The rules are different on a girls' night out.
Mac and I were eating at the counter of Galley Go To when she spotted the chocolate/chocolate cake on the other side. Since our pizzas hadn't arrived, we wasted no time in walking around the U-shaped counter to inspect the cake up close. And I'm not going to lie, the coconut cake sitting directly next to the chocolate did give us a moment's pause.
But then Mac decided the matter, announcing, "Nah, I want chocolate cake" and that was that.
Once we were eating our pizzas - the usual Bianca for me and Popeye's for her - she pointed out that we needed to finish soon so we'd have time to eat the cake before we left for the movies. That's when I had to remind her that we were going to see a movie about a middle aged woman looking for love, so there was no reason we couldn't eat our cake in the theater before the movie began.
All I'm saying is, I can't imagine they ever threw any women out of a certified chick flick for eating chocolate cake. I think it's in our Bill of Rights or something.
When we walked into the theater, we were the only occupants. Once we finished our cake, Mac asked if I thought anyone else would come. My best guess was we'd see 2 to 3 middle-aged women. As if on cue, two such women walked in a few minutes later. Next came a couple, surprising us both since we hadn't expected any men.
The final arrivals were a gay couple, bringing the final totals to 5 middle aged women and one straight man. Close enough.
"Gloria Bell" was a remake of Chilean director Sebastion Lelio's film "Gloria," except set in Los Angeles and starring a still gorgeous 60-year old Julianne Moore. Even in the film, a character can't help but ask if she's had work done and she's flattered, but says no. That she's gone on record in real life as saying aging is natural and she'll never have plastic surgery should make her a hero to all women.
Role modeling aside, I liked many things about her character, but probably none so much as her unshakable romantic optimism and her love of dancing as often as possible.
It was gratifying to see that I'm not the only one similarly afflicted.
So while she's certainly not the only woman of a certain age who still loves dancing, the world she inhabits has a leg up on mine because in hers, there's a club frequented by only middle aged people with nothing but good '70s and '80s music played.
Believe me, if such a thing existed in Richmond, I'd be a regular.
And between her nights dancing and her daily singing in the car (it is L.A., after all), that meant a whole lot of music from my youth. I'm talking songs like "Love Is In the Air," "Never Can Say Goodbye" and "September," along with the iconic dance floor anthem "Gloria."
Let's put it this way, there weren't many songs played that I haven't already danced to. Repeatedly.
But my favorite thing about "Gloria Bell" (besides John Turturro, of whom I'm a big fan) was how un-American a film it came across as. Since I hadn't seen the original, I had no clue how things would work out, so I was continually surprised by how the director handled a scene or outcome.
Like life, there were no easy answers and opening yourself up to love at middle age is bound to come with more than a few surprises and at least a little baggage.
Walking out of the theater after everything was not tied up neatly Hollywood-style, I heard my name called from across the parking lot. It was a guy I know, a regular movie-goer en route to see "Transit" and curious about our choice. Guessing what we'd seen, he said his conclusion had been that "Gloria Bell" was a film only enjoyable to middle aged women.
I didn't bother reminding him that gay men seemed to enjoy it, too, a fact he should have realized since he's getting a chemical peel tomorrow and will be unable to be out doing reviews for the next week.
Meanwhile, Mac took issue with the film's depiction of technology, informing me afterward that if a man won't stop calling you, all you need to do is block his number. Can't relate.
That aside, allow me to suggest to middle aged women across Richmond that chocolate cake pairs beautifully with "Gloria" and a girlfriend.
Showing posts with label pizza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pizza. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Daybreak Ain't No Time for Gullibility
Talk about your unlikely double feature after eating a musician's pie...
For those of us who've been eagerly following the dough-making journey of a certain local percussionist for months, the payoff finally arrived last Thursday when he announced to the Facebook world, "It happens tomorrow! Come and kick my ass! Please!"
"It" was the pizza-making operation at the new Galley Market and the photo he posted showed stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, so, sure, I was curious, although southside isn't exactly part of my regular rotation. Then he posted a picture of his Bianca pizza with house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil and I couldn't schedule a time to get over there soon enough.
As it happened, tonight I was headed to southside for the final installment of the International Film Series and what could be more perfect than pie to sustain me through two movies?
After ordering from the cashier, I nabbed a stool at the counter to wait for my Bianca to emerge from the oven. To kill time, I picked up the Richmond Times Disgrace laying on the counter only to see some editorial adjustments to a front page article.
A headline that read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in Certain Cases?" had been altered to read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in All Cases?" with the word "YES!" scribbled at the end of the question. No, tell us how you really feel.
I glanced at my horoscope for today - "Gemini, gullibility will be your downfall"- and decided I didn't need to to be told the obvious yet again. Fortunately, my pie arrived and I have to say, Giustino knows how to make a damn good pie: the crust was as satisfyingly chewy as a good baguette and the cheeses were portioned exactly right with just a hint of Gorgonzola on the finish.
Oh, great, now I'm going to have to drive to southside for really excellent pizza.
I only had to drive back to Westover Hills to see the black and white 1955 film, "Death of a Cyclist," which, being mid-century Spanish (and directed/written by Javier Bardem's uncle), managed to roll adultery, a hit and run, a grading scandal at university and a whole lot of metaphors about Franco and the hollowness of war - with a lot of moody Hitchcockian cinematography and a dash or two of film noir tropes - into a completely engrossing realist film about guilt and class.
Of course, in 1955, there was no getting away with misdeeds without punishment, so our adulterers and murderers paid the ultimate price (with a solid dose of Catholicism for good measure) for breaking multiple commandments.
But woman does not live by pizza and realism alone, so I wound up at the Byrd Theatre standing in line outside waiting for the theater to clear and freezing while doing it. Around me, fools in short sleeves shivered visibly.
The first distraction was the organizers of tonight's event coming by to give everyone a raffle ticket for a chance to win a free ticket to see John Waters when he comes to the Byrd to do his Christmas show.
Then there were the inane conversations I had no choice but to overhear. In front of me were two people arguing whether mushrooms counted as a veggie or a fungus, a disagreement they gave up only when she mentioned she was wearing a Dad sweater for warmth.
"It's a nice sweater, so why isn't your Dad still wearing it?" the bearded one inquired of the "Cosby" show-era relic. "Cause it's from the '80s and you don't get to wear it in the '80s and still wear it," she explained matter-of-factly. "So only 20-somethings can wear Dad sweaters now?" he wondered. "Right. He's 65, so he can't wear this," she proclaimed, ending the conversation.
You can only imagine how glad I was that the line began moving to go inside. Soon I was comfortably ensconced in one of the new seats for a black comedy crime film courtesy of Movie Club Richmond's screening of the John Waters classic, "Serial Mom."
Next to me was a young woman who recently moved here from Alabama and had come to see her second John Waters movie, "Crybaby" having been the first. I advised her to go back further in his catalog and see what John Waters' films were like before he rated Hollywood stars and bigger budgets.
When it came time to pull raffle tickets, manager Todd strolled up the aisle to get a patron to pull one out of the popcorn bucket. "I know exactly who I can ask to do it," he said, heading directly to me. It was probably a good thing that I didn't pull my own number.
I hadn't seen "Serial Mom" since it came out in 1994, so while I recalled the basic premise, I'd forgotten just how graphic and dark it was when bodies began stacking up almost from the movie's beginning. I know for sure that the quintet sitting behind me weren't prepared for such a black comedy as they continually commented on what was happening as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes.
My guess is they hadn't even seen "Crybaby."
One thing that occurred to me as the saga unfolded was how dated some of the references were, to the point that many millennials probably didn't get them at all. Richard Speck? Premiere magazine? Jason Priestly? Franklin Mint? Did they even recognize the Barry Manilow song "Daybreak?"
And you should have heard the groans when a character at the video store said how much she liked Bill Cosby's funny films. Way too soon.
But I have to admit I wasn't without knowledge myself. When I first saw the movie, I'd only just barely learned who L7 was, so I got a kick out of seeing them perform as Camel Lips during the raucous club scene.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, unlike the Spanish realism I'd enjoyed earlier, this was a movie with a psychotic central character, much use of the "pussy" word and no retribution for bad behavior whatsoever.
Sort of reminded me of our current administration. Leave it to John Waters to predict the future.
For those of us who've been eagerly following the dough-making journey of a certain local percussionist for months, the payoff finally arrived last Thursday when he announced to the Facebook world, "It happens tomorrow! Come and kick my ass! Please!"
"It" was the pizza-making operation at the new Galley Market and the photo he posted showed stacks and stacks of pizza boxes, so, sure, I was curious, although southside isn't exactly part of my regular rotation. Then he posted a picture of his Bianca pizza with house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil and I couldn't schedule a time to get over there soon enough.
As it happened, tonight I was headed to southside for the final installment of the International Film Series and what could be more perfect than pie to sustain me through two movies?
After ordering from the cashier, I nabbed a stool at the counter to wait for my Bianca to emerge from the oven. To kill time, I picked up the Richmond Times Disgrace laying on the counter only to see some editorial adjustments to a front page article.
A headline that read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in Certain Cases?" had been altered to read, "Should Virginia Decriminalize Marijuana in All Cases?" with the word "YES!" scribbled at the end of the question. No, tell us how you really feel.
I glanced at my horoscope for today - "Gemini, gullibility will be your downfall"- and decided I didn't need to to be told the obvious yet again. Fortunately, my pie arrived and I have to say, Giustino knows how to make a damn good pie: the crust was as satisfyingly chewy as a good baguette and the cheeses were portioned exactly right with just a hint of Gorgonzola on the finish.
Oh, great, now I'm going to have to drive to southside for really excellent pizza.
I only had to drive back to Westover Hills to see the black and white 1955 film, "Death of a Cyclist," which, being mid-century Spanish (and directed/written by Javier Bardem's uncle), managed to roll adultery, a hit and run, a grading scandal at university and a whole lot of metaphors about Franco and the hollowness of war - with a lot of moody Hitchcockian cinematography and a dash or two of film noir tropes - into a completely engrossing realist film about guilt and class.
Of course, in 1955, there was no getting away with misdeeds without punishment, so our adulterers and murderers paid the ultimate price (with a solid dose of Catholicism for good measure) for breaking multiple commandments.
But woman does not live by pizza and realism alone, so I wound up at the Byrd Theatre standing in line outside waiting for the theater to clear and freezing while doing it. Around me, fools in short sleeves shivered visibly.
The first distraction was the organizers of tonight's event coming by to give everyone a raffle ticket for a chance to win a free ticket to see John Waters when he comes to the Byrd to do his Christmas show.
Then there were the inane conversations I had no choice but to overhear. In front of me were two people arguing whether mushrooms counted as a veggie or a fungus, a disagreement they gave up only when she mentioned she was wearing a Dad sweater for warmth.
"It's a nice sweater, so why isn't your Dad still wearing it?" the bearded one inquired of the "Cosby" show-era relic. "Cause it's from the '80s and you don't get to wear it in the '80s and still wear it," she explained matter-of-factly. "So only 20-somethings can wear Dad sweaters now?" he wondered. "Right. He's 65, so he can't wear this," she proclaimed, ending the conversation.
You can only imagine how glad I was that the line began moving to go inside. Soon I was comfortably ensconced in one of the new seats for a black comedy crime film courtesy of Movie Club Richmond's screening of the John Waters classic, "Serial Mom."
Next to me was a young woman who recently moved here from Alabama and had come to see her second John Waters movie, "Crybaby" having been the first. I advised her to go back further in his catalog and see what John Waters' films were like before he rated Hollywood stars and bigger budgets.
When it came time to pull raffle tickets, manager Todd strolled up the aisle to get a patron to pull one out of the popcorn bucket. "I know exactly who I can ask to do it," he said, heading directly to me. It was probably a good thing that I didn't pull my own number.
I hadn't seen "Serial Mom" since it came out in 1994, so while I recalled the basic premise, I'd forgotten just how graphic and dark it was when bodies began stacking up almost from the movie's beginning. I know for sure that the quintet sitting behind me weren't prepared for such a black comedy as they continually commented on what was happening as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes.
My guess is they hadn't even seen "Crybaby."
One thing that occurred to me as the saga unfolded was how dated some of the references were, to the point that many millennials probably didn't get them at all. Richard Speck? Premiere magazine? Jason Priestly? Franklin Mint? Did they even recognize the Barry Manilow song "Daybreak?"
And you should have heard the groans when a character at the video store said how much she liked Bill Cosby's funny films. Way too soon.
But I have to admit I wasn't without knowledge myself. When I first saw the movie, I'd only just barely learned who L7 was, so I got a kick out of seeing them perform as Camel Lips during the raucous club scene.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, unlike the Spanish realism I'd enjoyed earlier, this was a movie with a psychotic central character, much use of the "pussy" word and no retribution for bad behavior whatsoever.
Sort of reminded me of our current administration. Leave it to John Waters to predict the future.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Ruby Tuesday
Time for my rating of today's zeitgeist.
+6
Sitting on a rock in the James, our bodies submerged from the hips down, my companion spots a blue crab barely a foot away. In all my years of river walking, I've never seen a crab in the river. He's small, so maybe he's too young to know he's a tad west of the brackish water crabs prefer. Still, we saw a blue crab.
+2
When we went to 8 1/2 to get heroes for a picnic, the counter guy knocked the wind out of our sails when he said they were all out of rolls, those incredible crusty rolls. Okay, so we ordered a white pizza with spinach and onion to accompany our J. Mourat Rose.
Only problem was when we picked up the pizza, they'd made it red instead. "Want us to remake it?" they asked reluctantly. And wait another 35 minutes? Our bellies declined the offer. Still, it was a killer pizza, the meal rounded out with pasta salad and grapes.
+4
The group in front of us bought 2 bottles of wine but didn't have a wine opener. I asked if they were going to Scuffletown and when they said yes, I told them to look for my sunflower dress and they could borrow mine.
When she showed up, I learned that they were artists from NYC, down working on a virtual reality project with teens at Art 180, three blocks from my house. About 45 minutes later when he showed up to borrow it again and open their second bottle, he raved about what a cool town Richmond is. "You guys should keep this place a secret," he told me. We're trying.
+8
On a breezy July night, listening to a singing accordion player with a quietly dramatic delivery, accompanied by a Russian guitarist and a drummer playing in a park was just this side of sublime. Beginning 15 minutes before sunset, they played through the arrival of fireflies and the street lights coming on to a much smaller crowd than 2 weeks ago. Simply beautiful.
-9
Tonight's attendees were not an especially respectful bunch and many of them talked and laughed over the music being made. An accordion and acoustic guitars don't need competition from the noise made by people raised by wolves. Why come to a music show if you don't want to listen to the music?
+4
It's a who's who at the show. The traveling world musicians, just back from Vermont and leaving again in 3 days. The activist who tells me I look beautiful in my sunflower dress. The bolero singer we'd seen just Sunday night at Sub Rosato. The brains behind the kite-flying club, coincidentally also working on his own music series. The roadie (and best hugger I know), also just back from a tour. The songstress girlfriend I'm having brunch with Saturday. My favorite jazz metal guitarist and his cowboy roommate. The guy we'd met at the polo game 2 weeks ago.
Tuesday's score: 15
And that's not counting the afterparty, set to a soundtrack of cicadas and accompanied by warm breezes wafting through open windows.
As the Smithereens would say, groovy Tuesday.
+6
Sitting on a rock in the James, our bodies submerged from the hips down, my companion spots a blue crab barely a foot away. In all my years of river walking, I've never seen a crab in the river. He's small, so maybe he's too young to know he's a tad west of the brackish water crabs prefer. Still, we saw a blue crab.
+2
When we went to 8 1/2 to get heroes for a picnic, the counter guy knocked the wind out of our sails when he said they were all out of rolls, those incredible crusty rolls. Okay, so we ordered a white pizza with spinach and onion to accompany our J. Mourat Rose.
Only problem was when we picked up the pizza, they'd made it red instead. "Want us to remake it?" they asked reluctantly. And wait another 35 minutes? Our bellies declined the offer. Still, it was a killer pizza, the meal rounded out with pasta salad and grapes.
+4
The group in front of us bought 2 bottles of wine but didn't have a wine opener. I asked if they were going to Scuffletown and when they said yes, I told them to look for my sunflower dress and they could borrow mine.
When she showed up, I learned that they were artists from NYC, down working on a virtual reality project with teens at Art 180, three blocks from my house. About 45 minutes later when he showed up to borrow it again and open their second bottle, he raved about what a cool town Richmond is. "You guys should keep this place a secret," he told me. We're trying.
+8
On a breezy July night, listening to a singing accordion player with a quietly dramatic delivery, accompanied by a Russian guitarist and a drummer playing in a park was just this side of sublime. Beginning 15 minutes before sunset, they played through the arrival of fireflies and the street lights coming on to a much smaller crowd than 2 weeks ago. Simply beautiful.
-9
Tonight's attendees were not an especially respectful bunch and many of them talked and laughed over the music being made. An accordion and acoustic guitars don't need competition from the noise made by people raised by wolves. Why come to a music show if you don't want to listen to the music?
+4
It's a who's who at the show. The traveling world musicians, just back from Vermont and leaving again in 3 days. The activist who tells me I look beautiful in my sunflower dress. The bolero singer we'd seen just Sunday night at Sub Rosato. The brains behind the kite-flying club, coincidentally also working on his own music series. The roadie (and best hugger I know), also just back from a tour. The songstress girlfriend I'm having brunch with Saturday. My favorite jazz metal guitarist and his cowboy roommate. The guy we'd met at the polo game 2 weeks ago.
Tuesday's score: 15
And that's not counting the afterparty, set to a soundtrack of cicadas and accompanied by warm breezes wafting through open windows.
As the Smithereens would say, groovy Tuesday.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Love Shack
As with real estate, when it comes to parties, it's all about location, location, location.
Tonight's was pretty extraordinary: bucolic (Goochland County), outdoor (under a grand wooden pavilion) but warm (a roaring fireplace), adjacent to an orchard (cherry, pear, apple, fig and persimmon) and with a gorgeous Flemish bond brick oven we'd come to test out before the main event - a far grander party next weekend.
There's nothing like having a practice party before the real party.
Because six of the eight people at this shindig had been to South Africa, things kicked off, appropriately enough, with Wilderer Cape Fynbos grappa, an apperitif redolent with 30 South African herbs and made all the more special because it had been purchased there for the express purpose of drinking with friends here.
Over the course of the evening, ten pizzas of varying combinations - sausage, city ham, lamb, smoked salmon, bleu cheese, Fontina, Asiago, Mozzarella, homemade red and white sauces - were crafted and baked in the new oven, each one cut into 8 pieces so everyone got a slice and the opportunity to opine on the ever-changing permutations.
Not a tough assignment, especially with a glass of Goats Do Roam Rose in hand. The South African delights just kept on coming.
Three of the guys took on pizza-making duties, at least until we were down to our last ball of pizza dough, at which point our affable host, Pierre, insisted that it was my turn to learn the drill. I'm not here to tell you that my pizza was great, but after untold bottles of wine (some more expensive than my electric bill) and nine previous pizzas, it was a forgiving crowd.
There was even romance in the air when the blond said, "A bug just bit my cheek!" and her man called from across the massive table, "I wish I'd been that bug!"
An unexpected treat was watching our hostess as she made her 115th shack of 2017. That's right, 115 shacks in as many days.
Seems she'd decided to do an art project a day for a year (sort of like Noah Scalin's Skull-a-Day project) and the theme she'd chosen was shacks. Today's assignment was to create a shack from a wooden toy kit, which she'd purchased for $1.12.
Although the kit was for a flower truck, she handily turned it into a shack complete with overhanging front porch and cylindrical columns. Looking to be helpful, I asked if she'd like me to bring her some shrubbery and the shack soon had a "tree" on either side. When I showed up with mulch, she scattered it over the roof. A beer bottle cap became the front door.
It took almost as long to get just the right photograph (lighting was challenging despite using the flashlights on 3 cell phones) to document everything as it had taken to craft it in the first place.
It was clear she was taking great pleasure in this project, even admitting how much happier she's felt since adding daily art into her life. Her husband confirmed how much more she's been smiling since the start of the year. It's all about doing what you love.
What this group loved was talking about wine and food, with an occasional digression into naked survivor TV shows, the challenges of playing soccer with 18-year olds and why no one should eat a pepper when it's still green, ever, even if they are 30 cents cheaper than red ones.
If the practice party was this much of a good time, no telling what the real thing might bring with scads more people to join the fun.
I, for one, intend to find out.
Tonight's was pretty extraordinary: bucolic (Goochland County), outdoor (under a grand wooden pavilion) but warm (a roaring fireplace), adjacent to an orchard (cherry, pear, apple, fig and persimmon) and with a gorgeous Flemish bond brick oven we'd come to test out before the main event - a far grander party next weekend.
There's nothing like having a practice party before the real party.
Because six of the eight people at this shindig had been to South Africa, things kicked off, appropriately enough, with Wilderer Cape Fynbos grappa, an apperitif redolent with 30 South African herbs and made all the more special because it had been purchased there for the express purpose of drinking with friends here.
Over the course of the evening, ten pizzas of varying combinations - sausage, city ham, lamb, smoked salmon, bleu cheese, Fontina, Asiago, Mozzarella, homemade red and white sauces - were crafted and baked in the new oven, each one cut into 8 pieces so everyone got a slice and the opportunity to opine on the ever-changing permutations.
Not a tough assignment, especially with a glass of Goats Do Roam Rose in hand. The South African delights just kept on coming.
Three of the guys took on pizza-making duties, at least until we were down to our last ball of pizza dough, at which point our affable host, Pierre, insisted that it was my turn to learn the drill. I'm not here to tell you that my pizza was great, but after untold bottles of wine (some more expensive than my electric bill) and nine previous pizzas, it was a forgiving crowd.
There was even romance in the air when the blond said, "A bug just bit my cheek!" and her man called from across the massive table, "I wish I'd been that bug!"
An unexpected treat was watching our hostess as she made her 115th shack of 2017. That's right, 115 shacks in as many days.
Seems she'd decided to do an art project a day for a year (sort of like Noah Scalin's Skull-a-Day project) and the theme she'd chosen was shacks. Today's assignment was to create a shack from a wooden toy kit, which she'd purchased for $1.12.
Although the kit was for a flower truck, she handily turned it into a shack complete with overhanging front porch and cylindrical columns. Looking to be helpful, I asked if she'd like me to bring her some shrubbery and the shack soon had a "tree" on either side. When I showed up with mulch, she scattered it over the roof. A beer bottle cap became the front door.
It took almost as long to get just the right photograph (lighting was challenging despite using the flashlights on 3 cell phones) to document everything as it had taken to craft it in the first place.
It was clear she was taking great pleasure in this project, even admitting how much happier she's felt since adding daily art into her life. Her husband confirmed how much more she's been smiling since the start of the year. It's all about doing what you love.
What this group loved was talking about wine and food, with an occasional digression into naked survivor TV shows, the challenges of playing soccer with 18-year olds and why no one should eat a pepper when it's still green, ever, even if they are 30 cents cheaper than red ones.
If the practice party was this much of a good time, no telling what the real thing might bring with scads more people to join the fun.
I, for one, intend to find out.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Principessa Valve
Sometimes you just gotta let it out.
Like the other night, a friend was telling me that she'd watched "The Impossible" and cried her eyes out during it.
I questioned why she'd even watched the movie, since I knew after merely seeing its preview, that it would have destroyed me.
Personally, I need movies for a lot of reasons, but that's not one of them.
Her response was that sometimes she liked to have an excuse to let it all out, so to speak, to cry for the sake of crying.
She likened it to a release valve and then I got it.
Tonight was like that for me without the wetness.
I had a lot on my mind and I needed a release for it.
So I called up a girlfriend and asked if we could get together and blather so I could let my valve off.
Naturally we couldn't jump right into that heaviness, so we started in the Devil's Triangle at Ariana's for pizza and wine.
My last trip to Ariana's had been Fall 2009 after Holmes and I had gone to the Historical Society to see the Declaration of Independence.
We'd sat at a corner table and watched a thunderstorm roll in over the rooftops and catch people unprepared.
Tonight we had a gentle rain just beginning.
With a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a Mediterranean salad and a Principessa (sausage, spinach, mushroom) white pizza, we started by focusing more on food and drink than life and woe.
As a devotee of white pizza, I loved how the menu said that if you wanted to switch a white pizza to red, there was a $2 surcharge.
That's right, penalize the red lovers instead of us for a change.
As puddles formed outside, we talked about art in all kinds of ways - a show I'd regretfully missed at the National Gallery, a stolen Renoir that's now been found in the collection of a Maryland woman, an article we'd both seen about visiting Paris to focus solely on food, not art.
But you can only delay the inevitable for so long, so once our meal was over, we headed back to her apartment for valve release.
That required another bottle, this time an Alsatian white, to accompany the abundance of conversation.
Everyone needs a friend who'll listen when you need to rant, someone who'll nod when you ask, "Right?" and support you when you're down.
She was that and more and when she brought me home, I thanked her profusely for being a much-needed ear tonight.
Like the friend who'd sobbed through a sad movie, I felt so much better for having let off a little steam.
And it didn't even take that long, a good thing because all that wine was suddenly making my bed the priority.
When I woke up a few hours later, it was because I heard thunder, meaning my visit to Ariana's had once again conjured up a storm.
Or maybe I wasn't the only one that needed a release tonight.
Like the other night, a friend was telling me that she'd watched "The Impossible" and cried her eyes out during it.
I questioned why she'd even watched the movie, since I knew after merely seeing its preview, that it would have destroyed me.
Personally, I need movies for a lot of reasons, but that's not one of them.
Her response was that sometimes she liked to have an excuse to let it all out, so to speak, to cry for the sake of crying.
She likened it to a release valve and then I got it.
Tonight was like that for me without the wetness.
I had a lot on my mind and I needed a release for it.
So I called up a girlfriend and asked if we could get together and blather so I could let my valve off.
Naturally we couldn't jump right into that heaviness, so we started in the Devil's Triangle at Ariana's for pizza and wine.
My last trip to Ariana's had been Fall 2009 after Holmes and I had gone to the Historical Society to see the Declaration of Independence.
We'd sat at a corner table and watched a thunderstorm roll in over the rooftops and catch people unprepared.
Tonight we had a gentle rain just beginning.
With a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a Mediterranean salad and a Principessa (sausage, spinach, mushroom) white pizza, we started by focusing more on food and drink than life and woe.
As a devotee of white pizza, I loved how the menu said that if you wanted to switch a white pizza to red, there was a $2 surcharge.
That's right, penalize the red lovers instead of us for a change.
As puddles formed outside, we talked about art in all kinds of ways - a show I'd regretfully missed at the National Gallery, a stolen Renoir that's now been found in the collection of a Maryland woman, an article we'd both seen about visiting Paris to focus solely on food, not art.
But you can only delay the inevitable for so long, so once our meal was over, we headed back to her apartment for valve release.
That required another bottle, this time an Alsatian white, to accompany the abundance of conversation.
Everyone needs a friend who'll listen when you need to rant, someone who'll nod when you ask, "Right?" and support you when you're down.
She was that and more and when she brought me home, I thanked her profusely for being a much-needed ear tonight.
Like the friend who'd sobbed through a sad movie, I felt so much better for having let off a little steam.
And it didn't even take that long, a good thing because all that wine was suddenly making my bed the priority.
When I woke up a few hours later, it was because I heard thunder, meaning my visit to Ariana's had once again conjured up a storm.
Or maybe I wasn't the only one that needed a release tonight.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Moon River
I saw the whole of the moon.
Surely that was what delivered such a mind-blowing show tonight.
It was going to be just a Monday night in the 'hood - a walk to the pizza door at Tarrant's for several slices eaten in a booth listening to employee chatter from behind the unseen counter before a show.
Whoa, what?
And that's all that I got.
What's that address again?
And it's fully erect!
Dude, wait.
True story.
Halfway to Gallery 5, I heard Canary Oh Canary's distinctive drumming, telling me the show had begun.
Inside, a small crowd was watching them do their usual intense set and I spotted several familiar faces.
Next came Horsehead with their straight ahead rock and roll enlivened by the dapperly-dressed Kevin on guitar, keyboard and slide.
"I just got word back from the bouncer that it's okay to come to the front," the lead singer implored. "You won't be thrown out for coming closer."
The crowd was tenative at best about getting too close.
During the break before Ken Stringfellow came out, a woman came over to grab her coat from a chair near me and I smiled at her.
"People are so friendly in Virginia!" she exclaimed, clearly surprised."I could live here!"
A Floridian, she's up here on business training and had decided to get out and hear live music.
Right there, she got major points. What a good visitor.
She was impressed at the age range of the show attendees and shared that she'd already eaten at Comfort and Tarrant's.
I suggested Bistro 27 for tomorrow since it's also within the orbit of her hotel.
Someone's got to steer the tourists right.
Before Ken Stringfellow started, a friend came over and expressed surprise that it was clearly going to be solo show.
He'd expected at least a small band but it was looking like Ken with guitar and keyboard.
Fine by me.
We agreed that it was an exciting prospect.
When he took the stage, it was to tell us how stuffed he was. "I ate at Comfort and I know what that's short for - uncomfortably full. It was so good."
He promptly grabbed his guitar and harmonica, walked down the stage's steps and began singing amongst us little people.
Reality is subject to cancellation.
Because the crowd was embarrassingly small (come on, people, do the Posies or Big Star mean nothing to you?), it was like being at a house party with Ken in the center.
Ken Stringfellow in the center.
Very cool.
The guy's got a stellar voice, standout songwriting skills and a genuine charisma and obvious delight in performing, making us a most fortunate audience.
At one point, my friend Gregg, a drummer, leaned over and remarked on what a terrifically intimate thing we were experiencing.
"This is the best show I've been to in years. I'm glad you're here too or no one would believe me when I told them about this," he whispered.
True story, to quote the Beavis and Butthead troupe behind the Tarrant's counter.
After singing a few songs while wandering among us, he returned to the stage to play keyboards for a few more.
Maybe he anticipated being lonely up there on stage by himself, so when he invited us to join him onstage, I was one of the dozen who did.
Sure, some people stayed on the floor where they could see him head on, but not me.
For all I know, no musician may ever again invite me to join him so this wasn't an opportunity I could pass up.
Best of all, he kept swiveling around to look at us and smile like he was plumb tickled to have the company.
Eventually we all migrated back down to the floor and Ken took up his guitar again.
He also said he'd plucked a feather from the Richmond bird and invited local songbird Julie Karr to join him for a few songs.
Julie's husky voice matched or harmonized with Ken's for four songs, including Neil Young's achingly beautiful "Birds."
Singing inches from each other while Ken played guitar and Julie kept time with her hands, it gave me chills and, judging from those around me, they felt the same.
Once they finished, he did an exquisite version of "Moon River," taking it in directions Henry Mancini could never have imagined but would have found beautiful.
When he headed back up on stage, he motioned us to follow and many of us did.
There, he enlisted assistance from the singer of Horsehead to sing Big Star's "Thirteen," surely one of the most beautiful songs about the teen angst years ever written and suddenly an audience member jumped onstage to sing along.
Would you be an outlaw for my love?
Pretty soon, half the audience joined in so he followed that with the Posie's "Solar Sister" and even more people knew every word.
You thought you could defeat her
You're lucky you could meet her
There was even shoulder holding and swaying while the crowd sang onstage.
Time was running out but the crowd was having none of him ending his set, so he caved, saying, "I only pull this out for special occasions...and when I don't see a jail."
It only took a couple of notes to recognize the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and the singalong was now complete.
Gregg had been right. "Without you blogging about it, it's like it never happened," a friend had chided me after missing his show last night.
So here's my proof that the Ken Stringfellow-in-the-round show happened.
And if I can be in a converted firehouse on the night of a full moon listening to a man's voice I have swooned to since 1993 sing, "I'm crossing you in style someday," you can bet I've got a mile-wide smile on my face.
Who couldn't live here?
Surely that was what delivered such a mind-blowing show tonight.
It was going to be just a Monday night in the 'hood - a walk to the pizza door at Tarrant's for several slices eaten in a booth listening to employee chatter from behind the unseen counter before a show.
Whoa, what?
And that's all that I got.
What's that address again?
And it's fully erect!
Dude, wait.
True story.
Halfway to Gallery 5, I heard Canary Oh Canary's distinctive drumming, telling me the show had begun.
Inside, a small crowd was watching them do their usual intense set and I spotted several familiar faces.
Next came Horsehead with their straight ahead rock and roll enlivened by the dapperly-dressed Kevin on guitar, keyboard and slide.
"I just got word back from the bouncer that it's okay to come to the front," the lead singer implored. "You won't be thrown out for coming closer."
The crowd was tenative at best about getting too close.
During the break before Ken Stringfellow came out, a woman came over to grab her coat from a chair near me and I smiled at her.
"People are so friendly in Virginia!" she exclaimed, clearly surprised."I could live here!"
A Floridian, she's up here on business training and had decided to get out and hear live music.
Right there, she got major points. What a good visitor.
She was impressed at the age range of the show attendees and shared that she'd already eaten at Comfort and Tarrant's.
I suggested Bistro 27 for tomorrow since it's also within the orbit of her hotel.
Someone's got to steer the tourists right.
Before Ken Stringfellow started, a friend came over and expressed surprise that it was clearly going to be solo show.
He'd expected at least a small band but it was looking like Ken with guitar and keyboard.
Fine by me.
We agreed that it was an exciting prospect.
When he took the stage, it was to tell us how stuffed he was. "I ate at Comfort and I know what that's short for - uncomfortably full. It was so good."
He promptly grabbed his guitar and harmonica, walked down the stage's steps and began singing amongst us little people.
Reality is subject to cancellation.
Because the crowd was embarrassingly small (come on, people, do the Posies or Big Star mean nothing to you?), it was like being at a house party with Ken in the center.
Ken Stringfellow in the center.
Very cool.
The guy's got a stellar voice, standout songwriting skills and a genuine charisma and obvious delight in performing, making us a most fortunate audience.
At one point, my friend Gregg, a drummer, leaned over and remarked on what a terrifically intimate thing we were experiencing.
"This is the best show I've been to in years. I'm glad you're here too or no one would believe me when I told them about this," he whispered.
True story, to quote the Beavis and Butthead troupe behind the Tarrant's counter.
After singing a few songs while wandering among us, he returned to the stage to play keyboards for a few more.
Maybe he anticipated being lonely up there on stage by himself, so when he invited us to join him onstage, I was one of the dozen who did.
Sure, some people stayed on the floor where they could see him head on, but not me.
For all I know, no musician may ever again invite me to join him so this wasn't an opportunity I could pass up.
Best of all, he kept swiveling around to look at us and smile like he was plumb tickled to have the company.
Eventually we all migrated back down to the floor and Ken took up his guitar again.
He also said he'd plucked a feather from the Richmond bird and invited local songbird Julie Karr to join him for a few songs.
Julie's husky voice matched or harmonized with Ken's for four songs, including Neil Young's achingly beautiful "Birds."
Singing inches from each other while Ken played guitar and Julie kept time with her hands, it gave me chills and, judging from those around me, they felt the same.
Once they finished, he did an exquisite version of "Moon River," taking it in directions Henry Mancini could never have imagined but would have found beautiful.
When he headed back up on stage, he motioned us to follow and many of us did.
There, he enlisted assistance from the singer of Horsehead to sing Big Star's "Thirteen," surely one of the most beautiful songs about the teen angst years ever written and suddenly an audience member jumped onstage to sing along.
Would you be an outlaw for my love?
Pretty soon, half the audience joined in so he followed that with the Posie's "Solar Sister" and even more people knew every word.
You thought you could defeat her
You're lucky you could meet her
There was even shoulder holding and swaying while the crowd sang onstage.
Time was running out but the crowd was having none of him ending his set, so he caved, saying, "I only pull this out for special occasions...and when I don't see a jail."
It only took a couple of notes to recognize the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and the singalong was now complete.
Gregg had been right. "Without you blogging about it, it's like it never happened," a friend had chided me after missing his show last night.
So here's my proof that the Ken Stringfellow-in-the-round show happened.
And if I can be in a converted firehouse on the night of a full moon listening to a man's voice I have swooned to since 1993 sing, "I'm crossing you in style someday," you can bet I've got a mile-wide smile on my face.
Who couldn't live here?
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Take From Me My Lace
It was time to close the door on the holiday season, at least for me.
I'm fine with decking the halls and all that fa-la-la-la-la up to a point and then I just want real life to resume.
Step one was visiting the parental units on the northern neck for lunch and gifting.
One highlight was the time spent on the dock on this winter afternoon, the tide rolling in and the sun fighting with the clouds for dominance.
Sure, my legs got a little cold, but it was worth it for the brisk air and sunlight sparkling on the river.
Back home, it was time for the Christmas tree to become mulch (first I drop it off the balcony) and my apartment to be returned to rights.
A little night music would have been nice, but I settled for a good old fashioned night at the pizza parlor.
Mary Angela's won out for no good reason.
I rarely go there, it's a Richmond staple, I was in the mood for pizza after some really nice meals lately.
All or none of the above.
The chosen pizza was New York style, white sauce, sausage and spinach, the chosen beverage root beer drunk from the bottle.
But it almost shot out of my nose when I realized what music was playing.
"Flashdance." As in, what a feeling.
How had I not seen this coming?
For my partner in pizza, that moment came when the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" came on.
You know the one.
Gonna rock it up, roll it up, do it all, have a ball
Saturday night, Saturday night
Of course, he's also said he's looking for a girl who likes the Bay City Rollers and the Ramones and I told him good luck with that.
The music continued in the tragically geriatric mode with bands like Supertramp and R.E.O. Speedwagon until I wanted to bang my head on the scarred table.
Please make it stop.
But then a true chestnut came on, the Stevie Nicks/Don Henley duet "Leather and Lace," the kind of song long forgotten by most people alive in the '80s.
People like me, for instance.
If ever there was a moment when that song should have come on, though, it was as I sat in a booth at Mary Angela's slurping pizza and slugging root beer.
You in the moonlight
With your sleepy eyes
Could you ever love a man like me?
That said, I feel like I just paid my classic rock dues for the year.
Now can I do it all, have a ball in 2013?
Let's get this year started before I explode.
I'm fine with decking the halls and all that fa-la-la-la-la up to a point and then I just want real life to resume.
Step one was visiting the parental units on the northern neck for lunch and gifting.
One highlight was the time spent on the dock on this winter afternoon, the tide rolling in and the sun fighting with the clouds for dominance.
Sure, my legs got a little cold, but it was worth it for the brisk air and sunlight sparkling on the river.
Back home, it was time for the Christmas tree to become mulch (first I drop it off the balcony) and my apartment to be returned to rights.
A little night music would have been nice, but I settled for a good old fashioned night at the pizza parlor.
Mary Angela's won out for no good reason.
I rarely go there, it's a Richmond staple, I was in the mood for pizza after some really nice meals lately.
All or none of the above.
The chosen pizza was New York style, white sauce, sausage and spinach, the chosen beverage root beer drunk from the bottle.
But it almost shot out of my nose when I realized what music was playing.
"Flashdance." As in, what a feeling.
How had I not seen this coming?
For my partner in pizza, that moment came when the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" came on.
You know the one.
Gonna rock it up, roll it up, do it all, have a ball
Saturday night, Saturday night
Of course, he's also said he's looking for a girl who likes the Bay City Rollers and the Ramones and I told him good luck with that.
The music continued in the tragically geriatric mode with bands like Supertramp and R.E.O. Speedwagon until I wanted to bang my head on the scarred table.
Please make it stop.
But then a true chestnut came on, the Stevie Nicks/Don Henley duet "Leather and Lace," the kind of song long forgotten by most people alive in the '80s.
People like me, for instance.
If ever there was a moment when that song should have come on, though, it was as I sat in a booth at Mary Angela's slurping pizza and slugging root beer.
You in the moonlight
With your sleepy eyes
Could you ever love a man like me?
That said, I feel like I just paid my classic rock dues for the year.
Now can I do it all, have a ball in 2013?
Let's get this year started before I explode.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I Saw the Crescent, You Saw the Whole of the Moon
When people ask me for some of my favorite restaurants, I never fail to mention Aziza's on Main.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Pie for Pizza and Music Talk
Since I was meeting a pizza-loving friend for lunch today, I suggested we check out rva's latest pizza destination, Pie, across from Balliceaux. My friend has always said he could eat pizza every day of the week, so it wasn't a hard sell.
Pie replaces Si on Lombardy and the interior looks exactly the same, not that that's a problem since Si was an attractive little place. The menu was simple and included various heats of wings, salads and red and white pizza. We went with the Blanca (extra garlic, Fontina and mozzarella) with pepperoni to ensure a little grease with our white sauce. Our server told us that it's the owner making all the pizzas because, despite having owned restaurants for years, a pizza place has always been his greatest desire.
The thin-crusted pizza pleased us both, with loads of garlic, plenty of cheese and enough pepperoni to satisfy our need for meat. There were only two other diners in the place when we arrived and as they left, they both stuck their noses over our pizza and swooned over the smell. It was alluring.
After making short work of our pie, we chatted up our server about the house-made dough, the new pizza oven, their soft opening, and plans for delivery; when I asked if they'd be delivering to J-Ward, he said the owner hates to say no, so it was likely they would.
My final question was about the dreadful music being played (bleh! Liberty radio) and he explained that he'd forgotten his iPod, so had reverted to the radio station already set. I wanted to know what would have been on his iPod, so I'd know how much better than Liberty it would have been.
He named a few bands on his playlist (Kings of Convenience being one!) and we quickly digressed into a discussion of our similar taste in music. He said, "I am so impressed that you know all these bands," which led to a big old music conversation about post-rock, indie rock and local music. We'd even been to several of the same local shows, so we got to compare notes. Before long, he told me that if I ever need someone to go to shows with (and I do sometimes), he would love to get out to hear more live music. And then he thanked me again for such an excellent music conversation, an occurrence he says almost never happens. How tragic is that?
So I left with a full belly and a potential band buddy, a great outcome for lunch. Next up was the driving portion of the afternoon, as we cruised east to chart unfamiliar roads. Williamsburg Road led us right by Country Style Donuts (a favorite of friends of mine who need a late night sweet after the bars close) where I got a chocolate-glazed cake donut. True, the woman behind the counter looked at me like I was from another planet, but who cares when I've got a crusty frosted donut in hand?
We drove out past the airport, up through the battlefields and looped back around through the projects. Crossing into Hanover County, it was amazing how quickly we began seeing barns and silos, spurring a discussion of why anyone would choose to live in those areas. Yes, we're city folk and we just don't get it.
I greatly enjoyed my pizza and music talk, my friend took more pictures of my legs for my profile and I saw parts of Richmond I'd never laid eyes on. Now that's what I call a good afternoon.
Pie replaces Si on Lombardy and the interior looks exactly the same, not that that's a problem since Si was an attractive little place. The menu was simple and included various heats of wings, salads and red and white pizza. We went with the Blanca (extra garlic, Fontina and mozzarella) with pepperoni to ensure a little grease with our white sauce. Our server told us that it's the owner making all the pizzas because, despite having owned restaurants for years, a pizza place has always been his greatest desire.
The thin-crusted pizza pleased us both, with loads of garlic, plenty of cheese and enough pepperoni to satisfy our need for meat. There were only two other diners in the place when we arrived and as they left, they both stuck their noses over our pizza and swooned over the smell. It was alluring.
After making short work of our pie, we chatted up our server about the house-made dough, the new pizza oven, their soft opening, and plans for delivery; when I asked if they'd be delivering to J-Ward, he said the owner hates to say no, so it was likely they would.
My final question was about the dreadful music being played (bleh! Liberty radio) and he explained that he'd forgotten his iPod, so had reverted to the radio station already set. I wanted to know what would have been on his iPod, so I'd know how much better than Liberty it would have been.
He named a few bands on his playlist (Kings of Convenience being one!) and we quickly digressed into a discussion of our similar taste in music. He said, "I am so impressed that you know all these bands," which led to a big old music conversation about post-rock, indie rock and local music. We'd even been to several of the same local shows, so we got to compare notes. Before long, he told me that if I ever need someone to go to shows with (and I do sometimes), he would love to get out to hear more live music. And then he thanked me again for such an excellent music conversation, an occurrence he says almost never happens. How tragic is that?
So I left with a full belly and a potential band buddy, a great outcome for lunch. Next up was the driving portion of the afternoon, as we cruised east to chart unfamiliar roads. Williamsburg Road led us right by Country Style Donuts (a favorite of friends of mine who need a late night sweet after the bars close) where I got a chocolate-glazed cake donut. True, the woman behind the counter looked at me like I was from another planet, but who cares when I've got a crusty frosted donut in hand?
We drove out past the airport, up through the battlefields and looped back around through the projects. Crossing into Hanover County, it was amazing how quickly we began seeing barns and silos, spurring a discussion of why anyone would choose to live in those areas. Yes, we're city folk and we just don't get it.
I greatly enjoyed my pizza and music talk, my friend took more pictures of my legs for my profile and I saw parts of Richmond I'd never laid eyes on. Now that's what I call a good afternoon.
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