For the record, I will leave the city for a meal on a screened porch.
Although I don't often head to the counties to eat, that's exactly what I did when a friend suggested Charles City tavern for dinner tonight.
Out Route 5 we drove on this beautiful evening, the Kinks blaring while discussing the Post's recent series on LBJ, past Curles Neck Farm and Shirley Plantation, past manicured fields and through tunnels of trees that felt as enveloping as the farmlands felt wide open.
I wasn't surprised when we got to the tavern to roll into a full parking lot. We couldn't have been the only ones lured east by a road trip or west by a southern meal. For that matter, I couldn't be the only Gemini still managing to celebrate her birthday eight days after the fact.
Or am I?
The garden around the porches was ablaze with plump flowering bushes covered in red blooms and purple irises just a tad past their prime.
Walking up the porch steps, a fat, gray cat on the top step looked us over and gave us a nod of approval. In we went.
We waited just inside the door to be seated but both servers were hectically running around, so it took a few minutes before one smiled and told us to follow him.
Since our decision to eat there had been a last minute one, there were no tables free on the porch so we settled for a table by a window in the tavern side, leaving the dining room to a far more circumspect looking crowd.
I knew we'd made the right choice as I sat down and a woman at the next table smiled and said hello to me. It was a small room, so we might as well make friends.
The music was pure '70s- Pablo Cruise, Starland Vocal Band - not necessarily a bad thing given the crowd.
After listening to the specials, I chose one to start, an asparagus and wild mushroom soup with lumps of crab meat, to be followed by a crab cake with corn and ham ragout.
"Wow, it's a crab kind of night, isn't it?" our server grinned after hearing my order. When you grow up in Maryland, any night (or day) is good for crabs, my friend.
Asparagus essence imbued every mouthful of the creamy green soup full of nicely sized chunks of crab while my friend was bowled over with the sheer size of his fried oyster appetizer.
You know how men can be about size. Was your fish really that big?
The ragout of ham and corn played the sweet/salty game beautifully, winning out over the crab cakes, but I can be picky about them. In my family, they're not much more than lumps held together with the most minimal binder before enjoying a buttery saute and these were breaded and fried, not really my style.
My friend's shrimp and grits got major points for the Byrd's Mill grits, not just because they're local but because they're so good. Fried okra nuggets less so.
As we were chowing down, we got off on a history tangent when my friend said he'd decided he needed to read a good biography of George Washington.
Coincidentally, when I'd been at the John Marshall House, I'd learned that Marshall had written a five-volume bio of George that's still in print. A week ago, I wouldn't have known that, but tonight was a different story.
Come on, what could be better than a bio written by someone who knew the guy when he was alive?
Just as we were moving on to the topic of Thomas Jefferson's reversal of position on the importance of a U.S. Navy, our server came to talk to us about dessert.
I didn't want to consider dessert unless it was on the porch, and he was more than happy to clean off a recently vacated table so we could enjoy our last course almost al fresco.
It was dusk by then and our view was of shrubs and the field beyond, a lovely view with the road curving out of sight and into nothingness.
We settled back into our chairs under ceiling fans and listened to the dessert choices, inevitably choosing a Ghiradelli brownie sundae with espresso ice cream simply because it was chocolate, not the most creative dessert we would have hoped for, but elevated considerably by the setting.
It was there that we lingered as the sky went dramatically red-streaked while I heard about the bunnies that have taken up residence in his yard and how he's decided to rearrange his many bookshelves by putting similar topics together, a project I accomplished years ago.
There's just something about sitting on a screened porch at night that slows a person down to where even the most innocuous topics are fodder for lazy conversation.
We eventually left but only because they were close to closing. The fat cat on the front porch barely looked up as we stepped over him.
You'll be back, he seemed to shrug. I don't know why not, thought the city girl.
Showing posts with label route 5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label route 5. Show all posts
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Saturday, February 23, 2013
A Dangerous Face
Be careful if you tell me you hate art.
So when I describe a new contemporary art show I just saw at 1708 Gallery that included old refrigerators, do not tell me, "And that's why I hate art."
Because if you do, I will challenge you to go with me to see another show which I am certain will force you to eat your words.
And seeing this art will begin with a scenic drive down Route 5, where the palette is decidedly shades of silver, deep green and rust.
Where fields are covered in wild turkeys. Where construction of the Capital Bike Trail is an ongoing work in progress.
And when we arrive at the Muscarelle Museum on the campus of William and Mary, we will go upstairs to see "Michelangelo: Sacred and Profane," containing masterpiece drawings from the Casa Buonarroti.
There will be things like "Study of a Horse," showing the concavities of flesh and bone impossible to see when paint is not used to indicate light on a sleek body.
There will be a tiny business card-sized drawing called, "Man with Crested Helmet," showing a man's profile bisected by horizontal lines that suggest a classical cornice, a melding of Michelangelo's love of the figure and architecture.
I will overhear a docent say that on the day the show opened, February 9, 1800 people came through the museum that day.
That Michelangelo's family lived for two centuries off the profits from his art.
I will be enchanted by "Plan for Pichola Liberia," a drawing of a triangular shaped "little library" requested by the Pope to house the rare book collection of the Medicis.
Three nesting triangular tables mimic the lines of the little room, and light is shown as coming from the three corners of the ceiling facing the sky.
"Study for Porta Pia" is such a magnificently realized drawing of a portal to Rome, a grand entrance way, that it feels almost sculptural, like it's coming off the paper and into the gallery.
And you, my friend, will have to acknowledge when, at the back of the galleries, you see "Madonna and Child" that you do not actually hate art.
The muscular, almost sculptural body of the child is in stark contrast to the unfinished form of the Madonna, her lush Italian lips full as she gazes off almost forebodingly, perhaps anticipating that her baby's life will not end well.
And just to put the cherry on top, you should then look at the two "Cleopatra" images, one exotic with a snake wound through the queen's elaborate hairdo and the other anguished looking.
A line of Michelangelo's poetry (because, of course, in addition to sculpture, painting and drawings, he wrote poetry), he sums up the allure of the female face.
It is not without danger, your divine face.
Sigh.
It may not have been enough to put up with Michelangelo himself, though, whom the docent described as "cranky person who didn't take care of himself."
Sounds like a typical middle aged man to me.
And when we walk out of the galleries, you, my friend, will admit that you did not hate this art.
Meanwhile when I go to use the bathroom downstairs, I find a line of women waiting their turn in a three-stall bathroom and wonder how long the lines were when the roughly 900 women came on opening day.
Once in, the obvious update is that the stalls now house modern plastic toilet paper dispensers, meaning the old metal ones with small lidded ashtrays attached (in place as recently as three years ago) are now relegated to the Muscarelle's history.
Also missing are the small signs above them that used to read, "Please refrain from smoking."
Ah, the times they are a-changing.
After proving my art point to my friend, we headed over to the dreaded historical area for a late lunch.
His choice was The Trellis, a surprisingly bright and dated series of rooms still bustling with a lunching crowd even at 3:00.
A table of four women, all with heads bent as they interacted with their phones and not the friends they'd come to lunch with.
Another table of women ordering bright pink cocktails to start their meal.
I went the simple route with today's soup and half sandwich special.
The soup was white bean and chicken with kale, garlic, carrots, celery and onion, thick and satisfying.
Today's sandwich was a complete throwback to my youth: ham salad.
When our server described it as ciabatta with ham salad made of ham, roasted peppers, onions, celery, mayo and a little mustard, I flashed back to childhood and my mother's bridge parties.
The only time I ever saw (or tasted) ham salad was when my Mom hosted her bridge club and she made dozens of little chicken and ham salad sandwiches.
When I expressed my memory of this to the twenty-something server, she jumped on it.
"I know, right? I remember my grandmother making ham salad when I was little, so it's like a total throwback for me, too!"
And while I think crispy ciabatta is the wrong choice for a sandwich like this (too much crunch for the filling), the ham salad was a delicious walk down Memory Lane.
Over lunch we discussed the concurrent show at the Muscarelle, a lesser Baroque painter and disciple of Michelangelo, Mattia Preti.
But truthfully, no painter could hold up after seeing a show of the master's drawings, so both my friend and I had given it, at best, a cursory look.
Lunch concluded with The Trellis' signature "death by chocolate" dessert, certainly not the most unique chocolate dessert I've ever had, but with enough forms of chocolate to satisfy my sweet tooth and put a period at the end of our day trip.
Let's just say it was as satisfying as hearing my art-hating friend admit how much he'd liked today's art.
Challenge met and left among the dead leaves on silvery Route 5.
So when I describe a new contemporary art show I just saw at 1708 Gallery that included old refrigerators, do not tell me, "And that's why I hate art."
Because if you do, I will challenge you to go with me to see another show which I am certain will force you to eat your words.
And seeing this art will begin with a scenic drive down Route 5, where the palette is decidedly shades of silver, deep green and rust.
Where fields are covered in wild turkeys. Where construction of the Capital Bike Trail is an ongoing work in progress.
And when we arrive at the Muscarelle Museum on the campus of William and Mary, we will go upstairs to see "Michelangelo: Sacred and Profane," containing masterpiece drawings from the Casa Buonarroti.
There will be things like "Study of a Horse," showing the concavities of flesh and bone impossible to see when paint is not used to indicate light on a sleek body.
There will be a tiny business card-sized drawing called, "Man with Crested Helmet," showing a man's profile bisected by horizontal lines that suggest a classical cornice, a melding of Michelangelo's love of the figure and architecture.
I will overhear a docent say that on the day the show opened, February 9, 1800 people came through the museum that day.
That Michelangelo's family lived for two centuries off the profits from his art.
I will be enchanted by "Plan for Pichola Liberia," a drawing of a triangular shaped "little library" requested by the Pope to house the rare book collection of the Medicis.
Three nesting triangular tables mimic the lines of the little room, and light is shown as coming from the three corners of the ceiling facing the sky.
"Study for Porta Pia" is such a magnificently realized drawing of a portal to Rome, a grand entrance way, that it feels almost sculptural, like it's coming off the paper and into the gallery.
And you, my friend, will have to acknowledge when, at the back of the galleries, you see "Madonna and Child" that you do not actually hate art.
The muscular, almost sculptural body of the child is in stark contrast to the unfinished form of the Madonna, her lush Italian lips full as she gazes off almost forebodingly, perhaps anticipating that her baby's life will not end well.
And just to put the cherry on top, you should then look at the two "Cleopatra" images, one exotic with a snake wound through the queen's elaborate hairdo and the other anguished looking.
A line of Michelangelo's poetry (because, of course, in addition to sculpture, painting and drawings, he wrote poetry), he sums up the allure of the female face.
It is not without danger, your divine face.
Sigh.
It may not have been enough to put up with Michelangelo himself, though, whom the docent described as "cranky person who didn't take care of himself."
Sounds like a typical middle aged man to me.
And when we walk out of the galleries, you, my friend, will admit that you did not hate this art.
Meanwhile when I go to use the bathroom downstairs, I find a line of women waiting their turn in a three-stall bathroom and wonder how long the lines were when the roughly 900 women came on opening day.
Once in, the obvious update is that the stalls now house modern plastic toilet paper dispensers, meaning the old metal ones with small lidded ashtrays attached (in place as recently as three years ago) are now relegated to the Muscarelle's history.
Also missing are the small signs above them that used to read, "Please refrain from smoking."
Ah, the times they are a-changing.
After proving my art point to my friend, we headed over to the dreaded historical area for a late lunch.
His choice was The Trellis, a surprisingly bright and dated series of rooms still bustling with a lunching crowd even at 3:00.
A table of four women, all with heads bent as they interacted with their phones and not the friends they'd come to lunch with.
Another table of women ordering bright pink cocktails to start their meal.
I went the simple route with today's soup and half sandwich special.
The soup was white bean and chicken with kale, garlic, carrots, celery and onion, thick and satisfying.
Today's sandwich was a complete throwback to my youth: ham salad.
When our server described it as ciabatta with ham salad made of ham, roasted peppers, onions, celery, mayo and a little mustard, I flashed back to childhood and my mother's bridge parties.
The only time I ever saw (or tasted) ham salad was when my Mom hosted her bridge club and she made dozens of little chicken and ham salad sandwiches.
When I expressed my memory of this to the twenty-something server, she jumped on it.
"I know, right? I remember my grandmother making ham salad when I was little, so it's like a total throwback for me, too!"
And while I think crispy ciabatta is the wrong choice for a sandwich like this (too much crunch for the filling), the ham salad was a delicious walk down Memory Lane.
Over lunch we discussed the concurrent show at the Muscarelle, a lesser Baroque painter and disciple of Michelangelo, Mattia Preti.
But truthfully, no painter could hold up after seeing a show of the master's drawings, so both my friend and I had given it, at best, a cursory look.
Lunch concluded with The Trellis' signature "death by chocolate" dessert, certainly not the most unique chocolate dessert I've ever had, but with enough forms of chocolate to satisfy my sweet tooth and put a period at the end of our day trip.
Let's just say it was as satisfying as hearing my art-hating friend admit how much he'd liked today's art.
Challenge met and left among the dead leaves on silvery Route 5.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
ISO Wednesday Lunch Date
I got a hankering for a road trip lunch today but couldn't think of a single friend who has Wednesdays off. Not that that stopped me, but it's always nice to have company for a sunny day drive.
And one of my favorite drives is out Route 5, so I picked up Main Street at 14th and made Charles City Tavern my destination. Yeasayer was blaring, plantations were passing and all was right with the world.
I love the charm of the tavern, even more so in warm weather when you can eat on the screened-in porch; when the hostess asked me where I wanted to sit, I left the choice to her. She put me in the sunny eastern dining room with an older couple at a nearby table.
They were looking at a map and discussing Jamestown as I listened to the specials and checked out the menu.
I decided on the soup du jour (potato, cheese and country ham) and bubble up (cheese and bacon open face sandwich) and a salad (Virginia apples, goat cheese, toasted walnuts, craisins, artisan lettuces with honey raspberry vinaigrette).
Musically, we were firmly in the 60s and 70s with the likes of Barry White, Edwin Starr and Jerry Butler serenading us from speakers above. It was perfect.
I couldn't resist asking the couple about their map searching. I learned that they'd lived in Midlothian for two years and were on a day trip to Jamestown for no better reason than a sunny drive. They were tickled to hear that I had been motivated for the same reason. Now we were friends.
I'd noticed that the curtain on the window by their table had been pulled up and anchored with salt and pepper shakers.
It was for the light and the view, they said, so I did the same with my curtain, revealing a view of the fields and an outbuilding. It wasn't quite the porch, but it was much more pleasant.
They asked where I was from and I asked the same of them. He answered "The Northern Neck" and she "Warrenton," so I made a leap of faith and asked if they'd met online. They had.
"Have you tried it?" he asked enthusiastically. I explained I had some trepidation about the whole concept of online dating ("But why?" he asked) and suddenly they became the poster couple for it.
They warned me about the pitfalls, talked about the variety of people on dating sites and assured me I'd be very popular online.
Our food arrived about then, and I was happy to let that topic die. They, too, had gotten the soup and we all thought it was stellar, chock full of country ham (more ham than potato chunks) and peas.
The bubble up was delightful, a variation on my favorite 2 a.m. snack of late (tallegio and bacon grilled cheese), although this version was topless.
My salad featured some beautiful lettuces and an abundance of apple matchsticks and did a fine job of balancing the richness of the soup and sandwich.
Afterwards, we got to talking about the Northern Neck and I recommended the Lancaster Tavern to them as worthy of a day trip meal, especially with the original jail and courthouse just across the street for touring.
Once again the map came out as we established exactly where the tavern is and they said they appreciated the recommendation.
As I put on my coat, I thanked them for their company. "Go online!" he told me, returning to the subject of dating. "It's not scary and it works! Look at us! Just don't give them your phone number right away."
"And meet in public places," his charming mate chimed in. "You're going to do very well online at your age, sweetie."
Jeez, they knew I was single on sight and now they'd figured out my age. I had a sense that if I'd walked out of the room and immediately walked back in, they would have disappeared, having accomplished their do-good mission.
I'm a little hesitant not to listen to the blissed out couple I randomly met in the middle of nowhere.
What if they were the reason I took that road trip lunch today? Stranger things have happened.
And one of my favorite drives is out Route 5, so I picked up Main Street at 14th and made Charles City Tavern my destination. Yeasayer was blaring, plantations were passing and all was right with the world.
I love the charm of the tavern, even more so in warm weather when you can eat on the screened-in porch; when the hostess asked me where I wanted to sit, I left the choice to her. She put me in the sunny eastern dining room with an older couple at a nearby table.
They were looking at a map and discussing Jamestown as I listened to the specials and checked out the menu.
I decided on the soup du jour (potato, cheese and country ham) and bubble up (cheese and bacon open face sandwich) and a salad (Virginia apples, goat cheese, toasted walnuts, craisins, artisan lettuces with honey raspberry vinaigrette).
Musically, we were firmly in the 60s and 70s with the likes of Barry White, Edwin Starr and Jerry Butler serenading us from speakers above. It was perfect.
I couldn't resist asking the couple about their map searching. I learned that they'd lived in Midlothian for two years and were on a day trip to Jamestown for no better reason than a sunny drive. They were tickled to hear that I had been motivated for the same reason. Now we were friends.
I'd noticed that the curtain on the window by their table had been pulled up and anchored with salt and pepper shakers.
It was for the light and the view, they said, so I did the same with my curtain, revealing a view of the fields and an outbuilding. It wasn't quite the porch, but it was much more pleasant.
They asked where I was from and I asked the same of them. He answered "The Northern Neck" and she "Warrenton," so I made a leap of faith and asked if they'd met online. They had.
"Have you tried it?" he asked enthusiastically. I explained I had some trepidation about the whole concept of online dating ("But why?" he asked) and suddenly they became the poster couple for it.
They warned me about the pitfalls, talked about the variety of people on dating sites and assured me I'd be very popular online.
Our food arrived about then, and I was happy to let that topic die. They, too, had gotten the soup and we all thought it was stellar, chock full of country ham (more ham than potato chunks) and peas.
The bubble up was delightful, a variation on my favorite 2 a.m. snack of late (tallegio and bacon grilled cheese), although this version was topless.
My salad featured some beautiful lettuces and an abundance of apple matchsticks and did a fine job of balancing the richness of the soup and sandwich.
Afterwards, we got to talking about the Northern Neck and I recommended the Lancaster Tavern to them as worthy of a day trip meal, especially with the original jail and courthouse just across the street for touring.
Once again the map came out as we established exactly where the tavern is and they said they appreciated the recommendation.
As I put on my coat, I thanked them for their company. "Go online!" he told me, returning to the subject of dating. "It's not scary and it works! Look at us! Just don't give them your phone number right away."
"And meet in public places," his charming mate chimed in. "You're going to do very well online at your age, sweetie."
Jeez, they knew I was single on sight and now they'd figured out my age. I had a sense that if I'd walked out of the room and immediately walked back in, they would have disappeared, having accomplished their do-good mission.
I'm a little hesitant not to listen to the blissed out couple I randomly met in the middle of nowhere.
What if they were the reason I took that road trip lunch today? Stranger things have happened.
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