We're going to have to start calling me a very bad blogger.
Believe me, I started out with all good intentions at the beach last week. Then, as four guests were replaced by one bearing flowers, time became a precious commodity and blogging was replaced by endless oceanfront conversations.
When I got back Sunday, I barely had time to shop for and make Boursin-stuffed mushrooms (Pru's suggestion, natch) to take to a South African wine tasting patio party at Beckham and the Beauty's house.
The wines - souvenirs from their month-long honeymoon - were fabulous, starting with a magnum of Waterford Estate Sauvignon Blanc we agreed we could have sipped right through until sunrise. For something completely different, next came a viognier, Bloemcool Skilpadrug, particularly appealing because it was made at Fairview, a winery I'd also visited, as was Fairview Broken Barrel Red Blend boasting Petite Sirah, Tempranillo, Tannat and Shiraz and pretty much an ideal pairing with our host's obscene Derby pie.
It hasn't helped that my week away at the beach meant that I had double the deadlines to meet this week, not to mention housecleaning, grocery shopping and all the other business of life to re-establish life in the city. The satisfaction I achieved mopping the floors of a week's worth of pollen (via open windows) alone was worth the time spent on menial labor, though I probably should have been writing.
Monday meant a trip to the Byrd House, aka the Graduate rooftop bar, where the view of the Jefferson Hotel is nothing short of breathtaking and you can all but look down on the Manchester Bridge like an osprey might. My favorite planner and I followed that with dinner at Saison Market surrounded by the raucous and the comedic, not that we paid attention to any of them.
When Tuesday rolled around, it was girlfriend time, so Mac and I headed to Rapp Session for smoked bluefish dip, Old Saltes and a catch-up session. Not long into the conversation, she said that she'd been reading the blog, saying it was blatantly obvious how happy I sounded, even going so far as to point her finger down her throat for smiling emphasis.
This is especially funny because if you knew Mac, you'd know she's the kindest person in the world. So while she made clear she's terribly happy for me, she couldn't resist doing it with teasing.
The thing is, I knew I'd been sounding deliriously happy going into beach week, but I wasn't expecting others to notice. And now, after a much anticipated reunion, I'm not fit to blog about anything but how unbelievable it is that I find myself in this enviable position.
Truly, madly, deeply happy and with a forecast of lots more to come. Let's get real here, I'm far too effusive and annoying to blog right now and not bore people with how wonderful my life is.
While being introduced to Pru's dog-walker, she mentioned the euphoric state of my love life, causing the woman to unexpectedly congratulate me. I thanked her, but explained that it had been a challenging, convoluted path to wind up where I am now.
Her response was immediate. "Was it worth it?" was all she wanted to know.
Completely doesn't begin to cover it. I would have done whatever it took to get to this place at this time.
See how obnoxious I am? Truly sorry, it cannot be helped. As Lady G likes to say, I'm a lucky, lucky girl.
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Seasons in the Sun
No one wants to start the day hearing that someone you know has died.
Not someone young, not someone unfailingly kind to you, not someone with a good attitude and quick sense of humor. But especially not someone young.
Although I hadn't seen her in three weeks, her last email to me was about getting together. "My love, we shall hang," she'd written after offering some relationship advice. As recently as Thursday, I'd messaged a mutual friend about making a date for the three of us to do just that. Saturday, she was gone.
I know life's not fair, but that's a hell of a reminder of it.
The rest of Sunday - the filling of the Labor Day sandwich - stretched out in front of me without a single commitment beyond a phone call.
First up was a walk to Scott's Addition along Broad Street, where I was treated to doughnut samples on a stick from an affable employee of a new doughnut shop poised to open. When I couldn't decide between chocolate with caramel and chocolate with jimmies, he insisted I take both. Done.
I was nothing short of amazed once I got to Scott's Addition because the streets were abuzz with people despite it being noonish on a Sunday during a holiday weekend. Apparently if you were still in town, you were there.
In a related note, when I overheard a young couple whining about there being an hour and a half wait at Supper, I wanted to shake them and point out that any open place in Richmond with a patio was bound to be mobbed on a gloriously sunny day smack dab in the middle of a holiday weekend.
Walking past a 4-unit apartment building, a guy came out and calls, "Where have you been?" as if he knows me.
Turns out we'd met years ago when I used to walk Grace Street and he'd been rehabbing an apartment building over there. Now he's elbows deep in the rehab of two buildings across the street from Supper that are bound to be snapped up the moment they're listed. I admire the business acumen of the decision, but no thanks.
Seems I'm one of the few for whom Scott's Addition holds no allure.
But back to the man in front of me with a clear recollection of our conversations circa 2011, it never ceases to amaze me that people recall a random walking woman when she's completely out of context. And I thought I had a good memory.
Blue Bee Cider was already crowded when I walked in to score lunch from the Nate's Bagels pop-up. Nate was impressed when I told him I'd walked 2.2 miles for one of his bagels, but it didn't help me score an everything bagel because they'd already sold out half an hour into the pop-up, if that tells you the power of the everything.
All I can say is, come on 2018, which is when his shop is expected to open and hopefully the supply of everything bagels will be endless.
My afternoon was given over to talking to my best friend in San Antonio for 2 1/4 hours, an almost sufficient period to cover all the relevant topics after months without a phone call. Still, no matter how much time passes between calls, we pick up where we left off, as if we'd spoken yesterday.
I may not have met the love of my life and married him when I was a 20-something like my parents did and preach (I'd heard that talk again from Dad just the other day), but instead I met the best friend of my life when I was not even 20 and that's just as big a gift.
My evening's plans didn't even start until 9 when my presence was requested for an extended record listening party - including my introduction to session guitarist extraordinaire Chris Spedding - with the windows, doors and a bottle of Chateau d'Esclans Whispering Angel Rose open, all enjoyed with friends just returned from a weekend in Annapolis.
Driving home just after 1 a.m., I spotted a fair number of students still milling about on the sidewalks and arrived home to a raging party with a fire pit going at the house next door. It was certainly the perfect night for it.
Monday dawned just as gorgeous, a good thing since post-walk, my day revolved around an all day/night party celebrating the one year anniversary of Laura Lee's in the sylvan-like backyard of my walking companion.
He'd staged a collection of benches, gliders and chairs in a huge circle around a fire pit, while various tables and chairs had been set up under trees, along walkways and in every grassy corner. First-timers understandably got enthused about the treehouse, but personally, I think the yard's greatest strength is the recently-added outdoor shower.
When someone asked what had inspired him to build it, I don't want to brag but he admitted it that it had its roots in two trips to the beach this summer at cottages boasting the same. Hey, I can lead a man to my favorite outdoor shower, but what he does with that knowledge is up to him.
The party was a rambling affair with people I mostly knew arriving from 2 until 7 and lingering until nearly midnight.
There was the friend who'd brought her "pool carafe," neatly labeled "California Cabernet," and so called because it was plastic and allowed at the "criminal pool" she frequents. Only now do I know where said pool is located.
One of my favorite girl crushes arrived and proceeded to get back at me for all the times I've razzed her about when she first met her husband by teasing me about my date's solicitous behavior, although she was quick to shut up when he returned.
I used the superior fire-making skills my Dad installed in me and my five sisters by collecting tinder around the yard and stoking the fire as dusk settled in.
Then I got comfortable on the glider and chatted with the neighbor/reporter who'd just arrived. When I had to go inside to use the facilities, I asked him to save my seat and I returned to find that he'd put his hat on it to reserve it. Such a gentleman.
The UR prof showed up late and sat down next to me to ask for recommendations of where to breakfast around town, while I wanted to hear how his move was going.
Eventually, one of the guests asked to borrow a guitar from the extensive collection in the music room and sat down in a nearby chair to play. Almost at once, a young woman looking like she wandered out of Woodstock - cropped top, long skirt, flowing straight blond hair - took the chair beside him to provide harmonies.
They started with Jacques Briel's "Le Moribond," immediately recognized by my date as "Seasons in the Sun," a trite 1974 song with English lyrics by Rod McKuen. Needless to say, I liked it much better sung in French.
Also winningly covered was Nilsson's "Everybody's Talking at Me," and that's a song you could go your whole life without hearing live, so I gave major props to the duo for reaching way back.
His was a wide range of songs - the Beatles to Air to the Cranberries - and when someone suggested a Steely Dan song in honor of Walter Becker's death, he tried to oblige with lyrics but couldn't quite recall all the chords so my date called them out for him.
Now that's what you call community music-making.
The moon came out so big and bright that the tiki torches were superfluous (except for neo-Nazi jokes) and the twinkle lights mere ornamentation. Eventually, Ubers and Lyfts were called and people began to drift out into the night.
Driving home at 2 a.m. was like driving through a movie set with almost no one on the street. With Labor Day officially over (and the first day of school looming for many), Richmond was tucked in tight.
It's funny, before I'd left for the party, I'd spotted a 3" wide pile of sand on my kitchen rug. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had to be from the eclipse day beach trip two weeks ago. Shaking out the sand over the balcony felt like a metaphor.
It's symbolic, right? Labor Day means the technical end of summer fun and refocusing on real life. Balderdash. As long as the weather stays nice, I'll milk it for as long as I can.
Oh, my life is changing every day
In every possible way
And, oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
It's been a pretty swell 90 days, if I do say so myself. Summer is my season.
Not someone young, not someone unfailingly kind to you, not someone with a good attitude and quick sense of humor. But especially not someone young.
Although I hadn't seen her in three weeks, her last email to me was about getting together. "My love, we shall hang," she'd written after offering some relationship advice. As recently as Thursday, I'd messaged a mutual friend about making a date for the three of us to do just that. Saturday, she was gone.
I know life's not fair, but that's a hell of a reminder of it.
The rest of Sunday - the filling of the Labor Day sandwich - stretched out in front of me without a single commitment beyond a phone call.
First up was a walk to Scott's Addition along Broad Street, where I was treated to doughnut samples on a stick from an affable employee of a new doughnut shop poised to open. When I couldn't decide between chocolate with caramel and chocolate with jimmies, he insisted I take both. Done.
I was nothing short of amazed once I got to Scott's Addition because the streets were abuzz with people despite it being noonish on a Sunday during a holiday weekend. Apparently if you were still in town, you were there.
In a related note, when I overheard a young couple whining about there being an hour and a half wait at Supper, I wanted to shake them and point out that any open place in Richmond with a patio was bound to be mobbed on a gloriously sunny day smack dab in the middle of a holiday weekend.
Walking past a 4-unit apartment building, a guy came out and calls, "Where have you been?" as if he knows me.
Turns out we'd met years ago when I used to walk Grace Street and he'd been rehabbing an apartment building over there. Now he's elbows deep in the rehab of two buildings across the street from Supper that are bound to be snapped up the moment they're listed. I admire the business acumen of the decision, but no thanks.
Seems I'm one of the few for whom Scott's Addition holds no allure.
But back to the man in front of me with a clear recollection of our conversations circa 2011, it never ceases to amaze me that people recall a random walking woman when she's completely out of context. And I thought I had a good memory.
Blue Bee Cider was already crowded when I walked in to score lunch from the Nate's Bagels pop-up. Nate was impressed when I told him I'd walked 2.2 miles for one of his bagels, but it didn't help me score an everything bagel because they'd already sold out half an hour into the pop-up, if that tells you the power of the everything.
All I can say is, come on 2018, which is when his shop is expected to open and hopefully the supply of everything bagels will be endless.
My afternoon was given over to talking to my best friend in San Antonio for 2 1/4 hours, an almost sufficient period to cover all the relevant topics after months without a phone call. Still, no matter how much time passes between calls, we pick up where we left off, as if we'd spoken yesterday.
I may not have met the love of my life and married him when I was a 20-something like my parents did and preach (I'd heard that talk again from Dad just the other day), but instead I met the best friend of my life when I was not even 20 and that's just as big a gift.
My evening's plans didn't even start until 9 when my presence was requested for an extended record listening party - including my introduction to session guitarist extraordinaire Chris Spedding - with the windows, doors and a bottle of Chateau d'Esclans Whispering Angel Rose open, all enjoyed with friends just returned from a weekend in Annapolis.
Driving home just after 1 a.m., I spotted a fair number of students still milling about on the sidewalks and arrived home to a raging party with a fire pit going at the house next door. It was certainly the perfect night for it.
Monday dawned just as gorgeous, a good thing since post-walk, my day revolved around an all day/night party celebrating the one year anniversary of Laura Lee's in the sylvan-like backyard of my walking companion.
He'd staged a collection of benches, gliders and chairs in a huge circle around a fire pit, while various tables and chairs had been set up under trees, along walkways and in every grassy corner. First-timers understandably got enthused about the treehouse, but personally, I think the yard's greatest strength is the recently-added outdoor shower.
When someone asked what had inspired him to build it, I don't want to brag but he admitted it that it had its roots in two trips to the beach this summer at cottages boasting the same. Hey, I can lead a man to my favorite outdoor shower, but what he does with that knowledge is up to him.
The party was a rambling affair with people I mostly knew arriving from 2 until 7 and lingering until nearly midnight.
There was the friend who'd brought her "pool carafe," neatly labeled "California Cabernet," and so called because it was plastic and allowed at the "criminal pool" she frequents. Only now do I know where said pool is located.
One of my favorite girl crushes arrived and proceeded to get back at me for all the times I've razzed her about when she first met her husband by teasing me about my date's solicitous behavior, although she was quick to shut up when he returned.
I used the superior fire-making skills my Dad installed in me and my five sisters by collecting tinder around the yard and stoking the fire as dusk settled in.
Then I got comfortable on the glider and chatted with the neighbor/reporter who'd just arrived. When I had to go inside to use the facilities, I asked him to save my seat and I returned to find that he'd put his hat on it to reserve it. Such a gentleman.
The UR prof showed up late and sat down next to me to ask for recommendations of where to breakfast around town, while I wanted to hear how his move was going.
Eventually, one of the guests asked to borrow a guitar from the extensive collection in the music room and sat down in a nearby chair to play. Almost at once, a young woman looking like she wandered out of Woodstock - cropped top, long skirt, flowing straight blond hair - took the chair beside him to provide harmonies.
They started with Jacques Briel's "Le Moribond," immediately recognized by my date as "Seasons in the Sun," a trite 1974 song with English lyrics by Rod McKuen. Needless to say, I liked it much better sung in French.
Also winningly covered was Nilsson's "Everybody's Talking at Me," and that's a song you could go your whole life without hearing live, so I gave major props to the duo for reaching way back.
His was a wide range of songs - the Beatles to Air to the Cranberries - and when someone suggested a Steely Dan song in honor of Walter Becker's death, he tried to oblige with lyrics but couldn't quite recall all the chords so my date called them out for him.
Now that's what you call community music-making.
The moon came out so big and bright that the tiki torches were superfluous (except for neo-Nazi jokes) and the twinkle lights mere ornamentation. Eventually, Ubers and Lyfts were called and people began to drift out into the night.
Driving home at 2 a.m. was like driving through a movie set with almost no one on the street. With Labor Day officially over (and the first day of school looming for many), Richmond was tucked in tight.
It's funny, before I'd left for the party, I'd spotted a 3" wide pile of sand on my kitchen rug. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had to be from the eclipse day beach trip two weeks ago. Shaking out the sand over the balcony felt like a metaphor.
It's symbolic, right? Labor Day means the technical end of summer fun and refocusing on real life. Balderdash. As long as the weather stays nice, I'll milk it for as long as I can.
Oh, my life is changing every day
In every possible way
And, oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
It's been a pretty swell 90 days, if I do say so myself. Summer is my season.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Party with Stargazers in Vase
Please be our guest for cocktails and a summer supper
6 p.m.
Heavens knows, it wasn't my intention to be that guest.
I mean, sure, I showed up at 6 on the dot because that's when the invitation said, but I honestly didn't think I'd be the very first one at the party. The panicked-looking host flew around doing last minute prep while I launched a theater conversation with the man of the house.
Thank goodness we can always fall back on shrill singing voices, false marketing and playing to stereotypes rather than simply being generically catty.
We were just dissecting "The View Upstairs" which we'd both seen this weekend when we were joined by a madras jacket-wearing theater lover who'd just this minute come from seeing it. As with the other conversations I'd had about the play, it boiled down to age whether you took offense to how '70s gay men and millennials were portrayed.
Both seemed awfully recognizable to me, but then I'm a cis-gendered Baby Boomer woman, so what do I know?
A nice surprise was the wine rep I used to spend time with, whom I hadn't run into in eons. Since I see her so infrequently these days, I had no shame in corralling her for some vigorous catch-up sessions. She wanted to hear if I was seeing anybody and I was curious about all the obscure river beaches she frequents.
Both of us got good information.
I met a well-dressed man who lived in the house he'd grown up in on northside and still loved the neighborhood. Obligingly, I gave him an earful of reasons when he inquired if he should eat at L'Opossum for the first time.
It was hardly surprising that the topic of the evening was tomorrow's eclipse and one guy shared that his entire company had ordered eclipse glasses and were planning to spend the afternoon on the building's roof, the better to experience it.
When I asked if the boss had authorized the purchase, he scoffed. "He doesn't even know there's an eclipse!" That seems impossible, but okay. Hell, the Washington Post had an entire section in today's paper about the history, science and hacks of eclipses.
One of the guys serving looked familiar (also eerily like Matt LeBlanc) and when I asked why, he named off 7 or 8 restaurants where he'd worked, all of which I'd been to. "You're Karen, right?" he asked, although I wouldn't have guessed we'd been on a first name basis.
You never know who you've forgotten.
Our host had obviously been cooking for days, resulting in platters, chafing dishes and trays of food laid out in four locations to encourage circulation and overeating.
I popped a pimento cheese crostini, downed enough shrimp to qualify for a shrimp cocktail and made small talk with a woman who was taking a bullet for a friend who eschewed pork by eating a bacon-wrapped NY strip. The supper itself featured a pasta dish, a mixed vegetable medley and a grilled teriyaki salmon, all more than ably executed and fabulous tasting.
People broke into small groups while we ate supper and my female trio set up shop in the front window to discourse on our ties to the hosts, why we allowed ourselves to fall for the perm craze in the '80s and the joys of city living.
One woman shared that she and her husband had moved to First and Grace Streets in the late '80s, a time when few people were choosing to live in the area. Now that she and her husband are empty nesters, they're thinking of moving back downtown, so why wouldn't I sing the praises of my centrally-located neighborhood?
Sweet tooth types were rewarded with a dessert buffet of pineapple upside down cake, trifle and chocolate pate with fresh strawberries. When my friend asked what was in the chocolate pate after I ate mine, I said all I could taste was chocolate and butter. When the host stopped by our group, she asked him about it and he confirmed it was nothing more than chocolate and butter with crushed hazelnuts on top.
Other than a sprinkle of sea salt, it couldn't have been any more decadent.
When the wine rep was asked her favorite wine, she responded with "bubbles," specifically Cremant de Bourgogne and no one was going to argue with that. What was truly wonderful was that one of the servers showed up not two minutes later with a glass of it for her and, once he saw the interest in my eyes, one for me as well.
We toasted the eclipse and the times in a woman's life when she trades her responsibilities for more personal indulgences because she's earned it.
And, no, we're not just talking chocolate and butter here.
6 p.m.
Heavens knows, it wasn't my intention to be that guest.
I mean, sure, I showed up at 6 on the dot because that's when the invitation said, but I honestly didn't think I'd be the very first one at the party. The panicked-looking host flew around doing last minute prep while I launched a theater conversation with the man of the house.
Thank goodness we can always fall back on shrill singing voices, false marketing and playing to stereotypes rather than simply being generically catty.
We were just dissecting "The View Upstairs" which we'd both seen this weekend when we were joined by a madras jacket-wearing theater lover who'd just this minute come from seeing it. As with the other conversations I'd had about the play, it boiled down to age whether you took offense to how '70s gay men and millennials were portrayed.
Both seemed awfully recognizable to me, but then I'm a cis-gendered Baby Boomer woman, so what do I know?
A nice surprise was the wine rep I used to spend time with, whom I hadn't run into in eons. Since I see her so infrequently these days, I had no shame in corralling her for some vigorous catch-up sessions. She wanted to hear if I was seeing anybody and I was curious about all the obscure river beaches she frequents.
Both of us got good information.
I met a well-dressed man who lived in the house he'd grown up in on northside and still loved the neighborhood. Obligingly, I gave him an earful of reasons when he inquired if he should eat at L'Opossum for the first time.
It was hardly surprising that the topic of the evening was tomorrow's eclipse and one guy shared that his entire company had ordered eclipse glasses and were planning to spend the afternoon on the building's roof, the better to experience it.
When I asked if the boss had authorized the purchase, he scoffed. "He doesn't even know there's an eclipse!" That seems impossible, but okay. Hell, the Washington Post had an entire section in today's paper about the history, science and hacks of eclipses.
One of the guys serving looked familiar (also eerily like Matt LeBlanc) and when I asked why, he named off 7 or 8 restaurants where he'd worked, all of which I'd been to. "You're Karen, right?" he asked, although I wouldn't have guessed we'd been on a first name basis.
You never know who you've forgotten.
Our host had obviously been cooking for days, resulting in platters, chafing dishes and trays of food laid out in four locations to encourage circulation and overeating.
I popped a pimento cheese crostini, downed enough shrimp to qualify for a shrimp cocktail and made small talk with a woman who was taking a bullet for a friend who eschewed pork by eating a bacon-wrapped NY strip. The supper itself featured a pasta dish, a mixed vegetable medley and a grilled teriyaki salmon, all more than ably executed and fabulous tasting.
People broke into small groups while we ate supper and my female trio set up shop in the front window to discourse on our ties to the hosts, why we allowed ourselves to fall for the perm craze in the '80s and the joys of city living.
One woman shared that she and her husband had moved to First and Grace Streets in the late '80s, a time when few people were choosing to live in the area. Now that she and her husband are empty nesters, they're thinking of moving back downtown, so why wouldn't I sing the praises of my centrally-located neighborhood?
Sweet tooth types were rewarded with a dessert buffet of pineapple upside down cake, trifle and chocolate pate with fresh strawberries. When my friend asked what was in the chocolate pate after I ate mine, I said all I could taste was chocolate and butter. When the host stopped by our group, she asked him about it and he confirmed it was nothing more than chocolate and butter with crushed hazelnuts on top.
Other than a sprinkle of sea salt, it couldn't have been any more decadent.
When the wine rep was asked her favorite wine, she responded with "bubbles," specifically Cremant de Bourgogne and no one was going to argue with that. What was truly wonderful was that one of the servers showed up not two minutes later with a glass of it for her and, once he saw the interest in my eyes, one for me as well.
We toasted the eclipse and the times in a woman's life when she trades her responsibilities for more personal indulgences because she's earned it.
And, no, we're not just talking chocolate and butter here.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Ain't That Peculiar
Talk about your rabbit holes.
As anyone who knows me can attest, I love asking people what their first concert was. It's often a fascinating glimpse into a side of someone you'd never get otherwise and inevitably, it leads to far-reaching music conversation.
Like when I asked a woman and she responded, "Billy Joel, on "The Stranger" tour," and then began a conversation with herself, eventually concluding that it had actually been the "Glass Houses" tour. But for me, it was that she'd seen him at the Capital Centre in Maryland, where I saw scores of shows myself, including my first.
"Do you remember WPGC?" she asked me excitedly after finding out we had shared venues. To quote the name of a Facebook group I belong to, "Bitch, please, I grew up in Prince George's County." Yes, that's an actual group.
From there she reminisced about how every week the radio station would release a pamphlet with a band's photo on the front and inside, the Top 10 for the week. She'd recently come across a stack of them she'd tucked away back in the day, for what purpose she couldn't conceive.
"Can you imagine that we used to care that much what was gonna be number one?" she asked rhetorically. There was apparently so little to occupy the teenage mind in those days without the internet or porn.
Mentioning that she still remembered buying Billy Joel's "The Stranger" at Variety Records, we then took off in that direction. We'd both frequented Kemp Mill Records, but most of my album purchases back then had been made at the University of Maryland record co-op, a groovy student-run means of paying $3 for the latest Grin album or the all-girl Fanny's first album.
I've only met one other person who's ever even heard of them, although David Bowie famously said that Fanny was as important as anybody else, it just wasn't their time. "One of the most important female bands in American rock has been buried without a trace. Revivify Fanny and I will feel that my work is done," the Thin White Duke said, echoing my opinion.
When I said that while my first show (the Who) had been at the Cap Centre, my second a few weeks later had been at Merriweather Post Pavilion to see Carol King, her response was that she'd seen Joni Mitchell there sitting on the grass. We recalled how cheap it had been to get lawn seats at Merriweather back then and what a polar opposite experience it was from the 19,000-seat Cap Centre.
A millennial I asked said her first had been the Backstreet Boys at the LA Coliseum, but she couldn't resist pointing out that every other boy band that followed was inferior, a point that several others nearby disputed. Another's initiation into live music had been seeing Green Day on the "American Idiot" tour, which he half-apologized for, saying he knew it was lame even then (2005).
But it was when a young woman said her first show - at 23! - had been Lynyrd Skynrd opening for Kid Rock that we came full circle. A young and drunken Skynyrd had also opened that first show of mine by the Who and it seemed pretty obvious from the crowd's reaction that almost no one had any idea of who they were, much less cared.
It didn't stop the guys in the band from shaking up cans of beer and aiming them at the crowd or pulling on bottles of Jack Daniels between songs, but even then I sensed how difficult it must be to be in front of 19,000 people with zero interest in your music.
Of course, the Lynyrd Skynyrd she saw was minus the three members who died in '77, so barely the same band although they probably got a lot more appreciation from the audience than the one I was a part of. But aside from that, what 23-year old wants to go see Kid Rock?
Fanny is forgotten and Kid Rock still attracts our youth? Let the revivifying commence.
As anyone who knows me can attest, I love asking people what their first concert was. It's often a fascinating glimpse into a side of someone you'd never get otherwise and inevitably, it leads to far-reaching music conversation.
Like when I asked a woman and she responded, "Billy Joel, on "The Stranger" tour," and then began a conversation with herself, eventually concluding that it had actually been the "Glass Houses" tour. But for me, it was that she'd seen him at the Capital Centre in Maryland, where I saw scores of shows myself, including my first.
"Do you remember WPGC?" she asked me excitedly after finding out we had shared venues. To quote the name of a Facebook group I belong to, "Bitch, please, I grew up in Prince George's County." Yes, that's an actual group.
From there she reminisced about how every week the radio station would release a pamphlet with a band's photo on the front and inside, the Top 10 for the week. She'd recently come across a stack of them she'd tucked away back in the day, for what purpose she couldn't conceive.
"Can you imagine that we used to care that much what was gonna be number one?" she asked rhetorically. There was apparently so little to occupy the teenage mind in those days without the internet or porn.
Mentioning that she still remembered buying Billy Joel's "The Stranger" at Variety Records, we then took off in that direction. We'd both frequented Kemp Mill Records, but most of my album purchases back then had been made at the University of Maryland record co-op, a groovy student-run means of paying $3 for the latest Grin album or the all-girl Fanny's first album.
I've only met one other person who's ever even heard of them, although David Bowie famously said that Fanny was as important as anybody else, it just wasn't their time. "One of the most important female bands in American rock has been buried without a trace. Revivify Fanny and I will feel that my work is done," the Thin White Duke said, echoing my opinion.
When I said that while my first show (the Who) had been at the Cap Centre, my second a few weeks later had been at Merriweather Post Pavilion to see Carol King, her response was that she'd seen Joni Mitchell there sitting on the grass. We recalled how cheap it had been to get lawn seats at Merriweather back then and what a polar opposite experience it was from the 19,000-seat Cap Centre.
A millennial I asked said her first had been the Backstreet Boys at the LA Coliseum, but she couldn't resist pointing out that every other boy band that followed was inferior, a point that several others nearby disputed. Another's initiation into live music had been seeing Green Day on the "American Idiot" tour, which he half-apologized for, saying he knew it was lame even then (2005).
But it was when a young woman said her first show - at 23! - had been Lynyrd Skynrd opening for Kid Rock that we came full circle. A young and drunken Skynyrd had also opened that first show of mine by the Who and it seemed pretty obvious from the crowd's reaction that almost no one had any idea of who they were, much less cared.
It didn't stop the guys in the band from shaking up cans of beer and aiming them at the crowd or pulling on bottles of Jack Daniels between songs, but even then I sensed how difficult it must be to be in front of 19,000 people with zero interest in your music.
Of course, the Lynyrd Skynyrd she saw was minus the three members who died in '77, so barely the same band although they probably got a lot more appreciation from the audience than the one I was a part of. But aside from that, what 23-year old wants to go see Kid Rock?
Fanny is forgotten and Kid Rock still attracts our youth? Let the revivifying commence.
Monday, February 27, 2017
The Dinner Game
Take a Frenchman and a Francophile, shake well and they'll throw a superb party on a Sunday evening.
Pru was hostessing at her manse and Amour Wine Bistro's owner Paul was in charge of food, film and wine, meaning as guests, we were walking into a full-on hospitality onslaught complete with vases of flowers everywhere and moody lighting.
French music was playing through speakers, guests were clustered in the kitchen (as always) and living room (where I landed) and everyone was given a glass of wine practically as as soon as their coat was whisked away by the sockless man with floral cuffs on his shirt.
One of the men, who looked decently dressed but not particularly stylish, said that he'd gone into Ellwood Thompson "in his French party costume," as his wife characterized his togs, and a clerk was immediately suspicious because all he'd seen him in for years was jeans and a t-shirt.
I don't think there was a woman there without a scarf tied jauntily or languidly around her neck. My fuchsia one tied in the back under my hair and draped down my back, making me look like I was ready to hop on the back of someone's Vespa at the snap of a Frenchman's fingers.
Except that it was 39 degrees in Church Hill (but snap away in a warm clime and I'm all yours).
Meanwhile in the warm house, I joined in conversations, re-meeting some people I'd only meet once or twice before and being introduced to newcomers. Turns out one young woman was there without her date because he'd unexpectedly called and broken up with her this afternoon.
Which, as someone pointed out, is a far better way to be dumped than via text.
And while her thoughts may have been elsewhere, here she was part of the party vibe with the rest of us, mixing and mingling like a trooper and looking adorably French while doing it.
The expansive dining room table was groaning under all the food: cheese and charcuterie, onion tarts with bacon, a quinoa dish with haricots vert, carrots, mushrooms and onions that I could eat for days and multiple kinds of quiche including a killer one with Jarlsberg and ham. Baguettes, sliced and whole, were everywhere.
No exaggeration, I ate three plates of food.
With one group, we talked about being lucky enough to have a job you love, a category I put myself in. A woman was saying that she was sure her man would hate his new job - the commute, his dislike of office settings - except he loved it for the cooperative office dynamics and relaxed inter-office vibe.
"It was that really nice, sunny Friday and my boss just told everyone to go home and enjoy the day," he crowed with pleasure.
Luckily, my boss is me.
We talked about how vain some men can be in middle age about wearing glasses and how some women have enough pairs of glasses to qualify as accessories, like scarves or jewelry.
As is inevitable at Richmond parties, restaurants were brought up and someone asked me why everyone holds Edo's Squid and Mama Zu in such high regard. I gave her the back story, but allayed her fears about not being a fan of either. I'm the same kind of outlier.
Paul had shown up wearing a beret with a wig on underneath and after the second bottle of bubbly, a bald guest tried it on for size and then obligingly whipped his head around repeatedly to pose for come-hither pictures.
Dessert was a dark chocolate sea salt pate-like tart drizzled with caramel, followed by a final course of Paul's homemade blackberry sorbet - so dark it was almost black - on top of melon/Pastis, so beautiful a marriage of flavors that several non-cantaloupe lovers admitted to being enraptured by it.
For me, it was not only the fruit-forward flavors but the mouth-coating creamy texture that belied its lack of dairy that won me over.
By the time everyone had licked their dishes clean, you could have stuck a fork in any of us because we were all in a food coma, making it the ideal time to start the raison d'etre for tonight's soiree: a 1998 French comedy called "Le Diner de Cons," aka the dinner game.
Yes, 1998, so portable phones that still had antennas sticking out of them and pre-flat screen monitors that took up half a desk.
The premise was simple: a group of condescending businessmen held a dinner every Wednesday and each brought along the biggest idiot they could find to be ridiculed. Whoever brought the most obnoxious loser won.
A Parisian publisher invites his idiot contender - a tax employee whose wife left him for another tax employee so he recreates architectural wonders in matchsticks to assuage his grief - to his house for a drink pre-dinner, but before he arrives, the publisher throws his back out, rendering him practically immobile.
And then his wife leaves him, in no small part because he participates in such a demeaning event.
Clearly, he's having a terrible, no good, awful day and now he's stuck with an idiot at his house trying to help him sort through his personal problems while he writhes in pain.
Spoiler alert: idiots do idiotic things that only make bad situations worse. Like mistakenly calling the former friend from whom the publisher originally stole his wife or mistaking the wife for the mistress and sending her away or repeating insults about the nymphomaniac mistress to her face.
All done, of course, with the usual French aplomb, unabashed wine drinking and droll put-downs, so not all that far off from the witty tete-a-tetes going on between tonight's party guests, even the brokenhearted one.
That ex of hers missed a helluva good time.
Pru was hostessing at her manse and Amour Wine Bistro's owner Paul was in charge of food, film and wine, meaning as guests, we were walking into a full-on hospitality onslaught complete with vases of flowers everywhere and moody lighting.
French music was playing through speakers, guests were clustered in the kitchen (as always) and living room (where I landed) and everyone was given a glass of wine practically as as soon as their coat was whisked away by the sockless man with floral cuffs on his shirt.
One of the men, who looked decently dressed but not particularly stylish, said that he'd gone into Ellwood Thompson "in his French party costume," as his wife characterized his togs, and a clerk was immediately suspicious because all he'd seen him in for years was jeans and a t-shirt.
I don't think there was a woman there without a scarf tied jauntily or languidly around her neck. My fuchsia one tied in the back under my hair and draped down my back, making me look like I was ready to hop on the back of someone's Vespa at the snap of a Frenchman's fingers.
Except that it was 39 degrees in Church Hill (but snap away in a warm clime and I'm all yours).
Meanwhile in the warm house, I joined in conversations, re-meeting some people I'd only meet once or twice before and being introduced to newcomers. Turns out one young woman was there without her date because he'd unexpectedly called and broken up with her this afternoon.
Which, as someone pointed out, is a far better way to be dumped than via text.
And while her thoughts may have been elsewhere, here she was part of the party vibe with the rest of us, mixing and mingling like a trooper and looking adorably French while doing it.
The expansive dining room table was groaning under all the food: cheese and charcuterie, onion tarts with bacon, a quinoa dish with haricots vert, carrots, mushrooms and onions that I could eat for days and multiple kinds of quiche including a killer one with Jarlsberg and ham. Baguettes, sliced and whole, were everywhere.
No exaggeration, I ate three plates of food.
With one group, we talked about being lucky enough to have a job you love, a category I put myself in. A woman was saying that she was sure her man would hate his new job - the commute, his dislike of office settings - except he loved it for the cooperative office dynamics and relaxed inter-office vibe.
"It was that really nice, sunny Friday and my boss just told everyone to go home and enjoy the day," he crowed with pleasure.
Luckily, my boss is me.
We talked about how vain some men can be in middle age about wearing glasses and how some women have enough pairs of glasses to qualify as accessories, like scarves or jewelry.
As is inevitable at Richmond parties, restaurants were brought up and someone asked me why everyone holds Edo's Squid and Mama Zu in such high regard. I gave her the back story, but allayed her fears about not being a fan of either. I'm the same kind of outlier.
Paul had shown up wearing a beret with a wig on underneath and after the second bottle of bubbly, a bald guest tried it on for size and then obligingly whipped his head around repeatedly to pose for come-hither pictures.
Dessert was a dark chocolate sea salt pate-like tart drizzled with caramel, followed by a final course of Paul's homemade blackberry sorbet - so dark it was almost black - on top of melon/Pastis, so beautiful a marriage of flavors that several non-cantaloupe lovers admitted to being enraptured by it.
For me, it was not only the fruit-forward flavors but the mouth-coating creamy texture that belied its lack of dairy that won me over.
By the time everyone had licked their dishes clean, you could have stuck a fork in any of us because we were all in a food coma, making it the ideal time to start the raison d'etre for tonight's soiree: a 1998 French comedy called "Le Diner de Cons," aka the dinner game.
Yes, 1998, so portable phones that still had antennas sticking out of them and pre-flat screen monitors that took up half a desk.
The premise was simple: a group of condescending businessmen held a dinner every Wednesday and each brought along the biggest idiot they could find to be ridiculed. Whoever brought the most obnoxious loser won.
A Parisian publisher invites his idiot contender - a tax employee whose wife left him for another tax employee so he recreates architectural wonders in matchsticks to assuage his grief - to his house for a drink pre-dinner, but before he arrives, the publisher throws his back out, rendering him practically immobile.
And then his wife leaves him, in no small part because he participates in such a demeaning event.
Clearly, he's having a terrible, no good, awful day and now he's stuck with an idiot at his house trying to help him sort through his personal problems while he writhes in pain.
Spoiler alert: idiots do idiotic things that only make bad situations worse. Like mistakenly calling the former friend from whom the publisher originally stole his wife or mistaking the wife for the mistress and sending her away or repeating insults about the nymphomaniac mistress to her face.
All done, of course, with the usual French aplomb, unabashed wine drinking and droll put-downs, so not all that far off from the witty tete-a-tetes going on between tonight's party guests, even the brokenhearted one.
That ex of hers missed a helluva good time.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Who? This Guy, That's Who
Hope you're in the middle of a grand weekend!
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Sunday, May 11, 2014
When the World is Good
I've officially been away more this week than I've been here.
All the windows stay open while I'm gone and I water the inside plants while I'm here, but I'm feeling a bit like a house-sitter lately.
Yesterday's train ride to Annapolis wound up being 4 1/2 hours instead of 3, partially because the train was sold out at every stop (the conductor attributed that to it being Mother's Day weekend), meaning longer than usual times to load and unload at every stop.
But we also got stopped on a bridge over a choppy, brown river (being navigationally challenged as I am, I have no idea what body of water it was) because of a fallen tree on the tracks.
So we sat there for 45 minutes, waiting for a southbound train to pass us so that we could use that track since ours was, shall we say, incapacitated. And while I have no bridge issues, per se, it did occur to me that if that that other train ended up on our track by mistake, I was going to die a watery death.
But it didn't so I enjoyed the silence of the "quiet car" (seriously, I wouldn't sit anywhere else, including the business car with its higher price tag) to finish up my book, Oscar Hijuelos' 2002 "A Simple Habana Melody (from when the world was good)."
Granted, I hadn't read his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" since it came out in 1989, but this one struck me as undeniably more tragic with its detour into the tragedy of a man incorrectly sent to a concentration camp.
With still more time on my hands, I started another book, but soon realized that I'd better not go too far into it since I'd need it for the trip back.
Talk about a shame; no one should have to ration their reading.
But eventually I made it to my friend's house for a 24-hour visit that included a visit to the riverside crab shack Cantlers and a dozen extra large crabs enjoyed next to a couple on a date, a medic and a soldier, both of whom had recently served in Afghanistan and Iraq.
When they ordered the steamed sampler of clams, mussels and shrimp to start, they had no idea how to peel and eat shrimp, so the affable bartender gave them a shelling and de-veining lesson.
Needless to say, they didn't go anywhere near picking crabs like we were, a wise move given how arduous a task it can be if you don't know what you're doing.
My return train was far more timely with no unexpected arbor issues, and still leaving me a solid 3 hours to be absorbed in Jonathan Harr's "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece," an improbable NYT bestseller I'd picked up at the library giveaway last year.
While it didn't have the earthy, poetic fluidity of Hijuelos, who was influenced by another favorite of mine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the art detective story was enthralling for how fate and tenacity both had a hand in leading several art historians to an important and presumably lost work.
By the time the train pulled in to the station, I had only 60 pages left and I was dying to know how it ended but finding out wasn't an option at that point.
A favorite girlfriend and her cute husband were having a party tonight to celebrate her getting her master's, so I needed to hurry home, shower and get to the soiree.
Only problem was that I'd never been to their house, it's in a neighborhood I don't know and one that turned out to be black as pitch with no streetlights.
I was pretty sure I'd found the right house when I eased open the front door and heard someone ask, "Did you just say you were going to be picking at your skin?"
The party was in full swing and the graduate grabbed me and said she'd feared I was dead when I'd missed Live at Ipanema last Sunday, but I'd assured her that I'd just been otherwise occupied.
Since it was my first visit, she gave me a tour of the house which was full of her husband's photographs, one of hers at a doughnut shop in Pennsylvania with a sign saying, "We specialize in holes" and a bunch of found photos, acquired at thrift stores, online and at Etsy shops.
One particularly intriguing one was a sepia-toned view of the Richmond waterfront near Tredegar with holes drilled along the edges as if it had once hung on a museum wall.
Both she and her husband are avid record collectors and while I glanced through their vinyl, that's an afternoon's activity all by itself. And I'm not even talking about the seven inch discs and cassette tapes or CDs.
Even the framed posters were worth checking out - a Dali exhibit, a Hitchcock retrospective, the first 300 albums released on SubPop.
And don't get me started on the camera collection, the giant record player or the photograph of every kind of microphone imaginable.
Their house was a delight and as a party guest, I had full rein to wander around and check out its details, all under the guise of mingling.
So, sure, I engaged with a group discussing restaurants and chatted with some new-to-me people about what they did.
At least right up until the point where it was time for me to go home to my own charming abode, at least for a few hours before heading out again first thing in the morning.
On the road again.
All the windows stay open while I'm gone and I water the inside plants while I'm here, but I'm feeling a bit like a house-sitter lately.
Yesterday's train ride to Annapolis wound up being 4 1/2 hours instead of 3, partially because the train was sold out at every stop (the conductor attributed that to it being Mother's Day weekend), meaning longer than usual times to load and unload at every stop.
But we also got stopped on a bridge over a choppy, brown river (being navigationally challenged as I am, I have no idea what body of water it was) because of a fallen tree on the tracks.
So we sat there for 45 minutes, waiting for a southbound train to pass us so that we could use that track since ours was, shall we say, incapacitated. And while I have no bridge issues, per se, it did occur to me that if that that other train ended up on our track by mistake, I was going to die a watery death.
But it didn't so I enjoyed the silence of the "quiet car" (seriously, I wouldn't sit anywhere else, including the business car with its higher price tag) to finish up my book, Oscar Hijuelos' 2002 "A Simple Habana Melody (from when the world was good)."
Granted, I hadn't read his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" since it came out in 1989, but this one struck me as undeniably more tragic with its detour into the tragedy of a man incorrectly sent to a concentration camp.
With still more time on my hands, I started another book, but soon realized that I'd better not go too far into it since I'd need it for the trip back.
Talk about a shame; no one should have to ration their reading.
But eventually I made it to my friend's house for a 24-hour visit that included a visit to the riverside crab shack Cantlers and a dozen extra large crabs enjoyed next to a couple on a date, a medic and a soldier, both of whom had recently served in Afghanistan and Iraq.
When they ordered the steamed sampler of clams, mussels and shrimp to start, they had no idea how to peel and eat shrimp, so the affable bartender gave them a shelling and de-veining lesson.
Needless to say, they didn't go anywhere near picking crabs like we were, a wise move given how arduous a task it can be if you don't know what you're doing.
My return train was far more timely with no unexpected arbor issues, and still leaving me a solid 3 hours to be absorbed in Jonathan Harr's "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece," an improbable NYT bestseller I'd picked up at the library giveaway last year.
While it didn't have the earthy, poetic fluidity of Hijuelos, who was influenced by another favorite of mine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the art detective story was enthralling for how fate and tenacity both had a hand in leading several art historians to an important and presumably lost work.
By the time the train pulled in to the station, I had only 60 pages left and I was dying to know how it ended but finding out wasn't an option at that point.
A favorite girlfriend and her cute husband were having a party tonight to celebrate her getting her master's, so I needed to hurry home, shower and get to the soiree.
Only problem was that I'd never been to their house, it's in a neighborhood I don't know and one that turned out to be black as pitch with no streetlights.
I was pretty sure I'd found the right house when I eased open the front door and heard someone ask, "Did you just say you were going to be picking at your skin?"
The party was in full swing and the graduate grabbed me and said she'd feared I was dead when I'd missed Live at Ipanema last Sunday, but I'd assured her that I'd just been otherwise occupied.
Since it was my first visit, she gave me a tour of the house which was full of her husband's photographs, one of hers at a doughnut shop in Pennsylvania with a sign saying, "We specialize in holes" and a bunch of found photos, acquired at thrift stores, online and at Etsy shops.
One particularly intriguing one was a sepia-toned view of the Richmond waterfront near Tredegar with holes drilled along the edges as if it had once hung on a museum wall.
Both she and her husband are avid record collectors and while I glanced through their vinyl, that's an afternoon's activity all by itself. And I'm not even talking about the seven inch discs and cassette tapes or CDs.
Even the framed posters were worth checking out - a Dali exhibit, a Hitchcock retrospective, the first 300 albums released on SubPop.
And don't get me started on the camera collection, the giant record player or the photograph of every kind of microphone imaginable.
Their house was a delight and as a party guest, I had full rein to wander around and check out its details, all under the guise of mingling.
So, sure, I engaged with a group discussing restaurants and chatted with some new-to-me people about what they did.
At least right up until the point where it was time for me to go home to my own charming abode, at least for a few hours before heading out again first thing in the morning.
On the road again.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Hard Labor, Easy Day
The thought of staying in town for Labor Day held not one whit of appeal.
It was perfectly clear nothing was happening here.
Fortunately for me, I was plenty welcome at a holiday celebration outside the city.
It's the first time in memory that I was away for all three summer holidays and while there's a certain charm to being one of the remaining few over a long weekend, I've done that plenty.
It wasn't a big party, but those who did attend were superior conversationalists and I even lucked into a willing companion who accompanied me down gravel roads and on nature trails in a nearby park when I needed my walking fix.
You can take the girl out of the city, but she's going to want to get in her miles no matter where she is.
I was the last to arrive and just in time for the opening of some Graham Beck bubbly, the absolute best way to kick off a holiday.
My affection for South African wine is common knowledge in this group, although I didn't see anyone else turning it down, either.
Once the sparkling had everyone in a thoroughly festive mood, we took a field trip to the local Italian joint for, what else, pizza and Italian hoagies.
The only hiccup there was when the 2007 Bella Sera Pinot Grigio arrived long past its prime, smelling suspect and tasting downright disgusting.
Our server handled it with aplomb, going downstairs and, as she said, "crawling through the bottles" to find a more recent vintage.
The 2011 did far more justice to the onion rings and garnered her a bigger tip for the effort.
I'd like to say we were ambitious enough to play croquet or badminton when we returned, but the super-saturated air did little to encourage movement.
Truth be told, some people even napped.
Once everyone was vertical again, we moved directly to happy hour and the traditional lighting of the grill for the holiday meal.
My skill set wasn't required for cooking lamb but I was consulted about the music mix for the evening.
Between Pandora and me, I think we created several stellar playlists using my chosen starting points: Small Black, The Love Language and Twin Shadow.
The oh-so-'80s synth-pop based first set was (in my humble opinion) as good a holiday night soundtrack as anyone could have hoped for.
Tell the story how you want to
Make up all the details
Tell me what feels good
I don't care
You're no stranger
To me
True, everyone was sitting rather than actually dancing, but I did see some feet doing the horizontal mambo on a chaise lounge.
Okay, they were mine, but the point is, if it hadn't been so humid and if the wine hadn't been so free-flowing, it would have been a Labor Day dance party by the time the evening wound down.
As it was, it ended reluctantly, so we found one last activity before calling it a (labor) day.
Because we were beyond the worst of the city lights, our fine holiday celebration ended with star-gazing and perhaps even a little silent wishing on a star for those who were so inclined.
Don't look at me. I state my wishes outright and out loud.
It was perfectly clear nothing was happening here.
Fortunately for me, I was plenty welcome at a holiday celebration outside the city.
It's the first time in memory that I was away for all three summer holidays and while there's a certain charm to being one of the remaining few over a long weekend, I've done that plenty.
It wasn't a big party, but those who did attend were superior conversationalists and I even lucked into a willing companion who accompanied me down gravel roads and on nature trails in a nearby park when I needed my walking fix.
You can take the girl out of the city, but she's going to want to get in her miles no matter where she is.
I was the last to arrive and just in time for the opening of some Graham Beck bubbly, the absolute best way to kick off a holiday.
My affection for South African wine is common knowledge in this group, although I didn't see anyone else turning it down, either.
Once the sparkling had everyone in a thoroughly festive mood, we took a field trip to the local Italian joint for, what else, pizza and Italian hoagies.
The only hiccup there was when the 2007 Bella Sera Pinot Grigio arrived long past its prime, smelling suspect and tasting downright disgusting.
Our server handled it with aplomb, going downstairs and, as she said, "crawling through the bottles" to find a more recent vintage.
The 2011 did far more justice to the onion rings and garnered her a bigger tip for the effort.
I'd like to say we were ambitious enough to play croquet or badminton when we returned, but the super-saturated air did little to encourage movement.
Truth be told, some people even napped.
Once everyone was vertical again, we moved directly to happy hour and the traditional lighting of the grill for the holiday meal.
My skill set wasn't required for cooking lamb but I was consulted about the music mix for the evening.
Between Pandora and me, I think we created several stellar playlists using my chosen starting points: Small Black, The Love Language and Twin Shadow.
The oh-so-'80s synth-pop based first set was (in my humble opinion) as good a holiday night soundtrack as anyone could have hoped for.
Tell the story how you want to
Make up all the details
Tell me what feels good
I don't care
You're no stranger
To me
True, everyone was sitting rather than actually dancing, but I did see some feet doing the horizontal mambo on a chaise lounge.
Okay, they were mine, but the point is, if it hadn't been so humid and if the wine hadn't been so free-flowing, it would have been a Labor Day dance party by the time the evening wound down.
As it was, it ended reluctantly, so we found one last activity before calling it a (labor) day.
Because we were beyond the worst of the city lights, our fine holiday celebration ended with star-gazing and perhaps even a little silent wishing on a star for those who were so inclined.
Don't look at me. I state my wishes outright and out loud.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Restaurant Monsters, Inc.
It's best to get the high-brow out of the way so the evening can end with the more, ahem, common pleasures.
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Think Pink, Remember Little
It was baptism by fire for pink lovers.
The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.
I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?
Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.
My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.
Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.
That's where the serious fun began.
Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.
Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.
It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.
Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?
I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.
Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.
Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.
I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.
After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.
Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.
(sound of record scratching)
Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.
The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.
A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.
Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.
When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.
I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.
Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.
Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.
I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.
The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.
I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?
Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.
My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.
Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.
That's where the serious fun began.
Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.
Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.
It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.
Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?
I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.
Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.
Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.
I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.
After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.
Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.
(sound of record scratching)
Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.
The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.
A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.
Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.
When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.
I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.
Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.
Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.
I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Dressing Cute for Strangers
I think my parents are concerned that their oldest daughter might become an old maid. They didn't say it like that, but I knew something was up when I got the e-mail yesterday.
I already had plans to have lunch with them yesterday, so I was surprised to get a last minute e-mail instructing me to "Bring something cute to wear in case you stay for the party."
Of course I knew nothing about any party and I was planning to drive back in the late afternoon. But, like the occasionally dutiful daughter that I am, I packed a cute dress and hit the road. Driving out to the Northern Neck, I passed a good number of vehicles pulling boats and even the shortest Airstream I've ever seen, but still sleek and silver, all heading river-ward with me.
Once I got to Tappahannock and Warsaw, I started seeing evidence of the locals talking to Mother Nature. Gas stations, little stores and garages had signboards saying things like "Stay away Earl" and "Forget Earl, we're open!"
Lunch was po' boys at the local crab shack because they were celebrating the arrival of the "R" months by frying up oysters and shack-made potato chips. We took our lunches to an outside picnic table and enjoyed the "R" month-like weather as locals stopped by to do the same. My parents had a story about almost all of them; at the very least, they knew who they were related to and where they lived. I will never be the small town type.
I waited until we'd eaten to inquire about the party. It seems one of their neighbors was having a Labor Day get-together, starting with dinner at an historic local tavern and then festivities afterwards back on the river. They'd been invited and had offered me up instead, claiming I'd be more of a party asset.
The little town where my parents live has about half year round residents and the other half are second homes; a surprising number of those getaway houses belong to men who teach at various universities in central Virginia (W & M, VCU, Mary Washington).
The one who was hosting the soiree had invited out-of-town guests as well as a few choice neighbors and my parents said they'd feel old at such a party. That's where I came in apparently.
With no real plans for last night, I figured why not stay, if not for the night, at least for part of the party? Besides, my folks had raved about the restaurant at the Lancaster Tavern, so at the very least it would be a nice meal in a most historic building.
So after an afternoon chatting with the people who were hoping to offer me up to strangers, I cleaned up and we walked over so they could make the introductions ("Here's our firstborn and love child, who, unlike our other five daughters can't seem to settle down with a nice man. Can you help?").
Awkward as it sounds (and could have been) both my host and his friends provided a warm welcome and within moments I had more people to talk to than I could have hoped for. We spent a very pleasant cocktail hour mingling and getting to know each other.
But my parents were probably right: it wouldn't have been their scene. And then it was almost reservation time. so we divided up into cars and headed out to chow down.
The tavern, located across the street from the county's original jail (gaol?) and County Clerk's offices and Virginia's shortest road (curved and about the length of eight cars) was charming looking. Built in 1790 after the court deemed it a "public advantage," I could see where it still fit that description in a county with fewer than a half dozen restaurants.
Doorways and archways were barely 6' tall, window glass was wavy and the chimney enormous, servicing four fireplaces. Outside was an epic sycamore tree, magnificent for its size and width. It was fenced off, but had no identifying information and I was eager to know more about such a fine specimen.
When I inquired inside, though, I learned that the tree has some very negative connotations in the county, having been used for more than a few lynchings. The waitress actually cringed when I asked her about it, but allowed as how it was wonderful when they had outdoor events, spreading its shade far and wide.
The menu had ten entrees and, not surprisingly, five of them were seafood (six if you got your fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp). I opted for the pan seared scallops, which were so perfectly seasoned and cooked that I kept eating them long after I was full.
But if I'm honest, I'll admit I was most excited about the vegetable of the day: butter beans. I had no doubt that a place like Lancaster Tavern would do them right and did they ever. I finished my bowl o' beans and half of someone else's; they were that good.
The last line on the menu noted that, "Home-made deserts and fresh vegetable from Tavern Garden." Misspelling and lack of plural aside, I thought it was funny to include those two things in the same garden reference. As it turned out, though, one dessert did come from out back: the peach cobbler. Enormous and served on a plate bigger than our salads had come on, it was topped with cinnamon whipped cream, making for a truly lovely finish to a most enjoyable meal.
Back at the river, music was cranked, drinks were poured and we made ready to set up camp on the riverbank for the fireworks show across the Rappahannock in Matthew's County. I wouldn't have guessed that Labor Day was celebrated with pyrotechnics, but then I don't really know the ways of river life, either. With the beautiful evening weather, I decided I had made the right decision about where to spend my evening.
It was a most interesting mix of people and our host was charming and funny, frequently changing the dynamic of the party with his suggestions. If I was going to be offered up to strangers, at least they were witty and fun people. And I definitely made some new friends.
Things finally started breaking up around 1:30, although some of the come-here guests were staying in the host's house, so they didn't have far to crawl to find their beds. I only had to walk a few houses down the deserted road to reach my parents' unlocked house and dive into bed.
And this morning, I woke up to Belgian waffles, Vermont syrup and country sausage with a side of inquisitive parental units. I gave them what details I could, but I didn't want to sound too encouraging.
No telling who they'll be offering me up to next time. Besides, out of six daughters, what's one old maid? I'd say those odds are about right.
I already had plans to have lunch with them yesterday, so I was surprised to get a last minute e-mail instructing me to "Bring something cute to wear in case you stay for the party."
Of course I knew nothing about any party and I was planning to drive back in the late afternoon. But, like the occasionally dutiful daughter that I am, I packed a cute dress and hit the road. Driving out to the Northern Neck, I passed a good number of vehicles pulling boats and even the shortest Airstream I've ever seen, but still sleek and silver, all heading river-ward with me.
Once I got to Tappahannock and Warsaw, I started seeing evidence of the locals talking to Mother Nature. Gas stations, little stores and garages had signboards saying things like "Stay away Earl" and "Forget Earl, we're open!"
Lunch was po' boys at the local crab shack because they were celebrating the arrival of the "R" months by frying up oysters and shack-made potato chips. We took our lunches to an outside picnic table and enjoyed the "R" month-like weather as locals stopped by to do the same. My parents had a story about almost all of them; at the very least, they knew who they were related to and where they lived. I will never be the small town type.
I waited until we'd eaten to inquire about the party. It seems one of their neighbors was having a Labor Day get-together, starting with dinner at an historic local tavern and then festivities afterwards back on the river. They'd been invited and had offered me up instead, claiming I'd be more of a party asset.
The little town where my parents live has about half year round residents and the other half are second homes; a surprising number of those getaway houses belong to men who teach at various universities in central Virginia (W & M, VCU, Mary Washington).
The one who was hosting the soiree had invited out-of-town guests as well as a few choice neighbors and my parents said they'd feel old at such a party. That's where I came in apparently.
With no real plans for last night, I figured why not stay, if not for the night, at least for part of the party? Besides, my folks had raved about the restaurant at the Lancaster Tavern, so at the very least it would be a nice meal in a most historic building.
So after an afternoon chatting with the people who were hoping to offer me up to strangers, I cleaned up and we walked over so they could make the introductions ("Here's our firstborn and love child, who, unlike our other five daughters can't seem to settle down with a nice man. Can you help?").
Awkward as it sounds (and could have been) both my host and his friends provided a warm welcome and within moments I had more people to talk to than I could have hoped for. We spent a very pleasant cocktail hour mingling and getting to know each other.
But my parents were probably right: it wouldn't have been their scene. And then it was almost reservation time. so we divided up into cars and headed out to chow down.
The tavern, located across the street from the county's original jail (gaol?) and County Clerk's offices and Virginia's shortest road (curved and about the length of eight cars) was charming looking. Built in 1790 after the court deemed it a "public advantage," I could see where it still fit that description in a county with fewer than a half dozen restaurants.
Doorways and archways were barely 6' tall, window glass was wavy and the chimney enormous, servicing four fireplaces. Outside was an epic sycamore tree, magnificent for its size and width. It was fenced off, but had no identifying information and I was eager to know more about such a fine specimen.
When I inquired inside, though, I learned that the tree has some very negative connotations in the county, having been used for more than a few lynchings. The waitress actually cringed when I asked her about it, but allowed as how it was wonderful when they had outdoor events, spreading its shade far and wide.
The menu had ten entrees and, not surprisingly, five of them were seafood (six if you got your fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp). I opted for the pan seared scallops, which were so perfectly seasoned and cooked that I kept eating them long after I was full.
But if I'm honest, I'll admit I was most excited about the vegetable of the day: butter beans. I had no doubt that a place like Lancaster Tavern would do them right and did they ever. I finished my bowl o' beans and half of someone else's; they were that good.
The last line on the menu noted that, "Home-made deserts and fresh vegetable from Tavern Garden." Misspelling and lack of plural aside, I thought it was funny to include those two things in the same garden reference. As it turned out, though, one dessert did come from out back: the peach cobbler. Enormous and served on a plate bigger than our salads had come on, it was topped with cinnamon whipped cream, making for a truly lovely finish to a most enjoyable meal.
Back at the river, music was cranked, drinks were poured and we made ready to set up camp on the riverbank for the fireworks show across the Rappahannock in Matthew's County. I wouldn't have guessed that Labor Day was celebrated with pyrotechnics, but then I don't really know the ways of river life, either. With the beautiful evening weather, I decided I had made the right decision about where to spend my evening.
It was a most interesting mix of people and our host was charming and funny, frequently changing the dynamic of the party with his suggestions. If I was going to be offered up to strangers, at least they were witty and fun people. And I definitely made some new friends.
Things finally started breaking up around 1:30, although some of the come-here guests were staying in the host's house, so they didn't have far to crawl to find their beds. I only had to walk a few houses down the deserted road to reach my parents' unlocked house and dive into bed.
And this morning, I woke up to Belgian waffles, Vermont syrup and country sausage with a side of inquisitive parental units. I gave them what details I could, but I didn't want to sound too encouraging.
No telling who they'll be offering me up to next time. Besides, out of six daughters, what's one old maid? I'd say those odds are about right.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Music Lover Goes Partying First
How is that some nights I have invitations to do four fun things and other nights I am desperately seeking even one worthy destination?
Tonight I whittled the four down to two and spent six thoroughly enjoyable hours with old friends, new friends and music lovers, but still didn't get to do everything I wanted to do.
Yesterday I'd gotten a last minute party invitation from a friend celebrating all kinds of things: openings, anniversaries, life in general.
The crowd was comprised of foodies, wine geeks, stellar cooks and only one thumping bore, whom I avoided.
The conversation was as varied as the crowd.
The food was extensive and creative: tilapia ceviche, rare dry-rub flank steak, arugula and white bean salad, smoked salmon salad, onion confit with cheese and bread, roasted pork loin, bean and corn salad, pasta with asparagus and pesto, and way too much more to remember, much less mention.
I did my best to taste it all in the name of being a good guest.
Because of the abundance of wine reps, there were all kinds of liquid delights, both the grape variety and the hop variety.
There were beer tastings (the creamy chocolate stout surprised me) and wine tastings (same wine, same year, one corked and one in a screw top; surprisingly, the screw top yielded more on the nose and slightly fuller flavor).
I did an Octagon tasting with a friend's handsome brown-eyed man.
There were toasts to obscure grapes. Far too many pictures were taken and will doubtlessly appear on Facebook and embarrass us all.
Eventually the music got louder and dancing began, with several white guys showing off their dubious hip hop moves .
I got reacquainted with a girl I'd met at the Man Meat dinner two years ago and we delved into our relationship tales; the parallels were uncanny (the differences were in the endings so far) and we made plans to meet again far from the madding crowd.
I enjoyed extended conversation with our local jazz DJ, a fellow radio rat.
I was thanked by a wine rep whose tasting I'd written about in my Belle column last month.
He was tickled when he realized it was me who had sung his praises (the event sold out).
But finally, I had to beat feet or risk missing music and my second stop of the evening.
It was Live at Ipanema tonight and I didn't want to miss the River City Band's take on bluegrass.
Nor did several local musicians, including Alison Self, Chris of the Colloquial Orchestra, Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and the multi-talented Jonathan Vassar.
As I sat at the bar before the show talking to the bartender about the small crowd (it grew much larger later), I mentioned all the other events going on tonight that may have splintered the audience.
The guy next to me turned and introduced himself as Grant, one of the musicians playing tonight.
He seemed to know I was Karen and said that he reads my blog.
"For the music, I guess?" I asked. "And for the restaurant stuff and all of it," he added.
Quelle compliment!
River City Band was made up of an upright bass, banjo, guitar, mandolin and occasionally violin (Jessica was borrowed from Zac Hyrciak and the Jungle Beat) and their set included original material and diverse covers, including Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Fall" and one by Jonathan Vassar.
They had a great sound and several excellent voices.
The only sour note was the incessant talking of the audience.
Despite strong performances by the band, and the fact that the show was being recorded, they had to fight to be heard over the drunken conversations of the crowd; I hate when that happens.
Luckily for me, River City Band will be playing the Listening Room in October so I can enjoy them more completely then.
And with any luck, there won't be three other must-dos competing for my time that evening.
But if my dilemma is having to choose which event to attend on any given evening, I really don't have any problem at all.
Tonight I whittled the four down to two and spent six thoroughly enjoyable hours with old friends, new friends and music lovers, but still didn't get to do everything I wanted to do.
Yesterday I'd gotten a last minute party invitation from a friend celebrating all kinds of things: openings, anniversaries, life in general.
The crowd was comprised of foodies, wine geeks, stellar cooks and only one thumping bore, whom I avoided.
The conversation was as varied as the crowd.
The food was extensive and creative: tilapia ceviche, rare dry-rub flank steak, arugula and white bean salad, smoked salmon salad, onion confit with cheese and bread, roasted pork loin, bean and corn salad, pasta with asparagus and pesto, and way too much more to remember, much less mention.
I did my best to taste it all in the name of being a good guest.
Because of the abundance of wine reps, there were all kinds of liquid delights, both the grape variety and the hop variety.
There were beer tastings (the creamy chocolate stout surprised me) and wine tastings (same wine, same year, one corked and one in a screw top; surprisingly, the screw top yielded more on the nose and slightly fuller flavor).
I did an Octagon tasting with a friend's handsome brown-eyed man.
There were toasts to obscure grapes. Far too many pictures were taken and will doubtlessly appear on Facebook and embarrass us all.
Eventually the music got louder and dancing began, with several white guys showing off their dubious hip hop moves .
I got reacquainted with a girl I'd met at the Man Meat dinner two years ago and we delved into our relationship tales; the parallels were uncanny (the differences were in the endings so far) and we made plans to meet again far from the madding crowd.
I enjoyed extended conversation with our local jazz DJ, a fellow radio rat.
I was thanked by a wine rep whose tasting I'd written about in my Belle column last month.
He was tickled when he realized it was me who had sung his praises (the event sold out).
But finally, I had to beat feet or risk missing music and my second stop of the evening.
It was Live at Ipanema tonight and I didn't want to miss the River City Band's take on bluegrass.
Nor did several local musicians, including Alison Self, Chris of the Colloquial Orchestra, Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and the multi-talented Jonathan Vassar.
As I sat at the bar before the show talking to the bartender about the small crowd (it grew much larger later), I mentioned all the other events going on tonight that may have splintered the audience.
The guy next to me turned and introduced himself as Grant, one of the musicians playing tonight.
He seemed to know I was Karen and said that he reads my blog.
"For the music, I guess?" I asked. "And for the restaurant stuff and all of it," he added.
Quelle compliment!
River City Band was made up of an upright bass, banjo, guitar, mandolin and occasionally violin (Jessica was borrowed from Zac Hyrciak and the Jungle Beat) and their set included original material and diverse covers, including Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Fall" and one by Jonathan Vassar.
They had a great sound and several excellent voices.
The only sour note was the incessant talking of the audience.
Despite strong performances by the band, and the fact that the show was being recorded, they had to fight to be heard over the drunken conversations of the crowd; I hate when that happens.
Luckily for me, River City Band will be playing the Listening Room in October so I can enjoy them more completely then.
And with any luck, there won't be three other must-dos competing for my time that evening.
But if my dilemma is having to choose which event to attend on any given evening, I really don't have any problem at all.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Partying Like It's 2010
Any idiot knows better than to turn down a party invitation from a friend who is both a wine shop owner and a talented cook, especially when the guests are a cross-section of interesting types.
Tonight's final fling at our hostess' recently-sold house provided the opportunity to mingle with assorted people in the wine biz, both new and familiar, a fellow art geek from VMFA, a vegetarian I've known since she was in her teens, a fellow Marionette fan, a butcher and a pizza maker, to name just a few.
And even at this late date, I ran into someone who hadn't heard about my status changes.
Sigh, will I never have to stop sharing that series of unfortunate events?
And the food was to die for.
Pork scallopini with tuna sauce, truffled popcorn, curried oysters, probably the best hummus I've ever tasted, meats from Belmont Butchery, sesame noodles, sweet potato and onion salad and cheese, glorious cheeses and that's only a partial list.
I won't even attempt to list the wine smorgasbord because there were so many wine geek types there, all trying to outdo each other with interesting bottles, benefiting us guests greatly.
Our hostess had made a killer party mix tape, making finding her house a snap because of the booming bass line emanating from it.
Her mix ended up being 11 hours, but she edited it to 6+, so we were constantly hearing good stuff.
Between the well-chosen music, the local gossip and the food scene tidbits I heard tonight, I'd have to say the party was practically perfect.
But then I'm a Gemini, like our hostess, and we're known to be enthusiastic party people.
We just bring both of our selves to the party.
Tonight's final fling at our hostess' recently-sold house provided the opportunity to mingle with assorted people in the wine biz, both new and familiar, a fellow art geek from VMFA, a vegetarian I've known since she was in her teens, a fellow Marionette fan, a butcher and a pizza maker, to name just a few.
And even at this late date, I ran into someone who hadn't heard about my status changes.
Sigh, will I never have to stop sharing that series of unfortunate events?
And the food was to die for.
Pork scallopini with tuna sauce, truffled popcorn, curried oysters, probably the best hummus I've ever tasted, meats from Belmont Butchery, sesame noodles, sweet potato and onion salad and cheese, glorious cheeses and that's only a partial list.
I won't even attempt to list the wine smorgasbord because there were so many wine geek types there, all trying to outdo each other with interesting bottles, benefiting us guests greatly.
Our hostess had made a killer party mix tape, making finding her house a snap because of the booming bass line emanating from it.
Her mix ended up being 11 hours, but she edited it to 6+, so we were constantly hearing good stuff.
Between the well-chosen music, the local gossip and the food scene tidbits I heard tonight, I'd have to say the party was practically perfect.
But then I'm a Gemini, like our hostess, and we're known to be enthusiastic party people.
We just bring both of our selves to the party.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
What Did You Expect in Jackson Ward?
The beagle and I were out front a little after midnight when I heard a guy from halfway down the next block talking agitatedly on his phone. Of course, I only got to hear one side of the conversation, but it wasn't hard to get the gist of it.
Him:"I can't even believe you're still there. I couldn't stand it another minute."
He listens.
Him: "Cause I didn't want to be there. Why do you?"
He listens,
Him: "I'm almost to fucking Clay and Henry!"
He listens.
Him: "You've got an exam at 8 a.m.! Who cares about those people?"
He listens.
Him: "You didn't tell me the party was going to be nothing but scenesters."
He listens.
Him: "I've never seen so many fucking piercings in my life."
He listens.
Him: "I'm almost to Belvidere now."
He listens.
Him: "Fuck you."
From the shadows, the dog and I watched Hat Boy make his way down the street and safely out of J-Ward. I don't think he'll be back anytime soon and, for that, we are thankful.
Him:"I can't even believe you're still there. I couldn't stand it another minute."
He listens.
Him: "Cause I didn't want to be there. Why do you?"
He listens,
Him: "I'm almost to fucking Clay and Henry!"
He listens.
Him: "You've got an exam at 8 a.m.! Who cares about those people?"
He listens.
Him: "You didn't tell me the party was going to be nothing but scenesters."
He listens.
Him: "I've never seen so many fucking piercings in my life."
He listens.
Him: "I'm almost to Belvidere now."
He listens.
Him: "Fuck you."
From the shadows, the dog and I watched Hat Boy make his way down the street and safely out of J-Ward. I don't think he'll be back anytime soon and, for that, we are thankful.
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