Learning to Crawl

Sip, savor, crawl, repeat.

And, when needed, offer occasional pro tips en route. Having been a regular on Secco's annual Rose Crawl since the first one in 2011 - that was the one where a thunderstorm knocked out the power, forcing us to drink our final pink in darkness - I like to think I'm uniquely qualified to spread my wisdom with any crawl virgins seeking aid.

My raspberry sherbet-colored sun dress was meant to identify me as a professional.

After a quick stop at Secco to nab my Rose passport, Lady G and I started the festivities at Acacia with a handful of other pink-clad women. Claiming seats at the bar, bartender Kenny looked at me and jokingly demanded to know where I'd been on recent Tuesday evenings, since clearly I hadn't been drinking half priced wine with friends at his bar.

After explaining I'd been at the beach for a week, he responded, "Okay, you're off the hook for one week. What about all the other Tuesdays you weren't here?"

You never know who's going to note your absence.

With plenty of appealing Rose options, G went with a perennial favorite of mine, Francoise Montand Brut Rose, while I opted to show her the pleasures of a Rose made of Pinot Noir, specifically Henri Bourgeois Petit Rose. I'm not sure if it was the tangy fruitiness or just the major shift in palate from her pink bubbles, but, after making a surprised face, she saw the light.

Kenny and I meanwhile exhorted the pleasures of German and Austrian Roses of Pinot Noir, while the pink maxi skirt-clad owner pledged her allegiance to the hard-to-find Sinskey Rose, which I love.

Acacia's bar menu for the occasion was spot on, so we indulged. First was fried squash blossoms stuffed with crab, ricotta and corn drizzled in tzatziki, with a piquant cucumber/red onion side salad riding shotgun, the delicate flavors a perfect complement to our wines. Next up were fried local softshell "bites" (actually, miscellaneous soft shell legs) enhanced by a spicy chili garlic sauce, making for a decided contrast to the squash blossom's muted flavors.

After getting Kenny to stamp my passport, we bid him adieu and walked outside to a sky filled with angry-looking black clouds threatening action. Fortunately our next stop, Cask Cafe, was a mere block away.

Taking up stools at the end of the bar near owner Dave (who let us know that Cask is now making their own sausages), we scanned their pink list, with G deciding on Domaine des Terrisses Rose solely because Dave described it as the heartiest and, at her core, G is a red wine lover. I chose Domaine de Mus Rose mainly because it was from Languedoc, not that I wasn't rewarded with a wildly refreshing wine with notes of citrus and red fruits.

A customer replaced Dave at the end of the bar, so naturally I eventually turned to him and asked if he was there for the Rose crawl (he wasn't). So I asked if he lived in the neighborhood (he didn't). Naturally I asked if he was a regular, to which he responded, "Why do you ask so many questions?"

Um, I'm a journalist, sir. And nosey.

When I came back from the loo, there was a newly-arrived Irishman sitting next to G and she was already asking where in Ireland he was from. "The only place in Ireland: Dublin," he informed her with a grin. Looking to converse with us more, he leaned in and shared that actor/director Ethan Hawke is currently living in the house next to his while he scouts a project about the slave John Brown.

Needless to say, our Irishman wasn't sharing where he lived beyond the Fan, but he didn't hesitate to mention that Mandy Patinkin had also lived in the house next door while in Richmond. Since G and I had long since finished our Rose, we got up to leave, causing the Irishman to entice us by suggesting, "Come back and I'll tell you how it goes."

Not sure I'm enough of an Ethan fan to care.

Walking toward the door to leave, we saw that the roiling skies had cracked open and torrents of rain were coming down, but luckily I'd insisted on us both bringing umbrellas for just such an eventuality. Just as we made it back to G's car, I realized that my pink-addled brain had forgotten to get my passport stamped at Cask.

G inched the car through driving rain, pulling up right out front so I could run in and get stamped by bartender Dash (best bartender name ever, no?). As he perfunctorily stamped me legit, a couple at the bar began teasing me that I had to drink pink before I got a stamp. Explaining the situation to them, they then gave me an A for effort. "That was dedication!" the woman said, noting my dress' wet parts and my dripping umbrella. "You didn't have to come back!"

Ah, but a Rose Crawl pro doesn't cut corners, young 'un.

It was still pouring rain as we drove to our next stop, so I reminded G that I'd warned her there was a 92% chance of precipitation tonight and wasn't she glad she had her umbrella. "I'd say this is 100% precipitation," she corrected me, only slightly loopily. Hilarious.

When we arrived at Secco, there were exactly two available seats at the community table in the back by the kitchen and no more. We gratefully took them, only to find ourselves sandwiched between two young mothers who were crawl newbies and an Indian couple drinking Rose but who had no knowledge of the crawl.

After ordering glasses of Raventos i Blanc Brut Nature Rose "de Nit" - a reliable Spanish favorite of mine - we turned our attention to the first-timers, both Moms with young children, to see how they were faring.

Secco was their first stop and now they were debating where to go since neither had brought an umbrella (rookie mistake). Their dilemma was where to Uber next in order to stay dry. G immediately piped up, telling them how cute and funny Kenny had been at Acacia, hoping to steer them to a good time.

But they wanted to know where we were headed next and that was Amuse. "Maybe we'll see you later!" they said as they took their fresh faces out into the storm.

Thoroughly digging our pink bubbles, we accompanied them with to-die-for gnocchi smothered in Twenty Paces Ricotta, peas, basil, green garlic and fennel, into which we added crispy fried chickpeas just because they were a worthy addition.

The Indian couple's cheese and charcuterie plate arrived (when debating what meat to get the server mentioned Sopressata, which they'd never heard of, necessitating me insisting that Sopressata was the way to go, so they ordered it) and they began chowing down, although the hunk of Madame di Bufala, a creamy, tangy water buffalo cheese from Italy, defeated them.

"It's the stinkiest cheese I've ever had and I thought I liked stinky cheeses," she said. "But this actually tastes like a buffalo after being on a treadmill in this hot, humid Virginia heat. Help yourselves, we won't eat it all." You don't have to offer G and me stinky cheese twice, so we cut off pieces, finding it a mouth and noseful, but delicious, too.

I reassured the couple that their palates would undoubtedly develop with age and that one day, Madame di Bufala would be right up their alley. When I was their age, I eschewed blue cheese because I thought it smelled like stinky feet and look at me now. They were wide-eyed acolytes by the time I finished with them and said goodnight.

Amuse was our final stop and while we'd originally had plans to see the new American art show while we were there, we had only enough time for two final glasses of Rose and dessert. Taking seats at the end of the bar, I didn't even bother asking for my passport to be stamped, I just reached over next to the absinthe fountain, picked up the stamp and stamped my own passport.

A pink-clad girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Our bartender had no recommendations beyond steering clear of the Indian Rose, even giving us a taste to show how oddly the Shiraz-based Rose finished. Instead, G went predictably straight for the heartiest , Clos la Coutale, a Malbec Rose, while I went directly (do not pass Go, do not collect $200) to Daniel Reverdy et Fils Rose, a Sancerre from the Loire Valley.

Some choices are unavoidable yet heavenly at the same time.

A chocolate pate with one perfect raspberry, one perfect blackberry and a mound of vanilla whipped cream accompanied our wines as we watched the storm dissipate over the VMFA's sculpture garden. Regrettably, we hadn't made it downstairs to see "Transatlantic Currents," though we did have a  cursory look at Carl Chiarenza's abstract photographs from the 1930s en route to the loo, for what that's worth.

By the time we'd wound down our 2019 Rose Crawl, the VMFA was closed, staff were vacuuming the floors and the Boulevard door we'd come in had long since been locked. Walking out the other entrance, we ran smack into the two Moms we'd met at Secco, who had made it only to Amuse and no further. Awed that we'd had our passport stamped at all four locations, they bowed to our superior crawling skills.

Someday, ladies, you'll have the life experience to do the same, maybe even with some Madame di Bufala along the way.

With a nod to the probability of precipitation and apologies to Matthew Sweet, tonight was what we pros call 100% fun.

Pink Gooch is Different

It was throwback Thursday of a different kind.

First there was the Robinson Rose Crawl, which until it became unmanageable had been the Carytown Rose Crawl (and let me tell you, there are some stories there), and last year was abandoned entirely. But the power of Rose was too strong so a new crawl was devised, this one a seelf-guided tour instead of prior years when attendees were herded from bar to bar.

As someone who did herding duties several of those years, let me assure you that it's far better to let those on a pink mission set their own pace.

Mac and I began at Secco with dozens of other pink-clad people, she with Roquefort "Corail" Rose and moi with Raventos i Blanc Brut Rosat "De Nit" (I'm trying to think SPanish for the foreseeable future) to accompany a plate of season house pickled vegetables. I would have said that the beets were the tastiest morsels on the plate, at least until I tasted the asparagus which had been sweet pickled like bread and butter pickles, but there was also a lot to be said for the fiery pickled mushrooms, so let's just say they were all stellar and leave it at that.

I got my Rose passport stamped, our photograph was taken for the crawl memory book and we ceded our seats to a couple of women who'd just walked in. You never saw two people so happy to see us leave.

Walking down Robinson, we passed clutches of pink-wearing men and women, all seeming to be in high spirits. Arriving at Acacia, we were led to our table on the patio by the chef's son (also in a pink shirt) who already had the poise of a long-time host. It was a gorgeous evening to be dining outside, not to mention the bird's eye view it provided of the overgrown herb planter (so much mint gone to seed that Mac resolved to return with her clippers and give that mint a haircut) and the roving bands of Rose crawlers.

We toasted the crawl and the weather with glasses of Mimi Sparkling Rose from Provence (Mimi being Mac's nickname to her nephews) while chatting with the two overly tan and obviously high maintenance women from Goochland seated next to us. They'd been to Helen's and found both the Roses they'd ordered lacking, so they'd moved on.

When they found out we were going to see "A Chorus Line" after the crawl, they were fascinated.
Turns out Goochlanders have no clue that Richmond boasts a vibrant theater scene. "If I'd known I could go to a play, I could have planned to attend since I have a designated driver!" one exclaimed. Frankly, she didn't strike me like the play-going type, but at least she pretended.

It was our server's first night and a chaotic one at that, so we got our orders in quickly. Mac chose Peruvian tuna ceviche while I couldn't resist the redneck crabcake, a rich cake of whitefish and Old Bay with a side salad of pickled cucumber and red onion, accompanied by a glass of Paul D. Rose from Austria.

We wound up lingering so long we had no time for the other stops - Cask, Spoonbread and Helen's - before planting our butts at Richmond Triangle Players. It was Mac's first viewing after I'd raved about how RTP had pulled off 17 dancers on that stage with aplomb and grace.

At intermission, she started her own gushing about what an incredible production it was. Standing in line at the ladies' room, a woman behind me notes of the first act, "It's tough not to get up and dance. I was chair dancing so hard!"

Honey, join the club.

Another makes an observation about the dancer affectionately referred to as "Headband Boy" for his long hair, cheesy mustache and, yes, headband, "He's every guy in 1972." Tell me something I don't know.

Those two things alone - dancing and 1972 guys - are more than enough to require repeat viewings of such a fine production of "A Chorus Line." But when preceded by Rose crawling with the best walker I know, well, it's one singular sensation.

Rose Rumble

Every minute of the rest of your life has been scheduled for you - and it's a long series of arbitrary, solitary tasks.

That's the definition of hell, also known as what would psychologically destroy an ENFP, a personality group to which I belong, at least according to Myers Briggs. And it's pretty much spot on.

Friends joke about my "prehistoric Blackberry," also known as my date book, because they know it contains jottings about events and plans as soon as tomorrow and as far away as months from now. But make no mistake, there are plenty of blank spaces.

I like it that way.

Last minute offers come up, plans change and sometimes, just sometimes, I get an offer I don't want to refuse. Hence the built-in availability.

I know I'm not the most responsible adult you'll ever meet. And even if I didn't, it's been pointed out to me.

My strengths are a good attitude, a way with people and my pleasure in being a good audience. Some nights, I get complimented on my dancer-like attire, my confidence and my ability to corral human stock and that's enough.

Most intriguing comment overheard at Amuse: "I was wondering who that was touching my butt."

Best thing I put in my mouth at Acacia: fried sugar toads over an incredible charred corn relish.

Most unexpected words from a stranger sipping a beer at Cask: "You've got a way of making people pay attention to you."

Secco yielded a charming new couple who told me Glaswegian jokes and friended me before I even got home, a scientist in a pink shirt who asked if I'd be wearing heels when we went out (a subject we did not discuss) and a young woman who wants me to teach her how to sew on a button (so she can stop throwing button-less shirts away).

More than one person raved about my wrangling skills. You should have seen me marching them down the Boulevard and Cary Street like a champ. Did I mention I have five younger sisters whom I've been wrangling since I was a toddler?

Thanks to strangers and friends alike, the 2015 Rose crawl, my fifth, was a blast. Just don't expect me to repeat myself again anytime soon.

Unless you're talking about drinking Rose. Solitary, even, sometimes.

Plein Air Richmond

My pink tank top gave me away.

I wore pink because it was "highly encouraged" for the annual Carytown rose crawl, always a highlight of June.

Festivities began at C Street where I found a pierced and bearded friend serving and opted for the Muga Rose, which tasted of strawberry and rhubarb, much like the pie I'd had on Father's Day.

Sitting on the patio, my friend and I were a tad warm, but the rose went down easily and we chatted up strangers for entertainment.

Before we knew it, we were herded to Amour for stop number two. Wisely, my friend and I were in the first wave, ensuring that we got prime bar seats at Amour.

It was a wise decision. Not only did they have pink menus (nice touch!) but flights and "perfect food pairings."

That would be business as usual at Amour.

Why settle for single pours when you can get three pours, we wondered, ordering two flights and two pairings.

Bieler Pere et Fills had pale color and a crisp finish, Domaine du Pere Caboche was bigger with flavors of strawberry (my friend's favorite of the flight) and Chateau de Valcombe was a beautifully balanced pink.

While we shared stories of high school and mothers, we noshed on bleu cheese melted on baguettes with apple slices (divine) and smoked salmon mousse on cucumber (silky, smokey mouthfeel).

When we finally moved on from Amour to head to Secco, we were delayed by artists painting en plein air along Cary Street.

I'd seen several more on Monument Avenue yesterday and I'm excited to see painters working outdoors everywhere I go.

Walking into Secco, we were easily the last rose crawlers to arrive.

Slow and steady wins the race, my friends.

No matter because we found a spot near the back door and ordered Domaine Brazilier Coteaux du Ventomois, a lovely orange wine which my friend nailed as smelling like peanuts.

There were so many people to talk to: the friend who'd recently seen the Lumineres, the one who'd challenged the guard at the Naval Observatory, the couple who gave me top prize for wearing pink top to bottom.

I'm not certain if it was the array of conversational partners or the endless rose, but all of a sudden I asked the time and realized I had places to be.

An hour ago.

Good thing Richmond's a small town.

Moments later, I was at the Firehouse for the Listening Room, sliding into my seat in time to hear Up the Chain.

Cupid, don't lay down your weary bones.

"This song is called "Something New" and it's just that," the lead singer told us.

We'll stick around and see it through.

I especially liked what the keyboard added to their Philly folk sound.

After their set, I made the rounds to say hello, taking a few moments to score some Dixie Donuts since there were so many laid out for the crowd.

That German chocolate doughnut is worth whatever it does to my body for the dense, rich chocolate cake and icing under the coconut and nut topping.

I teased the photographer, usually late to any music event, who reminded me that he has to be on time for the Listening Room, unlike some of us.

My Old Ways was a Richmond super group of sorts, comprised of member of various bands I've seen.

I need a sign.

Pedal steel looked to be from David Schultz and the Skyline, the singer from Palominos and the drummer, well, I'll just quote the singer about Will, the drummer.

"Raise your hand if you've ever played in a band with Willis," he laughed.

Hands were raised. Lots of hands.

So far, the band had played only one show, at the Ghost of Pop back in December, but tonight was their CD release show.

"This is a song about Jesus," the singer said. "The cool one, not the one who makes everyone feel shitty."

Ohhh, that Jesus.

We got love, but you got logic.

The lead singer was waxing poetic about Richmond, saying, "I recently moved from here," resulting in a few boos for his questionable choice.

"What a wonderful city this is. I hope you're enjoying It, riding your bike in the Fan and drinking a beer on someone's porch. And make sure you go out and see some live music."

It's always satisfying to hear someone remind us how good we've got it. I never forget, but I know some people lose sight of that fact.

I just want to dance.

After their brief set, a girlfriend came over with an "a-ha!" look on her face.

"I know where you've been!" she said, pointing. "You were at the rose crawl!"

Drat! How had she known?

"Your pink top," she said with the satisfaction of a super sleuth.

I admitted as much and asked what especially great things I'd missed with my tardiness.

"Brad Hinton yodeled," she said, knowing how jealous I'd be. "Twice! It was so awesome."

So that about summed it up.

I sold out yodeling for rose.

On the plus side, the pinks were outstanding, the company clever and companionable and the painting en plein air an unexpected pleasure.

But as advised, I always make sure I go out and see some live music.

It's just my (old) way.