Am I Ever

For some time now, the first question when we meet is always the same.

After I answer in the enthusiastic affirmative, I remind her that the question is obsolete. She'll probably ask it for a while longer, she tells me. Of course you will, I respond. But it won't change the answer.

We may as well be Abbott and Costello going through the same routine for the nth time.

Since it's been far too long a good month and a half since our last rendezvous, Lady G insists on a proper bar for our debriefing. She's old school that way, wanting to make sure the stools have backs, the vibe is lively and a good rye can be easily had.

That said, we drank Prosecco at Rappahannock, surrounded by suits and suburbanites, millennials and baby boomers. It was a busy Monday night.

I'd tried to steer her into the more casual Rapp Session next door, but she had her heart set on the big three-sided bar with the impossibly heavy stools and a front row seat to cocktail making while my primary concern was Old Saltes anywhere I could get them. And soonest.

I'm a simple woman, really.

We had just begun sharing our beach stories - hers in Plymouth Bay, mine in the Atlantic - when the arrival of a dozen oysters meant we could taste the brine while reminiscing about being in the water. There were even photos of her adventures to share, while she just had to believe me about mine.

RIP, aviator sunglasses.

G is recently back from a family reunion that included her two older sisters, with whom she couldn't help but compare herself. Because, let's face it, that's what sisters do. There is one advantage of being the youngest, though: you can get an idea how you might age. As the oldest of six, I wouldn't have a clue what the future holds for my DNA.

Once we'd had our ocean shots, so to speak, we moved on to the most exquisite white gazpacho that  ever graced a table in front of me. Cucumbers, grapes, Marcona almonds and jumbo lump crabmeat (and lots of it) formed a blissful union, producing the creamiest of gazpachos with an almond flair. Just reading the ingredients was enough to seduce me, but it took Lady G taking a bite to declare, "Oh, this is sublime" and moan a little.

What was called on the menu tuna tartare registered like a swanky tuna salad with yellowtail, apples, pickled carrots and radishes for crunch and a light citrus aioli binding it all together. Meanwhile, the puffed rice underneath was a brilliant complement, flavor and texture-wise.

I listened fascinated as G, an artist, shows and tells me about the quilts she's been working on lately, showing me photos of brilliantly-colored pieces of fabric intricately sewn together. I'm just this side of incredulous when she informs me that a baby quilt took 60 hours in front of her new commercial sewing machine to create.

Holy smokes and baby quilts are small. I don't even want to think about how long a grown-up quilt must take.

I can only admire such dedication to one's artistry. But, if I'm honest, I can also imagine all the other things I could do with 60 hours. As the sage philosopher Miley Cyrus once said, "Life is all about having a good time."

A beach getaway comes to mind, as does a river visit. If there's one thing I've learned in this new phase of my life, it's how quickly time passes when the company is right. So I could feel like I was just settling in when poof! my 60 hours are up.

And while Lady G would have a quilt by then, all Miley and I would have to show for it was memories of a good time.

The advantage of being an oldest child is that's enough.

Mr. Big Stuff, Who Do You Think You Are?

I still have the remnants of last Monday's skinned knee and other tales from middle aged bohemia.

Walking over to Rappahannock to meet a friend for quality time, a car rolled around the corner at First and Grace, blaring "Mr. Big Stuff" like it was 1971. Crossing the street at Third, I heard church bells begin to ring, my signal that I was going to be just a tad late.

Inside, my friend awaited me, a mixed drink and Prosecco in front of her, but it was orgeat lemonade I wanted with our two dozen Old Saltes and marathon storytelling session requiring that we trade the spotlight to get it all in.

We swapped beach memories (hers trumped mine with an evacuation) and testosterone tales (sometimes there's nothing to do but explain women to a man) while slurping bivalves, rolling our eyes and kvetching.

A couple sat down not far from us and when the woman asked about a particular beer, the barkeep was good enough to pour her a taste. She wasted no time in finishing every drop.

Do you like that beer?
Yes, can I have one of those but in a bigger glass?
Well, yes, that glass was just for you to sample. 
Yea, yea, I know.

Well, if you knew, you should have known that when you order one, it arrives in a full-sized glass without having to stipulate that.

Yes, we mocked her mercilessly.

After a couple of hours that included our gloating over having seen the William Merritt Chase exhibit before it goes to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts (her New England chums are pea green with envy), ticking off the myriad pleasures of retired life (hers, not mine) and listening to one of the bartenders as he did a show and tell lecture of the ink on his right arm (planets and geometry, oh, my), we parted ways.

She admitted to having lost her mojo for a cultural evening and mine was non-negotiable: the kickoff of the first Afrikanna Independent Film Fest, tonight at the Valentine, a short eight block walk away.

The party was just getting going in the garden, although before I even made it that far, I waited in the brick corridor to use the bathroom, only to find myself in the lens of the festival photographer.

Reminding her that they've already got far too many shots of me from past events ("Oh, look, honey, it's the same middle-aged woman we saw in that earlier slide"), she was quick with a retort.

"Because you've been a supporter since the beginning," she claims, snapping the shutter a couple more times for good measure.

The Valentine's charming brick garden space was made cozier tonight with a canopy overhead, plenty of tiny lights and a band warming up to entertain us.

Meanwhile, the singer, clad in a red turban with matching shoes, black tank top, a yellow skirt lively with purple, red and green zigzags (such a '70s pattern!) and armfuls of silver bangles that provided accompaniment when she danced, stole the spotlight.

But it wasn't just her ensemble because her fabulous voice was what really mattered, as she bade farewell to our mutual favorite season with Gershwin's "Summertime," even pulling a willing young man in a back-zippered t-shirt from the front table to execute a sinuous pas de deux with her.

During a bass solo in "All of Me," she said it made her want to do "the old missionary church walk," which she then demonstrated, followed by a Caribbean-infused cover of "At Last."

One of her own songs had been inspired, she said, by a two-month relationship that hadn't worked. "But we're friends now because grown folks can do grown folks stuff and still be friends afterwards and go to the movies and hang out," she explained for the record.

The evening moved indoors for the first screening of the festival, which was preceded by creative director Enjoli entreating us, "It's our first year, y'all, so don't go killin' us on Twitter. We're learning as we go."

In truth, from my vantage point, everything had gone off without a hitch tonight.

One of the most exciting things she shared was that the city of Richmond's tourism department had come on board as a new sponsor, a fact that speaks volumes about how far this city has come.

Tonight's film was actually a series of shorts by director A. V. Rockwell strung together under the title "Open City Mix Tape," and represented both documentaries and narratives based on black life in NYC, covering such topics as kids, women being objectified and, one of the most powerful called "B.L.B.," as in bad little boy.

Except of course, he wasn't bad, merely dealing with life as he knew it, even at a tender age. Many audience members reacted out loud to the ending of the film, feeling for the kid.

Shot in black and white to echo the bleakness and other-worldliness of these parts of the city, some of the shorts staged and others simply capturing real life, the vignettes were extraordinary glimpses into other lives.

As each would end, the audience was left to gasp or take a deep breath to restore equilibrium.

Afterwards, the petite Rockwell was introduced - with Enjoli saying that she looked like she was 12 - and took the director's chair for a Q & A, sharing that the film was her first after she finished her undergraduate film studies.

It had been the rapid gentrification of the city that had inspired her need to express what she saw happening and changing around her and the snippets felt like the equivalent of a visual mix tape. Pointing out that her favorite albums had an arc, she said she'd been going for the same thing in her films.

Confidentially, I strive for the same in my life.

After assorted questions about film-making and particularly film-making as a young black woman, Enjoli asked her how old she was, a question that caused her to demur ("You don't ask a woman her age") but not half as much as when a guy asked, "Do you have a man...or a woman?"

Now, my mother taught us that you never ask a woman her age or weight, but she said nothing about nosing into somebody's relationship status. Still, I would think there are subtler ways to discern a woman's status than in front of a roomful of people.

After all, grown folks should be able to ask other grown folks what they want to know. In theory, anyway.

Better Yet, How Was Your Night?

One of these things was not like the other. Namely, me.

I was at Rappahannock alone at the end of a work day spent solely in my own company while all around me I could hear people talking about their days and, to a one, all their conversations centered around the annoying other people they work with.

Given the time, we were undoubtedly also all there for happy hour oysters, but I found myself surrounded by people answering the "How was your day?" question with their seatmate or mates, most sounding less than satisfied.

Without so much as glancing at the menus, I ordered my usual and sat back to watch others dissect their days, drink and eat oysters. It was easy to get lost in the minutiae.

Three trays of oysters headed to a four-top and I knew without looking that they'd all go to the worker bee males, leaving the buttoned-up looking woman to turn up her nose. Nearer to me, a guy thoughtfully ordered two beers and a dozen oysters in anticipation of his date's arrival. A guy at the bar sat patiently listening to a woman explain why she cares more about her customers than what her boss tells her to do.

Once the oyster trail opened up and trays of bivalves began appearing everywhere, I watched as the bar and nearby table populations got theirs while I was left still sipping my orgeat lemonade.

With nothing better to do, I discussed the greater brininess of Tangiers over Rappahannocks with a couple who were sure the Rapps were saltier (it's basic geography, do you understand which one is further east?), although they had a tendency to douse all of them in hot sauce which may have affected their judgement.

But it was when the couple near me got their second tray that I gave my affable bartender the "look" and he sheepishly assured me my Old Saltes would be up momentarily.

Mm-hmm, and Old Saltes take this much longer to be shucked? "Actually, they do have tougher shells..." he tried, trailing off.

"You got all Old Saltes?" a guy asked incredulously, as if I'd ordered twelve salt licks. Everybody's got their preference, sir. Mine is to feel like a wave knocked me down and I came up with a mouthful of salt water. What's so wrong with that?

When the bartender came over to check on me, he didn't bother asking anything after I did nodded contentedly, just giving me the smile and saying, "Glad to hear it."

Minutes before happy hour ended, he graciously inquired of everyone at the bar if they'd be needing more oysters, but I told him I thought a dozen would do it for one woman and he had to agree. It wasn't as if I'd worked up some big appetite writing by myself all day.

As luck would have it, sociability was addressed by a message from a musician friend awaiting me, inquiring if I wanted to meet for a drink before seeing Brunswick tonight. "Been too long!"

I could be impressed that she'd somehow intuited that Balliceaux already was my final destination tonight or I could accept that she knows it was likely since we'd seen them together before, not that I haven't gone behind her back and seen them without her.

But not tonight.

Since I had a couple hours before she was to pick me up and I'd just finished reading Charlottesville resident Charles Shields' "Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee" last night, I figured I'd go start Martin Amis' memoir "Experience" on the balcony, at least until sunset, but it was too close to dusk and the mosquitoes were hungry.

Time to move the party inside.

I'd read about 40 pages when I heard her calling my actual name (so often, it's "Stellaaaa..."), brought her upstairs and, talking a mile a minute, left together for Balliceaux. Things immediately got deep on the drive over when she asked if I thought it was possible to keep romance alive in a long-term relationship.

Ever the optimist, I answered in the affirmative. She's determined to try.

All that was dashed once we were at the bar talking to a music-loving regular I know, one who admitted he liked some people solely because of how they looked. Did he mean women, I wondered.

"Well, yes, all the men look the same," he said with typical male tunnel vision. So he admitted to being shallow.

But he also insisted to us both that love comes and goes and sometimes we're glad when a relationship ends. She looked at me for reassurance of what I'd said in the car, but he was faster, making a toast.

"To love coming and going!" he said clinking glasses with us both. Talk about your Debbie Downer, I watched my friend's face sink as we abandoned him to find seats in the back.

With their standard 11 horns plus drums, bass and percussion, Brunswick delayed any further conversation with their high energy blast of originals and covers while a lone girl danced non-stop to whatever they played.

Touchingly, in honor of the passing of the one and only Gene Wilder, they played the "Willy Wonka" theme and, because they could, their version of Frank Ocean's "Super Rich Kids" from "Channel Orange."

Now that's range, kids.

Range! I hear that's exactly what you need if you want to keep love from coming and going. Full report to come.

The Hard Part

I'm going to call it like I see it. Gordon trumps Kehinde, hands down.

Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."

Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them  - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.

Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.

Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.

Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.

The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.

But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.

Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.

The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?

Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.

Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.

Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.

But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.

Life's too short to waste on the rest.

Song of the South

Nothing needs to be hot right now. It's July.

Not showers or bath water, not food nor drink, certainly not clothing. It's time to embrace the heat. My method involves taking a walk along and knee-high dip in the river this morning and giving into my first heat nap this afternoon, both out of sheer necessity.

Sure those 96 degrees outside felt like 104 by 4:45, but it was a clear-skied, breezy 104. Honestly, it could be so much worse.

"Not sarcasm: I love this weather. #bringontheheat #you'll find me outside," a friend writes on Facebook. She was mocked and challenged, but I'm with her 100%.

So naturally, I did what any civilized Richmond woman living without air conditioning would do - and has done - since at least the 19th century: donned a thin cotton dress and grabbed a parasol to best deal with the heat outside.

My purpose was simply to stroll over to Rappahannock for oyster happy hour.

The dozen Old Saltes were chilled, the orgeat lemonade was possibly the most refreshing thing I ever put in my mouth and I could not have been happier to enjoy both in air conditioning that was doing its best to keep up, but mostly unsuccessfully.

Leaving the restaurant for the Valentine Museum, I passed one of Rappahannock's waiters standing on Fourth Street and joked about him being outside in the swelter.

"Like it wasn't sweltering inside, too?" he cracked, jerking his thumb at the dining room. True that.

Behind the Marriott's loading dock, a man in a black suit sat smoking a cigarette, pointing at my flowered umbrella as I walked by, saying, "That's a good idea." I wish I could say it was original.

At least I was walking East, so the worst of the sun was behind me.

The Valentine's auditorium was already filling up when I arrived hot and glistening, only to be reminded that of course the museum of the city of Richmond would be gracious enough to provide fans to its guests on such a sticky summer day.

After walking eight blocks, I was only sorry the fan didn't come with a bare-chested man to use it on me so I could just sit back and enjoy it. Addressing my own fanning needs instead, I spotted a Milky Way miniature at the feet of the woman next to me.

What, ho? There's chocolate?

On my way to score some of my own, I ran into a photographer friend and invited her to sit with me. Her backside barely landed when she spotted my candy stash and quietly asked, "Hmm, there's chocolate?''

You see, some messages get garbled as they're shared (like that childhood game "telephone") and other messages could be passed between dozens of women and the original message would stay true. Not to sound sexist, but we don't mess around when it comes to our chocolate.

But it wasn't chocolate we were there for, it was a screening of "Polyfaces," a documentary about Joel Salatin's game-changing Polyface farm, with a Q & A with Joel afterwards.

Between reading and having heard Joel talk before, I knew a fair amount about the unique farming methods and impressive results, but the Australian-made film showed how real people had become part of the movement by interning at Polyface to get grounded in farming basics or starting their own farms using his methods.

Hearing Michael Pollan of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" talk about asking Joel to ship him a chicken because he'd heard how fabulous they were and having Joel refuse, telling him to come to Virginia if he wanted to taste one of his birds, was a perfect example of how Joel marches to the beat of a different drummer.

His son picked up the tune, beginning by raising chickens as a boy and selling eggs to neighbors and progressed to then killing the old hens, cooking the meat and selling bags of chicken meat to neighbors for, what else, chicken pot pie.

The film wasn't shy about the rigors and realities of farm life - slaughter and processing animals, lots of cow pooping, farm dogs nursing - because one of the big differences in Joel's methods over mainstream U.S. farming is that his is more labor-intensive.

Somebody's got to move those cows, chickens and turkeys from field to field if you're replacing the use of chemical fertilizers with rich cow poop and yard bird scratching.

For those of us who recall the '70s, it was gratifying to see so many young couples excited to get back to the land and become part of a revolution in how we grow and consume our food. Watching a babe-in-arms eat through a fresh tomato like it was candy spoke to how we shape our children's palates and not in a good way.

I hadn't realized how fortunate we are to have access to Polyface eggs and meats since he only services an area three hours from the farm, but after watching the film, I'd have to say that his main role now is in teaching younger people his methods and inspiring new generations of conscientious farmers.

Who, coincidentally, look and sound a lot like the people being called hippies 40 years ago. Happy, groovy, nature-loving hippies. Not a thing wrong with that.

During the Q & A, things got feisty when someone asked about being told the farm now uses some GMOs and Joel wasted no time in disabusing us of that notion.

He raved about the contributions of the interns (even introducing three, two current and one former) and noted that they average one "all Polyface wedding a year," as in bride and groom were both employees or interns.

I've heard of people interning on farms and finding their soul mate that way, but I'm hardly the rise-at-dawn-and-do-chores type, so that was never really an option for me. So I may not be up to the rigors of farm life, but I can handle summer in the city like a boss.

"I'm fine with this weather," a guy tells me as I sashay by. "Think about February!"

Those of us who would prefer not to can be found outside. It's July. Sweltering, yes, but happy, too.  #nosarcasm

Different From the Rest

Let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls.

When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.

Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.

Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.

Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.

From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.

Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").

A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.

Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.

With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.

The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.

From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.

Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?

Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.

Just in case anyone's keeping score.

Like the Way You Work It

Things got crazy today. When I woke up, I thought I had an idea of what my week entailed.

Wrong, so wrong.

By 10:31, one of my editors had unexpectedly said yes to four of my pitches. Great news, but it meant I needed to dive in quickly to make so many short deadlines.

By 11:24,  my companion for dinner and a play tomorrow night had to cancel and asked to reschedule for the weekend. Naturally, I already had plans for both nights.

By 2:37, I'd been asked if I could do a last-minute piece to be turned around this week. What poor freelancer turns down work?

By 3:17, I get a group email, first thanking us for the thankless job we do and then asking for pitches for two upcoming special issues. ASAP, as in, snooze and you lose.

By 3:49, my Friday night drinks and lecture companion has canceled. Can my Tuesday pick up the slack on Friday?

By 5:08, I again hear from an editor, this time with another last minute assignment, this one non-negotiable. Hey, it's money, so I'll find a way.

By 5:15, I am sitting at Rappahannock next to a woman who announces it is National Margarita Day and makes the bartender grimace when she asks if he can make one (long pause...he can) and then instead orders an Old Fashioned because it's a happy hour special.

Heaven give us both strength.

I, too, was there for happy hour, but more because of half off oysters and $5 Prosecco than because of any made-up holiday. The couple next to me were doing the same, albeit in a far more leisurely manner.

First they ordered two Old Fashioneds and half a dozen oysters, two of each kind. Only after emptying their glasses and slurping every oysters did they place the exact same order again.

Me? I got Prosecco and a dozen Old Saltes and just did it all in one fell swoop.

My efficiency allowed time to check out the newly-opened Rapp Session next door, a charming space that resembles a cleaner version of the inside bar at Merroir and boasts extras: beer and wine for sale, packaged mignonette, horseradish and pork rilletes, cured meats sliced off the bone, whole fish sold by the pound to come, all backed by a wall of old black and white photos and seafood advertisements.

Perhaps most brilliant of all, a bar with a completely different cocktail program than Rappahannock that stays open until 2 a.m. every night. Hello, gorgeous.

Properly warmed up, my next stop was the Modlin Center for a lecture by curator Michael Schreiber of the exhibit, "Bernard Perlin: An Anthology of Drawings 1934-1994."

My first surprise was that Perlin was a native Richmonder, growing up on Ellwood Avenue and graduating from T.J. at the tender age of 15. His credo was to live life to the fullest.

How had I never heard of this artist before?

Schreiber had gotten to know Perlin by writing him a fan letter, then visiting him in Connecticut, an evening that turned out to be his introduction to Scotch drinking. In the three years before Perlin died, he was privy to all kinds of stories and memories from the artist that he has now turned into a book.

Looking at the images of Perlins' work, it wasn't hard to see the social realist perspective of many artists of that era, including Ben Shahn, for whom he worked.

Happily embracing the bohemian life in NYC as a young man, one of his earliest commissions was a mural of Adam and Eve for Vincent Price's bathroom. His portrait of Price now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.

His work moved through Post Office murals, war and propaganda posters and illustrations for prestigious magazines, then he stopped making art, then he went back to school and began again.

I couldn't have been the only person itching to get over to the gallery to see the work in person.

Perlin's skill was apparent in the delicacy of the silverpoints and nude drawings while his "message" pieces - a 1963 print called "The Divorce" showing a man bent over by the weight of his ex-wife, children, house, lawyer and accountant nearly destroy him - were heavier-handed.

It's a fabulous show that Richmond art-lovers absolutely need to see because I can't be the only one unaware of Perlin's obvious talent and prolonged productivity.

Several family members were there taking in the show. Leaning over a case of work from Perlin's youth, an older woman pointed at a colorful drawing and said, "He painted that for me when I was three! I don't know why my mother or I never got it framed."

Hopefully this new show makes up for that, although she did say as soon as it ended, she was finally framing it.

As long as I was at UR, I also caught "Nathan Benn: Kodachrome Memory, American Pictures 1972-1990," a show so colorful it was like watching a Technicolor film.

I mentioned to the man at the desk in the gallery that I had recently overheard a young woman discover what Kodachrome meant after hearing the Paul Simon song; she was amazed. He shook his head. "The only pictures those people will ever take is with one of these!" and held up a cell phone with a look of disgust.

Better not to further that conversation, so I went to look at the work.

Benn's subject choices were everyday people and scenes circa the '70s and '80s, so things such as a girl at a Vermont commune in 1973, standing on a porch calling people to dinner. Just another sweet-looking hippie chick rebelling against her parents' suburban life, no doubt.

A stylish but heavy Tennessee Williams in Key West in 1981. Mr. Rogers on a guest room bed in Pittsburgh in 1990. A locomotive mechanic with black, greasy fingers in Vermont circa 1973.

One that especially grabbed me was of Jamaican workers who'd come to Florida in 1981 to cut sugar cane. Two men, dressed to the nines in three-piece polyester suits, each with not one but two hats on their heads, posed at a Florida airport, flush with cash after the season.

Here were two dudes who were definitely going to be popular with the ladies back in Jamaica.

As I walked around the exhibit admiring the long-gone world of the photographs, a couple came in and we got to talking about the loss of Kodachrome and its vividness.

Pointing at a picture of cows by a barn, the man, who said he was a painter, exclaimed, "You could practically kiss them!" as if he had a history of kissing cows. When he got to one of trees, he made comparisons to Cezanne, saying, "You could almost pluck the fruit off the tree and eat it!"

And that woman with the enormous bouffant at the bus station in Mississippi? You could practically smell the Aqua Net.

By the time I got home, craziness resumed with multiple emails, my favorite not asking, but offering. "I am definitely flattered, humbled and at your service. Yes, I'd be delighted to meet with you. Please feel free to call me at your convenience at most hours."

Hmm, when do you suppose most hours end?

Everyone else needed to know something. Could I do lunch on Thursday? Could we do a phone interview because they're in Florida until Monday? Did I have a number so the media rep could call instead of email? Did I want to tour the factory with an apprentice? Did I want to eat before the play tomorrow? Could I do a road trip on Friday?

Could I answer everyone before my head explodes?

Apparently I can, providing me with the best response of all: Where is that kissing face emoticon when you need it?

Can I get back with you on that after this week?

A Conversation to Be Wished

A carefully scripted evening delivered a surprise ending with intermittent attention below the waist.

For the second night in a row, I had the pleasure of being ferried, this time by a right-brain friend, a person from whom I get a Google calendar reminder that he'll be picking me up at 5:45 so we can make our 6:00 reservation at Rappahannock. So personal.

Seated next to the kitchen, my couple date got their winter on, indulging in hot gin punch and a hot buttered rum while we noshed on a pork and pickles plate of Soprasetta, Prosciutto, pickles and and apple mostarda, a piquant pork preamble to our meal.

When I inquired about tonight's oysters, our server (who was apparently untrained in silverware placement, having reversed knives and forks at all three place settings) surprised me by announcing a "guest oyster" from Tangier Island. Oh, boy, where do I sign up?

I didn't forgo my usual Olde Salts (puh-leeze), I just added in Tangiers for contrast since they were described as "buttery and meaty," two qualities I admire in my food. Naturally, I began with the Tangiers since they were milder (and as decidedly meaty as promised), so when I slurped my first Old Salt afterwards, it was especially like getting a mouthful of ocean after being knocked down by a wave.

Exquisitely delicious, in other words.

After being invited to dip into Beau's colorful ceviche studded with beets and grapefruit, I went straight to my Chincoteague clam chowder which boasted an appealingly and unexpectedly light hand with cream and was chock full of house bacon and crispy fingerling potatoes. I don't know that I've had better.

Our server expressed difficulty in grasping "theater time," asking if we needed the check by 8 for an 8:00 curtain (a bit of travel time would be helpful, my dear), but we we made it out in time to collect the car and have a short adventure along the way.

Waiting downstairs by the parking lot attendant for Beau to fetch the car, the attendant looked over at me and without missing a beat, observed, "You have some nice legs!" no doubt due to my magenta lace tights. In a fine mood, I got cocky, informing him he wasn't going to see a better pair tonight.

"You don't need to tell me," he said, taking a seat on a stool in front of his booth. "I'm a leg man." He went on to explain that he'd bought his wife some lacy tights, "But then she got big and they didn't look the same."

And since I always introduce myself to a leg man, I met Alvin, who seemed quite happy to chat with us between dealing with arriving parkers.

When Pru cracked wise about his name, Alvin asked if we remembered Alvin, Theodore and Simon, the chipmunks. Duh. "I had a friend named Theodore," he says. " We used to run the streets together. Then one time, he decided to rob a bank on Broad Street. Who'd have thought the boy had it in him? Tripped me out," he finished, shaking his head.

Whoa. I didn't even want to ask if he'd known anyone named Simon.

It was a sold-out crowd at Richmond Triangle Players for Quill Theater's production of "Stupid F**king Bird," a crowd that included the play's actors in costume mingling with patrons. I did a double-take standing next to Audra, whose dark make-up rendered her almost unrecognizable.

Walking by a small group, my tights again got noticed, this time by a couple of award-winning actresses, one of whom declared, "You look fierce!" about my ensemble. Not bad for an old lady, eh?

Is it wrong to admit that I've always wanted to be called fierce, at least once?

Beau had procured seats in the "sky box," that is, the uppermost tier of RTP, with the bonus of a cocktail table and a commanding view of the immersive set containing life-size trees and a wooden walkway with the audience seated all throughout.

The play, a riff on Chekov's "The Seagull," was as navel-gazing as a Seinfeld episode with everyone absorbed by their own reality and problems. Emma was the worst kind of mother, self-centered and un-involved, and her son Con's psyche was deeply bruised from it.

Only Trig, the successful writer who alone manages to die happy, is able to see himself "in a complicated mirror, not a fun house mirror," a difficult appraisal for all of us.

Mash is in love with Con (who aspires to create a new form of theater rather than re-imagining the old way), who only has eyes for the vapid Nina, but Mosh's misery over unrequited love necessitates boundless misery, black clothing and make-up.

When challenged about her somber attire, she shoots back, "Black is slimming. I'm in mourning for my life, I'm that unhappy."

And she's one of the ones who finally throws off the shackles of misery and embraces life, marrying and starting a family with the devoted Dev, a gem of a guy who's loved her for years while she ignored him, but never given up (the kind of male character women dream of).

Plenty of the play's lines resonated with me ("You can be happy if you're poor"), some of it mirrored a time I well remember ("It was sexual harassment that worked out at the time") and some stated truths I'd willingly attest to ("A love so profound my thighs ache").

Interactivity was key to the story as the actors actively engaged the audience for opinions. Con, seeking to figure out why ambitious Nina doesn't love him, queried a man who advised that she'd love him if he was successful because "cute doesn't matter."

The over-riding theme was that it was time to make some fresh choices, and who among us wouldn't agree with that, no matter what point we're at in our lives.

"I wanna be 27 again," 60-year old Sorn says. "I think I'm ready to do my late twenties really well now." Couldn't we all?

Like on Seinfeld, it wasn't easy to like all the characters given how baldly they wore their neuroses and issues on their sleeves ("You all are so hopelessly f*cked up in so many ways"), but the cast made these unhappy people come alive in a way that balanced comedy and drama as if on life's see-saw.

Deny it if you want, but all of us have, like Mash, wallowed in our unhappiness while squirting a can of whipped cream into our open mouth (okay, if you're a guy, maybe it was EZ-Cheese), a scene that read like a page from anyone's story.

Love and life are discussed endlessly (add clouds and you'd have Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now"), as is art and the issue of whether anyone will care about what you're creating in 100 years (personally, I hope my blog is an informative chronicle of Richmond's 21st century scene and that's enough), making for endless soul-searching.

As we all learn in the journey of life, too often "all the bullshit stifles all the possibilities." Sadly, when we allow that to happen, it's easy to wake up one day and realize most of your life is over and you've never really lived it. I see no point in that.

The creative staging of the play meant that from our sky box seats, we were often looking at actors' backs as they spoke, not a bad thing since part of Con's goal as a playwright/director was to create new forms of theater, aka happenings, not boring actors playing others in scripted traditional theater, which he hoped was going the way of the dodo and bell-botttoms.

Tonight's production proved that Quill is masterful at staging a thought-provoking happening that expands the definition of theater. I only wished I'd been in a seat that allowed one of the actors to ask my opinion of life and love because I could have talked.

But you don't go see fascinating theater and not allow discussion time, so we left Scott's Addition for Belle & James' DJ night, where, as it turned out, I was happy to run into all the young dudes, or at least plenty of my male friends.

My favorite shoegaze guitarist was playing DJ, so the soundtrack (which, appropriately, included multiple obscure Bowie covers) was killer, but there was also the unexpected delight of running into the history nerd, the heavily bearded former bartender now construction hero, the fashion expert leaving tomorrow for Cancun, the liquor rep now transplanted to the beach and up for a tasting and, of course, the friend in charge of B&J's comestibles.

Once we finished our drinks, he was so kind as to take us on a tour of the soon-to-be-opened hotel. It was like being on a set, kind of eerie looking at rooms completely devoid of humans, but already with touches such as fragrant lilies in vases and piles of fruit in bowls.

The scene was set for people to begin arriving and living their lives, whether enthusiastically or miserably, exactly like the characters in "Stupid F*cking Bird."

Except I don't want to do my late 20s again. Truth be told, I'm more than happy throwing myself into living out all the possibilities of every decade.

Something's lost, but something's gained, in fiercely living every day.

You Don't Even Have to Say It

Don't be so sure I have plans.

Everybody assumes my schedule is jam-packed every minute of every evening - it's even been referred to as CSS, as in "crowded social schedule" - but in reality, many nights  find me with multiple options but no actual commitments.

Which means when a friend phones at 3:30 saying he's decided he wants to celebrate his birthday eve tonight and asking if I can join him and a favorite couple at 6, I enthusiastically say yes.

Think about that question. Can I join three good friends in two and a half hours for an evening of good food, drink and conversation? Must be a rhetorical question.

The plan was to meet at Rappahannock and I was the first to arrive, staking out seats on the far side of the bar and soon joined by the birthday boy toting two bottles of French Chardonnay (2006 and 2009) to enliven the festivities.

Before long the happy couple arrived and we learned that tonight was also the 13 year anniversary of their first date, so everyone had something to celebrate. For me, Friday night with friends was plenty.

Jumping right in with the intimacy of good friends and some vague details about the birthday boy's recent sex life, the 2006 wine was poured, revealing a very slightly oxidized nose and leading to discussion of wine and women past their prime but still worth savoring.

You know I had a few things to say on that subject.

It was the birthday celebrant's first time at Rappahannock so we began by diving into oysters on the half shell: butter Rapphannocks, slightly salty Stingrays, Old Saltes and, as a treat from the great north, Blue Hill Bay oysters from Maine, tasting like a mouth full of saltwater when a wave knocks you down. Divine.

Half of us (okay, me and the birthday boy) thought that the wine paired better with the saltier oysters while the other two thought the opposite.

It didn't matter what anyone thought because in no time at all, both were history.

We took an educational detour for a lesson in oxidation with a glass of sherry (but made no converts in the process) and the pork and pickles plate with pork rillettes and country pate, both nice enough but safe tasting.

"Needs more liver!" the celebrant pronounced and I agreed. Both seemed to have come from innocuous cuts like pork shoulder and lacked any real earthiness or rustic qualities, tastes well seek out.

Opening the 2009 Chardonnay, we found far more minerality, a much lighter color and a lovely choice to go with first a ceviche and then rockfish and barcat oyster bourride, a satisfying bowl with potatoes, garlic and a poached egg in a sop-worthy broth.

Sopping vehicles became the topic as the merits of Billy Bread and Sub Rosa were compared.

As usual with this crowd, a lot of the talk centered on food, drink and going out and before long we found ourselves listing future occasions for get togethers.

An authentic Ukrainian meal. A guest bartender competition party. A blind wine tasting. A trip to Merroir for the one who's never been. A mezcal tasting.

We could come up with countless reasons to hang out and put things in our mouths. And, no, we're not creepy swingers.

By then Rappahannock was completely full, so we decided to hit the road, with our first stop being Art 6 to see Helena Magnusson Ogburn's vibrantly colored, texturally dynamic painting show.

Funniest thing I was told about the artist? "She was so happy when she discovered hinges," a reference to several pieces that incorporated sections of brass hinges into the exuberant works.

My second favorite thing was that she paints every single day, a tenacity I respect.

The show was large with paintings of many sizes and we took our time seeing them all as they wound up the staircase, each of us choosing a favorite and explaining to the others why.

It's not enough to have an opinion with this group. You have to be able to defend it, too.

At one point, a girl walked by wearing abbreviated shorts she had no business wearing and before I could even form the words, my friend grinned and said, "You don't even have to say it."

It's a good friend who already knows how you're going to judge a stranger's shorts with just a look.

From Art 6 it was a quick hop, skip and a jump through the rain showers to Saison which was hopping, too. Perhaps too much so because all three of my companions were disappointed with their cocktails while I had no problem whatsoever with my Espolon.

Sometimes keeping things simple is the way to go.

Somehow a discussion of making moonshine led to my friend sharing some Russian history about Peter and Catherine the Great (who, I have to admit, sounded pretty interesting), at least until her man insisted on saving me from the educational tangent.

What? They don't teach us that stuff in America.

We nibbled on oxtail sopes before finding our passion in tender and fragrant chicken a la brassa, its smoky broth a sensory delight we drank with spoons until it was gone.

Our final stop of the evening was for dessert because what's a birthday without sweets? The birthday boy was presented with obscure beers from the happy couple while accepting nothing more than sincere wishes from me.

Standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas saying goodnight, I reminded my friends that it never hurts to check with me at the last minute to see if I'm busy.

Hey, I've got no problem chucking my CSS when the party's this good.

I'm Gonna Be an Optimist about This

I don't often make the rounds on Saturday night.

But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.

I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.

The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.

Not much I can do about my girl parts.

We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine

The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.

We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.

Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.

Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.

A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.

After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.

If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.

One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.

Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.

We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.

Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.

We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.

Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.

All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.

Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.

We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.

The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.

When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.

With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.

But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.

Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.

The Big Night

It was a night for wine, women and song.

Secco was hosting a night in Venice wine party and since I've yet to visit the actual Venice, a proxy evening seemed like just the ticket.

I walked in and staked my territory at the bar, awaiting the arrival of my evening's companion, Roxy.

She soon arrived and we stationed ourselves at the corner of the bar with a view of everything while the music was set to the Italian cafe station on Pandora. As one woman noted, it sounded like the soundtrack to "The Big Night."

Our starting libation was a Venetian spritz of Adami Prosecco "Garbel" with Cappelletti, a slightly bitter wine equivalent of Aperol, making for a refreshing way to begin the evening, even more so when enjoyed with an aged and salty cheese.

There were no gondolas, but we were off to a fine start.

The overwhelmingly estrogen-based population of the bar was soon jarred by the arrival of a strapping, young man who had wandered into the Venetian fray.

When the evening's plan was revealed, he gamely agreed to buy into it, despite this being a first date and an"almost blind" one at that.

I advised him that a first date where there were four courses and five wines would separate the girls from the women and he took my advice and paid for two in advance.

Now I had a front row seat to a first date.

Roxy and I chatted about her favorite Riesling and Champagne (both available on the chalkboard) and about how much she misses her people in San Jose. So much so she will soon move back.

Where she reminded me, she will pay $850 more for an apartment that is 300 square feet smaller than her  beautiful Miller & Rhoads condo.

I have a sentimental attachment to San Jose since my best friend from college was born and raised in San Jose, making Roxy and I practically blood sisters.

Once everyone was ensconced at tables and bar, we were served Dal Maso 2012 Gambellara Ca'Fischele, a fine and acidic wine that neared perfection when eaten with tuna tartare set into hard-boiled eggs with capers and aioli.

Just as we were swooning over this blissful match, marinated squid salad with kale, garlic and chick peas arrived, again demonstrating how perfectly the acidic wine worked with the seafood and salt.

Roxy and I raised a glass to the chef's brilliance. "I'd marry him," Roxy observed. It's tough to beat a man who can cook.

Next came crispy Fontina chips filled with seared cauliflower, parsley and lemon paired with Corte Majoli 2012 Valpolicella, a medium bodied red that showed even better with the obscenely rich next course.

Chicken liver mousse sat atop grilled polenta, accompanied by chicken fat-stewed onions and bits of fried chicken skin, an altogether decadent dish that positively sang with the wine.

As our server noted, it came with a side of Lipitor.

Roxy and I alternately made orgasmic sounds about the dish and flapped our gums about how obscene it was.

Meanwhile, the first dater next to me was telling the girl, "This has a really unusual taste. I've never had liver before. I usually go paleo during the week."

Son, there's nothing paleo about chicken liver or chicken fat. Just so you know.

And, P.S.  Corny lines like, "I just want to know more about your family life" make it tough to keep my liver down.

While waiting for the next course, I took a side trip to the loo, but was stopped by Chef Mike, who was offering up samples to all who passed by.

"This'll be the best bite of the night," he assured me. The piece of Dixie doughnut with a schmear of chicken liver may have been the closest thing to heaven my mouth has tasted.

I returned to a plate of beef and potato meatballs with orange peel and fennel seed in a fennel tomato sauce and matched with Zanta 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon "Due Santi," a complex, full-bodied wine that was a worthy counterpoint to the meatballs.

Truth be told, Roxy and I were lagging by this point.

Oh, not conversationally. First marriages, dimples, body confidence, we'd covered quite a bit. But our stomachs were not bottomless.

Finally the last course arrived, a chocolate roll with roasted nuts and topped with vanilla citrus whipped cream, paired with one of the last four bottles in the state of Dal Maso's 2007 late harvest sweet wine.

For no good reason, this led to a conversation about Deleon Tequila, which Roxy had recently enjoyed with her boyfriend in San Jose and which provided me with a recommendation for something new to try, assuming the VA ABC deems it acceptable to carry.

I'll certainly find out.

Back to the dessert, I have no compunction about admitting my love for chocolate, nuts and cream and while Roxy found the Dal Maso overly sweet, I found it a lovely complement to the chocolate.

I'm not saying it topped the Dixie doughnut with chicken liver mousse, but it was damn good.

After saying farewell to Roxy, I left to pick up a girlfriend for a Virginia wine crawl. Because, you know, one wine event an evening is not enough.

Approaching Pasture, we were greeted by fire performers, breathing and showing off with fire, something I've seen at Gallery 5 enough times to stop worrying if they're going to singe the hair right off their faces or not.

Inside, it was just as circus-like, with acrobats on the floor supporting other acrobats in mid-air.

My friend looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me away from the performers.

Near the back, we found a table serving Breaux Vineyards "Marquis de Lafayette," a shining example of Cabernet Franc, a grape she and I love.

Glasses in hand, we escaped to a table away from the hordes and sat down to catch up on girl stuff, oblivious to the networking going on around us.

We let the interested parties come to us, with only a brief foray out to collect some Gabriele Rausse Nebbiolo, a wine I like so much I once worked an entire day at the Virginia Wine Expo just to score bottles of this luscious grape.

Our idyllic girl time was interrupted when Jason Tessauro mounted the table next top us and began reciting his ode to Virginia wine, with highlights like, "To be or Tannat" and "I deem any man a liar who don't dig Matthew Meyer" (Williamsburg Winery's winemaker), "Keep your loyalties looser" and the fitting closer, "Has Virginia wine arrived? You bet your ass!"

Fortunately, he then dismounted from the table. the ideal moment to escape the madness and make our way to destination #2, Rappahannock.

There we found an old friend from the former Six Burner, Tracey, and Blenheim Winery's winemaker, who was gracious enough to pour us a taste of "Painted White," a delectable blend of Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier being served with scallop ceviche.

The evening's music came courtesy of my neighborhood DJ, Marty of Steady Sounds, and I have to say it was a mix of music I'd never heard him play.

Prince. Michael Jackson, Donna Summer. Diana Ross. Madonna. Needless to say, the crowd was dancing drunkenly in no time.

 I was eager to sample Chatham Vineyards steel fermented Chardonnay and wasn't disappointed to taste the salinity and minerality of the eastern-most of Virginia's wineries.

Resolved: there's a winery I intend to visit come spring.

Next thing we knew, people in tight, red polyester jumpsuits with even their faces covered had joined the crowd and were dancing everywhere. If it hadn't been for the accentuation of their junk, it would have been pretty funny.

At the Boxwood Winery table, we tried  a blend of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot, poured by a taster who was dancing in place to Prince's "Kiss."

Truth be told, I was holding a glass and dancing in place to the same song.

The crowd had gotten so thick (and so loopy) around DJ Marty that we did a full circle around the back of the bar in an attempt to reach the one remaining winery up front.

On the way, a woman stopped me and said point blank, "You have such a pretty face." While I would have liked to have kissed her in gratitude, I settled for thanking her profusely but she went on. "Even your hair is perfect for your face."

It's difficult to properly thank someone for saying something so complimentary and so random, so I just hugged her and went on my way.

We finally made it to the Thibaut Jannison table for a flute of Blanc de Chardonnay, at which point I made a bee line for the freshly shucked oysters and helped myself to a ridiculous number of Olde Salts.

Only when my girlfriend suggested I try some Rapphannocks did I diverge from my single-minded, salty plan.

We found respite far in the back of the room, away from the hordes dancing to "Wanna Be Starting Something" and "Let the Music Play."

From there, we had a bird's eye view of drunken people stumbling around, eyes glazed and footing unsure.

One woman came up and said, "I know you don't like me. But you're a baller when it comes to music."

Like the woman who'd liked my face, there's not a lot I could say to that. Fortunately, by that time, it didn't matter.

Friend and I were ready to move on. To the strains of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now," we made or way through the crowd and to the car.

There, we spent the better part of an hour doing the girl talk thing that all the festivities had interrupted. It was divine.

Over the course of six hours, did I manage to get enough wine, women and song?

You bet your ass I did. My loyalties remain loose with wine and tight with everything else.

Much to Chew On

You have to appreciate a man who requests your company for a meal that goes down easy and a play that doesn't.

We met at Rappahannock where the bar was full of suits, the tables full of diners and I was greeted by a guy I'd met at Patrick Henry's several summers ago.

Funny the people who remember you with full body hugs.

Seated at a table next to a rambunctious eight-top, we were greeted by our server who squints and remembers me from a recent lunch where my date had been an hour-plus late and he'd suggested I retaliate by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon (ignoring his advice, I'd chosen Domaine Rolet cremant de Juca rose instead).

Tonight, I repeat myself by ordering a dozen Olde Salts but reconsider when he says, "You want all the same?" and split my order into half Stingrays and half Olde Salts, even though he is not the boss of me.

Without asking if my companion wants an appetizer, he leaves. When I'm finally able to get his attention so my date can order, he apologizes, saying he assumed we were sharing the oysters.

Do I look like I can't down a dozen by myself?

My companion goes with a special of scallop ceviche, finding it unexpectedly spicy near the center, while sharing the restaurant gossip he's heard.

For a person who works in the corporate world, he is amazingly adept at knowing what's going on behind kitchen doors.

With the clock ticking down toward curtain time, we order entrees which arrive surprisingly quickly.

He's more than happy with his pan-seared mahi, but I think my bowl of Olde Salt clams with merguez sausage-stuffed squid, braised shell beans and grilled Tuscan kale in an amontillado sherry and smoked tomato sugo kicks his mahi's butt.

But then, I'm  a sausage and beans kind of gal.

Dinner conversations runs the gamut from how the temperature affects my walking/his running, recent movies we've seen and Valentine's day plans.

By the time we finish, we have barely enough time for dessert but we order chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake anyway.

If we have to stuff it in our mouths as we put our coats on, we need some sweet to put the period at the end of our savory.

Which we get before scurrying the two blocks to CenterStage to see Henley Street Theater and Richmond Shakespeare's production of "Death and the Maiden," for which we have front row seats for tonight's preview performance.

Arriving at the very last minute, the usher teases us, saying, "There you are!" The shaming is justified and funny.

For a change, having heard what a powerful play this is, I have purposely done no research so that it can unfold for me with no foreknowledge.

Even so, reading the program prepares me for a story about the aftermath of unspeakable acts committed on an innocent woman. It seems likely that the play will be short given the intensity of the topic.

The award-winning, three-actor play has dramatic set design, with blood-stained work clothes making up the enormous back wall and bodybag-looking black plastic curtains on the side.

Set in Chile during Pinochet's brutal 1973 takeover, a story unfolds wherein a woman enlists her husband's assistance to get revenge on one of the men responsible for the tortures inflicted on her.

By the end of the brief first act, her captor is bound and gagged with a black hood on his head and there he stays during the entire intermission.

It's a plot device that has all of us feeling uncomfortable as the lights come up and he is still confined onstage.

In the ladies' room, I discuss the first act with several strangers, all of whom are experiencing knotted stomachs, tension and discomfort with the woman's plight and the depiction of it.

It's unanimous that being made to feel this way is not only superb theater but a unique opportunity to feel something so unlike what theater usually gives us.

The second act is, if possible, even stronger as acts too horrible to be forgiven are attempted to be put in the past.

Katrinah Carol Lewis all but spits out her lines and anguish as the one-time victim in a role that almost has to outshine the two men no matter how well-played theirs are.

Any way you look at it, the play was difficult, challenging, uncomfortable and mesmerizing.

Walking out, I asked my friend what he thought.

"I'm going to come back and see it again," he said, clearly having already made up his mind on that.

Right on. You want your meals easy to digest, but sometimes you need your theater to be just the opposite.

Sunny with Empty Bottles

It's the best possible thing to come home to after my walk: a lunch invitation.

Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.

The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.

At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.

She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.

Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.

"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.

Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.

Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.

And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.

The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"

Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."

A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"

Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.

When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.

Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.

Yea, right.

Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.

They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.

I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.

They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.

But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?

Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.

It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.

My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.

Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.

Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.

Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.

"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.

Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.

I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.

They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.

Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.

After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.

By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.

I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.

Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.