Goomah-ya

Sometimes a week gets off to a slow start and all my looking for something to do yields nada.

Fortuitously, there are always the old Monday standbys, Stuzzi and RVA Big Band.

Because they're so reliably there to kick off the week, Monday in and Monday out, it's easy to take them for granted, like a dogged but annoying always freind when you're bored.

But after spending indiscriminately all weekend, there's a lot of appeal to a $2 margarita pizza.

Another thrifty type and I arrived late in the game to find only two seats free at the bar and Katherine Hepburn in "Summertime" playing on the screens.

The scenes of Venice in 1955 were fascinating, with far fewer tourists and far fewer signs of modernity.

Once our pizzas were ordered, we fell into conversation with a nearby man, who'd apparently had enough wine to open up about his love life.

He told us about the three women he's currently seeing, explaining that each one fulfilled a different need in him.

Specifically, he mentioned how important sexual chemistry was and why it sometimes necessitates a partner just for that.

"She's like a goomah," one of the three Italians said, with another chiming in, "Like a mistress."

I said it sounded like a booty call to me, someone you just wanted to have sex with.

Suddenly the woman sitting behind us, who'd introduced us to her Italian boyfriend earlier, spun around in her stool, grinning.

"It sounds like an ex-girlfriend," she said, making the international symbol for texting.

All at once is was a free-for-all on the laws of attraction and mating in general, especially at middle age.

The woman told us how in high school, she lived with her Dad, with him on the third floor and her on the first.

"That way, I couldn't ask him who's car was parked in front of the house because I really didn't want to know," she confessed.

That must have made for some enlightening teen years.

Pizza and wine gone, we wanted a sweet finish to the meal, ordering the Italian doughnuts, excuse me, zeppole with Nutella/mascarpone.

The cinnamon sugar on the outside gave way to a dense interior, a bit heavier than it probably should have been, but still quite tasty.

One by one the others got going, the one couple inciting jealousy in the rest of us when they said they were leaving for five weeks in Italy tomorrow.

Sigh.

Five weeks! She looked positively giddy at the prospect, while for him, it was just going home to Mama in Piedmonte.

We left soon after to go to Balliceaux and hear the RVA Big Band for the first time in ages.

They were swinging hard when we walked in and found seats on the back banquette with a clear view of the 17 musicians.

The beauty of the RVA Big Band is simple moments, like when the drummer takes off on an extended solo, giving the bass player time to grab his PBR and take a couple of long pulls on it before anything further is expected of him.

We were late, so their set ended not long after, giving me time to say hello to some of my favorite people, friends I hadn't expected to see there tonight.

One was celebrating her birthday, happily loopy and looking radiant in a long, blue dress.

Her best line: "Yea, but I'm a lazy hippie."

Yea, but aren't we all?

When one of the trumpet players came down to talk to the couple next to me, I couldn't help but overhear him tell them about how the band practices.

"There's not exactly practice," he admitted. "We get a list of the music we're going to play the day before and that's how we know what to practice."

The couple looked surprised and I felt the same, although I have to assume that at a certain level of musicianship, if you all know your parts, it's bound to come together.

And it did so most sublimely on Johnny Mercer's "Skylark," a song that had me imagining a man smoking at a window, looking out on the nighttime urban skyline and thinking of a woman.

Since I didn't recognize it, I turned to the guy sitting next to me (because he looked like a musician) and asked what it was.

He not only told me the name and composer, but that its lyrics reflected Mercer's longing for Judy Garland, with whom he'd had an affair.

So here we were back to unavoidable sexual chemistry and longing for a woman you can't have.

Just another reliably good Monday night in the city.

Swinging in the Rain

Never let it be said that rain keeps me at home.

Or anything else for that matter.

The soggy night began at Stuzzi with a seat at the bar in front of the pizza oven.

Playing on the nearby screen was "Marriage, Italian Style," and as much as I hate screens in restaurants, watching the magnificent Sophia Loren and the handsome Marcello Mastroianni romp through '60s-era Italy was surprisingly appealing.

The plan was to have a glass of Chianti and a margherita pizza and be done with it.

But things seldom work out the way you expect them to and my fellow pizza lover and I ended up with pasta fagioli, especially satisfying for the prosciutto and mussels.

I had to admit, I was also curious about the Steven Spielberg Zoone, a spicy Asian-based sauce (I know, right?) served over fried calamari.

After a taste, I could see why the director had ordered it delivered to him so many times while he was filming in Richmond.

The owner came over to check if we were putting grated Parmesan on our pizza (we had) and to remind us that that wasn't the Neapolitan way.

I felt no shame since I have not a drop of Italian blood, but he laughed and admitted to doing the same.

"Don't worry, my father puts cheese on his linguine and clam sauce," he said, eyebrows raised in horror. "They shoot you for that in Italy."

Seems a little harsh.

Next we tried what he called cheese triangles, but what were really Mozzarella in Carrozza, little grilled sandwiches of Mozzarella, prosciutto and basil and tasty on their own or with a touch of Spielberg's sauce on them.

So much for sticking to a simple little supper of pizza and grape.

Next up was my first Limoncello cream, which seemed more like a dessert with its sweet creaminess than a digestivo like regular Limoncello, but I managed to down it nonetheless.

That didn't prevent having dessert, something the chalkboard called "strawberry tiramisu in a glass."

It was sort of a deconstructed tiramisu with Grappa-soaked ladyfingers and strawberry cream with whipped cream on top.

Surprisingly, the Grappa was an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the strawberries, and obscenely alcoholic.

Note to self: refrain from over-indulging while watching a gorgeous 30-year old physical specimen like Sophia Loren while gorging to avoid self-flagellation.

So, yes, I was in a food coma by the time I got to Balliceaux.

The 17-piece RVA Big Band, with two members in knit caps and on in a trucker cap, was still getting situated when we slid into a booth.

"Thanks for bearing the rain," the bandleader said in greeting. "You're a small but mighty audience."

And we were, all eighteen of us, but the number grew as they began to play.

The usual cadre of young girls in sexy dresses was notably absent tonight, no doubt unwilling to risk their cute shoes or straightened hair, even for the sake of swinging music.

The first set was dedicated to more classic stuff, pieces like "My One and Only Love," while the second set jumped forward in time and momentum.

I suspected as much when, after the break, the bass player benched his upright and strapped on his electric bass, the better to make contorted bass player faces.

If you've ever paid attention to bass players, you know the ones I'm talking about.

It was during that set that the keyboard player and drummer got a workout, to songs like Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne."

Before we knew it, the bandleader announced the last song, "so we can all get out of here."

Which wasn't really necessary because it was pouring even harder by that point.

Truth is, the small and mighty among us could have sat there indefinitely had they been willing to play on.

But never let it be said that the rain keeps me from leaving, either.

No weather wimp here.

Keep Calm and Carry On

There can never be too many things to do on a Monday night.

So when I discover at 5:00 that there's an interesting-sounding show at 6:00, I do what any red-blooded music lover would.

I looked up their Bandcamp page and listened online.

And then headed down to Globehopper for Brooklyn's The Sky Captains of Industry.

And you know what we got? Crosby, Stills and Nash for the 21st century.

Three stellar voices, two guitars and a bass, drop-dead harmonies and some of the funniest, most literate lyrics sung around here lately.

The songs I'd heard online had been a full band, but honestly, I liked their drum-less versions even better.

In addition to the band's repertoire, we also heard some solo work by the guys, including Jasper's "High Strung Poets," a song that made me wish I knew one.

"Dog Eat Dog," with its memorable lyric, "They got dog eat dog kind of faces" got our attention while the scant crowd carried on.

And by that, I mean there was one girl on a laptop, one on her phone pretending to study and one who alternated between his phone and his laptop.

I was embarrassed for Richmond.

It's hard to convey the innate pleasure of "Love Shark," but maybe the lyrics will help: "Love shark, I still feel your bite, It keeps me up at night."

Their beautifully (and different) melodious voices were shown to advantage on "Atomic Red," before bass player Don played guitar and did his song "Out Like a Lamb" with its memorable "Could been worse, Coulda been struck in a tree."

"This is our only song about alchemy," guitarist E.W, said about the song "Alchemist," singing, "Please turn my lead heart to gold."

Yes, all the lead hearts should be turned to gold and it would be a better world, wouldn't it?

Guitarist Jasper did another song so like Darden Smith as to give me flashbacks to 1992.

The trio had such great chemistry on top of their musical chops that I kept wishing the place was packed.

Fortunately, a few more people straggled in over the course of their set, but the place should have been packed throughout.

One guy who did stop by was Justin with whom they claimed they'd played in various permutations.

He hugged E.W. before bassist Don teased, "I don't get a hug? I wore my cardigan for you!"

And he had (very dashingly) and it was over a black t-shirt saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On."

Them's words to live by.

As the evening progressed, just as I thought I'd decided which voice was my favorite or which musician's playing got my ear, they'd do another song and someone else would sing and my favorite would change.

Jasper and E.W. did "99-Cent Dream," a song about not having a job, a car or a girl with Justin singing background vocals.

Let's just say the lyrics involved looking for a job sweeping sand off the beach.

Someone near me indicated a desire to get that job, too.

"Rocket City" was the purest form of bubblegum pop, foreshadowing the high-pitched "Crocodile Rock"-like "la, la, la, la, la, las" that inevitably came.

It was so satisfying when they did come that I almost wanted a cigarette.

Their last song got off to a memorable start when guitarist Jasper assumed a caballero-like pose against the nearby wall and bassist Don took on vocals.

Jasper's pose allowed him to look soulful while soloing against the wall.

"Come on, climb aboard, We're headed to the stars."

It was beautiful. Their voices would have knocked the socks off any number of folky singers I know in RVA.

I only hope they come back so more people hear about the show in time to check out their layered voices, fine musicianship and clever songwriting.

Or if they want to come back and play another practically private show for me, I'm okay with that, too.

It just seems like a waste given how much people I know would like these guys.

That said, it was all over by 8:00, so we moved across town to Stuzzi for $2 pizza night.

There is no better deal in town than that true Neapolitan-style pizza baked in 90 seconds.

Washed down with Montepulciano and the owner's opinions on the NYC and RVA dining scenes, it was just right after wine and folk at a coffee shop.

Dessert was zuppa Inglaise, with rum-soaked cake and enough cream to make up for the absence of chocolate.

To bookend the evening, we left Stuzzi for Balliceaux and the RVA Big Band's weekly gig.

Surprisingly, when we arrived only 14 of the 17 musicians were playing.

Sure, they sounded good, but what was up?

Before long, the tiny woman who plays baritone sax showed up and took her place at the end of the front row of saxes.

Before long, a familiar face sauntered in and the bandleader announced, "Bryan Hooten has arrived."

The trombonist took a seat in the second row, found his place and eventually added his well-honed chops to the mix.

It was a good crowd tonight, maybe four dozen at its peak, but a lot of enthusiasm and attention from the crowd.

At one point, the guy next to me and I struck up a chat and he turned out to be a singer for Virginia Opera, in town for a performance.

We agreed that we were hearing some swingin' music tonight, albeit from the back banquette.

But with sixteen instruments playing (they remained guitar-less all night), there's a lot of sound washing over you and that's what we were there for.

But then, I'd climbed aboard and headed to the stars hours earlier.

You're knocking my socks off here, Monday. Keep it up.

Existential Dread Done Right

With classical music, it's important to set the tone.

So you can imagine my surprise upon walking into UR's Camp Concert Hall for a lecture on composer Philip Glass to hear Michael Jackson blaring from the speakers.

Don't stop till you get enough. Don't worry, I won't.

And if I was a tad surprised, I imagine the largely blue-hair audience was, too.

On the other hand, I was thrilled that UR is doing a Philip Glass festival that will include the man himself coming here.

Here.

Two members of eighth blackbird, UR's ensemble-in-residence, introduced the film, each saying as little as possible.

Minimalists musicians apparently are also minimalist talkers.

"Glass: A Portrait of Philip in 12 Parts" begins with Glass' annual tradition of riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.

I have to think that that's a 75-year old man worth knowing more about.

The filmmaker followed Glass for over a year as he wrote a symphony, premiered an opera,  and scored a few films (we heard from Woody Allen and Martin Scorcese).

Hilariously, at one point Glass' phone rings and he glances at the caller ID. "Oh, it's Hollywood," he says, ignoring the call.

Not surprisingly, a man so talented is a challenge to live with and by the time the movie starts he is on his fourth wife.

"And then I came along," Holly Glass says of her arrival in his life after his having been "sad for years" over the death of his previous wife and soul mate.

Imagine how brave a woman would have to be to try marriage with a thrice-married man.

She's funny about his idiosyncrasies ("Philip keeps everything. He's kind of a hoarder") but also accepting of those realities ("I hope we never have a fire in this house").

After having seen paintings of Glass done by artist Chuck Close at the VMFA a couple of years ago and seeing Close speak at the museum, I got a kick out of seeing Close and Glass reminisce in this film.

They talked about NYC's amazing art scene back in the '60s and '70s, back when Glass was still playing house shows.

WTF?

I could barely wrap my head around the idea of seeing Glass play one of his minimalist compositions in someone's living room, but photographs proved it was so.

"Everyone was high, the audience and the musicians," we were told.

But so what?

At a performance in a park, a man came up and started banging on Glass' piano as he played, shouting "Stop, this is not music!"

The guy doing pianus interuptus was none other than a music teacher offended by the new sounds.

Not that Glass cared (actually he was amused). In fact he even told the camera that if people didn't like his music, they could listen to something else.

He said it cheerfully and sounding quite truthful.

And he never stopped doubting that his muse would arrive. "As you get older, you get confident it will come. But it doesn't come if you're not there waiting for it," he warned.

But he made it clear he did not want his muse arriving at night and interrupting his sleep.

The director of the film "The Thin Blue Line" nailed it when he said, "Philip does existential dread better than anyone."

Is there a higher post-modern compliment?

He had his own praise for one of his music teachers. "She took me from being a Julliard graduate to a composer."

I have no doubt it was her greatest accomplishment.

The documentary was fascinating as a look at a driven and talented man still vibrant at 70+ by a filmmaker with almost unlimited access to him and those close to him.

Sometimes even uncomfortably so, like when his wife teared up admitting how hard it was to put up with his absolute devotion to music and the different directions their lives were taking.

Not surprisingly, in the ladies' room after the film, I heard three women discussing whether or not he'd divorced wife #4 since the film was made.

"I'm going to Google it as soon as I get out of this bathroom," one woman said with determination.

Inquiring minds want to know.

And still looking quite good for an old guy, too, not all that different from the Close paintings done in 1969 when he was in college.

He admits that he has "a lot of music left in me, so I better take care of myself," but unlike a lot of men his age, he actually does it.

And even after seeing him being mortal, making pizza and playing with his toddlers, I had to acknowledge he wasn't like most of us.

"Music doesn't have to be imagined," he explained. "It just has to be written down. I just listen."

Wow. So it's all in there and he's just the vehicle.

As far as I was concerned, the only problem with the film was that Glass is a mumbler and at times it was difficult to decipher his words.

One couple walked out after the first five minutes and the couple in front of us kept asking each other, "What did he say?"

By the time it was over, I had a whole new appreciation for Glass and any woman brave enough to take him on.

Full of Glass love, we then faced the dilemma of where to eat on a Sunday early evening.

We ended up at Stuzzi where the a/c was inappropriately cold (necessitating seats near the pizza oven) and  where a football-watching group was just breaking up.

Given that factor and today's cooler weather, I betrayed summer and jumped ship for red wine, enjoying a Sangiovese's warming qualities.

We combined courses with a roasted mushroom, soprasetta salami and arugula pizza, downing the greens first.

I'm not a fan of red sauce, but occasionally I dip my toe in that pond and Stuzzi's red sauce of San Marzano tomatoes did the job tonight.

As we ate, a guy left his date alone at their table to come to the bar and ask that the Redskins game be put on.

My date and I discussed how that might have felt to his date, or whether she even cared.

Not that it was any of our business.

But after two hours of watching unlimited access to Philip Glass, I was still in full-on nosy mode.

And as far as relationships go, just as curious as the women in the bathroom about Glass' current marital status.

Although there's no way this existentialist could end up wanting to marry a four-time married man.

Seriously. No matter how much music is in him.

Not Naming Names

In some cases, you have to reach back 18 or 20 years to get to where it all began.

This Monday night began at Stuzzi for dollar margarita pizzas and wine. Italian music was blaring and a guy was saying how he liked teen-aged legs on grown women's bodies. We didn't linger because bar space is precious real estate on Monday nights.

Instead, we headed to Garnett's for dessert, scarfing down buttermilk pie and a cake of two chocolate layers and one red velvet layer, all with coffee icing. No, I don't drink coffee but yes, I can enjoy some coffee icing.

Best of all, it wasn't a butter cream frosting but the not very sweet butter/shortening-based one that I grew up on. Back then it was called Pat's Icing after my mother, or so we thought, but I eventually came to realize that she didn't have a patent on that recipe.

Childhood notions die hard.

The night concluded at Strange Matter for the Cardinal show. The crowd was small but I counted several friends already in place when I arrived.

Locals Palindrone, a band I hadn't seen before, were already playing in front of the stage and I recognized two of the band members from Antlers. Antlers has the dubious distinction of being one of my early Silent Music Revival show bands, back when the event was still held at Rumors Boutique. It's such a small store and Antlers is so loud that once the store filled up, dozens of people stood on the sidewalk and listened from out there.

Unlike those of us inside, they probably didn't leave with ringing ears.

Palindrone wasn't as loud and the focus here was on a psychedelic sound with high vocals and interesting tribal-like drumming. D.C.'s Kuschty Rye Ergot were next and I was surprised when the guy who'd been standing near me during the first set turned out to be guitarist John Stanton.

I'd heard he played in all kinds of collectives and solo projects but tonight it was just him and a drummer. There were no vocals, the better to get lost in the psych rock of their interplay. The drummer had an enormous bass drum, all kinds of percussion and, most impressive of all, a gong.

Be honest. When's the last time you heard gong on a Monday night in Richmond? Besides, I loved watching The Diamond Center's guitarist Kyle studying this guy's intricate and slow-building guitar sound.

The big excitement, despite too small a crowd, was Cardinal, a six-piece led by Australian Richard Davies. Nothing major there, but you need to know that the band released their debut album, which was critically acclaimed, in 1994.

Yes, back in the days of grunge, they released an album of lush pop gems.

I didn't know their music in those days but I can only imagine how amazing it must have been to hear strings and brass on an indie record back then. And lo and behold, this year, 2012, they released their second album.

The way I see it, you take as long as you need to pick up the pieces and recreate the magic. For some, that's eighteen years. I won't name names, but I know of others who took twenty.

Cardinal makes chamber pop, symphonic pop, perfectly arranged and the kind of music that owes a debt to the Beatles and other '60s groups. After explaining that Americans should raise the age to drive and lower the age to drink, Davies sang the gorgeous "Love Like Rain," from the new album "Hymns."

He introduced the band and showed his Welsh upbringing with the comment, "The bloke with the headphones is Malcolm." His humor came through when he said, "If there's any songwriters out there, I'll give you a little tip. Capo on the third fret. It changes everything."

Making fun of their long-awaited second record, he jovially said, "We're going to do a song that's eighteen years old!" Which was just what devotees wanted to hear.

They did one song as a folk song ("This could be disastrous," Davies shrugged) but with symphonic accompaniment. It was magnificent, foreshadowing everything from Fanfarlo to the Decemberists.

"It's Monday night and it's time to go to bed," Davies announced before their last song. "This is a song based on Creedence Clearwater Revival."

You don't hear that everyday. Hell, I've never heard a band say that.

After an all-too-brief set with no encore, friends gathered around to discuss having seen this rare appearance of a band who provided the missing link between the Beatles and Belle and Sebastion. The consensus was that their sound fell somewhere between the Go-Betweens and Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians.

One girl said their musical references made her swoon. Another said, "Any band that references the Bee Gees and CCR, I had to experience."

Anything that starts out well, takes a long break and is able to pick up even stronger nearly two decades later, I have to experience.

Like Cardinal's music, we call that a perfect arrangement.

In the Eye of the Beholder

The art was all about the breakup.

The meal was all about the date.

The music was all about the girl getting it.

I got the ball rolling at an empty Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and a Todd S. Hale art show.

There were two distinct groups, the colorful one of acrylics with oil or enamel on wood  panels and the black and white one of charcoal on paper.

The first group were larger and abstract with occasional recognizable features like leaves, bones and drips. There was a certain exuberance to them.

But it was the other six pieces, the charcoals, that really captured me.

The series, called "The Vegetable Mind," began with a feathery branch-looking image, morphing into something fuller and multi-branched.

By the fourth one, it was starting to look head-like. The fifth looked like a guy violently shaking his head, with hair flying everywhere.

In the last was a dark head portrait of a guy with the saddest eyes and mouth.

A server saw me studying them and we got to talking about the series. She said that the artist had said that he had been going through the aftermath of a breakup when he'd done them.

Now I got in. Well, I didn't just get it, I felt his pain.

It was right there for all to see, much like a lot of my writing for several years. Plain as the noses on our faces.

That information led to a discussion with her of art history in general.

It's her major and my degree, so we'd found kindred souls to geek out with about all things art.

And, believe me, that doesn't happen very often.

Let's just say I don't often find someone who wants to discuss German expressionism, so when I do, I'm all over it.

All of a sudden I looked up and realized that I'd promised to be somewhere and I wasn't there.

Somebody was in the mood for pizza, so we made the trek to Stuzzi and found stools at the bar.

Next to us were a couple on a date and she was especially eager to chat us up.

Frankly, she was offering up way more information than I wanted to hear, but there was a once-trapped, now free air to her and she was ready to over-share.

In a nutshell: married at nineteen, three sons in short order, years of boredom and decades later, escapee.

She mentioned that in one of her son's high school yearbooks, a friend of his had admitted that he wanted to have sex with her.

Her son also showed up at Stuzzi shortly thereafter. You know, because everyone wants their 27-year old son on their date.

It's times like that when a person appreciates that a margherita pizza only takes 90 seconds to arrive.

Not that she didn't try to restart the conversation again, but with wine and food now, we at least had an out.

We finished with a Nutella and banana-stuffed calzone as big as my head and oozing sweetly dark creaminess.

My favorite part of everything she was over-sharing came when she looked at me and said, "You're smarter than I am."

I can only hope. And a lot more discreet, too.

Balliceaux called to us next for the RVA Big Band, a seventeen-piece that half-filled the room with its sheer size.

It was my first time seeing this new project, sort of a Devil's Workshop for the new decade.

I recognized several familiar faces in the band (including two favorites, Jason Scott and Marcus Tenney) and even more in the crowd.

The music ranged from newer to classic selections and their rendition of "Back to the Apple" by Count Basie closed out the first set with a swing that could make a person's hips move involuntarily.

It was dance music, pure and simple. Hips should move.

They had a girl on baritone sax and the big, deep solos coming out of her slender form elicited comments like, "Get it, girl!" from fellow musicians and audience members.

During the break, I spoke to a couple of jazz lovers, a student of jazz studies who was playing in the band along with the pros and a music-loving friend who was as impressed with a Monday night show as I was.

I'm thrilled that they're trying it out as a weekly series since it's often tough to find live music on a Monday.

When we finally decided to leave, it was mainly because I'd been up since the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., something I never do and am not very good at.

Looking back at the evening, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

I don't have that sad broken-up look that Hale's art did, I didn't waste decades in a suffocating marriage, and a guy told me I had the legs of a sixteen-year old.

And all that was before I got to hear seventeen talented musicians play music for me while I lounged on a vintage love seat.

You just never know.

Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday, Monday, it was all I'd hoped it would be.

Italian Philosophy

Life is like a doughnut.

Tonight that doughnut was actually a zeppole because it's Lent.

I know that only because not one, but two restaurant owners I know have told me they've given up red wine for Lent.

A Catholic friend finds it hysterical that you can give up one color or another wine instead of actually making a sacrifice and just, oh, say, give up wine altogether.

I don't know about that but I am Italian-savvy enough to know that zeppoles are only baked after Ash Wednesday.

And while I'm certainly not up on my religious holidays, I did walk by a church on Grace Street last Wednesday that said, "Ash Wednesday, Come in for Quiet Reflection."

I'm not much on ashes or quiet reflection, but I'm all about the custard-filled doughnuts Stuzzi makes every Lenten season.

So after dutifully finishing my margherita pizza and Primitivo, I happily shared with an Italian all that dough and cream and powdered sugar that are a metaphor for life.

The hard part outside with the reward inside and just enough sweetness all around to keep you coming back for more.

I'm thinking life just may be as simple as that.

The Talkie Type

How often do you see a silent movie two nights in a row?

But then how often is there a brand-new silent film at the movie theater?

After seeing the previews for "The Artist" several times, I was pretty sure I'd enjoy it.

And I did, except for the man with the oral fixation chewing loudly on a plastic straw one seat away.

Just for the record, that was after he'd polished off a sandwich (wrapped in foil), a canned Diet Coke and a king-size fountain soda

But I digress.

After all the silent movies I've seen in the past four-plus years at the Silent Music Revival and James River Film Society events, I've actually seen a fair amount of silent film.

I mean, I'm no Jameson Price, but I've probably seen more than your average bear.

But I think the most recent one I ever saw was 1948 and even then, it was highly unusual to make a silent film that late.

So of course a French film director decides last year to make a black and white silent film tribute to Hollywoodland.

Count me in.

The hero looked like a matinee idol (and had the greatest smile in his eyes), the photography was exquisite and the music perfectly attuned to the scenes.

I know Kim Novak is upset about them using a snippet of music from "Vertigo" but it didn't bother me.

The romance was suggested but never developed, only hinted at.

But you should have seen the way they smiled at each other Oh, it was romance.

What I was curious about was what the audience's reaction to seeing a silent film would be.

Besides hearing every cough (and straw chewer), you clearly heard comments ("That's a gun") and reactions (a woman's audible gasp when the hero carelessly stepped off a curb and almost got hit by a car).

Everything unfolded but not with words, only with movements, gestures and nuance.

Which I can (and did) totally appreciate as far as telling the story went.

But no words? In a romance?

In a movie, fine, but that would never fly, at least for me, in real life.

If you're going to go romantic, it's got to be wordy or just shoot me now.

Her Manly Appetite

I don't eat a margherita pizza like a Neopolitan woman, or so I was told tonight.

We were at Stuzzi for dinner and because it's Monday, the place was a zoo. Once I scored a stool, I waited for my girlfriend to show up. In the meantime, any number of people came in, including several bearded regulars to whom the bartender asked, "Peroni and pizza?" to imperceptible nods.

You have to appreciate a woman who knows what men want.

One guy told me that he knows better than to bring a friend on Monday nights given the mayhem. Now he tells me, I thought. Once my friend made her belated arrival, we began with a bottle of Prosecco and traded tales of our recent exploits (she'd discovered that cayenne and chile powder are not interchangeable).

Working our way through margherita pizzas, the owner came over to say hello and observe our eating progress. My plate was empty but my friend's was not. She'd eaten the center of the pizza, leaving the circular outer crust intact.

"That's how the women in Naples eat their pizza," he explained. "Only three hundred calories if you eat the center."'

Meanwhile you could have rolled a marble across my plate it was so empty. I'd be a disgrace to Italian womanhood except that my ancestry is Irish.

He also told us that the traditional wine to accompany pizza in Naples is il Grotta del Sole Gragnano della Penisola, saying that they carried both the dry and sweet versions of this sparkling red wine.

We opted for dry and enjoyed glasses of the very purple and slightly bitter bubbles, although I still have no idea how well it pairs with pizza since mine was long gone. Even the music had a decided Italian influence with Patrizio Buanne breaking up the Van Morrison and Band of Horses with which it was interspersed.

My friend thought Buanne's voice was so romantic that she jotted down his name so she could share it with her boyfriend.

But then, unlike me, she probably has a boyfriend because she eats like a woman. I'll know for next time.

I Did Not Talk into That Phone

If there's a line to sit at the bar on a Monday night, it must be Stuzzi.

As pizza lovers and cheapskates throughout Richmond know, on Mondays they do Margherita pizzas for a buck.

There are plenty of candy bars that cost more than that, so naturally the lines form.

Instead of waiting behind the girl who informed us she was ahead of us in line, we allowed ourselves to be led to the far end of the bar where there was a bit of space, albeit with no stools.

An overly-friendly guy came up to make small talk with us about the Blue Goat and as I was responding to his first question, my friend cut me off.

"We need to order wine, so save your answer for after we do that," she instructed.

Apparently she'd had a stressful day and needed her wine sooner rather than later.

The end result was that the guy disappeared immediately, no doubt worried that she'd turn that tone on him. Frankly, I didn't blame him.

We appreciated our server's honesty when we inquired about a particular wine ("Nobody who orders it likes it") and instead got the Volpetti Frascati Superior.

Not long afterwards, the couple next to us turned over their stools in a time-honored Monday tradition.

That's one thing about Mondays at Stuzzi; people generally get in, eat cheap and get out. Turnover is rapid.

But since we'd ordered a bottle, we saw no reason to hurry.

When our Margheritas arrived, I inquired after some Parmesan cheese.

Not surprisingly, the tiny ramekin of cheese cost exactly as much as the pizza. One dollar.

Before me sat the best and worst restaurant deals in RVA. But even combined, my meal was a steal.

As we ate, my friend showed me pictures on her phone of the townhouse she's thinking of renting.

In a moment of what could only be called blackmail threatening, she mentioned that she still had the picture of me using her cell phone when we were in DC last month.

And, just for the record, I wasn't using the phone; I was looking up something online to show someone.

Nevertheless, she's already shown that picture to one mutual friend who delighted in seeing evidence of me using a dreaded mobile unit.

How in the world do public figures think they can get away with anything with practically everyone (except me) a potential photographer?

How much is Parmesan cheese worth to someone being blackmailed?

How long can the line get for $1 pizzas?

No comment.

Clemence to Clemenza with Waltzing in Between

Dinner. Lecture. Movie. Party.

After three road trips this week, I wanted a low-key Friday night nearby, which is how I ended up at the VMFA by 5:00.

When seated, I was instructed by the host to attract other barsitters and provide sparkling conversation once they arrived.

Can do.

After months of enjoying a sparkling Brut Rose at Amuse, tonight's offering was Clemence Guery Cremant, a Loire lovely with nice bubbles and fruit.

The bartender's recommendation led me to the shrimp and tilapia ceviche with salted plantain chips.

A nice-sized bowl of seafood, tomatoes and scallions offered up a refreshing acidity that made for a crisp summer meal.

The plantain chips were just as well thought out, thin, crispy and nicely salted to provide that element for the seafood.

Happily, I was joined by a couple of Napa Valley transplants (to Glen Allen, no less), leading to much talk of the wine they left and what we have in Virginia.

I don't want to brag, but between bartender Stephen and me, we had the guy drinking Keswick Cab Franc before the evening was over, no easy task. And he was seriously impressed.

For my next course, I had the cheese plate, a duo of cheeses from Maryland's Firefly Farms.

It paired housemade crackers with an ash-rind goat bleu and Merry Goat Round, a brie-style bleu along with local honey and a fig.

With a second glass of the Cremant (which the Californians tasted and loved), I was set.

The three of us were there for the Faberge-related lecture and movie and since they were novices to the event, they asked for my expertise on timing.

I assured them we could take it to the last possible minute given that only two floors separated us from our destination.

I had a couple date waiting for me in the theater with saved seats down in front.

Forensic biologist Dr. Michael Coble spoke on "CSI Faberge: Anastasia and Imperial Russian Family Forensics."

Coble did a terrific job of breaking down complex DNA testing procedures to their lowest common denominator and explained to us non-scientific types how they'd finally proven that the entire Russian family was indeed shot.

The idea that two of the Romanov children had survived the royal massacre was the basis of the film that followed, 1956's "Anastasia," which I'd never seen.

It told the (mostly true) story of a woman who had come forward in the 1920s claiming to be one of the daughters of the Tsar.

And because it was the fifties, naturally they got a Swede to play Anastasia (at least Yul Brynner was Russian).

The film had some surprisingly funny dialog, mostly from Helen Hayes as the Empress Dowager.

Favorite line: "You're disgusting! At your age, a woman's only thoughts of sex should be gender."

True, perhaps, in 1956, but I believe we get to think about sex any way we like for as long as we like these days.

Since I knew absolutely nothing about the movie, I quite enjoyed it, as much for its fifties Hollywood sensibilities as for the historical story it told.

And I always love waltzing scenes, of which there were several.

In fact, my only other reference point for Yul Brynner was "The King and I" and my favorite number was "Shall We Dance?" surely one of the most stirringly romantic songs/dances ever set to music.

After the show, my couple date and I went to Stuzzi where they had the music tuned to vintage 70s.

Oh, yes, we heard lots of disco and everything from Barry White to Boz Skaggs to America and Queen. It was something all right.

I was there for a party to celebrate a man I didn't meet until tonight, Clemenza, a chef who's cooked everywhere from Pasta Luna to Tribeca Grill.

He was being feted because he has just won one of those cooking show competitions (as if I know anything about cooking shows).

Out of an original pool of thousands, he was one of eighteen chosen to compete and he took the prize with, among other things, his rack of lamb.

He was charming and self-effacing and when we got to really talking, I got him to admit that his all-time favorite meal is a slice of cold pizza and a Pepsi.

That's an honest chef.

As part of the festivities, server (and VCU voice major) Steven did an operatic piece which had us all holding our breath for the beauty of his voice.

In Clemenza's honor, there was his signature pizza (portabella, caramelized onions, Fontina cheese and Napes peppers), which I had while the couple did the Forte (no doubt for the sopresetta and sausage).

We also had the potato and prosciutto croquettes ("croquettes with two strumpets" my corny friend proclaimed) and the polpettine meatballs al forno (veal, beef, pork).

And Prosecco, lots of Prosecco, to celebrate Clemenza.

I won't watch the show when it airs, but I will happily celebrate a man with mad cooking skills.

They're usually my favorite kind.

Who Are You and What is This Limoncello ?

I thought I'd gone to the VMFA for the Collector's Circle lecture, "The New Art of Americas Wing at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston" to make up for my last heartbreaking visit there.

You see, when I visited Boston in Fall 2008, the museum was closed for renovations and I'd been terribly disappointed at missing the chance to see their world-renowned collection.

So naturally I wanted to come hear about the $504 million dollar expansion that had thwarted me and now housed the premiere collection of American art.

In one of those unlikely coincidences that define my life, I ended up sitting next to and conversing with a woman who had been born in Hampton, VA but lived 40 years in Cape Cod and then Plymouth and had just moved to Richmond. She said she moved here because she missed Spring and said it was gray in Plymouth until Memorial Day.

She was there out of guilt; she hadn't been to the Boston Museum in 20 years and it was half an hour from her house. A poker face is not my strong suit; I'm sure my amazement was written all over my face.

So she was taking the opportunity to get a preview of the enormous new wing as an enticement to make it to the museum the next time she's up there. I certainly did my best to further guilt her into it.

Together we listened to Dr. Elliot Bostwick describe the 3,000 new pieces the museum had acquired since 2001, making for a collection that spans the art of the Americas from 900 B.C. to the twentieth century (including a blank bowl Jackson Pollock had painted while he was undergoing detox and Jungian therapy).

She showed pictures of workers dissembling period rooms from the old addition, numbering and photographing them, only to painstakingly reassemble them in the new wing. Numbering bricks, no wonder the museum had been closed when I was there.

After the lecture, my new friend thanked me sincerely for the art pep talk. Just doing my job, ma'am. Now on to some nourishment after all that enlightenment.

It had been ages since I was at Stuzzi and since I was right there, I set my taste buds for pizza. I walked into a full bar except for one seat and the guy next to it extended his hand toward it in welcome.

Debating over which salad to start with, my seatmate, the stranger, suggested the arugula with shaved Parmigiana while I picked a glass of wine.

There was no decision to be made about the pizza because it was $1 Margarita night, so the bartender automatically assumes everyone at the bar is there for that. And actually, everyone was, so why shouldn't I jump on board?

I have to say, my salad was spot on, a generously-sized serving of peppery arugula, not overdressed and loaded with fresh cheese. My pizza arrived before I could finish it and I kept right on with my salad because it was too good to stop. Besides, pizza doesn't have to be hot to be enjoyable.

The stranger turned out to be a musician in a local band I'd seen at, of all things, a raucous and raunchy Christmas show (he'd been the baby Jesus) at the Firehouse several years ago. He asked if I'd been at the performance where he got naked, but, alas, I hadn't. I'm sure I would have remembered that.

The turnover was constant at the bar as people came in, ate their Margarita with their drink and left. Soon a wine-lover and her beau sat down on the other side of me and she was all about me having a glass of her wine

Since it was Masi Costasera Amarone (and $75 a bottle), I was only too happy to oblige her. It didn't hurt that it was my kind of wine, with nice acidity, soft tannins, good structure and a long finish. If you insist, I will drink your lovely wine with you. And she did, so I did.

It was at that point, as the lightening was flashing non-stop, that I had the pleasure of my first Zeppole doughnut with custard and strawberry sauce.

Being a heathen, I was unfamiliar with the traditional St. Joseph's Day cake, made and served on March 19 and available from then only until Easter.

The owner told me that in NYC and Italy, people wait in lines at the bakeries to score these taste delights during their limited availability.

The fried dough had been sliced in half and an ample amount of custard spread between the halves with a thin topping of strawberry glaze on top. The former stranger who now knew me by name gallantly volunteered to help me finish it.

Before the zeppole completely disappeared, the sky opened up and the rain fell so hard we couldn't see across the street. Despite having finished dessert, it didn't seem like a wise time to exit the building.

Luckily, I got more incentive to stay, this time from a guy at the end of the bar who asked if he could buy me a Limoncello. To his great surprise and delight, I had never had one; he got one promptly delivered to me and one to my amazed seatmate ("It's wearing the dress, isn't it?" he wondered. Hell if I know).

There's a lot to recommend sipping what tasted like an alcoholic Lemonhead while watching a downpour from inside a dimly-lit pizza joint. The Red Hot Chili Peppers soundtrack was all wrong, but overall it had been an evening of surprises from all these people I didn't know.

Once again, I must have on my stranger magnet without even realizing it.

Friendship or Romance?

The best way to offset a weekend that had so much male company is an evening out with a girlfriend, especially one with two weeks worth of dating adventures to share. When she called to suggest it, I couldn't say yes fast enough. Estrogen, yes!

She chose for our rendezvous Stuzzi. We had a tacit understanding that she wasn't to spill the beans until we'd ordered, so we asked for the four-meat Carnivori so that we could get on with it. The beauty of Stuzzi's oven is that it delivers in 90 seconds, which is great for those seeking practically instantaneous gratification.

The protein-covered pizza was a hit with us both. As a bonus, owner Peter was gracious in sending over a couple of his "delicious little things" in the form of the fried risotto balls and the potato croquettes. We had plenty of sustenance for the storytelling to begin.

Since I'd seen my friend last, she'd seen three guys, but the upshot was that she's decided to date the guy she's known for a year as a friend. He's always been interested in her and once she gave him a chance, she found he was just what she's been looking for. She's guardedly optimistic and I'm excited for her because she deserves to be happy after being dumped and not dating for a year and a half.

Meanwhile a guy had come over to talk to me, asking about where I was from, what I did for a living and other basic info. He even asked me for a restaurant recommendation and I suggested Bistro 27, explaining that I liked it because the food was terrific and it was just blocks from my house.

Him:
How about I take you to dinner at Bistro 27 then?

Me:
I'm not dating.

Him:
What are you looking for, friendship or romance?

Me:
Friendship. No romance.

Him:
Me, too. It's good to have female friends. Can I take you to dinner as friends?

Offers aside, it was a small world at Stuzzi tonight; I also ran into a guy I'd recently met at Bouchon and another I'd met at Balliceaux. It was like old home week except that it was supposed to be girls' night out. How did these guys make it into our bubble?

Leaving Stuzzi, I drove over to the Camel for the music of Lennie Tristano and the Jason Scott Quintet. I knew nothing about overlooked jazz legend Lennie T., but I knew enough of the musicians in the Tristano group and the JS Quintet to know that I'd be in for some great jazz.

A musician later told me that Tristano's music was weird, rhythmic, difficult and way ahead of its time (the 40s and 50s). Introducing the final song of the set, Jason said that it was hard, and that in one section, "he moves the whole melody over one beat." I wasn't even sure what that meant and I was intrigued. Altogether, it was an excellent set.

Then two musicians left and two others replaced them for the second set of Jason's original compositions. Alternately intense and heavy and then strikingly beautiful, the tone of the music changed from song to song. They even wowed the crowd with their interpretation of the closing credit music to Donnie Darko.

Shortly after the set began, two musician friends from Marionette joined me at my booth and they were as blown away as I was with what we were hearing. Kerri turned to me between songs and said, "That was so beautiful it made me want to cry." I was already thinking that the trumpet solo alone had been heart-stopping.

It was a treat for me having them there because after the show we sat around and talked about what we'd just heard. With their far more extensive musical knowledge, they provided all kinds of insights and explanations for what I'd heard but did not have the vocabulary to describe.

But I had no trouble understanding Kerri when she looked at me between songs and said, "I need to get out more. This is amazing."

Five bucks on a Monday night in River City, kids. We really couldn't ask for more.

Well, I couldn't anyway.

Warm for a Lot of Reasons at Stuzzi

I couldn't have been more surprised when a friend suggested Stuzzi for dinner.

She's the only person I know who actually loves cold weather, prefers it even.

We are very poorly matched in this because I get cold at the drop of a hat and she gets hot when my teeth are still chattering.

My first two visits to Stuzzi had been quite warm and while I loved that, I knew it wasn't her style.

Turns out she was enamored enough of the pie to overlook the temperature issue, which admittedly was far cooler tonight than on my last couple of visits and really quite pleasant.

When I arrived a bit before 8, the place was full, with people waiting for tables.

The music was just loud enough and the mix was excellent. When I asked about it, all anyone knew was that it was the restaurant iPod, so multiple people had contributed to the mix.

I loved the variety of the music...and the volume. It really amped up the ambiance.

Since I'd not gotten it last time, I ordered the Margarita pizza (A.O.C. and all) preceded by the Gorgonzola salad; my friend got the Carnivore because meat is her god.

The crust was not soggy, the sauce, cheese and basil sang with freshness and I ate the whole thing.

Meanwhile, I struck up a conversation with the guy next to me, a student of psychiatric genetics, and we eventually got to talking about looks, his in particular.

He had beautiful curly hair which he'd only discovered he had two years ago.

His mother had never told him it was curly and he'd always kept it short, so he'd had no idea.

His driver's license showed a guy with short, dark hair without a hint of curl.

I asked if his longer locks got him lots more attention, but he demurred.

"I'm not exactly up Richmond's alley," he said by way of explanation. And he didn't look like a hatboy or a WASP, so I knew what he meant.

He said his goal is to be a writer, but at 25, he feels like a lifetime spent in Fairfax County does not represent enough life experience from which to knowledgeably write.

So instead he's spending his time acquiring the experiences which he hopes will inform his future writing endeavors. I can't think of a better plan and told him so.

It was on this visit that I noticed the diversity of the crowd under the dimmed lights with the music pulsing.

There were a few families with kids early in the evening, some older couples throughout, but mostly, as owner Peter put it, "There's no one here over 30."

I think it's safe to say that his price points are appealing to almost everyone.

Peter came over to talk like an Italian (or was it a New Yorker?) and bring me an Aperol Spritzer, a truly refreshing Italian summer beverage, with which I wasn't familiar.

It was the same color as my dress, surely a sign of something.

"Be careful, it'll make you amorous," he warned grinning, going on to explain that he's so busy working seven days a week that he has to date on-site.

When things finally wound down, pizza genius Giuseppe came over and sat down next to me to chat and have a Campari.

Although we'd been introduced before, this was our first in-depth conversation and he gave me the full story about men and women from "someone who knows, an Italian," to phrase it like he did.

In any case, I think that now I'm clear on what it is men want in a relationship and why.

Lesson learned: I was right to be concerned about my cold-loving friend.

It can get warm in Stuzzi.

In the Heat of the Night

The humidity's been at around 82% all evening. All my activities tonight involved lots of sweaty bodies. Everyone who hugged me this evening was sticky. And not one of those statements is a complaint (I'll take hot over cold any time).

My Friday night began at the new pizza place Stuzzi, which was packed for its unofficial opening night soiree. The ABC license hadn't arrived until 2:00 this afternoon (whew!), but the choices tonight were limited to wine and liquor (beer is coming, not that I care). They had no change so only cards were being taken in payment for drinks. Food was on the house with comments being actively solicited. And the a/c struggled to keep up with the crowd and the pizza oven cranking out non-stop pies.

I found my spot at the front bar and ordered my wine from a list on a yellow legal pad (how often does that happen twice in one week?) consisting of a Pinot Grigio, a Chardonnay and a blend of Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. It will be interesting to see what actually ends up on the wine list.

The large staff was rushing about furiously, figuring out their systems as they went along; everyone was friendly, pleasant and glistening. There were five Stuzzi Chini (delicious little things), two salads, the classic Pizze D.O.C., the Margherita, along with five other pizzas and four pastas. Oh, and three desserts for those who care about such things.

I ordered the spring mix with Gorgonzola and the Italian Sausage (Salsiccia) Pizze with San Marzano tomato sauce, housemade Mozzarella, sausage, basil and EVOO. My salad had so much Gorgonzola on it that I actually didn't finish it all (knowing I had a pie on the way) and that's really saying something. The greens were fresh and it was not overdressed so I gave it a thumbs up. Owner Peter teased me about not being able to finish such wonderful cheese from the originating town. Cheese fail, Karen.

The beauty of a pizza oven with stones from Mt. Vesuvius is that a pie is ready in 60 to 90 seconds. The rustic and amorphic pizza was superb and I shared a piece with an old friend and former neighbor who had stopped by ("I should have known I'd find you here.") on his way to a benefit and he agreed that the pie was beautifully done. Since unlike me, he still lives a block away, he's thrilled with their presence in the Museum District.

Leaving, I ran into Tanya of Belmont Butchery, whom I hadn't chatted with since a party a few months back. She wanted to show me the butchery's garden, so we headed around the corner to meet up with the charming Henry and admire the corn. And the lima beans (be still my heart). And the beets and the mesclun and the peppers and the haricots verts. Strolling the back forty with a light breeze was the perfect after-dinner activity; promises of gifts from their bounty only added to my personal enjoyment of it all. Lima lovers "R" us.

I left the old 'hood for the current one to meet up with a friend and do the artwalk (duh, it is First Friday after all). I specifically wanted to see the "Richmond Illustrators Club 4th Annual Juried Show" because it is always one of my favorite (and best) shows of the year. There was such a variety of talent on Ghostprint's walls tonight and many of the prints were extremely reasonably priced. There was more than one that I could happily look at every day on my own walls.

ADA's "Anniversary Affordable Works and Garage Sale" offered up all kinds of delights in practically every medium. I loved Daniel Davidson's symmetrical images; he only draws the left side and then uses a simple process to transfer it to the right side. Shown was a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge and another of Queen Elizabeth; the detail in both was riveting. And how clever is he? Half the work and a full picture.

Art 6 had a Juneteenth exhibit that shone for its vintage photographs of blacks posing for the camera pre-1900. Another photography standout was "Soul Rebel: An Intimate Portrait of Bob Marley" by David Burnett at Metro Space Gallery, with a local reggae band conveniently playing outside. Lots of blissed out faces, but no suspicious smells.

I knew I wanted to finish in the courtyard because the Colloquial Orchestra was playing and after hearing them once, I wanted to hear them some more. They started playing with no introduction and it took a few minutes for the crowd, or at least those who were there to hear music, to realize it.

They have an amazing sound and I checked and I'm not speaking out of turn by calling them post-rock. Their dynamic sound builds and wraps around the listener's ear in a way that makes the music everything...unless you're talking and then, sadly for you, it's just background.

Talking to the guys in the band afterwards, they acknowledged a lot of improvisation going on in between certain set points in the music. They also said that they ldo isten to a lot of post-rock, too, and laughingly suggested that they're post-post rock.

What they are to me is a collection of talented musicians playing interesting instruments and creating a sound that doesn't fall neatly into 3 or 4 minute songs, but which will totally capture you for the duration. There could have been no better way to wrap up the evening.

Walking back past Gallery 5, we saw a bit of a fire performance and some belly dancing as we paused on the sidewalk. It was my friend's first First Friday in over two years, so he was particularly thrilled with the events of the evening. I know because he told me so as he gave me a sweaty hug before leaving J-Ward.

As for me, now that I've finished my nightly over-sharing and it's only 12:45, I plan to take my wine and my sticky self and go sit on my balcony for a while to enjoy the heat.

It's not like anyone will know how sweaty I am...and I kind of like it on a June night.

Ogling the New Pizza Ovens

I spent the evening doing the progressive thing, moving around and enjoying a bit of everywhere I went. It wasn't so much an ADD thing as it was a last minute call from a friend suggesting we meet up when I already had some wandering in mind for myself anyway.

After getting an effusive e-mail today from my Italian friend directing me to Stuzzi, I dropped by and dropped his name and was promptly taken on a tour and given the full-on razzle-dazzle. It is a truly magnificent pizza oven with its Venetian glass and center stage presence and I oohed and ahhed appropriately and sincerely.

It's hard not to appreciate an oven designated as one of the ten official (of the thousands in existence in the US) by the Italian government. It's also hard not to appreciate being called a beautiful woman by an effusive Italian man (have we established yet that I'm a sucker for compliments? See my past for why) with a new restaurant. Flown-in tomatoes and house made Mozzarella aside, these guys seem like the real deal.

Next up was Secco for a glass of Portugese wine (2008 Esporao Reserve DOC Alentejo), lushly perfumed and full-bodied (like a certain kind of woman, but don't look at me; I don't wear perfume). The crowd was manageable when I arrived but quickly grew to capacity. Of note was that owner Julia finally caved, right in front of my eyes, and henceforth food will be served to those waiting on the couches, something she had resisted from Day One. But then, life is a series of concessions, as all wise ones know.

I was meeting a friend at Bellytimber afterwards to see what the owners of Mezzanine had concocted for a casual bar space. Their intention, they said, was to serve fresh and tasty food at affordable bar prices. The interior is definitely an improvement over the former Border location, but the two huge flat screens told me all I needed to know.

I loved the open windows along Plum Street and bartender Sean's iPod was so indie right-on that I had to compliment him on it (Temper Trap, Killers, Peter, Bjorn and John et al). Despite his claim that he's been a bartender forever (followed by a laundry list of all the places he's tended bar), fortunately for customers like me, his musical taste is of the moment.

Seeing the igloo-looking mound from our perches at the far end of the bar, it was inevitable that we'd try the pizza. The couple next to us had raved about the pepperoni, but we couldn't resist the caramelized bacon and onion, which turned out to be quite good. An enthusiastic kitchen staffer gave me a tour, so to speak, of the oven with its logs burning briskly and its heat blasting directly into the kitchen. Three minutes and done! No need for delayed pizza gratification here.

We bypassed the Scotch egg (hard boiled egg encased in house made ground pork sausage) despite a recommendation from a nearby Jagermesiter drinker, and got the pirogis (homemade egg noodle dumplings stuffed with mashed potato, seared with onions and served with sour cream); the slices of green onion tops made the dish, we agreed. It qualified for bar comfort food in the best possible way.

I was actually surprised to find several vegetarian/vegan choices on the menu, although I'm not sure why they caught me off guard. Several local offerings were noted, including Victory Farms greens and Twin Oaks tofu. They also make their own rolls and potato chips, for those who appreciate such things.

Bellytimber 's ABC license is very new, so the wine list is still handwritten on a piece of yellow legal pad (a printed version arrives tomorrow, I was told), which I found charming. I went with Cava at the bartender's suggestion ("Feel like bubbles?"), a restaurant opening, even a soft one, being a festive occasion.Entrees are not yet available but will be shortly. Coming soon! Meat!

We made one last stop at Comfort because my friend had heard they were doing live music, but it had been cancelled, so we made that the end of our forward progress.

Besides, seeing as how I was now merely blocks from home with my wanderlust sated, all that was left was to share my stories...just in case anyone's curious. Anyone at all.