Like Julie on "The Love Boat" but not so wholesome.
I was in my 20s when I was first dubbed "cruise director" by family and friends, who even presented me with a t-shirt spelling out that moniker in sparkly letters. And, no, I was no more the sparkly letter type then than I am now.
It wasn't because of anything to do with travel over water, mind you, but because I enjoy researching travel plans. I'm that person who will happily devour a couple of travel guides in pursuit of knowledge.
When I went to Memphis and Oxford with a friend earlier this year, she left cruise directing in my hands and later marveled at how much I'd uncovered for us to do.
So it was a no-brainer to use my train ride to Richmond today to gather intel for my upcoming trip. So far, I've found far more I want to see and do than there could possibly be time for, a first world problem if ever there was one. The way I look at it, better to have too long a list than too short.
Amazing what a person can accomplish on Amtrack's Quiet Car (yes, the same Quiet Car Chris Christie was thrown off of for talking on his cell phone). Where to start? Where to stop?
A literary walking tour that includes poetic focaccia (and I have to know)
An oyster company with half price oysters twice a week for happy hour (because I can eat some bivalves)
A garden featuring 150 plants and flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's writings
A western saloon located in an alley and serving lamb pot pie and bone marrow fritters (howdy, pardner)
A Victorian camera obscura projecting outdoor seascapes on a parabolic screen
A restaurant design that won a James Beard award
A sea cave archway that offers end of the world views at low tide (not to self: check tide charts)
A bowling alley that does Soul and Bowl nights (so stoked for this)
A vintage tiki lounge with rattan booths serving Hurricanes with two straws
Communal baths where bathing suits are only required on co-ed Tuesdays (better not to take my suit?)
A dive bar with cheap drinks, pogo-worthy music in the back room and peanuts for eating and throwing
A live music bar in a Victorian hotel, a stalwart of the '70s underground scene and now host to indie label debuts
A park dedicated to a poet laureate with awe-inspiring vistas
A beach shack bistro near a nine-mile ocean beach (this could be an entire day lost)
An art bar with rotating installations and regular Prince/Michael Jackson nights (Purple Thriller, yes!)
And don't get me started on museums, architecture, rooftops gardens and viewing platforms.
Besides, all that just might show up in upcoming posts, complete with details, conversations and conclusions. Consider this the movie trailer version set to the rhythms of a rocking train.
Just don't call me Julie.
Showing posts with label oysters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oysters. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Jive Talkin'
Maybe it's the looming splendor of tomorrow's summer solstice, but I've been extraordinarily popular with my subjects lately.
Obviously since I'm not a blue blood royal with loyal subjects, I'm talking about people I've interviewed. For the second time in three weeks, I was invited to dinner by someone who'd earned me money by answering my questions. I'm sensing a pattern here.
On the outside chance you have no special plans this evening, please come and help me eat some fresh oysters tonight. I shuck. I am a big shucker, but not much of a jiver. Dress in something you don't mind getting shucky in. No beer for you!
If you come at say 5:30, we can kayak on the river until the sun begins to set. If you're not much for kayaking, come at 7. I will likely be coming back in from the river then. Then oysters and fire pit!
It's been a few years since I've been kayaking, but I'd have been game to try it again except I had too much to do to make it anywhere by 5:30. The beer comment was his way of letting me know he remembered that I don't drink beer, so there'd be other sippers available for me.
All in all, it was a timely invitation since I had zero plans tonight (not that I wouldn't have found something to do) and no better offer than to eat oysters, even if it was south of the river.
Although I'm far from an attire expert, my guess was that clothing suited to getting shucky in was similar to clothing to pick crabs in (wash and wear, in other words) and I've got crab options.
My Saturday night was laid out for me.
Clouds gathering and directions in hand, I headed across the river on the Huguenot Bridge (the wide new bridge not half as charming as the smaller, old one), listening to a blues version of an old song on the radio.
I hate it when she goes
but I love to see her walk away
Despite my lack of county knowledge, the house was easy to find so I arrived right on time but it was immediately obvious he wasn't home yet. Some host. I stationed myself on the wide front porch in a rocking chair and propped my feet up.
There were tall, old trees all around the house so the view was limited but I could hear the sounds of traffic on nearby roads and once, the sound of kids laughing. I don't think county kids actually play outside, so maybe they were on their way to or from the car.
Eventually my host arrived, all apologies, and began carting boxes and coolers from his truck to the deck and kitchen. As a guest, my only job was moving from the front porch to the back deck and talking to him as he passed by. I then got the nickel tour of the yard, particularly impressed with his miniature orchard of six trees: persimmon, plum, three types of apples and a cherry tree on which five kinds of cherries had been grafted on to one root stock.
Shrugging, he said, "I don't know why they did that, but the picture of it looked pretty cool." And there's the reason why they did it.
We chatted on the deck for a bit as he watered various herbs and recent plantings, everything faltering in the glare of the recent heat. He looked pretty sweaty himself and excused himself to go shower while I got comfortable on the deck.
No question it was hot out there, but all of a sudden it was sauna-like and I felt myself break out in an immediate sweat. Just as quickly, the humidity fell and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Within three seconds, raindrops fell.
I moved so fast into the house I barely got wet, a miracle considering how it went from 0 to 60 in mere moments. The door I'd taken refuge in led to a sun porch with windows making up three entire walls. Color me thrilled because it was a fabulous place to watch the storm from although with no air flow, a tad stifling.
Absent the showering homeowner, I took charge of the situation by beginning to open the windows and sliding glass doors that made up three walls. Soon cooler air was wafting in as it continued to downpour outside.
I pulled a chair over to an especially breezy spot, admiring how different the backyard now looked, all the trunks stained dark with rain and the leaves a much darker green shade. The entire effect of the landscape was far more closed in than it had been before.
When he did join me, he wasn't any too pleased to see what the storm had wrought. Two event tents in his backyard had been blown over, their metal supports bent in the process ("That's gonna cost me"). Chairs were scattered upside down and small pots had blown over.
But with rain still coming down like crazy, all he could do was hurry out to the deck to fetch the enormous cooler of oysters left out there before the storm, returning from eight feet away with his shirt half soaked.
Even so, like a good host, he sliced lemons, made mignonette and poured French Sauvignon Blanc before he began the work of shucking (gloveless, I might add, which I consider foolish for a non-pro shucker) as promised.
There were two types of oysters, one from Connecticut and the other from Chincoteague, but all were wild, not farmed so much bigger than standard farm-raised oysters. Connecticut's were mildly briny while the Virginia were like a mouthful of ocean, so my favorite of the two.
He asked if I'd written a book yet and if I had a plan for what it would be about (no and yes). He's an inveterate traveler, so he had to know about any travels I'd done that he hadn't heard about. After sharing one of my better stories from Italy, his response was laughter. "That story has to go in the book!"
Rain continued to fall outside all the open windows as he brought out leftover crabs to accompany the oysters. Since I'd already downed over a dozen bivalves ("I just wanted to make sure you could hang"), I happily moved on to my favorite crustacean while he kept eating oysters.
That's when I got a front row seat to see what someone looks like when they eat a completely rotten oyster. I saw him slurp it, but then his eyes bugged out, his skin colored and the lock of revulsion on his face made him bolt from the table making a "gack" sound that seemed to indicate bad news.
Shortly back with a large bottle of Sauza Tequila, he took a long, hard pull on the bottle and settled back in with me to eat. I give him credit, he didn't let one rancid oyster stop him from shucking and eating. He could hang, too, it seemed. He assured me he'd be fine tonight because if the oyster was going to kill him, that would probably happen tomorrow.
When I asked if I was going to have to provide any answers to the authorities tomorrow, he seemed to think I would. I determined to pay more attention to what was going on.
After I turned the tables and asked about his travel plans, he told me about an upcoming trip to Costa Rica, one week in the jungle and one week on the coast. We agreed that the coast week would be the more relaxing one since the jungle adventure involves zip lines and ATVs. Just send me to the coast for the whole two weeks, thanks.
Once the rain stopped, it was clear there'd be no fire pit tonight, so we moved back out to the deck where the sound of rain had been replaced by the sound of trees dripping all around us, but not on us.
When I thanked him profusely for the invitation to eat oysters, he shrugged it off, saying that the oysters were leftovers from a party he'd just had (hence the event tents). So I'd been used to help him finish off his leftovers, his soon-to-be garbage, nothing more.
"Yes, but you were my first choice to help me finish up my garbage," he insisted, making it sound more sincere than he had to.
All I can say is, I must do a hell of an interview.
Obviously since I'm not a blue blood royal with loyal subjects, I'm talking about people I've interviewed. For the second time in three weeks, I was invited to dinner by someone who'd earned me money by answering my questions. I'm sensing a pattern here.
On the outside chance you have no special plans this evening, please come and help me eat some fresh oysters tonight. I shuck. I am a big shucker, but not much of a jiver. Dress in something you don't mind getting shucky in. No beer for you!
If you come at say 5:30, we can kayak on the river until the sun begins to set. If you're not much for kayaking, come at 7. I will likely be coming back in from the river then. Then oysters and fire pit!
It's been a few years since I've been kayaking, but I'd have been game to try it again except I had too much to do to make it anywhere by 5:30. The beer comment was his way of letting me know he remembered that I don't drink beer, so there'd be other sippers available for me.
All in all, it was a timely invitation since I had zero plans tonight (not that I wouldn't have found something to do) and no better offer than to eat oysters, even if it was south of the river.
Although I'm far from an attire expert, my guess was that clothing suited to getting shucky in was similar to clothing to pick crabs in (wash and wear, in other words) and I've got crab options.
My Saturday night was laid out for me.
Clouds gathering and directions in hand, I headed across the river on the Huguenot Bridge (the wide new bridge not half as charming as the smaller, old one), listening to a blues version of an old song on the radio.
I hate it when she goes
but I love to see her walk away
Despite my lack of county knowledge, the house was easy to find so I arrived right on time but it was immediately obvious he wasn't home yet. Some host. I stationed myself on the wide front porch in a rocking chair and propped my feet up.
There were tall, old trees all around the house so the view was limited but I could hear the sounds of traffic on nearby roads and once, the sound of kids laughing. I don't think county kids actually play outside, so maybe they were on their way to or from the car.
Eventually my host arrived, all apologies, and began carting boxes and coolers from his truck to the deck and kitchen. As a guest, my only job was moving from the front porch to the back deck and talking to him as he passed by. I then got the nickel tour of the yard, particularly impressed with his miniature orchard of six trees: persimmon, plum, three types of apples and a cherry tree on which five kinds of cherries had been grafted on to one root stock.
Shrugging, he said, "I don't know why they did that, but the picture of it looked pretty cool." And there's the reason why they did it.
We chatted on the deck for a bit as he watered various herbs and recent plantings, everything faltering in the glare of the recent heat. He looked pretty sweaty himself and excused himself to go shower while I got comfortable on the deck.
No question it was hot out there, but all of a sudden it was sauna-like and I felt myself break out in an immediate sweat. Just as quickly, the humidity fell and the temperature dropped 15 degrees. Within three seconds, raindrops fell.
I moved so fast into the house I barely got wet, a miracle considering how it went from 0 to 60 in mere moments. The door I'd taken refuge in led to a sun porch with windows making up three entire walls. Color me thrilled because it was a fabulous place to watch the storm from although with no air flow, a tad stifling.
Absent the showering homeowner, I took charge of the situation by beginning to open the windows and sliding glass doors that made up three walls. Soon cooler air was wafting in as it continued to downpour outside.
I pulled a chair over to an especially breezy spot, admiring how different the backyard now looked, all the trunks stained dark with rain and the leaves a much darker green shade. The entire effect of the landscape was far more closed in than it had been before.
When he did join me, he wasn't any too pleased to see what the storm had wrought. Two event tents in his backyard had been blown over, their metal supports bent in the process ("That's gonna cost me"). Chairs were scattered upside down and small pots had blown over.
But with rain still coming down like crazy, all he could do was hurry out to the deck to fetch the enormous cooler of oysters left out there before the storm, returning from eight feet away with his shirt half soaked.
Even so, like a good host, he sliced lemons, made mignonette and poured French Sauvignon Blanc before he began the work of shucking (gloveless, I might add, which I consider foolish for a non-pro shucker) as promised.
There were two types of oysters, one from Connecticut and the other from Chincoteague, but all were wild, not farmed so much bigger than standard farm-raised oysters. Connecticut's were mildly briny while the Virginia were like a mouthful of ocean, so my favorite of the two.
He asked if I'd written a book yet and if I had a plan for what it would be about (no and yes). He's an inveterate traveler, so he had to know about any travels I'd done that he hadn't heard about. After sharing one of my better stories from Italy, his response was laughter. "That story has to go in the book!"
Rain continued to fall outside all the open windows as he brought out leftover crabs to accompany the oysters. Since I'd already downed over a dozen bivalves ("I just wanted to make sure you could hang"), I happily moved on to my favorite crustacean while he kept eating oysters.
That's when I got a front row seat to see what someone looks like when they eat a completely rotten oyster. I saw him slurp it, but then his eyes bugged out, his skin colored and the lock of revulsion on his face made him bolt from the table making a "gack" sound that seemed to indicate bad news.
Shortly back with a large bottle of Sauza Tequila, he took a long, hard pull on the bottle and settled back in with me to eat. I give him credit, he didn't let one rancid oyster stop him from shucking and eating. He could hang, too, it seemed. He assured me he'd be fine tonight because if the oyster was going to kill him, that would probably happen tomorrow.
When I asked if I was going to have to provide any answers to the authorities tomorrow, he seemed to think I would. I determined to pay more attention to what was going on.
After I turned the tables and asked about his travel plans, he told me about an upcoming trip to Costa Rica, one week in the jungle and one week on the coast. We agreed that the coast week would be the more relaxing one since the jungle adventure involves zip lines and ATVs. Just send me to the coast for the whole two weeks, thanks.
Once the rain stopped, it was clear there'd be no fire pit tonight, so we moved back out to the deck where the sound of rain had been replaced by the sound of trees dripping all around us, but not on us.
When I thanked him profusely for the invitation to eat oysters, he shrugged it off, saying that the oysters were leftovers from a party he'd just had (hence the event tents). So I'd been used to help him finish off his leftovers, his soon-to-be garbage, nothing more.
"Yes, but you were my first choice to help me finish up my garbage," he insisted, making it sound more sincere than he had to.
All I can say is, I must do a hell of an interview.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Sex at the River
It was a perfect day to read on your porch.
I said as much to four different men I saw reading on their porches on my walk this morning.
But, despite the mid-70s temperatures and cloud cover, my day was not about porch reading but all about a road trip.
In an effort to catch up with a favorite couple, I'd suggested Merroir because they'd never been. Make no mistake, I'd raved about the place to them, but we'd never quite been able to align out schedules and make it happen.
Today, the planets lined up and we hit the road to eat oysters by the river.
(sound of record scratching)
Unexpectedly, 64 was full of vacation-bent cars headed to the Outer Banks. It was a major buzz kill.
Fortunately, the driver was willing to be creative with the map and we were soon cruising through the back roads of Providence Forge and Quinton.
When we eventually landed in Topping at Merroir, the first person I saw I knew. Really? An hour from Richmond and I see someone I know from the Camel? Apparently, yes.
We had our pick of seating options, opting for a picnic table facing the river, and causing the female portion of the couple to take a deep breath and exclaim, "It smells so good!"
It was true, the salty air off the river was carried on the breeze and delivered to our table right about the time the first bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose arrived.
Because if a Saturday sojourn to the river isn't cause for celebration (and thus, sparkling), what is?
With sailboats pulling in and out of the marina, we ordered our first dozen oysters, a mix of buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and briny Old Saltes.
If it had been up to me, and it wasn't, they would have been all Old Saltes.
Then suddenly, we had a man in a green golf shirt join our group, a man who turned out to have gone to high school with my friend and had already been at Merroir drinking beer for four hours.
On the plus side, he was a scintillating conversationalist (JFK, the media, feminism), curious ("What are your political leanings?") and an architect, albeit one with an odd laugh.
When he got up to leave, we ordered our second dozen oysters - this time all Old Saltes- and welcomed our server for the evening who turned out to be young Ford, whom I'd first met last July when he'd waited on me and my date during his early days as a server.
Tonight, he was assured, obviously having mastered the serving game in the year since I'd seen him. Or, judging by the overly generous way he pored my wine, at least able to fake it.
I think it was around the time we moved on to our third dozen (also Old Saltes) that I looked over and saw two good friends, another favorite couple, taking the table next to us.
Good god, was there no escaping people I knew despite being an hour from home? Clearly not.
I grinned at them, I met their gaze and smiled like a crazy person, but it took me getting up and walking over to their table for them to recognize me.
That's okay, I accept that I'm not the memorable type.
I leaned in for a picture with them, capturing our random meeting, but was slapped in the face with 21st century reality when my friend went to post the picture and Facebook not only recognized me but automatically tagged me.
Do I really want to think about face recognition technology that knows who I am before a friend tags me? Nope, I don't.
Meanwhile, we kept ordering "Sex" and more food, namely a crabcake, a lamb hotdog and the clam and lamb stew, a perennial favorite with me.
The music was classic rock, veering from Neil Young to the Beatles to CCR and back, tolerable only because my friends offered me a taste of their sassy scallop ceviche.
We watched speedboats speeding in a no-wake zone and ordered Carolina shrimp and a grilled Cesar with anchovies.
Much as I love Merroir on a sunny day, today's overcast skies were ideal for lingering with no fear of discomfort or skin burning.
As we delved into another bottle of "Sex," I looked up to see a familiar face, a restaurant owner who's now out of the business.
Was there no end to the number of Richmonders who'd followed us to Topping today? I'm not complaining because it was fun to run into so many people I know, but after a dozen visits to Merroir with no familiar sightings, it was a bit surprising.
But mostly it was wonderful spending a coolish, cloudy day on the river watching boats traverse the water and eating and drinking with friends.
I heard about their recent trip to D.C.'s Hotel Rouge (and Bistro Coin) and the National Gallery, as well as a side trip to Solomon's Island, Maryland, a place I've never been.
We admired the changing light and sky as afternoon gave way to evening. Eventually, we gave in to dessert after hearing another table ask for a doughnut.
What is this doughnut you speak of?
This was a s'mores doughnut, split with marshmallow cream inside, chocolate on top and graham cracker crumbs over that and we devoured it with the last of the "Sex." Ford nodded his approval as he cleared the table.
My final request was a trip to the dock which has changed so drastically since last summer when it had been "upgraded" to include railings on three sides so it was no longer possible to sit on the end and dangle my feet in the water, as I had since they'd opened.
But making the best of what it is, we stood at the end of the railing, savoring the river breeze in our hair and ruminating on what a stellar day at the river it had been.
We didn't want to leave, but we were full and it wasn't fair to take up a table any longer with people continuing to arrive.
Walking back past other diners, my friend jokingly asked people at tables if they knew him. "We're from Richmond..." one woman said, half expectantly. Stop the madness.
Driving back, we got almost to Richmond before my friend suggested a nightcap at Lucy's, conveniently mere blocks from my house. Why would I say no?
Dinner service was winding down and our savvy bartender was able to recreate a cocktail my friend had fallen in love with at the Hotel Rouge while her beloved and I happily sipped Espolon.
With vintage soul playing - Stevie, Gladys, Smokey - we sipped our drinks and talked trash with the staff until it was time to call it a day.
My friend told me to stop gloating about taking them to a place they enjoyed so much. His girlfriend did nothing but rave about what a fabulous day it had been.
Me, I'm just going to end my lovely day reading on my porch. Because it's that kind ofday night.
I said as much to four different men I saw reading on their porches on my walk this morning.
But, despite the mid-70s temperatures and cloud cover, my day was not about porch reading but all about a road trip.
In an effort to catch up with a favorite couple, I'd suggested Merroir because they'd never been. Make no mistake, I'd raved about the place to them, but we'd never quite been able to align out schedules and make it happen.
Today, the planets lined up and we hit the road to eat oysters by the river.
(sound of record scratching)
Unexpectedly, 64 was full of vacation-bent cars headed to the Outer Banks. It was a major buzz kill.
Fortunately, the driver was willing to be creative with the map and we were soon cruising through the back roads of Providence Forge and Quinton.
When we eventually landed in Topping at Merroir, the first person I saw I knew. Really? An hour from Richmond and I see someone I know from the Camel? Apparently, yes.
We had our pick of seating options, opting for a picnic table facing the river, and causing the female portion of the couple to take a deep breath and exclaim, "It smells so good!"
It was true, the salty air off the river was carried on the breeze and delivered to our table right about the time the first bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose arrived.
Because if a Saturday sojourn to the river isn't cause for celebration (and thus, sparkling), what is?
With sailboats pulling in and out of the marina, we ordered our first dozen oysters, a mix of buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and briny Old Saltes.
If it had been up to me, and it wasn't, they would have been all Old Saltes.
Then suddenly, we had a man in a green golf shirt join our group, a man who turned out to have gone to high school with my friend and had already been at Merroir drinking beer for four hours.
On the plus side, he was a scintillating conversationalist (JFK, the media, feminism), curious ("What are your political leanings?") and an architect, albeit one with an odd laugh.
When he got up to leave, we ordered our second dozen oysters - this time all Old Saltes- and welcomed our server for the evening who turned out to be young Ford, whom I'd first met last July when he'd waited on me and my date during his early days as a server.
Tonight, he was assured, obviously having mastered the serving game in the year since I'd seen him. Or, judging by the overly generous way he pored my wine, at least able to fake it.
I think it was around the time we moved on to our third dozen (also Old Saltes) that I looked over and saw two good friends, another favorite couple, taking the table next to us.
Good god, was there no escaping people I knew despite being an hour from home? Clearly not.
I grinned at them, I met their gaze and smiled like a crazy person, but it took me getting up and walking over to their table for them to recognize me.
That's okay, I accept that I'm not the memorable type.
I leaned in for a picture with them, capturing our random meeting, but was slapped in the face with 21st century reality when my friend went to post the picture and Facebook not only recognized me but automatically tagged me.
Do I really want to think about face recognition technology that knows who I am before a friend tags me? Nope, I don't.
Meanwhile, we kept ordering "Sex" and more food, namely a crabcake, a lamb hotdog and the clam and lamb stew, a perennial favorite with me.
The music was classic rock, veering from Neil Young to the Beatles to CCR and back, tolerable only because my friends offered me a taste of their sassy scallop ceviche.
We watched speedboats speeding in a no-wake zone and ordered Carolina shrimp and a grilled Cesar with anchovies.
Much as I love Merroir on a sunny day, today's overcast skies were ideal for lingering with no fear of discomfort or skin burning.
As we delved into another bottle of "Sex," I looked up to see a familiar face, a restaurant owner who's now out of the business.
Was there no end to the number of Richmonders who'd followed us to Topping today? I'm not complaining because it was fun to run into so many people I know, but after a dozen visits to Merroir with no familiar sightings, it was a bit surprising.
But mostly it was wonderful spending a coolish, cloudy day on the river watching boats traverse the water and eating and drinking with friends.
I heard about their recent trip to D.C.'s Hotel Rouge (and Bistro Coin) and the National Gallery, as well as a side trip to Solomon's Island, Maryland, a place I've never been.
We admired the changing light and sky as afternoon gave way to evening. Eventually, we gave in to dessert after hearing another table ask for a doughnut.
What is this doughnut you speak of?
This was a s'mores doughnut, split with marshmallow cream inside, chocolate on top and graham cracker crumbs over that and we devoured it with the last of the "Sex." Ford nodded his approval as he cleared the table.
My final request was a trip to the dock which has changed so drastically since last summer when it had been "upgraded" to include railings on three sides so it was no longer possible to sit on the end and dangle my feet in the water, as I had since they'd opened.
But making the best of what it is, we stood at the end of the railing, savoring the river breeze in our hair and ruminating on what a stellar day at the river it had been.
We didn't want to leave, but we were full and it wasn't fair to take up a table any longer with people continuing to arrive.
Walking back past other diners, my friend jokingly asked people at tables if they knew him. "We're from Richmond..." one woman said, half expectantly. Stop the madness.
Driving back, we got almost to Richmond before my friend suggested a nightcap at Lucy's, conveniently mere blocks from my house. Why would I say no?
Dinner service was winding down and our savvy bartender was able to recreate a cocktail my friend had fallen in love with at the Hotel Rouge while her beloved and I happily sipped Espolon.
With vintage soul playing - Stevie, Gladys, Smokey - we sipped our drinks and talked trash with the staff until it was time to call it a day.
My friend told me to stop gloating about taking them to a place they enjoyed so much. His girlfriend did nothing but rave about what a fabulous day it had been.
Me, I'm just going to end my lovely day reading on my porch. Because it's that kind of
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Stay Outdoors and Spoon
Technically, it was work. But it didn't feel much like work.
A drive to Westmoreland County on a pitch perfect summer day to do an interview yielded the expected (music blaring, scenic views, an interesting subject) but also the funny (Plunk Farm Road?) and surprising.
While I expected his house to be on the water - he is an oyster gardener after all - I couldn't have imagined the splendor of the view stretching seven miles across the Potomac all the way to the green shores of Maryland.
Nor would I have been so presumptuous as to anticipate being offered oysters once I finished interviewing him.
Saying he'd pulled them from the river a few hours before, he excused himself to shuck them while I was left to languish on the screened porch watching birds diving for fish and waves rippling the shore.
He served them with locally made hot sauce in a Mason jar, a simple accompaniment to oysters so creamy and buttery they really needed nothing at all.
I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate way more than he did.
After a leisurely drive back to the city, I took care of some e-mails before setting out for food.
I was hoping Supper was finally open, but alas, no, not that I wasn't perfectly happy at Lunch instead.
The place was jam packed with a large group celebrating a birthday - so singing and raucous laughter were involved - but fortunately there was a lone bar stool free and I nabbed it.
Next to me turned out to be an art educator visiting Richmond for a class and out of his element because his wife wasn't with him.
As it turned out, he lived on Grace Street from 1977 to 1980, having transferred from ODU to VCU and leaving with a degree in painting and printmaking.
"I didn't know then that you couldn't get a real job with that degree," he said chuckling, so he went back to become an art teacher. I think they warn the kids about that now.
Of course, he was thrilled with his food (although confused about the assemblage of chicken, pulled pork, bacon and cheddar, but that's just how Lunch rolls) as was I with my luncheonette salad with two fat, spicy crab cakes atop it.
A couple came in and sat down at the bar seconds after the stools were vacated and were soon drowning in far more food than they could ever eat. Rookie mistake, I told them.
I could have warned them ahead of time, I probably should have, but there's no shame in leftovers. In fact, if they knew me, they'd thank me tomorrow.
Replete with oysters and crab (and, sadly, not enough room for hummingbird cake), it was time for music, namely NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess (whom I'd been wowed by back in April) at Balliceaux.
Part Dixieland, part Tin Pan Alley and part bluegrass, their secret weapon is Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.
It was a small crowd, no doubt Monday related, but it meant I had no trouble getting a good table and gradually more people arrived to help fill up the room. Not many familiar faces except songbird Allison and one of the many DJs I know.
Like last time, there was Jessy, the leader, who played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three talented guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played trombone and trumpet.
I remembered their cover of "Shine On, Harvest Moon" sung in her lovely, languid voice from last time and it was every bit the knockout it had been then.
This is the kind of band that brings out a dancing crowd and before long, a couple were showing off their moves to a Mills Brothers' song and the crowd's delight...and Jessy's.
"Feel free to move around and talk," she'd instructed us. "We want you to fun. We want you to have fun!"
A couple of women got up and danced together, matching each other's intricate steps like a mirror image and a lot of attention swept from the band to their fluid moves because they were so good.
Having been out dancing three times in the last ten days, I kept to my seat, but partially because there's a lot to be said for just watching someone so talented belt and play washboard.
After all, we'd been told to fun. I was just following instructions for a change.
A drive to Westmoreland County on a pitch perfect summer day to do an interview yielded the expected (music blaring, scenic views, an interesting subject) but also the funny (Plunk Farm Road?) and surprising.
While I expected his house to be on the water - he is an oyster gardener after all - I couldn't have imagined the splendor of the view stretching seven miles across the Potomac all the way to the green shores of Maryland.
Nor would I have been so presumptuous as to anticipate being offered oysters once I finished interviewing him.
Saying he'd pulled them from the river a few hours before, he excused himself to shuck them while I was left to languish on the screened porch watching birds diving for fish and waves rippling the shore.
He served them with locally made hot sauce in a Mason jar, a simple accompaniment to oysters so creamy and buttery they really needed nothing at all.
I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate way more than he did.
After a leisurely drive back to the city, I took care of some e-mails before setting out for food.
I was hoping Supper was finally open, but alas, no, not that I wasn't perfectly happy at Lunch instead.
The place was jam packed with a large group celebrating a birthday - so singing and raucous laughter were involved - but fortunately there was a lone bar stool free and I nabbed it.
Next to me turned out to be an art educator visiting Richmond for a class and out of his element because his wife wasn't with him.
As it turned out, he lived on Grace Street from 1977 to 1980, having transferred from ODU to VCU and leaving with a degree in painting and printmaking.
"I didn't know then that you couldn't get a real job with that degree," he said chuckling, so he went back to become an art teacher. I think they warn the kids about that now.
Of course, he was thrilled with his food (although confused about the assemblage of chicken, pulled pork, bacon and cheddar, but that's just how Lunch rolls) as was I with my luncheonette salad with two fat, spicy crab cakes atop it.
A couple came in and sat down at the bar seconds after the stools were vacated and were soon drowning in far more food than they could ever eat. Rookie mistake, I told them.
I could have warned them ahead of time, I probably should have, but there's no shame in leftovers. In fact, if they knew me, they'd thank me tomorrow.
Replete with oysters and crab (and, sadly, not enough room for hummingbird cake), it was time for music, namely NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess (whom I'd been wowed by back in April) at Balliceaux.
Part Dixieland, part Tin Pan Alley and part bluegrass, their secret weapon is Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.
It was a small crowd, no doubt Monday related, but it meant I had no trouble getting a good table and gradually more people arrived to help fill up the room. Not many familiar faces except songbird Allison and one of the many DJs I know.
Like last time, there was Jessy, the leader, who played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three talented guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played trombone and trumpet.
I remembered their cover of "Shine On, Harvest Moon" sung in her lovely, languid voice from last time and it was every bit the knockout it had been then.
This is the kind of band that brings out a dancing crowd and before long, a couple were showing off their moves to a Mills Brothers' song and the crowd's delight...and Jessy's.
"Feel free to move around and talk," she'd instructed us. "We want you to fun. We want you to have fun!"
A couple of women got up and danced together, matching each other's intricate steps like a mirror image and a lot of attention swept from the band to their fluid moves because they were so good.
Having been out dancing three times in the last ten days, I kept to my seat, but partially because there's a lot to be said for just watching someone so talented belt and play washboard.
After all, we'd been told to fun. I was just following instructions for a change.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Random on the Half Shell
It may be a personal best.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
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