And I have arrived back in Richmond, unwound from listening to the ocean daily and ready to start a new year.
It was a week of pleasures of all kinds. The ocean temperature never dipped below anything but comfortable, although one skinny Floridian dipped her toes in as we walked by, only to jump out proclaiming, "It's icy!"
To each his own, but in my experience, there have been times that the ocean has been far colder in July than it was that day.
Most nights, happy hour was spent on the balcony with a view of the surf while enjoying something bubbly and listening to new music acquisitions. Birdy was a terrific first listen but for this beat-lover, nothing topped Taylor Dane's greatest hits (who remembered she had so many?), which miraculously included a cover of Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love."
But vacation isn't all sybaritic pleasures. All my geeky sides got indulged, too.
My history jones was fed repeatedly. There was a trip to Eldora House, a former 19th century vacation house turned museum on the shores of Mosquito Lagoon, meticulously restored and full of photographic displays of the small community of people who had populated the area, raising oranges and bees until a major freeze ended that idyll.
At the Sugar Mill Ruins, we saw the remains - half intact stone walls and huge metal pots - of an old sugar and saw mill that had been destroyed by the Seminole Indians (after all, it was on their ancestral land).
Arriving at the Mary Harrell Black Heritage Museum, set up in a tiny former black Catholic church complete with charming belfry, we found it closed up tight. To our good fortune, an older gentleman soon arrived and bade us come in. He turned out to be the husband of Mary Harrell who had died in August, and kindly invited us inside to look at the unique collection of photographs and ephemera of the local black community.
One day, it was a trip to the 1835 Ponce Lighthouse, a sturdy red-painted structure with eight outbuildings to house the story of the lighthouse keepers, a collection of lens used in it and other lighthouses as well as assorted other historical buildings, none quite as fascinating as the privvy exhibit.
But I'll be the first to admit that my attraction to lighthouses is getting to climb them and admire the views from above, and this one was an easy climb with the added bonus of open, screened windows on some levels. My only regret was that we were a few days too early for the monthly full moon climb to the top of the lighthouse.
The part of me that loves to traipse got its fix with daily walks on the hard-packed sand, so unlike what I'm used to on the Outer Banks. One gloomy day, we drove a few miles to Canaveral National Seashore where we discovered a pristine, barely-inhabited coastline covered in shells ripe for the picking. I did.
Less than an hour into walking, rain started and we headed back up the beach, leaving it to more intrepid surf fisherman and gulls.
Naturally, my appreciation for a good hangout needed to be addressed, too. Not one but two stops were made at the Sea Vista Tiki Bar, a rustic joint on the ocean, where I slurped back a Mai Tai and wings one day and Patron and a cheeseburger another.
When the rain had killed our Canveral walk, we'd taken refuge at J.B.'s Fish Camp, a sprawling complex that rented stuff like paddle boards and kayaks, but also had lagoon-side open air dining and, for busy times, the Drunken Clam Overflow Tiki Bar.
A walk up to Flagler on a cloudy afternoon resulted in a woman on a bike riding by, calling out, "You are two cute sons of guns!" like she knew us. She didn't.
One afternoon, a walk up the beach took us to Chase's, right on the ocean, where we indulged in shrimp, both steamed and fried. Then we moved to the enormous bar where the guy next to me looked at me and told me that Donna Douglas had died that day and did I know who that was.
Pu-leeze. One Ellie May Clampett comment later and he was eating out of my hand. Not that I necessarily wanted him to after discovering that he was a displaced Chicagoan with three marriages behind him, who'd moved to New Smyrna Beach to care for his crazy mother...and that he'd been "into" raccoons for 42 years.
A little skeevy, right?
New Year's Eve was a blast, beginning with fireworks over Flagler, a nearby historic district, followed by dinner at the Riverview Hotel, a charming and historic 1885 hotel on the river.
What I hadn't expected was live music, so when we rolled in for our 9:45 reservation, the band was already in full swing alternating vintage R & B with classic rock. Think Temptations followed by Van Morrison. Luckily for us, our table wasn't ready, so we got glasses of Prosecco and planted ourselves by the dance floor to enjoy it all.
A nearby couple were having a ball when he told her she was staggering. "Maybe I am staggering, but I'm the entertainment!" she told him definitively. Before long she came over and told my date he needed to smile more. I flashed her my best and told her I smiled plenty. Gazing drunkenly at me, she grinned back, saying, "Oh, honey, that's lovely. Don't ever stop smiling!"
Shoot, I'll take a compliment from a staggerer.
The best part (besides bacon-wrapped shrimp and lobster tails) was the dance floor demographic, which swung from millennials to geezers, all of them in complete thrall to the music. Come on, who doesn't shake their groove thing to "Brick House"? I know I do.
So that you know, there were two Richmonders dancing until the band called it quits.
Almost as enjoyable was the night we stumbled into the less-than-a-year-old Third Wave, tucked away outside just off the main drag in a grove of tropical greenery and palms, many strung with tiny white lights. Nearby, a fire pit glowed on the brick patio while a pizza kitchen kept sentry over it all from the back.
It was one of those places where everything was magical (except, maybe for the Mulderbosch Rose arriving warm, but our server soon corrected that with a chilled bottle) about the experience.
Brussels sprouts may be ubiquitous these days, but elevated with honey, Pecorino, Calabrian chili and mint, these were anything but typical. Corn on the cob was swoon-worthy under basil aioli, herb crumb and Parmesan. White pizza with soprasetta salami and balsamic cippolini onions demonstrated the kitchen's chops.
Let's put it this way: we went back a few nights later for more South African wine, this time a Chenin Blanc, and another white pizza, savoring both while a guitar/mandolin duo played. Our server from the first night (Brooklyn-bound, he'd already told us) spotted us and came over to welcome us back.
Even my nerdy, reading side was satisfied with two books finished ("Bastard Out of Carolina" and William Styron's "A Tidewater Morning," a Christmas gift from one of my sisters) and one half finished (coincidentally, Styron's "Sophie's Choice" which I am enjoying enormously for the beauty of the prose, not to mention the '40s time period).
Beach week wound up Saturday as we headed north, stopping in St. Augustine for a morning walk on a beach so misty as to be almost ghostly when we began.
The day ended in Savannah, chosen after dealing with challenging traffic on I-95 and desperately needing a change of scenery. Walking into District Cafe, we were greeted by the Spice Girls "Wannabe" on the sound system and a late afternoon deal on two glasses of wine and a meat/cheese plate. Sold!
It was funny, the music hewed to the middle school years of the female serving staff - No Doubt, Deep Blue Something, some boy band - who seemed totally into it until one of the two 30-something guys in the kitchen was overheard asking plaintively, "Who picked this station?"
After a stroll along the fog-shrouded riverfront, dinner was at The Olde Pink House, a gargantuan place with a staff the size of an army, a good thing apparently because our bartender said they'd served 1800 people on Christmas Day and 700 yesterday.
All we knew was that they were willing to accommodate two latecomers who'd only been in town for a couple of hours. Oysters on the half shell were from Apalachicola, not at all salty, but tasty, followed by fried chicken livers with bearnaise sauce over cheddar grit cakes. A wedge salad, delayed because they forgot the bacon (horrors!) was our pretense at offsetting the delectable livers.
But it was when the monstrous bacon cheeseburger we were to share arrived that the couple next to us at the bar wanted to chat. They were on their way south from New Hampshire, having spent the previous night in Baltimore on their way to Ocala.
"Why fly when we can eat our way down the coast?" she asked, giggling after finishing her first Planter's Punch (light on the Grenadine). When I told her we were doing the reverse, just returning from a week in Florida, she said, "That's why you're so tan!"
For the record, I'm not tanned, in fact, I avoid tanning.
As if it was our final day reward, we sailed up 95 today without the usual traffic slow and go, collecting all but nine state license plates (M.I.A.: Idaho, North Dakota, Arizona, New Mexico, Alaska, Hawaii, Kansas, Colorado, Utah) plus D.C., Quebec, Ontario and New Brunswick. Childhood road games die hard.
No one was more surprised than me to arrive back in Richmond to 70-degree temperatures, but I'll take it.
The last supper of vacation was five blocks from home at Graffiato's, where no one wore flip-flops and, despite the January warmth, there was no soft, salty air greeting upon walking out. That's okay, too, because vacation adventure memories abound, along with a few incriminating and/or fuzzy pictures.
Let's get this 2015 thing rolling, shall we? Ever the optimist, I can't wait to see what it brings.
Showing posts with label mulderbosch rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mulderbosch rose. Show all posts
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Monday, February 11, 2013
Talk About the Passion
You'd be surprised how nicely the restaurant crowd cleans up.
This year's Elbys were wisely held at the VMFA after last year's inaugural event all but exploded out of the Virginia Historical Society.
Richmond Magazine's award ceremony honors the local restaurant scene with food, bevvies and awards for the nine best and the top culinary student of the year.
Walking in to the ceremony past a white stretch limo, I saw familiar faces from my favorite and less favorite restaurants.
That's one great thing about this event, seeing so many restaurant people all in the same place.
It would take me weeks to see so many of these people if I had to go restaurant to restaurant to do it, which I usually do.
Once in the Cheek Theater, there were even more people I knew, but before mingling, I grabbed a seat in the front of the middle section so I'd have a good view.
Roosevelt bartender T. strolled by on the way to sitting with his posse, observed my outstretched legs and noted drolly, "Center stage. Of course."
Fact is, a single can always find a good seat even when things are getting full.
I was pleased to run into some food-loving friends whose relationship with me began over pork belly back in June 2010, before pork belly was as ubiquitous on local menus as facial hair at a Gallery 5 show.
Our hosts for the evening were Richmond Magazine's food editor (saying she'd just had skate for teh first time the other night!) and the Modern Gentleman, Jason Tesauro.
Jason began with mock self-deprecation, noting, "I'm Jason Tesauro. If you don't know me, you can Google me. Go ahead, I'll wait."
He immediately quoted Comfort/Pasture's Jason Alley, whose pronouncement, "Just being here is really f*cking cool," was a sentiment I heard repeated throughout the evening.
After recognizing the culinary student of the year, we moved on to the meat of the matter.
Fine dining was first and Lemaire took the award.
After thanking the staff, Chef Walter Bundy said, "We won last year, so we didn't expect to win again. And we're trying not to be so fine dining," to much laughter.
For upscale casual, defined as great food where you can wear jeans, Stella's took the prize, with the diminutive Stella herself saying a few words about being supported so well over the years.
Kuba Kuba won for neighborhood restaurant, notable because the always casual Manny wore a suit to accept and say, "I'd like to thank Kevin Walter, the best dishwasher anyone could have."
By now it was apparent that every time a winner was announced, a classic '80s song was played.
Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime," Blondie "Rapture."
If you won, you walked to the stage to music from the decade whose music is more loved now than then.
Deco won for new restaurant and owner Giuseppe was on and gone, thanking everyone who supported the restaurant and his family before hurrying off.
When the Roosevelt's bartender T. won for best cocktail program, cheers and applause abounded for the genial gentleman with the twinkle in his eye.
Onstage, his voice quavered a bit at first, but I knew he was ready.
I'd seen him on the way in and asked if he had a speech ready just in case and he'd replied in the affirmative.
Better not to risk it, just in case you get lucky.
The excellence in service award went to Wendy at Bistro Bobette, about whom Jason said, "She's got the polish in place and the edge. She's got a New York accent and a French husband."
She looked beautifully polished in her fitted dress and even remembered to thank that husband.
Reading the nominees for rising culinary star, Jason read the Berkely's Carly's name and said, "Julia said Carly is easily the most potty-mouthed chef in Richmond. And that's coming from Julia Battaligni!"
It was funny because the owner of Secco can be a very literate potty mouth herself.
When they called Belmont Food Shop's Mike as the rising winner, a woman clearly not Mike rose and made her way to the stage.
Explaining that, "Mike isn't here, he's cooking at the restaurant and if you know him it won't surprise you that he called me an hour ago to ask me to go for him," she was back in her seat in a flash.
To be fair, the man's got a restaurant that seats, what, 20? There's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to making his weekly numbers.
Chef of the year went to Dale of Acacia who seemed surprised. "I didn't think this would happen again. I just want to be a rising culinary star. I'm an old fashioned guy. I don't tweet or Facebook, but I do care about what I do."
When restaurateur of the year was announced as Kendra of Ipanema/Garnett's/Roosevelt and "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" began playing, Jason observed, "We should be playing her punk rock tracks."
Wouldn't that have been fitting?
The former punk rocker waitress' speech was heartfelt and humorous.
Saying, "When I started Ipanema in 1998, I thought as long as I didn't snort cocaine or sleep with my wait staff, I'd do okay."
Much knowing laughter.
She mentioned how supportive Johnny Giavos and Manny Mendez had been in answering her questions in the beginning, imploring the industry audience to "cut the new kids some slack."
Generously, she did shout-outs to her longtime friend and Ipanema manager, her crack Garnett's staff and Chef Lee at the Roosevelt for agreeing to be her partner.
More laughter followed when she said she'd been told that she'd succeed in the business because of her nice breasts and great attitude.
"And thanks to my husband John. For those of you who know me, my life has gotten 100% better since I met him."
Who knows, maybe he married her for the same reasons her restaurants were going to succeed (see above).
After the white-knuckling part of the evening was past, we moved upstairs to the marble hall to eat, drink and be merry.
It's always a blast to see so many people I usually see spread out, but as I made my way around the room, certain feelings kept being repeated.
Everyone is stoked to be part of the wave of Richmond restaurants as it builds.
Many people raved about the sense of community in the room.
The consensus is that our food scene is exploding and that's good for everyone.
The marble hall was packed with 400 guests (so I was told by a VMFA staffer), making the normally-chilly room perfectly comfortable for me and, by default, quite warm for most.
It wasn't long before many of the women in the impossibly high heels removed them and carried them rather than suffer any longer.
As I walked around, searching out wine (Mulderbosch Rose), food (rabbit meatball over mashed parsnips, black bean cake with salsa verde, pork over collards) made by the culinary students and familiar faces, there was a real sense of camaraderie in the room.
Rapphannock River Oyster company was there with Olde Salts and Rapphannocks for the taking (I took many).
I saw Merroir's chef, Pete, and we chatted about my devotion to his riverside tasting room.
Olli was there with charcuterie and, after tasting all eight varieties, I'd have to say my favorite was the Napoli.
Maybe it was the Sangiovese in it.
As I made another pass around the room, a guy called me over to compliment my tights, not the first time tonight that I'd heard something along those lines, before introducing me to his blogger girlfriend.
First wine ran out, then beer and people were reduced to working off their existing buzz.
Music came courtesy of my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, and DJ Marty eventually got restaurant people dancing up a storm over by the 20th century galleries.
Likely Andy Warhol would have approved.
And probably agreed that just being there was f*cking cool.
This year's Elbys were wisely held at the VMFA after last year's inaugural event all but exploded out of the Virginia Historical Society.
Richmond Magazine's award ceremony honors the local restaurant scene with food, bevvies and awards for the nine best and the top culinary student of the year.
Walking in to the ceremony past a white stretch limo, I saw familiar faces from my favorite and less favorite restaurants.
That's one great thing about this event, seeing so many restaurant people all in the same place.
It would take me weeks to see so many of these people if I had to go restaurant to restaurant to do it, which I usually do.
Once in the Cheek Theater, there were even more people I knew, but before mingling, I grabbed a seat in the front of the middle section so I'd have a good view.
Roosevelt bartender T. strolled by on the way to sitting with his posse, observed my outstretched legs and noted drolly, "Center stage. Of course."
Fact is, a single can always find a good seat even when things are getting full.
I was pleased to run into some food-loving friends whose relationship with me began over pork belly back in June 2010, before pork belly was as ubiquitous on local menus as facial hair at a Gallery 5 show.
Our hosts for the evening were Richmond Magazine's food editor (saying she'd just had skate for teh first time the other night!) and the Modern Gentleman, Jason Tesauro.
Jason began with mock self-deprecation, noting, "I'm Jason Tesauro. If you don't know me, you can Google me. Go ahead, I'll wait."
He immediately quoted Comfort/Pasture's Jason Alley, whose pronouncement, "Just being here is really f*cking cool," was a sentiment I heard repeated throughout the evening.
After recognizing the culinary student of the year, we moved on to the meat of the matter.
Fine dining was first and Lemaire took the award.
After thanking the staff, Chef Walter Bundy said, "We won last year, so we didn't expect to win again. And we're trying not to be so fine dining," to much laughter.
For upscale casual, defined as great food where you can wear jeans, Stella's took the prize, with the diminutive Stella herself saying a few words about being supported so well over the years.
Kuba Kuba won for neighborhood restaurant, notable because the always casual Manny wore a suit to accept and say, "I'd like to thank Kevin Walter, the best dishwasher anyone could have."
By now it was apparent that every time a winner was announced, a classic '80s song was played.
Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime," Blondie "Rapture."
If you won, you walked to the stage to music from the decade whose music is more loved now than then.
Deco won for new restaurant and owner Giuseppe was on and gone, thanking everyone who supported the restaurant and his family before hurrying off.
When the Roosevelt's bartender T. won for best cocktail program, cheers and applause abounded for the genial gentleman with the twinkle in his eye.
Onstage, his voice quavered a bit at first, but I knew he was ready.
I'd seen him on the way in and asked if he had a speech ready just in case and he'd replied in the affirmative.
Better not to risk it, just in case you get lucky.
The excellence in service award went to Wendy at Bistro Bobette, about whom Jason said, "She's got the polish in place and the edge. She's got a New York accent and a French husband."
She looked beautifully polished in her fitted dress and even remembered to thank that husband.
Reading the nominees for rising culinary star, Jason read the Berkely's Carly's name and said, "Julia said Carly is easily the most potty-mouthed chef in Richmond. And that's coming from Julia Battaligni!"
It was funny because the owner of Secco can be a very literate potty mouth herself.
When they called Belmont Food Shop's Mike as the rising winner, a woman clearly not Mike rose and made her way to the stage.
Explaining that, "Mike isn't here, he's cooking at the restaurant and if you know him it won't surprise you that he called me an hour ago to ask me to go for him," she was back in her seat in a flash.
To be fair, the man's got a restaurant that seats, what, 20? There's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to making his weekly numbers.
Chef of the year went to Dale of Acacia who seemed surprised. "I didn't think this would happen again. I just want to be a rising culinary star. I'm an old fashioned guy. I don't tweet or Facebook, but I do care about what I do."
When restaurateur of the year was announced as Kendra of Ipanema/Garnett's/Roosevelt and "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" began playing, Jason observed, "We should be playing her punk rock tracks."
Wouldn't that have been fitting?
The former punk rocker waitress' speech was heartfelt and humorous.
Saying, "When I started Ipanema in 1998, I thought as long as I didn't snort cocaine or sleep with my wait staff, I'd do okay."
Much knowing laughter.
She mentioned how supportive Johnny Giavos and Manny Mendez had been in answering her questions in the beginning, imploring the industry audience to "cut the new kids some slack."
Generously, she did shout-outs to her longtime friend and Ipanema manager, her crack Garnett's staff and Chef Lee at the Roosevelt for agreeing to be her partner.
More laughter followed when she said she'd been told that she'd succeed in the business because of her nice breasts and great attitude.
"And thanks to my husband John. For those of you who know me, my life has gotten 100% better since I met him."
Who knows, maybe he married her for the same reasons her restaurants were going to succeed (see above).
After the white-knuckling part of the evening was past, we moved upstairs to the marble hall to eat, drink and be merry.
It's always a blast to see so many people I usually see spread out, but as I made my way around the room, certain feelings kept being repeated.
Everyone is stoked to be part of the wave of Richmond restaurants as it builds.
Many people raved about the sense of community in the room.
The consensus is that our food scene is exploding and that's good for everyone.
The marble hall was packed with 400 guests (so I was told by a VMFA staffer), making the normally-chilly room perfectly comfortable for me and, by default, quite warm for most.
It wasn't long before many of the women in the impossibly high heels removed them and carried them rather than suffer any longer.
As I walked around, searching out wine (Mulderbosch Rose), food (rabbit meatball over mashed parsnips, black bean cake with salsa verde, pork over collards) made by the culinary students and familiar faces, there was a real sense of camaraderie in the room.
Rapphannock River Oyster company was there with Olde Salts and Rapphannocks for the taking (I took many).
I saw Merroir's chef, Pete, and we chatted about my devotion to his riverside tasting room.
Olli was there with charcuterie and, after tasting all eight varieties, I'd have to say my favorite was the Napoli.
Maybe it was the Sangiovese in it.
As I made another pass around the room, a guy called me over to compliment my tights, not the first time tonight that I'd heard something along those lines, before introducing me to his blogger girlfriend.
First wine ran out, then beer and people were reduced to working off their existing buzz.
Music came courtesy of my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, and DJ Marty eventually got restaurant people dancing up a storm over by the 20th century galleries.
Likely Andy Warhol would have approved.
And probably agreed that just being there was f*cking cool.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Full Moon over Phantogram
What happened was I won.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Pickin' and Grinnin' to Sangiovese
You can try keeping me in by inviting me to dinner, but that doesn't mean I won't suggest going out at some point.
Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.
I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.
Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.
The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.
They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.
The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.
The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals for a song, changing up their sound considerably.
Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.
In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.
But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.
Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.
Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.
With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.
Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.
Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.
Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.
Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.
I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.
Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.
The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.
They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.
The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.
The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals for a song, changing up their sound considerably.
Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.
In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.
But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.
Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.
Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.
With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.
Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.
Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.
Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Birthday Formidable
Birthday dilemma: when you eat out as often as I do, it presents a challenge when deciding where to birthday sup. A Sunday means fewer restaurants open, plus I'd already visited all my regular favorites in the lead-up to the big day.
My partner for the evening suggested Millie's and then rescinded it, saying that she hadn't eaten there in years so who knew how it would be? I was in the same boat; it had been at least four or five years for me. Still, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Besides, the after-party was what mattered and where I'd end up spending most of my birthday evening anyway.
It worked out very well. It was certainly the most chill I've ever seen Millie's and we had a delicious and unrushed meal. She deferred to me in the wine choice since it was my day and I couldn't resist the Mulderbosch Rose, as pretty and pink as a birthday wine should be (South Africa strikes again!).
My friend recalled the Cesar salad there as one of the best in town, so we split that to start; she was right, it was much better than most. She went on to the crispy-skinned duck breast with creamed spinach and saffron potato salad. Totally impressed, she set some of it aside for me to taste; it was incredibly rich with a comfort food feel given those side dishes.
Knowing how well the rose would work with crab (a personal favorite anyway) I ordered the tuna tartare with jump lump crab, sesame cucumber salad, tobiko, jalapeno vinaigrette and poached quail egg. Friend referred to it as deconstructed sushi and that little quail egg provided an accompanying richness to the clean flavors of the tartare.
We'd begun our evening with me opening a fabulous gift from her: a dozen different kinds of exotic chocolate bars. There was a dark chocolate bar with toasted panko and sea salt, another had grains of pistachio, and yet another was Belgian chocolate with hazelnuts. As she pointed out, I can taste and blog on chocolate for months to come.
Despite this wealth of chocolate, I ordered dessert rather than reaching into my gift. We shared the chocolate/orange pot de creme, a dark and creamy delight with cream and orange zest on top. It was funny, the server set the dessert down and then took off like a shot, only to return with a mound of whipped cream on a plate with a lit birthday candle in it. Once again, I made a wish (same one) and blew it out. Dessert done, we left for the big celebration.
I'd invited friends to join me on the patio at Ipanema, anticipating a balmy night, which it was. When I arrived, Rob the bartender wished me a happy birthday and noted that I was a Gemini. I knew his birthday had just passed, so I returned the birthday wishes and asked if he was a Gemini, too. "I'm on the cusp of Taurus and Gemini," he explained, "which makes me a stubborn two-faced bastard." Me, I'm just a multiple personality, who chose Don Julio for her constant companion tonight.
I'd asked a variety of people whose company I especially enjoy for one reason or another, people I knew would increase my enjoyment of my birthday. At one particularly interesting moment, I took stock of the demographic of the group and came up with multiple restaurant types, a photographer, various musicians, a farmer, VCU teaching types, an artist whose work hangs in my house and some media types. And not a normal person among them, myself included.
It was the perfect gathering with people coming and going at different times, but with everyone lingering once they did arrive. Several friends had told me that they had earlier plans and wanted to know how late we'd be celebrating. I assured them that the party wouldn't end until Ipanema closed and we didn't even make that deadline.
A couple of friends had particularly mentioned wanting to finally see me loopy after years of nothing but responsible drinking in front of them. One of the last to leave noted as he stood to go, "Karen I've never seen so much giggling out of you. So this is you loopy."
Or maybe not loopy, but just me having such a better birthday than last year. As one late-leaving guest said, "I don't know which birthday this is for you, but you are absolutely gorgeous."
It was a fiercely fine line on which to head home, happy for more reasons than I'm acknowledging here. And another year older, not that that matters in the least.
My partner for the evening suggested Millie's and then rescinded it, saying that she hadn't eaten there in years so who knew how it would be? I was in the same boat; it had been at least four or five years for me. Still, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Besides, the after-party was what mattered and where I'd end up spending most of my birthday evening anyway.
It worked out very well. It was certainly the most chill I've ever seen Millie's and we had a delicious and unrushed meal. She deferred to me in the wine choice since it was my day and I couldn't resist the Mulderbosch Rose, as pretty and pink as a birthday wine should be (South Africa strikes again!).
My friend recalled the Cesar salad there as one of the best in town, so we split that to start; she was right, it was much better than most. She went on to the crispy-skinned duck breast with creamed spinach and saffron potato salad. Totally impressed, she set some of it aside for me to taste; it was incredibly rich with a comfort food feel given those side dishes.
Knowing how well the rose would work with crab (a personal favorite anyway) I ordered the tuna tartare with jump lump crab, sesame cucumber salad, tobiko, jalapeno vinaigrette and poached quail egg. Friend referred to it as deconstructed sushi and that little quail egg provided an accompanying richness to the clean flavors of the tartare.
We'd begun our evening with me opening a fabulous gift from her: a dozen different kinds of exotic chocolate bars. There was a dark chocolate bar with toasted panko and sea salt, another had grains of pistachio, and yet another was Belgian chocolate with hazelnuts. As she pointed out, I can taste and blog on chocolate for months to come.
Despite this wealth of chocolate, I ordered dessert rather than reaching into my gift. We shared the chocolate/orange pot de creme, a dark and creamy delight with cream and orange zest on top. It was funny, the server set the dessert down and then took off like a shot, only to return with a mound of whipped cream on a plate with a lit birthday candle in it. Once again, I made a wish (same one) and blew it out. Dessert done, we left for the big celebration.
I'd invited friends to join me on the patio at Ipanema, anticipating a balmy night, which it was. When I arrived, Rob the bartender wished me a happy birthday and noted that I was a Gemini. I knew his birthday had just passed, so I returned the birthday wishes and asked if he was a Gemini, too. "I'm on the cusp of Taurus and Gemini," he explained, "which makes me a stubborn two-faced bastard." Me, I'm just a multiple personality, who chose Don Julio for her constant companion tonight.
I'd asked a variety of people whose company I especially enjoy for one reason or another, people I knew would increase my enjoyment of my birthday. At one particularly interesting moment, I took stock of the demographic of the group and came up with multiple restaurant types, a photographer, various musicians, a farmer, VCU teaching types, an artist whose work hangs in my house and some media types. And not a normal person among them, myself included.
It was the perfect gathering with people coming and going at different times, but with everyone lingering once they did arrive. Several friends had told me that they had earlier plans and wanted to know how late we'd be celebrating. I assured them that the party wouldn't end until Ipanema closed and we didn't even make that deadline.
A couple of friends had particularly mentioned wanting to finally see me loopy after years of nothing but responsible drinking in front of them. One of the last to leave noted as he stood to go, "Karen I've never seen so much giggling out of you. So this is you loopy."
Or maybe not loopy, but just me having such a better birthday than last year. As one late-leaving guest said, "I don't know which birthday this is for you, but you are absolutely gorgeous."
It was a fiercely fine line on which to head home, happy for more reasons than I'm acknowledging here. And another year older, not that that matters in the least.
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