Certain sounds are positively unmistakable.
So when I walked out of my apartment this afternoon into the hallway to the sounds of a woman crying, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohohohoh!" from behind the back apartment door, I knew exactly what I was hearing: neighbor sex.
And while we've all heard fake sex in movies, I can't say I've ever heard a woman climax live before. Granted, it sounds just like the simulated variety (see: "When Harry Met Sally"), but it somehow made me feel like an audio voyeur, not that my overhearing it was intentional.
All I needed was bananas and kleenex at the grocery store, for cryin' out loud (intentional, yes).
As I was headed down the steps toward the front door, her shrieks got louder, she reached that final "Ooooooooh!" and I felt obligated to let myself out and lock the door as silently as possible. But why? I'm not the one who was broadcasting my business, I was simply on my way out.
I know some people like a sandwich after having sex, but I'd only heard sex, so what I wanted was a pizza from Galley Market and I couldn't think of a single reason not to drive to southside to get one. I'd been craving another since I'd had my first a month ago.
When I ordered my Bianca pizza - house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil on a crust with the chew of a fine baguette - I told the cashier I felt kind of lame ordering the exact same pizza I'd ordered last time.
"No shame in that," he assured me. "I go back and forth between the Bianca and the Grape & Gorgonzola, so I'm almost as bad."
Waiting at the counter for my pie to bake, I noticed a new piece of red neon announcing "Giustino's Pizza" hanging from the ceiling, an addition since my first visit giving credit to the multi-talented percussionist and pizza-maker who I could see busy in the kitchen through the open doors.
When he spotted me, he came out to say hello and I shared that I'd left Jackson Ward to come to southside for his outstanding crust and pitch perfect toppings. When I told him I've also been telling everyone I know to go eat his pie, he wrapped me in a bear hug, apologizing in advance for getting flour all over me.
What's a little flour between cook and eater?
It was everything I could do to drive that Bianca home before diving in. I thought I might arrive home to hear round two in progress, so I entered tentatively, but all was quiet on the back apartment front.
No shame in that. Sometimes once is enough.
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
In the Zone
Even for my oddly-lived life, today had elements of the truly bizarre.
Of all the reasons I might have to wake up early, today's was among the least likely. I had to go have my picture taken first thing in the morning because of my writing.
Which writing? I have no idea and won't until the Virginia Press Association awards are announced in April, but higher-ups know my name will be among those called, and that, apparently, requires me to show off my dimples when I'd usually still be snoozing.
Say cheese.
That done, my next priority was voting, where I was happy to see a line of eager voters ahead of me. Sometimes it's just me and the poll workers.
As I shuffled forward, something occurred to me. Since it was an open primary, perhaps I should use my vote as a voice against the evil that threatens to overtake our country.
Once at the desk, I inquired if it was possible. Grinning widely, the registrar informed that not only could I have either ballot I wanted, but that I was far from the first person to make the decision to jump party today. "But I can't tell you what to do." Her smile widens.
Heaven help me, I guiltily accepted the Republican ballot and voted, assuaging my conscience with the knowledge that although I have a Democratic preference, I could live with either one getting the nomination and winning, but I couldn't stand it if Trump did.
Never in my decades of regularly voting have I done such a thing and if my wildly liberal ancestors aren't rolling in their graves, they're applauding me.
Later, I told a black friend what I'd done, inspiring him to do the same, albeit with more judgment directed at him. He messaged me, "Sure, it was fine for you, Miss White Woman, but you have seen the look three brothers gave me when they saw me take that ballot."
Truly, I felt his pain.
I was nearly home from my walk when a well-dressed man stopped and introduced himself, explaining that he'd lived on the next block for the past two years and saw me all the time.
Next thing I knew, we were talking about public art, living in D.C.- which we both had - and how much Richmond has changed since the '90s when he left.
When we finally got around to discussing walking, I knew I'd met someone worthy. Sure, I do 6 or 7 miles, but this guy walks to Willow Lawn and back, for an eight mile constitutional. We compared walking Broad Street to Monument Avenue, geeking out on some of the things you see at street level that you miss entirely from a car.
After a half hour or so, he said he needed to go vote, but asked if I'd like to come over for a glass of wine or tea when he got back. Why not? "I'll call you when I'm crossing Belvidere," he said after getting over his amazement at my lack of a cell phone.
I had just enough time to eat a quick bite before the phone rang and I met him out front. "I went for Kasich," he told me, with the same guilt of a lifelong Democrat voting Republican as I'd felt.
So it was then I entered the 1870 house of a man I'd met less than an hour before. Enormous pocket doors, a kitchen where the old washing porch used to be, servants' quarters, a very handsome home, far more ornate than my 1876 house.
Then we sat down with our libations and dove into the deep end of the conversational pool with abandon. He told me how much he'd loved living in Cambridge and hated living in Boston and we compared notes on life in Washington. Since he's only been back for two years, he wanted restaurant and music venue recommendations.
It turns out his sister and I went to the same school, graduating within a year of each other. Like me, he's self-employed so we discussed the self-discipline that requires, along with its benefits, such as impromptu afternoon meet-ups with neighbors.
We were into our second hour of talking about the cultural shifts we'd seen in our lifetimes when I declined a second glass because I had work to do, but we agreed a walk is in order sooner rather than later.
Once that work was finished, I got ready to go to the Valentine for this month's Community Conversation, "Re-RVA: Revitalizing, Recycling and Re-imagining," thrilled that the weather was still so warm for the walk there.
I didn't get two blocks before I ran into my new friend for the third time today, this time returning from a meeting. Now that we've met, I think we're going to find we run into each other a lot in that way you never notice someone until you meet them and then suddenly they're everywhere.
Walking in to the Valentine, director Bill Martin greeted me by asking, "Did you vote?" My voting sticker was still stuck to my walking shirt, so I explained how I had voted a party I detest. "Lots of my friends did that today, too," he assured me.
So I'm not the only one terrified of the future, I guess.
It was by far the smallest group for one of these conversations I've yet to see, a fact no doubt attributable to voting day, but it was a dedicated one. When Bill was talking about re-purposing, he showed an image of the architectural salvage store Caravatti's, asking who'd been there.
Practically every hand in the room shot up. "Gosh, this is a recycling crowd!" he said, sounding surprised. It was, too, with people there who had specific recycling bones to pick with the panel of experts who'd come to speak.
When we were shown images of old WWI and WWII posters, one showed a thrifty housewife doing her part by saving cooking grease, straining it, storing it in a cool place and then, "selling it to your meat dealer."
"Anyone here have a meat dealer?" Bill asked to laughter. No, but my Mom certainly had a grease can with a strainer she kept in the cabinet and reused its contents often.
Shucks, I guess that means we didn't have a meat dealer, either.
Breaking into our small groups, we discussed single stream recycling, compost company pick-ups and why the counties make it so difficult for their residents to recycle, with several people making the point that the problem is not what we recycle but the over-packaging and single-use serving mindset that's overtaken consumers.
Good luck changing that.
Walking home, the air was still warm and while I was hungry, I'd had my conversational jones satisfied earlier and I knew I should get home to work, so I decided to stop at the Cultured Swine for a quick meal.
While I'm waiting for my BLTotally Awesome, the cook asks the cashier to look at the impressive Tarheel taco he's working on, at how amazingly beautiful its presentation is. Of course I'm going to stand up and take a peek at the N.C.-style barbecue he's laid out on a tortilla in three perfect meaty mounds.
"Sometimes I impress myself," he jokes, before finishing the taco off with a mountain of coleslaw and Swine sauce, only to show it off again. "Damn, look at this! Now it's even prettier!"
I came awfully close to changing my order, but I'm a huge fan of his house bacon because it's so thickly sliced it almost crosses out of bacon territory, plus he serves it with the freshest of mixed greens on a a baguette, a combo I love.
By the time my sandwich came out, I was deep into an episode of "Twilight Zone" called "The Four of Us are Dying" about a guy who could change his face to elude people, except that didn't always work out for him when he ran into someone from the face's past, like the boxer's Dad who hated him for breaking his mothers heart by running off and ruining his girlfriend's life.
So despite my intention to grab and go, there I was happily drinking a glass bottle of Sprite (zero profit in glass recycling, by the way), eating my Awesome and watching '60s television after waking up to pose, voting Republican, going to a stranger's house and talking trash.
I'm sure this day could have gotten weirder, I'm just not sure how.
Of all the reasons I might have to wake up early, today's was among the least likely. I had to go have my picture taken first thing in the morning because of my writing.
Which writing? I have no idea and won't until the Virginia Press Association awards are announced in April, but higher-ups know my name will be among those called, and that, apparently, requires me to show off my dimples when I'd usually still be snoozing.
Say cheese.
That done, my next priority was voting, where I was happy to see a line of eager voters ahead of me. Sometimes it's just me and the poll workers.
As I shuffled forward, something occurred to me. Since it was an open primary, perhaps I should use my vote as a voice against the evil that threatens to overtake our country.
Once at the desk, I inquired if it was possible. Grinning widely, the registrar informed that not only could I have either ballot I wanted, but that I was far from the first person to make the decision to jump party today. "But I can't tell you what to do." Her smile widens.
Heaven help me, I guiltily accepted the Republican ballot and voted, assuaging my conscience with the knowledge that although I have a Democratic preference, I could live with either one getting the nomination and winning, but I couldn't stand it if Trump did.
Never in my decades of regularly voting have I done such a thing and if my wildly liberal ancestors aren't rolling in their graves, they're applauding me.
Later, I told a black friend what I'd done, inspiring him to do the same, albeit with more judgment directed at him. He messaged me, "Sure, it was fine for you, Miss White Woman, but you have seen the look three brothers gave me when they saw me take that ballot."
Truly, I felt his pain.
I was nearly home from my walk when a well-dressed man stopped and introduced himself, explaining that he'd lived on the next block for the past two years and saw me all the time.
Next thing I knew, we were talking about public art, living in D.C.- which we both had - and how much Richmond has changed since the '90s when he left.
When we finally got around to discussing walking, I knew I'd met someone worthy. Sure, I do 6 or 7 miles, but this guy walks to Willow Lawn and back, for an eight mile constitutional. We compared walking Broad Street to Monument Avenue, geeking out on some of the things you see at street level that you miss entirely from a car.
After a half hour or so, he said he needed to go vote, but asked if I'd like to come over for a glass of wine or tea when he got back. Why not? "I'll call you when I'm crossing Belvidere," he said after getting over his amazement at my lack of a cell phone.
I had just enough time to eat a quick bite before the phone rang and I met him out front. "I went for Kasich," he told me, with the same guilt of a lifelong Democrat voting Republican as I'd felt.
So it was then I entered the 1870 house of a man I'd met less than an hour before. Enormous pocket doors, a kitchen where the old washing porch used to be, servants' quarters, a very handsome home, far more ornate than my 1876 house.
Then we sat down with our libations and dove into the deep end of the conversational pool with abandon. He told me how much he'd loved living in Cambridge and hated living in Boston and we compared notes on life in Washington. Since he's only been back for two years, he wanted restaurant and music venue recommendations.
It turns out his sister and I went to the same school, graduating within a year of each other. Like me, he's self-employed so we discussed the self-discipline that requires, along with its benefits, such as impromptu afternoon meet-ups with neighbors.
We were into our second hour of talking about the cultural shifts we'd seen in our lifetimes when I declined a second glass because I had work to do, but we agreed a walk is in order sooner rather than later.
Once that work was finished, I got ready to go to the Valentine for this month's Community Conversation, "Re-RVA: Revitalizing, Recycling and Re-imagining," thrilled that the weather was still so warm for the walk there.
I didn't get two blocks before I ran into my new friend for the third time today, this time returning from a meeting. Now that we've met, I think we're going to find we run into each other a lot in that way you never notice someone until you meet them and then suddenly they're everywhere.
Walking in to the Valentine, director Bill Martin greeted me by asking, "Did you vote?" My voting sticker was still stuck to my walking shirt, so I explained how I had voted a party I detest. "Lots of my friends did that today, too," he assured me.
So I'm not the only one terrified of the future, I guess.
It was by far the smallest group for one of these conversations I've yet to see, a fact no doubt attributable to voting day, but it was a dedicated one. When Bill was talking about re-purposing, he showed an image of the architectural salvage store Caravatti's, asking who'd been there.
Practically every hand in the room shot up. "Gosh, this is a recycling crowd!" he said, sounding surprised. It was, too, with people there who had specific recycling bones to pick with the panel of experts who'd come to speak.
When we were shown images of old WWI and WWII posters, one showed a thrifty housewife doing her part by saving cooking grease, straining it, storing it in a cool place and then, "selling it to your meat dealer."
"Anyone here have a meat dealer?" Bill asked to laughter. No, but my Mom certainly had a grease can with a strainer she kept in the cabinet and reused its contents often.
Shucks, I guess that means we didn't have a meat dealer, either.
Breaking into our small groups, we discussed single stream recycling, compost company pick-ups and why the counties make it so difficult for their residents to recycle, with several people making the point that the problem is not what we recycle but the over-packaging and single-use serving mindset that's overtaken consumers.
Good luck changing that.
Walking home, the air was still warm and while I was hungry, I'd had my conversational jones satisfied earlier and I knew I should get home to work, so I decided to stop at the Cultured Swine for a quick meal.
While I'm waiting for my BLTotally Awesome, the cook asks the cashier to look at the impressive Tarheel taco he's working on, at how amazingly beautiful its presentation is. Of course I'm going to stand up and take a peek at the N.C.-style barbecue he's laid out on a tortilla in three perfect meaty mounds.
"Sometimes I impress myself," he jokes, before finishing the taco off with a mountain of coleslaw and Swine sauce, only to show it off again. "Damn, look at this! Now it's even prettier!"
I came awfully close to changing my order, but I'm a huge fan of his house bacon because it's so thickly sliced it almost crosses out of bacon territory, plus he serves it with the freshest of mixed greens on a a baguette, a combo I love.
By the time my sandwich came out, I was deep into an episode of "Twilight Zone" called "The Four of Us are Dying" about a guy who could change his face to elude people, except that didn't always work out for him when he ran into someone from the face's past, like the boxer's Dad who hated him for breaking his mothers heart by running off and ruining his girlfriend's life.
So despite my intention to grab and go, there I was happily drinking a glass bottle of Sprite (zero profit in glass recycling, by the way), eating my Awesome and watching '60s television after waking up to pose, voting Republican, going to a stranger's house and talking trash.
I'm sure this day could have gotten weirder, I'm just not sure how.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Porn and Parks, Snow and Rings
Finish what you start, my mother always said (still does).
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Universal Communication
You have to admire a man who's willing to destroy his own art.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Bottom Expectations
Do small chairs make a restaurant a "chick place"?
I don't think so, but I have a (male) friend who does, so when I'm in the mood for a place like Chez Foushee with its small chairs, I usually ask a female to join me.
Actually, today's lunch came about when I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in months at the neighborhood drug store. Right there in line, she immediately insisted we make lunch plans.
But she's only lived in J-Ward for three years and with my almost six-year tenure and penchant for eating out, she always defers to me about where to go.
So we ended up at the charming Chez Foushee and she fell in love with their dark wood bar and the decor the moment we sat foot in the place.
"How did I not know about this place?" she asked rhetorically. Considering it's been open for a decade and a half, I had no answer anyway. But now that they do dinner, there's really no excuse.
We walked in just after they opened and the sever who greeted us looked apologetic for the lack of bustle. "It'll get busier in a few minutes," she assured us as if that mattered to us.
So we took our window seats and did the girly thing ordering iced teas and salads. She had the potsticker salad, always a good choice.
I had the Foushee Market Salad, of romaine, red onions, shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, marinated white beans, Manchego cheese and that loveliest of antipastos, artichoke caponata, with a Balsamic vinaigrette.
As we sat chatting non-stop about what's been happening in our lives since our last meeting, the dining room did fill up as promised...with women. And more women. We never saw an actual man come in during our entire time there.
But our server was a male and after he cleared our plates, asked if we wanted dessert.
Begging off, he got mock-indignant with us, asking, "What do you mean you don't want dessert?" I felt it was a valid question, but my neighbor was a tad taken aback.
There are certain expectations in a chick place and apparently dessert-eating (especially after salad-eating) is one of them. Now we know.
The thing is, a girl's got to ensure that she still fits on the small chairs.
I don't think so, but I have a (male) friend who does, so when I'm in the mood for a place like Chez Foushee with its small chairs, I usually ask a female to join me.
Actually, today's lunch came about when I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in months at the neighborhood drug store. Right there in line, she immediately insisted we make lunch plans.
But she's only lived in J-Ward for three years and with my almost six-year tenure and penchant for eating out, she always defers to me about where to go.
So we ended up at the charming Chez Foushee and she fell in love with their dark wood bar and the decor the moment we sat foot in the place.
"How did I not know about this place?" she asked rhetorically. Considering it's been open for a decade and a half, I had no answer anyway. But now that they do dinner, there's really no excuse.
We walked in just after they opened and the sever who greeted us looked apologetic for the lack of bustle. "It'll get busier in a few minutes," she assured us as if that mattered to us.
So we took our window seats and did the girly thing ordering iced teas and salads. She had the potsticker salad, always a good choice.
I had the Foushee Market Salad, of romaine, red onions, shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, marinated white beans, Manchego cheese and that loveliest of antipastos, artichoke caponata, with a Balsamic vinaigrette.
As we sat chatting non-stop about what's been happening in our lives since our last meeting, the dining room did fill up as promised...with women. And more women. We never saw an actual man come in during our entire time there.
But our server was a male and after he cleared our plates, asked if we wanted dessert.
Begging off, he got mock-indignant with us, asking, "What do you mean you don't want dessert?" I felt it was a valid question, but my neighbor was a tad taken aback.
There are certain expectations in a chick place and apparently dessert-eating (especially after salad-eating) is one of them. Now we know.
The thing is, a girl's got to ensure that she still fits on the small chairs.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
A Blind Take on Snow
Apparently you don't even have to see snow to appreciate it, as I was reminded this morning.
Out walking the beagle around 9:30, the streets were empty except for one neighbor, methodically shoveling his sidewalk.
As we approached, I realized it was Alvin, a middle-aged neighbor and Iraq veteran who is almost completely blind.
He can make out vague forms, but not much more. And here he was working that snow shovel over our brick sidewalks like a champ.
We greeted each other and he leaned on his shovel and started chatting about how my dog liked the snow (he's always loved it) and how brisk he was for such an old dog (14 1/2).
I thought he nailed it when he said we were the only people smart enough to be out enjoying the silence and whiteness of such a serene morning.
Most tellingly, he remarked that what he was doing was for the sheer pleasure of the experience, since he knew it would soon be covered over and have to be done again later on.
"It's just such a beautiful day that I couldn't resist being out here admiring it and breathing it in," Alvin said.
Which was exactly why I was out there, but it became that much better sharing the feeling with someone.
Out walking the beagle around 9:30, the streets were empty except for one neighbor, methodically shoveling his sidewalk.
As we approached, I realized it was Alvin, a middle-aged neighbor and Iraq veteran who is almost completely blind.
He can make out vague forms, but not much more. And here he was working that snow shovel over our brick sidewalks like a champ.
We greeted each other and he leaned on his shovel and started chatting about how my dog liked the snow (he's always loved it) and how brisk he was for such an old dog (14 1/2).
I thought he nailed it when he said we were the only people smart enough to be out enjoying the silence and whiteness of such a serene morning.
Most tellingly, he remarked that what he was doing was for the sheer pleasure of the experience, since he knew it would soon be covered over and have to be done again later on.
"It's just such a beautiful day that I couldn't resist being out here admiring it and breathing it in," Alvin said.
Which was exactly why I was out there, but it became that much better sharing the feeling with someone.
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