If I say I'm going to be at your house at 3:30, I'm going to be at your house at 3:30. Ahem.
And if it changes the rest of my life, so be it.
The problem with starting a blog when you're recovering from illness, unemployed and not in a relationship is that you hope that all those things will change. And while I can be healthy and employed while still finding the time to blog, it's a different story now that I'm in a real relationship.
Whatever that means, it's not anything I've done before.
So after a three day weekend celebrating love and luck, rituals and romance, I'm looking back at all the things I could blog about except that work is preventing me from going on and on long enough to cover even half of that.
Do I begin with the Prosecco kick-off to a six-hour meal at Dinamo, complete with drop-in guest for the much anticipated 3:30 toast with Gabriella Pinot Gris? How about the chocolate espresso torte taken home to enjoy rather than amongst the V-Day celebrants?
And don't get me started on the Year in Review, a photo album documenting 80 moments I may recall with clarity now but probably won't forever.
As for the cozy interlude at Lift to sip whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, well, that was just to take advantage of walking in the snowy/rain mix under a big umbrella together.
Or do I go directly to seeing "Once" at Virginia Rep and reveling in a 13-person cast, all of whom played their own instruments - mandolin, guitar, banjo, violin, drums - and a charming, if unresolved, love story? I first saw "Once" at an arthouse theater in Philly in August 2007, only to leave the theater in tears to drive back down I-95 south alone.
Let's just say it was far preferable to watch the musical love story unfold live with Mr. Wright and stroll home talking about it instead. Best line used 3 times: "I'm always serious. I'm Czech!"
For that matter, I definitely don't have time to go into details about going to see "From Here to Eternity" (a film I'd never seen before) at the Byrd Theatre. And because it was one of our themed movie dates, we followed up a classic film set in Hawaii with dinner at the Hawaiian-influenced Perch. Except that rather than tiki drinks, we went Spanish with Poema Cava to toast the future.
Favorite things about the movie? Burt Lancaster in fitted, '50s-style swimming trunks. Montgomery Clift in a pre-car accident role before his face got messed up. Outdoor Hawaiian Tiki bars circa 1953. Deborah Kerr in stylish high-waisted shorts. Raven-haired Donna Reed as a bad girl who wants to go "proper."
What I did have time for was wallowing in a long weekend with the most hilarious man I know without writing a single word for profit or for the online curious.
I can't promise that will be the case once the Year of Upheaval begins. But for now, I'm doing my best.
Showing posts with label perch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perch. Show all posts
Monday, February 18, 2019
Monday, February 4, 2019
Remind Me Tomorrow
It wasn't a lost weekend exactly, but somehow there wasn't so much as a spare minute to blog it.
Friday's adventure with Pru and Beau was to begin at Longoven and end at Swift Creek Mill to see "Cyrano."
As in "Take it and turn to facts my fantasies," that Cyrano. But it didn't happen that way.
Since it had been a while since our trio had been together, I began by thanking them for agreeing to our night out. "I knew I better say yes or you'll stop asking," Pru observed dryly. The woman knows me so well.
As did whomever had programmed the music because any playlist that begins with Sharon van Etten's new album and moves on to one of my all-time favorite L.A. bands, Small Black, must have me in mind.
As is our habit on play nights, we arrived early and ate all around the menu. That meant ordering sweet dumpling squash with Comte, cauliflower variations under a soft egg, roasted sunchokes with Pecorino cream and a Tuscan kale salad with fig miso and Manchego just to give us something to enjoy with a bottle of La Grange Tiphaine Clef de Sol White (after the requisite toast to the Loire, of course).
We're not savages, after all.
Over a discussion Pru began of how to celebrate my birthday (would it be wrong to go to a restaurant, leave it for another and return to the first, all in the name of a progressive dinner?) and whether it should be in or out of town, we moved on to main courses.
While I was forking up bites of luminous soy-glazed grilled cod with maitake mushrooms, spinach and cauliflowers, Pru was regaling us with tales from her Mexico jaunts. Seems the best dinners came from places where fishermen brought their catch and cooks with card tables set up waterside cooked the fish to the customer's order on the spot. She should know, having had many a tasty piece of fish that way.
By that time we were drinking Julienas Cuvee Tradition, a velvety Gamay ideal for the Church Hillians, who were devouring rosettes of smoked duck topped with horseradish cream and pickled turnip under grilled radicchio leaves, a dish that looked like a collection of purple seashells on the plate.
It wasn't long after we ordered dessert - black sesame and pear for beau, chestnut mousse with milk chocolate and persimmon sorbet for me and eggnog for Pru - that we decided that our play tickets needed to be moved to another night and Beau was put in charge of delivering that news. Fortunately, it wasn't a problem for the theater.
Let me put it this way, once discussion begins of being a sucker for coffee grounds - not to mention making love to one's coffee-maker ("Well, sure, it's warm," our server interjected) - or about having Shakespearean quotes inside a medicine cabinet, you can pretty much assume that no one's looking to follow Act I, much less Act 2.
To wit: "So she orders a gin and blood orange juice and I remind her that it's noon, she's ordering a gin drink and she doesn't drink alcohol." Must have been a helluva brunch for Queen B.
That we made another stop, this one at nearby Perch, for the bourbon fans to have tamarind-infused Rust and Stardust cocktails (I kept to Treveri Blanc de Blanc) solidified the wisdom of foregoing a linear story in the name of drama for meandering conversation ("Bring back the swoop!").
Saturday was given over to more restauranting, when I landed at a crowded Social 52 for brunch, where the wait was only 35 minutes, as opposed to our first attempt at the new Brunch (sibling to Lunch and Supper), which promised a wait of an hour and a half. All that for a cacophonous room and a white cheddar waffle with syrup and bacon, but at least the company was stellar.
Remind me again why Richmonders love brunch so much?
Things finally calmed down when Mr. Wright and I showed up at Branch and Vine that evening, grabbed a bottle of Verdejo off the shelves, ordered creamy tomato soup and sandwiches and stayed put until they closed, the owner walking out with us after locking up.
Superbowl Sunday dawned early because I had food to make for the big game which we were watching with my parents on the Northern Neck. Actually, Mr. Wright had mentioned going to watch it with my Dad, which left me looking like a bad daughter if I wasn't there, so all of a sudden it was a Superbowl party.
With zero interest in the game, I volunteered to be on KP, deciding on a thematic bent. Lobster rolls for the Patriots, Tex-Mex hummus and Pacific crab-stuffed cherry tomatoes for the Rams and enough other things - yes, there was Ukrop's cole slaw because cole slaw - to fill in the cracks. Kind of clever, right?
Mom surprised us all by pulling out a bottle of Paul Laurent Rose Champagne and who's going to say no to that? She also cracked wise, explaining to Mr. Wright that I was the daughter who'd always left the room when the Superbowl was on, so not to expect too much.
Pshaw, I was raised by sports-loving parents, have been to plenty of Washington home games and am well-versed in the rules of football, meaning he was gobsmacked when he realized I could not only understand that was happening, but even mock the cheesy graphics explaining yardage and downs.
You just never know when you can impress someone important with knowledge you've had laying around in your brain for decades, even if you do rarely need to access it. And, yes, I did pass my Dad's quiz on the first half, just moments before being underwhelmed by Adam Levine's half-time performance.
Quit taking your shirt off, son.
Then at breakfast this morning, the three of them got into an in-depth conversation of baseball. They covered uniforms (I'd liked that the Rams were wearing the throwback uniforms) and long-gone players, but it was the subject of parks that caught fire, with my all-knowing Mom's complaint about their varying sizes.
Needless to say, I had little to contribute there, although it appears I'll be adding Yankee stadium to my roster of one (Wrigley Field) before long.
All I can say is, yesterday's match proved that defense is key in the big games. Brady is Brady and Goff is Goff, 'nuff said. Pats were definitely the best team (must be all that water Brady drinks).
And now, back to my regularly scheduled life, already in progress...
Friday's adventure with Pru and Beau was to begin at Longoven and end at Swift Creek Mill to see "Cyrano."
As in "Take it and turn to facts my fantasies," that Cyrano. But it didn't happen that way.
Since it had been a while since our trio had been together, I began by thanking them for agreeing to our night out. "I knew I better say yes or you'll stop asking," Pru observed dryly. The woman knows me so well.
As did whomever had programmed the music because any playlist that begins with Sharon van Etten's new album and moves on to one of my all-time favorite L.A. bands, Small Black, must have me in mind.
As is our habit on play nights, we arrived early and ate all around the menu. That meant ordering sweet dumpling squash with Comte, cauliflower variations under a soft egg, roasted sunchokes with Pecorino cream and a Tuscan kale salad with fig miso and Manchego just to give us something to enjoy with a bottle of La Grange Tiphaine Clef de Sol White (after the requisite toast to the Loire, of course).
We're not savages, after all.
Over a discussion Pru began of how to celebrate my birthday (would it be wrong to go to a restaurant, leave it for another and return to the first, all in the name of a progressive dinner?) and whether it should be in or out of town, we moved on to main courses.
While I was forking up bites of luminous soy-glazed grilled cod with maitake mushrooms, spinach and cauliflowers, Pru was regaling us with tales from her Mexico jaunts. Seems the best dinners came from places where fishermen brought their catch and cooks with card tables set up waterside cooked the fish to the customer's order on the spot. She should know, having had many a tasty piece of fish that way.
By that time we were drinking Julienas Cuvee Tradition, a velvety Gamay ideal for the Church Hillians, who were devouring rosettes of smoked duck topped with horseradish cream and pickled turnip under grilled radicchio leaves, a dish that looked like a collection of purple seashells on the plate.
It wasn't long after we ordered dessert - black sesame and pear for beau, chestnut mousse with milk chocolate and persimmon sorbet for me and eggnog for Pru - that we decided that our play tickets needed to be moved to another night and Beau was put in charge of delivering that news. Fortunately, it wasn't a problem for the theater.
Let me put it this way, once discussion begins of being a sucker for coffee grounds - not to mention making love to one's coffee-maker ("Well, sure, it's warm," our server interjected) - or about having Shakespearean quotes inside a medicine cabinet, you can pretty much assume that no one's looking to follow Act I, much less Act 2.
To wit: "So she orders a gin and blood orange juice and I remind her that it's noon, she's ordering a gin drink and she doesn't drink alcohol." Must have been a helluva brunch for Queen B.
That we made another stop, this one at nearby Perch, for the bourbon fans to have tamarind-infused Rust and Stardust cocktails (I kept to Treveri Blanc de Blanc) solidified the wisdom of foregoing a linear story in the name of drama for meandering conversation ("Bring back the swoop!").
Saturday was given over to more restauranting, when I landed at a crowded Social 52 for brunch, where the wait was only 35 minutes, as opposed to our first attempt at the new Brunch (sibling to Lunch and Supper), which promised a wait of an hour and a half. All that for a cacophonous room and a white cheddar waffle with syrup and bacon, but at least the company was stellar.
Remind me again why Richmonders love brunch so much?
Things finally calmed down when Mr. Wright and I showed up at Branch and Vine that evening, grabbed a bottle of Verdejo off the shelves, ordered creamy tomato soup and sandwiches and stayed put until they closed, the owner walking out with us after locking up.
Superbowl Sunday dawned early because I had food to make for the big game which we were watching with my parents on the Northern Neck. Actually, Mr. Wright had mentioned going to watch it with my Dad, which left me looking like a bad daughter if I wasn't there, so all of a sudden it was a Superbowl party.
With zero interest in the game, I volunteered to be on KP, deciding on a thematic bent. Lobster rolls for the Patriots, Tex-Mex hummus and Pacific crab-stuffed cherry tomatoes for the Rams and enough other things - yes, there was Ukrop's cole slaw because cole slaw - to fill in the cracks. Kind of clever, right?
Mom surprised us all by pulling out a bottle of Paul Laurent Rose Champagne and who's going to say no to that? She also cracked wise, explaining to Mr. Wright that I was the daughter who'd always left the room when the Superbowl was on, so not to expect too much.
Pshaw, I was raised by sports-loving parents, have been to plenty of Washington home games and am well-versed in the rules of football, meaning he was gobsmacked when he realized I could not only understand that was happening, but even mock the cheesy graphics explaining yardage and downs.
You just never know when you can impress someone important with knowledge you've had laying around in your brain for decades, even if you do rarely need to access it. And, yes, I did pass my Dad's quiz on the first half, just moments before being underwhelmed by Adam Levine's half-time performance.
Quit taking your shirt off, son.
Then at breakfast this morning, the three of them got into an in-depth conversation of baseball. They covered uniforms (I'd liked that the Rams were wearing the throwback uniforms) and long-gone players, but it was the subject of parks that caught fire, with my all-knowing Mom's complaint about their varying sizes.
Needless to say, I had little to contribute there, although it appears I'll be adding Yankee stadium to my roster of one (Wrigley Field) before long.
All I can say is, yesterday's match proved that defense is key in the big games. Brady is Brady and Goff is Goff, 'nuff said. Pats were definitely the best team (must be all that water Brady drinks).
And now, back to my regularly scheduled life, already in progress...
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Talk to Me
If I was going to jump back in, it might as well be whole hog.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
