A Criminally Fun Food Fight for Girls

It always comes down to music.

Sure, I could talk about the dinner I had at Lunch (where it was standing room only busy), the Wolftrap white blend, the French onion soup, the witty banter with a favorite recluse.

For that matter, I could  ramble on about "Farewell, My Queen," the French movie we saw afterwards, the opulence of the Versailles setting and costumes contrasted with the harsh reality of Marie Antoinette's time (dead rats, bug bites).

Favorite line: "Words are all I have. I wield them well."

But instead, I'll focus on the show.

Foodfight RVA was a stroke of brilliance - have a show of bands comprised only of people who work together at local restaurants and make it a benefit.

Come on, we all know most servers are really working to support their art or music habit, so it made perfect sense.

And the worthy beneficiary was Girls Rock RVA, the non-profit that holds a week-long empowerment camp every summer to teach girls 8-14 how to play an instrument, write a song and perform it.

Presenting the show was Quickness, the local delivery service that will bring food from a number of restaurants directly to your door.

And they were the first band up.

Just the Tip was a straight-ahead punk band, thrashing hard as they played a song called "Ophelia" about "a lady in Church Hill who always orders barbecue from Alamo and wears a turban."

Just another customer immortalized.

Black Sheep's band was Angry Chef and the Lowboys, a trio in chef coats and aprons all on acoustic guitars (and harmonica).

They got points for clever songwriting, singing "We Got the Kitchen Blues," "86 Bacon" (a dire situation if ever there was one) and perhaps the funniest, "Fry, Baby, Fry."

As you might guess, it sounded a lot like the Beatles "Cry, Baby, Cry" except it had lyrics like, "Kevin's in the kitchen cooking food for the people" and the customer lament, "They want switches and everything on the side."

Some of the women who'd led Girls Rock RVA this year performed next, doing the camp's theme song, but only after informing the crowd what Girls Rock was about.

This year's attendance was 44 (double the first year's) and their final performance was at the Hippodrome.

Hearing about their success made me glad I'd made a donation at the door.

Lamplighter's six-piece Funky Crumpets were next and they introduced themselves as, "We're those dudes who take way too long to make your sandwich."

The crowd laughed. "But they taste real good, don't they?" Much cheering and applause followed because they do.

They got off to a slow start but the guitarist locked into a groove and the singer (who'd said beforehand that she had no idea what she was going to sing) let loose and before long the crowd shut up and took note.

Ipanema's band turned out to be only Jonathan who said his missing band mates were "either working or already playing."

With typical Ips ingenuity, he proceeded to play guitar, loop it, get up and go play drums, loop that and return to guitar.

In other words, he filled in for everybody else, getting an A for effort alone.

Sticky Rice's trio Bonsai were energetic and melodic and especially appropriate for the evening's theme, given they had a female guitarist and drummer.

Duo Fat Side Up came from Alamo Barbecue and they played covers, one from Sublime and another from Fiona Apple ("Criminal").

For their last song, the singer announced he had brought ribs to eat as he sang, and he also waved bones over his head as he finished each one.

Returning from the bathroom mid-show, I ran into a favorite guitarist/server who sweatily informed me, "I'm too old for this shit. I used to do these shows and I remember how they smell."

It was more than a tad warm in Strange Matter tonight, but then a good percentage of the restaurant world was in the house.

Favorite t-shirt: "It's a lifestyle, not a fad."

Selba's Pregenators had a front man who was dying to show off his moves.

Dressed in low-slung jeans, an open black vest and medallion, he showed off his best pelvic thrusts while singing to a bass and drums.

The show closed with the Roosevelt's quartet (who got my vote for best band name), A Consensual Evening with Winston Stablock.

With a smoke machine obliterating bartender and drummer T, they pulled off two well-crafted R & B songs (written by Josh, natch) with him and fellow server Brandon singing back up.

And while I'd heard Mark singing along in the kitchen of the Roosevelt before, I had no idea he had it in him to be a rock star.

Favorite lyric: "I couldn't have you, I had to get you."

After a whole lot of applause, Mark closed by saying, "One more time for the smoke machine" and don't you know the crowd gave it up for the machine.

The audience had thinned considerably by the time the judges got up to award prizes.

The rib-eating Fat Side Up took third place (accepting, the singer said, "I'll bring more ribs next year"), Angry Chef and the Lowboys took second (no doubt for their clever lyrics and only acoustic guitars) and Bonsai took first (maybe being two thirds female helped their odds).

Personally, I'd have also given awards to the two people who had never been on stage before and totally won over the audience.

The guitarist for Funky Crumpets and the singer for A Consensual Evening were both playing their first shows ever.

So, like the aspiring musicians of Girls Rock RVA, they'd practiced, screwed up their nerve and taken the stage only to impress strangers and friends alike.

Because, let's face it, if you want to get good at music (or cooking or anything), you gotta make it a lifestyle, not a fad.

That's the only way I got so good at eating and going to shows.

Sacrificial Brunch

Holmes had e-mailed me a few days ago with an invitation to brunch.

Actually, he'd gotten an invitation to the 2300 Club from a friend and scrawled at the bottom was a note. "Hope you can come. Please bring your female friend, too!"

Since the last time I was out with Holmes and his squeeze we had met the guy doing the brunch inviting, he presumed that I was the female friend being invited by proxy.

"Are you leading the lamb to the slaughter?" I responded.

Given his reply, we decided to forgo the 2300 Club but meet for brunch anyway.

I wanted chicken and waffles but he wasn't interested in either of the places I knew have it so we settled on Selba.

Since it was their first time there and Holmes is a musician, I knew they'd enjoy the live piano music.

Since they're both Bloody Mary lovers, I knew they'd appreciate the fact that they make their own tomato and celery juice base (we watched).

Because I don't do Bloody Marys, I had a Bellini made all the better for the addition of St. Germaine to the white peach puree and bubbles.

The floral notes it added were a lovely addition to a traditional brunch sipper.

As a bonus for Holmes, the two (annoying) TV screens had football, NACAR and baseball on at various times.

Luckily there was a talented man playing piano for the females to be entertainment by.

The bartender provided one menu and said that if we were greedy and needed one each, he could accommodate. We made do.

Nothing on the brunch menu was calling my name except the house-cured bacon and the Sausagecraft sage patties and they were out of those.

Nothing, that is, until our server (one of two I knew moonlighting from their usual restaurants) said that today's special was, wait for it, chicken and waffles!

I got so excited that she looked at Holmes and said, "Well, I guess we know what she's having."

Holmes had Fontina-laced eggs with Sausagecraft Iberian Chorizo sausage and a bacon cheddar muffin and his love had an omelet with the house bacon on the side.

Meanwhile I was in heaven with my (only quibble: boneless) fried chicken and Belgian waffle.

I used every ounce of whipped homestead butter they brought me to fill the deep wells of my waffle and then drowned the whole thing in real maple syrup.

I lost track of whatever they were talking about while I gave in to a sweet/salty eating frenzy of crispy chicken and crispy waffle.

When I came up for air, it was to enjoy a few bites of the Chorizo and the bacon, both stellar.

Because it's a big place, it wasn't anywhere close to full although the Garden Room had a good crowd.

I saw the Chef and the Mrs. from Bobette, a local theater critic I know (so many new openings to discuss) and a musician I'd sat next to at the Ballet Russes lecture the other day.

And unexpectedly and happily, I got my chicken and waffles.

Without, it should be noted, being led to the slaughter.

If You Build It, They Will Come

For everyone thrilled about the fall-like weather, don't look to me for reinforcement.

I'm frickin' cold.

Just to walk the four blocks to ADA Gallery tonight, I needed to put on a blazer.

Three nights ago, I wore a sundress to a wine tasting. I'm so not ready for this.

But walk I did to see the opening of "Our Yasu," a joint show by Rachel Hayes and Jiha Moon at ADA.

Hayes' large-scale installation "Chutes and Tears" was part paper, part fabric, part acrylic and lots of denim.

When it had originally been installed in NYC, it had been in a window, making it more of a caged presentation.

At the time, the Japanese tsunami had just happened and many viewers interpreted the piece as representing a make-shift shelter.

To many people, the strips of denim represented people, jean-clad people.

But tonight's installation, with the ability to walk through and around it, felt more like a glorious canopy, brightly colored and whimsical.

It's all about the moment in time.

In the next gallery, Moon's collage-like pieces hung as individual units on the wall.

Unlike Western art with traditional rectangular canvases, hers were irregularly shaped pastiches of fabric, paper, paint, vinyl, and, yes, lots of denim.

Moon said she liked denim for its ability to change from almost white to the deepest blue.

She saw the stonewashed pieces as evocative of the 70s and 80s, a time before she was born.

I loved how lyrical her pieces were with the most beautiful combinations of off-colors, delicate  painting, swatches and pockets of denim and calligraphy.

ADA Gallery was packed with art lovers eager to spend a Saturday evening seeing fresh work, including the Man-About-Town with whom I happily discussed "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" since he'd seen it, too.

Then he was off to a party and I to Selba to meet a friend.

I was charmed walking in to hear a guy playing piano, especially since the last time I'd been in the instrument had been no more than an empty glass receptacle.

The live music didn't mitigate the buzz-kill effect of the two TVs at the bar (nothing could) but I knew about them going in.

Unfortunately, the pianist stopped playing within moments of me walking in. Was it something I said?

There were only a few people at the long bar so I took a middle stool to wait for my friend with a glass of Vinho Verde.

Once she arrived, chiding me for always choosing poorly marked restaurants, we got down to the amuse bouche, a chilled melon soup with roasted cherry tomato.

She started with the wild mushroom tart (oyster, shitake and white mushies with puff pastry and sherry caramel), her only complaint being the scarcity of puff pastry.

I was more than satisfied with the richness of the mushroom saute.

I couldn't resist the Tri-tip steak, seared rare with red wine caper vinaigrette, Stilton cheese and chopped hard boiled egg over butter lettuce.

It turned out to be a generous amount of thinly sliced tri-tip, a cut you rarely see on restaurant menus.

Our server told us that many people see the word "tip" and expect beef tips, so he has to warn them of what they'll get to avoid surprise or disappointment.

I was neither and quite enjoyed the flavorful slices with the Stilton.

When the piano player stood up, I asked if he was going to play again, which he was.

Tonight was a new gig for him after losing one at Maggiano's. As he said, you take whatever jobs you can find.

We fell into conversation about eking out a living, whether by playing music or writing and then he was off to play.

Next my friend and I had the vegetarian spring rolls, which I remembered as the best thing I'd had on my first visit to Selba.

Mid-roll, we were unexpectedly joined by a man who walked up and said to me, "My son says you're the blogger."

As I explained to him, his article was all wrong. While I am a blogger, I am hardly the blogger.

He gave me enough of a running start for me to recall exactly when and where I'd met his son who, by some weird coincidence, was also having dinner at Selba tonight.

But not with his father.

At least he came over to say hello, expressing as much surprise that I remembered him as I had that he remembered me.

I was flattered to learn that they're both regular readers, a huge compliment since I'd only met the son once and the father never.

Turns out the father not only reads me, but takes dining suggestions from a stranger.

He's discovered Ettamae's because of my posts, which gave us an excuse to verbally drool about the corned beef hash and stellar ever-changing dinner menu.

He reads me well enough to ask, "Where exactly is the Camel? And why do you go there?"

And naturally he asked me why I blog.

And I answered truthfully, but I might well have asked him a question myself.

Why do you read me?

Rain, Rain, Pelt Away

I couldn't bear the thought of missing the rain.

Because I had plenty of indoor plans for the evening, I made sure I got to be outside when it began to rain.

That put me parked at Fountain Lake with the car windows partially down, the white noise of the fountain competing with the more precise sound of the rain hitting the car roof.

Interestingly enough, I could see the rain hitting the lake, but couldn't hear it over the other sounds.

But after the week's heat, I was more than willing to feel the rain. Getting wet sounded good.

There were no more than a half dozen other cars parked along the lake. Did they get caught there and have to wait it out?

Or had they come there intentionally, like me, to enjoy the rain on the lake?

I'll never know.

From Byrd Park to Selba, I then went to check out yet another new Richmond restaurant, my fourth this week.

Walking in, I was glad I'd arrived before sundown. The beautiful skylights allowed waning sunlight to illuminate the beams and ceiling details.

The bar was bustling and the bartender was being pre-emptive, warning people that others were in front of them. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was in a hurry.

Food was everywhere, being passed and on tables for the taking.

Before I knew it, I'd had turkey meatloaf, vegetarian spring rolls with ponzu sauce, smoked salmon, mushroom tart, pork loin, panzanella, crabcake and raspberry truffles (yes, plural).

Twice I was told that everything was an abbreviated version of something on the regular menu, so we were tasting a good variety tonight.

Of course, the hook with Selba is the garden room, a conservatory/botanical garden-like room with extensive plantings of flowers, herbs and greenery.

It sits under extensive windows and looks beautiful. Unfortunately, the air conditioning was still set on heat wave and it was freezing in there.

Usually such gardens are a tad warm and the overwhelming scent of plants and flowers dominate, but tonight the low temperature kept all fragrance at bay.

The garden room would have been perfection except for the presence of two large flat screens (as a guy said to me, "Are they trying to make that beautiful space feel like s sports bar with those screens?"), which detracted from the overall vibe.

Screens aside, it's a truly beautiful and relaxing space while the front bar area is lively and hip.

I ran into a few people I knew and then, unexpectedly, into a local sous chef. I didn't recognize him at first because he was totally out of context.

He, on the other hand, greeted me with, "Hi! You're Karen, right?" Well done.

It was great fun to encounter someone else there alone and chat about the new space and other up and coming newbies.

But after a couple of hours, I had plans to head to Capital Ale House for music.

Two of my favorite local indie bands were playing a free show and that's irresistible on a Saturday night.

Ilad had just started when I arrived and listening to the first few songs, I realized it had been a while since I'd heard them last (they don't play out often).

There was a lot of new music I hadn't heard before, the overall sound was less rock-like and Cameron was doing a lot more singing.

When the audience was given a choice of two songs, only me and one other guy voted our preference.

"This is a democracy," Cam said. "They outnumbered you naysayers." So the two of us got our song.

I've been a big fan of Ilad for years. Gabe Churray's keyboards add a truly unique element to their sound.

I see the project as an outlet from Scott and Cam's other bands, which tend to lean more in the jazz direction. Ilad is more about soul and rocking and they excelled at both tonight.

The best thing for me about going to a Marionette show, besides hearing the band's genre-bending sound, is getting to see my friends in the band.

Marshall solicited my opinion of onstage drinking, Keith kindly insisted on buying me another tequila, Kevin asked why he hadn't seen me at the National lately, and Adam, well, Adam and discussed a whole lot of things.

Like why he's so touchy about 90s music (his age), the hazards of falling in love to Death Cab for Cutie (he did) and how being hot can make a musician play harder (ahem).

When their set finally began, it was with the band making noises of all kinds, blowing plastic flutes, drummer Kevin on guitar and guitarist Adam beating on the back of his guitar.

That cacophony is the prelude to a set of ambitious indie music that hangs together in a way less-experienced bands can only wish for.

Despite the late start, a good part of the crowd hung around, many of them obviously Marionette fans, like me.

But I'm guessing that, unlike me, they didn't stat their evening sitting in the car with the windows down, listening to the glorious sound of rain falling.

There's music and then there's music.

I heard the best kinds tonight, natural and man-made.