I did it again only this time I got to pick the alley.
The pop-up restaurant I'd so enjoyed a couple of weeks ago materialized just across the street from my apartment after I recommended a prime Jackson Ward spot for the festivities.
The organizers welcomed me back enthusiastically but how could I resist a guerrilla meal barely two houses from home?
Surely they knew I'd show.
Like last time, the five-dollar price tag covered a cocktail, main dish and dessert.
As a bonus, there was also a salad tonight.
The evening's cocktail could have been a Karen mix.
Reposado tequila that had been infused with habanero and jalapeno was mixed with cucumber sour mix and cilantro and served with half a salted rim.
To those with no tolerance for a bit of heat, it was hot.
In my opinion, it was beautifully balanced with cool cucumber smoothing out the peppers' heat.
Dinner tonight was shrimp and yellow corn grits with diced local tomatoes, green onions, mushrooms and locally salt-cured Thai bird chilis.
The chilis' spice infused the grits, making for a much hotter mouthfeel than the cocktail.
I devoured it.
A small grill took care of the cooking requirements as the crowd continued to grow when neighbors got wind of the goings-on.
One guy walked up and said, "Hi, I'm your neighbor. Can I share this car hood with you?"
He must have been enjoying himself because soon he went to call his friends and alert them to the fun.
As I ate my savory shrimp and grits, I met the occupants of a nearby house and heard tales from their corner.
A guy I met last time arrived, sans girlfriend, and marveled again at my lack of cellphone, even telling his friend.
She, too, marveled. "That's awesome!"
I was surprised at how many people had read my post about the last dinner.
One guy said he'd missed the last one but my description was so vivid that he'd made sure he didn't miss this one.
As a bonus, one of my very favorite summer dishes is panzanella and it was also on tonight's menu.
The food talent makes (excellent) bread and today some of their sourdough was used as croutons with local tomatoes, garlic, onions, basil and olive oil for a refreshing salad that epitomized summer.
Meanwhile, the occupants of the nearest house got wind of the activities in their own backyard and joined the party.
Sadly for them, they had just consumed an enormous burrito meal, but they were able to sip cocktails like pros.
Our houses practically face each other and this was the first time we'd met, so it was fun to talk midnight movies and late night museums with them.
Tonight's main entertainment came from the very recently-installed graffiti prevention box.
Mounted high on an alley-facing pole, it detects motion and flashes lights while yelling at the potential perpetrators.
It's completely obnoxious and I think it will probably drive the nearest neighbors batty.
Besides, I have to think my tax dollars could be better used.
Dessert tonight was a sourdough pancake with strawberries, mint and honey (I think) and even people who couldn't eat their dinner somehow managed to polish off an entire bowl of dessert.
Funny how that works.
Toward the end, the bartender offered second drinks to any takers and I couldn't think of a good reason to pass up another given my affection for teuila, especially given my proximity to home, sweet home.
The organizers already asked if I knew of another appropriate alley and my only question was whether it could be another one in my neighborhood.
Yes, it could, they said.
Score!
With a little planning, I might be able to suggest a different Jackson Ward location at least every other time.
Seems like the ideal place for a locavore restaurant to pop up every now and then.
We're the new dining destination, haven't you heard?
Showing posts with label shrimp and grits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shrimp and grits. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2011
Friday, December 24, 2010
Absinthe is for Birthdays
I got invited to not one, but two birthday dinner celebrations tonight. I ended up going to not two, but one celebration and enjoying the hell out of it.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Stronghill Brunch for Three
I had a great couple date for brunch today, so much so that I'm beginning to think that my social life will eventually be reduced to either going out alone or going on couple dates, as all my formerly-single friends get themselves paired up.
And then there's me. But I'm not complaining, just making an observation.
I'd chosen Stronghill for our meal today because despite having lunched and dined there, I'd never had brunch, nor had my friends. It was fun, too, because today's brunch music was all 80s and 90s stuff, so we ate to Big Country, Flock of Seagulls, Crowded House and Simple Minds. Ah, the Reagan years.
My friend showed up in a beanie with a propeller because he was having a bad hair day. Given the number of costumed brunchers (Dolly Parton, Superman), he didn't look as odd as he should have.
It was his girlfriend's first visit to Stronghill, and she loved the Art Nouveau feeling that the interior has almost as much as she loved the vintage photographs of Richmond. We'd both love to know where that 1905 Emancipation Day photo was taken (Marshall Street, maybe?).
The manly one judges a brunch spot by its eggs Benedict, so he opted for the Southern breakfast, meaning it had cornbread for English muffins and Smithfield ham for Canadian bacon. She got a tomato, bacon and white cheddar omelet. Both were impressed with their food.
As soon as I looked at the menu, I knew I had to try a side of the house made sausage and to go with it, I got the shrimp and grits (made with Patrick Henry stone-ground grits and Tasso ham gravy). I could have kissed these grits for their superb texture and flavor (I have a friend who claims to love grits as long as they're soupy and bland and she would have hated these).
Factor in the gravy with bits of ham, and I just tore through the dish. Let's just say that I totally get why gravy is part of a good breakfast.
The sausage patties were divine and I shared a bite each with the happy couple who affirmed my assessment. Tasting of pig and fresh herbs (especially sage), they were the biggest hit of the afternoon. "The sausage alone is worth coming back for," he proclaimed. I seconded that.
After such a filling brunch, I did the illogical thing and ordered dessert, specifically chocolate mousse. More than anything, after so much savory, I just had to have sweet, albeit not a terribly sweet sweet since the chocolate was fairly dark. Still, I finished feeling stuffed to the gills.
The happy couple had been to her high school reunion last night, so I got to hear about the big event. Like so many others who've revisited high school, she said that types hadn't changed much in the interim.
She said that the big flirt from back in the day wore the shortest, tightest dress to the reunion and reeked of perfume. The popular clique still sat together while the nerds were relegated to another table. The band geeks were still involved in music. Life marches on.
My couple date even admitted that they'd chosen brunch with me over the reunion brunch they could have attended today. Sure, they may have just been sick of the reunion crowd, although they denied it.
I prefer to think that I'm just the perfect date for a happy couple. Life does indeed march on.
And then there's me. But I'm not complaining, just making an observation.
I'd chosen Stronghill for our meal today because despite having lunched and dined there, I'd never had brunch, nor had my friends. It was fun, too, because today's brunch music was all 80s and 90s stuff, so we ate to Big Country, Flock of Seagulls, Crowded House and Simple Minds. Ah, the Reagan years.
My friend showed up in a beanie with a propeller because he was having a bad hair day. Given the number of costumed brunchers (Dolly Parton, Superman), he didn't look as odd as he should have.
It was his girlfriend's first visit to Stronghill, and she loved the Art Nouveau feeling that the interior has almost as much as she loved the vintage photographs of Richmond. We'd both love to know where that 1905 Emancipation Day photo was taken (Marshall Street, maybe?).
The manly one judges a brunch spot by its eggs Benedict, so he opted for the Southern breakfast, meaning it had cornbread for English muffins and Smithfield ham for Canadian bacon. She got a tomato, bacon and white cheddar omelet. Both were impressed with their food.
As soon as I looked at the menu, I knew I had to try a side of the house made sausage and to go with it, I got the shrimp and grits (made with Patrick Henry stone-ground grits and Tasso ham gravy). I could have kissed these grits for their superb texture and flavor (I have a friend who claims to love grits as long as they're soupy and bland and she would have hated these).
Factor in the gravy with bits of ham, and I just tore through the dish. Let's just say that I totally get why gravy is part of a good breakfast.
The sausage patties were divine and I shared a bite each with the happy couple who affirmed my assessment. Tasting of pig and fresh herbs (especially sage), they were the biggest hit of the afternoon. "The sausage alone is worth coming back for," he proclaimed. I seconded that.
After such a filling brunch, I did the illogical thing and ordered dessert, specifically chocolate mousse. More than anything, after so much savory, I just had to have sweet, albeit not a terribly sweet sweet since the chocolate was fairly dark. Still, I finished feeling stuffed to the gills.
The happy couple had been to her high school reunion last night, so I got to hear about the big event. Like so many others who've revisited high school, she said that types hadn't changed much in the interim.
She said that the big flirt from back in the day wore the shortest, tightest dress to the reunion and reeked of perfume. The popular clique still sat together while the nerds were relegated to another table. The band geeks were still involved in music. Life marches on.
My couple date even admitted that they'd chosen brunch with me over the reunion brunch they could have attended today. Sure, they may have just been sick of the reunion crowd, although they denied it.
I prefer to think that I'm just the perfect date for a happy couple. Life does indeed march on.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Of Rum Tasting and Nooners at Julep
Before I started working at a radio station, my alcoholic beverage of choice was dark rum.
It was for an interview for a higher position at the station that I was introduced to good tequila and never looked back.
The station manger took me to lunch to interview me, suggested tequila and since I wanted the job, I bravely drank three shots with him during our meal and discussion.
By the time he got the check, I had the job, a buzz and never went back to rum.
So when I walked into Julep tonight to meet a friend for dinner, the last thing I expected was a high end rum tasting.
Unbeknownst to me, once a month Julep's master mixologist does a tasting of one kind or another and I had happened into it.
They were doing a three-course prix fixe menu to accompany the five rums (Oronoco Platinum, Leblon Cachaca, Depaz Blue Cane Agricole, Mt. Gay Extra Old and Gosling's Family Reserve) during the course of the evening.
Was it possible rum was trying to reenter my life at this point?
When my friend arrived, he preferred to go the wine and regular menu route, so, it being half priced bottle night, we ordered the Arrocal Ribera del Duero and were delighted with the Temperanillo's lovely fruit and silky tannins.
We both started with the creamy sweetwater crab soup; he went on to the tempura shrimp and grits while I got the wild-rice encrusted oysters with a roasted shallot tartar sauce and Georgia peach migonette.
Both were wonderful and my oyster portion was enormous (so I shared).
For dessert, we had the chocolate marquise with the rest of the wine.
I had chosen the bar stool directly in front of mixologist Bobby to watch him prepare the three food courses for the rum tasters.
Having seen him turn out amazing- smelling dishes for the rum tasters for hours by this point, it was now time to avail ourselves of his talents.
My friend ordered the Gatsby's Finest (Hendrick's Small Batch Gin, Lillet Blanc, Chartreuse Yellow and Bobby's homemade chili jam), mainly because he had discovered how labor-intensive the chili jam was.
I had a taste only for rum given the evening's focus, so I simply got the Gosling's Family Reserve straight up, which Bobby referred to as "the best rum you will ever taste," so I had to find out.
Considering how many years since I've had rum, I was blown away.
It started out smelling of molasses, then got terribly complex, but never sweet, always dry.
Aged a minimum of ten years in Bermuda (ouch, painful memories there) and a slight burn on the finish, it was like no rum I'd ever had.
The other guests for the tasting were definitely liquor/restaurant geeks and we chatted with most of them throughout the evening.
One, in particular, was wearing the handsomest vintage smoking jacket and corduroy pants I could ever hope to see in Richmond.
As we were leaving, we stopped to speak to him and his date about the rum, the food and his magnificent wardrobe.
As I headed toward the door, my friend lingered for a bit more conversation about the jacket and, inexplicably, their chatting deteriorated almost immediately into the topic of nooners.
Motioning toward my receding back, the jacket-wearer told my friend, "With legs like that, I'd be nailing her for lunch every day."
Just as I got to the door, my quick-thinking friend said, "I know, but I can't. She's my sister."
Final score of the day for the pink tights.
It was for an interview for a higher position at the station that I was introduced to good tequila and never looked back.
The station manger took me to lunch to interview me, suggested tequila and since I wanted the job, I bravely drank three shots with him during our meal and discussion.
By the time he got the check, I had the job, a buzz and never went back to rum.
So when I walked into Julep tonight to meet a friend for dinner, the last thing I expected was a high end rum tasting.
Unbeknownst to me, once a month Julep's master mixologist does a tasting of one kind or another and I had happened into it.
They were doing a three-course prix fixe menu to accompany the five rums (Oronoco Platinum, Leblon Cachaca, Depaz Blue Cane Agricole, Mt. Gay Extra Old and Gosling's Family Reserve) during the course of the evening.
Was it possible rum was trying to reenter my life at this point?
When my friend arrived, he preferred to go the wine and regular menu route, so, it being half priced bottle night, we ordered the Arrocal Ribera del Duero and were delighted with the Temperanillo's lovely fruit and silky tannins.
We both started with the creamy sweetwater crab soup; he went on to the tempura shrimp and grits while I got the wild-rice encrusted oysters with a roasted shallot tartar sauce and Georgia peach migonette.
Both were wonderful and my oyster portion was enormous (so I shared).
For dessert, we had the chocolate marquise with the rest of the wine.
I had chosen the bar stool directly in front of mixologist Bobby to watch him prepare the three food courses for the rum tasters.
Having seen him turn out amazing- smelling dishes for the rum tasters for hours by this point, it was now time to avail ourselves of his talents.
My friend ordered the Gatsby's Finest (Hendrick's Small Batch Gin, Lillet Blanc, Chartreuse Yellow and Bobby's homemade chili jam), mainly because he had discovered how labor-intensive the chili jam was.
I had a taste only for rum given the evening's focus, so I simply got the Gosling's Family Reserve straight up, which Bobby referred to as "the best rum you will ever taste," so I had to find out.
Considering how many years since I've had rum, I was blown away.
It started out smelling of molasses, then got terribly complex, but never sweet, always dry.
Aged a minimum of ten years in Bermuda (ouch, painful memories there) and a slight burn on the finish, it was like no rum I'd ever had.
The other guests for the tasting were definitely liquor/restaurant geeks and we chatted with most of them throughout the evening.
One, in particular, was wearing the handsomest vintage smoking jacket and corduroy pants I could ever hope to see in Richmond.
As we were leaving, we stopped to speak to him and his date about the rum, the food and his magnificent wardrobe.
As I headed toward the door, my friend lingered for a bit more conversation about the jacket and, inexplicably, their chatting deteriorated almost immediately into the topic of nooners.
Motioning toward my receding back, the jacket-wearer told my friend, "With legs like that, I'd be nailing her for lunch every day."
Just as I got to the door, my quick-thinking friend said, "I know, but I can't. She's my sister."
Final score of the day for the pink tights.
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