If you stay in town for Thanksgiving, you know the drill.
Everybody's off tomorrow, so the bars are full of revelers with no curfew. Hence the night's reputation as the biggest drinking night of the year. Holmes is my go-to T-Day eve partner-in-crime, so I let him know we needed to meet up.
But you don't jump into a night such as this one cold-turkey (pardon seasonal humor), so we decided to convene at Rowland (no longer) Fine Dining to begin. With companions. By the time we arrived, Holmes and his beloved were already ensconced at the bar, putting a serious hurting on a bottle of Prosecco.
A favorite bartender was working, meaning we had great service and the equivalent of an extra friend with us. As if the impending holiday wasn't excuse enough, tonight was half off bottles of wine, so there was added incentive to drink. Over a jammy Las Rocas red blend, we checked out the new menu, with its wide array of small plates and reasonably priced entrees.
Wise move, Rowlands.
The restaurant had a chill vibe tonight with a few other regulars at the bar, an eight top that came in loopy and proceeded to get louder and loopier and two random couples at opposite ends of the room. A fine mix of separate parties, each having their own good time.
The bartender and I discussed the recent Chicha Libre show where we'd last run into each other. I laughed when she told me that she'd held back on her crazy dancing once she saw me there. As if I'd judge someone for any kind of dancing, much less just-got-off-work-dying-to-let-loose dancing.
Honey, never hold back because of me.
That business taken care of, my date and I moved on to Gordo's seafood gumbo, a deep-tasting dark roux with shrimp over a mound of rice. Usually a special, it's been added to the regular menu now, a good thing because it's a spicy and hearty dish, perfect for a cold night.
Since our little group was stretched across the length of the bar to eat, four-way conversation was challenging. But Thanksgiving eve celebrants are up to whatever the evening hands them. They'd seen the Chihuly show at VMFA since I'd last seen them, so colored glass discussion naturally followed.
Holmes had been away in Pat Robertson land and had missed Beaujolais Nouveau tastings, so he regaled us with his tales of hunting down the new wine since his return. I mentioned the sign I'd seen in an ABC store window this morning advertising black Friday sales on booze. That got Holmes' attention. And our bartender's.
Leaning over toward our conversation pit, she arched an eyebrow and asked, "Like what kind of sale? Do I need to be up?" Personally, nothing's getting me out of bed early post-turkey, so I felt unqualified to answer that. Everyone's got their own incentives and mine is not to judge.
Mine is to eat.
Delivering Amarone slow braised short rubs with herbed Parmesan gnocchi, our bartender did her best Pepe LePew accent, saying, "Le ribs, short," and leaving us to devour the long-cooked ribs, delectable with bits of fat and the lightest of gnocchis.
Dessert was chocolate cake with whipped vanilla cream and Manon rose and by the time we finished, we were the last occupants of the restaurant. What, again?
Since it was far too early to give up on the biggest drinking night of the year, we motored to Holmes' Hideaway where the evening progressed with more pink wine and better music. Holmes, ever the musician, played some of his own recordings, along with late '60s Fleetwood Mac as we continued to sip and chat until Turkey Day had arrived. And then some.
But if you're going to stay in town for the evening, you've got a certain responsibility to the night to uphold. Not to mention the ideal meal to eat the next day to recover from it.
Bring it on.
Showing posts with label rowland fine dining. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rowland fine dining. Show all posts
Friday, November 23, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Playing the Field Every Night
It's a good night when a guy hugs an album.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Something Comes from Nothing
Perhaps I should be concerned.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Alas for Me
We all know Richmond can be behind the curve on certain things.
But nineteen years for a film by a French directing legend to show here?
All I can say is better late than never.
Pre-movie festivities took place at Rowland where I met a devoted friend for happy hour and debriefing.
With the front door propped wide open, we got the benefit of a beautiful evening without having to inhale the exhaust of Main Street.
Inside, the music blared and we chose our poison off the happy hour five dollar menu.
She did a Cote du Rhone and told me about the recent ball she'd attended, which was apparently over-supplied with giant cupcakes.
I hear it's tough to plan how many cupcakes a formally dressed crowd will eat.
I went with white burgundy (Cuvee Hortense) while talking about talking because she wanted specifics about frequency.
Talking frequency.
How can I not love a friend who wants that kind of information?
Since it was her first time at Rowland, I insisted we get the butterbean cake, but it was by mutual agreement that we ordered the fish sticks.
Chef Virginia was doing flash-fried rockfish strips on a bed of arugula with Cesar dressing and tartar sauce on the side.
If only we could all grow up eating fish sticks like these, there'd be world peace, I feel certain.
Our bartender joined the conversation organically after eavesdropping on my friend telling me about how hard it is to get her husband to take her out to dinner.
"Bring him in and I'll lecture him about not being so tight," he advised her.
I had to ask if he'd been listening in. "Well, sure," he grinned. Translation: "Duh."
No doubt about it, barkeeps earn their money listening to the trivial bar chatter of people like us.
Sadly, our tete-a-tete had to be cut short because I had aspirations to catch the next-to-last screening of the VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater.
My, how the school year flies when you're not paying attention.
I took my usual aisle seat only to be joined shortly by a girl I'd met years ago when we kept passing each other on our walks.
"I haven't seen you in five years," she said, sitting down. "What's new with you?"
Honey, you don't have the time to listen to the answer to that question before this movie starts.
Or enough brain space to handle that and French New Wave.
When the film, Jean-Luc Godard's "Helas Pour Moi" (or Alas for Me), was introduced, it was with the surprising fact that the film is not available with English subtitles in this country.
Luckily for the audience, one of VCU's professors had a very rare print which he was sharing with anyone brave enough to swim in Godard's drowning pool of deep and dark issues.
The story is based on the myth about a god taking over the body of a mere mortal so that he can have sex with the man's faithful wife.
We were warned that the film was not for the lazy-minded and even offered some safety lines to hang onto as we watched it, themes that could pull us back in if we got in too deep.
What is romanticism in this day and age? What does it mean to love one person? How important is fidelity?
I was more than happy to splash around in Godard's pools, expressed in so decidedly an un-American way.
Because it did get dense, with bursts of classical music, disembodied voices and words flashing on the screen even as the story loosely unfolded.
All I can say is that I hope the film students in the audience weren't sporting altered states because there's no way they could pass a quiz on this film without full attention.
As it was, most of the crowd just sat there when it ended, trying to absorb what we'd just seen.
I was hardly surprised to hear that the film couldn't find a distributor when it was released in 1994 (the VCU professor actually had a distribution company at the time that released it in this country), back in the dark ages.
So it worked out well for me that it just now got shown here since I was free and looking for a little mental stimulation tonight.
I don't want to take a quiz on it, but I'm willing to fire up a few synapses on such weighty topics as romanticism, love and fidelity as conceived of by the French.
Make no mistake, though, I followed up the mental heavy lifting with a glass of Paarl Heights Pinotage at Bistro 27 afterwards.
Maybe it was the short night Monday, maybe it was the drive to and from the Northern Neck today or maybe it was the hour and a half swimming in Godard's bottomless pool of soul-searching, but I couldn't finish my wine.
Pouring it out, the bartender shook his head, saying, "The Pinotage gods aren't smiling right now."
I'll just have to live with that.
As long as they don't want to take over my merely mortal body.
But nineteen years for a film by a French directing legend to show here?
All I can say is better late than never.
Pre-movie festivities took place at Rowland where I met a devoted friend for happy hour and debriefing.
With the front door propped wide open, we got the benefit of a beautiful evening without having to inhale the exhaust of Main Street.
Inside, the music blared and we chose our poison off the happy hour five dollar menu.
She did a Cote du Rhone and told me about the recent ball she'd attended, which was apparently over-supplied with giant cupcakes.
I hear it's tough to plan how many cupcakes a formally dressed crowd will eat.
I went with white burgundy (Cuvee Hortense) while talking about talking because she wanted specifics about frequency.
Talking frequency.
How can I not love a friend who wants that kind of information?
Since it was her first time at Rowland, I insisted we get the butterbean cake, but it was by mutual agreement that we ordered the fish sticks.
Chef Virginia was doing flash-fried rockfish strips on a bed of arugula with Cesar dressing and tartar sauce on the side.
If only we could all grow up eating fish sticks like these, there'd be world peace, I feel certain.
Our bartender joined the conversation organically after eavesdropping on my friend telling me about how hard it is to get her husband to take her out to dinner.
"Bring him in and I'll lecture him about not being so tight," he advised her.
I had to ask if he'd been listening in. "Well, sure," he grinned. Translation: "Duh."
No doubt about it, barkeeps earn their money listening to the trivial bar chatter of people like us.
Sadly, our tete-a-tete had to be cut short because I had aspirations to catch the next-to-last screening of the VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater.
My, how the school year flies when you're not paying attention.
I took my usual aisle seat only to be joined shortly by a girl I'd met years ago when we kept passing each other on our walks.
"I haven't seen you in five years," she said, sitting down. "What's new with you?"
Honey, you don't have the time to listen to the answer to that question before this movie starts.
Or enough brain space to handle that and French New Wave.
When the film, Jean-Luc Godard's "Helas Pour Moi" (or Alas for Me), was introduced, it was with the surprising fact that the film is not available with English subtitles in this country.
Luckily for the audience, one of VCU's professors had a very rare print which he was sharing with anyone brave enough to swim in Godard's drowning pool of deep and dark issues.
The story is based on the myth about a god taking over the body of a mere mortal so that he can have sex with the man's faithful wife.
We were warned that the film was not for the lazy-minded and even offered some safety lines to hang onto as we watched it, themes that could pull us back in if we got in too deep.
What is romanticism in this day and age? What does it mean to love one person? How important is fidelity?
I was more than happy to splash around in Godard's pools, expressed in so decidedly an un-American way.
Because it did get dense, with bursts of classical music, disembodied voices and words flashing on the screen even as the story loosely unfolded.
All I can say is that I hope the film students in the audience weren't sporting altered states because there's no way they could pass a quiz on this film without full attention.
As it was, most of the crowd just sat there when it ended, trying to absorb what we'd just seen.
I was hardly surprised to hear that the film couldn't find a distributor when it was released in 1994 (the VCU professor actually had a distribution company at the time that released it in this country), back in the dark ages.
So it worked out well for me that it just now got shown here since I was free and looking for a little mental stimulation tonight.
I don't want to take a quiz on it, but I'm willing to fire up a few synapses on such weighty topics as romanticism, love and fidelity as conceived of by the French.
Make no mistake, though, I followed up the mental heavy lifting with a glass of Paarl Heights Pinotage at Bistro 27 afterwards.
Maybe it was the short night Monday, maybe it was the drive to and from the Northern Neck today or maybe it was the hour and a half swimming in Godard's bottomless pool of soul-searching, but I couldn't finish my wine.
Pouring it out, the bartender shook his head, saying, "The Pinotage gods aren't smiling right now."
I'll just have to live with that.
As long as they don't want to take over my merely mortal body.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
My Heart is Like a Wheel
Fact: nine out of ten people in Balliceaux had no idea who Patty Hearst was.
I didn't know that when the evening began at Rowland's for happy hour, though.
All I knew was that wine and appetizers were five bucks and that the late afternoon sun was shining directly through the clearstory windows onto us at the bar.
As usual, classic rock was the order of the day with two Elton John songs in the first twenty minutes.
Fortunately that soon morphed to something more 21-st century like.
With me was a Rowland virgin, so after ordering Campi Flegrei Falanghina, I insisted we get their trademark butterbean cake.
It's the one dish the kitchen can never take off the menu because it's so popular and rightly so.
The pan-fried combination of butter beans with a tomato, avocado and cucumber salsa is as unique as it is savory.
We also did the soup, a crimini and shitake mushroom with Chorizo and spinach that had us sopping up the last of the broth with our warm, crusty bread.
For the third time in a week, I had softshelled crab, this one battered and pan-fried to crispy, then served over a mushroom risotto.
It's so easy to get spoiled when softshell season begins; I saw several other diners doing the crabs, too.
There were lots of people there using their Living Social coupons, making for a lively evening of budget-conscious diners.
Nearby was a familiar face, an Aziza server on a date and not wearing the usual predatory jewelry for which she is known.
You just never know who you'll see at happy hour.
We finished up with Iamarca Prosecco and a chocolate hazelnut creme brulee for two while arguing the finer points of art for art's sake.
Yet again, we agreed to disagree.
Stop number two was Balliceaux for an early show (9:30!) and a good-sized crowd was already in place.
Playing tonight was Lake Street Dive, a Boston quartet dropping by RVA on a one-off night from their current tour.
It was the guitar player's first night in his new glasses and he looked quite hipster-hot.
Lead singer Rachael is a jazz vocalist and the band won the John Lennon Songwriting competition in 2006, so they weren't your typical rock band.
Or pop band. Or jazz band, despite the number of local jazz musicians I saw in tonight's crowded audience.
"Is the mayor here?" she asked the audience. "Cause it feels like everyone is here."
A favorite sax player standing next to me for a while eventually said, "I gotta move away from all these people talking behind me."
I knew what he meant; it was an overly social crowd who chatted when they should have been listening.
The band was a lot of fun, even bringing up a local keyboard player for some songs.
"I see y'all aren't up here dancing," Rachael pointed out. "We're not going to be playing these funky tunes all night, you know."
They did cover George Michael's "Faith" as well as Hall and Oates' "Rich Girl."
That was the song which led to the discussion of the 70s rumor that it had been written about Patty Hearst.
I thought it unlikely that most people in the room even knew who Patty Hearst was, but my partner in crime disagreed, insisting that 95% of the crowd would in fact know.
His faith in the cultural history knowledge of the room seemed unrealistic to me.
Moving from stranger to stranger, I asked a dozen guys who she was. Only one had heard the name and everyone else was clueless.
One guy was so interested in why I was asking that he wanted the Cliff's Notes version of who she was and thanked me for bringing him up to speed.
I returned to my corner of the bar to rest my case.
The band had two notable qualities: a female upright bass player (Matt Gold, you would have been in love) and a definite 70s leaning.
By the time they got to Paul McCartney's "Let Me Roll It," the crowd was in full-on groove mode, shoved up against each other and enjoying every second of the band's languorous take on the song.
I figure about 30% of the audience recognized the song, for what that's worth.
Once the show ended, the room became a talkative party scene and I had the chance to chat up several friends I hadn't seen in a while.
We'll just say that "super affectionate girly" girlfriends came up and leave it at that.
"You go down smooth," the band had sung early on in the show.
Actually, the whole evening had gone down smooth, even among a crowd of people with limited cultural history literacy.
It's a bitch, girl, cause you've gone too far and you know it don't matter anymore.
Does anything matter on a Wednesday night when there's butterbeans, funk playing and the mayor isn't present?
I feel certain I could have gotten a consensus on that one, too.
Conclusion: nope.
I didn't know that when the evening began at Rowland's for happy hour, though.
All I knew was that wine and appetizers were five bucks and that the late afternoon sun was shining directly through the clearstory windows onto us at the bar.
As usual, classic rock was the order of the day with two Elton John songs in the first twenty minutes.
Fortunately that soon morphed to something more 21-st century like.
With me was a Rowland virgin, so after ordering Campi Flegrei Falanghina, I insisted we get their trademark butterbean cake.
It's the one dish the kitchen can never take off the menu because it's so popular and rightly so.
The pan-fried combination of butter beans with a tomato, avocado and cucumber salsa is as unique as it is savory.
We also did the soup, a crimini and shitake mushroom with Chorizo and spinach that had us sopping up the last of the broth with our warm, crusty bread.
For the third time in a week, I had softshelled crab, this one battered and pan-fried to crispy, then served over a mushroom risotto.
It's so easy to get spoiled when softshell season begins; I saw several other diners doing the crabs, too.
There were lots of people there using their Living Social coupons, making for a lively evening of budget-conscious diners.
Nearby was a familiar face, an Aziza server on a date and not wearing the usual predatory jewelry for which she is known.
You just never know who you'll see at happy hour.
We finished up with Iamarca Prosecco and a chocolate hazelnut creme brulee for two while arguing the finer points of art for art's sake.
Yet again, we agreed to disagree.
Stop number two was Balliceaux for an early show (9:30!) and a good-sized crowd was already in place.
Playing tonight was Lake Street Dive, a Boston quartet dropping by RVA on a one-off night from their current tour.
It was the guitar player's first night in his new glasses and he looked quite hipster-hot.
Lead singer Rachael is a jazz vocalist and the band won the John Lennon Songwriting competition in 2006, so they weren't your typical rock band.
Or pop band. Or jazz band, despite the number of local jazz musicians I saw in tonight's crowded audience.
"Is the mayor here?" she asked the audience. "Cause it feels like everyone is here."
A favorite sax player standing next to me for a while eventually said, "I gotta move away from all these people talking behind me."
I knew what he meant; it was an overly social crowd who chatted when they should have been listening.
The band was a lot of fun, even bringing up a local keyboard player for some songs.
"I see y'all aren't up here dancing," Rachael pointed out. "We're not going to be playing these funky tunes all night, you know."
They did cover George Michael's "Faith" as well as Hall and Oates' "Rich Girl."
That was the song which led to the discussion of the 70s rumor that it had been written about Patty Hearst.
I thought it unlikely that most people in the room even knew who Patty Hearst was, but my partner in crime disagreed, insisting that 95% of the crowd would in fact know.
His faith in the cultural history knowledge of the room seemed unrealistic to me.
Moving from stranger to stranger, I asked a dozen guys who she was. Only one had heard the name and everyone else was clueless.
One guy was so interested in why I was asking that he wanted the Cliff's Notes version of who she was and thanked me for bringing him up to speed.
I returned to my corner of the bar to rest my case.
The band had two notable qualities: a female upright bass player (Matt Gold, you would have been in love) and a definite 70s leaning.
By the time they got to Paul McCartney's "Let Me Roll It," the crowd was in full-on groove mode, shoved up against each other and enjoying every second of the band's languorous take on the song.
I figure about 30% of the audience recognized the song, for what that's worth.
Once the show ended, the room became a talkative party scene and I had the chance to chat up several friends I hadn't seen in a while.
We'll just say that "super affectionate girly" girlfriends came up and leave it at that.
"You go down smooth," the band had sung early on in the show.
Actually, the whole evening had gone down smooth, even among a crowd of people with limited cultural history literacy.
It's a bitch, girl, cause you've gone too far and you know it don't matter anymore.
Does anything matter on a Wednesday night when there's butterbeans, funk playing and the mayor isn't present?
I feel certain I could have gotten a consensus on that one, too.
Conclusion: nope.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Woe is Me, All Hope is Gone.
I missed out on art and music for the sake of meeting up with friends whom I hadn't seen in a while.
Agreeing to see my long-absent friends put me at Rowland for dinner instead of at the Visual Arts Center or Ballcecaux.
Compensation came in the form of a guy whose house was to be used for the filming of "Lincoln" and also satisfied my need for stranger conversation.
Moving down to give our group room at the bar, he told me about the film crew renting his Monument Avenue house for filming.
What did I learn? Daniel Day Lewis is a method actor who insists on staying in character.
He makes the crew refer to him as "Mr. Lincoln" at all times and during breaks, he sits on a cot like the Great Emancipator would have.
It made me wonder if he also adopts the symptoms of Marfan's syndrome and pretends to have a crazy wife,
Justifying that interaction as my culture for the evening, I resolved to enjoy my choice to get down with friends.
To celebrate getting together, we decided to go festive with multiple bottles of the crispy, dry Lamrac Prosecco.
Dinner was just as good: lump blue crab cake with roasted fennel, tomato ragout and sauce Choron ( a Bearnaise tinted pink with tomato) and Bavette Steak au Poivre over autumn root veggies with Porcini sherry reduction.
Interestingly enough, I had just learned about the bavette cut at the butcher party I attended a couple of nights ago. A variation of flank steak, it's a popular choice of French chefs.
How unexpected (and fitting) that I got to taste it tonight.
I love this time of year for crabs because they're plentiful and meaty and the crab cake was exactly that.
The bavette was out of this world: rare, toothsome and flavorful. As usual, the French know what they're doing with food.
We watched as an inexperienced bartender made shots for a group of girls ("I think I'll call it...the "Thanksgiving" he improvised).
One of our group had just returned from a seminar in Virginia Beach and told us about Pat Robertson's restaurant, the Swan Terrace.
He was as surprised at its Wine Spectator award as the absence of hard liquor.
He was almost as impressed with the chocolate bomb dessert as with a girl named Jill who looked like Wonder Woman.
After a dessert of two Derby chocolate pie slices shared by all, we got down to the lowest common denominator of the evening, music.
The chef and one of my friends commandeered the music to serenade us endlessly with the Byrds. I didn't complain because I'm such a fan of the twelve-string.
Some air guitar songs were so entertaining that video was shot.
But obviously not by me. It was enough that I agreed to carry a hypothetical cell phone if a future boyfriend ever asked me to (assuming that he was the only one with the number).
We talked about couples who stop on the side of I-95 to have sex (it's true) and boyfriends who show their love by taking their girlfriend's sinks (ditto).
Despite aspiring to such tales, I avoid I-95 like the plague and I have no spare sinks.
Perhaps I can Method act my way out of this.
Agreeing to see my long-absent friends put me at Rowland for dinner instead of at the Visual Arts Center or Ballcecaux.
Compensation came in the form of a guy whose house was to be used for the filming of "Lincoln" and also satisfied my need for stranger conversation.
Moving down to give our group room at the bar, he told me about the film crew renting his Monument Avenue house for filming.
What did I learn? Daniel Day Lewis is a method actor who insists on staying in character.
He makes the crew refer to him as "Mr. Lincoln" at all times and during breaks, he sits on a cot like the Great Emancipator would have.
It made me wonder if he also adopts the symptoms of Marfan's syndrome and pretends to have a crazy wife,
Justifying that interaction as my culture for the evening, I resolved to enjoy my choice to get down with friends.
To celebrate getting together, we decided to go festive with multiple bottles of the crispy, dry Lamrac Prosecco.
Dinner was just as good: lump blue crab cake with roasted fennel, tomato ragout and sauce Choron ( a Bearnaise tinted pink with tomato) and Bavette Steak au Poivre over autumn root veggies with Porcini sherry reduction.
Interestingly enough, I had just learned about the bavette cut at the butcher party I attended a couple of nights ago. A variation of flank steak, it's a popular choice of French chefs.
How unexpected (and fitting) that I got to taste it tonight.
I love this time of year for crabs because they're plentiful and meaty and the crab cake was exactly that.
The bavette was out of this world: rare, toothsome and flavorful. As usual, the French know what they're doing with food.
We watched as an inexperienced bartender made shots for a group of girls ("I think I'll call it...the "Thanksgiving" he improvised).
One of our group had just returned from a seminar in Virginia Beach and told us about Pat Robertson's restaurant, the Swan Terrace.
He was as surprised at its Wine Spectator award as the absence of hard liquor.
He was almost as impressed with the chocolate bomb dessert as with a girl named Jill who looked like Wonder Woman.
After a dessert of two Derby chocolate pie slices shared by all, we got down to the lowest common denominator of the evening, music.
The chef and one of my friends commandeered the music to serenade us endlessly with the Byrds. I didn't complain because I'm such a fan of the twelve-string.
Some air guitar songs were so entertaining that video was shot.
But obviously not by me. It was enough that I agreed to carry a hypothetical cell phone if a future boyfriend ever asked me to (assuming that he was the only one with the number).
We talked about couples who stop on the side of I-95 to have sex (it's true) and boyfriends who show their love by taking their girlfriend's sinks (ditto).
Despite aspiring to such tales, I avoid I-95 like the plague and I have no spare sinks.
Perhaps I can Method act my way out of this.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
First Rule of the Blogosphere
Be careful who you blog about for you may run into him the next night.
After a catch-up date with a good friend on the patio of The Empress in the balmy (84-degree!) late afternoon air (where I professed that a certain female chef would be my choice should I decide to jump the proverbial fence), I headed downtown for a birthday celebration dinner for a friend.
We were gathering at the bar of Bistro Bobette for drinks before dinner and I was the second arrival.
First there was a female chef (she's a great friend but not one I'm hypothetically lusting after), who was drinking a Cosmo and welcomed my company as we waited for the others.
I was poured a glass of the Barren Ridge Chardonnay, an unusual offering for Bobette because it's a Virginia wine, but one from the winery to be featured in their local oyster dinner next week.
When our quintet of four women and one guy was assembled, we moved to a table to begin the evening in earnest.
Since I am usually a bar-sitter at Bobette, I found it interesting to be in the middle of the dining room, surrounded tonight by a lot of large parties.
Which was a good thing because we were not a quiet table.
Of course the advantage of being part of a group was all the good things I got to taste: sauteed calf liver, veal tenderloin, crispy veal sweetbreads, rainbow trout and smoked trout tart, all beautifully executed.
The one newcomer to the restaurant at our table marveled at finding calf liver on the menu and then was thrilled with its tender, flavorful delivery.
The birthday girl regaled us with pictures and tales of her recent trip to Puerto Vallarta, where she and her boyfriend stayed in a pricey resort (and pricey is not a relative term here; the room was $2,000 per night).
She assured us that she'd used points, not cash, to make the trip happen.
Still, towels folded to look like swans, rose petals floating in the bathtub and private pool and ocean views out all the windows made it clear that this was a world away from any vacation I've taken.
As we were sitting there sipping wine after the meal, a lone diner walked in looking remarkably familiar.
It was the same lone diner who'd come into Bistro 27 last night and stolen everyone's attention.
Bluntly put, this town is lousy with actors from that "Lincoln" movie.
Rather than allow the ubiquitous Bruce McGill to capture the attention of everyone in this restaurant too, I headed over to accuse him of following my restaurant lead.
And don't you know that rather than admitting to being a copycat, we ended up talking restaurants. He also said that he loves to cook.
I asked how he was managing to end up at all the restaurants I frequented and he said he uses his nose to make his dining decisions.
It's a method that's hard to argue with.
So now that I've met the man, I can't go on and on about people fawning over him while I get ignored.
He agreed with several of my takes on local restaurants, so he's clearly a smart cookie and not just an attention-seeker.
But if he shows up tomorrow night, I'm going to be a tad suspicious.
After saying goodnight to him (and the bartender and the chef and the regular and his college roommate), I left to join my friends at Rowland for dessert.
Once we got through the birthday song and chocolate torte, I was pushed off on an unsuspecting restaurant guest by the birthday girl.
The poor guy had tried to engage her in food talk and she'd abdicated to someone with a wider palate (actually that's anyone who eats more than beef, grits and potatoes).
It worked out well for me because he was enjoyable to talk to and not only knew Richmond restaurants, but Washington's as well.
We got off on a tangent about the wild and inappropriate things some guys say to girls.
He shared an incident from his own past that involved his fingers around a guy's throat after the guy invaded his ex-girlfriend's personal space.
I shared a few hysterical examples from my own life as he listened in amazement.
"On behalf of men everywhere, please let me apologize," he said, taking personal responsibility for his people.
It was a sweet but unnecessary gesture.
True, I've been told some crazy stuff, but I'm not ready to jump the proverbial fence as long as there are still guys out there who like to talk, kiss well and like to eat.
Some of them even cook, I hear.
After a catch-up date with a good friend on the patio of The Empress in the balmy (84-degree!) late afternoon air (where I professed that a certain female chef would be my choice should I decide to jump the proverbial fence), I headed downtown for a birthday celebration dinner for a friend.
We were gathering at the bar of Bistro Bobette for drinks before dinner and I was the second arrival.
First there was a female chef (she's a great friend but not one I'm hypothetically lusting after), who was drinking a Cosmo and welcomed my company as we waited for the others.
I was poured a glass of the Barren Ridge Chardonnay, an unusual offering for Bobette because it's a Virginia wine, but one from the winery to be featured in their local oyster dinner next week.
When our quintet of four women and one guy was assembled, we moved to a table to begin the evening in earnest.
Since I am usually a bar-sitter at Bobette, I found it interesting to be in the middle of the dining room, surrounded tonight by a lot of large parties.
Which was a good thing because we were not a quiet table.
Of course the advantage of being part of a group was all the good things I got to taste: sauteed calf liver, veal tenderloin, crispy veal sweetbreads, rainbow trout and smoked trout tart, all beautifully executed.
The one newcomer to the restaurant at our table marveled at finding calf liver on the menu and then was thrilled with its tender, flavorful delivery.
The birthday girl regaled us with pictures and tales of her recent trip to Puerto Vallarta, where she and her boyfriend stayed in a pricey resort (and pricey is not a relative term here; the room was $2,000 per night).
She assured us that she'd used points, not cash, to make the trip happen.
Still, towels folded to look like swans, rose petals floating in the bathtub and private pool and ocean views out all the windows made it clear that this was a world away from any vacation I've taken.
As we were sitting there sipping wine after the meal, a lone diner walked in looking remarkably familiar.
It was the same lone diner who'd come into Bistro 27 last night and stolen everyone's attention.
Bluntly put, this town is lousy with actors from that "Lincoln" movie.
Rather than allow the ubiquitous Bruce McGill to capture the attention of everyone in this restaurant too, I headed over to accuse him of following my restaurant lead.
And don't you know that rather than admitting to being a copycat, we ended up talking restaurants. He also said that he loves to cook.
I asked how he was managing to end up at all the restaurants I frequented and he said he uses his nose to make his dining decisions.
It's a method that's hard to argue with.
So now that I've met the man, I can't go on and on about people fawning over him while I get ignored.
He agreed with several of my takes on local restaurants, so he's clearly a smart cookie and not just an attention-seeker.
But if he shows up tomorrow night, I'm going to be a tad suspicious.
After saying goodnight to him (and the bartender and the chef and the regular and his college roommate), I left to join my friends at Rowland for dessert.
Once we got through the birthday song and chocolate torte, I was pushed off on an unsuspecting restaurant guest by the birthday girl.
The poor guy had tried to engage her in food talk and she'd abdicated to someone with a wider palate (actually that's anyone who eats more than beef, grits and potatoes).
It worked out well for me because he was enjoyable to talk to and not only knew Richmond restaurants, but Washington's as well.
We got off on a tangent about the wild and inappropriate things some guys say to girls.
He shared an incident from his own past that involved his fingers around a guy's throat after the guy invaded his ex-girlfriend's personal space.
I shared a few hysterical examples from my own life as he listened in amazement.
"On behalf of men everywhere, please let me apologize," he said, taking personal responsibility for his people.
It was a sweet but unnecessary gesture.
True, I've been told some crazy stuff, but I'm not ready to jump the proverbial fence as long as there are still guys out there who like to talk, kiss well and like to eat.
Some of them even cook, I hear.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Art and Gnocchi Make the World Go Round
I've learned that beginning my evening with art all but guarantees a superior follow-up.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
My World and Welcome To It
Surreal: \sə-ˈrēal/
weirdly unfamiliar, bizarre, fantastic
A perfectly lovely evening ended on a perfectly surreal note.
But I'll get to that.
I had plans to meet friends at Bonvenu and waited for the worst of the thunderstorm's rain to end before driving over.
What's the point in dressing cute if I'm going to arrive looking like a drowned rat?
Two of the three friends I was meeting were walking out as I pulled up.
Seems that the pouring rain had come through the ceiling into Bonvenu's kitchen twenty minutes earlier.
Dinner was no longer being served.
Plan B was Rowland's and although they were wildly busy, there were four barstools available and that's all we needed.
A bottle of Charles Krug Sauvignon Blanc was poured and another couple put on ice for the near future.
Like everywhere in town lately, softshells were a special, but since I've had them four times in a few weeks, I instead chose the seared diver scallops with sweet plantains, cilantro mojo and quinoa with sofrito.
Those with me enjoyed a special of flounder stuffed with local crabmeat, a seafood (squid! lobster! scallops! shrimp!) linguine and the massive pecan-crusted pork chop.
During the course of the evening, I was introduced to the chef's recently transplanted brother with the mortifying qualifier, "And she's single!"
Luckily we both ignored that and discussed instead the varied places where he's lived (San Diego, Puerto Rico, Peru) and his dislike of Richmond's summer bug season.
I'd met my friends for dinner as a prelude to going to see the Picasso show on its last night.
It was my third time, but my friend's first and the other two had been.
As a bonus, we managed to convince Chef Virginia to join us.
And although I had a a ticket for the 9:30 viewing, it was way after 10 before I got out of there, as my server (who also works at Amuse) pointedly reminded me.
It was fun going through the exhibit with first-timers and interesting to see the variety of people there with us, including far more children than I would have expected given the hour.
A fair number of people were dressed up for the occasion, with some women wearing fancy dresses and very high heels.
You know, perfect choices for an eleven-gallery stroll with hundreds of other people.
But the energy in the galleries was terrific as everyone seemed jazzed by being in the museum late and taking in the once-in-a-lifetime show.
I was glad I'd decided to be a part of it.
It was after midnight when we finally walked out and I was pleased that it was still nice out since I hadn't brought a wrap.
(Begin surrealistic period)
As I was driving up Monument Avenue, the light at Robinson changed and I stopped.
The car next to me beeped at me, so I rolled down my window.
"Hi! I'm a musician from DC and I saw you back at the museum and I think you're just beautiful. Can I give you my card and see you sometime?"
Not what I was expecting.
I had figured him for a lost museum visitor seeking directions.
Or maybe I had a brake light out.
But this...?
"No, really," he said, pulling on something. "See, here's my sax. I was down here doing a gig. Then I went to the museum."
He held up the case and began pulling out his sax.
No, no, don't show me your sax.
"Do you always stop strange woman and talk to them at this hour?" I asked, amazed at what was happening.
"No, but I couldn't let you drive away and not try to speak to you."
He got out, handed me his card and introduced himself.
"If I thought you'd say yes, I'd put on some music and ask you to dance with me on the sidewalk," he said as if that was a normal thing to suggest.
My look must have conveyed my answer because words were escaping me.
"Please call me. I would love spending time getting to know you."
"Goodnight," I said and drove away, my head spinning with the oddness of what had just happened.
Maybe it was seeing Picasso for the third time that caused some of his surrealistic influences to bleed over into my life.
Because that just may be the most bizarre, fantastic and weirdly unfamiliar thing that's ever happened to me, and I've had some doozies.
But dancing on the sidewalk after midnight?
Touché.
weirdly unfamiliar, bizarre, fantastic
A perfectly lovely evening ended on a perfectly surreal note.
But I'll get to that.
I had plans to meet friends at Bonvenu and waited for the worst of the thunderstorm's rain to end before driving over.
What's the point in dressing cute if I'm going to arrive looking like a drowned rat?
Two of the three friends I was meeting were walking out as I pulled up.
Seems that the pouring rain had come through the ceiling into Bonvenu's kitchen twenty minutes earlier.
Dinner was no longer being served.
Plan B was Rowland's and although they were wildly busy, there were four barstools available and that's all we needed.
A bottle of Charles Krug Sauvignon Blanc was poured and another couple put on ice for the near future.
Like everywhere in town lately, softshells were a special, but since I've had them four times in a few weeks, I instead chose the seared diver scallops with sweet plantains, cilantro mojo and quinoa with sofrito.
Those with me enjoyed a special of flounder stuffed with local crabmeat, a seafood (squid! lobster! scallops! shrimp!) linguine and the massive pecan-crusted pork chop.
During the course of the evening, I was introduced to the chef's recently transplanted brother with the mortifying qualifier, "And she's single!"
Luckily we both ignored that and discussed instead the varied places where he's lived (San Diego, Puerto Rico, Peru) and his dislike of Richmond's summer bug season.
I'd met my friends for dinner as a prelude to going to see the Picasso show on its last night.
It was my third time, but my friend's first and the other two had been.
As a bonus, we managed to convince Chef Virginia to join us.
And although I had a a ticket for the 9:30 viewing, it was way after 10 before I got out of there, as my server (who also works at Amuse) pointedly reminded me.
It was fun going through the exhibit with first-timers and interesting to see the variety of people there with us, including far more children than I would have expected given the hour.
A fair number of people were dressed up for the occasion, with some women wearing fancy dresses and very high heels.
You know, perfect choices for an eleven-gallery stroll with hundreds of other people.
But the energy in the galleries was terrific as everyone seemed jazzed by being in the museum late and taking in the once-in-a-lifetime show.
I was glad I'd decided to be a part of it.
It was after midnight when we finally walked out and I was pleased that it was still nice out since I hadn't brought a wrap.
(Begin surrealistic period)
As I was driving up Monument Avenue, the light at Robinson changed and I stopped.
The car next to me beeped at me, so I rolled down my window.
"Hi! I'm a musician from DC and I saw you back at the museum and I think you're just beautiful. Can I give you my card and see you sometime?"
Not what I was expecting.
I had figured him for a lost museum visitor seeking directions.
Or maybe I had a brake light out.
But this...?
"No, really," he said, pulling on something. "See, here's my sax. I was down here doing a gig. Then I went to the museum."
He held up the case and began pulling out his sax.
No, no, don't show me your sax.
"Do you always stop strange woman and talk to them at this hour?" I asked, amazed at what was happening.
"No, but I couldn't let you drive away and not try to speak to you."
He got out, handed me his card and introduced himself.
"If I thought you'd say yes, I'd put on some music and ask you to dance with me on the sidewalk," he said as if that was a normal thing to suggest.
My look must have conveyed my answer because words were escaping me.
"Please call me. I would love spending time getting to know you."
"Goodnight," I said and drove away, my head spinning with the oddness of what had just happened.
Maybe it was seeing Picasso for the third time that caused some of his surrealistic influences to bleed over into my life.
Because that just may be the most bizarre, fantastic and weirdly unfamiliar thing that's ever happened to me, and I've had some doozies.
But dancing on the sidewalk after midnight?
Touché.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
No Blushing Here
"You know who in here I wouldn't want to see naked?" I asked my server at Rowland tonight.
The laugh attack I caused him almost made him choke. "No one has ever asked me that before," he gasped, trying to put his best professional hat back on as he leaned down for the answer. "Who?"
Despite every single table being full when I arrived around 8:30, the bar was a little sparse and while a couple eventually settled on the other end, it remained that way. It worked out fine because the three servers gave me more than enough conversation throughout the evening.
I know you're not supposed to drink alone but with no nearby barsitters, what's a girl to do but order some Anton Bauer Gruner Veltliner and make the best of the situation? My server told me that he can only drink one glass of this grape before the green berry fruits start to wear on him. I don't have that problem and enjoyed a glass before even considering my food choices.
Although the unique butterbean cake is a given at Rowland, I listened to the specials just in case something grabbed me, as it turned out, a wise decision because I was completely taken with the description of one of them. Seared scallops and grilled lobster chunks over savory corn pudding laced with thyme butter sounded too good to pass up, so I didn't.
I was enjoying a piece of crusty bread dipped in their signature garlic-infused olive oil with roasted garlic (presuming that I wasn't likely to be kissing anyone tonight, drat the luck) when the main event arrived. I had so made the right choice.
The dish was decadently rich, from the sweetness of the abundant scallops and lobster to the creamy, butter-drenched corn pudding and the nice acidity of the wine paired beautifully with it. Luckily, the wine police were not watching my consumption tonight, unlike last night.
My check arrived five minutes before the show I was going to see was to start ("Well, it's just not that far," my server grinned by way of explanation) but that's what happens when you tell people what your plans involve.
Over at Sprout, the crowd was forming for the Allison Self and Jail Swerves show. I've seen Allison enough to know not to miss her infrequent performances because she has a huge voice unlike any female singer in Richmond and a knack for choosing the ideal vintage material to showcase it.
She did some standards like "Good Night, Irene" and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," utilizing harmonica player Andrew Ali, as talented a player as any who only took up the instrument a year and a half ago. When we spoke during the break, he explained, "I want to be the old guy playing harmonica on the porch."
He's got a long way to go to old, but his talent is as evident as his passion. Allison explained her affection for old music, saying that her grandmother always told her, "The deader they are, the more you like 'em." She admitted as much.
After her well-done set, seriously enhanced by Andrew's accompaniment, they were joined onstage by the Jail Swerves for a song. Covering Lucille Bogen, Allison belted out what she called a dirty song, the classic, "Shave 'Em Dry," originally recorded in 1935.
The extremely X-rated lyrics are more graphic than you can imagine and probably way more so than most of the listeners in the room with the big black X on their hands could have fathomed. Some of their faces were priceless in reaction; many looked stunned.
After a huge ovation, Allison left the stage and the punk hootenanny Jail Swerves kicked into the Clash's "London Calling." It was a major cultural shift.
No voice could have wowed after Allison's raucous, big-voiced set, but the quartet of banjo, fiddle, guitar and upright bass (and occasional accordion) was fun and energetic and also employed Andrew's talent. Periodically throughout their set, they would pass out tambourines to the crowd, always carefully collecting them in a laundry basket after each song.
Minor threats also aided the collection efforts. "If you keep these instruments, you are going to hell," the lead singer told the crowd.
After a rousing cover of "Tainted Love," the band insisted on leading the crowd into the other room to try to engage the bar crowd. Like the Pied Piper, people fell in line and followed for the one-song set near the bar before dutifully returning to the back room.
Proof positive that for some people, it's easier to play "follow the leader" than hear seriously raunchy lyrics. With any luck, they'll grow out of that.
Now if f*ckin' was the thing, that would take me to heaven
I'd be f*ckin' in the studio till the clock strike eleven
And that was by far the least objectionable part of the song. Kudos to Allison for sharing this vintage listener favorite with Richmond on a Saturday night.
It was truly an amazing thing to hear, naughty bits and all. Made me sorry I wasn't getting kissed...or more tonight.
The laugh attack I caused him almost made him choke. "No one has ever asked me that before," he gasped, trying to put his best professional hat back on as he leaned down for the answer. "Who?"
Despite every single table being full when I arrived around 8:30, the bar was a little sparse and while a couple eventually settled on the other end, it remained that way. It worked out fine because the three servers gave me more than enough conversation throughout the evening.
I know you're not supposed to drink alone but with no nearby barsitters, what's a girl to do but order some Anton Bauer Gruner Veltliner and make the best of the situation? My server told me that he can only drink one glass of this grape before the green berry fruits start to wear on him. I don't have that problem and enjoyed a glass before even considering my food choices.
Although the unique butterbean cake is a given at Rowland, I listened to the specials just in case something grabbed me, as it turned out, a wise decision because I was completely taken with the description of one of them. Seared scallops and grilled lobster chunks over savory corn pudding laced with thyme butter sounded too good to pass up, so I didn't.
I was enjoying a piece of crusty bread dipped in their signature garlic-infused olive oil with roasted garlic (presuming that I wasn't likely to be kissing anyone tonight, drat the luck) when the main event arrived. I had so made the right choice.
The dish was decadently rich, from the sweetness of the abundant scallops and lobster to the creamy, butter-drenched corn pudding and the nice acidity of the wine paired beautifully with it. Luckily, the wine police were not watching my consumption tonight, unlike last night.
My check arrived five minutes before the show I was going to see was to start ("Well, it's just not that far," my server grinned by way of explanation) but that's what happens when you tell people what your plans involve.
Over at Sprout, the crowd was forming for the Allison Self and Jail Swerves show. I've seen Allison enough to know not to miss her infrequent performances because she has a huge voice unlike any female singer in Richmond and a knack for choosing the ideal vintage material to showcase it.
She did some standards like "Good Night, Irene" and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," utilizing harmonica player Andrew Ali, as talented a player as any who only took up the instrument a year and a half ago. When we spoke during the break, he explained, "I want to be the old guy playing harmonica on the porch."
He's got a long way to go to old, but his talent is as evident as his passion. Allison explained her affection for old music, saying that her grandmother always told her, "The deader they are, the more you like 'em." She admitted as much.
After her well-done set, seriously enhanced by Andrew's accompaniment, they were joined onstage by the Jail Swerves for a song. Covering Lucille Bogen, Allison belted out what she called a dirty song, the classic, "Shave 'Em Dry," originally recorded in 1935.
The extremely X-rated lyrics are more graphic than you can imagine and probably way more so than most of the listeners in the room with the big black X on their hands could have fathomed. Some of their faces were priceless in reaction; many looked stunned.
After a huge ovation, Allison left the stage and the punk hootenanny Jail Swerves kicked into the Clash's "London Calling." It was a major cultural shift.
No voice could have wowed after Allison's raucous, big-voiced set, but the quartet of banjo, fiddle, guitar and upright bass (and occasional accordion) was fun and energetic and also employed Andrew's talent. Periodically throughout their set, they would pass out tambourines to the crowd, always carefully collecting them in a laundry basket after each song.
Minor threats also aided the collection efforts. "If you keep these instruments, you are going to hell," the lead singer told the crowd.
After a rousing cover of "Tainted Love," the band insisted on leading the crowd into the other room to try to engage the bar crowd. Like the Pied Piper, people fell in line and followed for the one-song set near the bar before dutifully returning to the back room.
Proof positive that for some people, it's easier to play "follow the leader" than hear seriously raunchy lyrics. With any luck, they'll grow out of that.
Now if f*ckin' was the thing, that would take me to heaven
I'd be f*ckin' in the studio till the clock strike eleven
And that was by far the least objectionable part of the song. Kudos to Allison for sharing this vintage listener favorite with Richmond on a Saturday night.
It was truly an amazing thing to hear, naughty bits and all. Made me sorry I wasn't getting kissed...or more tonight.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Of Skulkers and Sweetness
For the record, I really don't get this whole Civil War Sesquicentennial thing. Do other countries mark the anniversary of their civil wars with cultural events? I honestly don't know, but it seems unlikely.
But before I got to "celebrating" bloodshed and strife, I met a friend at Lemaire for sparkling conversation and people watching on a budget. It's best if you ease into these things.
The two of us enjoyed a bottle of Centine, a blend of Sangiovese, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, as much a treat for its soft tannins and fruit-forward qualities as for its $10 price tag.
We paired it with a cheese and fruit plate of Humbolt Fog, Midnight Moon and Maytag Bleu (a steal at $9), with blackberries, grapes and apple slices. It's no wonder that the Wednesday crowds continue to grow as word spreads about what a great deal it is.
Our entertainment was the crowd around us. There was a Jersey Shore-looking couple discussing having their wedding at Lemaire; they stood out with her dyed platinum blond hair and his blacker-than-black pompadour. I'm sure they'll make a beautiful orange couple.
The guy next to me sat down, ordered a bottle of wine and never looked up, not at people, not at the TV, not at anything. My friend suggested he was just eavesdropping, but he couldn't have been hearing anything good because all of a sudden, he got his check and left, leaving half a bottle on the bar. Come back, we'll talk about juicier stuff!
As I walked out, I heard furious tapping on the restaurant's window and turned around to see a couple of restaurant owners waving madly at me.
I had to assume that both had the night off and were availing themselves of the same great deals we had while their respective restaurants chugged along without them tonight. I gave them the international symbol for party hearty and waved goodbye.
Stop number two was the Hartnett Museum at UR, first for a program of Music of the Civil War, followed by the opening and reception for "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection."
While I actually recognized a few of the songs, like "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," the rest seemed somehow familiar yet evocative of the period, if only because I just saw Gone With the Wind.
After the performance, the audience descended on the gallery to take in the drawings and engravings made to document the war for the citizenry back home.
With photo technology only able to document still images at that time, war artists were key to capturing the action as it unfolded.
The drawings showed all aspects of war life. There was one of a deserter being executed before the ranks of soldiers (let that be an example to you, boys!). Another showed Cavalry officers driving back skulkers (those shiftless soldiers who tried to avoid fighting in battle).
Most of the drawings were done to be used in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, a tabloid- format paper that brought the war home with battle depictions made by artists who risked their lives to detail them.
The drawings were transferred onto woodblocks and then divided into sections for various artists to cut out and then reassembled, resulting in about a three-day lag between receiving the image and publishing it, a feat that only Leslie's paper was capable of.
What was interesting was how the engravers "sanitized" the drawings, changing them to better reflect the paper's views.
In one scene of carnage, a wounded man's agonized face was softened to just look tired. A soldier with his arm badly wounded and dripping blood was blended into a crowd to save viewers from such unpleasantness.
Looking at the drawings, I was struck by the knowledge that they had all been created in the moment, whether in battle, punishment or glory. Many still had the fold creases from when they were mailed back to their editor for publication.
As I said, I don't entirely get the whole 150th hoopla, but these extraordinary documents of a dark time in this country's past are absolute must-sees for their first-hand accounts of life during wartime.
I socialized a bit at the reception, discussing the show with strangers and a couple of acquaintances, before heading out to Rowland to meet a friend to close out the evening. Walking in, I was warmly greeted by a trio of Amuse staff, out enjoying a night off.
Then it was over to see my girlfriend, who'd brought a friend she'd wanted me to meet (sadly, no, not a guy) who raved about my tights, but said she'd never have the nerve to wear such a thing. And yet, she's the one who had introduced my friend to that den of sexual playthings, Priscilla's.
She was amazed and appalled that I'd never been into the store, presuming that every adult has needed pleasure toys or peekaboo lingerie by this point in their life. I had to admit that I hadn't.
I may have lost the points I'd earned with the tights with my lack of a Priscilla's Frequent Customer card, but she was polite enough to keep talking to me anyway.
As I enjoyed the macadamia chocolate tart, one of the Amuse guys yelled over, "You don't need that. You're sweet enough already."
I've been called many things in my life, but sweet's never been one of them. On the other hand, even a blatant lie, when well-intended, can be appreciated.
It's not like it came from a skulker or anything.
But before I got to "celebrating" bloodshed and strife, I met a friend at Lemaire for sparkling conversation and people watching on a budget. It's best if you ease into these things.
The two of us enjoyed a bottle of Centine, a blend of Sangiovese, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, as much a treat for its soft tannins and fruit-forward qualities as for its $10 price tag.
We paired it with a cheese and fruit plate of Humbolt Fog, Midnight Moon and Maytag Bleu (a steal at $9), with blackberries, grapes and apple slices. It's no wonder that the Wednesday crowds continue to grow as word spreads about what a great deal it is.
Our entertainment was the crowd around us. There was a Jersey Shore-looking couple discussing having their wedding at Lemaire; they stood out with her dyed platinum blond hair and his blacker-than-black pompadour. I'm sure they'll make a beautiful orange couple.
The guy next to me sat down, ordered a bottle of wine and never looked up, not at people, not at the TV, not at anything. My friend suggested he was just eavesdropping, but he couldn't have been hearing anything good because all of a sudden, he got his check and left, leaving half a bottle on the bar. Come back, we'll talk about juicier stuff!
As I walked out, I heard furious tapping on the restaurant's window and turned around to see a couple of restaurant owners waving madly at me.
I had to assume that both had the night off and were availing themselves of the same great deals we had while their respective restaurants chugged along without them tonight. I gave them the international symbol for party hearty and waved goodbye.
Stop number two was the Hartnett Museum at UR, first for a program of Music of the Civil War, followed by the opening and reception for "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection."
While I actually recognized a few of the songs, like "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," the rest seemed somehow familiar yet evocative of the period, if only because I just saw Gone With the Wind.
After the performance, the audience descended on the gallery to take in the drawings and engravings made to document the war for the citizenry back home.
With photo technology only able to document still images at that time, war artists were key to capturing the action as it unfolded.
The drawings showed all aspects of war life. There was one of a deserter being executed before the ranks of soldiers (let that be an example to you, boys!). Another showed Cavalry officers driving back skulkers (those shiftless soldiers who tried to avoid fighting in battle).
Most of the drawings were done to be used in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, a tabloid- format paper that brought the war home with battle depictions made by artists who risked their lives to detail them.
The drawings were transferred onto woodblocks and then divided into sections for various artists to cut out and then reassembled, resulting in about a three-day lag between receiving the image and publishing it, a feat that only Leslie's paper was capable of.
What was interesting was how the engravers "sanitized" the drawings, changing them to better reflect the paper's views.
In one scene of carnage, a wounded man's agonized face was softened to just look tired. A soldier with his arm badly wounded and dripping blood was blended into a crowd to save viewers from such unpleasantness.
Looking at the drawings, I was struck by the knowledge that they had all been created in the moment, whether in battle, punishment or glory. Many still had the fold creases from when they were mailed back to their editor for publication.
As I said, I don't entirely get the whole 150th hoopla, but these extraordinary documents of a dark time in this country's past are absolute must-sees for their first-hand accounts of life during wartime.
I socialized a bit at the reception, discussing the show with strangers and a couple of acquaintances, before heading out to Rowland to meet a friend to close out the evening. Walking in, I was warmly greeted by a trio of Amuse staff, out enjoying a night off.
Then it was over to see my girlfriend, who'd brought a friend she'd wanted me to meet (sadly, no, not a guy) who raved about my tights, but said she'd never have the nerve to wear such a thing. And yet, she's the one who had introduced my friend to that den of sexual playthings, Priscilla's.
She was amazed and appalled that I'd never been into the store, presuming that every adult has needed pleasure toys or peekaboo lingerie by this point in their life. I had to admit that I hadn't.
I may have lost the points I'd earned with the tights with my lack of a Priscilla's Frequent Customer card, but she was polite enough to keep talking to me anyway.
As I enjoyed the macadamia chocolate tart, one of the Amuse guys yelled over, "You don't need that. You're sweet enough already."
I've been called many things in my life, but sweet's never been one of them. On the other hand, even a blatant lie, when well-intended, can be appreciated.
It's not like it came from a skulker or anything.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Unlocking the Secret at Rowland
It was that kind of day.
Uncharacteristically early wake-up call (8 a.m.). Meeting in Northern Neck (83 miles each way) to discuss writing and consulting work. Lunch with the parental units and hours spent wrapping presents for them while listening to unusually loud Christmas music. Drive home into blinding sunset followed by darkness.
I had barely set foot in my apartment when the phone rang and a friend suggested dinner at Rowland's. I could have kissed her - if I hadn't had to shower and get ready to be somewhere in an hour. It wasn't just that I was ready for a meal out; it was that I needed a major exhale.
My day had been alternating stretches in the car (where, for the first time in years, I revisited my love for the BoDeans. Is there a more poignant love song than "Forever On My Mind" or a better kick-ass road song than "Dreams"? Not today there wasn't) with non-stop conversation, both business and family. I was ready for something different.
I love that the holidays guarantee a full restaurant house on a Monday night. I walked into a bustling Rowlands where the Pandora music was perfectly suited to my taste (Yea, Yea, Yeas, Passion Pit, MGMT) meaning I had to know what the starting point band was (The Knife). My friend was there, the wine already ordered and opened and waiting for me. Already I felt better.
The spring roll of the evening was carnitas and while that doesn't exactly make sense to me, we ordered them anyway. The filling of braised pork, onion, cilantro and cumin was further enhanced with a spicy tomatillo sauce that had my friend requesting more (she even got another order to take with her).
Next up I had the shrimp Creole with scallion polenta, the perfect base for the mouth-watering combination of tomatoes, onions, peppers and hot sauce. Call me a heretic, but I prefer my Shrimp Creole over polenta rather than rice, but then I'm of neither French nor Spanish heritage, so what do I know?
For a millisecond I considered dessert, but decided wine would do me more good. Meanwhile, my friend was telling me about the progress of her fairly new relationship. In an effort to ensure (to the best of her ability) a long-term relationship, she has started asking long-time couples what the secret to their successful partnerships is.
Time and time again, she said, they have told her that the secret is not going to bed angry, something she doesn't quite understand. "What if you're tired? What if you want to wait till morning to discuss it? Why do you have to resolve it before bed?"
Unsure, I took these as rhetorical questions since clearly I have no idea about such things. She doesn't either, having been single for the last two years right along with me. In fact, her point was that going to bed angry would be of no concern to her simply out of gratitude.
"I'd be so happy just to have someone to go to bed mad with," she said by way of explanation.
I have to say, I'm with her on that. Besides, it takes a lot to get me mad, so it might be better if I looked for another secret to a successful relationship.
My long-time happily married Dad told me it was lots of sex. I think I'll go with that instead.
Uncharacteristically early wake-up call (8 a.m.). Meeting in Northern Neck (83 miles each way) to discuss writing and consulting work. Lunch with the parental units and hours spent wrapping presents for them while listening to unusually loud Christmas music. Drive home into blinding sunset followed by darkness.
I had barely set foot in my apartment when the phone rang and a friend suggested dinner at Rowland's. I could have kissed her - if I hadn't had to shower and get ready to be somewhere in an hour. It wasn't just that I was ready for a meal out; it was that I needed a major exhale.
My day had been alternating stretches in the car (where, for the first time in years, I revisited my love for the BoDeans. Is there a more poignant love song than "Forever On My Mind" or a better kick-ass road song than "Dreams"? Not today there wasn't) with non-stop conversation, both business and family. I was ready for something different.
I love that the holidays guarantee a full restaurant house on a Monday night. I walked into a bustling Rowlands where the Pandora music was perfectly suited to my taste (Yea, Yea, Yeas, Passion Pit, MGMT) meaning I had to know what the starting point band was (The Knife). My friend was there, the wine already ordered and opened and waiting for me. Already I felt better.
The spring roll of the evening was carnitas and while that doesn't exactly make sense to me, we ordered them anyway. The filling of braised pork, onion, cilantro and cumin was further enhanced with a spicy tomatillo sauce that had my friend requesting more (she even got another order to take with her).
Next up I had the shrimp Creole with scallion polenta, the perfect base for the mouth-watering combination of tomatoes, onions, peppers and hot sauce. Call me a heretic, but I prefer my Shrimp Creole over polenta rather than rice, but then I'm of neither French nor Spanish heritage, so what do I know?
For a millisecond I considered dessert, but decided wine would do me more good. Meanwhile, my friend was telling me about the progress of her fairly new relationship. In an effort to ensure (to the best of her ability) a long-term relationship, she has started asking long-time couples what the secret to their successful partnerships is.
Time and time again, she said, they have told her that the secret is not going to bed angry, something she doesn't quite understand. "What if you're tired? What if you want to wait till morning to discuss it? Why do you have to resolve it before bed?"
Unsure, I took these as rhetorical questions since clearly I have no idea about such things. She doesn't either, having been single for the last two years right along with me. In fact, her point was that going to bed angry would be of no concern to her simply out of gratitude.
"I'd be so happy just to have someone to go to bed mad with," she said by way of explanation.
I have to say, I'm with her on that. Besides, it takes a lot to get me mad, so it might be better if I looked for another secret to a successful relationship.
My long-time happily married Dad told me it was lots of sex. I think I'll go with that instead.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Back and At It
After a couple of days in the peaceful environs of the Northern Neck, I have to admit that I couldn't get back to the urban landscape quickly enough.
Fortuitously, I had double-booked myself for tonight so I'd be able to catch up on multiple fronts upon my return.
My primary plans were with a girlfriend I hadn't seen (except for a brief lunch) in eons.
And while lunches are fine, too much time had passed and too much had occurred in both our personal lives to cover a fraction of it in a lunch hour, or even two.
Drawn-out drinks and dishing were in order.
So tonight ended up being the mother of all catch-ups, full of probing questions, anecdotes, surprises and tales of tears.
Man, I love my guy friends, but sometimes it's just got to be two X chromosomes to really give it all up.
All that over-sharing was made much easier by meeting at Six Burner for half-price wine by the glass night.
The pleasures of drinking around the wine list really cannot be overstated, especially at $4 a glass.
To keep up our strength for telling all, we had the arugula salad, roasted beets, goat cheese, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette because the arugula is so terrific lately.
Everyone I know who is growing it (and kale) right now is raving about the flavor.
Peppery and plentiful, it smelled as good as it tasted and looked.
For sheer decadence, we had to have the snail risotto with garlic (loads!), parsley and Parmesan.
The portion size was perfect for such an incredibly rich dish and, as my friend noted, the only sound we could make while savoring it was, "Mmmm," with eyes closed.
Positively heavenly.
During the chocolate mousse course, we finally deviated from men and the laws of attraction to a slightly broader subject matter, including WW II movies, her conversion to listening to new music (thanks to me, I might add proudly), and our varying sleep requirements (did I ever really go to bed at 10:00? Wow, what lifetime was that?).
It was a much-needed evening with a friend who doesn't hesitate to ask the hard questions ("Would you ever get married again?") and to whom I always answer honestly.
With her, there is no such thing as TMI (at least so far).
Hours later, stop #2 was to meet a trio of friends at Rowland Fine Dining, providing the perfect opportunity to share with Chef Virginia my recent assist in introducing some new fans to her establishment, here.
She was tickled to hear that her butterbean cakes and, in fact, the whole meal, had so impressed the interesting group of guys (and one guy's dad) I'd sent her way.
The occasion for meeting up with this threesome was to celebrate the 10-month anniversary of the couple portion of the group and to have some girl talk with Virginia and the other female of the three.
We're an interesting group because the couple has been an item for not quite a year now and my girlfriend has been dating "practice men" (her term) since June and has just in the past two months begun what looks to be a most promising relationship.
I've been back on the menu for less than a month, so we're all coming at this from varying, but still fairly recent, vantage points.
Corny as it sounds, you could say we're all being cheerleaders for each other's personal relationship successes of late, both large and small.
And who would have guessed that I'd even be part of that conversation?
Don't look at me. I'm as surprised as everyone else apparently is.
Fortuitously, I had double-booked myself for tonight so I'd be able to catch up on multiple fronts upon my return.
My primary plans were with a girlfriend I hadn't seen (except for a brief lunch) in eons.
And while lunches are fine, too much time had passed and too much had occurred in both our personal lives to cover a fraction of it in a lunch hour, or even two.
Drawn-out drinks and dishing were in order.
So tonight ended up being the mother of all catch-ups, full of probing questions, anecdotes, surprises and tales of tears.
Man, I love my guy friends, but sometimes it's just got to be two X chromosomes to really give it all up.
All that over-sharing was made much easier by meeting at Six Burner for half-price wine by the glass night.
The pleasures of drinking around the wine list really cannot be overstated, especially at $4 a glass.
To keep up our strength for telling all, we had the arugula salad, roasted beets, goat cheese, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette because the arugula is so terrific lately.
Everyone I know who is growing it (and kale) right now is raving about the flavor.
Peppery and plentiful, it smelled as good as it tasted and looked.
For sheer decadence, we had to have the snail risotto with garlic (loads!), parsley and Parmesan.
The portion size was perfect for such an incredibly rich dish and, as my friend noted, the only sound we could make while savoring it was, "Mmmm," with eyes closed.
Positively heavenly.
During the chocolate mousse course, we finally deviated from men and the laws of attraction to a slightly broader subject matter, including WW II movies, her conversion to listening to new music (thanks to me, I might add proudly), and our varying sleep requirements (did I ever really go to bed at 10:00? Wow, what lifetime was that?).
It was a much-needed evening with a friend who doesn't hesitate to ask the hard questions ("Would you ever get married again?") and to whom I always answer honestly.
With her, there is no such thing as TMI (at least so far).
Hours later, stop #2 was to meet a trio of friends at Rowland Fine Dining, providing the perfect opportunity to share with Chef Virginia my recent assist in introducing some new fans to her establishment, here.
She was tickled to hear that her butterbean cakes and, in fact, the whole meal, had so impressed the interesting group of guys (and one guy's dad) I'd sent her way.
The occasion for meeting up with this threesome was to celebrate the 10-month anniversary of the couple portion of the group and to have some girl talk with Virginia and the other female of the three.
We're an interesting group because the couple has been an item for not quite a year now and my girlfriend has been dating "practice men" (her term) since June and has just in the past two months begun what looks to be a most promising relationship.
I've been back on the menu for less than a month, so we're all coming at this from varying, but still fairly recent, vantage points.
Corny as it sounds, you could say we're all being cheerleaders for each other's personal relationship successes of late, both large and small.
And who would have guessed that I'd even be part of that conversation?
Don't look at me. I'm as surprised as everyone else apparently is.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
What If I Stayed In?
The plan was to finally give Andrew exactly what he wanted. My friend has told me on more than one occasion that he wants to wake up one day and look at my blog only to find a post that says, "I didn't do anything."
But I have to eat, so I met a friend at Garnett's Cafe for dinner (that lovely Cobb salad) and to catch up after two plus weeks apart. I ate, we chatted, I dropped her off and I went home. It was 9:00. Andrew was *this* far from getting his wish.
But I had a message on my (gasp) land line from a friend saying, "I have a question for you. Give me a call," so I did. Turns out she was at Rowland's with two other of our friends and wanted me to join them. Sorry, Andrew, my friend, maybe another night.
I hadn't seen a couple of these friends in a month, so it was great fun to catch up while drinking half priced Wednesday wine. I took a fair amount of crap from one friend because I had on a brightly colored dress, a new habit of mine after years of wearing way too much black.
He was impressed, complimented me even, but still razzed me about finally wearing colorful plumage. "I'm impressed. And it's about time," was, I think, his idea of a compliment. A recent bright blue dress had elicited a similar reaction from another friend. Okay, so maybe I overdid the black.
They were just starting to eat dinner, but since I'd already eaten, all I had to do was sip and chat, not exactly hard work. Rowland's had just hung new artwork and the artist was sitting next to us at the bar eating, unfortunately unbeknownst to us until after he left. Had I known, I'd have found all kinds of things to discuss with him.
Instead, I listened to the latest in my one friend's saga about the guy she is just starting to date. She was looking for a negative spin on things and instead I offered her all kinds of cockeyed optimism. Perhaps it was the wine. And then she got a call from this guy and she was lost to us. It wasn't long before the remaining two in our group decided they'd be wise to take their intoxicated selves home.
Which was fine because it gave me a chance to chat up the new server, a Connecticut transplant, who was doing his first night of training. It didn't take long for him to identify himself as a foodie, although when I asked him where he'd eaten so far, the first place he mentioned was Tobacco Company. Yikes.
I wanted to write him off right then, but did the decent thing and persevered in the conversation. It wasn't long before he asked for restaurant recommendations, which I offered after qualifying my opinions by reminding him that I didn't know him well enough to presume what he liked and could only share my personal favorites. And then he too was gone, taking his tired legs home to recover from standing all night.
By the time my friend got off the phone, smiling and giddy,Rowland's Peruvian owner/chef Virginia had emerged from a stressful night training in the kitchen ("These young people don't have any motivation," she declared) and after a few moments tying up loose ends with the wait staff, announced, "Now it's time to drink!" You could tell how impressed they were with her statement.
Which left me, my date-crazy friend and Chef Virginia to discuss life and love, something we hadn't done together since June. Take one closed restaurant, unlimited wine and three women (one married 25 years, one just starting to date and one non-dater) and you've got the recipe for hours of conversation.
At one point, the last of the kitchen staff came out for a glass of wine and was soon sucked into the stories being told. My friend worried about sharing in front of a guy, but he assured us that he kept all secrets.
He's been five years in this country and away from his wife and seemed to be enjoying the love life banter he was hearing (he proudly shared with us that his godfather is 83 and having an affair with a 32-year old). Happily for him, he's also returning to his country and his wife in December.
Virginia shared the secrets of a successful long-term relationship and my friend shared her excitement about the possibilities with this new guy. I took notes from the former and played cheerleader to the latter.
But in doing so, I was also out until 1, so I can't give Andrew what he wanted, despite my good intentions. Not tonight anyway.
I'm working on it, Andrew, I really am.
But I have to eat, so I met a friend at Garnett's Cafe for dinner (that lovely Cobb salad) and to catch up after two plus weeks apart. I ate, we chatted, I dropped her off and I went home. It was 9:00. Andrew was *this* far from getting his wish.
But I had a message on my (gasp) land line from a friend saying, "I have a question for you. Give me a call," so I did. Turns out she was at Rowland's with two other of our friends and wanted me to join them. Sorry, Andrew, my friend, maybe another night.
I hadn't seen a couple of these friends in a month, so it was great fun to catch up while drinking half priced Wednesday wine. I took a fair amount of crap from one friend because I had on a brightly colored dress, a new habit of mine after years of wearing way too much black.
He was impressed, complimented me even, but still razzed me about finally wearing colorful plumage. "I'm impressed. And it's about time," was, I think, his idea of a compliment. A recent bright blue dress had elicited a similar reaction from another friend. Okay, so maybe I overdid the black.
They were just starting to eat dinner, but since I'd already eaten, all I had to do was sip and chat, not exactly hard work. Rowland's had just hung new artwork and the artist was sitting next to us at the bar eating, unfortunately unbeknownst to us until after he left. Had I known, I'd have found all kinds of things to discuss with him.
Instead, I listened to the latest in my one friend's saga about the guy she is just starting to date. She was looking for a negative spin on things and instead I offered her all kinds of cockeyed optimism. Perhaps it was the wine. And then she got a call from this guy and she was lost to us. It wasn't long before the remaining two in our group decided they'd be wise to take their intoxicated selves home.
Which was fine because it gave me a chance to chat up the new server, a Connecticut transplant, who was doing his first night of training. It didn't take long for him to identify himself as a foodie, although when I asked him where he'd eaten so far, the first place he mentioned was Tobacco Company. Yikes.
I wanted to write him off right then, but did the decent thing and persevered in the conversation. It wasn't long before he asked for restaurant recommendations, which I offered after qualifying my opinions by reminding him that I didn't know him well enough to presume what he liked and could only share my personal favorites. And then he too was gone, taking his tired legs home to recover from standing all night.
By the time my friend got off the phone, smiling and giddy,Rowland's Peruvian owner/chef Virginia had emerged from a stressful night training in the kitchen ("These young people don't have any motivation," she declared) and after a few moments tying up loose ends with the wait staff, announced, "Now it's time to drink!" You could tell how impressed they were with her statement.
Which left me, my date-crazy friend and Chef Virginia to discuss life and love, something we hadn't done together since June. Take one closed restaurant, unlimited wine and three women (one married 25 years, one just starting to date and one non-dater) and you've got the recipe for hours of conversation.
At one point, the last of the kitchen staff came out for a glass of wine and was soon sucked into the stories being told. My friend worried about sharing in front of a guy, but he assured us that he kept all secrets.
He's been five years in this country and away from his wife and seemed to be enjoying the love life banter he was hearing (he proudly shared with us that his godfather is 83 and having an affair with a 32-year old). Happily for him, he's also returning to his country and his wife in December.
Virginia shared the secrets of a successful long-term relationship and my friend shared her excitement about the possibilities with this new guy. I took notes from the former and played cheerleader to the latter.
But in doing so, I was also out until 1, so I can't give Andrew what he wanted, despite my good intentions. Not tonight anyway.
I'm working on it, Andrew, I really am.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I Can Like Women, Too
Because the bulk of my friends are male, it's not often that I get invited to a girls' night in. And in this case, the person doing the inviting was Virginia Rowland of Rowland Fine Dining, so I knew it would be a house full of interesting females, with an abundance of wine and amazing food. I was right on all counts.
I admire Virginia; she's half of a long-time happy relationship (marriage even!), she's a hugely talented chef (and her skills as a pastry chef speak to my sweet heart) and, probably most importantly, she is that knockout combination of gorgeous and practical. My own practical streak is far too wide to put up with frivolous female types.
The party got off to a cliched start when not a single woman in the room could make her iPod work through the stereo. We tried everything, making fun of our own sex and yet a little mortified at our collective ignorance. How tough could this be and did we really need someone with a Y chromosome to do it? Input, output, we thought we understood this stuff.
Sadly, yes, the cavalry had to be called (in the form of a husband) but he at least had the decency to arrive in a wig and carrying a purse. After solving the problem, he also knew enough to exit quickly. Let the wine-drenched girl talk begin.
Given the makeup of the group, it was no surprise that there was a lot of restaurant chatter, a thorough dissection of Broad Appetit (especially the prizewinners), some colorful customer stories and, yes, even discussion of who has the most attractive single male customers in their restaurant. What's the point in having a girls' night in if it doesn't devolve into men, dating and relationship stories?
Despite having cooked 500 butterbean cakes for Broad Appetit, Virginia obligingly made more for us tonight and we doused them in the cucumber, feta, grape tomato, avocado salsa and spicy cilantro oil that elevates them from stellar to sublime. She'd also done hanger steak wraps, vegetarian wraps, her take on deviled eggs, an olive platter (plenty of which ended up on the eggs), an extensive assortment of cheeses and various exotic fruits. The salsa her Peruvian brother had made was, without question, the best-tasting thing called salsa that I've ever put in my mouth; I could have eaten it off a spoon. And two kinds of chocolate for dessert.
Growing up as one of six girls in my family, I am completely comfortable in a room full of talkative females because I had nothing but practice at it for so many years. But the fact is, that's undoubtedly part of the reason I've required so few female friends as an adult.
On the other hand, an evening like this with a group of strong-willed and well-spoken women is an excellent reminder that there's a lot to like about my people. My XX people that is.
I admire Virginia; she's half of a long-time happy relationship (marriage even!), she's a hugely talented chef (and her skills as a pastry chef speak to my sweet heart) and, probably most importantly, she is that knockout combination of gorgeous and practical. My own practical streak is far too wide to put up with frivolous female types.
The party got off to a cliched start when not a single woman in the room could make her iPod work through the stereo. We tried everything, making fun of our own sex and yet a little mortified at our collective ignorance. How tough could this be and did we really need someone with a Y chromosome to do it? Input, output, we thought we understood this stuff.
Sadly, yes, the cavalry had to be called (in the form of a husband) but he at least had the decency to arrive in a wig and carrying a purse. After solving the problem, he also knew enough to exit quickly. Let the wine-drenched girl talk begin.
Given the makeup of the group, it was no surprise that there was a lot of restaurant chatter, a thorough dissection of Broad Appetit (especially the prizewinners), some colorful customer stories and, yes, even discussion of who has the most attractive single male customers in their restaurant. What's the point in having a girls' night in if it doesn't devolve into men, dating and relationship stories?
Despite having cooked 500 butterbean cakes for Broad Appetit, Virginia obligingly made more for us tonight and we doused them in the cucumber, feta, grape tomato, avocado salsa and spicy cilantro oil that elevates them from stellar to sublime. She'd also done hanger steak wraps, vegetarian wraps, her take on deviled eggs, an olive platter (plenty of which ended up on the eggs), an extensive assortment of cheeses and various exotic fruits. The salsa her Peruvian brother had made was, without question, the best-tasting thing called salsa that I've ever put in my mouth; I could have eaten it off a spoon. And two kinds of chocolate for dessert.
Growing up as one of six girls in my family, I am completely comfortable in a room full of talkative females because I had nothing but practice at it for so many years. But the fact is, that's undoubtedly part of the reason I've required so few female friends as an adult.
On the other hand, an evening like this with a group of strong-willed and well-spoken women is an excellent reminder that there's a lot to like about my people. My XX people that is.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Applause at Rowland
Some messages are just for laughs; they have to be.
I got one today around 4;30 from a guy friend, simply saying, "Do you have plans tonight? Of course you do," to which I responded, "I do," thinking that would be the end of it (I was meeting a girlfriend for dinner).
But, no, some friends then inquire about what your plans are and ask to tag along.
And when something like that happens, I have to think it means that the universe wants to do some re-grouping for a good reason or possibly just for laughs.
That or my friend just has a lot of nerve.
It worked out fine and three of us met up at Rowland just as a large group from the Martin Agency started gathering.
It was our first time as a trio and you probably couldn't find a more disparate threesome, but it led to an evening of varied conversation, always a good thing.
Dysfunctional families, office prisons, stuff gatherers, the Kinsey report and income tax barely begin to describe where we went topically tonight.
I'm always curious about Rowland's spring roll of the day and tonight's sounded worth investigating; it was pork, cabbage, bacon and zucchini and, as I've stated here before, who can resist pig two ways?
The crispy-fried spring roll was a huge hit with everyone; I shared because the portion was generous and I wanted to talk about how good it was with people who'd understand.
There was much raving and even a bit of order regret.
I followed that with the hanger steak bruschetta with piquillo peppers and cannelini bean hummus.
The contrast of the flavorful meat with the earthy hummus made this dish my second home run; it was at this point that my girlfriend said, "I need to just start ordering whatever you order."
I wouldn't advise it but I appreciated the sentiment.
We were graced first with the presence of co-owner Bruce who shared his thoughts on losing business to snow and thriving brunches, but when he tried to talk golf, he struck out with us.
Once the kitchen closed, he headed downstairs and we were joined by his delightful wife Virginia; that's when the best dishing began.
Italian restaurants in particular were on her mind, leading to a discussion of which diners support which restaurants and why.
She shared her theory on the correlation between a restaurant's bathroom and its kitchen, getting affirmation all around.
Rowland is beginning some improvements to the restaurant this week; one thing under consideration is taking the partial wall between the dining room and kitchen and extending it up to the ceiling.
With several feet of open space above the wall, every sound in the kitchen is audible when the dining room is anything but ungodly noisy.
She told a great story of an especially difficult night in the kitchen when, due to a server error, there was a great ruckus.
Apparently voices were raised and pots and pans tossed about before settling into the business of correcting the problem.
When she stepped out of the kitchen to collect herself, she was greeted with a roomful of people applauding her noise-making.
Despite her star turn, they're thinking that closing off the wall will keep the kitchen performances in the kitchen (although they may be missed by an appreciative dining audience).
We wound down with a discussion of (what else?) how to meet a mate, since our little trio are all single and looking.
Virginia, as the long-time happily married one, offered up her Peruvian-accented advice.
Finally we acknowledged that it was time to leave so she could finish up and go, but apparently she had business to attend to first.
"Now Bruce wants me to come downstairs so we can do some work," she smiled at us.
Work?
I know I've been out of the game for a while, but is that what we're calling it now?
I got one today around 4;30 from a guy friend, simply saying, "Do you have plans tonight? Of course you do," to which I responded, "I do," thinking that would be the end of it (I was meeting a girlfriend for dinner).
But, no, some friends then inquire about what your plans are and ask to tag along.
And when something like that happens, I have to think it means that the universe wants to do some re-grouping for a good reason or possibly just for laughs.
That or my friend just has a lot of nerve.
It worked out fine and three of us met up at Rowland just as a large group from the Martin Agency started gathering.
It was our first time as a trio and you probably couldn't find a more disparate threesome, but it led to an evening of varied conversation, always a good thing.
Dysfunctional families, office prisons, stuff gatherers, the Kinsey report and income tax barely begin to describe where we went topically tonight.
I'm always curious about Rowland's spring roll of the day and tonight's sounded worth investigating; it was pork, cabbage, bacon and zucchini and, as I've stated here before, who can resist pig two ways?
The crispy-fried spring roll was a huge hit with everyone; I shared because the portion was generous and I wanted to talk about how good it was with people who'd understand.
There was much raving and even a bit of order regret.
I followed that with the hanger steak bruschetta with piquillo peppers and cannelini bean hummus.
The contrast of the flavorful meat with the earthy hummus made this dish my second home run; it was at this point that my girlfriend said, "I need to just start ordering whatever you order."
I wouldn't advise it but I appreciated the sentiment.
We were graced first with the presence of co-owner Bruce who shared his thoughts on losing business to snow and thriving brunches, but when he tried to talk golf, he struck out with us.
Once the kitchen closed, he headed downstairs and we were joined by his delightful wife Virginia; that's when the best dishing began.
Italian restaurants in particular were on her mind, leading to a discussion of which diners support which restaurants and why.
She shared her theory on the correlation between a restaurant's bathroom and its kitchen, getting affirmation all around.
Rowland is beginning some improvements to the restaurant this week; one thing under consideration is taking the partial wall between the dining room and kitchen and extending it up to the ceiling.
With several feet of open space above the wall, every sound in the kitchen is audible when the dining room is anything but ungodly noisy.
She told a great story of an especially difficult night in the kitchen when, due to a server error, there was a great ruckus.
Apparently voices were raised and pots and pans tossed about before settling into the business of correcting the problem.
When she stepped out of the kitchen to collect herself, she was greeted with a roomful of people applauding her noise-making.
Despite her star turn, they're thinking that closing off the wall will keep the kitchen performances in the kitchen (although they may be missed by an appreciative dining audience).
We wound down with a discussion of (what else?) how to meet a mate, since our little trio are all single and looking.
Virginia, as the long-time happily married one, offered up her Peruvian-accented advice.
Finally we acknowledged that it was time to leave so she could finish up and go, but apparently she had business to attend to first.
"Now Bruce wants me to come downstairs so we can do some work," she smiled at us.
Work?
I know I've been out of the game for a while, but is that what we're calling it now?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Stalking the Wild Boar at Bacchus
Since tonight was the Richmond Forum, I knew in advance that most of the decent restaurants within a two-mile radius of the Landmark would be mobbed until 7:40 and right I was.
Accordingly, I made plans to meet a friend at Bacchus at 7:30 (which to her means 7:45). I arrived a little early to an overflowing restaurant, most of whom exited stage right within ten minutes.
I sat down at the bar nearest the heater, shivering and waiting for my friend to arrive. In no time at all, the restaurant completely filled up again.
The two guys sitting next to me genially engaged me in conversation.
They had just come from seeing Pedro Almodovar's "Broken Embraces" at the Westhampton.
Since I was already considering seeing this movie, I asked how they'd liked it (greatly) and commented that I was a big fan of Almodovar's films.
"Like what?" one of them asked. "Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down," I responded.
"Would you like to see more of that sort of thing?" one of the guys suggestively asked.
At that moment my friend arrived, effectively ending a potential discussion of bondage with a complete stranger.
We had a lovely meal.
I had white beans with pesto and mixed greens, followed by wild boar meatballs with mushrooms over white beans.
Yes, it was more white beans than I probably needed, but the subtly seasoned meatballs were absolutely delicious, not that they screamed wild boar (or wild anything for that matter) for the gastronomically timid, like my friend.
By this time, friend was ready for a change of scenery, so we headed up the block to Rowland for dessert.
Seating ourselves at the bar near a lone bar sitter, we were surprised at how full the restaurant was.
It didn't take long for the bar sitter to join us in conversation and merrymaking, making for a most enjoyable shift in dynamic for the evening.
A Philly native, he told us where to find the best Philly cheese steak in RVA and friend told him where to find the best rotisserie chicken in Arlington.
We ordered desserts (tiramisu and hazelnut chocolate torte) and liquid refreshment and proceeded to fill the next three hours with mutual getting-to-know-you-superficially conversation.
At times fast and furious and at times teasing and jocular, we inadvertently delayed our new friend from his intended plans for the rest of the evening.
He didn't complain about it and seemed strong enough of character to have left if he'd really wanted to.
I will give him credit, though; he stayed consistent with his story (his claim, not mine), quoted Shakespeare and complimented my smile.
Bonus points for all three.
Shortly after 1, the owners remembered that they had brunch coming up in too few hours, so we bundled up against the cold and started down the sidewalk.
Across the street, groups were still heading into Sidewalk, but we adjourned for the evening with our hunger and humor satisfied.
Accordingly, I made plans to meet a friend at Bacchus at 7:30 (which to her means 7:45). I arrived a little early to an overflowing restaurant, most of whom exited stage right within ten minutes.
I sat down at the bar nearest the heater, shivering and waiting for my friend to arrive. In no time at all, the restaurant completely filled up again.
The two guys sitting next to me genially engaged me in conversation.
They had just come from seeing Pedro Almodovar's "Broken Embraces" at the Westhampton.
Since I was already considering seeing this movie, I asked how they'd liked it (greatly) and commented that I was a big fan of Almodovar's films.
"Like what?" one of them asked. "Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down," I responded.
"Would you like to see more of that sort of thing?" one of the guys suggestively asked.
At that moment my friend arrived, effectively ending a potential discussion of bondage with a complete stranger.
We had a lovely meal.
I had white beans with pesto and mixed greens, followed by wild boar meatballs with mushrooms over white beans.
Yes, it was more white beans than I probably needed, but the subtly seasoned meatballs were absolutely delicious, not that they screamed wild boar (or wild anything for that matter) for the gastronomically timid, like my friend.
By this time, friend was ready for a change of scenery, so we headed up the block to Rowland for dessert.
Seating ourselves at the bar near a lone bar sitter, we were surprised at how full the restaurant was.
It didn't take long for the bar sitter to join us in conversation and merrymaking, making for a most enjoyable shift in dynamic for the evening.
A Philly native, he told us where to find the best Philly cheese steak in RVA and friend told him where to find the best rotisserie chicken in Arlington.
We ordered desserts (tiramisu and hazelnut chocolate torte) and liquid refreshment and proceeded to fill the next three hours with mutual getting-to-know-you-superficially conversation.
At times fast and furious and at times teasing and jocular, we inadvertently delayed our new friend from his intended plans for the rest of the evening.
He didn't complain about it and seemed strong enough of character to have left if he'd really wanted to.
I will give him credit, though; he stayed consistent with his story (his claim, not mine), quoted Shakespeare and complimented my smile.
Bonus points for all three.
Shortly after 1, the owners remembered that they had brunch coming up in too few hours, so we bundled up against the cold and started down the sidewalk.
Across the street, groups were still heading into Sidewalk, but we adjourned for the evening with our hunger and humor satisfied.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Highs & Lows: Of Butterbeans & Carols
Perhaps you've gathered from my blog that I'm not much into organized religion...or perhaps you haven't. In either case, let's just say I'm not. Which is not to imply that I totally disdain certain holidays (I don't) but that I may experience some things differently than other people do. The sounds of the season are a perfect example.
I've always enjoyed Christmas music for the most part. Not played all day long and not the embarrassing stuff, but some classic and some newer reinterpreted holiday music is fine. But for some reason, this year I am finding myself offended by hearing religious Christmas songs everywhere I go. A friend and I were in Barnes & Noble the other day when "O Come All Ye Faithful" came on. I know it's an old Christmas carol, but do I really want to hear a song about Jesus or Christ or anything pertaining to a specific religion while I'm looking for magazines? No, actually I don't.
Tonight I was meeting M.H.F. at Rowland for dinner and there, too, I heard Christian carols. Jingle Bells? Okay. I'll be Home for Christmas? Sure. Hark, the Herald Angels Sing? Not so much.
Luckily, Pandora soon made an appearance (although the starting point was Jack Johnson, for whom I have a particular distaste, but many of the singer-songwriter types who followed were stellar). I was relieved to hear the religious songs replaced with music that had no references to saviors or glory. If that makes me a heathen, well, then my grandmother was right (although I still think she was wrong about pink eyeshadow).
I started my meal with the Butterbean Cake with cucumber, grape tomato, feta, avocado, salsa and spicy cilantro oil. I have had this unusual and delicious appetizer before, but not since a dark night in February, so I really savored having it after so long a time. I love my butterbeans and this cake is unlike anything else done with them around here.
Dinner was surf and turf, that is to say I got the Country Style Pork Ribs with BBQ glaze and butternut hash and M.H.F. got the fish special, flounder stuffed with crab meat. There was a lot of sharing going on so that we could both enjoy such diverse dishes. Both were too big to finish, especially for anyone ordering the Chocolate Hazelnut Torte. Wait, didn't I just have chocolate pie for lunch? Why, yes, I did, but that had been ten hours ago.
I'm not begrudging anyone their Christmas carols at home or a party, but let's not share them with shoppers and diners. I feel certain that we'd never allow the sacred music of other religions to be played in general public spaces (well, there's Adam Sandler's Chanukkah song, but that's hardly about the Jews running out of oil).
But a little Vince Guaraldi never hurt (or offended) anybody.
I've always enjoyed Christmas music for the most part. Not played all day long and not the embarrassing stuff, but some classic and some newer reinterpreted holiday music is fine. But for some reason, this year I am finding myself offended by hearing religious Christmas songs everywhere I go. A friend and I were in Barnes & Noble the other day when "O Come All Ye Faithful" came on. I know it's an old Christmas carol, but do I really want to hear a song about Jesus or Christ or anything pertaining to a specific religion while I'm looking for magazines? No, actually I don't.
Tonight I was meeting M.H.F. at Rowland for dinner and there, too, I heard Christian carols. Jingle Bells? Okay. I'll be Home for Christmas? Sure. Hark, the Herald Angels Sing? Not so much.
Luckily, Pandora soon made an appearance (although the starting point was Jack Johnson, for whom I have a particular distaste, but many of the singer-songwriter types who followed were stellar). I was relieved to hear the religious songs replaced with music that had no references to saviors or glory. If that makes me a heathen, well, then my grandmother was right (although I still think she was wrong about pink eyeshadow).
I started my meal with the Butterbean Cake with cucumber, grape tomato, feta, avocado, salsa and spicy cilantro oil. I have had this unusual and delicious appetizer before, but not since a dark night in February, so I really savored having it after so long a time. I love my butterbeans and this cake is unlike anything else done with them around here.
Dinner was surf and turf, that is to say I got the Country Style Pork Ribs with BBQ glaze and butternut hash and M.H.F. got the fish special, flounder stuffed with crab meat. There was a lot of sharing going on so that we could both enjoy such diverse dishes. Both were too big to finish, especially for anyone ordering the Chocolate Hazelnut Torte. Wait, didn't I just have chocolate pie for lunch? Why, yes, I did, but that had been ten hours ago.
I'm not begrudging anyone their Christmas carols at home or a party, but let's not share them with shoppers and diners. I feel certain that we'd never allow the sacred music of other religions to be played in general public spaces (well, there's Adam Sandler's Chanukkah song, but that's hardly about the Jews running out of oil).
But a little Vince Guaraldi never hurt (or offended) anybody.
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