Cuttin' a Loop

When the weather gods are forecasting another round of city-stopping snow, you hit the road.

And when you're fortunate enough to have a 75 degree day, you spend as much of it outside as possible.

The drive was like we were going to the Outer Banks, meaning 460, a route that all but requires a stop at Adams Country store.

A bucket of salted fish still in water sat in front of a palette of country hams. Over in the case were dandoodles, the small cloth bags of mixed pig parts for seasoning greens and soup.

But when you're out cruising on a warm day, you don't need pig parts festering in the warmth of the car.

So we picked up a bag of Adams peanuts, a couple of glass bottles of RC Cola and took them to the counter, chatting with the owner about the bodacious weather.

"You folks just cuttin' a loop today?" Mr. Adams inquired. He'd have been doing the same if not stuck behind the counter, I just know it.

Further down 460, we stopped in Ivor for a stroll on the other side of the railroad tracks. I looked past the "Keep your eyes on Jesus" sign on the door into Mabel's Hair Palace, painted Pepto Bismol pink and looking like time had stopped in 1955.

Passing the Masonic Lodge, my eye was caught not by Jesus, but by the sign touting, "Annual sausage sale coming soon." If it's a good area for pig, it ought to be a good one for sausage.

Sitting in a dirt driveway, a truck's license plate proclaimed "HTC RDNK." And damn proud of it.

Then it was on to true pig town, Smithfield, for lunch. After touring around streets lined with enormous and quaint gingerbread-trimmed Victorian houses, we made our way to Smithfield Station for lunch on the deck overlooking the marina and marshes.

Boats bobbed in the water, most of them labeled by owners from Smithfield or nearby Rescue.

Once our puppy-like server Dante managed to open the bottle of Honig Sauvignon Blanc, we enjoyed it with crab soup and seafood salads to the sound of boat masts clanging together with the sun on our backs.

With a few hours of daylight remaining, we drove on to Newport News' Huntington Park to join others who couldn't resist spending an unexpectedly warm day by the water.

We strolled the park's little beach by the pier and bridge, watching as the fair weather clouds began to give way to the clouds of doom that will bring snow tomorrow.

Buzz kill.

By the time we got back to Richmond, the sun was long gone and it was time to eat again, so we set our sights on Belmont Food Shop, which we found mostly full, not surprising given the tiny space and the fact that so few restaurants are open on Sunday.

With '20s and '30s music playing too softly, we began with a substitute Rose (the one on the list having sold out) and a trio of amuse bouches: a gougeres, one perfect bite of smoked blue fish dip and a thimble-sized ramekin of celery root soup.

Next came braised rabbit with gnocchi and truffle, setting the tone for a meal of obscene richness. Although technically a salad, my duck confit over frisse with leeks was more about the fatty duck than the greens beneath.

That is not a complaint.

The decadence of my oxtail with spaetzle and carrots was matched only by my companion's melt-in-your-mouth lamb two ways. Our server had told us that Chef Mike had just broken down the lamb the day before.

Now we were in a food coma, but determined to hang on so we could go hear live music later. So we sat there sipping wine until I mustered the wherewithal to order dessert.

Cause nothing helps settle a full stomach like more food.

My first choice was butterscotch custard - a throwback to childhood and, besides, you never see it on dessert menus - but it had been 86'd moments before.

Our server was certain I'd had the silk pie many times, but I hadn't, so I went with the round of dark chocolate pate over caramel in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.

Call me a chocolate purist, but the caramel made it just a tad too sweet for me, not that I didn't manage to finish 80% of it with a glass of Lambrusco Rose.

The things I do for chocolate.

Dragging our stuffed selves to Ipanema to see the Dimmer Twins as part of Live at Ipanema, we got the last two bar stools and ordered Fenuaghty Vineyard Edmunds St. John Syrah.

Tonight's crowd was small, maybe due to the Oscars, but I was still greeted by the poetry-lover, the shoegazer and the band photographer, even if his cute wife was home live blogging.

Playing tonight were the Dimmer Twins, two members of the band Horsehead ("the pretty ones," they've been known to call themselves), and these guys are pros, setting up and starting on time, a rarity for Live at Ipanema.

It had been a couple of years since I'd heard them play, but I immediately recognized "Hard Hand to Hold" with its metaphors about the challenges of a relationship.

Simply put, it's American rock and roll, the lyrics straight forward and plain spoken, like in "It's a Whiskey Night."

There's no place I'd rather stumble home to
Than a bed that's made for me and you

When they asked if there were any requests, wisecracking audience members shouted out suggestions of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Afternoon Delight."

They played neither, lead singer John saying, "Sometimes you don't know how much a song sounds like someone else's until you record it."

Closing with a song on which John played an electric mandolin with four strings (don't ask me, I had it explained to me twice and I still don't get it), he warned us that they hadn't played it out and they might mess it up.

If they did, I couldn't tell and if I had noticed, it wouldn't have mattered.

After a sunny road trip and a day spent outside, a fabulous meal and lots of good conversation, I was thrilled to be able to wrap up my day with some live music instead of in front of a TV.

There's no place better to stumble back to 
Than a basement with men singing to you

If that makes me Oscar the Grouch, so be it. Personally, I think it just makes for a mighty fine loop.

A Hard Hand to Hold

I've been going to the Listening Room since it started two and a half years ago, but tonight was the first time I ever got publicly thanked for it.

And it's not that I need the validation, but it was a kick to hear it anyway.

The evening began at Bistro 27 for a glass of Gavi and Shrimp Bobo, the menu's only tribute dish to Chef Carlos' mother.

I remember having it back before it was put on the menu and being taken with the uniquely African-influenced flavors.

A combination of yucca root, palm oil and coconut milk with jumbo shrimp over brioche is as rustic as it is rich.

Small wonder the man ended up being a chef with that kind of culinary talent at home.

There wasn't time for dessert because it's essential to get to the Listening Room in time to claim one's seat of choice.

I got a bit distracted from that purpose when I arrived because that's also when the homemade baked goods showed up.

Dedicated listeners had brought cinnamon cheesecake bites, chocolate chip cookies, lemon pound cake and mint chocolate chip cookies.

It was a veritable dessert smorgasbord. I wouldn't want it spread around, but I had four mint chocolate chip cookies.

By the time I made it to my usual seat, there was a guy in it and he wasn't holding it for me.

I took the seat next to him and headed back to mingle. By some stroke of luck, when I returned, he'd vacated my seat.

Part of me would like to think that some other regular came up to him aghast, asking what he was doing in Karen's seat and he moved accordingly.

We all make up our own fiction, let's face it.

It was the Listening Room's resident photographer Rob who took on stage duties tonight, acknowledging that, "If you're a regular of the Listening Room, then you know I'm not the regular emcee."

It was the dimpled and bearded Chris who, we were told, is busy anxiously planning his upcoming nuptials, keeping him from his usual duties.

Even a dedicated music lover like me can make allowances for absences based on true love.

Eric Hunter played first and he'd brought two guitars so he wouldn't have to tune it between songs.

You have to admire a man who thinks ahead.

He admitted right off the bat that he was just playing three chords, doing songs about starting over and relationships.

Warning us ahead of time that the next song would sound an awful lot like "R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A." he went on to prove it, even singing a few lines of "the Coug's" (his phrase, not mine) lyrics to prove it.

Favorite lyric: "What's the point of thinking for myself if all I think about is you?"

I could have answered him, but the time wasn't right.

After the break, it was the Dimmer Twins, or "the pretty half of Horsehead," a band I've heard several times before.

A song called "Daddy's Home" benefited from multi-instrumentalist Kevin's fine pedal steel playing.

After a couple of songs sung seated, singer John returned to his accustomed band  position standing up and seeming far more comfortable.

You don't often get to hear a song inspired by a painting, but tonight's "Night Sleeper" was inspired by an Andrew Wyeth painting of the same name John had seen in Pennsylvania.

Favorite lyric: "Unsuspecting hearts are about to meet their doom." 

During the break, I saw the scientist, who had snuck in late.

He's usually my go-to chocolate source at events, not that I needed anything after a third of a dozen cookies, but I have to ask to keep him on his toes.

"Just came from a Scout meeting," he said, pulling out his empty pockets. "Had to use it there."

Only right that the youth come before the women with the cookie crumbs on their lips.

After the break, Rob got back on stage for more show reminders and thank yous, this time thanking the regular attendees, beginning with yours truly.

It was a lovely shout-out.

James West and the Vendors played last and as is unfortunately often the case when there are three bands, some audience members had already departed.

Explaining that their bassist was new and that it was only his third time playing with them, the band began an energetic set that had them winking at the new bassist for reassurance.

James told us that the next song, "Three Miles Wide" was about when your girlfriend takes acid before you and you have to hurry to catch up with her.

I found that absolutely laugh-out-loud hysterical. You never know where the muse will come from.

When he broke a guitar strong, the drummer popped up saying,"I had the foresight to bring a spare guitar," unzipping the case of one his stepfather had apparently given him years ago.

His humor resurfaced later when James explained that their previous bassist had moved to Portland.

"God rest his soul," the drummer observed dryly from behind his kit.

Their songs covered what can only be described as American Gothic.

You know, haunted plantation houses, foreclosures, tornadoes, suicide and cheerleaders who do blow.

When their set wrapped up, James' shirt was sweaty with the exertion of it all and the others look satisfied with having succeeded at playing "three times quieter than we usually do."

It's key to play quiet so the band can revel in not hearing anyone talk while they perform.

Everyone who plays the Listening Room seems to acknowledge the novelty and satisfaction of having people give them their full attention.

And everyone who comes to the Listening Room is as important as the band onstage.

Chris and Rob have both said so, so it must be true.

Cookie monsters included.