More Flavorful in Every Way

I am nothing if not able to plan a day of activities.

So when a date instructs me to "pick a place," I am already envisioning a day and evening of amusements.

We begin with brunch at Stella's, a place I hadn't been in a full two years.

Walking in, I spotted two open seats at the bar and claimed them as if they were my own. "You got here at just the right moment," the woman nearby noted of the recently vacated seats.

This is a good thing since I would not wait around for a table here. Note to self: plan to arrive at Stella's brunch sometime after 1:00 to avoid the crushing mass of humanity,

While Prosecco on tap was ordered, it was soon discovered that the tap was shot and a lengthy replacement effort began, ultimately resulting in us drinking an alternate sparkler instead.

For food, I chose a smoked salmon fritatta with capers, red onion, scallions and Manouri cheese over grilled pita with tzatiki, a dish so distinctive and appealing that a nearby couple asked what it was.

They were Charlottesville residents who'd been to the car show here and were stopping by for a bite before hitting the road. We were locals looking for a bite to eat before heading west to the movies.

Before changing gears, we savored honey tokens - puffs of fried dough bathed in honey sugar syrup and covered in fresh cinnamon - while trying our best to ignore the TV blasting basketball, a replacement for the missing TV screen in the back that used to show vintage Greek movies.

Ah, the good old days.

If you want to ensure I never return to your restaurant, show modern day TV. I promise I won't darken your door again.

But since there was no avoiding the glare of the screen, we ate and left, heading to the vintage Westhampton theater to see Wes Anderson's latest eye candy, "The Grand Budapest Hotel," a singularly beautiful movie about a snapshot in time that no longer exists, Europe pre-WW I.

Sure there's unpleasantness - a cat being tossed out a window to its untimely death, rich, old ladies dying and bad guys chasing good guys - but mostly I enjoyed glorious European scenery, a whodunnit of the highest order and ski chase sequences worthy of a James Bond movie.

It was a film that made me laugh out loud over and over again. I almost choked on my buttered popcorn.

When explaining why he preferred older women, our hero, M. Gustave was eloquent. "They're the cheaper cuts and far more flavorful."

Don't talk to me about younger women until you've cleared things with M. Gustave. He knows what of he speaks when it comes to my people.

The movie was pure Wes Anderson, full of visually stunning set design, deadpan delivery and the most unlikely situations imaginable. There was sex with 84-year olds, a stolen painting caper and a severed head.

The one thing my date and I could agree upon was that we definitely needed to see this movie a second time to catch the dialog we'd missed.

Aural and visual stimulation was followed by the same at Secco, where we ran into a friend and the woman to whom he is devoted, followed by an atypical Spanish Cava and a cheese plate.

It wasn't hard to use those around us to discuss gardening in winter, second (or 19th)  chances at romance and the appeal of cellaring Roses before devouring them.

We heard a woman behind us say, "I smoke Virginia Slims and they're $6 a box. Most cigarettes are only $4," afraid to turn around and look at her.

I said farewell to a Secco server leaving to join the academic world and reveled when the sun finally made its way into the sky, lightening things up for the first time today.

When we left there, it was to got to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival and a showing of vintage "Mutt & Jeff" shorts set to a soundtrack improvised by Dumb Waiter, a band who impresses me more each time I see them.

If you've seen them before, you know to expect a melange of jazz, metal, experimental and fusion and that's exactly what they delivered while we watched Mutt and Jeff have wife trouble, be sliced into hot dogs and, time after time, run so fast that they ran out of their clothes.

In the politically incorrect "Dog Gone," dogs are rounded up and then taken to a sausage plant where they are turned into links. Ouch. It was top notch humor, circa 1911-1926.

Dumb Waiter's improvisations were spot on, heightening the story and meshing with the crescendos of Mutt and Jeff's activities.

After the shorts ended, I spoke with guitarist Nick and drummer Nathaniel of Dumb Waiter, praising their performances, and chatted with other friends who had made the show.

When I finally left, it was to head to Garnett's with my date for a late night meal. In fact, it was for Garnett's stellar date night special of a bottle of wine with two entrees.

My choice was a grilled Gouda with caramelized onions, tomato and bacon and it was just the thing to allow discussion of the band's effect-laden saxophone and distinctive tapping, two points of interest for one of the two friends I'd invited to experience the band.

Honestly, Nick's guitar and Nathaniel's drumming should be enough, but the onslaught of all four was downright impressive. Mutt and Jeff never sounded so good.

We finished up with my childhood favorite cake - chocolate cake with white icing and chocolate dribbles (in this case, chocolate ganache)- a rarely seen cake that evoked memories of my youth and birthdays.

When I set our to plan a full day's activities, I never could have expected such a throwback ending to it all. I was just trying to prove that the cheaper cuts deliver the most flavor, even when enjoyed over an entire day.

Sometimes it's just a a matter of arriving at exactly the right moment and moving forward with it.

Pure luck, in other words.

Talk About the Passion

You'd be surprised how nicely the restaurant crowd cleans up.

This year's Elbys were wisely held at the VMFA after last year's inaugural event all but exploded out of the Virginia Historical Society.

Richmond Magazine's award ceremony honors the local restaurant scene with food, bevvies and awards for the nine best and the top culinary student of the year.

Walking in to the ceremony past a white stretch limo, I saw familiar faces from my favorite and less favorite restaurants.

That's one great thing about this event, seeing so many restaurant people all in the same place.

It would take me weeks to see so many of these people if I had to go restaurant to restaurant to do it, which I usually do.

Once in the Cheek Theater, there were even more people I knew, but before mingling, I grabbed a seat in the front of the middle section so I'd have a good view.

Roosevelt bartender T. strolled by on the way to sitting with his posse, observed my outstretched legs and noted drolly, "Center stage. Of course."

Fact is, a single can always find a good seat even when things are getting full.

I was pleased to run into some food-loving friends whose relationship with me began over pork belly back in June 2010, before pork belly was as ubiquitous on local menus as facial hair at a Gallery 5 show.

Our hosts for the evening were Richmond Magazine's food editor (saying she'd just had skate for teh first time the other night!) and the Modern Gentleman, Jason Tesauro.

Jason began with mock self-deprecation, noting, "I'm Jason Tesauro. If you don't know me, you can Google me. Go ahead, I'll wait."

He immediately quoted Comfort/Pasture's Jason Alley, whose pronouncement, "Just being here is really f*cking cool," was a sentiment I heard repeated throughout the evening.

After recognizing the culinary student of the year, we moved on to the meat of the matter.

Fine dining was first and Lemaire took the award.

After thanking the staff, Chef Walter Bundy said, "We won last year, so we didn't expect to win again. And we're trying not to be so fine dining," to much laughter.

For  upscale casual, defined as great food where you can wear jeans, Stella's took the prize, with the diminutive Stella herself saying a few words about being supported so well over the years.

Kuba Kuba won for neighborhood restaurant, notable because the always casual Manny wore a suit to accept and say, "I'd like to thank Kevin Walter, the best dishwasher anyone could have."

By now it was apparent that every time a winner was announced, a classic '80s song was played.

Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime," Blondie "Rapture."

If you won, you walked to the stage to music from the decade whose music is more loved now than then.

Deco won for new restaurant and owner Giuseppe was on and gone, thanking everyone who supported the restaurant and his family before hurrying off.

When the Roosevelt's bartender T. won for best cocktail program, cheers and applause abounded for the genial gentleman with the twinkle in his eye.

Onstage, his voice quavered a bit at first, but I knew he was ready.

I'd seen him on the way in and asked if he had a speech ready just in case and he'd replied in the affirmative.

Better not to risk it, just in case you get lucky.

The excellence in service award went to Wendy at Bistro Bobette, about whom Jason said, "She's got the polish in place and the edge. She's got a New York accent and a French husband."

She looked beautifully polished in her fitted dress and even remembered to thank that husband.

Reading the nominees for rising culinary star, Jason read the Berkely's Carly's name and said, "Julia said Carly is easily the most potty-mouthed chef in Richmond. And that's coming from Julia Battaligni!"

It was funny because the owner of Secco can be a very literate potty mouth herself.

When they called Belmont Food Shop's Mike as the rising winner, a woman clearly not Mike rose and made her way to the stage.

Explaining that, "Mike isn't here, he's cooking at the restaurant and if you know him it won't surprise you that he called me an hour ago to ask me to go for him," she was back in her seat in a flash.

To be fair, the man's got a restaurant that seats, what, 20? There's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to making his weekly numbers.

Chef of the year went to Dale of Acacia who seemed surprised. "I didn't think this would happen again. I just want to be a rising culinary star. I'm an old fashioned guy. I don't tweet or Facebook, but I do care about what I do."

When restaurateur of the year was announced as Kendra of Ipanema/Garnett's/Roosevelt and "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" began playing, Jason observed, "We should be playing her punk rock tracks."

Wouldn't that have been fitting?

The former punk rocker waitress' speech was heartfelt and humorous.

Saying, "When I started Ipanema in 1998, I thought as long as I didn't snort cocaine or sleep with my wait staff, I'd do okay."

Much knowing laughter.

She mentioned how supportive Johnny Giavos and Manny Mendez had been in answering her questions in the beginning, imploring the industry audience to "cut the new kids some slack."

Generously, she did shout-outs to her longtime friend and Ipanema manager, her crack Garnett's staff and Chef Lee at the Roosevelt for agreeing to be her partner.

More laughter followed when she said she'd been told that she'd succeed in the business because of her nice breasts and great attitude.

"And thanks to my husband John. For those of you who know me, my life has gotten 100% better since I met him."

Who knows, maybe he married her for the same reasons her restaurants were going to succeed (see above).

After the white-knuckling part of the evening was past, we moved upstairs to the marble hall to eat, drink and be merry.

It's always a blast to see so many people I usually see spread out, but as I made my way around the room, certain feelings kept being repeated.

Everyone is stoked to be part of the wave of Richmond restaurants as it builds.

Many people raved about the sense of community in the room.

The consensus is that our food scene is exploding and that's good for everyone.

The marble hall was packed with 400 guests (so I was told by a VMFA staffer), making the normally-chilly room perfectly comfortable for me and, by default, quite warm for most.

It wasn't long before many of the women in the impossibly high heels removed them and carried them rather than suffer any longer.

As I walked around, searching out wine (Mulderbosch Rose), food (rabbit meatball over mashed parsnips, black bean cake with salsa verde, pork over collards) made by the culinary students and familiar faces, there was a real sense of camaraderie in the room.

Rapphannock River Oyster company was there with Olde Salts and Rapphannocks for the taking  (I took many).

I saw Merroir's chef, Pete, and we chatted about my devotion to his riverside tasting room.

Olli was there with charcuterie and, after tasting all eight varieties, I'd have to say my favorite was the Napoli.

Maybe it was the Sangiovese in it.

As I made another pass around the room, a guy called me over to compliment my tights, not the first time tonight that I'd heard something along those lines, before introducing me to his blogger girlfriend.

First wine ran out, then beer and people were reduced to working off their existing buzz.

Music came courtesy of my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, and DJ Marty eventually got restaurant people dancing up a storm over by the 20th century galleries.

Likely Andy Warhol would have approved.

And probably agreed that just being there was f*cking cool.

Live Carp and Missing Kittens, Oh My!

Sometimes you just have to go with what you know.

I know that the only time I like to go to Stella's is for Meze Ora.

The later afternoon means no crowds, $10 carafes of wine (today's was Kourtaki White) and a selection of $4 food.

After complimenting our bartender on her recent Belle magazine cover, we enjoyed fig and goat cheese crostini (sweet and salty, yum!), Greek sausage (with skin so crispy and chewy), roasted beets (with enough garlic to ensure no one else would come near us) and prawns with skordalia (the addicting potato, garlic and lemon puree).

We made out exit stage right just as the dinner crowd began to arrive.

I know that I will laugh hard and hear at least one awe-inspiring story at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.

We arrived in time to order dessert before the stories began.

Cinnamon churros came with a mug of thick espresso-flavored sweetened cream and the combination was to die for.

We dipped and then we drank that cream.

With a bottle of Roncier Pinot Noir to keep our thirst slaked for the next five hours, we took front row seats.

Tonight's theme was "Origins," so I was expecting stories of beginnings.

We began with the tale of a guy who found out late that his mother wasn't really his mother and packed a bag to go start a new life.

There was Kendall, a guy with "veritas" tattooed on his arm, who'd suffered through a Pentecostal upbringing and all that entailed as far as finding his own beliefs.

My vote for funniest story of the evening went to "RPCT One."

So you know, RCPT means "random people camping together" and the first one happened in June 2000 for a guy and his friends after high school graduation.

Part of the charm of the story was their 17-year old ignorance, doing things like hiking up Old Rag Mountain with no food or camping supplies.

"There was a point where our trip became 'Deliverance," he deadpanned to much laughter.

And while the bulk of his story was about that first year, he mentioned successive years, too..

Best line: "There were people having sex on a pile of Christian DVDs."

"My Life as a Barge" was about a couple of wanna-be hippies moving to Richmond in the '80s when she got pregnant.

The description of her unlikely midwife was laugh-out-loud worthy - "From the West end, drove a Volvo and had a cute blond bob."

Best line: "It involved a live carp for eating after the delivery."

The last storyteller before the intermission was Lanie, owner of Balliceaux and one of the people who'd gotten Secretly Y'All off the ground in RVA.

She talked of her reluctance to share with a large group ("I'm fine with talking to 3 or 5 people") and praised the value of vulnerability.

I agreed with her completely when she said that storytelling provides a critical resonance that's getting hard to find in a screen-based world.

Best lines: "Stories are data with souls."

The break kicked off with the whistling theme to "Andy of Mayberry" playing, perhaps to remind us of simpler times when storytelling was less of an event and more of a regular activity.

One thing was clear, though, people want to hear stories. And tonight was the second anniversary of S.Y.

When Secretly Y'All began two years ago, the crowds were scant and tonight they were bursting the seams of the back room, many sitting on the floor or standing.

The storytellers after the intermission, unlike those beforehand, are chosen from a hat and anyone in the crowd can put their name in to share a themed story.

Tonight we got a couple of long-time regulars sharing.

Artist Chris Milk was the first name called tonight and he shuffled onstage to talk about his childhood, looking especially handsome in glasses I'd never seen him wear before.

His parents had split shortly after his birth ("I don't think it was my fault") and he recalled a childhood of sharing his time between two homes.

He got many laughs in talking about his brother's threats to him, eventually ending by exhorting the crowd to keep family close.

Best line: I've lived in Richmond most of my life, thank god!"

Colin, one of S.Y.'s organizers, got his name called next and he told a story called, "Daddy was a Baptist but He Didn't Have Balls."

The Daddy in question was that of his high school prom date who did not want his little girl dating, as he put it, someone with "awful white boy dreds."

But Daddy didn't tell Colin he couldn't take  his daughter to prom, Mom did, although Colin managed to talk her into letting him anyway.

Colin -1, Daddy - 0

There was a story called "When Jesus Came" about the storyteller and his sister walking into the woods to entertain themselves in the Ozarks.

When they returned, their mother was ironing and the kittens were missing.

I got the sense that bad things had happened to the kittens in their absence.

And then we came to the kind of story that defines why I go to Secretly Y'All.

"Coming to America" was told by an Hungarian immigrant in flawless English.

The young man told of his family's restless moves from Hungary to Germany (while his Mom was pregnant with him) to LA to Houston to Virginia to Florida and back to Virginia.

He spoke of his citizenship ceremony at age 17 and seeing other immigrants frantically studying for the test.

His gratitude to have ended up here ("where everything is possible') was palpable and I couldn't resist thanking him for sharing after the event ended.

Hearing a stranger's heartfelt story of how his life as an immigrant unfolded is something I'd never have experienced if not for Secretly Y'All.

Case closed.

I know that I will have a swinging good time when I hear the RVA Big Band.

After a walk around the block while S.Y. broke down and the 17-piece big band set up, we took our bottle of wine and set up camp in the back banquette.

Some people from S.Y. lingered and others arrived especially for the big band.

Amid too much shouting, the big band's leader asked, "Hey, you guys wanna hear music?" which I took to mean, "Be quiet."

They started with a Japanese composer, a perfect intro to an eclectic evening's music.

By the second song, a couple was dancing.

I saw a former Floyd Avenue neighbor looking very dapper in a white jacket and jeans, barely containing his urge to shake his groove thing.

Later he came back to join us sitting on top of the back of the banquette.

"I've had a dirty old man crush on the baritone sax player for years now," he joked.

It's true, it's tough to resist the tiniest woman playing the largest sax and the largest man playing the smallest sax.

We heard a composition by the alto sax player, a piece that showed the influences of the past 40 years that could be woven into the big band sound.

In this case, it sounded like psychedelic big band with a guitar solo that would have stopped a '70s prog-rocker in his tracks.

As many times as I've seen the RVA big band, never had they sounded together or better than tonight.

The drummer was new and stellar, but also, the drummer, keyboard player and guitarist were now situated on the far left of the brass instead of buried behind them and the sound difference was startling.

"You might want to grab someone you love for the next song," the bandleader told us. "This is 'My One and Only."

And while no one grabbed me, there were some couples dancing during the achingly beautiful love song.

The band did a kick-ass take on Steely Dan's "Aja," taking it in new and different directions that swung hard.

Although the crowd had dwindled by the end (it was a school night, after all), the band played no less enthusiastically for the smaller crowd than it had for the packed chatterers.

A musician friend had come tonight for the first time and I was eager to hear his take on the band.

"Didn't you see my reactions?" he asked, grinning goofily. I had and he'd been having a ball, I could tell. "They make me want to go home and start practicing so I can put my name on the list to play."

Translation: he thought they were as amazing as I did, only he knew what he was talking about.

And when all was said and done and we walked out into the crisp night air, I'd heard all kinds of stories from strangers that I had no business hearing.

But as long as they tell, I will go listen. And with any luck, stay and swing afterwards.

Absent Din

I have found my perfect Stella's time, which I didn't think was possible.

It is during meze ora. The time from 4-6:00 when there are a dozen $4 meze. When a carafe of wine is ten bucks.

And when the crowds are mercifully gone and the din is non-existent.

When the bartender came to take our drink order, I asked her to come back because my companion was busy texting his ex to let her know that he'd left a cat litter container on her back porch.

You know, because otherwise she might not have known what it was.

It got a good laugh from the bartender anyway.

We did a straight ahead assault on that meze menu, beginning with a carafe of Kourtaki Retsina (promised to us by our server as "not as syrupy" as other retsinas).

It had the requisite pine on the finish, providing the right Greek notes to go with our munchies.

Caprese elliniro ( roasted red pepper, feta, basil, EVOO), fresh fig compote/goat cheese crostini and loukaniko (grilled Greek sausage, orange peel, fennel and tzatziki) got us started.

The one other couple at the bar left and a group of three replaced them. Now we were five in the restaurant.

The bartender informed us that with their lighted Stella taps, they were the third biggest seller of Stella in the city.

We added in spanikopita, tiropita and prawns and skordalia (puree of garlic, potato and lemon) to finish us off.

A group of two came to the bar, and were joined by another couple looking for all the world like people who needed a drink.

Okay, I'm being kind. They looked annoying.

One guy asked if they had Hendrick's and when told yes, for a dry martini. The bartender suggested one of  their signature drinks.

She explained its ingredients to him and the man questioned the rosemary syrup in the drink. She assured him it was just something different.

With just a little bit of a leer, he looked at me saying, "I think I'm ready for something different."

But of course he wasn't and got his Hendrick's martini.

But at least I knew I'd been right about his type.

Look of entitlement? Check. Corny humor? Check. Ineffectual Lothario? Check.

Gradually over meze ora, which is wisely really two hours, people came in to claim reservations and, if they didn't have them, begin filling up the community table.

The bustle had begun. I knew within a short time, the place would be packed and the noise level as bad as a show at the Camel.

But it didn't matter. We'd had plenty to eat, taken our last quaff of pine and talked about which guy looked most like my type.

There were maybe twenty people in the restaurant when we took our leave around 6:30.

Too bad for them; they'd already missed the most pleasurable of all possible times at Stella's.

But to meze ora, I say a resounding, "Stin iyia mas."

Birthday Smackdown

For us, it was about birthdays, not holidays.

But for practically everyone else at Stella's for lunch today, it was all about the season.

The table next to us had a big bag of red and green Hershey's kisses on the table, which they ate between courses and after lunch.

Not far away sat a table of what looked like office mates with two women in red blouses (one satin) and two others with leopard scarves. Very festive.

The group next to us opened presents after eating, oohing and ahhing over gifts like year-round greeting card packs.

Fortunately, my friend and I were merely celebrating his birthday, like we do every year. I'd missed his birthday dinner due to prior plans last Saturday, a fact which he'd shared with the restaurant staff.

Because the place was packed when he'd arrived, he'd put his name on the list and we were seated after about 15 minutes of watching diners come in, hear the wait time and exit stage right.

There were a lot of big purse, big jewelry women, we noted.

He opened my birthday card, the basic store-bought kind, which I always desecrate by adding speech bubbles to make it dirtier or funnier. Inside, I just heap abuse for his amusement.

"You should get a job writing birthday cards," he laughed. "They'd sell really well."

Oh, I know.

I ordered pork souvlaki in pita but the best part of the meal was today's special side: lima bean salad.

Fully a third of my plates was mounded with an incredibly delicious mixture of limas, green onion tops, Feta and chopped greens in a lemon/olive oil dressing.

It was simple and absolutely perfect. I'd eat it again tomorrow.

The birthday boy told me about a recent foray to Tobacco Company for music and tried to convince me that it wasn't as awful as I presumed it had been.

"Light rock," he said dismissively. "I don't think it would have been your thing."

W reminisced about an Alley Katz show we'd seen together and when neither of us could recall when it had been, he used his Smartphone to look it up on my blog.

Because this is the 21st century and we don't have to use our stinkin' memories if we don't want to.

A couple of women sat down next to us as we were paying. I must have checked them out because my friend smiled, saying, "I know what you're thinking."

And I know him well enough to know that he did know.

"Don't worry, if you ever start turning into that, I'll smack you," he reassured me.

That's the kind of friend worth adulterating a birthday card for.

Did I Say That Out Loud?

The world's gone mad when I can arrive at the Camel at 8:45 and have missed the first band.

Part of the problem may have been making a stop at Stella's to meet a girlfriend for a quickie.

In a truly odd moment, as I was walking toward the front door, an SUV pulled up to turn around and the driver looked at me and said, "Karen!"

I have no earthly idea who he was and he proceeded to backed up and drove away.

Why does anything still surprise me?

It was a good thing we wanted to sit at the bar because every table was in use or reserved. Yes, every single one.

Stella, are you putting crack in the spanikopita or what?

Someone had drunk up all the rose, so I got the 2009 Boutari Moschoflero after inhaling its lovely floral nose and tasting its full bodied intensity.

I'm on a mission to build my Greek grape vocabulary, both literally and figuratively speaking.

It was so busy in there that my friend inadvertently gave two different food orders to two different servers while waiting for me to make up my mind.

It didn't matter.

As one server said, "Somebody else will want what you didn't and we'll just give it to them."

No doubt there are restaurants that would kill for that kind of crazy busy-ness.

I ordered a heartier-sounding meze, namely the lamb frites. Hearty doesn't begin to describe it.

A pile of thick-cut steak fries was smothered in sliced leg of lamb, tons of onion (both white and green), Feta and Manouri cheese.

It arrived in all its glory, looking like a $10 heart attack on a plate.

I'm not going to claim I ate it all but I will say there was no lamb or onions at all left when I pushed it away.

My friend insisted we get the chocolate hazelnut baklava for which I had limited capacity given my disdain for honey, which I find cloying. Two bites sufficed.

I'd warned my friend that I had limited time and a show to see and I was out of there in what I thought was plenty of time to drive the short distance.

Wrong.

I arrived to find that the three-band bill had expanded to four and that the first band, Snowy Owls, had already played.

Color me surprised...and disappointed.

Fortunately Marionette was up next and although their set was too short (chop, chop, four bands!), they played a new song and a strong set.

I've been a fan for years now and I appreciate the evolution of their sound from a six-piece to a four-piece with more emphasis on the band's impeccable instrumentation.

Lots of friends were there and there's still plenty of Wye Oak talk going around with attendees still savoring and non-attendees still kicking themselves.

I savored.

Next up was Brother William from Mechanicsville.

The big draw was Hotel Lights, a quintet fronted by the former drummer for Ben Folds Five, Darren Jessee,a fact that may have attracted some people.

I found myself attracted to their sound which never strayed far from something achingly sad yet beautiful, even when upbeat and rocking.

Let's just say haunting.

How can I rave about their sound? Let me count the ways.

The layers of synths, the post-punk electric guitar, the minimalist drumming, the rhythmic bass and always Darren's gentle voice.

"This song began at Patrick Henry's and moved on to Poe's," he told us, reminding the crowd of their Richmond connection.

By the time they'd finished creating an atmosphere that washed over the room, their set was over, but the crowd was having none of it.

Calling for one more, the band obliged with two and we were treated to a little more exquisite sadness that was all the more moving for knowing it was about to end.

As all Tuesday nights must end.

It's only those twenty five minutes I'll never get back.

Tag and Tuscan Kale

You can only play phone tag with me for so long before I give up. It's not like I want to talk on the phone in the first place.

So after literally weeks of leaving countless return messages but never actually speaking to him, I sent my restaurant-owner friend a FB message.

And don't you just know he shot back suggesting lunch. It was so easy online and such a pain using the phone.

What have we learned here?

Because of my reluctance to leave the city and the fact that he lives in the West End, we agreed to meet at Stella's.

Like so many restaurant owners, he rarely makes the time to check out new places, despite being wildly interested in seeing how they're doing.

He was blown away by how busy the place was while I expected that, having been there before.

Every time a table was vacated, replacements sat down within minutes.

The combination of the location, Stella herself and solid Greek food is apparently exactly what this town has been craving.

If not for the bar stools, there would have been no available seating once we took the last corner table.

Actually, I considered it a compliment to be seated there, since there are plenty of people who would not come close to fitting in that tucked away chair to which I was shown.

My friend likes to "be good" by eating a salad and then sharing a sandwich when we go out to lunch.

Fine by me; I had been wanting to try the salad with black Tuscan kale, kasseri cheese, sliced almonds, EVOO and fresh lemon juice dusted with kefalograviera (a sheep's milk cheese) and he got the Village, a more straightforward Greek salad.

Someone should have warned us to share a salad because the trough-sized bowl of black kale would have been daunting even if I hadn't had half a sandwich on its way.

But it was also a big hit; the slightly spicy leaves were enhanced with two kinds of cheese and I could just taste how good it was for me.

Now I can eat all kinds of bad things for dinner and still feel virtuous.

Our sandwich of chicken with prosciutto and Gorgonzola came with enough Greek potato salad for a small army.

I'd eaten so much of my uniquely flavored salad that I couldn't fully appreciate the sandwich, or maybe it just wasn't my thing, but my friend devoured his half despite doing much of the talking.

He was busy telling me about all his recent road trips (3,000 miles worth) and his ongoing search for another new restaurant spot.

It kind of makes me wonder, when will Richmond reach critical mass on restaurants?

Looking around Stella's at almost 2:00 on a weekday, I'd guess the answer would be no time soon.

Hello, Stella

Today proved that there's no better way to follow a lecture on Jews than with food from a Greek.

Robert Gillette was giving the Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society and his topic was, "The Virginia Plan: William Thalhimer and a Rescue from Nazi Germany."

For such a heavy topic, Gillette began with humor, remarking on the Byrd's recent  marquee touting their air conditioning.

"So if you came because we have air conditioning, that's fine," he joked. I didn't, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Gillette's book told the story of an agricultural training center for youth in Germany created during the 1930s.

When Hitler's rumblings began to scare people, the German Jews worried about their children's future and figured they'd have more success being accepted as immigrants elsewhere if they had marketable skills.

And few skills were as marketable as putting food on the table.

Thalhmer was on a buying trip in Europe when he first saw and heard the Brown Shirts and the experience scared him into coming home immediately.

As the national chairman for all refugee resettlement, he conceived of a farm for refugees in Virginia, with hopes that the idea would be replicated all over the US.

It eventually happened in Burkeville, Virginia with thirty German Jewish refugees working the farm.

The woman, especially, were thrilled with the greater responsibilities they were given on a farm in this country.

But all of the immigrants had a serious problem with Virginia's heat after Germany's temperate weather. Some things never change.

Gillette, a good speaker and a man clearly impressed with his subject, had the audience enthralled with the humanitarian contribution of the local department-store magnate.

Whatever else he may have accomplished, Gillette insisted that Thalhimer should go down in history for the difference one man can make.

Leaving by the front steps of the Historical Society, my friend came by and scooped me up so we could go to the new Stella's for lunch.

Us and half the city, that is. The charming space was mobbed when we arrived and it was going on 2:00.

Rather than wait for a table, we sat at the bar, only to flummox our handsome young bartender.

He got us water, but when I asked for a menu, he responded with, "A beer menu?"

No, I said, a food menu. We're starving, we explained with hungry grins.

"Well, you're at the bar and you look ready," he said, justifying his question. It was very sweet.

While we awaited menus, we admired the beautiful space. The pressed tin ceiling is one of the most striking I've ever seen.

I was thrilled to see a community table and terribly sorry I hadn't noticed it before we sat down.

Black and white photographs of the family sat on a  nearby shelf. Congratulatory bouquets of flowers were everywhere, making for a lush feel with so much flora.

The screening separating the front and back booths reminded me of the kind used in confessionals. If it wasn't intentional, it should have been.

There were so many delectable Greek choices on the menu and with Stella in the kitchen (she came out at one point, in all her tiny beauty, a colorful pastel scarf tied around her white hair), we knew we couldn't go wrong with any of it.

For our first visit, we began with the basics. I had a pork souvlaki pita (tomato, onion, lettuce, green pepper and tzatziki) with a Greek salad on the side.

They were already out of the Greek potato salad I'd hoped for (which our server had raved about when I asked him). My friend went with the lamb gyro with the fried potatoes on the side.

We didn't go wrong with any of it and with Stella-size portions, we were stuffed.

Of note was my side Greek salad which was head and shoulders above a typical side salad with huge hunks of the very best Feta, good olives and cherry tomato halves as sweet as candy.

I'm already looking forward to my next visit, but I've decided that it will be for Meze Ora from 4-6:00.

Daughter Katrina said that they'll be doing smaller versions of their meze for $3 and $4 with wine and beer specials, with any luck beginning next Monday.

She said it in that hopeful but harried (because they've only been open four days) way, but it's painted right on the mirror behind the bar, so eventually I feel sure it will come to be.

I can't imagine a better way to sample around Stella's menu. Chances are, 4-6 p.m. is going to end up as popular as 2:00 lunches.

The staff probably don't even want to think about brunch starting up in September, but that, too, is coming.

I want to be just as energetic as Stella when I'm her age.

I'm not into cooking like she is, but I'm sure I can find plenty of other things to do with that kind of energy.