In the Pink

Don't let it get around, but I was a Rose rebel.

As a charter member of Richmond's annual Rose crawl, I was ready for a variation on the theme so when my original date got sick, I punted.

After a replacement date dropped in my lap. we decided to follow the Rose route but on our own time table, meaning just as we were pulling up to Acacia, we saw a gaggle of pink-clad people making their way down the sidewalk.

Inside, there were still some crawlers sipping the last of the their pink and we took stools near them to show our solidarity.

From a menu of five Roses and seven bar snacks, I picked the elegant 2013 J. Mourat Collection Rose and Surry sausage onion rings to get the party started.

When our delightful bartender asked how we were doing, I informed him how happy pink and rings made me.

"And onion rings with sausage!" he reminded me. You got that right.

Over newspaper articles, stories of missing people and unanswered e-mails, and pink sipping, we made short work of our snack

It was a lovely walk over to the VMFA, a chance to look at people's gardens and notice how many people were sitting on their front porches on this fine June evening, a testament to Richmond's southern charm.

Once upstairs at Amuse, the small bar was still crawling with people in pink even though the first wave had already left for destination #3.  We heard from the staff that this year's crawl numbered close to 60, a remarkable testament to the pink inroads that have been made into RVA's drinking habits.

But it was here that we discovered the downside to doing it our way. They were already sold out of the Barboursville Cuvee Brut Rose.

But we Rose lovers are nothing if not intrepid, so I looked to the other four choices and chose the peachy Domaine de Fontsainte Gris de Gris Rose to assuage my loss.

Sitting at the end of the bar was a wine geek friend who was also doing the crawl her way which meant Amuse was her only stop. But she was doing it up right with a Cocchi Americano Rosa and duck pate, so it seemed to be working for her.

We tried to convince her to join us at our next stop but she said she couldn't because she had to get home for a phone date at 9:30.

Color me out of the loop because I'd never heard of phone dates. Then again, I hate talking on the phone so what do I need to know about phone dates?

She told us that she'd already been trading e-mails with this guy and his written language had been impressive enough to venture a phone date.

I knew exactly what she meant. I can tell by reading a man's e-mail whether or not he interests me because skill with the written word matters to me.

My date jumped in on the conversation, sharing that he spends untold time editing and proofing his e-mails to certain women for that very reason. His hyperbole extended to saying he takes three hours writing one e-mail, but we got his point.

During a discussion of, what else, wine, the wine geek took a sip, smiled and said, "I could drink nothing but Rose and Riesling all summer." I agreed with an amendment: bubbles have to be the third leg of that stool.

So it's decided: Rose, Riesling and sparkling until autumn.

As we left the museum walking through the sculpture garden, we couldn't help but admire the sky, still blue despite it being after 9:00. We walked down Sheppard Street so I could show him a favorite screened porch, one I've been admiring since I first lived on Floyd Avenue back in the '90s.

When we got to Secco we had a choice of going into The Room where the pink people were or staying on the bar side and we opted for the latter. We weren't the only ones because the trio of women next to us and the community table were all like-minded outliers.

Secco always has the largest Rose selection so it didn't matter as much that a couple of offerings had already been crossed off the list (in pink chalk, no less) as we decided on "Mr. T," also known as Tegernseerhoff Zweigelt Rose, a lovely and tangy pink that made our server beam at our choice because it was her favorite.

Proving yet again that you can drink pink and still be badass, I glanced down the bar and every glass was filled with pink.

As you can imagine, by this point, more food was in order and in rapid succession, we munched through decadent fried Sicilian olives stuffed with Gorgonzola, barley salad with yellow beets, shaved fennel, mint and feta - a new dish and so clean tasting it was almost bracing- risotto carbonara with chunks of pancetta, peas, Pecorino and a gloriously soft cooked egg on top and finally a cleverly conceived dish of a monster sea scallop with pastrami broth, napa cabbage, garlic scapes and coriander.

That meal made Karen a happy camper.

Dessert was a shared glass of the heady Moutard Champagne Brut Rose with its exquisite long finish, the cherry on top of our Rose evening.

A trio had replaced the pink girls next to use and they let it be known that Secco was not their first stop. After one of the guys was poured a taste of Moscato, he took a sip and pronounced it "girly wine."

Come on, that's far too good an opening for me to let pass, so I called him on it and his friends, a guy and girl, backed me up.

I told him it was okay to call Moscato breakfast wine but not girly wine and he was very fond of the thought of breakfast wine. We encouraged him to try another sip and eventually shamed him into recanting and happily drinking Moscato.

Just call me a warrior for the cause.

We left there finally to reclaim the car and call it a night, another pink notch in my Rose lipstick case, but as we were strolling down Cary Street, I heard my name called and saw a handsome musician/bartender with friends.

When I asked what he was doing, he said they were on their way to Bamboo. Date #2 looked at me and asked if we should do the same and I couldn't think of a reason to say no.

I didn't have to be up early in the morning, he did. So if he was game, I was along for the ride.

Walking out as I was walking in I bumped into another musician/DJ friend and taking the last bar stool, I looked at the bartender and recognized him as the bass player I'd seen in Miramar Monday night. He smiled modestly when I told him how much I'd enjoyed his playing the other night.

All of a sudden, I'd shifted from my wine world to my music world and all the characters are different.

Some would say only a depraved person would end her night with Cazadores after so much lovely Rose, but I prefer to think that as a Gemini, I'm just adaptable like that.

Suddenly there was a face two inches from mine. Moscato Guy had shown up and spotted me.

"Just wanted to say hey!" he said grinning.

It might be my first Rose crawl where I made a new friend.

Slow Boat to Hell

Maybe it's just me, but between the holiday and today's rain, I had a serious case of cabin fever.

So, chomping at the bit, I considered my options knowing that I wanted something good.

I was counting on a slow night anywhere I went, but some ambiance was required.

Enter Secco.

There were just three couples in the place when I arrived and the music ran the gamut of the 20th century before the night was over.

The first order of the day was to ask the chef if I could admire his new pasta machine, the one attained through a kickstarter campaign that promised more pasta on the menu.

We saw not only the machine, but three recent pastas created with it.

That's what I'm talking about, Kickstarter.

Back out at the bar, it was wine time (perhaps it had been for longer than I realized) and I chose 2008 Cantine Cipressi Molise Rosso "Mecken," billed as a Southern Italian, ripe and bacony.

Who could resist a wine or man described that way?

Given the overwhelming humidity and chill today, and despite having had soup for lunch, my first food choice was lentil and ham hock soup with lime creme fraiche, a hearty bowl of lentils that delivered pig taste in every bite.

Only after the bowl was empty could I begin to think clearly.

For the next course, I allowed my kitchen visit to influence me.

Lumeche, a toasted snail-shaped pasta I'd never even heard of, much less eaten, came with (what else) snails, garlic, parsley and Meyer lemon.

The little shells held pools of the lemon and garlic sauce and after the first bite, the Italian nearby noted, "I'm right back in Naples."

With the distinctive Meyer lemon flavor, it was a simple yet beautifully executed flavor profile.

I'd have licked the plate if I could have done it without appearing unseemly.

The music made a distinct turn from jazz of the 20s, 30s, and 40s early on to a decided Reagan years bent with Simple Minds, New Order and the Cure.

Bobbing his head, my companion observed that he was hearing one of his all-time favorite dance songs.

It all worked for me.

After the beauty of Chef Tim's housemade pasta, it was time for some state of grace seafood.

Octopus "in Purgatory" was served with farinata, a chickpea cake, in spicy tomato sauce.

And while most farinata is more like a thin pancake, these were more like a variation on petit choux dough, thick and pan-seared for a nice brown crust.

Tender octopus has long been a Secco staple, but it was the farinata that was the perfect vehicle to get that heat-filled sauce to my mouth.

Served in a narrow and long boat-shaped dish, the presentation was clever, maybe a nod to the transportation that takes a person to the place of temporary punishment for those not destined to go to hell.

I'm guessing I won't be making a stop in Purgatory, if you know what I mean.

For my next glass, I chose Benotto Monferrato Rosso Nebieul, made with Nebbiolo grapes and aromatic and full of fruit like its pricier Southern relatives.

Let's just say it had enough finesse to accompany the chocolate budino with rosemary cream.

You know, budino, kind of a pudding, kind of an undercooked cake with a gooey center. All good.

Where do I start with a dessert this other-worldy?

With the warm, almost pudding like center of dark chocolate or the cream that tasted of richness but delivered  a woody nose of rosemary on the finish?

Together, the kind of dessert people like me dream of.

By this time, other tables had come in, but the restaurant was still incredibly civilized and low key, especially for a Wednesday evening, usually a bustling night.

I figured that's why every occupant seemed to be a couple.

If you're going to be out on the night after Christmas, apparently it's not going to be in pursuit of a swinging singles scene.

So much of tonight's meal reminded me of my trip to Italy this Fall - the stellar homemade pasta, the fresh tasting octopus- that I found myself craving one of the best wines we'd had while in Rome.

It was the Occhipinti SP 68 Rosso, described on the menu as part of the "new wave" of Sicilian winemaking and also as "not your grandmother's red."

Well, one of my very funniest memories from Italy was when I tried to order a Sicilian wine just south of Naples and the seasoned waiter had recoiled in horror, saying, "But it's Sicilian," as if I'd ordered wine from Florida.

But it's Floridian!

Then I'd backed down and succumbed to yet another Tuscan, but tonight I wanted my Sicilian.

When our server poured it, I inquired how she felt about it.

She was honest, saying it didn't taste like anything else she'd ever tasted, but she thought it was interesting.

I got it, immediately recognizing its elegant finesse and evoking that last night and the superior meal that ended our trip abroad.

To further the trip down Memory Lane, I ordered the blu di bufula, a stinky bleu cheese from Lombardy that recalled an afternoon-long lunch at Il Bufalito in Sorrento.

I could just imagine our bespectacled server that day, so earnest and efficient.

With a finish that fine, there was nowhere to go but back into the misty night to look for a way to top a meal that would have been right at home in Italy.

Or even to look for the kind of trouble that's going to ensure I never qualify for Purgatory.

Easy enough.

Doors Wide Open

The warm weather is a game-changer.

Walk into a popular restaurant on a 75-degree December day and the silence will be deafening.

It was so quiet, so empty, that I stepped back outside to make sure they hadn't ceased Monday hours.

Nope. Open every day.

Back in I went, only to be greeted this time by a smiling face from the kitchen.

And then shortly thereafter, an affable server.

Turns out that they were only too happy to welcome me in on an unusually dead afternoon.

We agreed that any place with a patio was doing record business this Monday.

But Secco has no patio.

What they do have is two doors, front and side, so I immediately started a campaign to have them both opened.

The only downside was that the staff then realized what an exquisite day they were missing.

Given the unseasonable warmth, I decided to go with a rose from the chalkboard's secret stash.

The kitchen staff, with no one to cook for, was eager to have something to do.

I heard tell of a sandwich they were thinking of adding to the menu and volunteered to be a guinea pig for it.

The grilled sandwich of house-cooked pastrami, house-made sauerkraut, Swiss and whole grain mustard came on a Billy bread, although once it makes it on to the menu, it'll be on Sub Rosa's rye bread.

Even without the benefit of caraway, the sandwich was stellar - crispy bread filled with perfect pastrami, bits of fat still clinging to the meat, and and the ooze of kraut and cheese.

With no other customers to talk to, the staff was at my mercy for mealtime conversation.

Willingly (no doubt boredom) they obliged.

I got music talk, bread talk (it's everywhere these days), restaurant talk and (surprise) wine talk.

My sandwich came with a nicely dressed mixed green salad, an ideal way to mitigate the pastrami's heft.

And outside the open door, Caytown buzzed by.

A woman in work clothes and athletic shoes getting in some sunny exercise.

A couple with matching nose rings walking hand in hand.

Two moms with young 'uns soliciting donations for their children's school.

And yet not a one of them came in.

The loss was theirs.

The rose was drinking like a red, the sandwich was beautifully executed and the music (XX, Arcade Fire) was cranked just high enough to wash over me and float out the door.

Much as I loved being the star (read: only) customer in a restaurant, I eventually played lemming and followed everyone else out into the day.

But way better fed than they were.

Barefoot and Punjabi

How crazy is it to have a program for a dance party?

Our initial intent was to fuel up for the evening ahead at Secco. It was on the way to UR, there are always such an array of (affordable) wine choices and the food is reliably awesome. Case in point: a lightly fizzy wine from Spain not yet on the menu, Avinyo Petillant (the name means "wine with a prickle") with a highly aromatic nose and loads of effervescence.

There were some lovely new items on the menu, like a Tuscan kale salad with Asian pears, oyster mushrooms, 3-year Gouda with pumpkin seeds and oil that delivered the hearty flavor of kale dressed in its prettiest fall flavors. I coveted the lentil soup with ham hocks and creme fraiche, finding the pig element to be what made the dish sing.

Next to us, a young woman tried flirting with food talk to some nearby guys only to be corrected when she informed them that, "You know, pate is illegal in California."

"You mean foie gras?" one of the guys politely corrected her, grinning at me but allowing the girl to continue to fawn.

House-made smoked paprika sausage with vinegar collard greens was a perfect balance of heat and tang, addicting almost in its complementary flavors. Because we were short on time, we finished with more Petillant and a cheese course of Blue del Moncenesio because it was promised to be a "dense, smokey, meaty bleu."

Not to mention Italian. They weren't lying. With a creamy mouth feel and a fairly assertive taste, it was a stinky cheese lover's dream. We all but inhaled the cheese in order to take our stinky breath to the Modlin Center to see Red Baraat.

Billed as combining a New Orleans street band sound with Bollywood tunes and a go-go beat, I had decided it was a must-see. In fact, when I'd gotten the tickets, the ticket seller had asked if I wanted assigned seats in the balcony or general admission in the orchestra pit.

Are you kidding?

If the Modlin Center is expecting enough dancing for Red Baraat to negate the need for seats, you bet I want general admission. Walking in to a Beatles soundtrack, we saw no one standing down near the stage. Okay, so we'll take seats in the front row and see what happens.

I had to laugh at being handed a program on my way in.

True, it had some information about the band's history in it, including that they were as likely to  be found "throwing down at an overheated and unannounced warehouse party in their Brooklyn neighborhood" as at  Lincoln Center. But there's not a lot more you can say about this kind of performance in the pages of a program.

A friend came by shortly, telling us of his amazement that the audience was filling up the seats in the back of the theater and not the front. Not us. We were close enough to see the band sweat and spit.

When Red Baraat took the stage, they were missing one member, so they were down to only eight.
It was still a lot of musicians: soprano saxophone, trumpet, bass trumpet, trombone, sousaphone, drummer, percussionist and leader Sonny playing dohl, a double-sided north Indian drum he wore slung over his sweaty shoulder.

Sonny explained that "baraat" referred to a procession that happens for a wedding in India and their first song was "Today is My Best Friend's Wedding Day."

It wasn't long after that when Sonny instructed the audience to stand. Next he directed us to move forward and fill the empty space in front of the stage. Then the band began playing and all hell broke loose.

All of a sudden, the pit was filled with people of all ages dancing wildly to music drawn from Punjabi rhythms with a ferocious horn section that brought jazz and funk into the mix.

By the second song, I knew my shoes had been the wrong choice and deposited them on my empty chair in the front row. Back down in front, I saw an Indian-American friend busting his best Bollywood moves, a sight I never thought I'd live to see.

It was pretty impressive.

I said hello to WRIR's DJ Carlito, the orchestrator of the popular Bollywood dance parties around town, telling him I knew he'd be there. The rest of the evening was pretty much a dance party, pure and simple.

Oh, sure, we heard raucous, we heard sinewy, we heard hard-core sousaphone, but never did the beat waver or the dancing crowd stop moving. I only hope the seated people up in the balcony were having a fraction of the good time we were having down in the pit, but I really don't see how.

As the evening progressed, the temperature went up with all the sweaty, dancing bodies and I couldn't help but think that it was the Alice Jepson Theater's first-ever dance party.

May I just say how satisfying it was to be dropping sweat at a venerable location like UR?

I had told my date just before the show began that I wished we were seeing Red Baraat in an overheated warehouse instead of a stately theater.

Wrong.

By the time the energetic show ended almost two hours later, my shirt was stuck to my back, my hair was wet at the roots and anyone looking at me would have thought I'd been in an overheated warehouse dancing all night.

But you don't get a glossy program at a warehouse dance party, now do you?

No Four Tops for One, Please

Monday night turned out to be for seeing old friends.

That meant starting at Avalon to see a friend of seventeen years whom I hadn't seen all summer.

"I figured your dance card was completely full," he said as explanation for why we hadn't gotten together in months.

And while it has been awfully full, that's still no excuse.

Avalon was all but dead until the arrival of several people he knew, all operatives for the Republican party.

Since my friend is the same kind of screaming liberal I am, I was surprised to meet his Gilmore-loving friends.

They weren't complete idiots, though; she was the first to say, "George Allen is a redneck and an idiot."

So at least we were in agreement on some things.

After listening to far too much blather from the right, I excused myself for my dinner date (a friend for twenty years).

We headed to Secco, only to walk in and find the familiar face of a friend having dinner with her parents.

A talented photographer, she'd moved to C-ville a while back so it was a complete surprise to find her back here.

Hearing how frequently we trek to Charlottesville, she suggested we call her next time we're out there for a show.

She'd even checked out our recommendation about Star Hill Park, our go-to spot every time we're there.

Leaving her to her charming Italian parents, we found seats at the end of the bar.

Since it was Monday (also known as flight night), I asked for the dealer's choice, which in this case was owner Julia's Spanish flight.

A vinho verse-like sparkling petillant, a cuvee rioja rosado and a tempranillo from Ribera del Duero had me set for the night.

It was a no-brainer to choose the orcchiette with swiss chard and oyster mushrooms with botargo (made with shad roe, making for a nice local touch) grated on the top.

"It's the only way I'd have shad roe in my restaurant," Julia cracked. No doubt.

The rich saltiness imparted by the dried and cured roe made the dish unforgettable, as good as the sea urchin gnocchi that was our menu favorite last spring.

When we heard the selection on the charcuterie plate, we ordered that, too.

Rabbit offal pate was decadently rich and creamy on the tongue.

It was the result of saving up rabbit kidneys and hearts and whatever else came with the whole rabbits for months to have enough to show off in this savory manner.

Five-spice duck terrine with prunes and scallions boasted the perfect balance of sweet and salty.

Pork pate with bacon and olives was the most rustic, but also a mouth-watering combination of pig and pig.

The meats were so rich and well executed that we couldn't even finish them all or we would have exploded.

We took our time eating while enjoying a varied soundtrack that swung from Death Cab to 40s-era jazz.

A guy came in with his laptop, expecting to take over a four-top and "do some work" at a time when nearly every table was taken.

It seemed a bit nervy to me and he was informed that he'd have to sit at the bar instead. He got huffy and left.

Imagine a restaurant not wasting a four-top on a guy who was only there to be on his computer.

Meanwhile the couple next to us, obviously enjoying their wine and conversation, inquired of the staff if they could come to their house and pour wine for them there.

Sadly, the answer was no.

We finished the tempranillo with a dessert of mini cream puffs stuffed with vanilla cream and covered in a caramel sauce with toffee bits.

I could feel the food coma settling in over me.

Truth be told, I shouldn't be allowed to eat again for a few days after a meal as splendidly rich as that.

But just you watch. I will.

Plein Air Richmond

My pink tank top gave me away.

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

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

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

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

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

That would be business as usual at Amour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow and steady wins the race, my friends.

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

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

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

An hour ago.

Good thing Richmond's a small town.

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

Cupid, don't lay down your weary bones.

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

We'll stick around and see it through.

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

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

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

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

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

I need a sign.

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

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

Hands were raised. Lots of hands.

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

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

Ohhh, that Jesus.

We got love, but you got logic.

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

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

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

I just want to dance.

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

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

Drat! How had she known?

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

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

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

So that about summed it up.

I sold out yodeling for rose.

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

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

It's just my (old) way.

Melancholy, ArrivAdduci and Latecomers

Sunday, that's my fun day, my "I don't have to run day."

Escaping Broad Appetit for the VMFA got me the D'Amore Duo (Yeon Jee Sohn on oboe and William Feasley on guitar) doing a concert called "Leaves of Grass."

It was a tie-in to the new exhibit I saw yesterday, here, "Bold, Cautious, True: Walt Whitman and American Art of the Civil War Era."

As the educator who introduced the musicians said, "This performance will send you running to see the exhibit."

Didn't need to run since I'd already done my homework.

The music was loosely related to themes of sadness, with "And Never the Same Way Twice, Flowing" eliciting Feasley's wry comment, "Very gruesome tuning this one has."

I don't even have a clue what that means and I loved the sound of it.

There was a guitar piece called "Ashokan Farewell" that Ken Burns used in his Civil War documentary and a fantasia and tango on Mile Davis' "So What."

"The Pateroller Sonata" was a world premiere of the piece for oboe and guitar; the second movement, "Behind the Moon" was exquisitely beautiful.

It made me long for tomorrow's full moon.

Most heartbreaking piece went to "Sonata - "To the Sadness of Buenos Aries," taken from a post- World War II Argentinian poet laureate.

On New Year's Eve she wrote this poem, now song, sent it to the national newspaper and then walked into the sea.

As the nation awoke and read her piece, she was drowned.

The sounds of the sea throughout the piece were tragic reminders.

Two sonatas, two tangos, a fantasia and a fantasy, a variation on  a variation and four pieces written specifically for the D'Amore Duo.

Not bad for an afternoon's pleasure.

Food followed melancholia at Secco for the final All Sara Sunday.

No longer will there be two Saras on staff on Sundays as cheese whiz Sara Adduci prepares to head westward.

Secco was saluting her with food and wine, like the clever "ArrivAdduci" flight.

Tete a Claques was my poison, all pink and pretty, and much food was consumed along with it.

Gnocchi with sea urchin butter began things delicately and decadently.

Local green beans with speck, walnuts, hard cooked egg and mustard vinaigrette was an impeccable new flavor combination on the menu.

When a man near me saw it arrive, he raved about it, saying he and his wife had finished the same dish earlier.

I didn't realize how much earlier he meant until they went to leave and said they'd been there since 3:00.

It was 8:30 by then. That's a healthy visit to your local wine bar.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The arugula salad with chicken confit, dried cherries, Stilton and roasted shallot vinaigrette never disappoints with its rich flavors.

The nod to Sara was a Gruyere fondue ("Had to do it," said the sous chef) with asparagus spears and house made pretzel bread sticks for dipping.

With a tribute like that, chances are she won't want to leave.

Dessert was chocolate cream in puff pastry with hazelnut praline and caramel sauce.

On a trip to the bathroom, I met a guy from Nelson County who makes lotion.

He had a tub of it with him, so I sampled it, trying it on my hands and legs, impressed with the rosemary and mint scents and the emollient quality of the beeswax based mixture.

I was quizzed. Would I pay $10 for it at a farmer's market? Yes, I would.

Heard some people talking about a woman with 23 stars tattooed on her chest.

Why 23, I wondered?

Seems 23 was how much pain she could endure from the needle before crying uncle. The actual number was meaningless to her.

Oddly enough, 23 is my favorite number, so it would have been a splendid choice for me, but her, not so much.

And me, zero interest in tattoos, stars or otherwise.

So much had been going on that all of a sudden it was time for us to fly to Balliceaux for music.

We arrived a bit after 9:00 and I waited for the song being played, "Timberline," to be finished before entering the room and finding a seat for Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird.

Once in my barstool, I caught singer Antonia's eyes and she mine.

"We started on time," she said part accusingly and part matter-of-factly.

Gulp. Caught coming in late and called on it. With humor, but called.

I did my best, I told her.

"Andrew was here on time," she teased, pointing at my music buddy across the room.

Yes, the same music buddy who had been introduced to JV&SB by yours truly.

The amusing part, as both Andrew and I knew, was that he's frequently late for shows only to find me already in place.

But that's okay. I can take criticism if it's merited. Mark me tardy.

The band was minus cellist Josh tonight but even without his superb bowing, it was a set of heartfelt Americana and Antonia's warbling vox saw.

When the set ended and the mingling began, I found out why it doesn't pay to be a latecomer.

Although I'd caught the first official song of the set, I'd missed the oddities that proceeded it.

They'd played a composition by their excellent trumpet player Paul Watson as well as a cover of a Sparklehorse song.

There had been been a third rarity, but I didn't even need to know what it had been.

It had been a fine Sunday. Definitely a fun day.

Even if I did have to run day.

Better tardy than absent.

Easy Does It

Staying in town for the long weekend makes it so easy to be lazy.

I could have gone to a benefit show. I could have gone to hear an Afropop  DJ.

And yet, after talking to some friends who were drinking tequila and bubbles while spending the weekend in Lovettsville in a cabin, my evening took a decidedly low-key turn.

Honestly, all I bothered doing was a simple meal at Secco with a bunch of other people who'd stayed in town.

One of them was the cheese whiz Sarah, who'll soon be moving to Charlottesville, their gain but our loss.

Sadly, all Sarah Sunday at Secco will be no more soon.

Another was a couple on what surely must have been a first date.

I overheard him tell her, "My music and my church are very important to me. I can't be with a woman who doesn't get that," while his date nodded in that early stages way.

Explaining to the bartender that my birthday week had left me a tad full, I chose the new salad of arugula, walnuts, dried cherries, Stilton and roasted shallot vinaigrette he recomemnded.

Debating about the addition of chicken confit, I went for it.

"Good, good," he said reassuringly. "You don't want to shock your system too much."

Right. You can't quit full fat cold turkey.

Besides, the richness of the confit made the peppery arugula all the more piquant.

Well, that and the Stilton and cherries, which kicked up the flavor in the best possible ways.

No surprise, my wine choice was listed under Rose, although with a note that it was not technically a true rose, but rather a light red.

Fine by me.

The 2011 Bisson Ciliegiolo Portofino Rosato, made with an indigenous grape from Liguria, Italy, was bone dry with a hint of cherries.

Sign me up. I'll drink this all summer.

Meanwhile the table behind me was having wine issues since the male of the table decided that the wine they'd ordered was unacceptable.

He may have even accused it of being Madeira, not likely since the ladies had asked for something "Chardonnay-like."

I often wonder how servers have the patience to deal with certain kinds of people.

Me, I just went back to finishing my northern Italian knowing that if I wanted to, I could just go home and read a book on my balcony overlooking a quieter-than-usual Jackson Ward.

But it would have to be with some birthday wine.

I don't want to shock my system too much.

Did It in a Minute

I almost did nothing at all.

It would have impressed some friends (Andrew, I'm looking at you) but disappointed others (Rob, now you), but it doesn't matter because I caved.

A low-key start with Anjos vinho verde foraged at Hoppy Dog (where the owner and I agreed that sometimes you want to be able to drink a wine for hours without getting loopy) and Italian dry sausage (and no, that's not a metaphor) was elevated by the music.

And not my kind of music, either, but the kind that was distinctly of the past. Oldies of a sort that one might even call moldy oldies.

Dated, overblown and in far too many cases, sadly yet instantly recognizable.

After hearing songs I hadn't heard in decades (eighth grade, really?), I felt the importance of getting away from moldy cheese music and rejoining the real world.

At least for a couple of hours.

But not until after admiring the remains of the supermoon which hung big and bright in the cloudless sky, so different than last night.

Besides, when observing scientific phenomena, it's always best to have others with whom to corroborate what you observe.

Decamping to Secco for dessert, we were rewarded with cardamom gelato with espresso crumbles and cream puffs with chocolate cream and caramel sauce with sea salt sprinkles.

The subject of indulgence came up but was quickly shoved under the rug.

Which is where I feel certain a lot of those songs I heard tonight crawled out from.

On the other hand, it's not often I can be taken back to when I was fourteen or even 24.

"Digging Your Scene" by the Blow Monkeys? Oh, my, yes.

It's a miracle I went out at all with that kind of cheesey music tempting me to stay and listen to the next forgotten nugget.

If you're going to do nothing at all, you may as well relax into your 22-year old self and let the music wash over you. As long as I can find others who dig my scene.

I could.

But let the record show I did make it out.

A + B = C

It's a dilemma: where do you take a food-loving friend when he visits from out of town?

Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.

After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.

Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.

I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.

Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.

Score one.

Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.

My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.

As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.

He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.

If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.

No reevaluation was required.

He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.

After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.

He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.

According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.

It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.

Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.

The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.

I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.

That's probably why I keep doing it.

Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.

Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.

Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).

As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.

Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.

It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.

My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.

I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.

By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.

Score two.

Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.

We had, although the bar was still hopping.

I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.

My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.

Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.

Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.

Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.

Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.

Score three.

It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.

And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.

Bet I get invited back up.

Shall We Smote?

All the world's a lie and all the men and women merely liars.

Which I suppose included me and my theater-loving companion and definitely refered to Henley Street Theater's production of "The Liar."

Seated in the second row at the Gottwald Playhouse at CenterStage, we had a ringside view for a French farce from the 17th century.

You know the kind: breasts falling out of dresses, elaborate sexual innuendo and non-stop laughter (like the 70-something next to us who lasciviously laughed at every dirty innuendo).

"The story's so piquant!"

The Artistic Director thanked us for coming and did a quick pep talk after noting the rainy day audience.

"You're a small but potent crowd, I feel sure," Ricks said.

And all of us ready for some cosmic fiction.

The play had been both translated and adapted for modern audiences, making for a satisfying combination of rhyming wordplay and modern references.

"What charm is your memory cursed with?"

There was also a breakdown of the fourth wall with characters speaking directly to us.

When the liar of the title gives his first speech, his friend points to him, saying dryly, "The exposition."

As if we hadn't noticed.

"Is it not a man's job to flatter?"

Actually, I think that it is.

The play benefited from a strong cast who almost never tripped over the iambic pentameter that dominated the dialog.

Only when the liar is forced to admit his love for Lucrece does he resort to prose.

"One who loves asks no leave; they just adore."

I laughed out loud repeatedly...at the interior rhymes, the double meanings and the brilliant uses of mis-pronunciation for the sake of maintaining a rhyme scheme.

"Did I say the girl was deep? She's an ocean!"


Like the Shakespeare it was no doubt partially inspired by (including a few direct rip-offs), there were twins, unknown siblings, mistaken identities and a tidy ending.

And, being a farce, groan-worthy lines.

"You may be a bi-valve, but you're my valve."

Does it get any more romantic than that?

Not on a pouring down rainy day, so after the pleasure of two hours of verse and love (and even a talkback with the actors), we were starving.

And, like last Sunday late afternoon, we ended up at Burger Bach after finding Cellar Door closed.

Unlike last Sunday at BB, we eschewed bivalves at the four-screen bar for (basic and lamb) burgers at a corner booth with a view of a silvery sky.

Okay, with a few oysters to start.

My favorite thing about their wine list is the South African choices so it was a bit of a buzz kill to hear that they were out of the Warwick Pinotage.

We left Stellenbosch behind and moved to the Western Cape, sharing the Boekenhoutskloof Wolf Trap 2011, an earthy Syrah, Mourvedre, Viognier blend perfect for a damp, cool April evening.

When the bottle and burgers were gone we knew the absence of desserts would send us down the street to Secco.

Already enjoying the rainy evening there was a Blood Brother and his crew up front and over at the bar, the teacher out late on a school night.

She clarified why that sometimes happens despite her usual habit of early bedtimes.

"It's always because of a dude, Karen" she explained to me like she was talking to an idiot.

There we also found olive oil and rosemary gelato with sea salt (exquisite taste and texture) and hot, freshly fried zeppoles to accompany our digestifs.

Our last stop was Commercial Taphouse for Labragenda, a four piece doing progressive jazz to far too few people.

I recognized three of the four: the band's namesake Larry Branch, the guitar player from the RVA Big Band and the bassist from Marionette.

They did some originals, a terrific piece called "Fiction" by Glows in the Dark's Scott Burton and closed the first set with an extended "Tailgating."

For their second set, they played some Journey,  Milli Vanilli and a little Nickelback.

Kidding.

Haven't you heard? "Liars aren't born, they're fabricated."

When You Need Magical

Say what you want  but some nights the culture comes in the shape of a wine bottle from across the Atlantic.

So despite a stop at Bistro 27 for a glass of Gavi and to hear about new tequilas on order, say hello to some J-Ward neighbors and kiss some favorite staff, the evening's main destination was Secco.

Not that Secco isn't great every day, but tonight they were hosting a "handsome Portuguese winemaker" and offering food to pair with the man's Quinto do Crasto wines.

Honestly, I didn't want to couldn't find a more worthy cultural activity.

We arrived early, found some open bar stools and looked forward to some Portuguese men and wine.

Call me old school, but I thought it seemed wisest to begin with the man's white.

Grassy and crisp. it was a fine start to the evening. so we also ordered the Portuguese plate that Chef Tim had created to pair with it.

Sardine-wrapped olives, salt cod croquettes and house-made sausage arrived and made the wine sing.

This was why we'd come, to taste the food that best suited this wine.

And we weren't the only ones; the local bookstore owner was doing the same as were the affable wine rep and his lovely wife.

Next we tried his Quinto do Crasto Douro Red, a fruity and accessible gem that was seducing us further into his portfolio.

We kept going with food, choosing the house-made goat sausage with red chile-seasoned roasted olives, raisin puree and peanuts.

Sweet and salty; is there a more appealing flavor profile anywhere?

We followed that with the succulent pork cheeks with parsnip puree and beech mushrooms, despite my prior ignorance of beech mushrooms.

Rich and textural, I defy anyone to refuse cheeks if they tasted this dish without knowing what it was.

It seemed a good time to move on to the heartier red, the Crasto Superior, notable for its lovely tannins and long, lush finish.

As much as I am regretting the thermometer heading south the past two days, it did make savoring this mouth-filling red a real pleasure.

As usual, the music was spot-on (Beach House is always a great choice) and we debated about a dessert course.

With the Superior about gone, we opted for one of his ports with a chocolate bread pudding with caramel sauce and sea salt and an orange/cardamon cream-stuffed canoli.

Deep and complex, if the Portuguese can't do port right, who can?

Just to be truly indulgent, we also ordered the Carboncino, not for its proclaimed melty, mushroomy qualities but for its magical ones.

The way I see it, anytime you can find magical on a Tuesday night, you should take advantage of it.

Even when it comes in the form of a cheese.

It was at that point that the winemaker's table suddenly had a few empty seats and we opted to take them over.

Winemaker Miguel Roquette was indeed handsome, proudly unmarried at 45 and unintelligible when he tried to pronounce "Raleigh."

In other words, perfectly charming.

Coincidentally, I also knew a couple of the table's occupants, both the lively former Virginia first lady and her public service-bound son, making for a spirited discussion of running for office, the "Mikado" and temperature controls.

And when Berlin came up in the conversation, I proudly showed off the Berlin tights I was wearing.

Owner Julia had already complimented them when I'd arrived.

It's amazing how much mileage you can get out of a pair of old tights when the conversation goes European.

I heard about next year's schedule for Virginia Opera, why I should write a book and the winemaker's jet-setting lifestyle.

Like I said, culture doesn't always come in the form of a performance.

Sometimes it's just the people around you.

How Soon is Now?

If the Virginia Historical Society had spontaneously combusted tonight, half the restaurants in Richmond would have had to close and a lot of great tights would have gone up in a puff of smoke.

Fortunately that wasn't the case.

The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.

Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."

Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.

Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.

It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.

Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.

Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.

And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.

Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.

Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."

Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.

When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.

Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."

When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika  in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.

After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."

You're welcome, oh ginger one.

EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."

Call me proud of my membership in that group.

Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.

Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."

I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.

The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.

At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.

Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.

One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.

Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.

Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.

Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.

While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."

Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.

And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.

One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.

I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.

After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.

"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."

His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.

Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.

You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.

I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.

Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.

Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.

Do they give awards for finally getting it right?

It's All About What Follows What

We have a consensus, ladies and gentlemen; we are glad the holidays are over.

It's about time to get back to the business of going out and having a good time for no reason other than that it's Sunday night.

That's the spirit that landed us at Secco with a small crowd of like-minded people tonight.

With an Italian-speaking server, tales of Perugia and a leaning in that direction already, it was more or less a foregone conclusion that we would end up with an Italian wine.

The Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieul" came with a promise on the menu that it would make any Italophile grin (it did).

Since I'd come with a Secco newbie, we tasted around the menu so he could get an idea of the pleasures of the talented kitchen.

The fried Barcat oysters with a pickled ramp creme fraiche were to die for. The subtle brininess of the oysters under the perfectly fried breading should be on every oyster-lover's must-eat list.

The sweetbreads with roasted fingerling potatoes and sauerkraut  enticed even the non-gland eater among us who had only memories of his mother eating such things.

He was just as satisfied with the house-made gnocchi with lamb ragout and preserved lemon, a dish I'd had and knew to be a perfect balance of flavors

Our first and last course came on the slate (I heard a customer ask, "How many slates do you have anyway?") with Brillat Savarin, a butter bomb, the luscious Hayley Hazen Bleu and melt-in-your-mouth Bresaola, a meat I could eat all night.

As we ate, a DJ friend came in for a beer and joined another guy. Before long, he was showing off his latest library book find: a book last checked out in 1928.

I am enough of a book geek to find that absolutely fascinating. From the little we saw of the text, the flowery language was of the kind rapidly fading ever since 1928.

Our loss, in my opinion.

Once sated with food and wine, we moved on to music at Commercial Taphouse, listening to the Scott Clark 4-tet from a window seat up front.

We'd have sat down closer since my companion had never heard them before, but every seat in the place was taken when we arrived, a fact which didn't surprise me since I know how good these guys are.

Ever since they stole the show at RVA JazzFest, I try to see them whenever possible.

Drummer Scott Clark never fails to impress with his impeccably controlled yet energetic playing and with trumpet, sax and bass filling out his compositions, we just sat back and took it all in.

They played several new pieces tonight, with "Clockwise" probably my favorite.

Although much of the crowd faded before midnight, we stayed until the end, happy to be hearing live jazz to end our weekend.

Forget small talk and holiday soirees, give me a terrific meal and a little night music.

Or as someone said last night, it's like hearing the Smiths followed by Belle and Sebastian.

You not only have to understand the why of that, but bring chemistry to the mix, too.

Any night of the week.

Slipping Out of the Heat and Into Lunch

Invitations to a "leisurely ladies' lunch"  don't come my way every day.

This one arrived toward the end of my beach week from a good friend who wanted to nail down Tuesday for our overdue rendezvous.

Could there be a better place to linger over a long lunch, gossip and talk relationships than Secco on a sultry afternoon?

The radio was saying that with the heat index, it felt like 105 degrees outside, but with the curtains drawn, it was cool and lovely inside. The vintage soul music on the stereo only made it cooler.

We went against the European grain and ordered Barboursville Reserve Viognier in a nod to our efforts to assess and enjoy more Virginia wines.

I don't know who had more dirt to share, but we did so sotto voice since the bar had only three other customers at that point and we didn't want to bother them with our trivial little tales.

Taking the time to study the menu, I saw that Secco's prix-fixe lunch is an amazing deal at a mere ten bucks and wondered why I'd never tried it.

Oh, well, I've been late to the party before.

First I enjoyed a salad of mixed and peppery field greens with a lemon/thyme vinaigrette. Light and lovely.

My rosemary roasted pork panino had spicy plum chutney and just the right amount of chevre and was accompanied by those addicting fried chickpeas, which the wine list had recommended as the ideal pairing with our Viognier (true that).

The prix-fixe dessert was the vanilla bean pizzelli with chocolate hazelnut ice cream, making for a gelato sandwich as far removed from Good Humor as can be imagined.

I shared my gelato with my gluten-intolerant friend who didn't seem to miss the pizzelle one little bit.And, the fact is, on a day like today, it's all about the ice cream anyway.

Well, that and the kind of stories where, as my friend put it, "You don't know whether to laugh or cry."

Splitting another glass of the Virginia grape, we opted for the former.

Because there's no crying at a leisurely ladies' lunch.

A Pink Statement of Pride

It's not often that a rose crawl becomes a hurricane party.

Today's Carytown Rose Crawl required that I pull out one of my two pink dresses so as to be attired appropriately. I settled on the hot pink mod little shift that looks like it's straight out of 1967.

We began at Amici, a new addition to the crawling process.

As a guy held the door open for me, I walked in and was surprised at the number of people in attendance, including Matt from Secco wearing a pink headband.

The crawl was already paying off in spades.

Amici's rose of choice was Negroamaro Salento and a glass was poured for me almost as soon as I walked in. Well balanced and fruity, it was a nice start.

Our rose crawling group quickly filled the bar area and as I glanced down the bar, every glass held pink. I was definitely where I needed to be.

I met a few new people (another food writer, a woman with a large pink purse) but chose to catch up with a friend I hadn't seen in a while instead of chatting up the masses.

Almost before we knew it, it was time to move on to Amour Wine Bistro; they get points for both the wine offerings (there were eight plus two flights) and the four different food pairings.

With a bit of assistance, I chose the La Bastide St. Dominique Rose and the eggplant caviar on a baguette.

The rose had some gorgeous fruit and a long finish and the eggplant bruschetta 's fresh flavors made for a satisfying snack as we began Round #2.

The crowd grew at Amour as people who couldn't get off work by 5:30 joined us for the second stop.

I (re-) met a farmer and said hello to a few people I knew. Our rose crawlers were steadily growing, much to my delight.

Walking down to Can-Can, some of us who had been on the Riesling crawl a few months back wondered if Can-Can would be better prepared than last time (they were supposedly unaware of the Riesling crawl so I skipped them).

Strike Two; the bar was crowded with their regular crowd (shudder) and they had only two bartenders on staff, so the rose group had nowhere to go and no one to serve them.

Along with several other people, we beat feet and opted out of their offering. It was a shame.

Heading to Secco, the sky was looking ominous and I briefly considered stopping to roll up my car windows.

Bad call not to have done so since we were barely ten minutes inside Secco when the monsoon arrived.

Knowing my open car was being drenched when there was nothing I could do about it in no way hampered my continuation of rose exploration.

The bar had only one seat available, but I quickly claimed it and adventurously ordered the "Dealer's Choice" flight. It's not like rose-loving Secco was going to steer me wrong.

Fifteen minutes in and the lightening seemed to be striking the very heart of Carytown as Chef Tim and I watched from the doorway.

Moments later, we lost all power.

But with back-up lighting at the front and back and some well-placed candles (including the loo), who really needed electricity?

Um, the kitchen so they could cook and the wait staff so they could use the register system, but we customers could drink just fine in the semi-darkness.

My flight arrived on a pink placemat with pink post-it hearts announcing my wines.

From left to right, I had Mazzolino Brut Rose (list notes: "It makes us giggle"), followed by Fenouiellet Rose (beautiful nose and a long finish) and finally the Tete a Claque Rose (refreshing and dry).

Barely into my first glass and enjoying the bubbles, a guy approached me, hoping for help so he could place an order.

He moved here from Poland ten years ago and was looking for a good red, so I recommended a personal favorite, the Chateau Muser "Jeune Rouge" from a  very old wine-growing region in Lebanon.


He got two bottles and came back twice to chat me up. It may sound like I was pimping owner Julia's wine, but honestly, I was just recommending a favorite of mine to a stranger.


After a bit, the amount of oxygen left in the room became scarce, so the front and back doors were propped open to cool things off and improve air flow.


And that's when it began to feel like a hurricane party. We had no music, no food, and no light. You'd have thought people would leave for brighter pastures, but they didn't.


I chatted with a girl who loves her Church Hill neighborhood as much as I love Jackson Ward.


I met a guy who works at Edo's who admitted that it's impossible to hear any music there, much less his favorite band, Led Zeppelin.


I met a bartender who blogs about going out who offered to over-serve me if I came to his bar.


After a while, the chef and sous chef were so bored that they began polishing glasses. Finally the sous chef told me that they could still produce some food in the dark.


Cheese was out because they didn't want to open the refrigerator, but they had spicy almonds, marinated olives, and the tortilla Espanola, which I opted for.


He brought it out seconds later and I felt like all eyes were on me as I ate it, but that didn't stop me. Eggs and ramps were just what I needed at at that point.


My pink dress was mentioned several times by strangers, but only after owner Julia acknowledged her pink underwear did I allow that I was wearing the same. Hey, anything for a good rose crawl.


I ended on Punkt Genau for its bubbles and refreshing quality in a room where the temperature continued to climb. 


The transplanted Pole returned to chat and, all at once, Dominion let there be light.


Although it had been just under three hours in the dark, the mood inside the bar had been convivial. The restored lights were immediately dimmed to power outage levels and the remaining devotees carried on.


But after a time, the thrill of being trapped by the rain and in the dark had spent itself, so people began cashing out.


Still, with a personal best of six roses under my belt, I felt no shame about calling it a night.


Even if a certain Facebook friend did immediately give me a hard time about being home at a reasonable hour.


I hope he took note so I don't have to do it again any time soon. 


What's the point in being home this early anyway?

Pink, Bubbly and Unplucked

I got to experience an internet date unfolding for the first time.

It happened at Secco and there was a fair amount of Gruber Zweigelt Punkt Genau Sparkling Rose involved on my part, but it's such a beautiful mouthful of bubbles, acidity and berries that it was hard to say no.

I love the wine list's description that it's a "guiltless two-bottle indulgence." With the right date absolutely it would be.

A friend spotted me and came over to chat; it was then that I learned that the couple at the end of the bar was on their first internet-generated date. How she gleaned her information I didn't ask.

Even without the forewarning, though, I'd have guessed it as a first date and one not going particularly well. He continually leaned in (body language is very telling) and she'd always lean back, away from him.

As they awkwardly drank for several hours, my friend saying that it was a telling sign that food was not being ordered, the girl's posture stayed as rigid and stiff as if she were at a job interview.

To the guy's credit, he kept trying, smiling and making extensive eye contact. He seemed to be following all the first date recommendations for success despite his obvious lack of results.

She, on the other hand, seemed unimpressive. "Look at how over-plucked her eyebrows are," my friend pointed out.

And while it was definitely true, I question how many guys notice, much less care about such a thing.

My brows are unplucked and I wasn't out on a date, so she was already doing better than me.

Back at our end of the bar, we got hungry before they did, and started with the addicting roasted spiced almonds with sea salt. Before long, we also required a massive meat and cheese plate.

The Delice de Borgogne was a buttery triple creme, the Comte nutty and firm and the Cabecou the standout. It was gooey, goaty and gorgeous and positively irresistible.

And because cheese calls out for meat, we also had some of Olli's over-the-top meats: the prosciutto and the salametto.

Olli, you make my hear flutter (and probably my arteries harden, but so what?).

Back at the dating ranch, the couple finally ordered food and ate it with no obvious signs of pleasure. It was tough to guess why she stayed, much less him.

I say that as one who has exhibited less-than-ladylike first date behavior.

Back in 1999,  I had a date that so bored me that I excused myself to go to the ladies' room and exited right out of the back door of a not-to-be-named Fan bar. I would handle it better today.

Another time, on a first date in 2002, my date casually informed me that he didn't like strong-flavored cheeses.

Although I was ready to cut bait at that moment, I hung on through the meal before explaining our differences and leaving.

When they finally left, we still had no idea what the chances were for a second date.

My guess would be no, but perhaps she's just the type who can't show pleasure in someone's company.

Chalk it up to age, but I'm much more obvious. If I'm attracted to you, there will be no doubt in your mind.

If I like you, I'll be the one draping myself over your lap while leaning into you and talking. And, by the way, that's with or without the two-bottle indulgence.

Even so, I'm not going to pluck my eyebrows for anyone, although that's probably why she was on a date and I wasn't.

Someday I'll get the hang of this.

Granita Absent, Friends Present

Friendship's the wine of life ~ Edward Young

It was the best ten-hour birthday celebration ever. A girlfriend picked me up for a drive to Charlottesville, giving us an hour or so to spill our guts and anticipate our adventure as we wound our way through twisting mountain roads.

We started at Blenheim Winery, not because it's owned by Dave Matthews, but because it came highly recommended to us.

Honestly, I was amazed to learn that DMB fans make pilgrimages to the winery, even those not partial to wine. As our host agreed, that's downright silly.

Our host was charming, providing humor, information and a personal take on what we tasted ("This is how I'd do it if we were at my house"). The blue tick hound was almost as personable, but not as well spoken.

He shared the winemaker's preference ("Fruit always drives the bus") and, my personal favorite, a taster's take on the wine ("So enticing one could date this wine"). We enjoyed immensely, leaving with three bottles.

From a panoramic view of the mountains and vineyards to the downtown mall, we meandered our way to the C & O for dinner. Talk about an institution.

The staff was still shell-shocked from graduation weekend and fourteen-hour shifts, but welcomed us warmly to the bar that time left behind.

I drank Chateau Ducasse Sauvignon Blanc while my friend snapped bar pictures and  made sure everyone knew it was my birthday ("Thank you, sir. Who are you?").

After a salad of Boston lettuce and Pommery mustard vinaigrette, I ordered the marinated jumbo lump crab with shallots, poblano peppers, pickled green tomatoes and mint granita.

Delivering my plate, our server said, "Somehow we lost the mint granita since yesterday. We won't charge you for this dish."

Did I feel the absence of the mint granita? I did not, but perhaps I was distracted by the sheer size of the lump crabmeat and the tartness of the  pickled green tomatoes.

We'd so enjoyed our winery/dinner combo that we asked a nearby local for a recommendation for the next winery to check out and he provided; we'd already decided on the next restaurant. I can see this becoming a regular thing for us.

Driving back, my friend checked with me several times. "Are you ready to party?" Am I ready to drink good wine with friends and talk? Why, yes, I think I am.

Arriving at Secco, I was surprised to find eight friends already arrived (we were a tad later than planned). Before long, another eight or so arrived and then still more. All told, there were about thirty people in and out and adding to the merriment.

I'd invited some people, my friend had invited some people and we ended up with a nice crowd of restaurant types, musician types and people from my past. I ordered a glass of the peppery Peyrassol Rose and owner Julia said, "That's your bottle." Oh, my.

The most flattering part of it all was those who never stay out late who came and stayed out late.

The friend who said he'd come for one and then had to leave  who stayed for three.

The one who doesn't even come to shows that start late and hung till almost midnight.

She who doesn't go out on weeknights who came and stayed.

The friend who bypassed Mongrel and wrote a happy birthday message to me on the bottom of his flipflops.

The favorite chef who came after working lunch and dinner.

It might have been the most flattering birthday ever because of the stellar company coming and hanging. For a change, I actually had too many people to talk to.

At one point, the sous chef emerged from the kitchen with a lit cake covered in chocolate mousse and there was singing before devouring of a chocoholic's dream dessert.

I made a wish for the second time today (same wish) and blew out the candle.

As the bartender noted, "Friends, wine and chocolate, what more could you want?"

The answer popped out of my mouth before I could self-edit. "I get off at midnight. Let me check with the wife and make sure it's okay," he responded with a salacious grin.

What I meant was, lucky me, I don't need to wish for more good friends.

Secco: Our Best Shot at Being Girly Girls

Hi, my name is Karen and I'm an Olli addict.

I didn't know this before a few days ago when I had my first Olli, but here I am having just eaten my third in four days. How much cured meat does one female really need? I'm trying to figure that out.

It was a lovely girly day with a friend; we wore skirts, we went to U-Fab for fabric and we enjoyed a leisurely lunch at Secco, even talking about boys. The other people at the bar ate and moved on and still we lingered.

Since my friend is sadly unaccustomed to going out to lunch, we had to do some pink tasting before deciding on the white pepperiness of  Domaine Brazilier Côteaux du Vendomois Rose Gris, a tough choice in a field of worthy contenders.

It was also my friend's first foray to Secco, so we picked a sampling to better acquaint her with Chef Tim's food. First, the tortilla espanola with ramps ('tis the season), Yukon Gold potatoes and Parmesan cheese.

As our server acknowledged, it will be so sad when ramps disappear again. She also said that if on a date, either both or neither need to eat ramps.

We continued my Olli streak with their sweet coppa salumeria, and two fine cheeses, cave-aged Marisa from Wisconsin and Italian Caprino al Tortufo, a truffle-oil topped goat cheese that even a goat cheese-hater would have to love.

Olli's coppa impressed every bit as much as their salami and prosciutto had. Are they putting crack in this stuff?

It was wonderful being out and talking about everything and nothing. She's been redoing her house and yard and I've been redoing my social and personal lives. She rarely gets out in the evening and I'm out every night, a marked contrast from when we became friends.

Keeping to our girly theme, we both had the pulled roasted chicken over arugula with roasted beets, sliced apples, pecan and buttermilk/orange dressing. The light combination of fresh, peppery arugula and irregular chunks of roasted chicken in no way interfered with our rose absorption.

In fact, stopping by Garnett's afterwards for a shared dessert of hummingbird cake, kitchen aces Gregg and Mac accused us of many things having been over served. With only a glass apiece under our belts, we begged to differ, but were not taken seriously.

We finished up at my place, dropping off the materials for the big sewing project I'm doing for her and closing out today's chapter of the Ladies who Lunch.

Make that the Olli-addicted Ladies who Lunch. Don't judge.

Cook My Heart Out, Then Eat It

If you read someone for long enough, it's always a pleasure to meet them.

As a lifelong and still-daily reader of The Washington Post. I was looking forward to just such an opportunity tonight.

Joe Yonan is the Food and Travel editor of the Post; he writes a monthly column, "Cooking for One," as well as always-interesting feature stories.

I had a sense of who he was just from reading him for so long and I wanted to compare that to reality.

For that matter, he's a two-time James Beard Foundation award-winner for best newspaper food section.

Naturally I was curious about his new cookbook, "Serve Yourself: Nightly Adventures in Cooking for One" since I'm a) one and b) always looking for nightly adventures.

With it being restaurant week, the crowd for the reading was small, which was a a shame for Yonan, but a treat for the limited attendees because it turned into a casual get-together discussing cooking, asserting yourself at the grocery store and seduction meals

When asked, Yonan gave his suggestions for a meal worthy of getting to the next level with that special someone.

Limit onions and garlic and make something light in case the plan works and you get lucky; a food coma is not sexy.

The book is not just recipes, it also includes essays about food and preparation and Yonan read from one such essay about chicken fried steak.

Having grown up in San Angelo, Texas, he had a long history with the dish and its permutations.

After signing my book (To Karen, Cook your heart out! Joe), we talked about dining out alone, a subject near and dear to my heart. Like me, he hates the dreaded question, "Just one?"

The reading had turned into a thoroughly enjoyable chat with someone new and yet again, I'd enjoyed myself so much more than I could have anticipated.

Even though it's Restaurant Week, I felt like a nice glass of wine, so I went uptown to Secco to see if they could squeeze in one bar sitter amongst the $25.11 crowd.

They could and did.

Sandwiched in between couples, I ordered a glass of Ameztoi Getariako Txakoli Rubentis Rosat, a beautifully effervescent and rather zesty pink that impressed me from the first swallow.

From the moment I saw the chalkboard touting softshells, my decision was made, no matter what the preparation turned out to be. I had the almond-encrusted  softshell with fava shoots, shaved asparagus with preserved Meyer lemon hollandaise.

And, yes, the first softshell of the season is always good, but this one was great, delicately crispy and surprisingly enhanced by the hollandaise.

And then it was time for musical chairs as owner Julia insisted on moving me to sit next to another regular she deemed interesting.

The accommodating stranger welcomed me to the stool beside him and we began oversharing information about ourselves.

Asking what I liked about Secco, I responded, "Well-priced wine and always-interesting food."

The stranger liked that. "Well said. Can I use that myself?"

By all means.

He insisted I share his dessert after our server made presumptions and brought two spoons.

The lavender plum cake was lovely and the pistachio gelato (and brittle) was a decadent delight.

I learned that he'd had dinner at Secco the night before and had the gelato then, too.

I've got no problem with frequency when you're crazy about something.

What we soon realized was that we do a lot of the same things in the same places, meaning we probably have seen each other a hundred times and not known it.

We agreed that we are now bound to see each other within the next 48 hours, only this time we'll recognize each other.

After he left ( 5 a.m. wake-up call, god forbid), I turned to my other side for conversation and amusement, finding it in a friend's boyfriend and  his tales of good and bad restaurants (he's in the business).

When that waned, he told stories of cats and dogs.

Coincidentally Joe Yonan was also dining at Secco, so my evening finished where it had begun, with more conversation with Mr. Single Serving.

He was raving about his meal (he'd done the restaurant week menu)and shared his amazement over Richmond pricing, so different from Washington's.

I mentioned that yes, it costs less to eat out here than it does in DC, but we don't have places offering offal happy hour menus, either.

They have places like Bar Pilar (also one of his favorites) offering offal every day and we have reasonable restaurant pricing.

Life is a series of trade offs.

Not that I felt like I made any trade offs tonight.

Sometimes the people you read turn out to be as interesting as their words.