It sounds worse than it is.
Excellent plan! Magpie at 6 before cock at 8. I like it!
You have your cock on a schedule?
Wanna make sure I allow time for it.
It's fairly important to some. Can't say as I blame you.
The cock in question was TheaterLAB's production of "C*ck" at the Basement and joining me were Pru and her beau. In fact, they were gracious enough to collect me for an evening in my 'hood, an evening that began with the more manly of the two calling up to my open window, "Stellaaaaaa!"
We arrived at Magpie sufficiently early to nab three bar stools and a bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose (Beau's Vivino wine app saved the data) because what could be more appropriate to pair with cock than sex?
It was accompanied by an amuse bouche of heirloom grape tomato halves with a blackberry, olive oil and fennel pollen, one exquisite bite that tasted like summer.
Matter of fact, most of the specials sounded that way, like the heirloom tomato and watermelon salad with Feta and salsa verde, a solid collection of fresh flavors Pru and I dove into. Why go to Magpie and not order the sausage of the day, in today's case pork with wildflower honey, a somewhat spicy link with just enough kick to make you pay attention?
Duck spring rolls rounded out our meal, their accompanying pickled vegetables adding nice tang to the duck's richness. Remember before pickling everything was a thing? Yea, neither do I.
Waiting for our food to arrive, we chatted about adjusting to living with Mom for the first time in 35 years. Not always an easy job, Pru attested, citing her Mom's doddering yet risque habits ("She told me she doesn't have filters anymore. She says f*cking a lot"), all of which are new to her now that they're under the same roof.
Personally, I thought the combination of doddering and risque sounded like a fun way to spend my golden years, but Pru quickly assured me that's not what we're aiming for.
The big topic was employer surveys seeking personal information about staff sexuality, time spent volunteering and other none-of-their-business issues. Pru cracked us up talking about the staff meeting today to discuss the survey and how it devolved into an Austin Powers skit with talk of good and evil.
Since we had a curtain to make, we moved on to dessert: chocolate beet creme brulee with peanut salad and, because we needed a second treat, a melange (not a menage, as some people hoped) of two gelatos - dulce de leche and buttered popcorn. I was ready to write off the latter as too "Jelly Belly" until I tasted it but the rich saltiness of the gelato won me over completely. I'm so easy sometimes.
We allowed 15 minutes to get to the theater barely over a mile away. Conveniently, that was enough time to park once, walk a block, reconsider, go get the car, re-park and walk two blocks (mind you, some of us walking pros, even in cute espadrilles).
This is the last weekend for Mike Bartlett's "C*ck" so of course it was sold out. I was feeling good about grabbing three seats in the front row of the low-walled, four-sided set (and I use the term loosely because the set was brilliantly conceived as a ring with dirt on the floor and chicken wire on the sides, an ideal setting for a cock fight), only later to realize that often actors sat on the bench in front of us, mere inches away, but with their backs to us.
You are a stream. I want a river.
I'm not complaining because it's pretty compelling to watch acting and theatrical interaction from that close up. At times I felt as if we were part of the scene, observing like a fly, eavesdropping.
You might be the one. That's why I'm still here.
The story of a gay man who breaks up with his boyfriend of seven years because the relationship has been going downhill took a detour when he met a woman and decided to sleep with her, eventually falling for her.
I'm not going to let you go, John, but you could contribute.
The cast of four was strong, each actor circling the others like they would in a cock fight. Deejay Gray as John showed the heartbreaking high wire act he was trying to balance deciding whether he loved a man or woman and going forward.
He eats tinned food...right from the tin!
That turned out to be the crux of the crisis: is it about the orientation of your sexuality or whatever person you wind up falling for? In this case, poor John can't decide which one he wants, swinging back and forth in his allegiance, and it's making the two people he loves crazy.
Each scene began with a character ringing a bell fight-style before another round of verbal battle began. It was clearly a fight to the finish, assuming John could come to terms with his own needs and wants instead of caving to someone else's. The hard part, it seemed, was deciding what he deserved.
Good question. Do each of us deserve to be happy in love? And how much convincing should go into keeping a relationship going? Do you always know when it's right? What happens when you make a mistake and leave? How important is the way your partner makes you feel?
Don't look at me. I said I make sure I allow time for cock, not that I understand the way they think. "C*ck" made it seem that sometimes the minds that go along with it don't always know, either.
Streams, be gone. Some of us insist on a river.
Showing posts with label the magpie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the magpie. Show all posts
Friday, June 19, 2015
Friday, March 20, 2015
Prove It All Night
Never believe a man who tells you his fish is this big. Unless, of course, he shows you a picture to prove it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Went Woman
Stay away long enough and you're bound to be surprised.
A week in the planning stages, my rendezvous with Pru (I love the sound of that) finally touched down tonight at Magpie, where I arrived first and snagged the last of the sex. Meaning that when Pru made her debut in a fabulous new coat with a faux-fur collar looking like Daisy out of "The Great Gatsby," she wasn't able to enjoy a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose with me.
Who'd have thought there'd be a run on Sex just before the anniversary of the virgin birth?
It was a good thing we'd arrived when we did because the tiny restaurant was soon filled to capacity with us snugly wedged behind a trio at a bar table by the window. After beginning with a seasonal toast, I paired my pink drink with a green plate of arugula, apple slices, goat cheese and bacon crumbles in a blood orange vinaigrette while Pru, as expected, was constitutionally unable to resist a good-sized bowl of crispy Brussels Sprouts.
Our first order of business was trying to recall when we'd last laid eyes on each other and, unbelievably, it had been the first day of November for the Bootleg Shakespeare performance. For sooth, those seven weeks had flown by.
But we are nothing if not pros at this friendship thing and soon resumed familiar rhythms.
Despite the fact that I'm not the book club type, one of our first topics was "Gone Girl," a book I'd read (despite my usual avoidance of popular contemporary fiction) and immediately insisted she read so we could dissect it.
I'd tried delving into it with a millennial and found myself at loggerheads with her about certain themes. Not so with Pru who, like me, was unable to accept the notion of sustaining a relationship with a sociopath simply because they "got" each other. We'd both closed the book depressed about the future of the species.
From there, we moved on to the subject of her male coworkers and their constant search for bargains; several of them had found a great deal on gun oil and snatched lots of it up. And by snatched, she meant that one guy had bought 30 bottles of it. That's a lot of well-oiled guns.
The funny part was that when her friend showed her a bottle of the stuff, she looked at the back label only to see that it wasn't really gun oil, it was sexual lubricant. That's a lot of well-oiled, um, weapons.
Being the theater lovers that we are, we'd both seen "Mame" and compared notes on what a stellar production it had been. I was hardly surprised when she told me she'd followed the play with a viewing of the movie in order to enjoy all the pithy dialog that didn't make it into the musical.
What I was surprised about was that she'd had male company for her "Mame" viewings since she's been on the wagon dating-wise for some time now. Apparently, having a smart, funny man she's known since college squire her around is something that began during our protracted separation.
And because this is the 21st century, she was even able to pull out her phone and show me pictures of a handsome guy with a great face. I told her I'd talk to him at a party based solely on the fact that he looked interesting. That seemed to please her, not that she needs my approval.
She dazzled me with her plans for a trip to Europe come April, a journey by train from Paris to Venice, then London and back to Paris. It's intended as a celebration of an important birthday, so she's pulling out all the stops. April in Paris, what better way to forget a meaningless number?
When it was gift time, she got crafty and I got smart-assed. She'd made me a jar of tuberose organic sugar scrub, knowing how much I love the scent of tuberose, which reminds me of my mother's front garden when I was young. To me, no rose smelled as intoxicating as tuberose.
I was even given instructions on where to scrub for best results: elbows, she said, knees and bottom. Seems it's all well and good to be smart and a good conversationalist, but sometimes a woman has to fall back on her soft parts. I wasn't surprised at this advice; this is the same friend who lectured me a while back about not wearing enough mascara.
Meanwhile, I'd bought her a cozy pair of sky blue pajamas with white polka dots...to tease her. There have been countless times when I've asked her to do something fun at night, only to be told she's already in her PJs so she can't possibly think of leaving her bed and Kindle. Tonight, her reaction was, "This is wonderful! My other pajamas are in the laundry. I'll wear these tonight."
At least I'd gotten her out beforehand.
She delighted in telling me about a recent night when she'd woken up so overheated she'd considered taking her pajamas off and sleeping naked. "I heard a story on NPR about how sleeping naked is good for you." In what ways, I wondered? She couldn't recall and hadn't done it but wanted me to know. It must be true if it's on NPR.
When she ordered coffee, I shocked her by sharing that I'd begun drinking hot tea, a first for me after a lifetime of eschewing hot beverages beyond hot chocolate. "Who are you?" she laughed, leaning in and scrutinizing me.
She said the exact same thing later in our conversation when I told her about a couple of the popular movies like "Gone Girl" and "Top Five" I'd seen in her absence. "Apparently if I leave you alone, you go mainstream!" she wailed.
Not true.
Apparently if I leave her alone, she becomes a flaming redhead, a most becoming color on her. When I inquired if she'd had a lot of compliments on it, she beamed. "Men seem to love it!" I don't know many men who don't appreciate a redhead. She observed that I was looking rather reddish myself.
Indeed. I don't have a big birthday coming up and I'm not thinking of taking up with a friend of 30 years, but it never hurts to get noticed. Or appreciated.
And just for the record, I do wear more mascara these days. Thanks, Pru. But not pajamas.
A week in the planning stages, my rendezvous with Pru (I love the sound of that) finally touched down tonight at Magpie, where I arrived first and snagged the last of the sex. Meaning that when Pru made her debut in a fabulous new coat with a faux-fur collar looking like Daisy out of "The Great Gatsby," she wasn't able to enjoy a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose with me.
Who'd have thought there'd be a run on Sex just before the anniversary of the virgin birth?
It was a good thing we'd arrived when we did because the tiny restaurant was soon filled to capacity with us snugly wedged behind a trio at a bar table by the window. After beginning with a seasonal toast, I paired my pink drink with a green plate of arugula, apple slices, goat cheese and bacon crumbles in a blood orange vinaigrette while Pru, as expected, was constitutionally unable to resist a good-sized bowl of crispy Brussels Sprouts.
Our first order of business was trying to recall when we'd last laid eyes on each other and, unbelievably, it had been the first day of November for the Bootleg Shakespeare performance. For sooth, those seven weeks had flown by.
But we are nothing if not pros at this friendship thing and soon resumed familiar rhythms.
Despite the fact that I'm not the book club type, one of our first topics was "Gone Girl," a book I'd read (despite my usual avoidance of popular contemporary fiction) and immediately insisted she read so we could dissect it.
I'd tried delving into it with a millennial and found myself at loggerheads with her about certain themes. Not so with Pru who, like me, was unable to accept the notion of sustaining a relationship with a sociopath simply because they "got" each other. We'd both closed the book depressed about the future of the species.
From there, we moved on to the subject of her male coworkers and their constant search for bargains; several of them had found a great deal on gun oil and snatched lots of it up. And by snatched, she meant that one guy had bought 30 bottles of it. That's a lot of well-oiled guns.
The funny part was that when her friend showed her a bottle of the stuff, she looked at the back label only to see that it wasn't really gun oil, it was sexual lubricant. That's a lot of well-oiled, um, weapons.
Being the theater lovers that we are, we'd both seen "Mame" and compared notes on what a stellar production it had been. I was hardly surprised when she told me she'd followed the play with a viewing of the movie in order to enjoy all the pithy dialog that didn't make it into the musical.
What I was surprised about was that she'd had male company for her "Mame" viewings since she's been on the wagon dating-wise for some time now. Apparently, having a smart, funny man she's known since college squire her around is something that began during our protracted separation.
And because this is the 21st century, she was even able to pull out her phone and show me pictures of a handsome guy with a great face. I told her I'd talk to him at a party based solely on the fact that he looked interesting. That seemed to please her, not that she needs my approval.
She dazzled me with her plans for a trip to Europe come April, a journey by train from Paris to Venice, then London and back to Paris. It's intended as a celebration of an important birthday, so she's pulling out all the stops. April in Paris, what better way to forget a meaningless number?
When it was gift time, she got crafty and I got smart-assed. She'd made me a jar of tuberose organic sugar scrub, knowing how much I love the scent of tuberose, which reminds me of my mother's front garden when I was young. To me, no rose smelled as intoxicating as tuberose.
I was even given instructions on where to scrub for best results: elbows, she said, knees and bottom. Seems it's all well and good to be smart and a good conversationalist, but sometimes a woman has to fall back on her soft parts. I wasn't surprised at this advice; this is the same friend who lectured me a while back about not wearing enough mascara.
Meanwhile, I'd bought her a cozy pair of sky blue pajamas with white polka dots...to tease her. There have been countless times when I've asked her to do something fun at night, only to be told she's already in her PJs so she can't possibly think of leaving her bed and Kindle. Tonight, her reaction was, "This is wonderful! My other pajamas are in the laundry. I'll wear these tonight."
At least I'd gotten her out beforehand.
She delighted in telling me about a recent night when she'd woken up so overheated she'd considered taking her pajamas off and sleeping naked. "I heard a story on NPR about how sleeping naked is good for you." In what ways, I wondered? She couldn't recall and hadn't done it but wanted me to know. It must be true if it's on NPR.
When she ordered coffee, I shocked her by sharing that I'd begun drinking hot tea, a first for me after a lifetime of eschewing hot beverages beyond hot chocolate. "Who are you?" she laughed, leaning in and scrutinizing me.
She said the exact same thing later in our conversation when I told her about a couple of the popular movies like "Gone Girl" and "Top Five" I'd seen in her absence. "Apparently if I leave you alone, you go mainstream!" she wailed.
Not true.
Apparently if I leave her alone, she becomes a flaming redhead, a most becoming color on her. When I inquired if she'd had a lot of compliments on it, she beamed. "Men seem to love it!" I don't know many men who don't appreciate a redhead. She observed that I was looking rather reddish myself.
Indeed. I don't have a big birthday coming up and I'm not thinking of taking up with a friend of 30 years, but it never hurts to get noticed. Or appreciated.
And just for the record, I do wear more mascara these days. Thanks, Pru. But not pajamas.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Down versus Pound
It was really too beautiful to spend the evening indoors - 77 degrees in mid-October - unless love was involved.
As it turned out, it was, but I didn't know that. I thought I was getting dinner and a play.
Given the bodacious weather, I was hardly surprised when I arrived at Magpie to find only one couple in attendance. I took a seat at the bar to await my friend's arrival and discuss my theater plans with the bartender.
Although he'd never been to Richmond Triangle Players, he used to work with their bartender, a woman I've bought wine from on many an occasion. Funny how there's never more than three degrees of separation from anyone in this town.
Right on time, my friend arrived (amuse bouche: easter egg radish slice with golden raisin chutney and carrot top) and we lost no time ordering so we could discuss theater without our mouths being full.
My only regret was that he invited me to go with him to see "Book of Mormon," a show I could never afford, and I'll be out of town that weekend. Drat the luck.
Once dinner came, we focused on that.
Not that anyone needs to eat their sweetbreads chicken-fried, but as long as they were offering, why not? These came with turnip hash, pickled relish and house hot sauce and I also shared a side of roasted brussels sprouts with my friend as he ate his huntsman's stew, which smelled divine.
Unfortunately, we had so little time left that dessert wasn't an option so we left for the theater to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of John Anastasi's new play, "Transition," without my sweet tooth being satisfied.
Instead, I sublimated it when the reading began with a sex scene between two women, one of whom came noisily moments after the action began. Unfortunately, her partner hadn't come (or enjoyed the strap-on she'd been using), causing her to lament, "I'd rather you went downtown instead of taking me to Pound Town."
Hmm, "Pound Town." That's a new one on me.
"Transition" was the story of a man born in a woman's body who takes 28 years to decide he needs to transition to the male he's always been. The problem is that his partner, the love of his life, is a lesbian who wants a female, not male, partner.
When he tells his mother about his planned hormone treatments and surgery, she's forced to come to terms with what she always knew but never acknowledged: her daughter is her son. "You haven't even started the male hormones and already you're acting just like your father!" Jacqueline Jones as the mother said to a big laugh.
Ditto the laughs when the subject of genital reconstruction surgery came up. "That glorious organ with the head but no brain." Ah, yes, we know the one.
But the most unexpectedly funny moment came when Melissa Johnston Price (as the doctor planning to do the surgery) explained all that was involved, right down to creation of the brain-less head. "So that's it in the nutshell," she said before turning to look at the audience with a classic WTF? look on her face. "I never saw that coming."
The audience laughed long and hard at her reaction to the line in the script.
Danya/Daniel, the woman transitioning, was played superbly by Eva DeVirgilis, who tries to convince her true love Addison (played by Sara Heifetz) that even if she has the surgery, they'll still love each other just the same, pulling out Shakespeare's "A rose by another name would smell as sweet" to prove her point.
Addison is having none of it. "Male hormones do not smell good," she retorts, miserable at the idea of having a male partner when she's madly in love with a woman.
But the bigger issue wasn't about smell or hormones or any of that. The play asks us why do we love the person we do? Is it their heart, their soul, their personality, their body?
The play was terribly poignant in parts, especially in a scene that takes place five years after surgery and the couple's split, when Daniel runs into the doctor who tries to assure him he'll get over the loss of his true love. He corrects her.
"Those who've had a real loss know that it never gets better. You just get better at living with it." I'd like to see someone put that in a fortune cookie.
The play ended ambiguously, leaving the outcome to the viewer's imagination. Some saw a happy ending and others didn't. Sort of like life.
But the biggest question remained. Could you still have real love if one of the people changes?
During the talkback with the playwright, director Carol Piersol and cast, the audience had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions on what needed to be changed and not changed in the script.
That's a major reason I look forward to this kind of reading. Part of its purpose is to provide feedback to the author and another part is to gauge audience reaction to the idea of seeing the play fully produced.
As an opinionated woman and a theater lover, I find it immensely satisfying to have a chance to provide that kind of input.
Playwright Anastasi told us he'd spent a great deal of time talking to a doctor who does this kind of surgery in order to get the finer points right. "I still take a lot of criticism as a heterosexual writing about the trans experience. But, Stephen King, did he kill all those people?"
I think not. Clearly, the man had a sense of humor.
What he did make clear was that what he had written was, more than anything else, a love story. By the end, Daniel has fully transitioned and has finally gotten what he's wanted his whole life. But in the process, he's lost the only person he ever needed. He's alone but acknowledges that that's his choice.
"He chooses not to have someone else if he can't have the love of his life, "Anastasi told us to wrap things up.
And that, if you ask me, makes it a hell of a love story.
As it turned out, it was, but I didn't know that. I thought I was getting dinner and a play.
Given the bodacious weather, I was hardly surprised when I arrived at Magpie to find only one couple in attendance. I took a seat at the bar to await my friend's arrival and discuss my theater plans with the bartender.
Although he'd never been to Richmond Triangle Players, he used to work with their bartender, a woman I've bought wine from on many an occasion. Funny how there's never more than three degrees of separation from anyone in this town.
Right on time, my friend arrived (amuse bouche: easter egg radish slice with golden raisin chutney and carrot top) and we lost no time ordering so we could discuss theater without our mouths being full.
My only regret was that he invited me to go with him to see "Book of Mormon," a show I could never afford, and I'll be out of town that weekend. Drat the luck.
Once dinner came, we focused on that.
Not that anyone needs to eat their sweetbreads chicken-fried, but as long as they were offering, why not? These came with turnip hash, pickled relish and house hot sauce and I also shared a side of roasted brussels sprouts with my friend as he ate his huntsman's stew, which smelled divine.
Unfortunately, we had so little time left that dessert wasn't an option so we left for the theater to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of John Anastasi's new play, "Transition," without my sweet tooth being satisfied.
Instead, I sublimated it when the reading began with a sex scene between two women, one of whom came noisily moments after the action began. Unfortunately, her partner hadn't come (or enjoyed the strap-on she'd been using), causing her to lament, "I'd rather you went downtown instead of taking me to Pound Town."
Hmm, "Pound Town." That's a new one on me.
"Transition" was the story of a man born in a woman's body who takes 28 years to decide he needs to transition to the male he's always been. The problem is that his partner, the love of his life, is a lesbian who wants a female, not male, partner.
When he tells his mother about his planned hormone treatments and surgery, she's forced to come to terms with what she always knew but never acknowledged: her daughter is her son. "You haven't even started the male hormones and already you're acting just like your father!" Jacqueline Jones as the mother said to a big laugh.
Ditto the laughs when the subject of genital reconstruction surgery came up. "That glorious organ with the head but no brain." Ah, yes, we know the one.
But the most unexpectedly funny moment came when Melissa Johnston Price (as the doctor planning to do the surgery) explained all that was involved, right down to creation of the brain-less head. "So that's it in the nutshell," she said before turning to look at the audience with a classic WTF? look on her face. "I never saw that coming."
The audience laughed long and hard at her reaction to the line in the script.
Danya/Daniel, the woman transitioning, was played superbly by Eva DeVirgilis, who tries to convince her true love Addison (played by Sara Heifetz) that even if she has the surgery, they'll still love each other just the same, pulling out Shakespeare's "A rose by another name would smell as sweet" to prove her point.
Addison is having none of it. "Male hormones do not smell good," she retorts, miserable at the idea of having a male partner when she's madly in love with a woman.
But the bigger issue wasn't about smell or hormones or any of that. The play asks us why do we love the person we do? Is it their heart, their soul, their personality, their body?
The play was terribly poignant in parts, especially in a scene that takes place five years after surgery and the couple's split, when Daniel runs into the doctor who tries to assure him he'll get over the loss of his true love. He corrects her.
"Those who've had a real loss know that it never gets better. You just get better at living with it." I'd like to see someone put that in a fortune cookie.
The play ended ambiguously, leaving the outcome to the viewer's imagination. Some saw a happy ending and others didn't. Sort of like life.
But the biggest question remained. Could you still have real love if one of the people changes?
During the talkback with the playwright, director Carol Piersol and cast, the audience had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions on what needed to be changed and not changed in the script.
That's a major reason I look forward to this kind of reading. Part of its purpose is to provide feedback to the author and another part is to gauge audience reaction to the idea of seeing the play fully produced.
As an opinionated woman and a theater lover, I find it immensely satisfying to have a chance to provide that kind of input.
Playwright Anastasi told us he'd spent a great deal of time talking to a doctor who does this kind of surgery in order to get the finer points right. "I still take a lot of criticism as a heterosexual writing about the trans experience. But, Stephen King, did he kill all those people?"
I think not. Clearly, the man had a sense of humor.
What he did make clear was that what he had written was, more than anything else, a love story. By the end, Daniel has fully transitioned and has finally gotten what he's wanted his whole life. But in the process, he's lost the only person he ever needed. He's alone but acknowledges that that's his choice.
"He chooses not to have someone else if he can't have the love of his life, "Anastasi told us to wrap things up.
And that, if you ask me, makes it a hell of a love story.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Glowing in the Southern Summer
A third anniversary may not sound like much, but it is.
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Readers' Rendezvous
Once upon a time in the south, we took heat naps. I still do.
When by late afternoon it felt like an effort to research and write in the sunny front room (even with the shades angled down), I gave up and took to my bed.
With both a ceiling fan and an oscillating fan blowing directly on me, I stretched out on freshly changed sheets for a a bit of shut eye to escape the heat and restore my energy.
Only problem was that after my late night tiki adventure, I ended up sleeping longer than I intended, making for limited time to eat before going out for music.
Walking in to Magpie, I found a practically full house and claimed one of two empty bar stools, the only free seats in the house.
New-to-me Le Chaz Rose got me started while I listened to an annoying-sounding woman discuss with her fiance how they might invest some of their wedding gift money and waited for an order of charred asparagus with sauteed wild mushrooms, spring onion cream and Manchego crumbs to come out.
Next to me, two women were having a lively conversation and when I glanced over, one of the women smiled at me. A moment later, I heard her say, "I'm the problem," and I had to laugh at the sound of that statement and join in.
Leaning across her friend, the smiler said to me, "You are so lovely, I just had to tell you that." What can you say besides a heartfelt thank you when a random stranger says something so nice to you? Damned if I know.
But it was the start of a conversation with the two of them, who turned out to be librarians, well traveled and positively delightful to talk to. Before it was all over, we knew a surprisingly lot about each other despite the whole conversation lasting less than an hour.
One used to have a riverfront house on the Rappahannock until Hurricane Isabel had destroyed half of it. The other had lived all over the world and was amazed at how much there was to do in Richmond. Both loved to eat out and had been coming to Magpie since it first opened.
I got so caught up in our discussion that one of them finally had to remind me to eat my food before it got cold, but not before we discussed books and they suggested I join the library's summer reading club, something I haven't done since childhood.
When they got their check, one turned to me and said, "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed talking with you," and asked how they could contact me for a future rendezvous.
It wasn't the first time I've given strangers my name and e-mail and it probably won't be the last. I couldn't help thanking them for providing such stellar company on a solo outing.
From there, I went to Scuffletown Park for the sunset concert series where I found a good-sized crowd gathering: kids in pajamas, pizza eaters, wine drinkers, a girl with lavender hair, two platinum blonds with pixie haircuts (one of whom I know) and several familiar faces including the musician whose band's first performance I'd recently seen.
With my fan in hand, I took a seat on a bench behind a trio munching on pizza sprawled out on a groovy-looking blanket.
Pedal Pops RVA was rapidly selling out, having already gone through avocado/lime and triple berry, but still offering strawberry, pineapple/mint and cherry chai. Given the heat, it was definitely Popsicle weather.
Organizer Patrick kicked things off by reminding us that the sunset series always begins 15 minutes before sunset, "So consult an almanac, go to your library or call City Hall to find out when sunset is and be here next Tuesday."
Playing tonight beside the Little Free Library box were the Trillions or at least half of them, including bandleader Charlie in shorts, something I don't think I've seen before.
With acoustic and electric guitars (and the smallest of amps), two voices and a catalog that took a lot of its cues from the Beatles (including the first song with its many "yea, yea, yeas"), the two members of the Trillions played and harmonized for our listening pleasure.
"There's usually more of us to make us louder, " Charlie explained to those new to the Trillions, although I don't know who in this town couldn't know about these masters of power pop.
As cicadas buzzed and fireflies flitted around, they played some new songs from their upcoming album and one about a sports bar with the line, "My friend are your friends, but your friends are bullshit," while Charlie danced around in the grass making it his own stage.
"What/When/Where" ("This song is kind of appropriate for this, kind of about Richmond") was vintage Trillions but I got even more excited when I heard the first few chords of the Beatles "Two of Us," but then they stopped. Fortunately, it was just a misfire and they went on to do a lovely rendition of the song as the night sky began giving way from blue to dusky black.
You and I have memories
longer than the road
that stretches out ahead
My evening ended with a nightcap of Le Petit Balthazar Rose at Lucy's and lazy hours of conversation with other bar sitters while Band of Horses, Ryan Adams and songs like the Sundays' cover of "Wild Horses" played.
This summer heat is all the permission I need to do whatever I want. Besides my summer reading list, of course.
When by late afternoon it felt like an effort to research and write in the sunny front room (even with the shades angled down), I gave up and took to my bed.
With both a ceiling fan and an oscillating fan blowing directly on me, I stretched out on freshly changed sheets for a a bit of shut eye to escape the heat and restore my energy.
Only problem was that after my late night tiki adventure, I ended up sleeping longer than I intended, making for limited time to eat before going out for music.
Walking in to Magpie, I found a practically full house and claimed one of two empty bar stools, the only free seats in the house.
New-to-me Le Chaz Rose got me started while I listened to an annoying-sounding woman discuss with her fiance how they might invest some of their wedding gift money and waited for an order of charred asparagus with sauteed wild mushrooms, spring onion cream and Manchego crumbs to come out.
Next to me, two women were having a lively conversation and when I glanced over, one of the women smiled at me. A moment later, I heard her say, "I'm the problem," and I had to laugh at the sound of that statement and join in.
Leaning across her friend, the smiler said to me, "You are so lovely, I just had to tell you that." What can you say besides a heartfelt thank you when a random stranger says something so nice to you? Damned if I know.
But it was the start of a conversation with the two of them, who turned out to be librarians, well traveled and positively delightful to talk to. Before it was all over, we knew a surprisingly lot about each other despite the whole conversation lasting less than an hour.
One used to have a riverfront house on the Rappahannock until Hurricane Isabel had destroyed half of it. The other had lived all over the world and was amazed at how much there was to do in Richmond. Both loved to eat out and had been coming to Magpie since it first opened.
I got so caught up in our discussion that one of them finally had to remind me to eat my food before it got cold, but not before we discussed books and they suggested I join the library's summer reading club, something I haven't done since childhood.
When they got their check, one turned to me and said, "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed talking with you," and asked how they could contact me for a future rendezvous.
It wasn't the first time I've given strangers my name and e-mail and it probably won't be the last. I couldn't help thanking them for providing such stellar company on a solo outing.
From there, I went to Scuffletown Park for the sunset concert series where I found a good-sized crowd gathering: kids in pajamas, pizza eaters, wine drinkers, a girl with lavender hair, two platinum blonds with pixie haircuts (one of whom I know) and several familiar faces including the musician whose band's first performance I'd recently seen.
With my fan in hand, I took a seat on a bench behind a trio munching on pizza sprawled out on a groovy-looking blanket.
Pedal Pops RVA was rapidly selling out, having already gone through avocado/lime and triple berry, but still offering strawberry, pineapple/mint and cherry chai. Given the heat, it was definitely Popsicle weather.
Organizer Patrick kicked things off by reminding us that the sunset series always begins 15 minutes before sunset, "So consult an almanac, go to your library or call City Hall to find out when sunset is and be here next Tuesday."
Playing tonight beside the Little Free Library box were the Trillions or at least half of them, including bandleader Charlie in shorts, something I don't think I've seen before.
With acoustic and electric guitars (and the smallest of amps), two voices and a catalog that took a lot of its cues from the Beatles (including the first song with its many "yea, yea, yeas"), the two members of the Trillions played and harmonized for our listening pleasure.
"There's usually more of us to make us louder, " Charlie explained to those new to the Trillions, although I don't know who in this town couldn't know about these masters of power pop.
As cicadas buzzed and fireflies flitted around, they played some new songs from their upcoming album and one about a sports bar with the line, "My friend are your friends, but your friends are bullshit," while Charlie danced around in the grass making it his own stage.
"What/When/Where" ("This song is kind of appropriate for this, kind of about Richmond") was vintage Trillions but I got even more excited when I heard the first few chords of the Beatles "Two of Us," but then they stopped. Fortunately, it was just a misfire and they went on to do a lovely rendition of the song as the night sky began giving way from blue to dusky black.
You and I have memories
longer than the road
that stretches out ahead
My evening ended with a nightcap of Le Petit Balthazar Rose at Lucy's and lazy hours of conversation with other bar sitters while Band of Horses, Ryan Adams and songs like the Sundays' cover of "Wild Horses" played.
This summer heat is all the permission I need to do whatever I want. Besides my summer reading list, of course.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Apples in Stereo
Never buy apples on sale or cider at the store.
How do I know? Because Professor Apple said it was so.
Tom Burford is Prof Apple, an expert on apple cultivation from Amherst County, Virginia and the author of a new book, "Apples of North America," the source of his talk tonight at the Library of Virginia.
I was surprised at how many couples were in attendance, but perhaps that was because it wasn't just a talk but also a cider tasting with Blue Bee Cider and Albermarle Cider Works.
Fact: it's far easier to get your significant other to do something cultural when there's drinking involved.
Waiting for the talk to begin, I overheard a woman discussing her upcoming Rose party Monday. She was instructing one of her guests to wear the same gray sweater he'd worn last year, the better for them to hold up glasses of Rose against to compare hues.
You know, salmon versus strawberry pink versus pale cherry.
Forget the gray sweater, I've never heard of a Rose party in April. I'm going to a couple, but they're both in June. Could this be jumping the Rose gun?
The editor of Richmond Magazine came in and said hello, asking where I was off to after the talk and tasting, because she was certain I had additional plans. When I told her dinner, she said I didn't have to tell her where and I didn't.
Charlotte of Albemarle Cider Works introduced the professor, saying his work had inspired them to start a cider operation. She told us Courtney from Blue Bee had apprenticed with them for a year before starting her urban cidery.
It was becoming clear that the cidery world is just as incestuous as the restaurant or music community. And at the heart of it all is Tom Burford, aka Professor Apple.
"I would bet everyone of you here likes apples a lot," the Professor said. "Else, why would you be here?
He started with a little history about how apple seeds had been brought to Jamestown in 1607 (European honeybees arrived in 1611) to plant, not for eating, but for cider.
The Virginia soil turned out to be so fertile that apple trees flourished and they were soon grafting to duplicate the particularly tasty apple trees.
That's when the best part came, as the Professor took us through the really tasty heirloom apples, so many completely new to me.
Arkansas black, the new kid on the block in 1870, Ben Davis, one of the most promising apples of the future and Black Twig, which I've not only picked myself, but the Prof called one of the great apples in America.
There was the Cannon Pearmain, an old historic Virginia apple he told us to keep our eye on, the Grimes Golden he described as the sugar apple that makes fabulous brandy, Harrison, the most desirable cider apple and lost for many years and only rediscovered by the Prof in 1989 in New Jersey.
So it turns out that those little Lady Apples I thought were purely decorative make exquisite cider and vinegar. The Lowry, he said, deserves to be brought back. The Newtown (or Albemarle Pippin) is such high quality it's used to make "Sunday cider," special stuff, in other words.
Pilot is the apple of Nelson County, Northern Spy makes the best pies and Ralls is the apple of Amherst County, planted by Jefferson at Monticello.
Roxbury Russett is the oldest named variety, Smokehouse is a great frying apple (and what his mother was picking when she went into labor with him) and Virginia Hewes is considered one of the best in the world for cider.
And the Winesap, well that's a classic apple perfect for brandy.
Dizzy at the array of apples we'd just learned, someone asked the Professor's favorite. "My favorite eating apple is the last one I ate," he claimed.
He should know. This is a guy who had introduced heirloom apple varieties to New England the West Coast, France and Senegal. His passion for apples and identifying and preserving long-lost varieties made him a fascinating speaker to listen to.
To close, he implored us to seek out heirloom apples, go to farmers' markets and orchards and help support bringing back apples that taste good instead of the dreaded red or golden Delicious, an apple I've refused to buy or eat most of my life.
Our brains newly full of apple info, he dispatched us to the cidery tasting just outside the lecture hall doors, like a 3rd grade teacher sending the kids off to recess after a morning's lesson.
Since I've been to both cideries, I limited myself to one tasting at each: Albemarle's Jupiter's Legacy (because it uses Black Twigs, natch) and Blue Bee's Aragon 1904, which tastes one step removed from champagne to me.
I have to say, as book talks go, this one rates right up there with the moonshine author at Chop Suey, here. Say what you will, but tasting aids make learning more fun.
Thanks, Professor Apple!
Walking in to Magpie for dinner didn't look promising. Every bar seat was taken, but I was told I could waste a three-top by sitting there, a position that always makes me feel guilty.
Still, I wanted to eat, so I did, hoping a stool would open up soon and I could move.
I ordered a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose, only to find that the clamorous table behind me had gobbled up the last bottle. Clearly there would be no sex for me tonight.
My server graciously suggested a Cremant d'Alsace instead and I was happy to make the shift from Michigan to France.
An amuse bouche of caramelized onion puree with a lump of blue cheese and bits of cocoa crisps was presented, one perfect bite to whet the appetite.
One of tonight's specials was bacon-wrapped rabbit country pate with rhubarb ('tis the season) jam and housemade pickled vegetables and since I was already sipping bubbles, pate seemed like a natural.
I'd only taken a few bites, slathering the pate thickly on toasted crostini, when two guys arrived for a later reservation to find that their table was not yet free.
Here was my chance to assuage my guilt about taking up a three-top, so I invited them to join me. They pretended to protest for a minute, worried that they were intruding on my evening, and then six more people walked in and they gratefully accepted my offer.
Explaining that they needn't feel obligated to converse with me, the one not getting the drinks was having none of it. "No, we're extroverted, so we want to talk to you." Well, now, this was going to work out just fine.
Thomas and Joe were on their second date and as charming as they could be. After procuring beverages, we proceeded to share information about restaurants we liked, where we lived and how they liked life in Richmond, both of them being fairly recent transplants.
"What's an attractive woman like you doing eating dinner by herself on a Friday night?" Joe wanted to know.
Who you calling attractive, I wanted to know.
They were intrigued by the many faces of Helen's, how different it is for dinner versus late night or brunch. Joe insisted that the Hill Cafe has the best fried chicken in town, a fact I doubted. Thomas wanted to know about all the cheap eats deals I could share.
Before long, I had a talker on either side of me, asking questions and providing answers to mine.
I inquired if either got out to hear much local music and got nothing, but Thomas offered that one of the friends who was joining them was a singer in a band.
When the duo arrived, I was introduced as their new friend, one who had saved them from having to stand in the middle of the restaurant with nowhere to go. Forget the gratitude, I wanted to know which was the musician to start that conversation.
"What local bands do you like?" he asked me, testing me. When I mentioned White Laces, he said they used the same producer and an immediate bond was formed in that way that music-lovers do when they find someone who likes a band they do.
We moved on to venues when I said I regularly frequented Gallery 5, the Camel and Strange Matter and Thomas said he'd never heard of Gallery 5.
It is my un-sworn duty in life to school people on the finer points of Jackson Ward's diverse offerings, explaining to him that if he'd been to Comfort- and he'd told me he had -then he'd been a mere block from the venue.
When the server came to get them to lead them to their table, we all said heartfelt thanks for the company and conversation.
I'm not going to force myself on anyone, but I'm not going to waste a three-top if I can help it, either.
Never buy apples on sale, cider at the store or turn away perfectly good company. Professor's rules.
How do I know? Because Professor Apple said it was so.
Tom Burford is Prof Apple, an expert on apple cultivation from Amherst County, Virginia and the author of a new book, "Apples of North America," the source of his talk tonight at the Library of Virginia.
I was surprised at how many couples were in attendance, but perhaps that was because it wasn't just a talk but also a cider tasting with Blue Bee Cider and Albermarle Cider Works.
Fact: it's far easier to get your significant other to do something cultural when there's drinking involved.
Waiting for the talk to begin, I overheard a woman discussing her upcoming Rose party Monday. She was instructing one of her guests to wear the same gray sweater he'd worn last year, the better for them to hold up glasses of Rose against to compare hues.
You know, salmon versus strawberry pink versus pale cherry.
Forget the gray sweater, I've never heard of a Rose party in April. I'm going to a couple, but they're both in June. Could this be jumping the Rose gun?
The editor of Richmond Magazine came in and said hello, asking where I was off to after the talk and tasting, because she was certain I had additional plans. When I told her dinner, she said I didn't have to tell her where and I didn't.
Charlotte of Albemarle Cider Works introduced the professor, saying his work had inspired them to start a cider operation. She told us Courtney from Blue Bee had apprenticed with them for a year before starting her urban cidery.
It was becoming clear that the cidery world is just as incestuous as the restaurant or music community. And at the heart of it all is Tom Burford, aka Professor Apple.
"I would bet everyone of you here likes apples a lot," the Professor said. "Else, why would you be here?
He started with a little history about how apple seeds had been brought to Jamestown in 1607 (European honeybees arrived in 1611) to plant, not for eating, but for cider.
The Virginia soil turned out to be so fertile that apple trees flourished and they were soon grafting to duplicate the particularly tasty apple trees.
That's when the best part came, as the Professor took us through the really tasty heirloom apples, so many completely new to me.
Arkansas black, the new kid on the block in 1870, Ben Davis, one of the most promising apples of the future and Black Twig, which I've not only picked myself, but the Prof called one of the great apples in America.
There was the Cannon Pearmain, an old historic Virginia apple he told us to keep our eye on, the Grimes Golden he described as the sugar apple that makes fabulous brandy, Harrison, the most desirable cider apple and lost for many years and only rediscovered by the Prof in 1989 in New Jersey.
So it turns out that those little Lady Apples I thought were purely decorative make exquisite cider and vinegar. The Lowry, he said, deserves to be brought back. The Newtown (or Albemarle Pippin) is such high quality it's used to make "Sunday cider," special stuff, in other words.
Pilot is the apple of Nelson County, Northern Spy makes the best pies and Ralls is the apple of Amherst County, planted by Jefferson at Monticello.
Roxbury Russett is the oldest named variety, Smokehouse is a great frying apple (and what his mother was picking when she went into labor with him) and Virginia Hewes is considered one of the best in the world for cider.
And the Winesap, well that's a classic apple perfect for brandy.
Dizzy at the array of apples we'd just learned, someone asked the Professor's favorite. "My favorite eating apple is the last one I ate," he claimed.
He should know. This is a guy who had introduced heirloom apple varieties to New England the West Coast, France and Senegal. His passion for apples and identifying and preserving long-lost varieties made him a fascinating speaker to listen to.
To close, he implored us to seek out heirloom apples, go to farmers' markets and orchards and help support bringing back apples that taste good instead of the dreaded red or golden Delicious, an apple I've refused to buy or eat most of my life.
Our brains newly full of apple info, he dispatched us to the cidery tasting just outside the lecture hall doors, like a 3rd grade teacher sending the kids off to recess after a morning's lesson.
Since I've been to both cideries, I limited myself to one tasting at each: Albemarle's Jupiter's Legacy (because it uses Black Twigs, natch) and Blue Bee's Aragon 1904, which tastes one step removed from champagne to me.
I have to say, as book talks go, this one rates right up there with the moonshine author at Chop Suey, here. Say what you will, but tasting aids make learning more fun.
Thanks, Professor Apple!
Walking in to Magpie for dinner didn't look promising. Every bar seat was taken, but I was told I could waste a three-top by sitting there, a position that always makes me feel guilty.
Still, I wanted to eat, so I did, hoping a stool would open up soon and I could move.
I ordered a glass of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose, only to find that the clamorous table behind me had gobbled up the last bottle. Clearly there would be no sex for me tonight.
My server graciously suggested a Cremant d'Alsace instead and I was happy to make the shift from Michigan to France.
An amuse bouche of caramelized onion puree with a lump of blue cheese and bits of cocoa crisps was presented, one perfect bite to whet the appetite.
One of tonight's specials was bacon-wrapped rabbit country pate with rhubarb ('tis the season) jam and housemade pickled vegetables and since I was already sipping bubbles, pate seemed like a natural.
I'd only taken a few bites, slathering the pate thickly on toasted crostini, when two guys arrived for a later reservation to find that their table was not yet free.
Here was my chance to assuage my guilt about taking up a three-top, so I invited them to join me. They pretended to protest for a minute, worried that they were intruding on my evening, and then six more people walked in and they gratefully accepted my offer.
Explaining that they needn't feel obligated to converse with me, the one not getting the drinks was having none of it. "No, we're extroverted, so we want to talk to you." Well, now, this was going to work out just fine.
Thomas and Joe were on their second date and as charming as they could be. After procuring beverages, we proceeded to share information about restaurants we liked, where we lived and how they liked life in Richmond, both of them being fairly recent transplants.
"What's an attractive woman like you doing eating dinner by herself on a Friday night?" Joe wanted to know.
Who you calling attractive, I wanted to know.
They were intrigued by the many faces of Helen's, how different it is for dinner versus late night or brunch. Joe insisted that the Hill Cafe has the best fried chicken in town, a fact I doubted. Thomas wanted to know about all the cheap eats deals I could share.
Before long, I had a talker on either side of me, asking questions and providing answers to mine.
I inquired if either got out to hear much local music and got nothing, but Thomas offered that one of the friends who was joining them was a singer in a band.
When the duo arrived, I was introduced as their new friend, one who had saved them from having to stand in the middle of the restaurant with nowhere to go. Forget the gratitude, I wanted to know which was the musician to start that conversation.
"What local bands do you like?" he asked me, testing me. When I mentioned White Laces, he said they used the same producer and an immediate bond was formed in that way that music-lovers do when they find someone who likes a band they do.
We moved on to venues when I said I regularly frequented Gallery 5, the Camel and Strange Matter and Thomas said he'd never heard of Gallery 5.
It is my un-sworn duty in life to school people on the finer points of Jackson Ward's diverse offerings, explaining to him that if he'd been to Comfort- and he'd told me he had -then he'd been a mere block from the venue.
When the server came to get them to lead them to their table, we all said heartfelt thanks for the company and conversation.
I'm not going to force myself on anyone, but I'm not going to waste a three-top if I can help it, either.
Never buy apples on sale, cider at the store or turn away perfectly good company. Professor's rules.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Let It Whip
Try me again and I promise I'll be more fun this time ~ from preview of "Le Weekend"
My weekend officially began with a brunch date who thoughtfully asked where I wanted to go. Given the lovely weather, I chose to walk to the Magpie where we discovered a bartenders' convention.
Well, not really, but standing out in front was a bartender from Amuse and sitting just inside the door was a bartender from Dutch & Co. and I stopped looking after that.
Barkeeps gotta eat, too, just like regular people.
The place was mobbed, but we'd arrived toward the end of brunch, meaning that all the late risers had just started rolling in for morning-after sustenance.
With Chaka Khan's "I Feel for You" playing, my date brilliantly suggested starting with a bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" brut rose and who am I to argue with a date that begins with sex? Our server seconded the motion, sounding like a hardcore restaurant type by saying that Sundays and Mondays should always begin with bubbles.
Come to think of it, I'm not even in the business and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment.
It was impossible to resist the sausage of the day, a curried wild boar with blue cheese and pear jam to provide piquant contrast, so we didn't. Chef Owen remains the sausage king in these parts (downtown Carver and J-Ward).
The music was killing it with vintage soul - the Time, Janet Jackson, the Dazz Band -which I had no problem giving myself over to.
Today's fried fish sandwich was made with scallops (now there's something you don't often see) and plated with kimchee slaw and crispy fries, so I loaded that slaw onto the fat bun and did double duty inhaling everything at once.
My date's biscuits and sausage gravy reminded me of Toast's owner saying how good Chef Owen's biscuits are and musing whether or not Owen would make him biscuits for his last meal on earth.
Good biscuits are hard to come by and I grew up with a grandmother who made them from scratch at least twice a week, so I know.
As the place gradually emptied out, we moved on to dessert of chocolate, caramel and coconut over shortbread, to my mind, a clever take on the Girl Scout cookie Samoa (my favorite), which they were calling a torte. Or tart, depending on the server.
Tort, tart, tomato, tomahto, whatever.
With the last of the pink bubbles, it went down as smoothly as a Chaka Khan song. Hell, I'm not even a bartender and I know that much.
My weekend officially began with a brunch date who thoughtfully asked where I wanted to go. Given the lovely weather, I chose to walk to the Magpie where we discovered a bartenders' convention.
Well, not really, but standing out in front was a bartender from Amuse and sitting just inside the door was a bartender from Dutch & Co. and I stopped looking after that.
Barkeeps gotta eat, too, just like regular people.
The place was mobbed, but we'd arrived toward the end of brunch, meaning that all the late risers had just started rolling in for morning-after sustenance.
With Chaka Khan's "I Feel for You" playing, my date brilliantly suggested starting with a bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" brut rose and who am I to argue with a date that begins with sex? Our server seconded the motion, sounding like a hardcore restaurant type by saying that Sundays and Mondays should always begin with bubbles.
Come to think of it, I'm not even in the business and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment.
It was impossible to resist the sausage of the day, a curried wild boar with blue cheese and pear jam to provide piquant contrast, so we didn't. Chef Owen remains the sausage king in these parts (downtown Carver and J-Ward).
The music was killing it with vintage soul - the Time, Janet Jackson, the Dazz Band -which I had no problem giving myself over to.
Today's fried fish sandwich was made with scallops (now there's something you don't often see) and plated with kimchee slaw and crispy fries, so I loaded that slaw onto the fat bun and did double duty inhaling everything at once.
My date's biscuits and sausage gravy reminded me of Toast's owner saying how good Chef Owen's biscuits are and musing whether or not Owen would make him biscuits for his last meal on earth.
Good biscuits are hard to come by and I grew up with a grandmother who made them from scratch at least twice a week, so I know.
As the place gradually emptied out, we moved on to dessert of chocolate, caramel and coconut over shortbread, to my mind, a clever take on the Girl Scout cookie Samoa (my favorite), which they were calling a torte. Or tart, depending on the server.
Tort, tart, tomato, tomahto, whatever.
With the last of the pink bubbles, it went down as smoothly as a Chaka Khan song. Hell, I'm not even a bartender and I know that much.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Cautiously Optimistic
It's a very good Monday when I have to turn down a good friend's last minute offer.
Hey, I am free tonight. Care to go out?
The last picture I saw of this guy on Facebook showed him with a KitchenAid bowl on his head and a cigar in his mouth. He is, as you might guess, a good time.
But not tonight. Wish I could, but for a change I have a date. Rain check, please?
My date started at Lunch, where I tucked my cute tights into a corner away from the opening door and encroaching frigid air, with half-priced Pinot Noir and Summit Avenue crabcake medallions with griddle cakes and sriracha aioli.
Count me as a long-time fan of Lunch's griddle cakes.
While we devoured crabcakes, Switzerland's women's hockey team rolled over and played dead, of no concern to me, but an issue for some in the restaurant.
Aren't you guys all about chocolate and neutrality? What's this puck business anyway?
Next I chose a luncheonette salad topped by a scoop of texture-free chicken salad, mainly because I was anticipating a vat of buttered popcorn in tonight's future.
My date chose the meatloaf of beef, pork and buffalo with the currently-ubiquitous brussels sprouts made especially appealing with a lavish application of bacon.
Meanwhile, we eavesdropped on a guy telling his tale of having to go to court to get the $18K his wife owed him in child support. That's a one lame mother, if you ask me.
We sipped our $12 bottle while discussing the trepidation with which local restaurants have realized that the VA ABC is now following their Twitter feed, a fact I give my friend Jennifer credit for.
It's about time someone held these twats accountable for the venom and malarkey they spew online.
Dinner over, we went next door to peer into the windows of the upcoming Supper, Lunch's bigger brother space still being renovated.
An arriving woman spotted us and squealed, "Ooooh, is it finally open?" Close, but no cigar.
Then we high-tailed it to the Criterion for "Philomena," Dame Judi Dench's Oscar-nominated turn as an Irish woman forced to give up her baby for adoption by the nuns at the convent who take her sullied soul in and deliver the baby (sans anesthesia, mind you).
Let's just say that there were plenty of great anti-Catholic cracks for which I saw fit to savor.
The beautifully shot Stephen Frears film had locations in Ireland (one of my must-sees before I die, being half O'Donnell and all) and Washington, D.C., my birthplace. There was even a gratuitous scenic Maryland road shot for good measure.
But the glory of the film was seeing Dame Judi play the simplest of women, someone who takes huge pleasure in romance book series and free hotel breakfasts. Very different than the Dame Judi I have seen before.
The story was based on a true, heartbreaking one of unwed mothers forced into labor by nuns who guilt them about their sexual transgressions and was sweet, sad and revelatory about that era when big Hollywood stars could breeze over to Europe and with enough cash, buy babies.
I'd just read in the Washington Post that the real Philomena has been in the U.S., pushing adoption rights, not surprising given how long she searched for the son taken from her and adopted in America.
Unbelievable the things that were considered acceptable as recently as the '50s.
Having done our Oscar homework, my date suggested a nightcap so we could discuss the film and I suggested Magpie. He was wary of the hour - 9:45- presuming they'd be about to close down.
Instead, we found a full house and many people just then being told of the specials. In other words, we had more than enough time for wine and film critique.
Choosing the only two bar stools available, the woman next to us looked at me and said, "I saw you last night." What are the chances?
Yep, she'd also been at Secco last evening, but this time she took the time to introduce herself and her friend. Hi, Patty.
If we're going to keep running into each other night after night, we may as well know each other's names, we reasoned.
Tonight's music was uncharacteristically not full on '80s and I have to admit I was more than happy with soul and R & B cranking out of the sound system.
Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, you do it for me.
We ordered a bottle of Tin Barn zinfandel, a great big jammy and hearty antidote to the frigid weather and impending snow forecast.
When the chef came out, I asked him about the post-Elbys party he'd hosted and I'd attended, although not making it until the bitter end.
There were tales of Genessee cans everywhere (they went through 200), creative use of trash bags (think airline bags) and the eight bottles of bourbon consumed in four hours.
Yea, it was a post-award party for the ages. Makes me glad I got out with my girlfriend and my dignity intact.
By the time I was deposited at home, all was quiet on the J-Ward front.
Awaiting me was a message from the friend who'd solicited my company earlier.
Ha, ha, I almost said, how does Friday sound? So, Friday? Actually, Saturday is just as good. Either way.
Either way, it looks like I already have another stellar evening in store this week.
Though I may be just the teensiest bit suspicious if Patty is there again.
Hey, I am free tonight. Care to go out?
The last picture I saw of this guy on Facebook showed him with a KitchenAid bowl on his head and a cigar in his mouth. He is, as you might guess, a good time.
But not tonight. Wish I could, but for a change I have a date. Rain check, please?
My date started at Lunch, where I tucked my cute tights into a corner away from the opening door and encroaching frigid air, with half-priced Pinot Noir and Summit Avenue crabcake medallions with griddle cakes and sriracha aioli.
Count me as a long-time fan of Lunch's griddle cakes.
While we devoured crabcakes, Switzerland's women's hockey team rolled over and played dead, of no concern to me, but an issue for some in the restaurant.
Aren't you guys all about chocolate and neutrality? What's this puck business anyway?
Next I chose a luncheonette salad topped by a scoop of texture-free chicken salad, mainly because I was anticipating a vat of buttered popcorn in tonight's future.
My date chose the meatloaf of beef, pork and buffalo with the currently-ubiquitous brussels sprouts made especially appealing with a lavish application of bacon.
Meanwhile, we eavesdropped on a guy telling his tale of having to go to court to get the $18K his wife owed him in child support. That's a one lame mother, if you ask me.
We sipped our $12 bottle while discussing the trepidation with which local restaurants have realized that the VA ABC is now following their Twitter feed, a fact I give my friend Jennifer credit for.
It's about time someone held these twats accountable for the venom and malarkey they spew online.
Dinner over, we went next door to peer into the windows of the upcoming Supper, Lunch's bigger brother space still being renovated.
An arriving woman spotted us and squealed, "Ooooh, is it finally open?" Close, but no cigar.
Then we high-tailed it to the Criterion for "Philomena," Dame Judi Dench's Oscar-nominated turn as an Irish woman forced to give up her baby for adoption by the nuns at the convent who take her sullied soul in and deliver the baby (sans anesthesia, mind you).
Let's just say that there were plenty of great anti-Catholic cracks for which I saw fit to savor.
The beautifully shot Stephen Frears film had locations in Ireland (one of my must-sees before I die, being half O'Donnell and all) and Washington, D.C., my birthplace. There was even a gratuitous scenic Maryland road shot for good measure.
But the glory of the film was seeing Dame Judi play the simplest of women, someone who takes huge pleasure in romance book series and free hotel breakfasts. Very different than the Dame Judi I have seen before.
The story was based on a true, heartbreaking one of unwed mothers forced into labor by nuns who guilt them about their sexual transgressions and was sweet, sad and revelatory about that era when big Hollywood stars could breeze over to Europe and with enough cash, buy babies.
I'd just read in the Washington Post that the real Philomena has been in the U.S., pushing adoption rights, not surprising given how long she searched for the son taken from her and adopted in America.
Unbelievable the things that were considered acceptable as recently as the '50s.
Having done our Oscar homework, my date suggested a nightcap so we could discuss the film and I suggested Magpie. He was wary of the hour - 9:45- presuming they'd be about to close down.
Instead, we found a full house and many people just then being told of the specials. In other words, we had more than enough time for wine and film critique.
Choosing the only two bar stools available, the woman next to us looked at me and said, "I saw you last night." What are the chances?
Yep, she'd also been at Secco last evening, but this time she took the time to introduce herself and her friend. Hi, Patty.
If we're going to keep running into each other night after night, we may as well know each other's names, we reasoned.
Tonight's music was uncharacteristically not full on '80s and I have to admit I was more than happy with soul and R & B cranking out of the sound system.
Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, you do it for me.
We ordered a bottle of Tin Barn zinfandel, a great big jammy and hearty antidote to the frigid weather and impending snow forecast.
When the chef came out, I asked him about the post-Elbys party he'd hosted and I'd attended, although not making it until the bitter end.
There were tales of Genessee cans everywhere (they went through 200), creative use of trash bags (think airline bags) and the eight bottles of bourbon consumed in four hours.
Yea, it was a post-award party for the ages. Makes me glad I got out with my girlfriend and my dignity intact.
By the time I was deposited at home, all was quiet on the J-Ward front.
Awaiting me was a message from the friend who'd solicited my company earlier.
Ha, ha, I almost said, how does Friday sound? So, Friday? Actually, Saturday is just as good. Either way.
Either way, it looks like I already have another stellar evening in store this week.
Though I may be just the teensiest bit suspicious if Patty is there again.
Monday, January 27, 2014
The Eight-Oh-Fork Crowd
The local restaurant industry cleans up far better than you might think.
At least for tonight's third installment of the Elbys, they not only dressed up, many of them dressed in vintage outfits as part of the golden age of Hollywood theme, logical since the awards were held at the VMFA.
Local vintage stores Halcyon and Bygones must have made bank outfitting this crowd.
Me, I pulled out my one long dress, a black, burnt velvet sheath purchased twenty years ago at Lex's of Carytown by a former boyfriend, threw on a pink boa and that was that.
Needless to say, most of the women looked far better than I did.
But it wasn't about ensembles (well, partly it was), but about restaurants, so after the museum director welcomed us, we saw a film featuring the Pasture owners dancing and the Rappahannock crew, well, sort of dancing.
Host Jason Tesauro read his cleverly-written tribute to the local restaurant scene, called "The Eight -oh- Fork," touching on openings, closings, trends and just about everything that happened last year.
I found it brilliant and laugh-out-loud funny in places while a younger foodie later complained to a friend and me that it was too long. I held my tongue from telling her that it was her Twitter-addled attention span that was the issue, not Jason's writing or wit.
Then he and co-host Brandon Fox of Richmond magazine began things by toasting the evening with flasks. Seeing her take a swig, it was obvious hers wasn't liquor while his was. She later admitted as much.
Amateur.
David of WPA Bakery took the pastry chef award, lamenting being the first to speak to a cold crowd but thanking his wife Amy for pushing him to open up the bakery.
Introducing the nominees for wine program, Brandon touted Lemaire for having Virginia wine on its list, "as all restaurants should." I have to admit, I clapped in support of that sentiment.
When Enoteca Sogno won the award, a guy shouted, "Get the f*ck outta here!" in surprise and I'm sure he wasn't the only one.
Owner Gary made one of the best points of the evening, saying, "We'll never be a great food town until we're a great wine town."
Sean of Balliceaux presented the award for beverage program, noting, "It used to be red bull and vodka passed for a cocktail in Richmond and now Fernet has become more common than Jagermeister and that's a good thing," before giving the award to Dutch & Co.
Lemaire won for excellence in service, ho-hum, when I would have much rather seen Mama J's win that one.
Acacia's Dale, a twice former winner, was called up to present the chef of the year award, joking, "I guess they're putting me out to pasture."
Or taking him out of the running so someone else could win.
Lee of the Roosevelt won that one, thanking his line cooks (and partners in bad music) Scott and Mark for "holding it down."
Michele of Pasture and star of the opening dance video won front of the house manager and gave the best speech, saying, "This is for everyone who works in this business every day like they own it even if they don't. This award is for every waitress who ever wanted to own her own restaurant. It rocks!"
The neighborhood restaurant award was chosen not by the panel who chose the other awards, but by a readers' poll and Garnett's took that one, as perfect a neighborhood restaurant as there could be.
When Estilo won for new restaurant of the year, co-owner Jessica seemed shocked, saying, "This is the part of the Elbys drinking game where you take a shot because a girl loses her shit onstage."
Overcome as she sounded, she remembered to introduce her Scottish chef, the one who makes all that tasty South American food.
Phil of Dutch & Co, won rising culinary star and also the best-dressed male award for the evening, his white scarf almost falling off as he hurried onstage to collect his award.
Travis of Rappahannock won restaurateur of the year, thanking Pete, his chef at Merroir, whom I'd seen earlier in the evening, looking quite dapper, and Jason of Pasture for convincing him to take a chance on Grace Street.
The Roosevelt took restaurant of the year, surprising a few people, including Chef Lee, after all their other awards tonight.
Then it was like the lesson had ended and the class was sent to recess, in this case the marble hall to eat and drink and be merry.
The Elbys had learned a few things from last year's mistakes and the bars were better placed but the food was still being plated individually, making for long lines to gather an array of plates if you wanted to taste more than one thing.
Over at the dessert table, one of the chefs told me that he cringed watching people eating his sweets with the wrong beverage. He's hoping that by next year, there's a pairing station next to the food tables so people might eat and drink what works best together and not just whatever they have in hand.
DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was killing it with soundtrack music, my favorite being the theme to "Shaft," but everything he played was solid.
It seemed like everyone I knew and ran into was shocked to see me in a full-length dress, my assets covered up.
I made sure to pull up my dress to show certain ones my impressive tights with different results. The cheese whiz told me I should never cover up those beauties. In one case, I apparently caught the attention of a man standing beside me ("I think he wants to meet you now") and another time, caused a friend to pull out a phone to take a picture.
No evidence, please.
A handsome server showed me video of his beagle, whom I'd met on one of my walks. A girlfriend asked me to help her unzip her dress so she could go to the bathroom. The newly sensitive one kissed me on the cheek for the second time in three days.
Everywhere I turned, there was someone I knew to talk to.
And I'm a nobody, so I can't imagine what it was like for nominees and winners in that crowd.
As soon as the bar was shut down, people began leaving for the afterparty at Magpie. I was in charge of driving a girlfriend home so I roped her into going to Carver for more festivities, not a tough sell.
People just kept arriving to the tiny restaurant and many of the women's first order of business was shoe removal.
Plenty of people were already in their cups by the time they arrived, while others had been too busy mingling and were just now getting started.
A table with pork and kimchee sliders and queso fresca arancini with pear jam provided something to sop up the alcohol as people got loose away from the museum setting.
A favorite bartender, slightly loopy, found me, complimenting my dress, my attitude and my lifestyle, guessing that I had been much like her when I was her age.
In some ways, maybe, but I wasn't eating nearly as well as she does when I was her age.
But then, I wasn't living in Richmond.
At least for tonight's third installment of the Elbys, they not only dressed up, many of them dressed in vintage outfits as part of the golden age of Hollywood theme, logical since the awards were held at the VMFA.
Local vintage stores Halcyon and Bygones must have made bank outfitting this crowd.
Me, I pulled out my one long dress, a black, burnt velvet sheath purchased twenty years ago at Lex's of Carytown by a former boyfriend, threw on a pink boa and that was that.
Needless to say, most of the women looked far better than I did.
But it wasn't about ensembles (well, partly it was), but about restaurants, so after the museum director welcomed us, we saw a film featuring the Pasture owners dancing and the Rappahannock crew, well, sort of dancing.
Host Jason Tesauro read his cleverly-written tribute to the local restaurant scene, called "The Eight -oh- Fork," touching on openings, closings, trends and just about everything that happened last year.
I found it brilliant and laugh-out-loud funny in places while a younger foodie later complained to a friend and me that it was too long. I held my tongue from telling her that it was her Twitter-addled attention span that was the issue, not Jason's writing or wit.
Then he and co-host Brandon Fox of Richmond magazine began things by toasting the evening with flasks. Seeing her take a swig, it was obvious hers wasn't liquor while his was. She later admitted as much.
Amateur.
David of WPA Bakery took the pastry chef award, lamenting being the first to speak to a cold crowd but thanking his wife Amy for pushing him to open up the bakery.
Introducing the nominees for wine program, Brandon touted Lemaire for having Virginia wine on its list, "as all restaurants should." I have to admit, I clapped in support of that sentiment.
When Enoteca Sogno won the award, a guy shouted, "Get the f*ck outta here!" in surprise and I'm sure he wasn't the only one.
Owner Gary made one of the best points of the evening, saying, "We'll never be a great food town until we're a great wine town."
Sean of Balliceaux presented the award for beverage program, noting, "It used to be red bull and vodka passed for a cocktail in Richmond and now Fernet has become more common than Jagermeister and that's a good thing," before giving the award to Dutch & Co.
Lemaire won for excellence in service, ho-hum, when I would have much rather seen Mama J's win that one.
Acacia's Dale, a twice former winner, was called up to present the chef of the year award, joking, "I guess they're putting me out to pasture."
Or taking him out of the running so someone else could win.
Lee of the Roosevelt won that one, thanking his line cooks (and partners in bad music) Scott and Mark for "holding it down."
Michele of Pasture and star of the opening dance video won front of the house manager and gave the best speech, saying, "This is for everyone who works in this business every day like they own it even if they don't. This award is for every waitress who ever wanted to own her own restaurant. It rocks!"
The neighborhood restaurant award was chosen not by the panel who chose the other awards, but by a readers' poll and Garnett's took that one, as perfect a neighborhood restaurant as there could be.
When Estilo won for new restaurant of the year, co-owner Jessica seemed shocked, saying, "This is the part of the Elbys drinking game where you take a shot because a girl loses her shit onstage."
Overcome as she sounded, she remembered to introduce her Scottish chef, the one who makes all that tasty South American food.
Phil of Dutch & Co, won rising culinary star and also the best-dressed male award for the evening, his white scarf almost falling off as he hurried onstage to collect his award.
Travis of Rappahannock won restaurateur of the year, thanking Pete, his chef at Merroir, whom I'd seen earlier in the evening, looking quite dapper, and Jason of Pasture for convincing him to take a chance on Grace Street.
The Roosevelt took restaurant of the year, surprising a few people, including Chef Lee, after all their other awards tonight.
Then it was like the lesson had ended and the class was sent to recess, in this case the marble hall to eat and drink and be merry.
The Elbys had learned a few things from last year's mistakes and the bars were better placed but the food was still being plated individually, making for long lines to gather an array of plates if you wanted to taste more than one thing.
Over at the dessert table, one of the chefs told me that he cringed watching people eating his sweets with the wrong beverage. He's hoping that by next year, there's a pairing station next to the food tables so people might eat and drink what works best together and not just whatever they have in hand.
DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was killing it with soundtrack music, my favorite being the theme to "Shaft," but everything he played was solid.
It seemed like everyone I knew and ran into was shocked to see me in a full-length dress, my assets covered up.
I made sure to pull up my dress to show certain ones my impressive tights with different results. The cheese whiz told me I should never cover up those beauties. In one case, I apparently caught the attention of a man standing beside me ("I think he wants to meet you now") and another time, caused a friend to pull out a phone to take a picture.
No evidence, please.
A handsome server showed me video of his beagle, whom I'd met on one of my walks. A girlfriend asked me to help her unzip her dress so she could go to the bathroom. The newly sensitive one kissed me on the cheek for the second time in three days.
Everywhere I turned, there was someone I knew to talk to.
And I'm a nobody, so I can't imagine what it was like for nominees and winners in that crowd.
As soon as the bar was shut down, people began leaving for the afterparty at Magpie. I was in charge of driving a girlfriend home so I roped her into going to Carver for more festivities, not a tough sell.
People just kept arriving to the tiny restaurant and many of the women's first order of business was shoe removal.
Plenty of people were already in their cups by the time they arrived, while others had been too busy mingling and were just now getting started.
A table with pork and kimchee sliders and queso fresca arancini with pear jam provided something to sop up the alcohol as people got loose away from the museum setting.
A favorite bartender, slightly loopy, found me, complimenting my dress, my attitude and my lifestyle, guessing that I had been much like her when I was her age.
In some ways, maybe, but I wasn't eating nearly as well as she does when I was her age.
But then, I wasn't living in Richmond.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Giving a Thumbs Up to the Night
Try and keep someone like me away from an evening called "Conversations."
In this case, the conversation was about the VMFA's "Signs of Protest: Photographs from the Civil Rights Era" exhibit which I'd seen last week and was with UVA's John Edwin Mason and the museum's Sarah Eckhardt.
I was pleased that it actually was more of a conversation than a lecture or talk, with the two of them commenting on slides from the exhibit, sharing information with the audience and each other.
For me, it was particularly interesting to see the rest of the "Life" magazine spread on segregation Gordon Parks had done in 1956. Two pages are in the exhibit, but this was a look at the entire piece in color, when the original had been black and white. It was stunning.
Sarah also made the point that reading the text provided a look at the language we used to discuss racism then, so different than how we speak of it today.
Mason mentioned the letters to the editor that followed a few weeks later in "Life," many of them thanking the magazine for providing a glimpse into a black family's life, saying they had no idea good people in the south were treated this way.
They went through several other photographs, providing insight into them and the photographer who took them.
Mrs. Winston-Draper, the woman I'd heard speak at the Maggie Walker house (for MLK Day) and the sister of photographer Louis Draper, spoke a little about his work, but not nearly as much as she'd done Monday, making me glad I'd seen her when she was the sole focus.
When the conversation broke up, all too soon considering how fascinating it was, we went out to see the exhibit and there I chatted with Gordon, owner of Candela Gallery where the Louis Draper retrospective is now showing before going down to Best Cafe for music.
The Larri Branch Agenda was in full swing when I arrived, saw a familiar face and sat down at his table. LBA was performing their usual original compositions as well as a few standards and since I always enjoy seeing Brian Cruse on bass, I settled in for the duration.
Our conversation was far-reaching, covering foreign film and "Fight Club," movie soundtracks and improvisation, Chapman stick and looped cello.
I'm guessing the weather is still a factor for many people since the room was mostly full but not bursting at the seams like it so often is for the Thursday Jazz cafe.
But like Cinderella's big night, an evening at the VMFA has a strict time limit, so when they kicked us out at 9:00, I turned the car east, hoping to catch some dinner along the way home.
Magpie, with its windows fogged up and inviting, fit the bill perfectly although there was only one couple at the bar when I got there.
You hate to be that last customer, but the bartender assured me the kitchen was still open, so I took him at his word and looked for something warming to get me started.
Venison chili, loaded with onion and just enough heat, fit the bill perfectly and I all but licked the bowl.
If there's one thing you can count on at Magpie, it's game and '80s music and I was already enjoying both immensely by the time the couple cleared out, leaving just me.
When Van Morrison came on, though, I couldn't stop myself from asking the starting point and the bartender agreed with the poor selection.
"It's set to Elvis Costello...with alterations," he said."You have to treat Pandora like a pet, giving it thumbs up or thumbs down every time until it understands what you want. It's the only way to make it behave."
Brilliant. That's the best summary of how to whip your musical genome into shape I've ever heard and told him so. "You just have to catch it in time," he added. So true of pets and Pandora.
For my next course, I got bone marrow with pea shoot pistou and grilled bread, pleased when I heard that they were selling a ton of marrow the past few months as customer after customer learned the pleasure of bones.
For my main course, I went with one of the evening's medium plate specials, a riff on carbonara. Chive gnocchi, the sweetest rock shrimp, peas and watercress swam in a cream sauce made with bone marrow, an obscenely rich replacement for butter.
And the Cure and Bowie played on...
I'm not a pasta person but my Irish roots do incline me toward gnocchi and this was pillowy-soft and delicately flavored, absolutely irresistible to the O'Donnell in me.
I heard about the bartender's excitement about his upcoming trip to see the Pixies in Tennessee (he's seeing them at the National as well) as we discussed the pleasures of out-of-town trips that include music shows.
The chef told me about some of the recent charity dinners he'd participated in, marveling at the amount of money Richmond chefs have raised for worthy causes this year.
This is such a good time for the Richmond food scene.
By the time I got ready to go, Carver was pretty much in bed, the streets icy and abandoned, and I was oh-so full after a double shot of bone marrow.
And all the conversation I could have wished for.
In this case, the conversation was about the VMFA's "Signs of Protest: Photographs from the Civil Rights Era" exhibit which I'd seen last week and was with UVA's John Edwin Mason and the museum's Sarah Eckhardt.
I was pleased that it actually was more of a conversation than a lecture or talk, with the two of them commenting on slides from the exhibit, sharing information with the audience and each other.
For me, it was particularly interesting to see the rest of the "Life" magazine spread on segregation Gordon Parks had done in 1956. Two pages are in the exhibit, but this was a look at the entire piece in color, when the original had been black and white. It was stunning.
Sarah also made the point that reading the text provided a look at the language we used to discuss racism then, so different than how we speak of it today.
Mason mentioned the letters to the editor that followed a few weeks later in "Life," many of them thanking the magazine for providing a glimpse into a black family's life, saying they had no idea good people in the south were treated this way.
They went through several other photographs, providing insight into them and the photographer who took them.
Mrs. Winston-Draper, the woman I'd heard speak at the Maggie Walker house (for MLK Day) and the sister of photographer Louis Draper, spoke a little about his work, but not nearly as much as she'd done Monday, making me glad I'd seen her when she was the sole focus.
When the conversation broke up, all too soon considering how fascinating it was, we went out to see the exhibit and there I chatted with Gordon, owner of Candela Gallery where the Louis Draper retrospective is now showing before going down to Best Cafe for music.
The Larri Branch Agenda was in full swing when I arrived, saw a familiar face and sat down at his table. LBA was performing their usual original compositions as well as a few standards and since I always enjoy seeing Brian Cruse on bass, I settled in for the duration.
Our conversation was far-reaching, covering foreign film and "Fight Club," movie soundtracks and improvisation, Chapman stick and looped cello.
I'm guessing the weather is still a factor for many people since the room was mostly full but not bursting at the seams like it so often is for the Thursday Jazz cafe.
But like Cinderella's big night, an evening at the VMFA has a strict time limit, so when they kicked us out at 9:00, I turned the car east, hoping to catch some dinner along the way home.
Magpie, with its windows fogged up and inviting, fit the bill perfectly although there was only one couple at the bar when I got there.
You hate to be that last customer, but the bartender assured me the kitchen was still open, so I took him at his word and looked for something warming to get me started.
Venison chili, loaded with onion and just enough heat, fit the bill perfectly and I all but licked the bowl.
If there's one thing you can count on at Magpie, it's game and '80s music and I was already enjoying both immensely by the time the couple cleared out, leaving just me.
When Van Morrison came on, though, I couldn't stop myself from asking the starting point and the bartender agreed with the poor selection.
"It's set to Elvis Costello...with alterations," he said."You have to treat Pandora like a pet, giving it thumbs up or thumbs down every time until it understands what you want. It's the only way to make it behave."
Brilliant. That's the best summary of how to whip your musical genome into shape I've ever heard and told him so. "You just have to catch it in time," he added. So true of pets and Pandora.
For my next course, I got bone marrow with pea shoot pistou and grilled bread, pleased when I heard that they were selling a ton of marrow the past few months as customer after customer learned the pleasure of bones.
For my main course, I went with one of the evening's medium plate specials, a riff on carbonara. Chive gnocchi, the sweetest rock shrimp, peas and watercress swam in a cream sauce made with bone marrow, an obscenely rich replacement for butter.
And the Cure and Bowie played on...
I'm not a pasta person but my Irish roots do incline me toward gnocchi and this was pillowy-soft and delicately flavored, absolutely irresistible to the O'Donnell in me.
I heard about the bartender's excitement about his upcoming trip to see the Pixies in Tennessee (he's seeing them at the National as well) as we discussed the pleasures of out-of-town trips that include music shows.
The chef told me about some of the recent charity dinners he'd participated in, marveling at the amount of money Richmond chefs have raised for worthy causes this year.
This is such a good time for the Richmond food scene.
By the time I got ready to go, Carver was pretty much in bed, the streets icy and abandoned, and I was oh-so full after a double shot of bone marrow.
And all the conversation I could have wished for.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Third Thursday Eve
The moon is not in the seventh house, but in Gemini, my sign, which meant I needed two lively ways to spend my evening.
The first came courtesy of one of my favorite husbands, loaned to me for the night by his charming wife who, unlike me, does not eat everything.
We agreed to meet a Magpie, but only after he asked if he, a middle-aged suburban guy, would be safe parking and walking in Carver.
I didn't deign to respond to such nonsense.
Once there, we found the music set to a Stevie Wonder station, meaning Bill Withers and Curtis Mayfield, "Superstition" and "For Once in My Life" and fine by me.
After acquiring his standard well-bruised martini, the husband and I listened to the specials with an ear for what was irresistible.
Our amuse bouche arrived: tempura crawfish over curried sweet potato puree, one perfect bite of kick-ass flavors.
We got off on a tangent about the upcoming exhibit at UR, "The American Dream, Right?" about the influx of Russian Jews to Richmond in the late '80s and early 90s.
Yea, who knew?
I impressed him with my recent forays to the Hebrew cemetery and the unusual "consort" gravestones I'd seen.
Not only was he surprised to hear about them, he was able to recommend the archives at Temple Beth Ahaba as a place we could go to research the women.
Now that's an invaluable friend, not just because like me he eats anything, but because he can help up my nerd quotient.
The first dish to come out was the General Tso's sweetbreads, lightly breaded, slightly spicy and served with crisp-tender broccoli.
You really couldn't ask for an easier way to eat thymus glands.
Next up was one of the night's specials, braised beef cheeks over apple ranch dressing and topped with shaved brussels sprouts (my second of the day) and oyster mushrooms, an earthy combination ideal for this too-cold-for-me weather.
That led to a discussion of heat, with my friend saying he was always turning the thermostat down at work, leaving the women to complain that they were cold.
Like his wife, I tend to get cold easily but even so, prefer a cool room to sleep in, unlike his wife.
"I don't know why she wants the room so warm when I'm like a radiator in bed," he mused.
Warm men and cool women, that's a combination that's worked for centuries, at least according to my Mom.
I suggested ordering the root vegetable salad, to which my friend showed little enthusiasm, but I assured him he'd be impressed.
Midway through the beautifully colorful dish of sliced red and yellow beets, radishes, fried sweet potato chips and goat cheese with house ranch dressing, doubting Thomas looked at me and acknowledged, "Oh, my god, this is the best thing yet."
I may have pointed out that I told him so.
He told a hilarious and touching story about a friend who discovered after years of dating women that he actually preferred men, the realization coming after he met a certain man ("I met him and the room stood still").
When my friend asked him if it took any adjustment going from female to male, he said with masterful understatement, "I had to get used to that little stubble on his upper lip."
Don't we all?
About the time we stopped laughing about that, our final dish arrived and, man, it was a doozy.
Pig's head torchon Philly cheesesteak-style, complete with sauteed onions and peppers on - wait for it - a mini Amoroso roll.
Let's just say it left a properly greasy stain on the black and white checked paper in the basket when we scooped each of our halves up
Died. And. Gone. To. Heaven.
The properly soft roll, the lightly oiled pig, the oozing cheese, it was divine and then some.
The only way it could have been improved was with a good story and my friend had one.
He'd been telling me about how his extended family requires him to make certain dishes for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, stuff he'd prefer to forget, stuff like green bean casserole.
Oh, no, I laughed , not that canned soup abomination.
The very one.
The funny part was that two years ago, his mother had mentioned casually that that recipe was hers. They thought she was joking, but no.
As a young bride she'd been given a bunch of recipe cards from married women, all of dishes guaranteed to "keep a man."
One of them was the canned green bean, canned mushroom soup, canned onion ring classic, a card she still had, albeit yellowed and stained.
She had no idea until two years ago that the recipe had been on the back of cans for decades.
"You can imagine how much we made fun of her," my friend shared.
We were too full for dessert and soon my friend began yawning, still unused to a job that requires a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call after years of being on his own schedule.
I watched as he headed toward southside and I made tracks for Carytown.
It was, after all, only a matter of hours until the Beaujolais Nouveau would be released and while I'm not interested in drinking juvenile wine all the time, once a year it's a fun way to spend an evening.
Plus Amour wine bistro was starting the Wednesday part of the evening with a Cru Beaujolias tasting, necessarily saving the nouveau part of the evening for when it's legal, namely after midnight.
When I arrived, there was only one guy there for the tasting, but he hospitably gestured to the stool next to him and introduced himself.
Before long, the owner donned a beret and a colorful Georges Duboeuf tie, the combination leading to a discussion of stereotypical Frenchmen and Pepe Le Pew, a character with which he claimed to have no knowledge.
Still, he looked very dapper.
I started with a flight of Cru Beaujolais that included the earthy Beaujolais Village Domaine des Nugues 2010, the elegant Fleurie Domaines des Nugues 2009 and the smooth Julenas G. Duboeuf Chateau des Capitans 2011, with the guy next to me mocking my ability to down the flight.
Slow and steady wins the race, my friend.
Before long lots of others came in to join the fun, couples mostly including his wife and a couple of her friends who'd just come from a wine dinner.
Many people were enjoying the sparkling Gamay Domaine des Nugues and loving it, but it got to be midnight before I got to it.
Once the bewitching hour struck, it was all about the nouveau and in short order, I tried them all: the mass appeal Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais nouveau, Manoir du Carra Beaujolais nouveau, the lovely Domaine Descroix Beaujolais nouveau and Manoir du Carra Beauejolais Villages nouveau.
Everyone acknowledged that 2013 wasn't a particularly good year for wine and the dominant notes of banana attested to that. Or as one guy said, "By the new year, this'll be vinegar."
That's why we were drinking it tonight, kids.
A highlight of the evening was hearing the French owner pronounce "village" with an American accent. Our vowels are so flat-sounding.
The music was notably not French for a change with Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby and Michael Buble crooning at us as everyone became everyone's friend and chatted across the room.
There were bad jokes about escargots, the color green and a ball, there was one woman repeatedly rhapsodizing about the fig goat cheese (which after a while got mangled to "fake goat cheese") and much discussion of the quality of restaurant service in Richmond.
Conclusion: not enough people who truly want to be service professionals, unlike in major and European cities where service is a worthy career.
Prosciutto quiche and Camembert and leek Croque Monsieurs were savory accompaniments to the flights and eventually people were sharing their food like we were at a party and not a restaurant.
By the end of the evening, the guy next to me was telling me why I should start following him on Twitter and why I should start tonight.
You know, with the moon in my sign, I think I have bigger fish to fry than reading about why you don't eat sweetbreads and how you're a furnace in bed.
And what is it with guys bragging tonight about their heating abilities in bed?
Besides, I've got recipe cards too mister, so I've got ways to get afurnace man of my own.
Cans optional.
The first came courtesy of one of my favorite husbands, loaned to me for the night by his charming wife who, unlike me, does not eat everything.
We agreed to meet a Magpie, but only after he asked if he, a middle-aged suburban guy, would be safe parking and walking in Carver.
I didn't deign to respond to such nonsense.
Once there, we found the music set to a Stevie Wonder station, meaning Bill Withers and Curtis Mayfield, "Superstition" and "For Once in My Life" and fine by me.
After acquiring his standard well-bruised martini, the husband and I listened to the specials with an ear for what was irresistible.
Our amuse bouche arrived: tempura crawfish over curried sweet potato puree, one perfect bite of kick-ass flavors.
We got off on a tangent about the upcoming exhibit at UR, "The American Dream, Right?" about the influx of Russian Jews to Richmond in the late '80s and early 90s.
Yea, who knew?
I impressed him with my recent forays to the Hebrew cemetery and the unusual "consort" gravestones I'd seen.
Not only was he surprised to hear about them, he was able to recommend the archives at Temple Beth Ahaba as a place we could go to research the women.
Now that's an invaluable friend, not just because like me he eats anything, but because he can help up my nerd quotient.
The first dish to come out was the General Tso's sweetbreads, lightly breaded, slightly spicy and served with crisp-tender broccoli.
You really couldn't ask for an easier way to eat thymus glands.
Next up was one of the night's specials, braised beef cheeks over apple ranch dressing and topped with shaved brussels sprouts (my second of the day) and oyster mushrooms, an earthy combination ideal for this too-cold-for-me weather.
That led to a discussion of heat, with my friend saying he was always turning the thermostat down at work, leaving the women to complain that they were cold.
Like his wife, I tend to get cold easily but even so, prefer a cool room to sleep in, unlike his wife.
"I don't know why she wants the room so warm when I'm like a radiator in bed," he mused.
Warm men and cool women, that's a combination that's worked for centuries, at least according to my Mom.
I suggested ordering the root vegetable salad, to which my friend showed little enthusiasm, but I assured him he'd be impressed.
Midway through the beautifully colorful dish of sliced red and yellow beets, radishes, fried sweet potato chips and goat cheese with house ranch dressing, doubting Thomas looked at me and acknowledged, "Oh, my god, this is the best thing yet."
I may have pointed out that I told him so.
He told a hilarious and touching story about a friend who discovered after years of dating women that he actually preferred men, the realization coming after he met a certain man ("I met him and the room stood still").
When my friend asked him if it took any adjustment going from female to male, he said with masterful understatement, "I had to get used to that little stubble on his upper lip."
Don't we all?
About the time we stopped laughing about that, our final dish arrived and, man, it was a doozy.
Pig's head torchon Philly cheesesteak-style, complete with sauteed onions and peppers on - wait for it - a mini Amoroso roll.
Let's just say it left a properly greasy stain on the black and white checked paper in the basket when we scooped each of our halves up
Died. And. Gone. To. Heaven.
The properly soft roll, the lightly oiled pig, the oozing cheese, it was divine and then some.
The only way it could have been improved was with a good story and my friend had one.
He'd been telling me about how his extended family requires him to make certain dishes for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, stuff he'd prefer to forget, stuff like green bean casserole.
Oh, no, I laughed , not that canned soup abomination.
The very one.
The funny part was that two years ago, his mother had mentioned casually that that recipe was hers. They thought she was joking, but no.
As a young bride she'd been given a bunch of recipe cards from married women, all of dishes guaranteed to "keep a man."
One of them was the canned green bean, canned mushroom soup, canned onion ring classic, a card she still had, albeit yellowed and stained.
She had no idea until two years ago that the recipe had been on the back of cans for decades.
"You can imagine how much we made fun of her," my friend shared.
We were too full for dessert and soon my friend began yawning, still unused to a job that requires a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call after years of being on his own schedule.
I watched as he headed toward southside and I made tracks for Carytown.
It was, after all, only a matter of hours until the Beaujolais Nouveau would be released and while I'm not interested in drinking juvenile wine all the time, once a year it's a fun way to spend an evening.
Plus Amour wine bistro was starting the Wednesday part of the evening with a Cru Beaujolias tasting, necessarily saving the nouveau part of the evening for when it's legal, namely after midnight.
When I arrived, there was only one guy there for the tasting, but he hospitably gestured to the stool next to him and introduced himself.
Before long, the owner donned a beret and a colorful Georges Duboeuf tie, the combination leading to a discussion of stereotypical Frenchmen and Pepe Le Pew, a character with which he claimed to have no knowledge.
Still, he looked very dapper.
I started with a flight of Cru Beaujolais that included the earthy Beaujolais Village Domaine des Nugues 2010, the elegant Fleurie Domaines des Nugues 2009 and the smooth Julenas G. Duboeuf Chateau des Capitans 2011, with the guy next to me mocking my ability to down the flight.
Slow and steady wins the race, my friend.
Before long lots of others came in to join the fun, couples mostly including his wife and a couple of her friends who'd just come from a wine dinner.
Many people were enjoying the sparkling Gamay Domaine des Nugues and loving it, but it got to be midnight before I got to it.
Once the bewitching hour struck, it was all about the nouveau and in short order, I tried them all: the mass appeal Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais nouveau, Manoir du Carra Beaujolais nouveau, the lovely Domaine Descroix Beaujolais nouveau and Manoir du Carra Beauejolais Villages nouveau.
Everyone acknowledged that 2013 wasn't a particularly good year for wine and the dominant notes of banana attested to that. Or as one guy said, "By the new year, this'll be vinegar."
That's why we were drinking it tonight, kids.
A highlight of the evening was hearing the French owner pronounce "village" with an American accent. Our vowels are so flat-sounding.
The music was notably not French for a change with Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby and Michael Buble crooning at us as everyone became everyone's friend and chatted across the room.
There were bad jokes about escargots, the color green and a ball, there was one woman repeatedly rhapsodizing about the fig goat cheese (which after a while got mangled to "fake goat cheese") and much discussion of the quality of restaurant service in Richmond.
Conclusion: not enough people who truly want to be service professionals, unlike in major and European cities where service is a worthy career.
Prosciutto quiche and Camembert and leek Croque Monsieurs were savory accompaniments to the flights and eventually people were sharing their food like we were at a party and not a restaurant.
By the end of the evening, the guy next to me was telling me why I should start following him on Twitter and why I should start tonight.
You know, with the moon in my sign, I think I have bigger fish to fry than reading about why you don't eat sweetbreads and how you're a furnace in bed.
And what is it with guys bragging tonight about their heating abilities in bed?
Besides, I've got recipe cards too mister, so I've got ways to get a
Cans optional.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Make Mine a Chartreuse Rinse
It is obscene the amount of food I have consumed this evening.
The plan was for a simple, early dinner with Pru at Magpie. We met, we established a beach head at the bar and that was all it was to be.
In a nod to the changing weather, I started with a glass of Emerson Pinot Noir tasting earthy with hints of cherry.
It was odd, the music was of this decade, a rarity for Magpie, but I didn't complain.
The place was hopping with customers and the staff was trying to catch up.
We started with root vegetable salad, a medley of sweet potato chips, sliced beets and radishes with house ranch dressing and goat cheese.
Bravo Fall, if this is what it tastes like.
I'm not sure if it was an iron deficiency or just a craving (we'd both had a lot of fish on recent dates), but our entree orders screamed blood.
Medium-rare smoked rib-eye came with crisp Yukon gold wedges, sauerkraut, toothsome kale and Gruyere custard.
Seared venison sat atop granola and polenta, braised Asian pear and chicory and led to a discussion of why we love game.
I referenced a recent Post article about how hot game restaurants and food carts are right now in London, making me wish I was headed back over the pond.
Mid-red meat feast, the music shifted from the past five years back to the '80s, the usual provenance of Magpie.
This is the soundtrack I am used to whilst eating game mere blocks from home. In fact, in Carver, game = '80s.
Hello, David Bowie.
During a discussion of our love lives, Pru had me doubled over with an observation about a recent date.
"He's great because he likes to try all kinds of food, but he has no sideburns." You can only imagine how this would concern a woman.
We eschewed dessert, too full to consider more, about the time Pru got a text from an admirer, necessitating an amendment to our evening.
Our company was being requested, so we paid the bill and headed to Church Hill to Dutch & Co.
I was amazed to find a close parking space, at least until I realized it was because a huge wire had come down from a pole during the earlier monsoon and was draped across the space.
Ignoring obvious safety issues, I parked the car and gingerly walked around the wire, hoping it would not spontaneously combust while I was in the restaurant.
Dutch & Co. was relatively sedate (they chalked it up to football) and I took a seat at the bar awaiting Pru and company, who soon arrived.
I recognized all the staff- former Aziza's, Black Sheep and Acacia servers- making for a comfy evening with on-point service and chatter about the Folk Fest, the Silent Music Revival and Charlottesville dining.
We started our conversational potpourri with a bottle of Puzelat Bonhomme "Le Telquel," a lovely Gamay with nice acidity, dark fruit and a wiener dog on the label.
I'm partial to beagles myself.
Despite the abundance of red meat Pru and I had already consumed, we joined our starving friend in tasting through Dutch's menu.
You can't go wrong with Anderson's Neck oysters or with salmon ceviche, a revelation with Marcona almonds and persimmon.
You'd expect two women stuffed on red meat to stop there, but we rose to every culinary challenge our friend ordered.
Maple duck ham with Parisienne gnocchi, kale and sweet potato puree with walnuts knocked our socks off.
Chilled shrimp with avocado, sweet peppers and ginger vinaigrette was killer because of the distinctive turnip greens.
And speaking of killer, the music naturally caught my ear.
For a while, it was vintage Neil Young straight out of the '70s, necessitating me asking the source of the music.
Turns out some talented music lover at Acacia programs their playlist.
Our bartender told us a funny story about how one night while a Michael Jackson song was playing, a customer called her over and reminded her that MJ was dead.
Apparently, that meant that they were offended to hear him playing. They switched to Four Tops and she was no better with that.
You just can't please some people.
Tonight Neil Young's "Harvest" eventually gave way to Dionne Warwick's "Say a Little Prayer" and then full-on Aretha, so we had no complaints.
With the perfect eating music in place, we moved on to an earthy mushroom soup with roasted beech and chantarelles, crispy barley and lemon curd, every spoonful of which tasted like a sip of the woods.
We finished off with floral-cured pork belly rillette with (oh.my.god) pig skin cornbread with padron pepper romesco and honey.
I feel certain that in heaven they must serve pig skin cornbread, but that may be my half-southern roots talking.
It was about that time that the chef walked by, a large pig part resting on a tray carried over his head, and we acknowledged his mastery with meat.
One in our group had been to the Carytown food and wine festival this weekend so we heard about the crowd who'd attended.
He'd overheard a kid tell his Mom he wanted a crepe but Mom had told him they were looking for "real food."
Overhearing that bon mot, our bartender shared a story, beginning with, "I know this will surprise you, but don't get crepes at the Atlanta airport."
It was 7 a.m., she and her boyfriend were starving and rather than settle for Popeye's chicken, she insisted on crepes.
Bad, bad idea, at least the way we heard it.
By this time, we were getting down to the wire because Dutch & Co, closes fairly early, so we ordered dessert, something we surely had no room for.
A chocolate parfait was made of chocolate panna cotta, chocolate mousse, malted barley almond horchatta, shaved chocolate and mint pearls with, wait for it, a chartreuse rinse.
A sturdy glass of all things chocolate was set down before us with three spoons.
The beauty of this sweet, besides the obvious allure of multiple chocolate flavors, was the hint of herbs from the Chartruese, evident only as a delicate finish to every bite.
To accompany it, we had Pineau des Charones Vieux, a lovely gold-colored apperitif, part fresh grape juice and part Cognac, and a sturdy 17%.
It was a glorious complement to our chocolate ending, something I would know better than my companions who took only a couple of bites and left the heavy lifting up to me.
I'm happy to report I was more than up to the task.
Midway through dessert, another server asked ours about what to recommend to her table to accompany their honey pot.
My friend was quick to suggest exactly what we were drinking, the Pineau des Charones, and once their glasses arrived, we found ourselves toasting them with identical beverages.
Sante and all that jazz.
As long as they were sipping, we decided to have another and sip along as we wound down our conversation and the unexpected evening together.
The funny part is, we have plans to get together this weekend, too. "Maybe we should all just move in together," my friend suggested.
Say a little prayer for me.
I don't think I have a stomach big enough to handle many evenings like this, pleasurable as it was.
And if I do, I probably don't need to find that out.
The plan was for a simple, early dinner with Pru at Magpie. We met, we established a beach head at the bar and that was all it was to be.
In a nod to the changing weather, I started with a glass of Emerson Pinot Noir tasting earthy with hints of cherry.
It was odd, the music was of this decade, a rarity for Magpie, but I didn't complain.
The place was hopping with customers and the staff was trying to catch up.
We started with root vegetable salad, a medley of sweet potato chips, sliced beets and radishes with house ranch dressing and goat cheese.
Bravo Fall, if this is what it tastes like.
I'm not sure if it was an iron deficiency or just a craving (we'd both had a lot of fish on recent dates), but our entree orders screamed blood.
Medium-rare smoked rib-eye came with crisp Yukon gold wedges, sauerkraut, toothsome kale and Gruyere custard.
Seared venison sat atop granola and polenta, braised Asian pear and chicory and led to a discussion of why we love game.
I referenced a recent Post article about how hot game restaurants and food carts are right now in London, making me wish I was headed back over the pond.
Mid-red meat feast, the music shifted from the past five years back to the '80s, the usual provenance of Magpie.
This is the soundtrack I am used to whilst eating game mere blocks from home. In fact, in Carver, game = '80s.
Hello, David Bowie.
During a discussion of our love lives, Pru had me doubled over with an observation about a recent date.
"He's great because he likes to try all kinds of food, but he has no sideburns." You can only imagine how this would concern a woman.
We eschewed dessert, too full to consider more, about the time Pru got a text from an admirer, necessitating an amendment to our evening.
Our company was being requested, so we paid the bill and headed to Church Hill to Dutch & Co.
I was amazed to find a close parking space, at least until I realized it was because a huge wire had come down from a pole during the earlier monsoon and was draped across the space.
Ignoring obvious safety issues, I parked the car and gingerly walked around the wire, hoping it would not spontaneously combust while I was in the restaurant.
Dutch & Co. was relatively sedate (they chalked it up to football) and I took a seat at the bar awaiting Pru and company, who soon arrived.
I recognized all the staff- former Aziza's, Black Sheep and Acacia servers- making for a comfy evening with on-point service and chatter about the Folk Fest, the Silent Music Revival and Charlottesville dining.
We started our conversational potpourri with a bottle of Puzelat Bonhomme "Le Telquel," a lovely Gamay with nice acidity, dark fruit and a wiener dog on the label.
I'm partial to beagles myself.
Despite the abundance of red meat Pru and I had already consumed, we joined our starving friend in tasting through Dutch's menu.
You can't go wrong with Anderson's Neck oysters or with salmon ceviche, a revelation with Marcona almonds and persimmon.
You'd expect two women stuffed on red meat to stop there, but we rose to every culinary challenge our friend ordered.
Maple duck ham with Parisienne gnocchi, kale and sweet potato puree with walnuts knocked our socks off.
Chilled shrimp with avocado, sweet peppers and ginger vinaigrette was killer because of the distinctive turnip greens.
And speaking of killer, the music naturally caught my ear.
For a while, it was vintage Neil Young straight out of the '70s, necessitating me asking the source of the music.
Turns out some talented music lover at Acacia programs their playlist.
Our bartender told us a funny story about how one night while a Michael Jackson song was playing, a customer called her over and reminded her that MJ was dead.
Apparently, that meant that they were offended to hear him playing. They switched to Four Tops and she was no better with that.
You just can't please some people.
Tonight Neil Young's "Harvest" eventually gave way to Dionne Warwick's "Say a Little Prayer" and then full-on Aretha, so we had no complaints.
With the perfect eating music in place, we moved on to an earthy mushroom soup with roasted beech and chantarelles, crispy barley and lemon curd, every spoonful of which tasted like a sip of the woods.
We finished off with floral-cured pork belly rillette with (oh.my.god) pig skin cornbread with padron pepper romesco and honey.
I feel certain that in heaven they must serve pig skin cornbread, but that may be my half-southern roots talking.
It was about that time that the chef walked by, a large pig part resting on a tray carried over his head, and we acknowledged his mastery with meat.
One in our group had been to the Carytown food and wine festival this weekend so we heard about the crowd who'd attended.
He'd overheard a kid tell his Mom he wanted a crepe but Mom had told him they were looking for "real food."
Overhearing that bon mot, our bartender shared a story, beginning with, "I know this will surprise you, but don't get crepes at the Atlanta airport."
It was 7 a.m., she and her boyfriend were starving and rather than settle for Popeye's chicken, she insisted on crepes.
Bad, bad idea, at least the way we heard it.
By this time, we were getting down to the wire because Dutch & Co, closes fairly early, so we ordered dessert, something we surely had no room for.
A chocolate parfait was made of chocolate panna cotta, chocolate mousse, malted barley almond horchatta, shaved chocolate and mint pearls with, wait for it, a chartreuse rinse.
A sturdy glass of all things chocolate was set down before us with three spoons.
The beauty of this sweet, besides the obvious allure of multiple chocolate flavors, was the hint of herbs from the Chartruese, evident only as a delicate finish to every bite.
To accompany it, we had Pineau des Charones Vieux, a lovely gold-colored apperitif, part fresh grape juice and part Cognac, and a sturdy 17%.
It was a glorious complement to our chocolate ending, something I would know better than my companions who took only a couple of bites and left the heavy lifting up to me.
I'm happy to report I was more than up to the task.
Midway through dessert, another server asked ours about what to recommend to her table to accompany their honey pot.
My friend was quick to suggest exactly what we were drinking, the Pineau des Charones, and once their glasses arrived, we found ourselves toasting them with identical beverages.
Sante and all that jazz.
As long as they were sipping, we decided to have another and sip along as we wound down our conversation and the unexpected evening together.
The funny part is, we have plans to get together this weekend, too. "Maybe we should all just move in together," my friend suggested.
Say a little prayer for me.
I don't think I have a stomach big enough to handle many evenings like this, pleasurable as it was.
And if I do, I probably don't need to find that out.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The Most Dangerous Game
Let the record show that I have a couple of new notches on my belt.
I like to think I cut a fine figure cutting part of a field on a riding mower, my skirt flapping in the breeze.
Second, I attended my first hunt club show, watching as two Englishmen graded young hounds on their potential as fox-hunting dogs.
I even spent part of a sunny morning on a ladder picking heirloom apples from a tree.
So while I'm not a country girl, I played one for a couple of days, right down to eating pork chops from a farm where I'd met the parents of the pig who gave his life for the best chops I ever ate.
Needless to say, no one was fooled into thinking I was anything but what I was, an invited guest.
Once back in the city, I found an e-mail from a friend suggesting some play time, so I broke bad and picked up the phone.
Mark the date; it's not something I do very often.
Not 45 minutes later, we were meeting up at Magpie along with hordes of other people who'd apparently had the same idea.
Their popularity worked out well, though, because I soon felt a tap on my shoulder and there was a favorite chef on a rare night off.
With him was a recently-promoted craft beer rep and before long, a favorite restaurateur arrived.
Refusing to acknowledge the fact that Fall arrived yesterday, I ordered Villa Wolf Pinot Gris to go with the '80s music I count on at Magpie.
We ended up being a group of three, so we could get lots of food and share.
Since I'd never seen a burger on their menu before, that was our first priority and it got a thumbs up for its juicy, well-seasoned meat.
Next came one of tonight's specials, rabbit loin with braised kale in a garlic sauce with grilled peppadew peppers and fennel pollen, a winning combo if a bit drier than it should have been.
More wine was in order and our latecomer friend took the reins and acknowledged the weather change simultaneously, ordering a bottle of Domaine Gaget Beaujolais for our next dishes.
The barbecue baby back ribs I'd had here before but this time they came with peanut brittle, one of my personal favorites when it comes to old-fashioned candy.
Because Chef Owen is the sausage master, we also ordered his sausage of the day, this one of pork and Chorizo, making for a deeply-flavored sausage.
When we weren't sucking bones or crunching brittle, we talked about American markets versus European markets, server expectations and restaurant weeks.
But of course once we got into the wine, what everyone really wanted to talk about was my dating life, such as it is.
We came up with what we thought was a brilliant idea, a version of speed dating that was slow rather than fast and focused on wine tasting while getting to know other wine-loving singles one on one.
Goodness knows, there's got to be a better way than some of my attempts.
A friend had written me earlier today,"You’ve had a few close calls and I don’t mean on the mean streets of Jackson Ward. Dating is a dangerous game, full of disappointing revelations. Yelp? Heavens!" about my recent lunch date fail.
I still think it's possible to find the yin to my yang.
It's like that book my friend Holmes has, "Man with Farm Seeks Woman with Tractor," but much simpler.
Woman with words seeks man with same.
And she rides a tractor in a skirt.
I like to think I cut a fine figure cutting part of a field on a riding mower, my skirt flapping in the breeze.
Second, I attended my first hunt club show, watching as two Englishmen graded young hounds on their potential as fox-hunting dogs.
I even spent part of a sunny morning on a ladder picking heirloom apples from a tree.
So while I'm not a country girl, I played one for a couple of days, right down to eating pork chops from a farm where I'd met the parents of the pig who gave his life for the best chops I ever ate.
Needless to say, no one was fooled into thinking I was anything but what I was, an invited guest.
Once back in the city, I found an e-mail from a friend suggesting some play time, so I broke bad and picked up the phone.
Mark the date; it's not something I do very often.
Not 45 minutes later, we were meeting up at Magpie along with hordes of other people who'd apparently had the same idea.
Their popularity worked out well, though, because I soon felt a tap on my shoulder and there was a favorite chef on a rare night off.
With him was a recently-promoted craft beer rep and before long, a favorite restaurateur arrived.
Refusing to acknowledge the fact that Fall arrived yesterday, I ordered Villa Wolf Pinot Gris to go with the '80s music I count on at Magpie.
We ended up being a group of three, so we could get lots of food and share.
Since I'd never seen a burger on their menu before, that was our first priority and it got a thumbs up for its juicy, well-seasoned meat.
Next came one of tonight's specials, rabbit loin with braised kale in a garlic sauce with grilled peppadew peppers and fennel pollen, a winning combo if a bit drier than it should have been.
More wine was in order and our latecomer friend took the reins and acknowledged the weather change simultaneously, ordering a bottle of Domaine Gaget Beaujolais for our next dishes.
The barbecue baby back ribs I'd had here before but this time they came with peanut brittle, one of my personal favorites when it comes to old-fashioned candy.
Because Chef Owen is the sausage master, we also ordered his sausage of the day, this one of pork and Chorizo, making for a deeply-flavored sausage.
When we weren't sucking bones or crunching brittle, we talked about American markets versus European markets, server expectations and restaurant weeks.
But of course once we got into the wine, what everyone really wanted to talk about was my dating life, such as it is.
We came up with what we thought was a brilliant idea, a version of speed dating that was slow rather than fast and focused on wine tasting while getting to know other wine-loving singles one on one.
Goodness knows, there's got to be a better way than some of my attempts.
A friend had written me earlier today,"You’ve had a few close calls and I don’t mean on the mean streets of Jackson Ward. Dating is a dangerous game, full of disappointing revelations. Yelp? Heavens!" about my recent lunch date fail.
I still think it's possible to find the yin to my yang.
It's like that book my friend Holmes has, "Man with Farm Seeks Woman with Tractor," but much simpler.
Woman with words seeks man with same.
And she rides a tractor in a skirt.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Friday Muddle
Pru's back in town after a sojourn at the river so we hit the town.
Stop #1 was Magpie for happy hour.
I got my South African on with Mulderbosch Chenin blanc and an amuse bouche of feta, cherry and a pickled green tomato in basil oil.
The music was pure bad '80s.
We walked into (shudder) "Heat of the Moment" and eventually heard everything from Hall & Oates to Robert Palmer.
I don't know the last time I heard "Bad Case of Loving You," nor do I care to.
That's what a Pandora station set to Huey Lewis gets you.
Prudence had been at the river most of the week, so we had lots to talk about. And eat.
We began with smoked pork loin and fresh Mozzarella with yellow ball melon delivered today from the farmer, a colorfully pretty dish with the sweetest yellow watermelon.
Next came arugula soup with bleu cheese, a distant cousin to split pea soup, but far more compelling.
The it was time to change wines, going Spanish with the Finca Venta Domaine Quixote Rose.
I can only resist pink for so long.
For my main, I ordered tempura soft shell crab with cherry/leek puree and black mission figs.
It's that time of year when I can indulge my love of figs at every turn and I do.
If I knew someone with a fig tree, I'd be asking to pluck a few from it right about now.
Th crab had been cut in half and set on its center, appearing to be dancing across the plate in a very playful presentation.
Points for creativity.
We watched countless Magpie Muddles being made, marveling that anyone would choose vodka over gin or bourbon.
For us, the pleasure was in the aromatics of the ingredients, the herbs and fresh fruit.
We finished up our conversation about parties, screws loose and "Same Time, Next Year" with a seasonal dessert.
Peach sorbet over rosemary shortbread went over the top with pistachio brittle and bleu cheese.
Our work here over, Pru wanted to return to the scene of her workplace, meaning we crossed the river for a drink.
Stop #2 was Camden's Dogtown Market.
People were still eating dinner at tables, but we staked our claim at the bar for wine.
Rumor had it they were pouring Klein Constantia, a wine with sentimental value for me since I'd visited the South African winery almost a decade ago.
The crisp Sauvignon Blanc we drank was lovely with a long finish, comparable to the memory of a drawn-out meal at the winery on a night just about as cool and perfect as the one outside tonight.
As a bonus, "Mildred Pierce" was playing over the bar, a film I've only seen once, but one with plenty of restaurant jargon.
We heard about a new restaurant coming to my beloved Jackson Ward and talked trash about people with a sense of entitlement.
Don't get me started.
But unfortunately for Pru and me, Manchester closes down earlier than we were ready to, so we moved on.
Stop #3, our final, was Bistro 27.
Over Vinho Verde and a samba soundtrack, we got the details on an upcoming party, talked about Pru's uptick in her personal life and divided the world into us and them.
Live without it? No, I don't think so.
Not while there are wineries playing music outside at night I won't.
Stop #1 was Magpie for happy hour.
I got my South African on with Mulderbosch Chenin blanc and an amuse bouche of feta, cherry and a pickled green tomato in basil oil.
The music was pure bad '80s.
We walked into (shudder) "Heat of the Moment" and eventually heard everything from Hall & Oates to Robert Palmer.
I don't know the last time I heard "Bad Case of Loving You," nor do I care to.
That's what a Pandora station set to Huey Lewis gets you.
Prudence had been at the river most of the week, so we had lots to talk about. And eat.
We began with smoked pork loin and fresh Mozzarella with yellow ball melon delivered today from the farmer, a colorfully pretty dish with the sweetest yellow watermelon.
Next came arugula soup with bleu cheese, a distant cousin to split pea soup, but far more compelling.
The it was time to change wines, going Spanish with the Finca Venta Domaine Quixote Rose.
I can only resist pink for so long.
For my main, I ordered tempura soft shell crab with cherry/leek puree and black mission figs.
It's that time of year when I can indulge my love of figs at every turn and I do.
If I knew someone with a fig tree, I'd be asking to pluck a few from it right about now.
Th crab had been cut in half and set on its center, appearing to be dancing across the plate in a very playful presentation.
Points for creativity.
We watched countless Magpie Muddles being made, marveling that anyone would choose vodka over gin or bourbon.
For us, the pleasure was in the aromatics of the ingredients, the herbs and fresh fruit.
We finished up our conversation about parties, screws loose and "Same Time, Next Year" with a seasonal dessert.
Peach sorbet over rosemary shortbread went over the top with pistachio brittle and bleu cheese.
Our work here over, Pru wanted to return to the scene of her workplace, meaning we crossed the river for a drink.
Stop #2 was Camden's Dogtown Market.
People were still eating dinner at tables, but we staked our claim at the bar for wine.
Rumor had it they were pouring Klein Constantia, a wine with sentimental value for me since I'd visited the South African winery almost a decade ago.
The crisp Sauvignon Blanc we drank was lovely with a long finish, comparable to the memory of a drawn-out meal at the winery on a night just about as cool and perfect as the one outside tonight.
As a bonus, "Mildred Pierce" was playing over the bar, a film I've only seen once, but one with plenty of restaurant jargon.
We heard about a new restaurant coming to my beloved Jackson Ward and talked trash about people with a sense of entitlement.
Don't get me started.
But unfortunately for Pru and me, Manchester closes down earlier than we were ready to, so we moved on.
Stop #3, our final, was Bistro 27.
Over Vinho Verde and a samba soundtrack, we got the details on an upcoming party, talked about Pru's uptick in her personal life and divided the world into us and them.
Live without it? No, I don't think so.
Not while there are wineries playing music outside at night I won't.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar
If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Restaurant Monsters, Inc.
It's best to get the high-brow out of the way so the evening can end with the more, ahem, common pleasures.
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
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