Winding Down with a Bug

I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.

Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.

But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.

Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.

What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.

ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.

And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.

But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.

But up on Broad, it was uniform city.

I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."

Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?

I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.

From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.

"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."

Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.

The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.

I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.

Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.

Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.

Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.

But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.

The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.

So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.

Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.

It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."

Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.

As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."

Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.

Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.

It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the  musical imagery.

All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.

But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.

The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.

Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.

I liked his thinking on that.

Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).

He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find  someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?

Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.

Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.

Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.

Geeks like me are going to love it.

Give Me Figs and Poetry

Start with a sunny Monday and report to neighborhood joint for birthday lunch with the dynamic duo.

Allow server to insist on a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi  due to the occasion. Savor a pizza of fig (a nickname since childhood), chicken, red onion and Brie which arrives unbidden.

Add in card and gift opening (including a book of musician Ryan Adams' poetry...sigh) and well wishing of staff, making for lip prints left on multiple cheeks.

Caesar salad with grilled shrimp and Caprese with pesto follow, as does discussion of upcoming shows, birthday requirements and the pleasure of being thanked on an album cover (you're very welcome, guys).

As if so much stellar food and drink weren't enough, server arrives with lit candle in tiramisu.

Chef comes over to congratulate me on turning 32 (as if) and my birthday lunch at Bistro 27 winds down after two plus hours.

Time to move on to the next step of the festivities...

If Only They Were Single

Clearly I haven't been out walking in my neighborhood lately, a fact made apparent to me on my way to dinner tonight. Strolling down the street, two different neighbors asked me where my trusty companion was and it turned out they were referring to the beagle.

It's been 2 1/2 months since I had to have him put down and neither neighbor knew about it. It was bittersweet having to explain it all again and especially twice. My evening began with a couple of big sighs.

Likewise, I hadn't been to 27 since a couple of visits early in June (one involving record wine consumption, but that's another story), so I got the royal greeting on arrival tonight. The place was busy, with one full dining room and a 13-top expected any moment. Already at the bar was one of my favorite downtown servers and a wine rep, so I had immediate company. Things were shaping up nicely.

Chef Carlos teased me about my recent absence, making me feel missed and appreciated, while bartender Dave gloated over having seen me twice in the same night recently. I ordered a glass of the ubiquitous Broadbent Vino Verdhe, and began my night out with a toast to the beagle.

Considering this endless heatwave, my first course was just what the meteorologist ordered. Carlos delivered a summer soup sampler with two chilled delicacies. The avocado with roasted corn was rich and creamy (he claimed it had only a "little bit" of cream) with most of the fatty richness coming from nature's butter, the avocado. The other soup was a fresh-as-summer gazpacho, making for a lovely contrast. I went back and forth from acidic to creamy, rich to tart, enjoying how well the two complemented each other. Both tasted out-of-the-garden fresh.

Meanwhile I'd found a Pennsylvania native with whom I discussed all things Richmond. Like me, he's a transplant who has blossomed in the capital of the Confederacy. Unlike me, he's a talented pianist. He's the first person I've met who'd been to the museum as many times as I have. He was a conversational godsend and I delayed my next course enjoying all the talk.

I then tucked into the classic Caesar salad with anchovies while hearing about what's been going on in Carlos' world, both personal and professional. I shared some of my better vacation stories with him (the interested restaurant owner saga, in particular, really tickled him although he thought I should have taken it in another direction). It was satisfying to be back at my neighborhood joint.

With my next course of escargots, mushroom caps gratin and Pernod, Carlos suggested his favorite white, the gavi di gavi and it was a perfect pairing. Although not always a fan of Pernod (I think it is often too dominating a flavor), in this case it was heavenly: subtle and fragrant. For me, enough butter is the main escargot requirement and these mushroom caps sat in a pool of it.
After soup and salad, this was going to fill me up in the best possible way.

Which meant there was no room for dessert, but my evening eventually ended on a sweet note anyway. As I was preparing to leave, Carlos, the physically demonstrative one, gave me a kiss and a hug and admonished me to be back in my barstool again soon.

And Dave, the verbally demonstrative one? "Karen, you know I love you like a fat kid loves cake."

Color me satisfied on all counts.

My Maudlin Career, er Evening

When I was out artwalking on Friday night, I'd paused in front of 27 to see how busy they were and wave hi to whomever might be working.

From behind the very busy bar, Dave the comedian spotted me, smiled and pointed and began to unbutton his shirt, as if to strip down.

Naturally I smiled back and since I was conveniently wearing a wide-necked dress, began to pull the dress down over my shoulders as if to bare my chest.

At that moment, no less than four pairs of male eyes turned around to see what Dave was looking at.

So there I was, grinning like a fool, with my dress heading south on my arms, no doubt viewed as part of the street theater that is First Fridays.

Needless to say, I decided not to go into 27 after that, but I knew I'd take crap for it, so I went tonight instead.

And I did take crap for not coming in the night before, but, hey, I was here now.

It was hot, so while I had aspirations to drink red, I began with Carlos' favorite white, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi, which went down like water.

Not surprisingly, the staff and I were talking about the impending Broad Appetit and one of the dishes Carlos will be serving tomorrow is his ensalata caprese, which put me in the mood for a full-size serving of it myself.

He was telling me how poorly suited he'd be for assembly line work; a day of repetitiously making hundreds of the same two dishes had resulted in a monotony headache.

I could commiserate because I'm no better suited for routine than he is.

We talked about how much fun the Memorial Day cookout had been and 27's new late bar hours, which I'm thrilled about.

Many's the time I want to stop off in the neighborhood on my way home from an event , so now that'll be a no-brainer.

And speaking of drinking, with the Gavi di Gavi gone, I was ready for red and Carlos suggested switching to the Andes malbec, knowing I'd like it.

The problem then became deciding what to eat for dinner and I wasn't leaning in any particular direction.

Ron saved the day by giving me a peek at the soon-to-be-debuted menu and letting me choose off of that.

Score!

I'll have the Spanish Blood Sausage over a spicy potato mixture, thank you very much.

The sausage was outstanding and Carlos came over to join me while I ate it.

There were no good bar sitters last night, but fortunately all my favorite staff were there to take care of my conversational needs, which were extensive.

After nearly finishing the bottle of Malbec (don't judge), it was time for me to high-tail it over to the National for Camera Obscura.

A friend had told me he'd chosen not to go to the show because he'd heard that they sound exactly like their records, but I didn't care about that because I'm so fond of their charming little girl Scottish voices.

Besides, how can I not love a group that sings "Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken"?

(Been there. Not ready.)

The crowd was smaller than it should have been.

In fact the last time I saw a crowd so paltry was at the Passion Pit show last June and that was just as inexcusable.

In any case, I took my usual spot, chatted up a nearby fan (like me, he didn't care either how album-like they sounded) and settled in for a night of pretty and poppy.

When all was said and sung, I left my second destination of the evening as well sated as the first.

That's what we call a good night.

And bonus points if you can appreciate the positive connotation of maudlin.

I do so love a word nerd.

Hey, You! Come Watch!

Ah, what to do when a man standing in a doorway smoking calls out your name as you're crossing Broad Street? These are the dilemmas innocent women face as they try walking to a neighborhood eatery. Actually, it was Carlos at Bistro 27 standing at the kitchen door to the restaurant and beckoning me over. What fresh fun was this?

It seems the restaurant was closed for a private party (actually, a rehearsal dinner for 68) and he was suggesting that I spend the evening as a guest of the kitchen watching the action and enjoying the view from his vantage point. Hell yea, no one's ever invited me to get a first hand look at a busy restaurant on a weekend night so there was no way I was turning that down. Little did I realize what a whirlwind I was about to witness.

The guests were already in full cocktail mode, noshing on appetizers and mingling away when I took up residence in the back corner of the kitchen. A glass of Gavi di Gavi was immediately poured for me and Carlos handed me the Les Halles cookbook to prove why the tenderloin was siting out on trays (Anthony Bourdain insists meat be room temperature before hitting the grill).

I was introduced to various members of the crew and within minutes Lucia spread a towel on a shelf for me to sit on. Moments later, I was the recipient of mini crab cakes; I was liking this already. As I continued reading the expletive-filled book, one of the servers walked by and told me what a stellar book it was and the dishwasher asked if I spoke Spanish (I don't). I was already like part of the furniture.

Carlos reappeared with shrimp over his version of cocktail sauce which he calls Carlos' sauce. He told me that the recipe is top secret but that it involved mayonnaise. I didn't care what was in it; it was delicious so I ate it and got a wine refill. I was enjoying how warm it was in my little corner spot, but then, I get cold at the drop of a hat. Others appeared to be sweating.

Bruschetta came next and another person asked me if I spoke Spanish. The bustle in the kitchen was increasing madly by this point, with trays and trays of house made beef ravioli being preppped and cooked. It was served under a sauce rosa and melted in my mouth. The irony of me reading a book about the madness of a restaurant kitchen as I sat in a crazy restaurant kitchen was not lost on me.

About this time, one of the servers asked if it was possible to get chicken nuggets and fries for the antsy four year old in attendance, so the fryer was turned on and breading prepared for the chicken. Right about then, my glass began to be refilled with the Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon the chef was drinking.

Waiting in line for the ladies' room, the woman behind me introduced herself and asked if I was from the bride or groom's side. I introduced myself and explained that I was merely the guest of the chef (I started to say paramour just to spice things up, but decided against it). Turns out she was the stepmother of the bride, but gave me an enthusiastic welcome nonetheless and told me to drink up.

When it came time to cook the beef, chicken and salmon for the entrees, I moved to the bar (the party had moved to tables on the other side) to get out of the way. Shortly thereafter, the mayor and a companion came in and sat down at one of the bar tables; apparently he's a regular at 27. He certainly seemed to know all the cops who walked by on their way toward Club Rendezvous.

My beef tenderloin arrived and it was beautifully rare inside a crispy outside. It was during my enjoyment of it that the toasts began on the other side and, good god, I've never heard so many people pontificate about an impending marriage in my life; I think it was close to ten people who spoke about what incredible people these two lovebirds were.

It was during the endless toasting that the father of the bride came over to the bar ans started snapping his fingers at the staff to tell them to quiet down. Apparently taking out the champagne glasses and popping corks was preventing him from hearing the cliched thoughts of his friends and family. The staff did their best to quietly prepare 68 glasses of bubbly for the guests and I moved back into the kitchen where the people were not pompous asses.

One of the girls wiping the counters asked me my age (and paid me a compliment) so I asked her hers (19; how's that for putting me in my place?). Then she asked if I spoke Spanish. "Not any?" she lamented. Gracias was the best I could do and that was clearly disappointing her.

Once dessert was served, Carlos suggested we move back to the bar to further our conversation. Randy, his new guy, asked me what was happening tonight now that he was off the clock. I asked him why he thought I'd know and it turned out that since he'd seen me at the Against Me! show that that meant I knew how to party. I suggested the Boy-lesque show at Gallery 5, which had been my intended destination before I got sucked into the vortex of a restaurant kitchen on a busy night.

Just as Carlos and I were getting into a juicy discussion of girl vs. boy parts, a blogger girl I know showed up with a friend and they joined our group. It turned into a lively discussion of prudishness ("I don't want to see other people take off their clothes when I'm with a friend.") and experimental eating ("If I know I like chicken and beef, why would I want to try things I don't know I'd like?").

Of course, you can't say things like that to Carlos; he and I had just been discussing beef tongue tacos, of which we're both very fond. They were repulsed at his suggestions of soft-shelled crabs, spiders and sweetbreads. He tried to convince them that they should be braver in trying new foods. "You only have one life. You have to eat it."

Out of the mouth of a Brazilian to my ears. I'm eating as fast as I can.