As I stood in the lobby of the Virginia Historical Society's lobby waiting for my friend to arrive, a man came through ranting about how bright it was in the auditorium. "I need extra sunglasses!" he yelled disgustedly.
Okay, so it was brighter at today's Banner Lecture than usual, but that was because C-Span's Book Talk was recording the event. In fact, the president of the VHS even told us to be on our best behavior because of it. This crowd? I think you can count on them being good.
He also reminded us to turn off our cell phones so as not to be embarrassed on national TV and still, somehow, a phone went off mid-lecture. Really, people?
The topic was "Inventing George Washington: America's Founder in Myth and Memory" by Dr. Edward Lengel. He began by talking about how the young country was plunged into grief at the death of the great, white father.
In an effort to fill that loss, a mythology began to be created to keep Washington's spirit alive. One of the first and most mercenary was Parson Weems, who contacted a publisher suggesting that stories about GW were the way to go.
"Parson Weems saw the dollar bill in George Washington long before George Washington was on the dollar bill," Lengel observed. After much audience laughter, he acknowledged, "Thanks. I made that up myself."
Weems was apparently the first in a long line of people who tried to capitalize on GW, including P.T. Barnum. Lengel touched on GW's spirituality (not the devout Christian some have painted him as), possible pre-Martha loves like Sally Fairfax (the best ever colonial porn name), and the large number of missing papers from GW's extensive writings (Martha burned all their letters for privacy's sake).
Let's face it, even the tourism industry co-opted GW for profit (if the man had really slept everywhere it was claimed he had, he couldn't have spent a single night at war or at Mount Vernon).
And because we are a people who like to tear down what we build up, he discussed the post-World War I years when attempts to discredit the man were rampant. He swilled gin! He smoked cigars! He relaxed by smoking pot! He made passes at women! He blundered his way through the Revolutionary War!
After our history lesson, Friend and I went to Stronghill for lunch, which worked out well because he'd never been there. He loved the Art Nouveau feel of the place, admiring the langorously-figured mural and coveting the enormous chandelier.
With my sniffles continuing, I was all about some soup and they had a doozy on the menu today. It was a duck confit and black-eyed pea soup with carrots, onion and scallions. Yes, please.
The duck stock made for an incredibly rich broth which was full of duck, beans and veggies. I'm ashamed to say that I tore through it without ever offering my friend a taste, something he later pointed out.
I also had the wedge salad because it was a different variation than the classic bacon/bleu cheese. This had a decadent housemade Caesar dressing with Parmesan crostini on the side and was delicious, crispy and creamy at the same time.
I didn't taste my friend's roast beef sandwich with caramelized onions, fennel slaw and Monterey Jack cheese (despite being a huge fan of sandwiches with slaw on them) but I may have helped myself to a fry or seven (only because he offered, mind you).
We talked about the difficulty in deciding what to see this weekend given that there are two film festivals going on. He shared that a mutual friend is sleeping around on his wife, never what you want to hear about someone.
He's a bartender and told me about the large group of salesmen who had come in at 4:30 yesterday and not left till almost 11:00, talking business the whole time. Such dedication to career is no doubt made easier with the aid of a large bar tab (On the company? We'll guess yes).
When we finished, my friend was off to thrift, hoping to find a vanity stool for his honey with which to surprise her. Me, I was off to address these sniffles which must not come between me and my upcoming plans.
That may involve a nap, but not in a bed where GW slept. My historical curiosity extends only so far.
Showing posts with label stronghill dining company. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stronghill dining company. Show all posts
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
All American Southern Fried Italian
It was me, Jimmy, Billy and Skip against the suits.
And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.
When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.
I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).
There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.
At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.
There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.
After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.
Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.
My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.
But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.
Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.
The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.
It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.
After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.
"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.
It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.
The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.
Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.
I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.
And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?
The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.
"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."
As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.
While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"
I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.
And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.
When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.
I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).
There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.
At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.
There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.
After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.
Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.
My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.
But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.
Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.
The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.
It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.
After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.
"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.
It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.
The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.
Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.
I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.
And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?
The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.
"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."
As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.
While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"
I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.
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.
Friday, May 28, 2010
After a Month, There's a Lot to Tell
I put the period on my birthday sentence tonight with an evening of merriment at Stronghill Dining Co. They've got a great happy hour until 7:30 Mondays through Fridays and friend had never seen the place. That massive chandelier, the art deco mural, the hanging sculpture were all things that I knew would impress and they did. Impressing me was the bartender, who actually remembered me from four moths ago, here, and guiltily admitted that she'd still not been to the theater. I didn't judge.
I ran into a musician I hadn't seen in years who introduced me to his friends and tried to persuade me to join them at tonight's baseball game; one of the friends asked what it would take to get me to come along. Um, shackles? As they were preparing to leave, the musician asked me about my relationship status ("are you still seeing that guy?)" and when I answered in the negative, asked if he could call me. Sure, I said, just don't ask me out; he took my number anyway. No comment here.
Friend and I were weeks behind in life updates, so we each got a couple of glasses of Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola ($6 each at HH prices) and settled in to share details. As we got deeper into love lives and futures, it became clear that nibbles were in order (appetizers 25% off at the bar) so we asked for the wedge (iceberg wedge, applewood-smoked bacon, roasted Roma tomatoes, classic blue cheese dressing) and the lobster rolls ( poached lobster claw, sauteed baby spinach, nishiki rice wrapped in nori, flash-fried and served with sweet soy reduction and wasabi). We shared dishes while over sharing information; it was the perfect balance of both.
About the time we got to the "why do men do that?" portion of the evening, my friend suggested something birthday festive, which resulted in the Hillenger Secco (are you paying attention, Clement?), pretty and pink and the ideal birthday toaster.
The bartender informed us that birthday girls get the desert of their choice and I did the cliched thing and ordered the chocolate torte (with vanilla bean ice cream). Delivering it, the server laughingly admonished, "Appetizers may be shared, but not desserts." Oops, we were just trying to close out the 2010 birthday spectacular, a feat best done with a tell-all friend.
Afterwards, I dropped off my car and walked over to Gallery 5 for RVyAy!, an evening of bands and local vendors and artisans. Vinyl fans were in heaven with so many record sellers, but my turntable is long since dead, so I focused on buying a screen-printed bandanna for a friend and perusing and discussing show posters with a couple of local artists/music fans. I always enjoy comparing impressions of shows with others and these two guys had seen even more live music than me, or at least almost as much (I don't go to Phish or Widespread Panic shows, though, so I may have lost by default).
Mingling the night away, I heard about the upcoming season of the Richmond Symphony, a Memorial Day show I was told was a must-see and some comments on my Listening Room post. As I was about to leave, gallery owner Amanda asked me to name some of my favorite music to add to the gallery's repertoire. What, me share my music preferences?
Oh, okay, if you insist. But be warned: this is a subject on which I can go on and on.
I ran into a musician I hadn't seen in years who introduced me to his friends and tried to persuade me to join them at tonight's baseball game; one of the friends asked what it would take to get me to come along. Um, shackles? As they were preparing to leave, the musician asked me about my relationship status ("are you still seeing that guy?)" and when I answered in the negative, asked if he could call me. Sure, I said, just don't ask me out; he took my number anyway. No comment here.
Friend and I were weeks behind in life updates, so we each got a couple of glasses of Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola ($6 each at HH prices) and settled in to share details. As we got deeper into love lives and futures, it became clear that nibbles were in order (appetizers 25% off at the bar) so we asked for the wedge (iceberg wedge, applewood-smoked bacon, roasted Roma tomatoes, classic blue cheese dressing) and the lobster rolls ( poached lobster claw, sauteed baby spinach, nishiki rice wrapped in nori, flash-fried and served with sweet soy reduction and wasabi). We shared dishes while over sharing information; it was the perfect balance of both.
About the time we got to the "why do men do that?" portion of the evening, my friend suggested something birthday festive, which resulted in the Hillenger Secco (are you paying attention, Clement?), pretty and pink and the ideal birthday toaster.
The bartender informed us that birthday girls get the desert of their choice and I did the cliched thing and ordered the chocolate torte (with vanilla bean ice cream). Delivering it, the server laughingly admonished, "Appetizers may be shared, but not desserts." Oops, we were just trying to close out the 2010 birthday spectacular, a feat best done with a tell-all friend.
Afterwards, I dropped off my car and walked over to Gallery 5 for RVyAy!, an evening of bands and local vendors and artisans. Vinyl fans were in heaven with so many record sellers, but my turntable is long since dead, so I focused on buying a screen-printed bandanna for a friend and perusing and discussing show posters with a couple of local artists/music fans. I always enjoy comparing impressions of shows with others and these two guys had seen even more live music than me, or at least almost as much (I don't go to Phish or Widespread Panic shows, though, so I may have lost by default).
Mingling the night away, I heard about the upcoming season of the Richmond Symphony, a Memorial Day show I was told was a must-see and some comments on my Listening Room post. As I was about to leave, gallery owner Amanda asked me to name some of my favorite music to add to the gallery's repertoire. What, me share my music preferences?
Oh, okay, if you insist. But be warned: this is a subject on which I can go on and on.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Lunch Lessons
I'd never set foot in Stronghill Dining Co. in daylight which made the new mural all the more striking when my friend and I got there today.
Painted on the right-hand wall as you walk in, it's an art deco-looking thing of beauty and done by a local artist Brett Bacon.
Let's face it, Stronghill's decor has always been noteworthy with those two-tone booths and sculpture hanging from the ceiling, but the addition of the mural adds to the visual stimulation in the best possible way.
I'm fond of their dinner menu, so I had presumed that lunch would be equally as interesting and it was.
My friend ordered the Cobb salad, the difference being it had lobster rather than bacon.
That turned out to be fortunate for me because apparently she's not much of a lobster fan, so it ended up on my plate.
I'd gotten the shrimp cake sandwich which had a creamy avocado aoili and fried shallots on it and came with a side salad.
Although the buttered roll was over-sized for the shrimp cake, I wasn't complaining because of the savoriness of the combination; avocado and shrimp belong together, a fact of which I had not been aware prior to today's lunch.
The hot topic for today was dating, which must be in the air, because it had been the subject of choice with the friend I'd spent last evening with too.
Last night's friend had decided that the way to meet guys was to put an ad on Craig's List with a list of what she's looking for in a guy and offer to buy him a nice dinner.
Her thinking was that, at the very least, she'd get a good story out of it and, with any luck, meet someone interesting or at least friend material.
She wants me to help her write the ad, which I'm happy to do.
My lunch companion today has decided to go the online dating route, albeit with strict parameters for both age (three years younger or older) and geographical distance (no more than five miles form her house).
A city-dweller, she has no interest in dating anyone who lives in suburbia (one guy she had a date with years ago had a big box store being built practically in his backyard, causing her to ask, "Why would you ever buy a house here?"). He did not call her for a second date.
It's funny, all the interesting uninvolved women I know want to be dating and yet everyone agrees that they must be doing something wrong or they'd be getting asked out.
Or maybe in our post-modern society, opinionated women are just not a hot commodity, no matter what they look like.
Nah, that couldn't possibly be it.
Or, as a male friend recently told me, "Just admit it; you're cute."
Luckily, opinionated and cute are not mutually exclusive.
Painted on the right-hand wall as you walk in, it's an art deco-looking thing of beauty and done by a local artist Brett Bacon.
Let's face it, Stronghill's decor has always been noteworthy with those two-tone booths and sculpture hanging from the ceiling, but the addition of the mural adds to the visual stimulation in the best possible way.
I'm fond of their dinner menu, so I had presumed that lunch would be equally as interesting and it was.
My friend ordered the Cobb salad, the difference being it had lobster rather than bacon.
That turned out to be fortunate for me because apparently she's not much of a lobster fan, so it ended up on my plate.
I'd gotten the shrimp cake sandwich which had a creamy avocado aoili and fried shallots on it and came with a side salad.
Although the buttered roll was over-sized for the shrimp cake, I wasn't complaining because of the savoriness of the combination; avocado and shrimp belong together, a fact of which I had not been aware prior to today's lunch.
The hot topic for today was dating, which must be in the air, because it had been the subject of choice with the friend I'd spent last evening with too.
Last night's friend had decided that the way to meet guys was to put an ad on Craig's List with a list of what she's looking for in a guy and offer to buy him a nice dinner.
Her thinking was that, at the very least, she'd get a good story out of it and, with any luck, meet someone interesting or at least friend material.
She wants me to help her write the ad, which I'm happy to do.
My lunch companion today has decided to go the online dating route, albeit with strict parameters for both age (three years younger or older) and geographical distance (no more than five miles form her house).
A city-dweller, she has no interest in dating anyone who lives in suburbia (one guy she had a date with years ago had a big box store being built practically in his backyard, causing her to ask, "Why would you ever buy a house here?"). He did not call her for a second date.
It's funny, all the interesting uninvolved women I know want to be dating and yet everyone agrees that they must be doing something wrong or they'd be getting asked out.
Or maybe in our post-modern society, opinionated women are just not a hot commodity, no matter what they look like.
Nah, that couldn't possibly be it.
Or, as a male friend recently told me, "Just admit it; you're cute."
Luckily, opinionated and cute are not mutually exclusive.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Rx: Stronghill Dining Co.and Theater
When I was discharged from the hospital last night, it was with prescriptions for steroids, breathing treatments and antibiotics.
But what I really needed was a fattening dinner out and some culture to make up for missing that reading at VMFA last night.
Treating the physical is required, but treating the spirit is just as essential.
The evening began at Stronghill where I enjoyed the Wedge Salad with blue cheese and bacon, followed by coffee-braised short ribs over foccacia with apple-smoked Gouda sauce.
Particularly worthy of mention is that the foccacia was fried, so it was a thin, crispy crust around a soft almost potato-like interior about two inches thick.
While it was like no foccacia I've ever had (btw, one of my absolute favorite breads), it was divine.
During their 5:30-7:30 happy hour, all wines under $9 a glass are a flat $5, so I went Sicilian with the Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola and later, the chocolate mousse.
I told the bartender I had theater plans and she presumed I meant the Bowtie Cinema, so I explained that I was on my way to Pine Camp to see Henley Street Theater Company do A Servant of Two Masters (and for preview night, so it was only ten bucks!), which led to discussion of how she loves theater and never makes the time for it.
Her best friend is a director and playwright; she had all kinds of theater friends who nag her about not attending and still she doesn't go. But she misses seeing live theater.
We talked about the upcoming run of Wicked, which I'd seen three years ago in Baltimore and she'd never seen, how she's never been to Agecroft for Richmond Shakespeare Company, how the last thing she saw was at Theater VCU, so at least there was that.
We discussed Tom Stoppard, for goodness' sake!
I might have given her a bit of crap about her laziness in not doing something she clearly loves, resulting in her finally saying, "When I get home I'm, going to call my girlfriend and insist we see a play soon. And then she's going to give me shit for listening to a convincing stranger and not her all these years."
A server interjected with, "Sometimes you need to hear it from the outside to actually pay attention."
But she did thank me for the theater pep talk.
I also got into an enthusiastic discussion of Honeybells with another server, but unless you've had one, there's no describing them, so we'll just end that there.
Let's just say we shared the same opinion.
A Servant of Two Masters was written in the eighteenth century by Italian Carlo Goldoni, but the themes of a character evolving, hunger for love (and food) and the differences in generations are timeless.
It's a commedia dell' arte, partly scripted and partly improvised and has lots of physical humor, including breaking wind, breast-ogling, spanking and good old slapstick.
Despite being 300+ years old, the play's language has been adapted and should not put off those uncomfortable with the likes of Shakespearean verse. It's nothing like that. Don't believe me?
Love is our sickness and men the only medicine.
The patient is ready to be given her medicine.
Love makes one do remarkable things.
Everyone else is getting a happy ending. (followed by the servant's saddest face).
Not too tough, huh?
So much of the dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny and the clearly defined characters in their magnificent costumes are each delightful in their own way.
The main character, the servant Truffaldino (played by Richard Koch), with his malleable face, quick quips and physical agility, is hard to take your eyes off of.
A night of hilarity was just what the doctor ordered, my internal doctor that is.
The theme of hunger for food and love didn't hurt its appeal any, either.
I'd have to say that it was ten dollars well spent, so, if like the bartender at Stronghill, you're overdue for some theater, you could do a lot worse and spend a lot more than this rollicking good time.
And it's so satisfying to see everyone end up with their true love.
But what I really needed was a fattening dinner out and some culture to make up for missing that reading at VMFA last night.
Treating the physical is required, but treating the spirit is just as essential.
The evening began at Stronghill where I enjoyed the Wedge Salad with blue cheese and bacon, followed by coffee-braised short ribs over foccacia with apple-smoked Gouda sauce.
Particularly worthy of mention is that the foccacia was fried, so it was a thin, crispy crust around a soft almost potato-like interior about two inches thick.
While it was like no foccacia I've ever had (btw, one of my absolute favorite breads), it was divine.
During their 5:30-7:30 happy hour, all wines under $9 a glass are a flat $5, so I went Sicilian with the Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola and later, the chocolate mousse.
I told the bartender I had theater plans and she presumed I meant the Bowtie Cinema, so I explained that I was on my way to Pine Camp to see Henley Street Theater Company do A Servant of Two Masters (and for preview night, so it was only ten bucks!), which led to discussion of how she loves theater and never makes the time for it.
Her best friend is a director and playwright; she had all kinds of theater friends who nag her about not attending and still she doesn't go. But she misses seeing live theater.
We talked about the upcoming run of Wicked, which I'd seen three years ago in Baltimore and she'd never seen, how she's never been to Agecroft for Richmond Shakespeare Company, how the last thing she saw was at Theater VCU, so at least there was that.
We discussed Tom Stoppard, for goodness' sake!
I might have given her a bit of crap about her laziness in not doing something she clearly loves, resulting in her finally saying, "When I get home I'm, going to call my girlfriend and insist we see a play soon. And then she's going to give me shit for listening to a convincing stranger and not her all these years."
A server interjected with, "Sometimes you need to hear it from the outside to actually pay attention."
But she did thank me for the theater pep talk.
I also got into an enthusiastic discussion of Honeybells with another server, but unless you've had one, there's no describing them, so we'll just end that there.
Let's just say we shared the same opinion.
A Servant of Two Masters was written in the eighteenth century by Italian Carlo Goldoni, but the themes of a character evolving, hunger for love (and food) and the differences in generations are timeless.
It's a commedia dell' arte, partly scripted and partly improvised and has lots of physical humor, including breaking wind, breast-ogling, spanking and good old slapstick.
Despite being 300+ years old, the play's language has been adapted and should not put off those uncomfortable with the likes of Shakespearean verse. It's nothing like that. Don't believe me?
Love is our sickness and men the only medicine.
The patient is ready to be given her medicine.
Love makes one do remarkable things.
Everyone else is getting a happy ending. (followed by the servant's saddest face).
Not too tough, huh?
So much of the dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny and the clearly defined characters in their magnificent costumes are each delightful in their own way.
The main character, the servant Truffaldino (played by Richard Koch), with his malleable face, quick quips and physical agility, is hard to take your eyes off of.
A night of hilarity was just what the doctor ordered, my internal doctor that is.
The theme of hunger for food and love didn't hurt its appeal any, either.
I'd have to say that it was ten dollars well spent, so, if like the bartender at Stronghill, you're overdue for some theater, you could do a lot worse and spend a lot more than this rollicking good time.
And it's so satisfying to see everyone end up with their true love.
Monday, October 12, 2009
It's Just Singing
Imagine watching an effeminate 6'4" man with a paunch warble one of the most embarrassing, whiney-ass songs of the '70s: Anne Murray's "I Needed You."
It was a really bad song when she sang it then and it hasn't aged well three decades later sitting in the smoke-filled environs of Penny Lane for karaoke.
Oh, sure, I understand that a big part of the entertainment value of karaoke is the people who sing badly, but I have to say, it's more the pathetically embarrassing song choices (really, Journey? Again?).
Fortunately for me, the friend who took me there has a great voice and chose to sing songs that were post-grunge, so I could at least look forward to him taking the stage.
My vocally talented friend had extended an invitation to take me to dinner first, so I chose Stronghill Dinning Company since I'd not been there in months.
The timing was perfect, because they're in between their summer and fall menus, so there were menu choices representing both seasons on it. I went with the Wedge with gobs of both blue cheese and bacon, and the Stronghill Sushi, quite good with poached lobster at its center. My friend got his strength up with the Stronghill Sampler (stuffed Roma tomatoes, fried goat cheese and cashew fried shrimp) and followed that with the duck. He's not the type to rave about food ("It's just food," he claims) but he ate everything, is all I'm saying.
The karaoke crowd clearly contained a whole lot of regulars, many of whom had "their" songs; it was duly noted when someone had the audacity to sing someone else's song.
I don't sing, so me getting up there wasn't ever an option.
Which is not to say that I don't have a whole lot of respect for those who do...especially those who can actually sing well, like my musical friend.
Ah, talent; must be a lovely thing to possess.
It was a really bad song when she sang it then and it hasn't aged well three decades later sitting in the smoke-filled environs of Penny Lane for karaoke.
Oh, sure, I understand that a big part of the entertainment value of karaoke is the people who sing badly, but I have to say, it's more the pathetically embarrassing song choices (really, Journey? Again?).
Fortunately for me, the friend who took me there has a great voice and chose to sing songs that were post-grunge, so I could at least look forward to him taking the stage.
My vocally talented friend had extended an invitation to take me to dinner first, so I chose Stronghill Dinning Company since I'd not been there in months.
The timing was perfect, because they're in between their summer and fall menus, so there were menu choices representing both seasons on it. I went with the Wedge with gobs of both blue cheese and bacon, and the Stronghill Sushi, quite good with poached lobster at its center. My friend got his strength up with the Stronghill Sampler (stuffed Roma tomatoes, fried goat cheese and cashew fried shrimp) and followed that with the duck. He's not the type to rave about food ("It's just food," he claims) but he ate everything, is all I'm saying.
The karaoke crowd clearly contained a whole lot of regulars, many of whom had "their" songs; it was duly noted when someone had the audacity to sing someone else's song.
I don't sing, so me getting up there wasn't ever an option.
Which is not to say that I don't have a whole lot of respect for those who do...especially those who can actually sing well, like my musical friend.
Ah, talent; must be a lovely thing to possess.
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