Time Passages

History may repeat itself, but it should always be open to tweaking.

As one who rarely goes out of town for Thanksgiving, I long ago decided to make the most of Thanksgiving Eve. Considered one of the biggest bar nights of the year, I've made it a ritual to spend the evening out and about with other city-bound friends.

Last year, we switched things up and chose to stay in and make dinner instead; it was such a hit that we decided on a repeat this year. Taking a cue from the media and their made-up terminology, you could call it a "Friends-giving Eve" celebration. Or not.

By the time I walked home from a late afternoon interview, wet and cold from the wintry mix that was falling (two days after it was 78 degrees, what the hell?), I needed to jump immediately in the shower to make my FGE party.

When I arrived, seasonal Beaujolais Nouveau had already been poured and garlic was being prepped. I immediately began helping peel as a glass of Picpoul de Pinet was poured for me.

You see, what we'd discovered last year was how much fun we'd had all making dinner together as our cocktail hour activity. And, of course, it isn't an hour, but several.

My host is a stickler for choosing the appropriate soundtrack for an evening, beginning tonight with the 1978 album by Al Stewart, "Time Passages." I admit, I'd probably never heard the entire album before. But, sure, why not start with 1978?

So while it wasn't exactly a "Big Chill" kind of a kitchen prep scene (none of us were dancing at this point), there were a lot of different activities and multiple conversations going on at any given moment in one of the two adjacent rooms that make up my friend's kitchen. Yes, two rooms - one has a stove and refrigerator, the other has sink, dishwasher and counters. It's no weirder than my friend.

While he's sauteing onions and she's opening more wine - the smooth Gassier "Sables d'Azur" Rose - I'm instructed to remove the Sausagecraft mild Italian sausage from its casing. No problem.

I do this the only way I have ever done it, the totally satisfying way. I squeeze the casing until the loose sausage spurts out, leaving a slick but empty casing in my hand. Then I slide my hand down and repeat.

Think what you will, but I feel like the Sausagecraft guys would totally approve of my hands-on method.

My curly haired friend is aghast at my technique, presuming I was going to delicately slice the casing open to remove the sausage. Where's the fun in that, I ask? She watches in amazement as I squeeze out the contents of 15 inches of sausage, laughing at my fat-slicked hands.

When I explain that it's satisfying in the same way that popping bubble wrap is, my host pipes up from the stove where he's making sauce, asking, "Do you want some bubble wrap now?" He's giving me the raised eyebrow that says he can make it happen. Negative.

Instead, he pulls out a diminished bottle of Espolon and pours the remaining liquid into three mini shot glasses for a Thanksgiving eve toast. Looking at his girlfriend with a pained expression, he tells her they'll have to wait until Friday to replace the bottle since ABC stores are closed tomorrow.

This leads to a lively discussion of the "deals" the ABC is offering on Black Friday and the drawing they're holding for a gift certificate. Given the abundance of archaic ABC regulations, the notion of sales and prizes seems out of whack for a state agency.

But I also saw on my way to the Northern Neck yesterday that Southern States is opening at 7 a.m. on Friday and for the life of me, I can't imagine who'll be there at that hour. To get a deal on feed? Grain? Seriously?

At one point, my friend looks at me solemnly and announces apropos of nothing, "Your bangs are too short."

This is meant as humor because he has a long history of telling me my bangs are too long every time I see him. Even funnier, I'd been about to walk out the door tonight when I'd gone back into the bathroom and trimmed my bangs so he couldn't chide me for a change. "Just kidding, they look great!"

Everyone's a comedian on Thanksgiving eve.

As I move on to slicing a baguette for garlic bread and arranging antipasto in bowls, the music gets a bit rougher with "Sticky Fingers: The Alternate Album," a Rolling Stones' bootleg. So while the songs are mostly familiar, they may lack lead guitar or overdubs; maybe it's just a rehearsal take, a mono mix or an instrumental.

Not being a big Stones fan, I enjoy some cuts more than others. My host plays air guitar and air sax to "Sisters Morphine" and "All Down the Line" while I prefer the "Wild Horses" track with Gram Parsons on pedal steel since I play air nothing.

Over dinner, we share stories from last week's Beaujolais tastings, experienced on two different evenings since he was out of town the night of the release I attended. This leads to stories about the annual conference that kept him away, the meals he ate and the demise of the chocolate bombe dessert he's had in years past.

Our dessert had come from Fresh Market's bakery which he said looked like it had been sucked dry by hordes of hostesses buying them out of almost everything. He'd spied some bakers in the back frantically making Napoleons while he'd ordered our chocolate. All that mattered to us was that he'd secured it ("Do you want some chocolate, little girls?" he inquires lasciviously).

Eating behind us, we adjourned to the living room for wine and music, beginning with something so rhythmic I immediately began dancing. He followed suit. It was the Mavericks' "Melbourne Mamba," and I'd heard of neither the group nor the song.

Our host claimed that they were a country band, but I found it hard to hear that since the music had a decidedly Latin flair. Turns out they're from Miami and have taken on a far more Latin bent since leaving Nashville behind. By that point in the evening, it was a terrific choice for someone who loves to dance (that would be me) and friends who'd been partying for hours.

"Haven't I been nice to you tonight?" my friend asks as I go to leave. We've all been nice to each other. It's all part of another evening of Thanksgiving eve music, a group-made meal and the kind of fun worth repeating every year.

Too short, my ass. Friends are so much easier than family.

Downtown Soulville Cobbler

The cheese let us down, so we had to punt.

Pru had been dying to join me for not so classic movie night, so we made plans that tonight would finally be the night that she'd get to join me for some classic cheesy film.

So you can imagine her disappointment when I checked on the film only to discover that tonight's installment wasn't happening.

We were too late to catch an early movie and Pru gets up too early to attend a late one, so we found ourselves without plans.

That's where the punting came in. When all else fails, there's always the fallback: eat, drink and be merry.

Off we went for our second foray to Metzger, where unlike last time, we found a civilized room not so full we felt guilty for lingering.

When I chose the light and crisp Anton Bauer Rose, Pru followed suit, trusting me on this one.

As we sipped our pink and looked over the menu, we both noticed the stellar music playing, vintage soul worthy of doing the pony or the frug to, but not a single recognizable song in the bunch. Outstanding.

It's rare I'm so taken with the music in a restaurant when I don't recognize it, but this was classic '60s obscurities that made us both want to dance Hullabaloo-style on our bar stools.

We were told it was dollar oyster night, something I would ordinarily jump on, but that dozen I'd had after breakfast had done me for the day.

A girl doesn't need an oyster overdose.

After hearing the specials, we chose squash blossoms stuffed with housemade herbed quark with tomato puree and a divine side salad of baby sliced zucchini in dill creme fraiche.

The dish was absolutely killer and that zucchini salad was so incredibly delicious it could have stood on its own.

Meanwhile, I heard about and saw pictures from Pru's annual river retreat, a long, debauched weekend of food, drink and laughter.

If only she'd remembered to bring underwear.

Next came a summer bean salad of green beans, kidney beans, rye berries, cured duck breast and quark, a unique combination not seen just anywhere.

And if it sounds like we were being overrun with quark, remember this began as a night devoted to cheese, so we had no problem with it.

The sausage board brought all kinds of Sausagecraft deliciousness to enjoy with grainy mustard: earthy Amerikrainer with sharp cheddar cheese and pickled cherry peppers, grilled franks and rough-hewn Nuremberg.

By the time the board was down to the last piece of frank, I deferred to Pru who refused on the grounds that she'd reached an elegant sufficiency.

Never one to give up on eating when dessert can still be had, I inquired about the sweet possibilities.

But it was when the bartender came over to suggest that we have more Rose and wait for the blueberry cobbler to come out of the oven (a mere ten minutes more, we were promised) that I pulled rank and said yes to the wait.

Unbeknownst to Pru - who assumed my devotion to chocolate precluded all other desserts - I am devoted to cooked blueberries, whether in pie, cobbler or crisp form

When the steaming hot dish of lusciously-colored cobbler arrived, we were warned to wait lest we burn our tongues.

It wasn't easy and the minute scoop of ice cream barely held its own against the heat before we dug in.

Well worth the wait, my only quibble would be that it was more crisp than cobbler, although, truth be told, I prefer crisp to cobbler, so it was a score for me.

Ditto the music, which was delighting me with every new-to-me song that played. Thanks, Mr. Fine Wine.

Some cheesy movie nights just weren't meant to be and sometimes that's a good thing.

Amuse & "Art" If It Makes You Happy, You Can Afford It

If it weren't for all the entertaining of the bar crowd that I do, the staff of Amuse would no doubt be sick of me by now.

But if I'm going to a play at the museum at 8:00, the fact is I'm going to park once and party twice and that means drinks and dinner at Amuse.

Only one bar stool stood empty when I arrived. We call that kismet.

Since not everyone takes up residence at the bar, I had a rotating cast of people with whom I could converse, making for a lively evening before heading downstairs to the theater.

My sparkling rose arrived almost unbidden, but I declined  a dinner menu for the time being.

I soon had the pleasure of one of the curator's company while he waited for his dining companions, but I had to work for it..

Ignoring the empty stool beside me, he stood at the end of the bar, necessitating me asking him, "What's wrong with sitting next to me?"

Bartender Stephen kindly gave me a reference, saying, "You're not going to get better conversation anywhere else."

Thus vetted, he was willing to give me a shot and sat down next to me.

It's hard to do better than a curator for company when you're at a museum.

After an enjoyable talk, I lost him to his tardy friends.

I met a charming couple from Alexandria, visiting for the day (she was a teacher on spring break) to see Picasso.

Learning I was a DC native, they asked me all kinds of questions about Richmond and what to do on their next trip down.

Being the unabashed supporter of our fair city that I am, I gushed to the point that they asked if I worked for the tourism board.

And then I sent them on their way insisting they take Monument Avenue out so they'd have one last scenic view before it got dark and they had to hit soul-sucking I-95.

They thanked me profusely.

They were soon replaced by another even younger couple who reluctantly admitted that they had just seen the Picasso show despite living a mere five blocks from the museum.

Hey, it's not for me to judge.

They are three weeks from their wedding day, so their excuse was that they hadn't been getting out much due to wedding responsibilities.

Tonight was their big date night out and they were reveling in it.

When they discovered where I live, they wanted the scoop on First Fridays and I gave them both the larger and smaller picture; they were practically taking notes.

"We'll look for you!" they said.

I didn't have the heart to explain the folly of that.

Although I'd heartily recommended the mussels and Sausagecraft sausage in garlic butter to both couples (who raved about them and thanked me), I couldn't let Stephen tease me for ordering them yet again.

I more than made do with the grilled asparagus with garlic and  Pecorino in olive oil, followed by the seared rare Ahi tuna over sticky rice with a coconut green curry dressing and fried ginger.

My friends followed suit by getting the tuna once they saw mine and heard me raving.

All of a sudden it was 7:55, so I hightailed it down three flights to the Leslie Cheek Theater.

I was excited because this run of Yasmina Reza's "Art" is the first production at the theater in eight years.

And it was a joint effort of Richmond Shakespeare and Sycamore Rouge, making for double the talent.

I'd seen many plays at Theater Virginia back before it had been closed down prior to the VMFA renovation.

An all-black cast production of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" remains a favorite to this day.

The Tony-award winning play about art, friendship and philosophy was great fun.

It centered on three friends, one of whom had spent 200,000 francs on a white on white painting ("Can you see the lines?" the purchaser asks his friend), much to the consternation of his long-time buddy, whom he accused of "running down modernism."

The third friend is far more accepting ("If it makes him happy, he can afford it") but becomes the target of barbs from the other two for trying to quell their disagreements about the painting.

But it wasn't as much about the painting as it was about the friendship and eventually the one admits to the other, "The older I get, the more offensive I hope to become."

Not me.

How can I expect curators and visitors to sit next to me that way?

Following the Muse

Not to belabor the point, but I saw 176 Picassos tonight for the second time in, oh, 33 hours. According to one of my accompanying friends, it'll take three visits to fully wrap one's head around so much Picasso.

So tonight was number two for me. Afterwards, with no expectations whatsoever, my couple date and I headed upstairs to Amuse. Just in case.

I'd checked Opentable.com and they didn't have a thing available tonight, but as long as we were there, the sensible one among us suggested trying.

Would you believe we got three low-slung chairs and a cocktail table within five minutes? My friends jumped on the list of Amuse's Cubist cocktails (one friend got the Guernicava; get it?)while I ogled the absinthe drip on the bar.

You read correctly. A glass vessel with iced water inside had four spouts from which water could be dripped over a sugar cube resting on a slotted spoon into a glass of absinthe underneath. One look at that thing and I knew I had to have one.

But not without some food in my stomach first. My couple date ordered cocktails while I got a glass of Rose. For eating purposes, we chose sauteed duck livers (with apricots, brandy and crostini), grilled halloumi (with beignets and preserved lemon jam) and mussels with Sausagecraft Della Nonna (in garlic butter with grilled bread).

We had so much food that our server had to bring us an additional cocktail table to accommodate it all. The mussels and sausage were superb, easily our favorite of the three. And who doesn't enjoy a good duck liver (I know, I know, the people who are afraid of sardines and sweetbreads)?

Not surprisingly, Amuse was mobbed with people standing even at the end of the bar. From our comfy chairs, we could see the long line of people waiting, tickets in hand, for Picasso. As a security guard had told me earlier, "It's going to be crazy for the next three months."

My absinthe arrived with its distinctive smell and artistic references to the absinthe bars of 19th century Paris. I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate having just seen the Picasso show again than with the green fairy.

After much deliberation, dessert was sticky toffee pudding with ice cream and an apple and cinnamon Napoleon, the former being the standout, although both were delectable.

All of a sudden, we looked up and the restaurant was all but empty and the one remaining table contained the VMFA's director and several curators, who probably weren't likely to be asked to leave. Unlike us.

It was so late that my favored Boulevard entrance had been locked and I was forced to use the new entrance. It was the only jarring note of an otherwise delightful evening (I am wholeheartedly committed to that Boulevard door now).

My dates headed home to catch up on sleep while I headed to Balliceaux to hear Miramar play boleros; you don't need a date to enjoy romantic music.

A Miramar crowd is very different from the crowds at most of the shows I go to there because of its enthusiastic fan base. Nonetheless, I ran into lots of people I know, most notably the handsome Colombian scientist I'd met there last month.

He made a point of telling me that my blog is now on his Favorites; I feel fairly certain that this is a 21st-century come-on line, but I'm not entirely sure, so I took it as a compliment.

Miramar's slow-tempo romantic music is always a pleasure to hear despite not understanding Spanish. Introducing a song, lead singer Reinaldo said, "We're trying to go from sad romance to angry romance." That's the natural progression of romance anyway, isn't it?

As the band was winding down and I was walking out to leave, I noticed a guy sitting in a chair near the front of the restaurant. "Kind of far from the music, aren't you?" I teased, about to step outside.

Next thing I knew we were having a protracted discussion at the front bar of dating young (and how young is too young?), dating foodies (I'm fine with dating just eaters) and settling instead of moving on. The bartender suddenly announced that everyone had three minutes to finish all drinks.

We agreed that far more conversation is to be had. Forget about not talking to strangers. The lesson here: never count an evening over until surrounded by my own four walls.

Oh, yes. And never pass up a good absinthe drip. You never know where the green fairy will take you.

Wishing for Music and Sausage

Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.

I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.

That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.

And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.

There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.

Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.

The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.

After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.

Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.

I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.

After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.

He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?

I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.

Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.

Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.

He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.

Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.

The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.

One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.

Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.

Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.

My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.

I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.

Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.

These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.

Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.

The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.

After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.

Just keep it coming.

Hot Dogging at Bistro Bobette

As a DC native, I will never think of National Airport as Reagan Airport. For my friend, it's Bombay that will never be Mumbai to him. And both of us are having a tough time making the transition from Bouchon to Bistro Bobette.

But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.

Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.

I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.

Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.

If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).

I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).

Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.

When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.

Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.

The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.

When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.

I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.

"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.

To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.

We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.

A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.

Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.

Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.

Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.

A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.

But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.

Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.

The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.

Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.

Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.

Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.