Sticking It to the Man (and Squeamish Woman)

About damn time I got introduced to the world of blaxploitation films.

That would be the kind where a man can get out of any scrape using the skill of his member.

But being my first such venture, I got dinner first to ensure I'd be able to handle a gritty 70s film about black power.

Pescado's China Street was quiet when we arrived but started to build while we ate dinner.

Starting with vinho verde and pork ano arepas (braised pork over South American cornmeal cakes, pork jus, pickled onion, apricot chutney with a spicy basil jalapeno sauce), I was immediately immersed in pig and corn, two Southern things I love.

As we were eating that, a foursome joined us at the bar. He was a local and his guests were visiting from central Pennsylvania.

There was some discussion of a dilemma about football team allegiance before the visitors turned to the menu.

It was obviously a switch from PA because the woman only half-jokingly asked, "Could I have the enchiladas? It's not going to come  out with eyes, is it?"

And then bada bing, bada boom, our snapper Cancun, a whole one and a half pound fish, arrived upright as if it had been flash fried and swam onto the plate.

The look on the woman's face was priceless.

"How are you going to eat that?" one of the men asked.

Any way we could. Knocking it over, we began devouring the salty, crispy skinned fish while she looked away.

Fingers superseded forks for this endeavor, which no doubt repulsed her even more.

My companion noted that he hadn't fish so well prepared since he was last in Italy. High praise indeed.

After licking the salty fish juices from our fingers, we proceeded to the Grace Street Theater for a lesson in both cultural history and film history courtesy of the James River Film Fest.

I don't know about you, but there was no way I could pass up a chance to see "Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song" on the big screen.

An independent film from 1971 made by Melvin Van Peebles (with additional financing from Bill Cosby), it told the story of the black man's struggle to escape the authority of the white man.

Seen through the lens of the early 70s, of course.

Made during the black power movement days, it was required viewing for members of the Black Panther Party.

Film buffs could see that the film took many black influences and sifted them through the lessons of French New Wave (jump cuts, montages) for a story of a black Robin Hood.

I can even say I had two favorite credits: "Sweetback's Fashions by Mr. Y of L.A." and "Starring: The Black Community."

When's the last time you saw an entire community credited? And a good part of his wardrobe was his birthday suit, fine as it was.

It was 1971-hip with such anachronisms as spray deodorant and phrases like, "Can you take it, baby?" asked in a sing-song Barry White kind of voice.

Black pride and resentment permeated the script, like when someone said, "He died from an overdose of black misery."

Heavy. That's heavy, man.

The movie began with a scene of the young Sweetback losing his virginity (Van Peebles used his own kid Mario for that scene, which was questionable in and of itself) to a prostitute.

At one point Sweetback is asked to choose his method of confrontation and he chooses "f*cking."

Guess who wins?

After watching Sweetback beat white cops senseless, trudge the desert and eat a lizard and make love to plenty of women, I had an appreciation for Van Peebles message and sense of the absurd.

The film ended with "Watch out - a badaasss nigger is coming to collect some dues," so we were warned.

I feel certain there were film students in that theater who just got a cultural history lesson they could never have imagined.

Can you dig it, kids?

The Earth, Wind and Fire score provided the ideal 70s Greek chorus to the action of Sweetback's journey through white hell.

Finally indoctrinated into the world of blaxploitation, we took it down a notch by going across the street to Ipanema to hear the Blood Brothers spin records from the 60s and 70s.

Oddly enough, the same period as the black power movement.

Coincidence? It wasn't for me to say.

With Wineworks Viognier and two desserts (Mexican chocolate pie and almond cheesecake) we set up camp on the bench to hear some jumpin' tunes and watch the lively and changing crowd filter through the bar.

Until you hear how well these guys spin vintage records, you can't imagine the satisfaction of one great song followed by another perfect choice.

And talk about fine wardrobes - Jamie and Duane are the moddest things you could hope to see on a Wednesday night in Richmond.

Best line overheard, "A world without cheese, that's a world I don't want to live in."

I gave the guy a hallelujah behind that one.

Agreed, brother.

Hell, I'd have even raised my fist to that.

Now that Sweet Sweetback's shown me how it's done, I can take it.

Baby.

Truth in Tostados

"T o live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." ~ Oscar Wilde

I am many things to many people, but not a one of them can stand it when I get low.

My natural tendency is toward optimism; the glass is always half full if you ask me.

I wake up raring to go and I rarely turn down a chance to do something that sounds interesting.

Even so, my state of mind had been wavering in a much lower place than usual for a few months now.

To be frank, I felt dangerously close to just existing.

Friends noticed and didn't like it, but had no idea what to do about it.

My mother expressed concern about the absence of my sunny side and strongly suggested online dating, as if that would do the trick.

And while I have several close friends who found love online, I knew that wasn't likely to be the solution to what ailed me.

Instead I went back to doing what I do best: living my life in the way that makes me happiest. Doing the things that matter to me.

But I also started reaching out beyond my usual circle and including some of the people I've known in the past but hadn't spent much time with lately.

Sometimes it backfired and I was sorry I hadn't gone out alone as usual, but sometimes the company was exactly the Rx I needed to return to fully enjoying myself.

Turns out I was lonely and just needed more company more often.

As practiced as I am at living life, I am a highly social creature and had been spending way too much time in my own company.

So there you have it.

Instead of sharing details of my dinner (Pescado's China Street), my companion (a friend for only the past couple of years), what we talked about (moving, admission of feelings, travel) and what happened around us, I offer a rumination on my life.

Merely existing might be easier, but I can't imagine it would be nearly as satisfying.

How's that for oblique?

One Ox, Two Flans, Three Deep

Nothing like a wine tasting to pass the time waiting for a bar stool in a busy restaurant.

And at 7:30 this evening, Pescado's China Street was a supremely busy restaurant with three deep at the bar.

After stating my intentions of eating at the bar to the host, it was recommended that I hover near a quartet who were next on the list to get a table.

The cowboy boots-wearing woman who was sitting in the bar stool soon to be mine even mentioned that she was warming the seat for me.

It's the little touches that make or break a dining experience. Cute tights are drafty, so a warm stool on a cold night is a lovely thing.

While I waited for her group to be called, a Spaniard approached and offered me wine.

As it turned out, his only motive was to let me taste his wares since he's an importer and was in house doing tastings for the evening.

I happily sipped an Azento 2005 Rioja Crianza, savoring its nice body and hints of cherry while enjoying conversation with this stranger bearing wine.

May I just say that this is a great way to entertain waiting guests on a busy night.

Restaurateurs, take note.

The diners-to-be were dislodged just as my girlfriend showed up so we slid into our stools as if they'd been reserved for us.

Starved by this time, I went ahead and ordered an appetizer while she ordered wine.

Although we have been friends for a couple of years now and have several areas of common interest, food is rarely one of them.

If I am a human garbage disposal, eating everything, she is the opposite, possibly the pickiest eater on the planet. She has scoffed at my orders of wild boar and been revolted by my sugar toads.

Not that I took that into consideration when I ordered the braised oxtail on crispy tostones with oxtail jus and corn nuts.

The long-cooked meat was divine with my Rioja and she was hungry enough to try a bite, only to discover, "It just tastes like meat!" and finish one of the three on the plate.

Needless to say, it was her first oxtail, but I'd have bet the farm that she wouldn't have even tried it, so this was progress.

A couple sitting near us at the bar eyed our food longingly as they continued to hold out for a table.

The reluctance to eat at the bar when clearly hungry mystifies me; I know from experience that a meal can be quite intimate between a couple at a bar, so why wait?

But to each his own.

I was just lucky that they didn't have forks because I had a feeling that they wouldn't have hesitated to reach over for a taste. Or three.

As it was, they asked what I'd ordered and said they were going to order the same. And it was going to be their first oxtail, too.

It's been a month since my friend and I'd gone out, so some sharing of stories was in order.

During a break in the conversation, I strained to hear the music only to realize that the cacophony in the room made it impossible to know if they were playing metal or Muzak.

Much as I love my music, the lively vibe in the room made for a party-like atmosphere that perfectly suited a Saturday night so I accepted the absence.

On her way to the bathroom, my friend had spotted the fish tacos and the visual was enough to make her dinner decision.

I went with the marlin tostada with black bean and corn salsa, supposedly an appetizer, but so large on arrival that even a man standing next to me noticed.

"That's a small plate?" he asked about the abundance of smoked fish, corn and beans.

Yes, sir. You just have to know how to pick 'em.

The Spaniard finally went off duty and took a stool for dinner, even offering to share his chocolate flan with us.

After seeing it go by earlier, he too had been sucked in by the visual.

The guy next to him, not to be outdone, ordered another chocolate flan and shared that with us, too.

I couldn't think of a single reason not to take dessert from men who were offering it.

That doesn't mean there isn't a good reason to demur; I just didn't bother looking to find it.

And while it wasn't the most chocolaty of desserts, the lovely texture more than made up for its delicate flavor.

Friend was so impressed with the food and the vibe that she arranged to bring her boyfriend there next weekend and surprise him with a tasting menu.

She set it up with the chef once the dinner rush was over, even insisting that oxtail be part of the menu.

An unexpected wine tasting, dessert from a stranger and Miss Finicky Eater requesting tail. I could go home happy now.

My work here was through.

Up in the Air

I got lucky on my solo mission tonight.

Which is to say that after addressing a week's worth of missed work and unattended chores, I wanted out even if no one was expressing any interest in the pleasure of my company..

For my pre-theater dinner I chose Pescado's, welcoming the blast of air conditioning when I walked in. I may not use it, but some days, I can appreciate it.

Likewise, I could appreciate the soup of the day, a watermelon gazpacho with a tomato/mango emulsion and a generous cucumber/jalapeno/mint drizzle.

The sweetness of the melon was tempered by the tomato but it was the subtle-but-there heat of the jalapeno that made for a wonderful contrast with the soup's cool flavors.

That and a glass of Vinho Verde did much to lower my body temperature and make me forget about the sweltering heat outside.

One of the owners came in and joined me for a bowl of the soup after I raved about it. Coincidentally, he'd been down at the beach only a few miles from me last week.

Which got us to talking about beach restaurants/bars and before we knew it, the bartender was telling us about her years as a server down there at one of the most renowned meat market bars. 

Everyone's got a beach story, it seems, just some more sordid than others.

Because I had plans, I had to move on to dinner in the middle of discussing a beach bartender we both knew. I decided the fish tacos were sounding good tonight. 

Seared dorado filled corn tortillas along with pico de gallo, local micro-greens, pickled red onion, and tomato/jalapeno sauce. On the side were their excellent coconut black beans, which I could eat everyday.

By the time I finished stuffing myself, it was showtime so I paid up and traveled the short distance to Firehouse Theater.

Tonight was the last night of the 9th Annual Festival of New American Plays. 

Showing was "Somebody's Daughter" by Chisa Hutchinson, the story of a Chinese-American student and her Chinese-American guidance counselor trying to muddle through the consequences of culturally sanctioned gender bias. 

The staged reading sang with energy and although there were four Asian roles and only one Asian actor, it totally worked.

Perhaps most interestingly, the subplot about the Chinese guidance counselor and her African-American boyfriend was played out in the front row tonight where a Chinese theater student sat with his African-American girlfriend.

He admitted that his family reacted just as the character's had in dealing with him dating a non-Asian.

My seatmate was VCU theater professor and director Barry Bell, whose wife was in the production, and who, like any good theater pro, questioned me on the origins of my love for theater.

Not wanting to over-share I didn't tell him I eschew television, but instead said how I'd been taken occasionally as a child and become a fanatic in college, partially due to easy access to Kennedy Center tickets from my part-time job.

As lame as that sounds, I saw more theater in college than any theater student I knew. And once I was hooked, I just never let it go.

I have a friend who used to call me "Miss First Nighter" back in the nineties. I think she meant it as a compliment.

At the talkback afterwards, the audience was enthusiastic about seeing the play produced, although opinions varied about the casting. Apparently finding ethnic actors is no easy job in Richmond, but some people felt it was non-negotiable.

On my way to the lobby, I ran into a friend and man-about-town who usually kneels and kisses my hand when he sees me. I find it charming.

Tonight he embraced me in a bear hug, lifting me completely off the ground as he did so.

I can't tell you the last time a guy scooped me up so that my feet left the floor. I found out tonight what a loss that is.

He's taken, but surely he's not the only guy capable of sweeping me off my feet. 

That much I know.

Be Me and Report Back

Does anyone else really want to do what I do?

Tonight that would have started with the happy hour at the Anderson Gallery for a performance by the Bird and Her Consort.

For the uninitiated, that would be Jonathan and Antonia Vassar of JV and the Speckled Bird.

Using guitar, accordion and classical voice, the duo performed what was termed as "parlor music" with an open parasol sitting on the floor in front of them.

Before the show, the older gentleman sitting next to me in the gallery inquired if I knew what parlor music was and I was of no assistance, but we were both willing to find out.

After listening to their beautiful interpretations of vintage music in French, Italian and English, I would say parlor music involves sad songs of love, passion and longing, some of which I even recognized.

They had recently performed at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden and after a sad French song, a French Canadian couple had informed them that it had been sung too slowly.

"But I think they're wrong," Antonia said defiantly tonight. She sang the song at the exact same tempo as she had the last time and it was stunning. What do French Canucks know anyway?

After the show, I was asked what was next on my agenda for the evening. But it was a devoted fan of Antonia's who asked me the question of the day.

"So have you ever considered having someone take over your life for a few weeks to give you a vacation?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Silly me, my initial reaction was that she was suggesting that my life might get tiresome. Then I realized she was offering herself up.

"I'd need some advance notice," she qualified. "I'd have to rest up and go to the gym." All I had to do was hand over my itinerary and she was going to live it and blog it for me.

It was a most intriguing idea, even if she would need me to plot it out for her. Someone pointed out that she'd have to modify her 9:00 bedtime to be me. That's the least of her worries, I might add.

Stop number two was the Virginia Center for Architecture for a screening of "Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman."

Had I known who Julius Shulman was a month ago? No, but once a little research divulged that he was the premiere architectural photographer of the twentieth century, I was in and interested.

Because architectural photography is the primary means by which most people see a given building, it is hugely significant.

And the twentieth century was an optimistic time when architects believed they could change the world and the photographs of their work shaped the world's perceptions of the West Coast and that lifestyle.

The film was made before Shulman's death in 2009 (he was nearly 100!) so it included his ruminations, jokes, and thoughts as well as visits to some of the houses he had shot decades ago.

Sadly, post-modernism drove Shulman  into retirement, but his photographs became invaluable for restoration projects of any number of modernist houses that had fallen into disrepair.

Eventually, his photographs were seen as fine art and he had gallery shows both here and abroad.

A fascinating observation made during the film was that "The houses in real life were not as beautiful as Julius' photographs."

From what was shown in the film, he clearly had a knack for picking the best possible angle of any given structure. Luckily, his legacy lives on in the archives of the Getty Museum in L.A.

Last, but not least, was dinner with a long-absent girlfriend at Pescado's China Street. She'd been traveling for work so much that it had been a month since our last rendezvous.

When I walked in it was after 8:30 and every table was taken, as was every bar stool. I'd never seen the place so crowded.

My friend had finally snagged a table after much waiting and our server immediately poured me a glass from her bottle of Santa Digna Sauvignon Blanc.

I didn't get too far into it before we were able to move to a couple of available stools and get settled in for some catching up.

Conch fritters made for a fine start and then I had the smoked Pacific marlin tostada with black beans, radish and roasted corn salsa.

While it qualified for "tall food" status, it was the trio of flavors; smokey fish, fresh corn salsa and hearty (and heart-healthy) black beans that got my taste buds singing.

My friend had the tetilla tamales of roasted chicken, masa, tetilla cheese, tomato/basil jalapeno sauce and cilantro aioli, which I had to taste because I'd never had them before.

Instead of the usual Latin music or reggae, we enjoyed a soulful mix tonight that even got our bartender busting a move at one point. Old-school soul certainly has stood the test of time well.

Co-owner Bob dropped by to talk restaurants and near West End development with us and we all got passionate about the possible demise of the Westhampton Theater. Now that would be a loss.

Eventually my friend went on to the delicious Los Cabos salad while I enjoyed the switch to Conde Villar Branco Vinho Verde, a fizzy little gem that was perfect given today's heat.

We were so busy catching up with one another that all of a sudden we looked up and the staff was putting chairs on top of tables. Oops, time to go.

And therein lies the challenge for my replacement. Sure, you can be me as long as you can hang until you've finished doing all the good stuff every night.

Only then is it okay to cut bait and go home and tell the world about it.

Well, except for the really good stuff, which doesn't happen nearly often enough, and that's what remains the great mystery.

Kansas City and Jello Shooters

It's always the nights you expect to be low-key that blow up in your face. But in a fun way.

After a friend called from out of town and kept me on the phone for a while talking about sailing, GTOs and cuff links, I got a late start on dinner out.

One factor was the heat seriously reducing my appetite, but I was hoping that Pescado's China Street could revive it.

As it turned out, I met a couple of friends of the owner, one from Kansas City and the other a native, and they decided to join my party of one, making for all kinds of conversational possibilities.

With the temperature still hovering in the 90s despite the clock reading almost 8:00, I had no choice but to drink the Twin Vines vino verde. Anything more would have been too much.

I kept dinner light, too, ordering the Los Cabos, a salad of local field greens, goat cheese, mango, pine nuts, red onion and avocado with mango dressing.

Despite my new found friends, I tore into it when it arrived.

It was the guys' first time at Pescado's and they made two excellent choices: the soft shelled crab and the escolar.

I was even given a generous piece of the crab, savoring the chipotle-honey sauce that came on it.

I thought I was breaking some sort of record for soft shell consumption until the owner ordered one and the chef pointed out that he has eaten soft shells for 27 days straight.

I feel far better about my own softshell obsession now.

The first-timers were good company, offering up conversation about fish, restaurants and which West End bars are good meat markets. The things I learn when I'm out.

When the topic turned to tilapia, the chef joined in, telling us which fish he likes to order and which are too commonplace.

I loved his summation of the RVA food trifecta.
According to him (and I don't think he's far off), pig, crab and corn guarantee a best-seller on a menu.

Thinking about the ubiquitous nature of all three on menus around her, it's hard to argue his point.

After a particularly good food discussion, the KC dweller noted the obvious. "So I should call you when I come to town because I'm on an expense account and we're both foodies."

Only if you want a non-stop talking dinner companion who eats everything.

Finally they were off to the meat market and I was off to a housewarming party thrown by two symphony musicians.

Sedate as that might sound like it should be, it  was anything but. When I walked in, the host grabbed me and said, "Karen is in the house," as if that were significant.

He handed me a shot of Jagermeister (which I left sitting on the dog cage and is still there I would assume) and opened my gift of wine and a sex toy. Hey, it takes a lot to make a house a home.

The music was vintage and I had to razz the twenty-somethings about forcing me to listen to music I've already heard for far too long.

Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.

The guests were an eclectic mix, pulling heavily from the Richmond Symphony, but also from the local music scene and any number of offbeat connections.

One guy introduced himself suggestively and when I asked his connection, pointed to a girl and said, "I live under her."

He became a tad too friendly, pressing me (literally and figuratively) to dance with him and following me out when I left.

But other than that, I had a great time talking to a variety of people known and new to me as I made my way from room to room in the hosts' new (1979) freshly painted Museum District house.

Then the host appeared with a tray of Jello shooters, something I hadn't seen in quite some time and hadn't realized were still popular.

Perhaps it's bad memory, but the Jello shooters of my youth tasted far more of sugary gelatin than these alcohol-laden lovelies did.

Still, I squeezed a couple into my mouth. Peer pressure or foolhardiness? You be the judge.

I found a jazz DJ with whom I could discuss some recent purchases, talked to some charming symphony musicians about a mutual clarinet-playing friend and met the host's father who questioned how I knew his son. Music, really, sir.

If it hadn't been for being followed out and pressed about a date, it would have been a practically perfect way to spend a sultry evening.

A sign is what I need. I'll wear it around my neck.

"If I'm interested, I'll tell you. Otherwise, let's just chat."

I have no problem being direct when circumstances warrant it. Would that that were the case more often.

Meeting My Match(es) at Balliceaux

"We'd have had a great time at the wedding if we hadn't fallen down so much."

Tonight's couple date was priceless for many reasons, but the above comment, offered to our server who had also been at the wedding, is example enough.

I met said couple at Pescado's China Street, a place they'd never been but were eager to try, especially when I told them that it was half price wine night. A bottle of Montecillo Albarino was a mere $13.50, positively irresistible to my friends.Me? I was along for the ride.

To buy time, we ordered the Happy Oysters with Caribbean slaw, hoping that they were as lightly breaded as promised. They were. The slaw was fabulous, spicy, crunchy and as good a complement for the crusty oysters as could be hoped for.

While catching up on theater, art and first dates, we gobbled the oysters and ordered dinner. He went with paella deconstructed, she with crab cakes and I with the saffron mussels. roasted pork belly, purple potatoes and white wine/saffon/serrano broth.

We hadn't seen each other since St. Patrick's Day, so there was much to discuss. She's as big an art geek as I am, so I told her about today's visit to the museum. They told me about their Restaurant Week forays.

Owner Bob Windsor came in and I introduced him to my first-timer friends. Before I knew it, they were comparing who they knew who had attended T.J. I sat quietly and pretended like they were discussing something interesting.

We finished up with the dessert special of the day, a roasted banana cheesecake. Although the girlfriend and I are no fans of cheesecake, this one lacked the cloying sweetness of your typical cheesecake and all three of us found it to have a deep and delicious flavor. It didn't make me like cheesecake any better, but it was the best kind of exception to a rule.

My friend inexplicably commented on, of all things, my breasts, and it was at that point that we ended the evening. They  were headed home and I was going to Balliceaux for music and Salneval Albarino.

Ombak was playing, but I stopped at the front bar to see a favorite bartender and the next thing I knew, I was deep in conversation with a professor of philosophy at UR. We had a surprising amount in common.

She was there with a friend who was already in the back room listening to Ombak, but that didn't stop her from lingering with me and discussing gender roles and music, she also being a National fanatic.

All of a sudden, things changed when she headed to the back room and a couple of unlikely guys breezed in. It was the bartender from Bobette and the Welshman I'd recently met there and they were ready for some fun.

We were soon joined by the wine pro and it resulted in all kinds of fascinating and varied conversations. Up for grabs were the British monarchy, tennis parties and restaurant owners taking time off.

Personal  highlights were many. Multiple requests to leave lip prints abounded (no, I'm not kissing any shirttails) for no clear reason. Amongst the the  most satisfying commentary:

The bartender: "Karen's not like any other girl."
The Welshman: "You're quite the lovely person."
The wine pro: "Reading you is a guilty pleasure."

And while I got to hear Ombak from the front bar, I never actually saw the band performing tonight (in the past, yes). It's not that I'm easily distracted, but this was not your usual bar distraction; each of them had lots to say to me and the group. I got my shoulders rubbed, my blog complimented and my humor tickled.

But to be clear, no one was falling down; this was not like a wedding. We were just happy to see each other.

Of course, what happened after I left them, I have no idea.

Locked in Pescado's

I discovered the secret Friday lunchtime hideaway of Richmond's restaurant set or at least it seemed that way today at Pescado's China Street.

We arrived just after 1:00 to a roomful of business types finishing up their noontime meal. Once they cleared out, the second wave came in and that's when the restaurant owners, bartenders and servers rolled in to lunch at a more appropriate hour. Some appeared to be on their first coffee of the day.

The sign board outside had sucked us in on the conch fritters, so that's how our meal started off. They were the smallest conch fritters I'd ever had, but large in flavor. Both Friend and I chose the Los Cabos, a salad of local field greens, goat cheese, mango, pine nuts, red onion and avocado in a mango dressing.

When our plates arrived, they were piled so incredibly high that my friend commented, "They look like haystacks!" They were very generously-sized salads with so many interesting ingredients and textures that we both felt more than satisfied with our healthy choices.

"The further down I eat, the better it gets," my friend observed. It was true; much of the mango and pine nut portion of the salad accumulated at the bottom, making for sweet and crunchy bites galore toward the end.

I declined dessert, causing my friend to assume a shocked look and order the chocolate flan with cashews anyway. He ate most of it, prodding me to join in and I eventually did just to make him happy (or at least that's what I told myself).

And all those restaurant types? They shared gossip and restaurant recommendations and ate as long as we did, which is to say until long after Pescado's locked the front door to customers to start on dinner prep.

When Friend dropped me off, he got a serious look on his face, took my hand and asked me if something was wrong. "You don't seem like yourself today."

I'd been told the same thing last night at dinner by another friend. Not myself, huh? I think I know just how to fix that.

Pescado's: Just Call Me Lady

Rainy days and Mondays mean I want to be out around people.

Mondays and holidays mean my choices are limited. My mood means I want someplace I haven't been in a while.

Next stop, Oregon Hill.

Pescado's China Street was doing a booming Monday night business when I got there, but the bar was quiet enough that I had my pick of stools, although I always sit in the same one, the one with the straight-shot view of the busy kitchen.

I like to watch.

The bartender greeted me with ma'am, which I told him was unacceptable.

He asked for a better term and I suggested lady; he was appalled.

We settled on Karen.

Looking to decide what to drink, I asked about the Calina Carmenere, not recognizing the grape.

He warned me that it was a big wine, bigger than a Cab and rich and spicy.

I placed my ice-cold hands on his arm, saying I needed something to thicken my blood in this cold dampness.

He immediately began pouring me a glass.

Looking around, I noticed a pair of vintage water-skis had found their way onto the wall across from me; they looked perfect next to the mermaid.

Also new was a classic neon-ringed clock, shining a soft pink glow over the booths.

Everyone knows Pescado's is a fish place and I've had some excellent fish and seafood there, but the moment I saw oxtail, my fate was decided.

But I started with a dinner salad, mainly because the local field greens come from Powhatan County and the lemon/rosemary vinaigrette sounded appealing.

It was a fine, fresh-tasting start to my meal.

Dinner was three generous-sized mounds of braised oxtail over crispy tostones, with oxtail jus and corn nuts scattered about.

And while it looked like a lot of other oxtail I've had, one taste revealed its secret; habanero in the pot during the seven hours of braising.

Its subtle heat was sublime.

The tostones were that fabulous combination of crispy on the outside and creamy inside and were the perfect vehicle for bites of the succulent oxtail.

Bits of red onion provided just the right sweetness and the corn nuts were an inspired addition.

While I was reveling in my oxtail, a guy came up to the bar and we began chatting.

I learned that he and a friend were on a progressive dining evening.

They'd begun at Can-Can for a cocktail and mussels.

As they left, they noticed that skate wing was on the menu for tonight only, catching their attention.

Next up they went to Acacia for a drink and ceviche.

At Pescado's, like me, they had been unable to resist the allure of the oxtail, even though it didn't fit in with the theme of their evening.

Now he was finishing up his drink with me before they returned to Can-Can for the skate wing.

I told him that they'd come up with the best way to pass a rainy Monday evening that I'd heard in a long time.

He agreed before introducing himself as Hal and saying goodnight.

The door had barely closed on Hal when I had the pleasure of chatting with Chef Todd and co-owner Bob while enjoying my chocolate flan with cashews.

We were talking about the Richmond obsession with brunch and how people will wait ridiculous amounts of time to eat eggs on the weekend.

So the reality is, there can never be too many brunch spots in this town because if you make eggs, they will come.

The chef reminded me that they relish the chance to get wildly creative for daring customers and taunted me with stories of recently having served jellyfish ("If you like the texture of calamari, you'd like jellyfish," he promised) to some adventurous eaters.

Just call ahead, he said.

Oh, I will, I answered.

By the time the servers started putting the chairs up on the tables, the big neon clock was telling me that I'd been there for over three hours and it was probably time to go.

My blood sufficiently warmed by the Carmenere and the habenero-infused oxtail, I felt awfully satisfied with my rainy Monday evening.

It wasn't quite as cool a plan as Hal's had been, but it delivered on the meal and the company I was seeking.

And now I know.

Oregon Hill is for jellyfish.