Farewell and Congrats

Sunday was party day and I'm not talking birthday.

The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.

Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.

A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.

Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.

That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.

Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.

I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.

It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.

The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.

Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.

I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.

Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.

A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.

I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.

The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.

It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.

The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.

One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?

Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.

As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.

Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.

What Will Be, We'll See

To stay or not to stay, that was the question.

I almost had a date tonight, which would have ended my sojourn at the beach this afternoon.

But that didn't pan out (que sera, sera), meaning I could stay over an extra night and sleep to the sound of the surf again.

Life is full of trade-offs. Luckily.

When Pru and I woke up this morning, it was to an ocean that had gone from docile and inviting to chaotic and intimidating.

The good news was, the water temperature was still a thing of beauty, so when I left for my walk (and she caffeinated), it was just along the water's edge to enjoy the foam blowing off the roiling surf.

I didn't get a mile down the beach before the beach patrol sped by, inserting red "NO Swimming" flags all along the shoreline.

That's one way to ensure that I finally finished my beach read rather than spending another day pruning in the water.

So I'd been mistaken. Apparently we had pissed off the reading gods Wednesday by not so much as cracking a book.

Despite the unavailability of the main attraction, the weather was magnificent, moving from a morning sky filled with clouds doing their best to block the sun to an afternoon one of almost solid blue with a few wisps merely for decoration.

The gusty breezes that kept the waves out of reach for us mere mortals brought a series of para-surfers, hanging on with all their might to brightly colored, comma-shaped sails and whizzing down the shoreline at an unbelievable speed while hurtling through the rough water attached to their boards.

All I could think was that if it were me, I'd make sure someone was picking me up at the other end because i sure wouldn't want to traipse back up the beach to where I started after that wild ride.

But then I don't really have an adventurous bone in my body, at least not that extreme kind of adventure, so I won't be needing to make those arrangements any time soon.

My concern, as always, was food.

We did a lovely beach picnic for lunch, spreading out Olli salame, two kinds of cheese, heirloom grape tomatoes, watermelon (a beach requirement), a baguette, plus the house-specialty dip (of which I'd heard so much but never actually had it cross my lips) and chips on a towel and grazed happily, until napping on the beach seemed like a better idea.

What better place or time to give myself over to such indulgences?

To sleep to the ocean's lullaby, perchance to dream of dates to come.

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.

Standing Room Only

If romantic comedies are date movies, does that make historical dramas about sex nerd date movies?

Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.

Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.

Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.

One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.

Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.

It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.

Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.

A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.

Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.

A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."

Not true.

Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).

Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.

If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.

But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.

"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.

That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.

If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.

It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.

I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.

Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.

"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."

Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.

Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.

Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.

But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.

You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true

I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?

The spanking, however, I could do without.

Just Give It To Me Slow

Slow Food RVA took over today's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery, satisfying on several levels.

Or, as a friend I ran into said, "Of course you're here. Food and music!"

Tables were set up just outside the gallery for partners in the slow food movement to share edibles meant to be savored and appreciated.

I'm not enough of a milk drinker to appreciate the raw milk tasting, so I went straight to the Olli table to eat cured meat.

There was no way I could resist telling the charming meat cutter about my experience at Fiola in DC.

When I had teasingly told Chef Fabio Trabbochi that I had come up from Richmond to eat Richmond meats, he agreed with my wisdom, saying that Olli made the best cured meats he has tasted in this country.

My story was enough to make a meat cutter smile (and it so distracted him that he forgot what he was cutting).

Manakintown Specialty Growers were serving pimentos de padron peppers the traditional Spanish tapas way, sauteed in olive oil with a touch of sea salt. Supposedly one in five is hot, but I had eight and all were mild (and yummy).

Apollo was doing the olive oil tasting with three offerings ranging from a light Provencal style through the more robust Sierra to my favorite, the  Barouni, a pungent and spicy oil which I was told most people find too strong.

I liked it a lot and will seek out subtlety in my next lifetime.

Style's food critic John Haddad, also Vice-Chair of Slow Food RVA, spoke briefly to acquaint people with the group.

The premise, that slow food is based on there being a story behind all good food, extends to a mission of celebrating, educating and advocating. All three seemed to be in play today.

The Gourd Trio, playing gourd instruments and wearing gourd hats, then entertained the crowd with songs about stray gourd vines and neighborhood ethics (with a shout-out to Southside).

How better to follow up food than with food? I headed over to Acacia and miraculously found a great parking space mere steps from the door. Hey, I don't no stinking valet parking.

As I was about to parallel park, a car came up behind me and stopped. Once in the tiny space, the guy pulled up next to me, paused, smiled and gave me at thumbs up.

Who doesn't like a pat on the head, even if it is only for a minor skill like parallel parking?

The mini-wine dinner at Acacia got off to an auspicious start when I arrived to find my reservation for one set up at the bar obviously waiting for me.

As I sat down and was greeted by bartender Aaron, I saw frantic hand waving behind him.

Two girlfriends, one a like-minded eater and the other half of a certain restaurant-owning couple, were signaling madly from the far reaches of the bar.

Seems they were on a girls' night out and had stumbled into Acacia at the last minute. They were just finishing up their first course.

It seemed silly to eat alone when I could have company, so I invited them to move to the bar stools on either side of my place setting and I'd try to catch up as best I could.

First came sauteed rock shrimp cake with cilantro cucumber Greek yogurt sauce paired with 1 2009 Chateau de Valcombe Costieres de Nimes Blanc.The wine's fresh straw flavors were lovely with the shrimp.

Our able bartender suggested catching me up to where my friends were on the menu, so I went on to my second course while they chatted with me about nearby bar sitters.

Beet and goat cheese ravioli came with salmon confit, sliced Mandarinquats (my first) and a basil puree.

Matching the beet pasta and salmon beautifully was a 2010 Chateau de Valcombe Coustieres de Nimes Rose.

While my one of my friends is not much of a rose drinker (I try not to hold it against her), I am, so I really enjoyed drinking this beautifully balanced wine with the moistest of salmon.

As happens at Acacia's wine dinners, the wine rep came over to tell us anything we wanted to know about the wines and to make us laugh.

After sticking her nose in a glass of sauvignon blanc, my friend handed it to me with the request to, "Tell me what that funky smell is."

"Cat piss," I responded handing it back and she had a laugh attack. When it subsided, I got the wine rep to explain it to her in wine lingo.

"Cat pee-pee, that's what it is," he told her. "Swirl, it's gases; it'll go away." Further laughter, this time at the expert's expense. Oh good, at least it wasn't just me.

By this point, I had caught up with my friends and we got our entrees. Two of us went for the roasted leg of lamb with an eggplant tomato terrine, grilled local potatoes and a black olive sauce.

The third had the sauteed rockfish with sweet corn farrotto, zucchini linguine and a cumin lime sauce. The corn farrotto spoke to my summer corn jones and the fish was Chef Dale's usual perfection.

Over in lamb land, the two of us got three large slices of leg meat to savor with our 2007 Chateau de Valcombe Garance Syrah, a big tannic wine to go with our juicy red meat.

The fish eater had a 2007 Chateau de Valcombe Costieres de Nimes Prestige Rouge, a  blend of  Syrah and Grenache. She was happy to share and I'm always happy to taste.

But the fact is, we were getting full and none of us did full justice to our meals at that point. What was I thinking ordering lamb on such a hot, summer night?

Well, besides that I love lamb, it got me that eggplant tomato terrine which married those two flavors in layers of red and green that tasted as good as they looked. It was a highlight of the meal.

We had the leftovers removed to a five-pound box for my friend to take home to her handsome boyfriend and moved on to important topics of discussion.

Why can't perpetrators of crimes against children be punished the same way they inflict pain? Why don't the people who wear pink and green go further east to eat than Acacia?  Why do only certain restaurants have wine dinners?

Lost in discourse, one of us suddenly realized it was going on 11 and some people had to be up and go to work early in the morning.

And therein lies the beauty of slow food. Conversation is meant to be an integral part of the pleasure of a good meal and should be savored along with the food and wine. There should be no timers on good eating.

If there is a story behind all good food, there should be stories to go along with all good food.

We shared some tasty ones tonight.

Pink, Bubbly and Unplucked

I got to experience an internet date unfolding for the first time.

It happened at Secco and there was a fair amount of Gruber Zweigelt Punkt Genau Sparkling Rose involved on my part, but it's such a beautiful mouthful of bubbles, acidity and berries that it was hard to say no.

I love the wine list's description that it's a "guiltless two-bottle indulgence." With the right date absolutely it would be.

A friend spotted me and came over to chat; it was then that I learned that the couple at the end of the bar was on their first internet-generated date. How she gleaned her information I didn't ask.

Even without the forewarning, though, I'd have guessed it as a first date and one not going particularly well. He continually leaned in (body language is very telling) and she'd always lean back, away from him.

As they awkwardly drank for several hours, my friend saying that it was a telling sign that food was not being ordered, the girl's posture stayed as rigid and stiff as if she were at a job interview.

To the guy's credit, he kept trying, smiling and making extensive eye contact. He seemed to be following all the first date recommendations for success despite his obvious lack of results.

She, on the other hand, seemed unimpressive. "Look at how over-plucked her eyebrows are," my friend pointed out.

And while it was definitely true, I question how many guys notice, much less care about such a thing.

My brows are unplucked and I wasn't out on a date, so she was already doing better than me.

Back at our end of the bar, we got hungry before they did, and started with the addicting roasted spiced almonds with sea salt. Before long, we also required a massive meat and cheese plate.

The Delice de Borgogne was a buttery triple creme, the Comte nutty and firm and the Cabecou the standout. It was gooey, goaty and gorgeous and positively irresistible.

And because cheese calls out for meat, we also had some of Olli's over-the-top meats: the prosciutto and the salametto.

Olli, you make my hear flutter (and probably my arteries harden, but so what?).

Back at the dating ranch, the couple finally ordered food and ate it with no obvious signs of pleasure. It was tough to guess why she stayed, much less him.

I say that as one who has exhibited less-than-ladylike first date behavior.

Back in 1999,  I had a date that so bored me that I excused myself to go to the ladies' room and exited right out of the back door of a not-to-be-named Fan bar. I would handle it better today.

Another time, on a first date in 2002, my date casually informed me that he didn't like strong-flavored cheeses.

Although I was ready to cut bait at that moment, I hung on through the meal before explaining our differences and leaving.

When they finally left, we still had no idea what the chances were for a second date.

My guess would be no, but perhaps she's just the type who can't show pleasure in someone's company.

Chalk it up to age, but I'm much more obvious. If I'm attracted to you, there will be no doubt in your mind.

If I like you, I'll be the one draping myself over your lap while leaning into you and talking. And, by the way, that's with or without the two-bottle indulgence.

Even so, I'm not going to pluck my eyebrows for anyone, although that's probably why she was on a date and I wasn't.

Someday I'll get the hang of this.

Meet Me in DC for Olli Meat

Why drive 214 miles round trip for dinner?

To enjoy the alluring and satisfying company of a DC foodie friend.

To eat the amazing and local Olli Berkshire prosciutto (with buffalo Quadrello bleu cheese) and brag to the staff that I just drove up from the same place from which it comes.Melt-in-your-mouth lovely.

To try a new restaurant, Fiola by Fabio Trabocchi, from a small table by a large window looking out on an unhurried plaza as a light breeze waffed in.

To use my compact mirror to watch the couple behind us make out at their table, she in his lap, both oblivious to the rest of the world.

We ate ourselves silly. To give you an idea of the sheer quantity of food we shared, the feast began with an amuse bouche, so to speak; each of us was served four raw oysters with lemon juice and mint. Yes, four. Our bouches were highly amused.

The rolls were basically croissants in roll shapes (the excellent olive oil was extraneous with these butter-filled beauties), the carpaccio of wild cod, frisee and  blood orange.was a tad tough in places, but flavorful, and the spaghetti with jumbo lump Maryland crab meat and Catalina sea urchins kind of confusing (rustic with upscale ingredients).

The chickpea flour pappardelle with royal trumpets and mushrooms in a morel sauce paired simple ingredients but resulted in a  a decadently rich dish. And the Shenandoah Valley roasted leg of lamb  porcehtta style for two resting on some tasty collards could have served four.

The chef came out to solict commentary (or perhaps hear compliments) from us and we spent the whole time talking about Olli and its meats. He said it took one bite to fall in love with Olli's meats. Don't I know it.

Dessert was a trio of gelatos, the most interesting of which was a fennel (sublime when it softened) as well as a Gianduja torte, leading to a discussion of the Italian obsession with hazelnuts.

The pleasures of sharing so much food and conversation with a passionate eater and talker can not be overstated (although he'd probably enjoy it if I tried). Especially one who can guess my Myers Briggs personality type off the top of his head.

The smart ones will get you every delicious time.

Enoteca Sogno Back in Biz

When I got the e-mail saying Enoteca Sogno was opening at its new Northside location (finally!) tonight, it wasn't that big of a deal.

I know a lot of people are fanatics about the place, but my interest is far more casual.

I'd been to  few terrific wine dinners there, but other than that, I'd only had dinner maybe twice.

But my dining companion suggested going (actually made a joke about not going), so we figured why not and off we went.

In my humble opinion, the new space is more attractive than the Broad Street space, with wooden floors, a curving bar and not nearly as many tables as they could have.

But the ones they did were all occupied tonight, so clearly lots of people were eager to see how things had come together.

The bartender was a familiar face and I planted kisses on both cheeks to mark him before he rushed off to keep his flourishing bar crowd refilled.

Our server was another RVA regular whom I know from at least two other restaurants.

Having arrived fairly late (we were told the horde arrived around 6:30 and we were closer to 8:30), we dove right in to the menu.

Vietti Roero Arneis, a light and earthy grape I'd never had before and a plate of  various Olli salami, made right here in Richmond got us off to a satisfying start.

No question, I see a lot of Olli in my future.

Chewy and soft in texture (okay, fat) and with each of the three kinds having distinctive kinds of spice, my companion declared it better than any American-made he'd had.

We sat back and savored it with our wine.

Mussels in white sauce over spaghetti came next and while the mussels were plump and the broth sop-worthy, the pasta was unnecessary because we'd also gotten the fresh tagliatelle with a mix of wild mushrooms and truffle oil.

Enjoyed with the wine, the earthiness of the mushrooms made it a lovely combination..

I chose the whole branzino roasted with garlic and herbs and the other eater got one of two specials for the evening, the veal Picatta (the other was a chicken Marsala and those were the only three proteins on the menu for tonight; more are to be added next week).

The branzino was the star and we ate it down to the bones, leaving a pile of them on the side of the plate.

The veal wasn't all it could have been, but it was late by this point and a new kitchen can be allowed one so-so plate on a mobbed opening night.

After so much food, we decided to move up to the bar to join the after-hours party tasting wines and talking about, what else, food and wine.

We started with the Mastro Janni Brunello di Montalcino 2005, a delicate but earthy wine that the owner had been saving for just such an evening and moved on to a Isole e Olena Cepparello, a wine so smooth and velvety as to be an example of what people miss when they don't drink red wine.

A Felsina Fontalloro sealed the evening for me with its very ripe red fruit nose, smooth tannins and beautiful long finish. 

A wine rep friend at the bar looked perplexed, asking, "How is it I've never heard of this wine?" 

My question would be more like, how is it I've never drunk this wine?

No one would argue that Gary York doesn't maintain an interesting wine list and, from last night's list, a well-priced one.

But it's hard to deny the pleasures of being included in the after-party and tasting the stuff he cellars for himself. It's even better with enough satisfying food first to prevent any chance of public loopiness.

Sometimes it's enough to be in the right place at the right time and just enjoy the moment.No doubt one of my strengths.