Tiny Bubbles and the Tights

I do it for the romance, you know.

Because I certainly don't  morph from a lazy afternoon magazine-reading sloth to making myself presentable in public for any other reason.

It happened over a dog.

(cue gypsy accordion music)

When I sat down at Bistro Bobette, I was the only customer at the bar.

It worked to my advantage, garnering me a tasting of Michele Turgy Champagne, an unexpected delight they're considering carrying.

Even better was the Jean Vesselle Brut Rose de Saignee, a deep pink and complex sparkler that almost qualified as chewy (GB, this is your kind of bubbles), so I got a glass of that.

Finally another customer approached the bar and I was told he was a regular and quickly given his name and occupation.

It made it easier to greet him by name and see the look of confusion on his face since he'd never laid eyes on me before.

We were introduced and we started talking with and without the bartender joining us, until we both got hungry.

He'd never had the Bobette dog, and asked about it, allowing me to share what I liked about it (everything).

I got one myself to make it seem like a good idea. Actually, I was going to have one anyway, but he didn't need to know that.

Come on, it's the chef's recipe executed by Sausgaecraft with harissa mustard and Gruyere on crusty bread.

Oh, and a mountain of frites so perfectly cooked and seasoned that ketchup seems like a crime against cuisine.

We talked about music, discovering we had very little in common; he likes old, I like new.

(fade in Journey and out quickly, fade in Dum Dum Girls))

He told me about a bunch of restaurant projects he's worked on, so we knew some of the same people.

The conversation was quick and we laughed a lot.

We even discussed the definition and execution of creativity.

Then, as I sat there in my floral-patterned magenta tights, he told me that he has a tights fondness. Well, actually a fetish.

A stocking fetish.

(sound of record being scratched)

Which came off as more comic than anything because we'd just finished discussing his personal life.

He's been dating a girl for eight years. "First off," he said, "I love her."

She has the misfortune to be married (to someone else) with children. They have agreed to stay together until the kids are out of school.

Meanwhile, the Mrs. and tights fan have been meeting for lunch Monday through Friday for eight years, biding time until she's free.

He misses her terribly on the weekends but thinks she's worth waiting for.

Maybe it was those lovely pink bubbles, and I know the whole situation is wrong on one level, but that devotion struck me as very romantic.

And yes, she does the whole tights thing for him.

(cue vamp)

But lunch every day for eight years? Isn't there a romantic comedy in there just waiting to be filmed?

So, yea, I had a hot dog with a tights fetishist tonight, earnestly discussing holding out for your own true love.

Top that.

Brunch Punch

You never know what chef and sous chefs you'll run into at brunch.

Especially on the first day a restaurant opens for brunch.

Despite a recent dinner visit, I was sucked in by the Roosevelt's brand-new brunch debuting today, so that's where I landed after my morning walk.

The dining room was half full, the music was local (Homemade Knives) and the vibe was "just woke up and need good food" casual.

All of that worked for me.

I'd brought the new Washington Post Fall Dining Guide in case I didn't find good conversation but I immediately ran into restaurant types enjoying a day off.

A four-top of them told me that they'd covered the menu and loved it all, so I had their seal of approval to try anything.

In a related note, I noticed that you could add foie gras to any menu item.

Starting with a glass of Virginia Fizz, I ordered the three breakfast sausage corn dogs with maple syrup that promised (and delivered) the tantalizing combo of sweet and salty.

Each taste of the fat Sausagecraft sage breakfast links covered in corn batter and dunked in syrup provided breakfast in a  bite.

I watched as bourbon tea punches were dispatched from the bar with little umbrellas in them. For some reason, I found that charming.

While I ate, a customer came up to the bartender and inquired about the music.

Since the barkeep was the wife of the singer being asked about, the customer left with not only the band and song name but an e-mail address to get the CD.

It's all about the details.

When the same bartender mistakenly made a mimosa instead of a Bloody Mary, I was the recipient of the mistake and lapped up the pulp-filled beverage that is sure to annoy the dishwasher with its bits of fruit clinging to the glass long after the beverage is gone.

Undecided between coffee cake and a biscuit with maple butter, I went with the latter, sure that Chef Lee would deliver a biscuit worthy of my Richmond grandmother, who made fresh biscuits three times a week for us growing up.

Bessie would have been proud.

Amazingly, there was even a little butter left after I inhaled the biscuit, a highly unusual state of affairs for this butter lover.

I ran into an artist whose work hangs in my living room, a musician I've heard many times (and continue to enjoy) and a good friend with whom I shared my recent horoscope ("I got chills when I read it," she said. Don't I know it?).

A local chef arrived and took up residence next to me, providing stellar conversation and company for the rest of my stay.

With my peach Bellini delivering its intoxicating aroma with every sip, we discussed the newest restaurants (including his own), the problems associated with burning bridges and who's becoming the new Cabo's (an insult if ever there was one).

I left with lunch plans on Tuesday, dinner plans on Wednesday and bar plans a week from Thursday.

Oh, yes, and plans to return to the Roosevelt for brunch and the fried chicken biscuit as soon as possible.

A New Deal for Richmond

Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

The Roosevelt, Church Hill's new restaurant, opened with a nearly full house despite no ABC license. Even so, neighbors and friends kept the tables turning over all night.

When I arrived, there were two men working on the side of the building, repainting the old advertisement that had been painted there decades ago. I complimented their work. "Wait till you see how good it looks when it's done!" one guy said as I walked underneath his cherry-picker to go inside. I intended to.

Because of all the glass on the corner building, diners get to enjoy an ever-changing light level, from early evening sun right through softly-lit nighttime glow. I was meeting Southside friends where I was greeted by a familiar face behind the bar who served me a Sprecher root beer to whet my whistle.

Evidence of the achievements and the creative effort of The Roosevelt are myriad. The former Que Pasa has been transformed from a garish orange and yellow shell into an enticing New Orleans dining room, a well-dressed lady hinting at pleasure.

Kendra Feather does it yet again.

Pale blue hand-stenciled walls set off an enormous old map of Richmond, vintage black and white photographs and WWII posters ("Eat More of These!"). A hundred details express the creative effort that went into this place. A wooden box turned on its side and hung on the wall houses small plants.
A black beaded chandelier hangs over the bar and an ornate black-framed mirror is over the fireplace. Ferns frame the front door. New Orleans-style jazz plays on the sound system.

Toto, I don't think we're in Richmond anymore.

The creativity extends to Chef Lee Gregory's menu, which was everything I expected out of a culinary whiz who's been on my short list for years. How could I not be devoted to the man who, unbidden, introduced me to my first crispy fried pig's head?

Everyone's already talking about his Double Downer, a double burger made with Sausage Craft custom patties, cheddar and bacon jam. I know I'm a lucky person because not one but two people offered me bites of their burgers.  One told me it was the best burger in Richmond. Believe him.

But with a chef like Lee, you get the satisfaction of a burger but you also get potted pork (rillette-like) on crostini with onion jam. You get smoked bluefish salad with radish, cucumber, egg and the tenderest butter lettuce in a buttermilk dressing. The smoked fish melts in my mouth like buttah

Pimento cheese is served with house-made potato chips. Sliced candy striped beets are roasted and served in an orange juice and ginger sauce that has everyone raving. Mussels, roasted with  vermouth and garlic, are served with grilled bread. Gnocchi, mac and cheese style, melts in everyone's mouth and causes rapture for its delicate flavor and decadent texture.

And that's just what I ate. Still to come for me are the Frogmore stew, Kentucky fried quail and the roasted pork belly with red eye gravy.

By about 8:00, the place was in full swing, tables busy, servers hopping and music lost in the crowd conversation. "You'd never know it was opening night," my friend observed. True that.

The staff was on point, food was coming out steadily from the kitchen and every dish except the mussels elicited the same response.

"This isn't like any other dish in Richmond," was how my friend put it repeatedly. "Lee Gregory," was how I responded each time he did.

All three of us got dessert. The winner for most Southern was the peanut butter pie, which had much more of a peanut taste rather than peanut butter. Very real tasting. For best use of a seasonal ingredient, my roasted peaches with caramel ice cream scored high points. Even with my peach allergy, I finished every bite of the classic peaches and cream pairing.

And (drum roll) for most charming and creative presentation, the award definitely went to the buttermilk panna cotta, which is made in a small Mason jar. It arrives with the lid on; once that's opened, a layer of local blueberries sit atop the panna cotta, which has a delicious tang from the acidity of the buttermilk.

Once the crowd began to clear out, the music became more integral to the vibe and the room took on a more relaxed feeling. Had alcohol been available, I feel sure the bar would have been mobbed. Who wouldn't be curious to check out the all-Virginia wine list knowing it's the first in Central Virginia?

As it was,  a couple of single neighbors stopped by only to find the kitchen closed (well, it was almost 11:00) and no alcohol being served. Both enthusiastically promised to be back. Frankly, I'd be surprised if anyone in the room chose not to come back for five-dollar desserts and entrees that top out at $17 (and there's only one of those).

The Roosevelt appears to already have a handle on where happiness lies.

At least the kind you can find in a neighborhood restaurant.

Le Jazz Hot

How to cheer up a photographer friend who's down in the dumps about a recent break-up (in three easy steps):

1. Admire a print of a Picasso nude of a woman's backside on the wall of Avalon during dinner.
2. Mention that since it may be your best angle, you wish you had such an image of yourself.
3. Watch his face break into all smiles as he enthusiastically says, "We could get started on that right now! Forget about JazzFest!"

Voila! Dumps momentarily forgotten. We'd just finished eating and were admiring all the Picasso reproductions covering the restaurant's walls.

I'd had the baby bok choy salad with braised squid, grilled onion, pine nuts, apples and horseradish vinaigrette, easily one of the most unusual salad combos I've ever had. But I like unusual and I liked this salad. My friend had enjoyed the grilled Cesar with white anchovies and roasted garlic (although not roasted quite enough, he said).

We followed that with pure heaven: grilled Sausagecraft lamb sausage with fennel, apple and red onion compote. My devotion to Sausagecraft's mastery of ground meat only grew stronger with the lamb version, enhanced by the compote, but mouth-watering on its own, too.

Given my friend's state, I let him choose dessert and although he almost went with the apple fritters with vanilla ice cream, we ended up with the boca negro, a flourless chocolate torte. The three slices were almost more than we could finish. Almost.

I invited him to join me at RVA JazzFest, but he declined and I warned him that he'd be sorry. I can't wait to rub it in next time I see him that he made the wrong call.

Arriving in time to get the seat of my choice (second row center), I was immediately befriended by a music-lover (and budding guitarist; at middle age, he's taking lessons from Trey Pollard) named John who, in the course of conversation about our dated names (when's the last time you met a 20-year old Karen or John?), under guessed my age by a decade, making me his devoted servant..

He wasn't perfect, though, because he also said he doesn't make the effort to get out often enough to hear music. He asked if I'd heard any of tonight's bands and I raved about the Scott Clark 4-tet, the only one of the three I'd seen before.

Scott Clark's 4-tet (drums, sax, trumpet and bass) took off burning down the house and never stopped. Scott himself was on fire and the crowd was immediately engaged. Scott's original material, like the amazing "Saucy Pink," bracketed a piece by Fred Anderson and a tribute Scott had written about Anderson after his death last year.

With a fierce set list, the group could do no wrong tonight as they all played ferociously and beautifully. Scott's arms were a blur most of the show, as I discovered when I tried to take some pictures of him with his parents' camera (they were sitting in the row behind me with a blocked view of him).

But their performance was perhaps best summed up in the moment when a drop of sweat ran down bassist Cameron Ralston's nose, hung there for a moment shining from the street light behind him and then dropped onto his instrument. The Scott Clark 4-tet melted everything and everyone in the room.

Old New Things was a sextet of guitar/pedal steel, banjo,drums,sax/bass clarinet, trumpet and bass. They began with a Trey Pollard piece called "Americana" and it was an apt description of a lot of their sound. Banjo player Adam Larabee's piece "Dead Times" was a big crowd favorite for its exotic scales and  intricate composition.

A 16th century chamber music piece once arranged by Bach had been re-arranged last summer for this group; surely it was the first time anyone in the room had heard a Bach piece with banjo and pedal steel. But then they also did one by free jazz saxophonist Albert Ayler, also not a likely candidate for the banjo.

My only complaint with their set was the audience's inability to hear the banjo and, frequently, the guitar or lap steel. The horns dominated and the strings were lost in the mix, a shame since they were the unique part of the group's sound. Hopefully that will be corrected in future performances.

Headlining was NYC's Harris Eisenstadt and Canada Day and they had a rough start when feedback would not go away, showing itself during the first part of a four-part work called "Ombudsman," much to the vibes player's obvious consternation.

Finally after one gigantic squawk that stopped the music for a split second and made all the musicians visibly jump in reaction, they opted out of monitor usage and the show sounded much better from then on.

Two different people told me that they thought it was the best RVA Jazzfest ever and I'd be inclined to agree (and that's certainly what I'll tell my friend). My music-loving seatmate turned to me at the end and gave me his assessment. "You were right about the first band. They should have headlined!"

We can always brag that we saw them when they were just the opener at JazzFest 2011. Too bad my friend didn't join me. In addition to awesome music, he'd have gotten some amazing photographs.

But at least now I know how to cheer him up.

And the Award Goes To...

A Monday evening as full of surprises and delights as this one was deserves to be recognized. And the nominees are:

Best use of pig: A tie between Bistro 27 and Sausagecraft. B27 for their fried pork and Pecorino cheese sausage with a frisee salad and balsamic vinaigrette with french fries. The earthy pig and salty cheese combination did a happy dance in my mouth, convincing me that this had to be a Sausagcraft creation and it was indeed; hence the tie.

The large salad and its tangy dressing assuaged any remorse about eating so much succulent fried sausage and the fries made up for being so virtuous by having a salad. Full satisfaction, zero guilt.

Best cameo in a bar: The random girl who walked in to Bistro 27, ordered a glass of white wine and told the bartender she needed a place to sleep for the night and asked if could she go home with him. He demurred and offered to check nearby hotels for availability, securing one quickly and asking them to send a van to pick up their new guest at once.

When he told her that the van was on its way, she immediately ordered another glass of wine on top of the half glass she still had. The van pulled up a minute later, she literally poured the wine down her throat and wandered out. Glancing over, one of the servers sniffed, "Rough trade."

Best use of a product from the Center of the Universe: Stuffed squid full of baby shrimp and scallops braised in basil tomato sauce over Byrd Mill grits from Ashland. This new dish on 27's menu sings with flavor and texture and could make a calamari lover out of anyone.

Best way to alienate staff at a restaurant: The woman in the hat who snapped her fingers at the chef to get him to run her credit card that very second. His question? "How would she feel if I did that to her?" Fair enough. Is there ever really a time when snapping at someone is appropriate?

Best outfit for a lead singer in a classic rock revival band: A red Halliburton jumpsuit worn by lead singer Carlos of Du Brut, playing at Sprout tonight. The band cited the Who, Guns and Roses and AC/DC as influences. Carlos' hair was pure Slash, thick, dark, curly and below his shoulders.

He used his head to swing his hair for maximum effect while on stage. Note: it was impressive (full disclosure: he gave me their CD on my way out but I'd liked his hair when we'd talked music two hours earlier).

Best musical talent displayed by a restaurant owner: Jamie Lay, co-owner of Sprout and lead singer (and masterful dancer) of the high-energy 60s-influenced band Baby Help Me Forget.

His talent is too big for the stage where his bandmates (drummer, two guitarists and bass player) perform, so he gyrates, drops to his knees and wails from the center of the room as the crowd dances wildly around him. Occasionally, he jumps from the 8" stage to maximum effect. Name another restaurant owner with that kind of talent.

Best band to cover tonight: The Beatles. Du Brut covered "Helter Skelter" and BHMF covered "Birthday" and both renditions got enthusiastic responses from the audience. If you're going to cover, cover from the originators, I guess.

Best way to end a show: Destroying a guitar and writhing on the floor. As BHMF's last song wound down, Jamie was singing and dancing horizontally on the floor with the microphone stand laying beside him in sections.

Meanwhile, one of the guitarists started hitting the neck of his instrument until it snapped and then threw the body on the floor until it shattered. I have no doubt that it was the first time most of the audience had seen a guitar destroyed at the end of a performance and they were ecstatic.

So maybe I personally wasn't in full ecstasy mode, but after such stellar food and interesting entertainment, I wasn't far behind.

Monday. It's not just for boredom anymore.

Anti-Nouveau Beaujolais Thursday

Here's one more way the French have it over us. We make a holiday of the fourth Thursday to overeat and watch football. They make a holiday of the third Thursday and drink new wine. Can you say "way more fun"?

Today's event at Barrel Thief was a two-fer: the wine shop was doing a 2010 Beaujolais Cru tasting and the guys at SausageCraft were there doing an anti-Nouveau Beaujolais tasting. How great was it having gamay and pig competing for my attention? Luckily I had plenty for both.

The purpose of the tasting was to experience something other than the usual supermarket swill which has become synonymous with Beaujolais Nouveau. To that end, they were sampling Beaujolais Nouveaus from each of the ten Crus of the region.

The crowd was comprised of lots of wine geeks, one from a wine shop in Williamsburg even, and wine-lovers like yours truly. Flying the company colors and sipping away were the Boathouse, Ellwood Thompson and Secco.

The couple next to me provided a lot of entertainment value, mostly him and his corny jokes, so I had company from the start. My friend was late arriving, so I tasted the first five wines while waiting for him (only because the manager told me to start without him and I always do what I'm told).

Finally he arrived and we could taste together. To allow him time to catch up on his tasting, I strolled over to the SausageCraft table where Brad was cooking up pork belly sausage made with Beaujolais and made just today. New wine, new sausage, it was a relationship for the ages.

The sausage was full-flavored with just a trace of herbs and wine. Cooked up hot and smelling so good it made it tough to focus on the wine at times, it was the clear star of the evening. No one could agree on which wine was best, but everyone was raving about the incredible sausage.

And, not that I know anything about wine (other than I like to drink it), but my votes for best go to the Domaine Cheveau 2008 Saint Amour (from the smallest and most rare of the ten Cru villages) and the Jean-Paul Thevenet 2009 Morgon, a wine so to my taste that I took one sip and said to my friend, "Taste this now."

As we were walking out, I picked up my pace because I was running behind to meet friends. "Triple-booked tonight?" he asked. "Just double," I told him. But still late. What if my date thought I stood them up? I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

Stop #2 was the Belvidere to meet one of my very favorite couples for a catch-up session. Unbelievably, we hadn't seen each other since Folk Fest because of their crazy work schedules. Imagine, people who put work ahead of play; I like them anyway.

I ordered the house-smoked salmon, always perfectly executed at the Belvidere and, because I knew I couldn't top the Morgon, a Don Julio for sipping. Now we could talk.

This is a couple who eats out as much as I do, so we ran through a comparative chat about places we'd all been since our last rendezvous. Even when we don't eat together, we seem to share the same opinion of how a restaurant is doing. We talked about their plans to spirit me to the West End soon (and not against my will it should be noted).

They too asked me about my big news and I shared how that was going. They're polite enough that they didn't make any snide remarks about my slow-moving progress like some friends I could mention (you know who you are).

We ended with a discussion of how so many people they know at work go through the motions of Thanksgiving only because they feel it's expected of them, not because they enjoy any of it.

See, that's my point exactly. Wouldn't it be whole lot easier to get behind a wine drinking Thursday holiday and avoid all that dysfunctional family holiday stuff entirely?

My only problem would be giving up the stuffing, but only because it has sausage in it.

When it comes right down to it, it's always about the sausage, isn't it?

Rhetorical question, mind you.

Sausage and Sympathy

If you offer me sausages, I will come.

And tonight Sausage Craft, Chris Mattera's artisanal food workshop, was throwing a party to show off their new space and bring together sausage loving fools. So I went. It turned out to be much more than just sausage, although that alone would have been enough given the delectability of Chris' ground meats.

Also represented were local cheese-makers Meadow Farm and Caromont, Buzz and Ned (with their sliced pig) and Free Run Wine Merchants. There was beer, too, but I couldn't tell you what kind.

What I can tell you is that the sausages I ate were positively addicting.

There was the San Miniato, Carmelina's and the braising sausage, probably my favorite. It was a sausage that is cooked all day until its pig flavor is one with the braising liquid and vegetables; I went back three times for more of it over Billy bread.

Sublime does not begin to describe it.

Abi of Free Run Wine merchants, whom I'd just seen at the Matt & Kim show and the Metric show, was pouring some of their off-the-radar Northwestern wines, most of which end up at select Seattle restaurants. The few that escaped are now available in RVA.

I tried the Impuls Chardonnay, the "71," a Syrah/Cabernet Sauvignon blend and then, for a palate cleanser, the M. Lawrence "Us," a sparkling blend of pinot noir and chardonnay done in the Prosecco method. I finished with the Left Coast Cellars "Cali's Cuvee," a Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley.

All worth tasting again, but the "71" spoke most directly to me.

The Jason Jenkins Trio was providing the jazz and I ran into a few people I knew. Okay, lots of people I knew. The surprise was being discovered by those I didn't. One guest guessed my identity by my tights ("You must be Karen!") and another, once he learned I blogged about going out in Richmond, by my enthusiasm ("I sensed that was you").

Mattera's new work space was impressive for its variety of meat grinders and the sheer size of the refrigerators/freezers. As a friend and I discussed, it would have made a great setting for a Halloween party.

Meat Grinder #2 was my official base of operation, allowing me a full view of the room, a straight shot of the band and a surface on which to place drinks and plates while chatting with old and new friends.

When I'd done all the damage I could, I left for greener pastures, which is to say a glass of wine and dessert. And a small rescue mission.

Earlier today, I'd been out front re-potting a plant when a friend and neighbor walked by. Upon asking her how she was, she answered "Fine" but with such a quiver in her voice that it was clear she was anything but.

She said she'd been dumped last night and, to add insult to injury, she had discovered this on Facebook when her ex changed his relationship status.

Talk about a cold way to end things.

I gave her a hug and asked what she was doing to deal with it. Her plan was to spend some quality time with friends at Six Burner tonight to distract herself from being so sad. So I stopped by to be one of the feel-better missionaries. Even if I couldn't offer any encouragement about getting over being dumped, I could at least be there for her.

For a Monday evening, it ended up being a good crowd of people I knew and didn't. My farmer's market friend told me she was getting a divorce and that that was a good thing (I congratulated her).
I met a girl who wanted to talk music, so we discussed M. Ward and Mumford & Sons (whom I can't stand) and surprisingly, she'd not yet explored She and Him.

I saw a favorite DJ who, just last week, had led off with an awesome trio of music at Balliceaux (retro to the max: Tainted Love, Melt with You, Young Turks) and needed to be told that. He beamed when I complimented his mix.

Another friend, one of those I run into almost every time I'm out, upon seeing me announced, "Okay, one of us has to leave." Neither of us did and for a change, we had a good, long discussion of make/female dynamics, Jack Kerouac and the uses of basil (I grow, he cooks).

Normally we're ships that pass in the night and tonight we entertained each other.

Another eight or so sausage party attendees came in and sat down to be wined for the evening. The new Belle magazine was on the bar, so I could show off my cover story. I ate part of my dessert and shared the rest with a friend.

But mostly I listened and consoled my friend and neighbor who is still stinging from her unexpected discharge. I almost made a crack about our block of J-Ward becoming known as "Dumpee Row," but decided against it.

As I recall, humor is in short supply during the early stages.

I wish I'd had some of Chris' sausage to cheer her up. Sausage that good makes everything feel better.

Or nearly everything.