox and gave them what for.

After a stern talking-to, they agreed that we were lucky to be someplace that didn't have one.

VCU doesn't need us to ensure a victory, so why endure the buzz kill of a screen in a bar?

I guess I showed them.

I finished up with Haystack Mountain Red Cloud, a complex washed rind cheese touted as "not shy," but then who among us is?

Not me, that's for sure.

That said, I don't intend to end up on anyone's screen.

Or watching one.

Does My Fig Look Big in This?

No question, everyone was in full pre-hurricane mode tonight.

The general attitude was, "Party tonight, for tomorrow we may be trapped inside our powerless homes" or some such thing.

And while I never let a little something like a hurricane or a major snow keep me at home (why do you think I live where I live, for goodness' sake?), I joined right in.

First rule of a busy night: start at your most distant destination.

For me, that was a party on Southside comprised of theater women, my second such gathering this week, but at this one I knew a lot of the people before I got there.

It was one of those times when I was pretty sure everyone there was way more talented than I am, but when you start talking former lovers, speeding tickets and drunk cooking shows, the field is pretty much leveled.

And I can be dramatic when I want to be.

Through multiple courses of wine and food (including a divine chicken thigh dish with prunes, olives and enough garlic for our hostess to promise that no one would want to kiss us), we shared stories of love and lust, past and present.

My favorite thing about this group of females is that just when I think my personal life is/has been abnormally fill-in-the-blank (colorful, bohemian, busy, juicy, odd), I am reassured by one of their tales that I am not alone in that.

Oh, the book I could write!

But after four satisfying hours, I knew it was time to move the party back to the city and closer to home for me.

I stopped at a farewell party a friend was giving, where I had the pleasure of meeting his parents, who knew so much about me that I was surprised every time they opened their mouths.

It's flattering to know that your friends talk about you and it's a tad unnerving to meet people who already know what you do. And what you don't have.

Somehow, I continue to be praised for the things I do without. No one else wants to do it, but damn if they don't admire me for it.

My friend's brother I had met on multiple occasions before because he's a musician and, well, I go to a lot of shows (although this week was an all-time low).

He even gave me his band's new song to listen to. I love when that happens.

Last up for the evening was yet another farewell party, this one for mixologist extraordinaire Bobby at Mint.

Walking in to a packed Julep, I found friends scattered throughout the lively and somewhat loopy crowd.

It required some work just to make it to the bar to get a cocktail, or in my case some spirits, but when I did, I arrived just as a bar stool was being vacated.

That gave me a prime viewing space for the frenzied drink making that was going on behind the bar.

There must have been four different people endlessly giving their arms a workout with a cocktail shaker to supply one of the evening's creative drink specials.

My front row seat to a cocktail cabaret did afford me some mini-drinks, an unexpected bonus.

Bobby's classic Jack Skellington with a toasted marshmallow and the cool-as-a-cucumber Wimbledon were amuse-bouches to my inevitable choice.

In fact, as soon as Bobby saw me, he turned in mid-shake and said to one of his assistants, "She'll have a  Cazadores on ice," with the resigned grin he always gives me for my lack of additives.

I ran into a couple of fellow bloggers at the bar and enjoyed some conversation (and a sip of a spicy Employees Only) with them before half of a favorite couple came up behind me and asked, "What the f**k are you doing over here?"

Somehow I'd missed the engraved invitation to join them at their table, so he'd come to summon me. Pronto.

Over at his table were some transplants looking for brunch ideas (Amour Wine Bistro is high on my list these days), a very handsome man spouting generalizations about women ("Women can be so sensitive!") and Julep's new chef.

For the second time this week, a chef wanted to hear my thoughts on some of the new restaurants and no one loves hearing their opinion of a place validated more than a chef.

And no one can resist showing off more than a chef but this was to our advantage.

He brought out some of the cheeses he's been making and the aged goat cheese with fennel was the kind of taste that made your eyes close.

Swoon-worthy says it best.

He then brought out a spoon of salt and laid it on the table like a prize.

My friend got out a dollar bill, rolled it up and pretended to snort it. Instead, we all tasted grains of it, savoring its purity of flavor.

During a discussion of needlessly complicated cooking, the chef disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two plates.

On one was a sliced up Sun Gold tomato and on the other, chunks of fresh fig.

"That's the two best things I could serve you right now. Nothing I could cook would taste better than that!" he said with a flourish.

With a light sprinkle of the crack  salt, the tomatoes confirmed his words.

The figs had been picked that morning on his parents' farm in Goochland and as one who has spent the past month in a fig-induced euphoria,  I knew what I was in for.

But surprisingly, there were people at the table who don't usually like figs (she liked these) or had never had them. Tragic.

Once the complete madness died down, Bobby joined us at our table to talk about his mixology future.

The guy who first showed RVA that gin and tequila could peacefully co-exist in the same glass clearly has a lot of options and a huge following no matter where he chooses to land.

And lots of places want him right now.

We didn't realize how late it was getting until we began to notice the hordes of scantily-clad girls spilling out into 18th Street.

Honey, does your mother know that you're out in a bra and a pair of shorts that look like a twist-tie and calling that an outfit? I doubt it.

But, hey, that's the street theater of Shockoe Bottom and since my evening had started with theater people, why not end up seeing some performance art?

Because a 250-pound woman in short shorts and a tube top walking in six inch heels is a performance you're not going to see just anywhere.

And while all of us gaped a little (or a lot), maybe she was just in pre-hurricane mode too.

A girl's got to wear it while she can.

How else will she have stories to share with her friends at a dinner party when she's older and wiser?

Bottoming Out after Saturday in the Slip

I don't wait for engraved invitations anymore. I ask. And sometimes I get text-like responses.

So where have u been recently? I was thinking a bit later in the evening. 8 or 830 ish. What say? U going to some show later?

This quasi-invitation came from half of one of my favorite couples when I suggested a Saturday night couple date.

We established that I had no music plans for the evening (I know, a rarity on a weekend night) and I listed out my recent destinations. Result: Bistro Bobette at 815.

Crossing Cary Street to get to Bobette, a cab driver called out to me, "Hey, you in the black dress, you got a nice butt." Thus I was welcomed to Shockoe Slip.

I was greeted with hugs and kisses and Mas de la Dame Rose was offered before I could ask for it; my friends shortly arrived. 

It was a good foodie night at Bobette's bar, with a nearby trio of guys (including the Welshman still hoping for lip prints on his shirttail) eating even more than the three of us did. We don't often see that.

Every time they liked something, they ordered another dish of it. Ah, so these were smart men.

I was eager to hear about my friends' recent jaunt to DC; they'd done eleven restaurants in 2 1/2 days. Even I was impressed.

But tales of food can't match the real thing, so we wasted no time in availing ourselves of two of tonight's specials.

The rabbit pate with hazelnuts had a subtly rich flavor enhanced by the accompanying lentils. The lamb heart was rich, rare and as easy to cut as butter. I'd eat it anyway, but I'm hoping that eating heart improves one's love life.

After such rich starters, we naturally opted for more of the same, choosing a special of spicy rack of lamb and the mixed grill of quail, beef and bacon-wrapped pork.

The seven lamb lollipops were done in a spicy jus boasting coriander for flavor and crunch; sauteed pattypan squash and tomatoes accompanied it.

The chef himself doesn't usually care for lamb, but loves this locally grown lamb for its young, white meat. I could see why.

As for the mixed grill, how can you go wrong with fowl, cow and pig on one plate? The quail especially was melt-in-your mouth succulent.

Midway through dinner, a new couple joined us at the bar . In an odd coincidence, the female half of that couple, like the female of the couple I was with, was Russian.

They hit it off like a house on fire, alternating between Russian and English as they discussed god-knows what animatedly. 

It was pretty cute to see, like two stray dogs discovering that they liked to play together.

They paused only when the lavender ice cream came out with its distinctive aroma and high butterfat. 

I admit I had one sachet moment, but the flavor was so beautiful that I, like the others, was quickly won over.

We saw a loopy woman led out by her husband after she fell asleep in her chair. No one at her table seemed to find anything unusual about her post-dinner snooze while they chatted, but it seemed very odd to us.

As the last customers in the place, but not yet out of conversation,we decided to move the party six blocks east to Mint.

Of course, Saturday night parking in the Bottom is problematic at best and the omnipresent cops with their cars blocking half the intersections don't make it any easier.

We arrived just as the last diners were leaving, so Julep became Mint right before our eyes.

Shades were lowered and the music went from restaurant-stuffy to very cool. I heard a band I loved, the Budos Band, a ten-piece on Daptone records which says a lot, doing instrumental soul music.

One of the servers took note of it and came over and said, "This sounds like music from a '70s King Fu movie." 

He then proceeded to do bad lip synched dialog to simulate such a movie for our amusement. But the music reference was apt, I'd have to say. And I want more.

And then the Russian and her boyfriend showed up and it was a full-on party.

Mixologist Bobby told me about his ever-evolving drink list and then acknowledged the inevitable.

"You want a Don Julio?" he asked with a touch of resignation in his voice. I just nodded.

But when he brought it to me, it was more than just tequila and a slow-melting cube.

"I know you're a purist, so I only put the ground mustard seed on part of the rim," he said with a smile. 

He'd also slipped in a lime twist, no doubt to make himself feel better about having to pour such a boring drink. And as it turned out, the mustard seed was a nice touch.

Once I began sipping, I heard about one of his new creations, a tequila and absinthe drink with an avocado yogurt, which sounded so wonderful that I had to taste it.

Okay, so I might consider a cocktail if it contained that many things I love.

For entertainment value, Bobby told us about having run over a passed-out guy on the 14th Street bridge late last night. 

It wasn't so bad; Bobby was on his bike and only ran over the guy's foot and the guy never even stirred. 

Of course, it scared Bobby to death, though, so he called for non-emergency help and an ambulance was dispatched to help drunk guy get off the bridge.

If not for Bobby, he'd have probably slept it off on the sidewalk till daybreak, woken up and strolled home feeling much better.

What lesson can we learn here?

If not for going out all the time, I'd never get to hear such great stories. Or an evening of Russian conversation.

I wouldn't get to try mustard seed with tequila. Or find out that I might have the potential to be a cocktail drinker.

And then there was the cabbie commentary on my backside. I just can't get that kind of thing at home.

At least not yet. I remain eternally optimistic.

Solo at Mint

I am a mixologist's nightmare. If I'm going to drink anything besides wine, it's going to be good tequila on ice, so no mixing skills are required. Still, when I want to talk mixology and sip a good tequila, I usually go to down to Mint to visit with Bobby. He's guaranteed good company and I always enjoy our food/restaurant/spirits discussions (the things I learned about gin tonight!).

Given today's heat, my lethargy prevented me from heading down to the Bottom until 9ish. It was still 98 degrees but there was a nearly full moon rising in the sky as I drove east, so there was hope for a drop in the temperature sometime soon. At least that's what I told myself.

Bobby greeted me enthusiastically and the few bar patrons were waiting for a table, so they soon left, leaving me alone at the bar. I ordered Cazadores Reposado, a tequila Bobby had introduced me to, on ice and opened the menu. The heat had sapped my appetite but tequila on an empty stomach is just foolish and I knew better.

Just as I was scanning the menu, a server came up and informed Bobby that the kitchen had 86'd several items, including two of the appetizers I'd been considering. No problem because the Hudson Valley fois gras with pineapple preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisps and balsamic beef jus reduction was still available. Bobby said he thought it was Julep's finest appetizer, validating my choice.

Bobby was right. The seared fois gras was silky and rich and the chunks of pineapple in the jam a sweet balance to the savory. I could taste what an indulgence it was and I enjoyed it more so for it. I followed that with the southern spicy lobster spring rolls with chipotle/lime aioli. Nothing could have been better than the fois gras, but the lobster rolls had great flavor and a killer sauce, so I was more than satisfied.

I love it when Julep morphs into Mint. The white tablecloths are stripped away, the shades are lowered and the music goes from low-volume big band and swing to higher volume alternative. Now that's the way to create a drinking ambiance with attitude.

Meanwhile Bobby wanted me to taste his espresso martini, enhanced with citrus to cut the coffee flavor; even a non-coffee drinker like me had to admit the beauty of the flavor combination. I moved back to Cazadores afterwards and we jumped into conversation about his favorite local bars, the difference between mixology and just combining flavors to make a cocktail and my continuing love life issues. He even gave me a heads up on some new bars on the horizon.

Bobby is starting to do Wednesdays at Fanhouse, taking his cocktail magic on the road, if you will. His mad skills are sure to elevate the atmosphere and crowd at this new gathering place on the Robinson corridor. I've been in there for drinks before, but never with a master behind the bar. All of a sudden, Wednesdays in the Fan are looking up.

I may not need a mixologist's master blending skills, but a good conversationalist is invaluable for a solo diner/drinker. Besides, if he doesn't have to make drinks for me, he has more time to talk.

Let's get my priorities straight here.