Dizzy, but No Sardines

Here's the thing about the holiday season: the music dries up but the food and parties are endless.

Sunday, which wasn't that long ago, was the last time I heard live music, but there's no more on my horizon until at least this coming Sunday. I'll manage, with the help of get-togethers with friends and parties to fill the non-musical time, but I'll miss it. I may even go into withdrawal.

Tonight got started at Six Burner with a long-time friend and wine, plenty of wine. I had loads of news and she had some new developments in her relationship, so we had plenty to catch up on.

As we chatted, the restaurant did the December fill-up, including a couple of guys coming in for the Chef's tasting menu and lots of gift certificates going out the door. Lots.

After the abundant lunch I'd had at Amuse earlier, I had no right to eat again on December 21st, but managed to anyhow. We wanted to order the grilled sardines with gremalato, but they were out of them. Sad faces all around.

Instead we got the pork belly with fresh navy beans and spicy jerk sauce and, once again, the snail risotto with garlic, parsley and Parmesan (we both love that risotto).

As a proud eater, I'm ashamed to say that I could only eat a couple of bites of each before hitting the wall (but not before noticing how perfectly cooked the beans were and how decadent that risotto still is).

I rationalized my inability by thinking that at least I was leaving more for my friend, but I felt like a food failure. The Cotes de Ventoux Grenache/Syrah, however, was going down just fine.

Our server wanted to discuss the new Cinebistro with us despite neither of us having been there (nor had he), but she rarely goes to the movies and I rarely cross the river. He said he especially liked the idea of being able to lounge on a couch. I'm still not going to Stony Point.

We talked about going to big parties where there's such a din that the best you can do is smile when the speaker smiles and raise your eyebrows when they do because you can't hear a thing.

She did this recently at a party and her significant other stood on the other side of the speaker and mouthed the words, "Fuck you" to her in an attempt to inappropriately crack her up.

Or, as The National so eloquently put it (and stole my heart when they did):
I want to hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you
Crack you up

I'm inclined to think that trying to crack someone up makes for true love.

From there, I went to Sprout for a Winter Solstice holiday party, which was in full swing when I arrived. Long tables were covered in Virginia food I wanted to eat but was too full to try. It kind of broke my food-loving heart. Local ham, pumpkin, tofu and a whole lot more were being gobbled up as I went to the bar for a beverage.

Bordeaux in hand, I began making the rounds of the party, always an enjoyable way to meet new people. I met Suzi of Farm to Family, who said they'd sold their last Christmas tree today...to Laurie and Jamie, Sprout's owners. We talked about how intoxicating a fresh tree makes your house smell (I'm loving it every time I come home now).

I met a former Philly girl who had heard I was a writer/blogger and we had a great conversation about the WPA, public fruit trees, Southern food and the pleasures of Richmond.

We were joined by an occasional moonshiner (causing her to say, "I love the South!"), who told us about his 'shine exploits and closet storage of Mason jars.

At one point the volume of the music seemed to drop and I asked a stylish server why. His quick response, "It's just a low rent party. Low rent!" was hilarious and spoke to the fact that when he's not waiting tables, he's an excellent DJ, mainly of 60s and 70s music.

But tonight it was owner Jamie who played DJ and with plenty of volume and vintage cherry-picking of music. He's got such a great record collection and I always end up hearing something I haven't heard in eons ("Dizzy" by Tommy Roe?). I may have been too full for food, but when do I ever get my fill of music?

It may not have been live, but it certainly came close to scratching that itch. The musical itch, not the other one.

On Not Squaring Shoulders

Why is it that long days always follow short nights? There was the excitement of the Folk Fest, followed by a much-needed nap and finally getting some work done, and all of a sudden it was after 8 and I hadn't even begun to consider dinner.

And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.

Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).

Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.

More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.

The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.

After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.

Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.

Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?

Second Date Brilliance

I went out tonight to shore up a friend who is having a career crisis. Oh yes, and a new relationship crisis (that part's a bit tough for me to relate to, but that's fine). She was feeling down about the negative possibilities of both and needed someone to listen and tell her everything is going to be all right.

And the fact is, I do think both issues will resolve themselves and she'll be just fine. That may be why my friend Danny calls me Pollyana, but I'm okay with that. Worrying never solved anything.

So we went to Six Burner because she hadn't been there in a couple of years. It's not really her kind of place because she's an incredibly picky eater, but it was her suggestion.

Mike, the new bartender greeted me warmly and introduced himself to her, and then was cut because it was a slow night ("I'm the new guy...last in, first out," he shrugged). He looked pretty disappointed to have finally gotten some company only to lose it.

But we soldiered on with a bottle of the Allan Scott Family Sauvignon Blanc (her choice), although the only thing she could find on the menu that appealed to her was the squash gazpacho. I don't even give her a hard time about her finicky taste anymore; she's the one who's missing out.

I ordered the crispy pork belly, slaw, and Thai-style BBQ sauce with no problem whatsoever. I gave her a bite and she actually liked the BBQ sauce, but was appalled at the layer of visible fat. Of course, she's the same person who'll eat an entire rib-eye without batting an eye about fat. And just to be obnoxious, I followed that with chocolate mousse (the bowl was larger than the soup bowl. It was an enormous chocolate mousse).

After a while listening to her predictions of doom and gloom about the wonderful-sounding new guy she's seeing, I decided she needed a distraction. Or maybe I was just tired of hearing such negativity.

So I did something I rarely do. I started offering up information about my past. We've been friends for a year or so, but we usually talk about her life . So I decided to tell her about my first adult relationship (okay, I was nineteen but I thought I was an adult...and he was 28).

On our second date, this boyfriend-to-be showed up with three sets of tickets. One pair was for the National Symphony the following month, the second pair was for the Washington Ballet the month after that and the third pair was for Equus at the Kennedy Center three months out.

How brilliant was that? By getting me to accept, he'd ensured that I'd be seeing him for at least the next few months.

Telling this old story to my friend tonight transformed her. According to her, it was the most romantic gesture she'd ever heard of, unimaginable even. Not only had he paid attention well enough on the first date to ascertain some of my interests, but he'd gambled on offering the tickets as a way to establish that we had some sort of future, at least short-term.

Well, this story so enthralled her that she stopped her descent into Sadville and asked for more, pointing out that I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about myself during the course of our friendship. It's true and it's a complaint I've heard before, but I hate to presume people are interested in that kind of stuff.

After a couple more anecdotes from my past, we looked up to find that we were the last customers and paid up so the staff could leave. My friend's mood was so much better than when we'd arrived, so I felt like I'd helped her in some odd way.

Or maybe I'd just given her something new to obsess about. The last thing she said as we stood outside saying goodbye was, "Where is this guy now? Do you think he's available? I think he might be my soul mate!"

And of course, I have absolutely no idea where he is anymore, although it occurred to me as I walked away that today is his birthday (making him my first Virgo).

So to Curt, wherever you are, happy birthday. And nice job on those second-date tickets. I'm not sure the 19-year old Karen fully appreciated the romantic brilliance of your gesture.

And if you're single, I have a friend you might want to meet...

Bar Hopping on a Saturday Night

With nothing cultural calling to me tonight, I decided to do an abbreviated pub crawl after seeking out a graffiti show in Scott's Addition to no avail. Without anything better to do, why not spend some quality time with a couple of my favorite bartenders?

Leading the parade was Josh at Six Burner, always a reliable source of music talk and good banter. Since I was in the mood for white wine, he suggested the Vernaccia di S. Gimighano and I took the bait, enjoying its crisp dryness. I was pleased to learn that 6B is starting up their live music series again and we reminisced about some of the craziness of past shows, including the memorable winter sweat-fest, here.

Josh brought out an amuse bouche in the form of a tiny pie-shaped wedge of pork rillette with minute Granny Smith apple chunks, mustard seed and chives. Honestly, it was the perfect portion because, for me, even an appetizer- sized serving of pork rillette quickly becomes too rich, too much. Retrieving my plate afterwards, Josh asked, "Amused?" All signs pointed to yes.

There were several new items on the menu so I decided on the squash blossoms stuffed with smoked salmon, Parmesan and squash with curry squash sauce. Oh. My. Goodness. I took that first bite and was transported back to my first taste of a squash fritter.

When I began my 13-year stint on Floyd Avenue in the 90s, my 70+ neighbor Bertha was good enough to offer to share the bounty of her veggie garden with me. The first time she brought me squash, though, she asked me in a suspicious tone what I was going to do with it and whether I knew how to make squash fritters. I didn't.

She gave me her crusty old recipe and I made my first squash fritter batter and fried them up in a cast iron skillet. I still remember that initial bite and wondering how I'd never tasted squash in such a magnificent guise up until that moment. Tonight's squash gave me that same rush of fried and fresh.

A bite or two in and Josh came over to check on me. "This is freaking awesome," I said, willing better words to come. "I know. It's badass, isn't it?" Josh returned. There were the words I had been seeking. Badass squash, that was it.

Later the server T. came over to probe. "What are you doing here on a Saturday night, Karen?" he inquired. "You're messing with my whole concept of the week." It's true, I don't often visit 6B on a Saturday night, but I wasn't expecting to be called out on it. either. Just another pleasure of being a regular.

With promises of CDs to come later in the week from Josh, I said goodnight only after getting his approval for my next stop: Balliceaux and the equally music-savvy Austin. He was fine with handing me off to a fellow bartender he knew would be up to the job.

Walking down Lombardy Street, I saw a large illustrated banner hanging from a nearby apartment. It read, "Don't tread on me. GO US! Beat England" Such patriotism on a Saturday night! Balliceaux was partly full but hardly hopping and the bar completely empty when I walked in, so I figured Austin would appreciate the company and and he was already waving me back before I was halfway through the restaurant.

We talked about his upcoming trip to Cambridge, MA and I advised him to bring his bike to take advantage of the abundance of bike lanes, not to mention a car culture that actually allows for safe and enjoyable biking everywhere. Personally, I loved it. He was psyched to say the least.

Meanwhile, I was poured a glass of the Broadbent Vino Verde as we slipped into talk of Yeasayer, Mrs. Robinson and Stevie Wonder. He'd been at the Broken Bells show at the 9:30 Club Monday night, so I got his take on that show, after having just read the Post's review of it.

A couple of barsitters came in and ordered and I couldn't resist commenting on their pork belly. It turned out to be yet another instance where I got incredibly lucky. We got to talking food and restaurants and it turned out that this charming couple eats out five nights a week. Soul mates! I never meet anyone who eats out as much as I do, so we talked for hours about just about every restaurant in the city (and even a few outside it).

For the most part, our opinions dovetailed and then one or the other of us would share a specific bit of information that the other didn't know. The male half of the couple identified himself as anal when he sheepishly told me that he keeps a list on his phone of every food culture represented in RVA.

Not surprisingly given that, he also keeps a spreadsheet of all their restaurant visits, which puts them in a whole different league than me. I just like to eat and spreadsheets make me nervous. But they were great fun to talk to and we exchanged information in hopes of meeting up again. They even shared their semolina-olive oil cake with lemon and ginger with me, so you know we'd become fast friends by then (my favorite part was the icing).

Shortly thereafter the bar was nearing empty and it was time to end my pub crawl. The evening ended with one of the kitchen guys coming out for a shot and to enthusiastically talk World Cup briefly with us before he was off to meet friends. "Come back on Tuesday," he said, pointing at me. "And wear that dress!"

Interesting the people you meet when you bypass culture for pub crawling. It's all so very interesting.

Ahh, The Pleasures of Pork Belly

I don't remember my life before I discovered the fatty wonder of pork belly, but I must have had one. Now it's one of those menu items that immediately grabs my attention and causes me to plan the rest of my meal around it.

Phillip Denny from Philly is the new chef at Six Burner and he comes to rva with an impressive resume, including a stint at one of the top five DC restaurants (and, no, I'm not telling you which one. Go in and find out for yourself). He has the letters f-o-i-e and g-r-a-s tattooed on his knuckles; I mean, come on. But that's not the point. The point is his food.

Last night I started with the Cranberry Bean and Bacon soup with Chive Oil, which I can't recommend highly enough. I happen to love cranberry beans, but I'm not sure that's even a prerequisite. It's creamy with an appealing depth of flavor and, as we all know, everything's better with bacon.

Then came the star of the evening: Pork Belly, Pearl Barley, Glazed Carrot Puree, Swiss Chard and Pork Jus with every kind of deliciousness possible on that one plate: the fatty pork goodness of the belly, the addictive saltiness of the Swiss chard and pork jus, the nutty creaminess of the pearl barley and the sweetness of the glazed carrot puree. I didn't exactly lick the plate, but it was embarrassingly clean when Josh cleared it away.

I've said before that I don't know anything about food except what I like. But what Phillip does to a pork belly is a beautiful thing. You know, I must have had some sort of gustatory life before pork belly; can someone please remind me what it was?