The problem with this town - besides snow flurries on the fifth day of December - is that the restaurant scene hasn't caught up with the theater scene.
How else to explain having to have a 5:15 dinner reservation in order to make an 8:00 curtain? To start with, that's an ungodly early hour to begin the evening meal (I've had lunches where I didn't get back until 5:15 and there's no shame in that) and secondly, I hang with serious food warriors who don't want to be rushed as they eat through nearly everything on the menu.
But, alas, eating after the play ends is challenging at best in Richmond, especially on a Thursday night, so we were gathering at the front table in the window at the Roosevelt, shortly after the clock hit 5. With a new chef in place, I was especially eager to revisit one of my long-time favorite eateries.
My hopes of beginning with a bottle of Virginia Fizz - the first wine I ever drank at the Roosevelt - were dashed when our server got a stricken look on her face when I ordered it, went to check and returned with bad news: all gone.
I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead requested a bottle of Dr. K. Frank Gruner Veltliner while Pru and Beau went with Illahe Pinot Gris because they're fans of Willamette. dammit. Queen B, as usual, abstained, although how she puts up with us sober is a miracle.
First topic: the banishment of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from the holiday songbook canon because of its suddenly now questionable lyrics. The consensus seemed to be that applying current standards to lyrics written in 1949 is a clear case of political correctness gone amuck.
Everyone seems to forget that in the original film where the song debuted, it was sung by two couples: a man to a woman and a woman to a man and nobody was forcing anyone to do anything. Somewhere, songwriter Frank Loesser is rolling his eyes in disgust.
Food arriving derailed any further discussion.
With the exception of the Queen who couldn't resist the braised boneless short ribs entree, the rest of the table made our meals of snacks and small plates. Chicken liver mousse with huckleberry jam seemed appropriate given that this week is Hannukah, while chicken wings with Alabama white sauce - which, I swear, have been on the Roosevelt's menu practically since Day One - were life-changing for Pru and Beau, who'd never had them before.
I foresee many future orders of those wings procured and devoured at the manse.
Perfectly Fall-like was roasted butternut squash with buttermilk ricotta and sunflower seeds, while Beau moaned over the creamy parsnip soup with apple butter, nutmeg, sage and peanuts.
Apple butter became the next topic when I recalled that "Have a slice of bread with apple butter" was my Mom's go-to suggestion when my sisters and I wanted a snack growing up because there was no junk food in our house. For Pru, apple butter conjured up memories of boarding school, since its location in the mountains meant she was in apple country.
She and Mr. Wright both got the roasted honey-glazed baby carrots with sumac, orange and dill, although I seemed to be the only one who appreciated how toothsome they were. "Just this side of raw but with a honey glaze, but I like them" Pru decreed, but that was a slight exaggeration.
When the owner, a long-time friend, came over to say hello, I introduced her as the woman who also owns Garnett's, Laura Lee's and Ipanema. She was surprised, announcing to the table that I usually introduce her as "the woman who taught me to drink," which is 100% true, but not my favorite way to introduce her, as I reminded her.
"Oh, yea, she usually tells people that if I were a man, she would have married me," she said grinning, to the surprise of everyone at the table, not the least of which had to be Mr. Wright.
Roasted beets got a boost from bleu cheese, pumpkin seeds and our old friend apple butter vinaigrette, but it was their arrangement resembling a Christmas wreath that got everyone's attention. An enormous bowl of mussels swimming in cider broth with bacon didn't even get finished, but the two green goddess salads with cornbread croutons sure did.
With an eye on the clock, we ordered chocolate mousse and corn cake with buttercream frosting to accompany Pru and Beau's requisite liquid final course, although Pru did jazz things up a bit by two-fisting caffeine with an Irish coffee and a regular coffee.
I had all the caffeine I needed in that mousse.
And while we rushed out of there and up 301 to Hanover Tavern, a series of badly-timed lights ensured that we all arrived moments after the play had begun. The Greatest Generation usher who greeted us informed us that the director stipulated that no one be let in late until the initial "play within a play" ended, which took until we heard a shot being fired.
In the interim, he filled us in on what was happening onstage, assuring us, "You're not missing anything important." Whether it was true or not, it made us feel better about our tardiness.
Then we scampered to our seats for "The Game's Afoot: Holmes for the Holidays," a story set in 1936 of a group of touring actors who gather for a Christmas eve party at the Connecticut home of the actor who plays Sherlock Holmes in their production.
On a side note, what is it with Connecticut and the holidays? You know, like that Barbara Stanwyck movie "Christmas in Connecticut," or "Holiday Inn," which also takes place in Connecticut? Discuss.
The ensemble of actors was incredibly strong - and really, what play with Scott Wichmann starring is ever anything but outstanding? - making for a fast-moving and hilarious story about the unexpected murder of a theater critic (prompting the question, does anyone really care if a critic is killed?) after dinner.
The ensuing comedy results from William Gillette, the actor who'd played Holmes, thinking his mother, played by the bombastic Catherine Shaffner, is the murderer. No one wants Mom to be the perp.
The manse group has long loved a good drawing room mystery, while I was seduced by the frequent quotations from Shakespeare woven into the dialog at every opportunity. Audra Honaker played the quirky police detective who shows up to investigate, although it turns out she also has an acting bent and wouldn't mind auditioning should the right role come up.
Acting! (insert raised arm)
It didn't hurt that the story was full of twists and turns so that by the time the inspector arrives, every person at the party is a suspect. Characters come and go from the drawing room, just missing each other, but constantly delivering witty dialog. First a closet then a hidden bar is used to store the corpse, which won't stay put and on the wall hangs a collection of murder weapons: guns, swords, axes, you name it, within easy reach. And don't get me started on the gorgeous period costumes,
The charm was that the wacky antics were pretty much non-stop until the very last moment when we found out who'd really put a knife in the critic's back (and right through that stunning red velvet dress of hers).
In a perfect world, we'd have left Hanover at 10:00 and gone out for a lovely post-theater dinner at a little bistro somewhere where we could all discuss the energetic romp and laugh-out-loud worthy dialog we'd just experienced, but that's not how Richmond works.
Instead, we were split up into separate discussion groups. I don't know about theirs, but ours may have gotten a little off topic.
Cause, baby, it's cold outside.
Showing posts with label the roosevelt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the roosevelt. Show all posts
Thursday, December 6, 2018
Friday, July 14, 2017
A Burden Every Woman Shares
Are all men freaks? Discuss.
Before that became the evening's theme, I played chauffeur and picked Pru up from her manse in Church Hill, where we promptly drove to the Roosevelt for dinner before the heat wilted our enthusiasm.
When asked to pick our poison, we both chose Early Mountain Vineyards Rose (bartender T: "Because it's Summer!") while I regaled Pru and the barkeep with tales from my recent outing to King Family Winery.
Wine on wheels, what's not to like?
Dinner was putty in Summer's hands, with a mixed melon salad with blueberries, bacon and basil under a blanket of burrata, a yellow tomato gazpacho with lump crabmeat, mussels with grilled bread and a special of octopus salad with tomatoes and white anchovies.
The only way it could have been better is if we'd eaten it on a seaside patio and, as far as we knew, no one was offering us that tonight.
When we weren't stuffing our faces (or ruing the continuous stream of people allowing the air conditioning to escape by leaving the door open), Pru and I were waist-deep in girltalk, which is to say I was sharing the glorious improvements in my personal life while she was reminding me how long she's been waiting for me to get a clue.
"I never had your patience," she told me, stating the obvious. It's not a virtue I'm proud of.
We passed on dessert for more Rose before heading down the hill and back up it to the Basement's cool depths for a play about that magical place between heaven and hell: New Jersey.
That's right, tonight was a night for livin' on a prayer.
Taking seats in the second row, we were soon joined by a favorite actor and his companion for the evening and the conversation flowed like we were old friends. And perhaps all theater lovers are. Discussion immediately followed on who'd seen the original 1984 movie "The Toxic Avenger," on which tonight's musical was based.
Well, certainly not me, but naturally Pru (the film omnivore) had, although she couldn't recall a lot about it. As we discussed, that has a lot to do with her coming of age in the '80s and having been a bit too busy living life to make many mental notes.
Once we noticed that it was all '80s music playing, the actor's friend shared that she'd seen REM for $5 at the Metro back in 1982 (the best I could do was REM at the Mosque in '87), as well as the Ramones, although that ticket price escaped her now.
Don't sweat it, honey, a lot about the '80s escapes those of us who lived through those days.
I suppose it's possible that I could have enjoyed "The Toxic Avenger" more than I did, although it would probably have required someone rubbing my neck and shoulders throughout the entire play - including intermission - to do so. It was that well executed and that much fun.
You're like Mother Theresa, if she was blind and hot.
Although I knew not a thing about the film, I was proud to say I'd seen several Troma films during last year's Troma series at Gallery 5, so I knew to expect the Troma tropes: nudity, horror, severed body parts, high camp and hilarity.
He's gonna jump my bones tomorrow at brunch.
The five-actor cast had the acting and singing skills of ten, whether it was Alexander Sapp as the lovesick environmentalist Melvin (or Toxie himself, with one eyeball perpetually dangling from its socket) or the incomparable Debra Waogoner as both mayor and Melvin's Mom, belting out songs to the rafters, oozing evil or baring her beautiful breasts.
When your face looks deranged, it's hard to get laid.
And don't get me started on the sheer range of Chris Hester as White Dude and William Anderson as Black Dude, who had more costume (and shoe!) changes than Cher. The two of them managed to convey menacing, coy, fey, simple-minded and just about every other type known to wo/man through a string of wig-wearing characters that left the audience in stitches.
So. Much. Cross-dressing.
Love isn't loud at all, it's soft and kind.
Rachel Rose Gilmour won everyone over when she arrived onstage as the stereotypical (and shallow) Jersey girl, complete with low-cut blouse, overly short skirt and a red glitter nail file. Oh, yes, and a probing cane because she was blind, always staring off into the middle distance, a feat unto itself.
If blind people can't love ugly people, who will?
The cast even tossed a bone to theater nerds in attendance when Toxie opened his mouth to roar and the sound didn't match his open mouth. "You ruined it, Joey Luck!" Toxie cried, referencing the much-awarded sound designer in the booth.
The roar that came up instead was laughter from every theater regular in the room.
The beauty of the play was that besides intestines, spleens and ripped off legs, "The Toxic Avenger" was a love story even if it did take place in New Jersey and, as with all good love stories, there were older, wiser women sharing their hard-earned lessons with young Sarah, the blind librarian.
It's been true since the dawn of time
From the Romans to the Greeks
Honey, face it, all mean are freaks,
Sweetheart, face it, all men are freaks
Find kindness in your female heart
No need to act superior
Men need lots of therapy
Cause they were born inferior
That's wisdom for the ages right there. That it was sung by a mother, a blind girl and two cross-dressing men only proves its universality.
This wise woman is here to tell you that there's nothing wrong with finding kindness in your heart and offering a little therapy.
Let's just say what happens at brunch should stay at brunch.
Before that became the evening's theme, I played chauffeur and picked Pru up from her manse in Church Hill, where we promptly drove to the Roosevelt for dinner before the heat wilted our enthusiasm.
When asked to pick our poison, we both chose Early Mountain Vineyards Rose (bartender T: "Because it's Summer!") while I regaled Pru and the barkeep with tales from my recent outing to King Family Winery.
Wine on wheels, what's not to like?
Dinner was putty in Summer's hands, with a mixed melon salad with blueberries, bacon and basil under a blanket of burrata, a yellow tomato gazpacho with lump crabmeat, mussels with grilled bread and a special of octopus salad with tomatoes and white anchovies.
The only way it could have been better is if we'd eaten it on a seaside patio and, as far as we knew, no one was offering us that tonight.
When we weren't stuffing our faces (or ruing the continuous stream of people allowing the air conditioning to escape by leaving the door open), Pru and I were waist-deep in girltalk, which is to say I was sharing the glorious improvements in my personal life while she was reminding me how long she's been waiting for me to get a clue.
"I never had your patience," she told me, stating the obvious. It's not a virtue I'm proud of.
We passed on dessert for more Rose before heading down the hill and back up it to the Basement's cool depths for a play about that magical place between heaven and hell: New Jersey.
That's right, tonight was a night for livin' on a prayer.
Taking seats in the second row, we were soon joined by a favorite actor and his companion for the evening and the conversation flowed like we were old friends. And perhaps all theater lovers are. Discussion immediately followed on who'd seen the original 1984 movie "The Toxic Avenger," on which tonight's musical was based.
Well, certainly not me, but naturally Pru (the film omnivore) had, although she couldn't recall a lot about it. As we discussed, that has a lot to do with her coming of age in the '80s and having been a bit too busy living life to make many mental notes.
Once we noticed that it was all '80s music playing, the actor's friend shared that she'd seen REM for $5 at the Metro back in 1982 (the best I could do was REM at the Mosque in '87), as well as the Ramones, although that ticket price escaped her now.
Don't sweat it, honey, a lot about the '80s escapes those of us who lived through those days.
I suppose it's possible that I could have enjoyed "The Toxic Avenger" more than I did, although it would probably have required someone rubbing my neck and shoulders throughout the entire play - including intermission - to do so. It was that well executed and that much fun.
You're like Mother Theresa, if she was blind and hot.
Although I knew not a thing about the film, I was proud to say I'd seen several Troma films during last year's Troma series at Gallery 5, so I knew to expect the Troma tropes: nudity, horror, severed body parts, high camp and hilarity.
He's gonna jump my bones tomorrow at brunch.
The five-actor cast had the acting and singing skills of ten, whether it was Alexander Sapp as the lovesick environmentalist Melvin (or Toxie himself, with one eyeball perpetually dangling from its socket) or the incomparable Debra Waogoner as both mayor and Melvin's Mom, belting out songs to the rafters, oozing evil or baring her beautiful breasts.
When your face looks deranged, it's hard to get laid.
And don't get me started on the sheer range of Chris Hester as White Dude and William Anderson as Black Dude, who had more costume (and shoe!) changes than Cher. The two of them managed to convey menacing, coy, fey, simple-minded and just about every other type known to wo/man through a string of wig-wearing characters that left the audience in stitches.
So. Much. Cross-dressing.
Love isn't loud at all, it's soft and kind.
Rachel Rose Gilmour won everyone over when she arrived onstage as the stereotypical (and shallow) Jersey girl, complete with low-cut blouse, overly short skirt and a red glitter nail file. Oh, yes, and a probing cane because she was blind, always staring off into the middle distance, a feat unto itself.
If blind people can't love ugly people, who will?
The cast even tossed a bone to theater nerds in attendance when Toxie opened his mouth to roar and the sound didn't match his open mouth. "You ruined it, Joey Luck!" Toxie cried, referencing the much-awarded sound designer in the booth.
The roar that came up instead was laughter from every theater regular in the room.
The beauty of the play was that besides intestines, spleens and ripped off legs, "The Toxic Avenger" was a love story even if it did take place in New Jersey and, as with all good love stories, there were older, wiser women sharing their hard-earned lessons with young Sarah, the blind librarian.
It's been true since the dawn of time
From the Romans to the Greeks
Honey, face it, all mean are freaks,
Sweetheart, face it, all men are freaks
Find kindness in your female heart
No need to act superior
Men need lots of therapy
Cause they were born inferior
That's wisdom for the ages right there. That it was sung by a mother, a blind girl and two cross-dressing men only proves its universality.
This wise woman is here to tell you that there's nothing wrong with finding kindness in your heart and offering a little therapy.
Let's just say what happens at brunch should stay at brunch.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Hello Kitty
Give me your hungry, your thirsty, your spontaneous.
At least that's what I was looking for come afternoon when I saw that there was going to be a Fast & Furious pop-up at the Roosevelt tonight. The chefs - Bobo Catoe and Craig Perkinson - work at Southbound but instead of southern, they'd be riffing on Asian street food.
Remember when you could swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a purveyor of Asian street food? That memory continues to get dimmer and dimmer, not that I'm complaining given the extroverted flavors and low cost that come standard with the cuisine.
And because they'd be setting up shop at the Roosevelt, aka Richmond mixology central, there'd be a special cocktail menu. That told me which friend to invite and he was immediately on board and enthusiastic. Knowing it was going to be popular and they'd surely run out of food items, I asked him to meet me there right at 5 when the pop-up was due to lift off.
This was not the time to be fashionably late, not that either of us are the tardy type.
Even so, there was already a line and I recognized several bartenders. By the time the doors opened and we made it inside, every bar stool had a butt in it. By 5:10, every table was occupied.
Wow, it must be nice to be so popular.
I'd donned a blue Hawaiian print dress and polka dot flip flops for the occasion, but was clearly bested by the guy in the shirt with tiny palm trees all over it. Or perhaps by the woman in a long blue and yellow print dress with a see-through band around the knees for ventilation, kind of a screen door effect.
Our evening kicked off with Shanghai Sours - who knew I'd enjoy a bourbon cocktail so much? - laden with plum wine, yuzu and 5-spice powder and served in coupes like we were Nick and Nora Charles minus the dog.
We shared a drink called Our Fog Cutter, wise, we decided, given that it had multiple spirits - rums, brandy, gin and sherry - and exotic fruit (our best guess was yuzu and papaya), only to find that it was beautifully balanced. A cocktail connoisseur friend observed that it was the kind of cocktail you'd suck back multiples of, only to find out you were suddenly loopy. One was enough for us, although we didn't hesitate to put our own spin on it by muddling the mint sprig garnish to add another layer of complexity.
Sometimes it's okay to play with your food.
Our final share probably should have been our first given its light, refreshing qualities. The gorgeous orange Chuhai blended the distilled rice beverage Shochu with mandarin soda and citrus, an ideal sipper on a hot day.
Despite a full dining room, people kept arriving and I spotted my newly unemployed (by choice, mind you) foodie friends joining the queue to wait for someplace to park their backsides.
I was surprised to see that one thing my friend is doing with all his extra hours is growing a beard, which proves that just because a person has an abundance of free time doesn't mean he wants to spend it with a razor in hand. Or perhaps he's joining the bearded hipster movement. Not likely.
Focused on food, I waved and went back to eating.
No doubt about it, my partner-in-crime was enjoying himself as much as I was as we ate through the Fast and Furious menu, from panko and spice-coated street corn to the Vietnamese pancakes Bahn Xeo laden with pickled shrimp, which we rolled up and ate like tacos.
Equally seduced by the lamb and the ramps, my friend did most (but not all) of the damage on lamb bulgogi with ramp kimchi, especially savoring the heat on the finish. I was the one who plowed through most of the crab salad, piling it high on rice crackers, while we shared to-die-for steam buns with crispy duck.
Oh, I'd come with the right friend all right. Returning from the loo, he was already halfway through a dish of obscenely creamy red bean ice cream, a wise move given the damage I can do with a spoon. We had a brief should-we moment when we saw a nearby table devouring a teacake with citrus frosting, but four drinks, six dishes and dessert answered that question for us.
Namely, we'll make up for it at their next pop-up.
In the meantime, how great is it to lose yourself in a novel experience and be back on the street in time to have a full evening elsewhere?
There's no shame in being satisfied by sunset.
At least that's what I was looking for come afternoon when I saw that there was going to be a Fast & Furious pop-up at the Roosevelt tonight. The chefs - Bobo Catoe and Craig Perkinson - work at Southbound but instead of southern, they'd be riffing on Asian street food.
Remember when you could swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a purveyor of Asian street food? That memory continues to get dimmer and dimmer, not that I'm complaining given the extroverted flavors and low cost that come standard with the cuisine.
And because they'd be setting up shop at the Roosevelt, aka Richmond mixology central, there'd be a special cocktail menu. That told me which friend to invite and he was immediately on board and enthusiastic. Knowing it was going to be popular and they'd surely run out of food items, I asked him to meet me there right at 5 when the pop-up was due to lift off.
This was not the time to be fashionably late, not that either of us are the tardy type.
Even so, there was already a line and I recognized several bartenders. By the time the doors opened and we made it inside, every bar stool had a butt in it. By 5:10, every table was occupied.
Wow, it must be nice to be so popular.
I'd donned a blue Hawaiian print dress and polka dot flip flops for the occasion, but was clearly bested by the guy in the shirt with tiny palm trees all over it. Or perhaps by the woman in a long blue and yellow print dress with a see-through band around the knees for ventilation, kind of a screen door effect.
Our evening kicked off with Shanghai Sours - who knew I'd enjoy a bourbon cocktail so much? - laden with plum wine, yuzu and 5-spice powder and served in coupes like we were Nick and Nora Charles minus the dog.
We shared a drink called Our Fog Cutter, wise, we decided, given that it had multiple spirits - rums, brandy, gin and sherry - and exotic fruit (our best guess was yuzu and papaya), only to find that it was beautifully balanced. A cocktail connoisseur friend observed that it was the kind of cocktail you'd suck back multiples of, only to find out you were suddenly loopy. One was enough for us, although we didn't hesitate to put our own spin on it by muddling the mint sprig garnish to add another layer of complexity.
Sometimes it's okay to play with your food.
Our final share probably should have been our first given its light, refreshing qualities. The gorgeous orange Chuhai blended the distilled rice beverage Shochu with mandarin soda and citrus, an ideal sipper on a hot day.
Despite a full dining room, people kept arriving and I spotted my newly unemployed (by choice, mind you) foodie friends joining the queue to wait for someplace to park their backsides.
I was surprised to see that one thing my friend is doing with all his extra hours is growing a beard, which proves that just because a person has an abundance of free time doesn't mean he wants to spend it with a razor in hand. Or perhaps he's joining the bearded hipster movement. Not likely.
Focused on food, I waved and went back to eating.
No doubt about it, my partner-in-crime was enjoying himself as much as I was as we ate through the Fast and Furious menu, from panko and spice-coated street corn to the Vietnamese pancakes Bahn Xeo laden with pickled shrimp, which we rolled up and ate like tacos.
Equally seduced by the lamb and the ramps, my friend did most (but not all) of the damage on lamb bulgogi with ramp kimchi, especially savoring the heat on the finish. I was the one who plowed through most of the crab salad, piling it high on rice crackers, while we shared to-die-for steam buns with crispy duck.
Oh, I'd come with the right friend all right. Returning from the loo, he was already halfway through a dish of obscenely creamy red bean ice cream, a wise move given the damage I can do with a spoon. We had a brief should-we moment when we saw a nearby table devouring a teacake with citrus frosting, but four drinks, six dishes and dessert answered that question for us.
Namely, we'll make up for it at their next pop-up.
In the meantime, how great is it to lose yourself in a novel experience and be back on the street in time to have a full evening elsewhere?
There's no shame in being satisfied by sunset.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
You Can Leave Your Hat On
As surprising days go, this one had a lot to recommend it.
Today's road trip took me to Petersburg in the pouring rain, to a house where Lincoln met Grant to talk about the end of the Great Unpleasantness. War mongering aside, I was there to try on hats and admire a rather eclectic and enormous collection of stuff that resided in this house.
After establishing that my head is a large - no surprise since this is something my sisters and I have always been known for, along with disproportionately long legs and short cracks - I tried on gorgeously wide-brimmed hats that had the effect of almost making me look like a Southern belle and cloche styles that evoked flappers.
There was even one black and straw hat similar to the one purchased by Lynda Carter, which was a particularly interesting coincidence since Wonder Woman figured prominently in my plans once I returned to the capital city.
That's right, VCU's Cabell Library had put Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane on display for today only, complete with background and history. If it tells you anything, it was displayed at the Smithsonian on April 1 last year.
Now here's the real joke: I knew nothing about Wonder Woman. Never read the comic, never saw the '70s show, never even knew the super-hero premise. Which was exactly why I thought it kind of important to attend Jill Lepore's talk on "The Secret History of Wonder Woman," also the title of her book, and gain a little insight on the subject.
That meant inserting myself into an auditorium with lots of students in it, students who actually said things like, "Yea, but then you're going to have to deal with a bunch of young millennials who are sweaty and drunk."
The superior-sounding guy who said this couldn't have been more than nineteen. Hysterical.
Better yet, Lepore's talk turned out to be just the kind of cultural history that fascinates me.
In short order, she explained '70s "jiggle TV," which included both "Wonder Woman" (her twin brother's favorite) and "The Man from Atantis" (hers), which apparently involved Patrick Duffy pre-"Dallas" in a yellow Speedo ("So he was practically naked") and moved back in time to the excessive violence of 1930s male-dominated comic books.
A public opinion poll asked if Wonder Woman should be allowed to join the Justice Society as a means of establishing a standard of strong and courageous womanhood and enough people said yes to make it happen.
Where things got interesting was with the writer, William Marston, an avowed supporter of women's rights, a man who said that women like Wonder Woman should rule the world. A man who as a college freshman had been a member of Men for Women's Suffrage. A man who lived not only with his wife, but with a graduate student with whom he fathered two children.
A man who also invented the lie detector, wrote silent films for D.W. Griffith, penned a book called "Emotions for Normal People" and then detailed why certain behaviors should be considered normal (they weren't at the time). An odd bird, for sure.
What was so compelling was how her research showed that it was Marston's interests - in women's voting rights, in porn, in bondage, in birth control - that were being popularized through the character of Wonder Woman in her sassy costume and kinky boots based on a Vargas Girl from "Esquire" magazine.
I tell you what, it was a damn informative lecture, all the more so for how Lepore repeatedly pointed out how little women's history is taught in our schools. Middle-aged woman throughout the room invisibly raised their fists in support.
She made a terrific case for Wonder Woman tying together first and second wave feminism, a lesson most of the students could have used had they not already dipped out.
Walking home afterwards was exciting in that way that weather suddenly takes precedence over everything else. A fierce wind was whipping my hair and skirt but it was also eerily warm with an incredibly menacing sky, no doubt a foreshadowing of the bad news that awaited me there.
Bingo at Gallery 5 was canceled. Aw, man. I love my bingo nights.
Just as I was allowing that change in my plans to sink in, the tornado sirens cranked up like we were in Oklahoma or something. And not once, but several times until finally the torrential winds and rain began and I couldn't see across the street anymore.
I'll be honest with you, though, initially I wasn't sure what the sirens meant. It's not like we hear them in Richmondmuch ever, but luckily we have the Internets to fill in the gaps in our knowledge.
My magic screen tells me there was a tornado in Chester at 5:52 that's supposed to pass over downtown/VCU at 6:10, so I figure I'll get cleaned up and go eat once the danger has passed.
Say, 6:20 or so.
Heading over to the Roosevelt, the sirens start up again, but in the distance, so I don't worry about it too much. It's not like there are cows or single-wides in the neighborhood to go flying past me, right?
Since the really pounding rain seems to come in waves, I spend time sitting in the car once I get to Church Hill, waiting for the rain to slacken enough to make a break for it. Even with flowered boots and a raincoat, I'm a little soggy on arrival.
Taking a seat at the bar, I find that most of the people around me are neighbors who'd sought refuge once they heard a storm was coming. Apparently it's less common to hear the sirens and leave for another neighborhood like some of us had.
Meanwhile, a woman near me was seriously freaked out, not by the potential of wind and rain damage, but by a yellow egg that kept showing up in different places around her house without her or her husband moving it. First it was on the table, then on the windowsill, then inside a candle with a lid on it and this was causing her some genuine consternation. Floorboards creaking at night weren't helping, either.
Trying to reassure her, I explained that my parents' house has a ghost - they even know her name: Bertha - and they've all peacefully co-existed for 32 years. You can't let a little thing like paranormal activity weird you out.
Turns out she could.
Just about the time I'd decided what I wanted for dinner, the bartender showed up with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and a recitation of the specials, which naturally changed my order entirely.
A warm, wet night like this felt beachy, you know, wild and watery, just perfect for a fried trout sandwich with hot sauce and cole slaw, the piece of trout hanging off the seeded bun by about three inches on either side, jutting into the fries.
Just what you ought to be eating when you have damp hair and bare feet inside rubber boots.
Next to me, a woman who lived four blocks away worked on a cheeseburger while we discussed the dining scene and how glad she was to have bought a house in Church Hill five years ago.
I still say it's too disconnected for my taste - I want to be able to walk most anywhere I might want to go - but I know plenty of people who like that about it.
Fish gone, I told the bartender I wanted dessert and he knew what I wanted without asking, or at least made the right guess. Trying to resist chocolate pudding with orange zest was futile, so I didn't.
"Wine and chocolate, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?" he inquired with a grin.
Actually, I hope it does.
Today's road trip took me to Petersburg in the pouring rain, to a house where Lincoln met Grant to talk about the end of the Great Unpleasantness. War mongering aside, I was there to try on hats and admire a rather eclectic and enormous collection of stuff that resided in this house.
After establishing that my head is a large - no surprise since this is something my sisters and I have always been known for, along with disproportionately long legs and short cracks - I tried on gorgeously wide-brimmed hats that had the effect of almost making me look like a Southern belle and cloche styles that evoked flappers.
There was even one black and straw hat similar to the one purchased by Lynda Carter, which was a particularly interesting coincidence since Wonder Woman figured prominently in my plans once I returned to the capital city.
That's right, VCU's Cabell Library had put Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane on display for today only, complete with background and history. If it tells you anything, it was displayed at the Smithsonian on April 1 last year.
Now here's the real joke: I knew nothing about Wonder Woman. Never read the comic, never saw the '70s show, never even knew the super-hero premise. Which was exactly why I thought it kind of important to attend Jill Lepore's talk on "The Secret History of Wonder Woman," also the title of her book, and gain a little insight on the subject.
That meant inserting myself into an auditorium with lots of students in it, students who actually said things like, "Yea, but then you're going to have to deal with a bunch of young millennials who are sweaty and drunk."
The superior-sounding guy who said this couldn't have been more than nineteen. Hysterical.
Better yet, Lepore's talk turned out to be just the kind of cultural history that fascinates me.
In short order, she explained '70s "jiggle TV," which included both "Wonder Woman" (her twin brother's favorite) and "The Man from Atantis" (hers), which apparently involved Patrick Duffy pre-"Dallas" in a yellow Speedo ("So he was practically naked") and moved back in time to the excessive violence of 1930s male-dominated comic books.
A public opinion poll asked if Wonder Woman should be allowed to join the Justice Society as a means of establishing a standard of strong and courageous womanhood and enough people said yes to make it happen.
Where things got interesting was with the writer, William Marston, an avowed supporter of women's rights, a man who said that women like Wonder Woman should rule the world. A man who as a college freshman had been a member of Men for Women's Suffrage. A man who lived not only with his wife, but with a graduate student with whom he fathered two children.
A man who also invented the lie detector, wrote silent films for D.W. Griffith, penned a book called "Emotions for Normal People" and then detailed why certain behaviors should be considered normal (they weren't at the time). An odd bird, for sure.
What was so compelling was how her research showed that it was Marston's interests - in women's voting rights, in porn, in bondage, in birth control - that were being popularized through the character of Wonder Woman in her sassy costume and kinky boots based on a Vargas Girl from "Esquire" magazine.
I tell you what, it was a damn informative lecture, all the more so for how Lepore repeatedly pointed out how little women's history is taught in our schools. Middle-aged woman throughout the room invisibly raised their fists in support.
She made a terrific case for Wonder Woman tying together first and second wave feminism, a lesson most of the students could have used had they not already dipped out.
Walking home afterwards was exciting in that way that weather suddenly takes precedence over everything else. A fierce wind was whipping my hair and skirt but it was also eerily warm with an incredibly menacing sky, no doubt a foreshadowing of the bad news that awaited me there.
Bingo at Gallery 5 was canceled. Aw, man. I love my bingo nights.
Just as I was allowing that change in my plans to sink in, the tornado sirens cranked up like we were in Oklahoma or something. And not once, but several times until finally the torrential winds and rain began and I couldn't see across the street anymore.
I'll be honest with you, though, initially I wasn't sure what the sirens meant. It's not like we hear them in Richmond
My magic screen tells me there was a tornado in Chester at 5:52 that's supposed to pass over downtown/VCU at 6:10, so I figure I'll get cleaned up and go eat once the danger has passed.
Say, 6:20 or so.
Heading over to the Roosevelt, the sirens start up again, but in the distance, so I don't worry about it too much. It's not like there are cows or single-wides in the neighborhood to go flying past me, right?
Since the really pounding rain seems to come in waves, I spend time sitting in the car once I get to Church Hill, waiting for the rain to slacken enough to make a break for it. Even with flowered boots and a raincoat, I'm a little soggy on arrival.
Taking a seat at the bar, I find that most of the people around me are neighbors who'd sought refuge once they heard a storm was coming. Apparently it's less common to hear the sirens and leave for another neighborhood like some of us had.
Meanwhile, a woman near me was seriously freaked out, not by the potential of wind and rain damage, but by a yellow egg that kept showing up in different places around her house without her or her husband moving it. First it was on the table, then on the windowsill, then inside a candle with a lid on it and this was causing her some genuine consternation. Floorboards creaking at night weren't helping, either.
Trying to reassure her, I explained that my parents' house has a ghost - they even know her name: Bertha - and they've all peacefully co-existed for 32 years. You can't let a little thing like paranormal activity weird you out.
Turns out she could.
Just about the time I'd decided what I wanted for dinner, the bartender showed up with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and a recitation of the specials, which naturally changed my order entirely.
A warm, wet night like this felt beachy, you know, wild and watery, just perfect for a fried trout sandwich with hot sauce and cole slaw, the piece of trout hanging off the seeded bun by about three inches on either side, jutting into the fries.
Just what you ought to be eating when you have damp hair and bare feet inside rubber boots.
Next to me, a woman who lived four blocks away worked on a cheeseburger while we discussed the dining scene and how glad she was to have bought a house in Church Hill five years ago.
I still say it's too disconnected for my taste - I want to be able to walk most anywhere I might want to go - but I know plenty of people who like that about it.
Fish gone, I told the bartender I wanted dessert and he knew what I wanted without asking, or at least made the right guess. Trying to resist chocolate pudding with orange zest was futile, so I didn't.
"Wine and chocolate, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?" he inquired with a grin.
Actually, I hope it does.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Somewhere Back in Her Long Ago
Lucky me. I may have gone to bed at 3 a.m. last night, but when I got up, it was to go to a rehearsal of the Richmond Ballet.
Short of a champagne brunch with an adoring man who woos me with intellect, desire and humor, I can't think of too many finer ways to start the day.
The Richmond Ballet was rehearsing "Windows 3" and ballet master Malcolm Burn welcomed me in before using the next hour to direct, assess and demonstrate exactly how he wanted this section of the ballet to look.
What was most enjoyable as an observer was watching him use his keen sense of humor, Australian accent and flawless technique to teach the young troupe what he wanted out of this ballet. There's a reason he's called a master.
Using constant correction, he detailed a dancer's suspension and engagement, bemoaned technology (the remote for the music) and joked about how modern ballets are always shown in the dark. And he wasn't shy about correcting a company member.
What's going on, he asked a male dancer, who explained he was slipping in a certain corner. Malcolm walks over to the dancer, meeting him eye to eye and says softly but authoritatively, "Don't."
The implication is: Ever. Again. The dancer doesn't.
I marvel at being close enough to hear the heavy breathing of the dancers performing athletic endeavors over and over again. Or being close enough to see their rib cages expanding and contracting after an arabesque or two.
It was almost humorous when a dancer looked guiltily at him and admitted that the last step had been his mistake. "Uh-huh," Malcolm agrees. "Do tell." Again, the mistake is never repeated.
Or, "I could be in Ohio and I'd see that mistake." Malcolm seems to be a pro at getting his point across with a smile. "I'm not asking your opinion and I don't care what you think," he tells a male dancer. "I want your hands on her waist."
By the way, this is good advice for any man, not just dancers.
It's also a marvelous thing to observe up close. It gives a balletomane the opportunity to witness the work that goes into shaping a ballet into the finished piece an audience sees while providing a close-up view of the blood, sweat and tears involved in making it happen.
And if this is how you get to start your day, it's bound to be a good one.
Just as good is being asked out to dinner. Expecting a mob scene like the last time I went to the Roosevelt, I am suitably impressed when we walk in and find two bar stools free in an otherwise full dining room.
Good karma rolls on when we begin with Thibaud-Janisson Brut, followed by an unexpected gift ("prezzies" as Pru would say) and friends stopping by my stool. The wine geek wants to tell me about half price bottles at her restaurant and the guitarist wants to share a band he knows I'll love, but being given a present is the best part.
Bartender T., clearly not working tonight, says hello and I inquire if his sole reason for being there is to look good in his blue t-shirt. "I may drink some coffee, too," he says laconically, hoisting a coffee cup.
The restaurant is loud, its hard surfaces and boisterous conversation making it tough to hear the music, but my date leans in and we manage conversation about California wine country, the best places to read a book and lighthouse tours.
Someone looked around and observed of the capacity crowd eating and laughing at tables, "It's a good-looking bunch tonight." Probably anything would look good after the rigors of the recent restaurant week.
Dinner began with a scrumptious plate of varying textures and flavors: burrata, fried Brussels sprouts, Asian pear, sunflower seeds and bacon vinaigrette, followed closely by a rich and satisfying Virginia lamb Bolognese over a polenta cake with fried egg and Parmesan.
Neither dish felt especially Roosevelt-like and both were stellar.
Next came a bistro steak with fingerling potatoes, bleu cheese, bacon, pickled red onion and homemade steak sauce and then farro with celery and apple which led to a discussion of it currently being celery season, a fact I'd recently read.
In season or not, the dish was a hit, its earthy nuttiness the ideal foil for the crunch and sweetness of apples and celery. My date suggested it tasted like breakfast, but not to me.
Michael McDonald came on the sound system overhead and suddenly, half the staff were trying to recall a certain one of his songs.
Given that they could have been the singer's grandchildren, they didn't know any of the words and their humming left a lot to be desired. Even so, it wasn't long before they figured out it was "What a Fool Believes," a song I didn't need to hear again in this lifetime, and put it on.
A group of us got started on what to do and see in Philly - the mosaics, the Liberty Bell, certain restaurants - in anticipation of the host's upcoming visit. I wasn't much help; I haven't been there in about eight years, so I'd be very curious about the scene these days, too.
I recognized a guy I'd met out the other night when he'd been a bit loopy and tonight we made formal introductions.
By the time I was ready for dessert, the restaurant was beginning to clear out and Monday was making its presence felt. While people headed out into the cool night air, I asked for Coca Cola cake and a glass of the bartender's housemade grapefruit-cello, a riff on Limoncello.
Much as I liked the cake, I felt like the mini-marshmallows in it were overkill, or perhaps I was just so full at that point that they seemed extraneous.
But my grapefruit-cello was delightful, tart and fresh tasting with just enough kick behind the citrus. Sipping and chatting, it reminded me a bit of nights in Italy sipping ridiculous amounts of Limoncello into the night.
For the record, tonight I only had two. A girl can't stay up until 3 a.m. every night wondering what a fool believes.
Or at least not blog about it when she does.
Short of a champagne brunch with an adoring man who woos me with intellect, desire and humor, I can't think of too many finer ways to start the day.
The Richmond Ballet was rehearsing "Windows 3" and ballet master Malcolm Burn welcomed me in before using the next hour to direct, assess and demonstrate exactly how he wanted this section of the ballet to look.
What was most enjoyable as an observer was watching him use his keen sense of humor, Australian accent and flawless technique to teach the young troupe what he wanted out of this ballet. There's a reason he's called a master.
Using constant correction, he detailed a dancer's suspension and engagement, bemoaned technology (the remote for the music) and joked about how modern ballets are always shown in the dark. And he wasn't shy about correcting a company member.
What's going on, he asked a male dancer, who explained he was slipping in a certain corner. Malcolm walks over to the dancer, meeting him eye to eye and says softly but authoritatively, "Don't."
The implication is: Ever. Again. The dancer doesn't.
I marvel at being close enough to hear the heavy breathing of the dancers performing athletic endeavors over and over again. Or being close enough to see their rib cages expanding and contracting after an arabesque or two.
It was almost humorous when a dancer looked guiltily at him and admitted that the last step had been his mistake. "Uh-huh," Malcolm agrees. "Do tell." Again, the mistake is never repeated.
Or, "I could be in Ohio and I'd see that mistake." Malcolm seems to be a pro at getting his point across with a smile. "I'm not asking your opinion and I don't care what you think," he tells a male dancer. "I want your hands on her waist."
By the way, this is good advice for any man, not just dancers.
It's also a marvelous thing to observe up close. It gives a balletomane the opportunity to witness the work that goes into shaping a ballet into the finished piece an audience sees while providing a close-up view of the blood, sweat and tears involved in making it happen.
And if this is how you get to start your day, it's bound to be a good one.
Just as good is being asked out to dinner. Expecting a mob scene like the last time I went to the Roosevelt, I am suitably impressed when we walk in and find two bar stools free in an otherwise full dining room.
Good karma rolls on when we begin with Thibaud-Janisson Brut, followed by an unexpected gift ("prezzies" as Pru would say) and friends stopping by my stool. The wine geek wants to tell me about half price bottles at her restaurant and the guitarist wants to share a band he knows I'll love, but being given a present is the best part.
Bartender T., clearly not working tonight, says hello and I inquire if his sole reason for being there is to look good in his blue t-shirt. "I may drink some coffee, too," he says laconically, hoisting a coffee cup.
The restaurant is loud, its hard surfaces and boisterous conversation making it tough to hear the music, but my date leans in and we manage conversation about California wine country, the best places to read a book and lighthouse tours.
Someone looked around and observed of the capacity crowd eating and laughing at tables, "It's a good-looking bunch tonight." Probably anything would look good after the rigors of the recent restaurant week.
Dinner began with a scrumptious plate of varying textures and flavors: burrata, fried Brussels sprouts, Asian pear, sunflower seeds and bacon vinaigrette, followed closely by a rich and satisfying Virginia lamb Bolognese over a polenta cake with fried egg and Parmesan.
Neither dish felt especially Roosevelt-like and both were stellar.
Next came a bistro steak with fingerling potatoes, bleu cheese, bacon, pickled red onion and homemade steak sauce and then farro with celery and apple which led to a discussion of it currently being celery season, a fact I'd recently read.
In season or not, the dish was a hit, its earthy nuttiness the ideal foil for the crunch and sweetness of apples and celery. My date suggested it tasted like breakfast, but not to me.
Michael McDonald came on the sound system overhead and suddenly, half the staff were trying to recall a certain one of his songs.
Given that they could have been the singer's grandchildren, they didn't know any of the words and their humming left a lot to be desired. Even so, it wasn't long before they figured out it was "What a Fool Believes," a song I didn't need to hear again in this lifetime, and put it on.
A group of us got started on what to do and see in Philly - the mosaics, the Liberty Bell, certain restaurants - in anticipation of the host's upcoming visit. I wasn't much help; I haven't been there in about eight years, so I'd be very curious about the scene these days, too.
I recognized a guy I'd met out the other night when he'd been a bit loopy and tonight we made formal introductions.
By the time I was ready for dessert, the restaurant was beginning to clear out and Monday was making its presence felt. While people headed out into the cool night air, I asked for Coca Cola cake and a glass of the bartender's housemade grapefruit-cello, a riff on Limoncello.
Much as I liked the cake, I felt like the mini-marshmallows in it were overkill, or perhaps I was just so full at that point that they seemed extraneous.
But my grapefruit-cello was delightful, tart and fresh tasting with just enough kick behind the citrus. Sipping and chatting, it reminded me a bit of nights in Italy sipping ridiculous amounts of Limoncello into the night.
For the record, tonight I only had two. A girl can't stay up until 3 a.m. every night wondering what a fool believes.
Or at least not blog about it when she does.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Shock of the New
Let's just say it's satisfying to know that I can still surprise people.
Sometimes it's a literal surprise like when I came downstairs tonight to go out and surprised a guy hanging over the fence that fronts my little city garden. Camera in hand, he was shooting close-ups of my geraniums, daisies and roses, so nothing nefarious was going on, but he jumped up guiltily when I approached, asking, "Whatcha doin'?"
Once I calmed him down, assuring him I had no problem with him photographing my garden (it's not even the first time someone's done it), we quickly became friends as he shot more and showed me some of the images. The one of a bee on a lily stem was especially dazzling. After he told me he lives just down the street, he asked if he could come back and shoot my cannas once the buds open.
I don't think it was a metaphor for anything, but I'm not ruling it out yet.
I've surprised people several times lately because I had on jeans or shorts, stopping even close friends accustomed to seeing me only in skirts and dresses in their tracks. It's happened with three of my favorite bartenders this month- including tonight with the one whose silk-screened print hangs in my dining room - when I've ordered a cocktail.
"I have to say I'm a little in shock right now," he says with a proper stunned look after I order an Alright, Alright at the Roosevelt's bar. But even the one who recently told me he thinks I'd look great in jeans can't be surprised that I'd be attracted to a mezcal cocktail with pineapple, yellow Chartreuse, lime and cardamom, all flavors I like.
Of course, no one is surprised that when a bar-wide discussion of the origin of the phrase "alright, alright" comes up, I neither know the reference nor the film that spawned it. Sorry to be predictable sometimes, but I cannot be a continuous source of amazement to people.
The clatter of diners at all but two tables prevented me hearing the music, but not from eating, beginning with scallop crudo admirably set off with pickled ramps, cucumber chunks, capers and XO sauce for some kick, until I was joined by a restaurateur glad to see me but weary after dealing with a weekend full of problems requiring attention. It's a lament I've heard before.
My second course was pork belly over cheese grits with peanuts, exactly the kind of dish with which the Roosevelt built its reputation, and now carried on with a twist by Chef Mike Braune of whom I was a fan back when he was at Secco. After the delicacy of the seafood, the fatty richness of the pig felt indulgent.
It wasn't long before we were joined by a dedicated wine geek who'd been shut out at Ellwood Thompson and now wanted rum punch and the bluefish entree. This led to picture sharing of a recent luncheon feast at Edo's that featured wine, whole branzino (only problem: the eyeballs were a little dry), hangar steak, broccolini and three kinds of pasta that looked like it could have fed four rather than two.
Another story (alas, no pictures) involved going to the movies to see "Spy" and taking a really excellent bottle of Pinot Noir which they sipped out of paper cups, thus taking "Spy" to a whole new level. I was asked about my latest movie and recommended "Love and Mercy" highly as much for the thoughtful filmmaking as the well-told story.
By the time the evening ended, it was just us and the five-top in the window and judging by their loud hootin' and hollerin', they may have imbibed more but I doubt their conversation was any better.
When I got out of my car at home, my neighbor was sitting on his porch and called me over. "Would you like a beer?' he offered, apparently ever the good host. When I declined, he broadened the invitation, saying he also had Gatorade or water. "Would you like to sit down and talk?" was his final offer. Better not.
If he knew me, he'd have undoubtedly been surprised as hell to hear me turn down any chance to talk. Instead, he accepted it, telling me how really nice I looked in my shorts.
Alright, alright. If he only knew.
Sometimes it's a literal surprise like when I came downstairs tonight to go out and surprised a guy hanging over the fence that fronts my little city garden. Camera in hand, he was shooting close-ups of my geraniums, daisies and roses, so nothing nefarious was going on, but he jumped up guiltily when I approached, asking, "Whatcha doin'?"
Once I calmed him down, assuring him I had no problem with him photographing my garden (it's not even the first time someone's done it), we quickly became friends as he shot more and showed me some of the images. The one of a bee on a lily stem was especially dazzling. After he told me he lives just down the street, he asked if he could come back and shoot my cannas once the buds open.
I don't think it was a metaphor for anything, but I'm not ruling it out yet.
I've surprised people several times lately because I had on jeans or shorts, stopping even close friends accustomed to seeing me only in skirts and dresses in their tracks. It's happened with three of my favorite bartenders this month- including tonight with the one whose silk-screened print hangs in my dining room - when I've ordered a cocktail.
"I have to say I'm a little in shock right now," he says with a proper stunned look after I order an Alright, Alright at the Roosevelt's bar. But even the one who recently told me he thinks I'd look great in jeans can't be surprised that I'd be attracted to a mezcal cocktail with pineapple, yellow Chartreuse, lime and cardamom, all flavors I like.
Of course, no one is surprised that when a bar-wide discussion of the origin of the phrase "alright, alright" comes up, I neither know the reference nor the film that spawned it. Sorry to be predictable sometimes, but I cannot be a continuous source of amazement to people.
The clatter of diners at all but two tables prevented me hearing the music, but not from eating, beginning with scallop crudo admirably set off with pickled ramps, cucumber chunks, capers and XO sauce for some kick, until I was joined by a restaurateur glad to see me but weary after dealing with a weekend full of problems requiring attention. It's a lament I've heard before.
My second course was pork belly over cheese grits with peanuts, exactly the kind of dish with which the Roosevelt built its reputation, and now carried on with a twist by Chef Mike Braune of whom I was a fan back when he was at Secco. After the delicacy of the seafood, the fatty richness of the pig felt indulgent.
It wasn't long before we were joined by a dedicated wine geek who'd been shut out at Ellwood Thompson and now wanted rum punch and the bluefish entree. This led to picture sharing of a recent luncheon feast at Edo's that featured wine, whole branzino (only problem: the eyeballs were a little dry), hangar steak, broccolini and three kinds of pasta that looked like it could have fed four rather than two.
Another story (alas, no pictures) involved going to the movies to see "Spy" and taking a really excellent bottle of Pinot Noir which they sipped out of paper cups, thus taking "Spy" to a whole new level. I was asked about my latest movie and recommended "Love and Mercy" highly as much for the thoughtful filmmaking as the well-told story.
By the time the evening ended, it was just us and the five-top in the window and judging by their loud hootin' and hollerin', they may have imbibed more but I doubt their conversation was any better.
When I got out of my car at home, my neighbor was sitting on his porch and called me over. "Would you like a beer?' he offered, apparently ever the good host. When I declined, he broadened the invitation, saying he also had Gatorade or water. "Would you like to sit down and talk?" was his final offer. Better not.
If he knew me, he'd have undoubtedly been surprised as hell to hear me turn down any chance to talk. Instead, he accepted it, telling me how really nice I looked in my shorts.
Alright, alright. If he only knew.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Step Right Up, Number Four
If I was going to get married, the subject of my desire was at the Roosevelt tonight. Shh, no one needs to know.
Tonight's dinner was labeled "Pass the Chablis on the left hand side" and attracted an A list of dedicated wine geeks for a one night event meant to celebrate the cooking of the Roosevelt for those who wanted to bring their own wine.
Arriving with a date and more than enough wine for two, I was greeted by all kinds of favorite wine lovers: my upcoming travel companion ("Am I cursed?"), the painter and his pregnant wife (37 weeks and counting), the pizza maker and her carpaccio-loving husband (seeking a brick and mortar location for her business) , Saison's wine goddess ("Everything just fell into place"), the outdoor shower master and his wife (always a good time), the wine rep couple (already planning their annual Rose party) and other assorted wine reps and main squeezes.
The first order of business was hugging the bartender and labeling my glass with my name ("captain" was used despite that my nautically correct dress should have merited an "admiral") before mingling while sipping sparkling Riesling.
Rumor had it the evening's motivation had been eating chef Mike Braune's food without the expected accompaniment of Virginia wine. That said, one guest not only brought a bottle of Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, but it was autographed by the winemaker himself.
The mingling period was protracted and well lubricated, with every wine nerd showing off his opening selection. Since my job had been merely to show up and smile, I felt no pressure to impress.
Beyond, of course, mentioning my $3 thrift store dress whenever I got a compliment on it.
Eventually, we were instructed to find a seat for dinner.
Chef Braune's first course was spicy steak tartare with black garlic, bright green ramp oil. sunny yellow cured egg and crispy sunchokes standing in for potato chips, for me enjoyed with Domaine de la Chapelle "Fleurie," a lovely fruit-driven Beaujolais that wound up being shared with most of the people at our table.
Score one for my date, a master at pairing.
The second course was not the expected grouper cheeks but seared scallops with citrus butter, fiddlehead ferns, malt vinegar gnocchi and spring peas paired with a half bottle of crisp Domaine Vincente Dampt Chablis, the essence not only of what tonight's dinner was about but of Spring.
Since we had only a half bottle, though, we passed neither to the right nor to the left. Priorities, my dear.
A bearded friend presented me with a "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt, the same one being worn by staff members tonight to register their feelings on all the uncharacteristically non-Virginia wine at the Roosevelt. I shall wear it, not only with pride but conviction.
The noise level of the room rose with each successive course, as did the familiarity of the people at any given table. I met newbies to Scott's Addition, a guy who somewhat happily lives in Charlottesville and a couple tuned in to but not part of the local wine scene.
For the hunk o' lamb shoulder with cauliflower couscous, anchovy gremolata, black olives and smoked tomato, I drank my seat mate's autographed Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, bringing to mind the thickly accented winemaker and his sparkling sense of humor.
An accidentally overturned wine glass resulted in my plate being traded for one with less wine spilled on it, not that I have any complaints about extra wine soaking my food. I think I would eat lamb shoulder regardless of the state in which it arrived on my plate.
By the time our final course of macaroons from WPA Bakery arrived, conversation was abundant and non-linear. We heard about the interestingly-named Bruce Lee cat, Jackson Ward architecture and why it's important to gather wine geek types on a regular basis. An out-of-towner asked me about the danger of wandering certain streets after dark (all safe, my friend).
And while I could have shared that I'd seen the 1937 tearjerker "Stella Dallas" this morning, I stuck to more relevant topics instead. Part of being a good conversationalist is recognizing your audience and knowing what they'd enjoy hearing.
A low rent mother who sacrifices her beloved daughter to a better woman? An extended walk through what was surely a transitional neighborhood at best? My deep thoughts on middle age marriage?
None of them worthy of tonight's conversational partners. Better I save them for the right company.
That would be some night when it doesn't matter what direction I pass the Chablis because I will be being wooed by Virginia wine and just the right words.
You'll see, everything will fall into place.
Tonight's dinner was labeled "Pass the Chablis on the left hand side" and attracted an A list of dedicated wine geeks for a one night event meant to celebrate the cooking of the Roosevelt for those who wanted to bring their own wine.
Arriving with a date and more than enough wine for two, I was greeted by all kinds of favorite wine lovers: my upcoming travel companion ("Am I cursed?"), the painter and his pregnant wife (37 weeks and counting), the pizza maker and her carpaccio-loving husband (seeking a brick and mortar location for her business) , Saison's wine goddess ("Everything just fell into place"), the outdoor shower master and his wife (always a good time), the wine rep couple (already planning their annual Rose party) and other assorted wine reps and main squeezes.
The first order of business was hugging the bartender and labeling my glass with my name ("captain" was used despite that my nautically correct dress should have merited an "admiral") before mingling while sipping sparkling Riesling.
Rumor had it the evening's motivation had been eating chef Mike Braune's food without the expected accompaniment of Virginia wine. That said, one guest not only brought a bottle of Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, but it was autographed by the winemaker himself.
The mingling period was protracted and well lubricated, with every wine nerd showing off his opening selection. Since my job had been merely to show up and smile, I felt no pressure to impress.
Beyond, of course, mentioning my $3 thrift store dress whenever I got a compliment on it.
Eventually, we were instructed to find a seat for dinner.
Chef Braune's first course was spicy steak tartare with black garlic, bright green ramp oil. sunny yellow cured egg and crispy sunchokes standing in for potato chips, for me enjoyed with Domaine de la Chapelle "Fleurie," a lovely fruit-driven Beaujolais that wound up being shared with most of the people at our table.
Score one for my date, a master at pairing.
The second course was not the expected grouper cheeks but seared scallops with citrus butter, fiddlehead ferns, malt vinegar gnocchi and spring peas paired with a half bottle of crisp Domaine Vincente Dampt Chablis, the essence not only of what tonight's dinner was about but of Spring.
Since we had only a half bottle, though, we passed neither to the right nor to the left. Priorities, my dear.
A bearded friend presented me with a "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt, the same one being worn by staff members tonight to register their feelings on all the uncharacteristically non-Virginia wine at the Roosevelt. I shall wear it, not only with pride but conviction.
The noise level of the room rose with each successive course, as did the familiarity of the people at any given table. I met newbies to Scott's Addition, a guy who somewhat happily lives in Charlottesville and a couple tuned in to but not part of the local wine scene.
For the hunk o' lamb shoulder with cauliflower couscous, anchovy gremolata, black olives and smoked tomato, I drank my seat mate's autographed Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, bringing to mind the thickly accented winemaker and his sparkling sense of humor.
An accidentally overturned wine glass resulted in my plate being traded for one with less wine spilled on it, not that I have any complaints about extra wine soaking my food. I think I would eat lamb shoulder regardless of the state in which it arrived on my plate.
By the time our final course of macaroons from WPA Bakery arrived, conversation was abundant and non-linear. We heard about the interestingly-named Bruce Lee cat, Jackson Ward architecture and why it's important to gather wine geek types on a regular basis. An out-of-towner asked me about the danger of wandering certain streets after dark (all safe, my friend).
And while I could have shared that I'd seen the 1937 tearjerker "Stella Dallas" this morning, I stuck to more relevant topics instead. Part of being a good conversationalist is recognizing your audience and knowing what they'd enjoy hearing.
A low rent mother who sacrifices her beloved daughter to a better woman? An extended walk through what was surely a transitional neighborhood at best? My deep thoughts on middle age marriage?
None of them worthy of tonight's conversational partners. Better I save them for the right company.
That would be some night when it doesn't matter what direction I pass the Chablis because I will be being wooed by Virginia wine and just the right words.
You'll see, everything will fall into place.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Out on This Town
He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking. ~ Leo Tolstoy "Anna Karenina"
Because that's what girlfriends do, they discuss the language (or absence) of romance when they meet for dinner. She got to the Roosevelt first and I joined her at the bar, bemoaning the fact that it had been far too long since we last met up.
She took one look at my skirt and said, "You are wearing two pairs of tights, right?" Fleece leggings under tights, yes, ma'am. A good friend checks to be sure.
Scanning the wine list, we sought something that neither of us had ever had before, deciding on the 2011 Stinson Vineyards Tannat. Although I'd visited the winery in January two years ago, the Tannat had not yet been available, although what had stuck with me was that winemaker extraordinaire Gabriele Rausse had planted the first vines there 40 years earlier.
It was a big wine, with a nose of blueberry and a peppery finish, a fine choice to sip as we got caught up amid the clamor and bustle of a busy dining room on a cold night.
While it had been a while since I've eaten at the Roosevelt, it didn't take many bites of my arugula salad to remind me what I'd been missing. Topped with fennel, beets, country ham, bleu cheese and buttermilk dressing, the abundant salad kept me busy while my friend shared gossip, cold weather woes and fashion secrets.
She had on a fabulous fashion statement of a necklace, something I wouldn't even attempt, and I envied her ability to pull it off so well.
While she went with the bone-in Berkshire pork chop (sharing a few heavenly bites with me), I chose local lamb neck ragout over fregola with pickled onion and mint. On a chilly night, the earthy lamb over nutty pasta made for a hearty, comforting dish, just what the Roosevelt does best.
When I inquired of the bartender where he'd eaten well lately, his response was, "I had a religious experience at Metzger last week." While I'd fallen hard for the liverwurst, his downfall had been the lamb three ways (because who can resist lamb belly?) which was still haunting his dreams.
At the end of the bar, a couple seemed to be struggling with conversation. Only after they left did we learn that they'd been on a Tinder date, one hindered by him arriving totally drunk and then having four rounds. This had so unhinged the girl that she'd gotten testy, accusing a server who was staring into space of ogling her.
Whoever thought that swiping right was a good way to begin a relationship should have seen the look on the faces of these two as they struggled through a pseudo-date. Such a waste of time.
Not so our get-together, where we chatted about our devotion to John Currence, our indifference to Elvis and our latest cooking accomplishments (my ragout, her paprikash). There aren't many women I discuss cooking with, but she's one.
Three hours in, she began to fade, no doubt attributable to an early morning wake-up call, causing her to push the last of the bottle of Tannat in my direction before heading home.
So what am I going to do with the end of a bottle and no friend? Oh, please. It took about five minutes for a guy to come in and sit down at the bar near me before I had fresh conversation.
After asking about spirits, he said, "Nobody has Chivas in this town," but was seduced anyway into trying Virginia Highland malt whiskey by the savvy bartender. But I had all the information I needed to start talking.
His reference to "this town" meant he wasn't from around here, so where did he live, I wanted to know. Shanghai, it turns out, but he's here on vacation (and escaping Chinese New Year) visiting his parents. Within moments, his father showed up after parking the car.
Dad wasted no time in extending his hand and introducing himself, unlike his son, and he turned out to be a delightful fellow.They'd just come from Dutch & Co, so we discussed food for a bit - Edo's, Lehja, Nora Lebanese - during which he let slip that he was in the music business.
Opening #2. How so? Turns out his career had consisted of making the percussion devices that strike things such as drums and xylophones. He grabbed a long cocktail mixer to demonstrate the kind of sticks and mallets he makes.
Coincidentally, at the table behind us was big band leader Samson Trinh from whom my new friend had taken ukulele lessons. It's a small world in Richmond.
Along about then, the bartender looks at the visitors, raises an eyebrow and asks, "Is she bothering you gentlemen?"
"Yes, she's bothering me and no, don't make her stop," he responded, extending our conversation to my work, my neighborhood and my history. His son sat there, apparently bored by us, saying little, although he admitted to liking the Virginia Highland.
By the time I finished my wine, they'd finished their whiskeys and another satisfying night begun with a friend had ended in the hands of a stranger. As I left, the kitchen guys smoking on the porch outside gave me one last laugh before heading into the Church Hill night.
Language wins every time. Romantic language, even better.
She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.~
J.D. Salinger "A Girl I Knew"
Because that's what girlfriends do, they discuss the language (or absence) of romance when they meet for dinner. She got to the Roosevelt first and I joined her at the bar, bemoaning the fact that it had been far too long since we last met up.
She took one look at my skirt and said, "You are wearing two pairs of tights, right?" Fleece leggings under tights, yes, ma'am. A good friend checks to be sure.
Scanning the wine list, we sought something that neither of us had ever had before, deciding on the 2011 Stinson Vineyards Tannat. Although I'd visited the winery in January two years ago, the Tannat had not yet been available, although what had stuck with me was that winemaker extraordinaire Gabriele Rausse had planted the first vines there 40 years earlier.
It was a big wine, with a nose of blueberry and a peppery finish, a fine choice to sip as we got caught up amid the clamor and bustle of a busy dining room on a cold night.
While it had been a while since I've eaten at the Roosevelt, it didn't take many bites of my arugula salad to remind me what I'd been missing. Topped with fennel, beets, country ham, bleu cheese and buttermilk dressing, the abundant salad kept me busy while my friend shared gossip, cold weather woes and fashion secrets.
She had on a fabulous fashion statement of a necklace, something I wouldn't even attempt, and I envied her ability to pull it off so well.
While she went with the bone-in Berkshire pork chop (sharing a few heavenly bites with me), I chose local lamb neck ragout over fregola with pickled onion and mint. On a chilly night, the earthy lamb over nutty pasta made for a hearty, comforting dish, just what the Roosevelt does best.
When I inquired of the bartender where he'd eaten well lately, his response was, "I had a religious experience at Metzger last week." While I'd fallen hard for the liverwurst, his downfall had been the lamb three ways (because who can resist lamb belly?) which was still haunting his dreams.
At the end of the bar, a couple seemed to be struggling with conversation. Only after they left did we learn that they'd been on a Tinder date, one hindered by him arriving totally drunk and then having four rounds. This had so unhinged the girl that she'd gotten testy, accusing a server who was staring into space of ogling her.
Whoever thought that swiping right was a good way to begin a relationship should have seen the look on the faces of these two as they struggled through a pseudo-date. Such a waste of time.
Not so our get-together, where we chatted about our devotion to John Currence, our indifference to Elvis and our latest cooking accomplishments (my ragout, her paprikash). There aren't many women I discuss cooking with, but she's one.
Three hours in, she began to fade, no doubt attributable to an early morning wake-up call, causing her to push the last of the bottle of Tannat in my direction before heading home.
So what am I going to do with the end of a bottle and no friend? Oh, please. It took about five minutes for a guy to come in and sit down at the bar near me before I had fresh conversation.
After asking about spirits, he said, "Nobody has Chivas in this town," but was seduced anyway into trying Virginia Highland malt whiskey by the savvy bartender. But I had all the information I needed to start talking.
His reference to "this town" meant he wasn't from around here, so where did he live, I wanted to know. Shanghai, it turns out, but he's here on vacation (and escaping Chinese New Year) visiting his parents. Within moments, his father showed up after parking the car.
Dad wasted no time in extending his hand and introducing himself, unlike his son, and he turned out to be a delightful fellow.They'd just come from Dutch & Co, so we discussed food for a bit - Edo's, Lehja, Nora Lebanese - during which he let slip that he was in the music business.
Opening #2. How so? Turns out his career had consisted of making the percussion devices that strike things such as drums and xylophones. He grabbed a long cocktail mixer to demonstrate the kind of sticks and mallets he makes.
Coincidentally, at the table behind us was big band leader Samson Trinh from whom my new friend had taken ukulele lessons. It's a small world in Richmond.
Along about then, the bartender looks at the visitors, raises an eyebrow and asks, "Is she bothering you gentlemen?"
"Yes, she's bothering me and no, don't make her stop," he responded, extending our conversation to my work, my neighborhood and my history. His son sat there, apparently bored by us, saying little, although he admitted to liking the Virginia Highland.
By the time I finished my wine, they'd finished their whiskeys and another satisfying night begun with a friend had ended in the hands of a stranger. As I left, the kitchen guys smoking on the porch outside gave me one last laugh before heading into the Church Hill night.
Language wins every time. Romantic language, even better.
She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.~
J.D. Salinger "A Girl I Knew"
Monday, August 11, 2014
Give Me a Reason
Of all the ways I could wile away a couple of days, I may have found one of the best.
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?
Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.
Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.
Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.
From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.
We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.
Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.
As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.
Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.
Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.
After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.
My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.
Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).
Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.
Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.
Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.
Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.
Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.
Richmond felt like a world away.
Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.
Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.
So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?
But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).
I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.
Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.
Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.
For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.
Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.
When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.
On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.
Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.
Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.
After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.
So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.
I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.
She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.
"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.
That's what they all say.
After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.
Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.
"What are these white things?" one girl asked.
After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?
No need to answer that.
Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.
And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.
People gotta eat.
Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.
Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.
I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.
But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?
Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.
Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.
Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.
From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.
We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.
Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.
As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.
Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.
Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.
After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.
My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.
Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).
Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.
Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.
Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.
Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.
Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.
Richmond felt like a world away.
Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.
Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.
So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?
But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).
I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.
Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.
Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.
For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.
Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.
When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.
On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.
Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.
Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.
After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.
So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.
I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.
She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.
"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.
That's what they all say.
After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.
Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.
"What are these white things?" one girl asked.
After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?
No need to answer that.
Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.
And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.
People gotta eat.
Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.
Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.
I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.
But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Farewell and Congrats
Sunday was party day and I'm not talking birthday.
The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.
Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.
A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.
Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.
That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.
Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.
I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.
It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.
The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.
Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.
I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.
A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.
I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.
The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.
It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.
The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.
One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?
Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.
As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.
Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.
The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.
Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.
A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.
Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.
That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.
Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.
I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.
It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.
The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.
Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.
I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.
A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.
I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.
The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.
It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.
The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.
One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?
Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.
As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.
Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
The Moon is the Moon, That's All
Maybe it was my Catholic upbringing, but I am Bible ignorant.
My art history background has ensured that I'd seen depictions of the severed head of John the Baptist countless times by Caravaggio, Titian, Botticelli, Masaccio, Rembrandt and any number of lesser painters.
But did I know why he'd been beheaded? Tragically, no.
So you can imagine my excitement when I saw that upstart theater company TheaterLab was producing two nights of Oscar Wilde's "Salome: A Wilde Experiment."
I gathered Pru and we were at SPARC in time to claim good seats and chatter beforehand. After a few minutes, the woman next to me got up to move so I asked if it was something I'd said. "No, but this lady offered to buy me a drink so I'm going to sit next to her," she said as she left.
Perfectly understandable.
The evening began with TheaterLab's directors announcing the upcoming season which will begin with "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" in October, a major cause for excitement.
On top of that, they've started an Indie Go Go campaign to raise the 35K necessary to renovate their new home, which will be called the Basement (because it is) and be right in my neighborhood in the Arts District.
Asking that we contribute whatever we could afford, directors DJ and Annie said naming rights were available for everything in the theater. "If you give us enough money, you can even rename us," DJ claimed presumably speaking for Annie as well.
What Pru and I hadn't realized was that tonight's show was a bootleg production, meaning the actors were given their scripts less than a month ago and told to memorize, find their own costume and props and hope for the best.
They came together only this week and rehearsed for just eleven hours, the play's director James Ricks informed us. "Unlike with bootleg Shakespeare, the actors can't call for lines tonight. If anyone gets lost or confused, we'll just sit back and watch and enjoy."
Obviously a bible-illiterate such as myself wouldn't know the difference.
Except I'm not completely illiterate anymore since now I know the story of Herod and his step-daughter Salome. Or at least I gleaned a few facts from TheaterLab's outstanding interpretation of Wilde.
Herod, a self-centered old goat, must have had a foot fetish or he wouldn't have made Salome take her shoes off to dance.
His wife Herodias was bitter about having married Herod and tired of him ogling her hot daughter.
Salome was bat shit crazy and only wanted the one man who had no interest in her, like so many nubile, hot young women.
See, kids, bible study can be fun!
Now I can finally truly appreciate those masterworks depicting the head of John the Baptist in a way I never could before. You can't imagine how relieved I am to know the back story.
And then for something completely different, I got myself to the Roosevelt for a night of funk, soul, R &; B and garage 45s played by my favorite neighborhood record store owner, Marty.
Bartender T. greeted me with, "Karen!" and in short order, Espolon on the rocks.
Not long after, a woman asked if I was the Karen of "I Could Go on and On" and a friendship was born. It wasn't the first time a blog reader had recognized me, but it was the longest time a reader chatted with me.
She and her husband were delightful, familiar with my life and fun to talk to, too. She kept apologizing for knowing so much about my life (how are your new windows? the river sounds like it's a beautiful place) but I was flattered to talk to a regular reader.
From there, there were so many high points: a favorite drummer with whom I spent the evening discussing the role of the bass in R & B and the state of the dating world while drinking Espolon, the chef who had two great secrets to share, the server/photographer I hadn't expected to see, the mixologist who shifted me from tequila to mezcal ("why would you drink the same thing twice in a row?") once he got off work and showed up at the bar with his boss the chef, the biking pioneer who now drinks (a first!) and the musician/businessman talking about the challenges of keeping a girlfriend happy and saying it was all worth it.
The music was killer, all vintage soul that I only wish I knew but mostly didn't and too long played too softly until I went over to DJ Marty and asked that the volume of the music exceed that of the chattering masses and he accommodated me despite concerns about the Church Hill neighbors.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, last call was announced and classic Spinners came on.
There's always a chance a tiny spark will remain
and sparks turn into flames, yea
and love can burn once again
Whenever you call me, I'll be there
If it's a good time, I'll be there.
My art history background has ensured that I'd seen depictions of the severed head of John the Baptist countless times by Caravaggio, Titian, Botticelli, Masaccio, Rembrandt and any number of lesser painters.
But did I know why he'd been beheaded? Tragically, no.
So you can imagine my excitement when I saw that upstart theater company TheaterLab was producing two nights of Oscar Wilde's "Salome: A Wilde Experiment."
I gathered Pru and we were at SPARC in time to claim good seats and chatter beforehand. After a few minutes, the woman next to me got up to move so I asked if it was something I'd said. "No, but this lady offered to buy me a drink so I'm going to sit next to her," she said as she left.
Perfectly understandable.
The evening began with TheaterLab's directors announcing the upcoming season which will begin with "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" in October, a major cause for excitement.
On top of that, they've started an Indie Go Go campaign to raise the 35K necessary to renovate their new home, which will be called the Basement (because it is) and be right in my neighborhood in the Arts District.
Asking that we contribute whatever we could afford, directors DJ and Annie said naming rights were available for everything in the theater. "If you give us enough money, you can even rename us," DJ claimed presumably speaking for Annie as well.
What Pru and I hadn't realized was that tonight's show was a bootleg production, meaning the actors were given their scripts less than a month ago and told to memorize, find their own costume and props and hope for the best.
They came together only this week and rehearsed for just eleven hours, the play's director James Ricks informed us. "Unlike with bootleg Shakespeare, the actors can't call for lines tonight. If anyone gets lost or confused, we'll just sit back and watch and enjoy."
Obviously a bible-illiterate such as myself wouldn't know the difference.
Except I'm not completely illiterate anymore since now I know the story of Herod and his step-daughter Salome. Or at least I gleaned a few facts from TheaterLab's outstanding interpretation of Wilde.
Herod, a self-centered old goat, must have had a foot fetish or he wouldn't have made Salome take her shoes off to dance.
His wife Herodias was bitter about having married Herod and tired of him ogling her hot daughter.
Salome was bat shit crazy and only wanted the one man who had no interest in her, like so many nubile, hot young women.
See, kids, bible study can be fun!
Now I can finally truly appreciate those masterworks depicting the head of John the Baptist in a way I never could before. You can't imagine how relieved I am to know the back story.
And then for something completely different, I got myself to the Roosevelt for a night of funk, soul, R &; B and garage 45s played by my favorite neighborhood record store owner, Marty.
Bartender T. greeted me with, "Karen!" and in short order, Espolon on the rocks.
Not long after, a woman asked if I was the Karen of "I Could Go on and On" and a friendship was born. It wasn't the first time a blog reader had recognized me, but it was the longest time a reader chatted with me.
She and her husband were delightful, familiar with my life and fun to talk to, too. She kept apologizing for knowing so much about my life (how are your new windows? the river sounds like it's a beautiful place) but I was flattered to talk to a regular reader.
From there, there were so many high points: a favorite drummer with whom I spent the evening discussing the role of the bass in R & B and the state of the dating world while drinking Espolon, the chef who had two great secrets to share, the server/photographer I hadn't expected to see, the mixologist who shifted me from tequila to mezcal ("why would you drink the same thing twice in a row?") once he got off work and showed up at the bar with his boss the chef, the biking pioneer who now drinks (a first!) and the musician/businessman talking about the challenges of keeping a girlfriend happy and saying it was all worth it.
The music was killer, all vintage soul that I only wish I knew but mostly didn't and too long played too softly until I went over to DJ Marty and asked that the volume of the music exceed that of the chattering masses and he accommodated me despite concerns about the Church Hill neighbors.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, last call was announced and classic Spinners came on.
There's always a chance a tiny spark will remain
and sparks turn into flames, yea
and love can burn once again
Whenever you call me, I'll be there
If it's a good time, I'll be there.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Don't Stop Believing
Theater is my temple and my religion and my act of faith. Strangers sit in a room together and believe together~ Harvey Fierstein
And sometimes that believing gives you a sense of history retold...or foreshadowed.
The Jewish Community Center was the venue for guest director Carol Piersol's production of Israel Horovitz' "Lebensraum," an incredibly powerful piece that had three strong actors plating 50+ roles using a wooden wall of props over 90 minutes.
The premise was both simple and far-fetched: what if a future German chancellor invited six million Jews to come to Germany with the promise of citizenship and full benefits as a way to assuage their sea of guilt for the Jews killed during the Holocaust?
The actors - Stephen Ryan, Matt Shofner, Sara Heifetz- were mesmerizing, shape-shifting from character to character to narrator and back again, sometimes in the course of two sentences.
Simple props, voice inflections and accents helped define characters as the story unfolded.
The chancellor's "project homecoming" is shown eliciting very different reactions. A concentration camp survivor wants to go back for revenge. An out of work Massachusetts dockworker wants to move his wife and son to Germany. Israelis fear for the safety of their people.
In one brilliant scene, Stephen portrayed two men having a conversation, putting on different hats, voices and demeanors to convey the decidedly different essence of each.
There weren't a lot of lighter scenes, but one involved the arrival of a Jewish, married, gay French couple (played to limp-wristed perfection by Matt and Stephen in berets) who want to claim their citizenship. Needless to say, they are not what the Germans had been expecting.
Sara managed to play both the non-Jewish wife of the dockworker as well as the teen-aged Jewish girl with whom her 15-year old son soon falls for and made both believable.
Their blossoming romance was the sweetest part of the film as the two learned that great loves are made not of similarities but of differences.
Him: You think I'm funny?
Her: You are funny!
Him: Then we most definitely need to kiss if you laugh at my jokes.
Piersol's direction was fast-paced so something was happening every moment, from the Boston couple becoming local celebrities to the German workers organizing to protest the jobs being taken from them for the new Jewish arrivals to Israeli activists arriving to become citizens in hopes of protecting their people.
Always someone was speaking, either in character or as narrator explaining the action. After a while, it felt eerily like a live action newsreel unfolding upsetting events even while intellectually, we knew we were watching fiction.
Hands down, it was some of the most powerful theater I've seen due in equal measures to Horovitz's story and completely compelling performances by the trio bringing it to life.
With the added weight of so much of tonight's audience being Jewish, it felt like we were watching something visceral and unforgettable.
My only regret was that I went alone so I didn't have anyone to discuss it with afterwards.
I was meeting a friend for a late dinner and conversation, though, just not about the play. I got to the Roosevelt just as the dinner rush was winding down and ordered a glass of Pollack Rose while bartender T. made sure I'd be at the next DJ night.
A DJ from my neighborhood record store playing late night tunes? Hell, yes.
With soul music uncharacteristically playing, the vibe tonight was slow and mellow, a terrific backdrop to meet up with my friend and find out what she'd been up to.
When the subject of my upcoming birthday arose, she posed a question. "How much technology can you stand?"
I think we all know the answer to that. I use a computer daily and won't own a cell phone until they pry the land line from my cold, dead hands.
"Have you heard of pagers?" she joked because she's so hilarious.
She had skirt steak for dinner while I chose pork belly, little neck clams and potatoes in kimchee broth, a spicy and satisfying bowlful that carried me through our discussion of mothers and daughters, double dragon and conspiracy theories.
Meanwhile I heard my name - first and last- called and there sat a recording engineer I know from the neighborhood, enjoying a cocktail with friends and are clearly surprised to see me somewhere other than Jackson Ward.
Which just goes to prove that he doesn't get out much or he'd know better.
And sometimes that believing gives you a sense of history retold...or foreshadowed.
The Jewish Community Center was the venue for guest director Carol Piersol's production of Israel Horovitz' "Lebensraum," an incredibly powerful piece that had three strong actors plating 50+ roles using a wooden wall of props over 90 minutes.
The premise was both simple and far-fetched: what if a future German chancellor invited six million Jews to come to Germany with the promise of citizenship and full benefits as a way to assuage their sea of guilt for the Jews killed during the Holocaust?
The actors - Stephen Ryan, Matt Shofner, Sara Heifetz- were mesmerizing, shape-shifting from character to character to narrator and back again, sometimes in the course of two sentences.
Simple props, voice inflections and accents helped define characters as the story unfolded.
The chancellor's "project homecoming" is shown eliciting very different reactions. A concentration camp survivor wants to go back for revenge. An out of work Massachusetts dockworker wants to move his wife and son to Germany. Israelis fear for the safety of their people.
In one brilliant scene, Stephen portrayed two men having a conversation, putting on different hats, voices and demeanors to convey the decidedly different essence of each.
There weren't a lot of lighter scenes, but one involved the arrival of a Jewish, married, gay French couple (played to limp-wristed perfection by Matt and Stephen in berets) who want to claim their citizenship. Needless to say, they are not what the Germans had been expecting.
Sara managed to play both the non-Jewish wife of the dockworker as well as the teen-aged Jewish girl with whom her 15-year old son soon falls for and made both believable.
Their blossoming romance was the sweetest part of the film as the two learned that great loves are made not of similarities but of differences.
Him: You think I'm funny?
Her: You are funny!
Him: Then we most definitely need to kiss if you laugh at my jokes.
Piersol's direction was fast-paced so something was happening every moment, from the Boston couple becoming local celebrities to the German workers organizing to protest the jobs being taken from them for the new Jewish arrivals to Israeli activists arriving to become citizens in hopes of protecting their people.
Always someone was speaking, either in character or as narrator explaining the action. After a while, it felt eerily like a live action newsreel unfolding upsetting events even while intellectually, we knew we were watching fiction.
Hands down, it was some of the most powerful theater I've seen due in equal measures to Horovitz's story and completely compelling performances by the trio bringing it to life.
With the added weight of so much of tonight's audience being Jewish, it felt like we were watching something visceral and unforgettable.
My only regret was that I went alone so I didn't have anyone to discuss it with afterwards.
I was meeting a friend for a late dinner and conversation, though, just not about the play. I got to the Roosevelt just as the dinner rush was winding down and ordered a glass of Pollack Rose while bartender T. made sure I'd be at the next DJ night.
A DJ from my neighborhood record store playing late night tunes? Hell, yes.
With soul music uncharacteristically playing, the vibe tonight was slow and mellow, a terrific backdrop to meet up with my friend and find out what she'd been up to.
When the subject of my upcoming birthday arose, she posed a question. "How much technology can you stand?"
I think we all know the answer to that. I use a computer daily and won't own a cell phone until they pry the land line from my cold, dead hands.
"Have you heard of pagers?" she joked because she's so hilarious.
She had skirt steak for dinner while I chose pork belly, little neck clams and potatoes in kimchee broth, a spicy and satisfying bowlful that carried me through our discussion of mothers and daughters, double dragon and conspiracy theories.
Meanwhile I heard my name - first and last- called and there sat a recording engineer I know from the neighborhood, enjoying a cocktail with friends and are clearly surprised to see me somewhere other than Jackson Ward.
Which just goes to prove that he doesn't get out much or he'd know better.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
On the Slow Track
Some days just go down easily.
Today I drove to the northern neck, passing a gas station sign that read, "Coming soon, Spring!" and an insurance office sign that said, "Life is a roller coaster. Enjoy the ride!"
Promises and advice, what more could you ask of a road trip?
My destination was Warsaw to spend the afternoon with a furniture maker, a man who lives on the 800 acre property his family has owned since the 19th century.
He asked if I was up for a walk and we set off to see wood and trees, past bamboo groves planted by his grandfather.
He told me that they were most striking after a snow, when they were bent from the weight of it and the scene resembled a Japanese print.
My only complaint as we meandered around looking at drying trees, stacked boards and the ruins of the original house built in 1840 was the wind, which was fierce.
When we headed back toward the house he spent 15 years building to replace the old farmhouse, his mother came out to offer us razzleberry pie with ice cream.
Make no mistake, she hadn't baked it for us, but for her two old St. Catherine's school buddies who'd come to lunch.
Never one to turn down pie, much less razzleberry which I'd never had and needed to know more about, I answered yes for both of us.
Turns out razzleberry pie is made with raspberries and marion berries and she was one of those women who makes a crispy, buttery crust, so the unexpected mid-afternoon dessert was a real treat and we finished the interview with our tongues stained purple.
After an easy drive home, I found a message from my date tonight, changing the time we were meeting at the Roosevelt.
Just as well since I needed a good clean-up after traipsing through the back forty (or 400).
When I got to the Roosevelt, the joint was jumping, but I found two empty stools and sat down to wait for my friend.
I'd brought Sunday's Post travel section, knowing I'd get there first and figuring it would give me time to catch up on my reading.
The magnificently-bearded bartender Brandon was good enough to bring me the Virginia Fizz I was craving while I followed the story of intrepid travelers intent on having breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and dinner in Barcelona, courtesy of a new higher speed train.
Spoiler alert: lunch at Gare de Lyon's Le Train Bleu was by the far the highlight. Crispy pig and escargot terrine would have won my heart, too.
Maybe it was reading about that meal, but it wasn't long before I realized that I wasn't going to be able to sip bubbles indefinitely without sustenance.
Razzleberry pie only takes a girl so far.
To tide me over, I asked Brandon for a snack of crostini with ricotta and Charlottesville honey and he delivered not only that but tales of his recent move, characterizing his shift from the Hill to Carytown briefly and back as the "Church Hill shuffle."
As in, people try to leave and can't. The Hill has a hold, apparently.
My friend showed up at last and we moved to stools on the far side of the bar, away from the fray.
Starving, we ordered quickly, both starting with salads of roasted beets, smoked bluefish, "everything" crema, horseradish and pickled onions.
I've had many an everything bagel, but it was my first (but hopefully not last) everything crema, the assortment of flavors tying together the beets, fish and greens to perfection. Friend and I were particularly taken with the caraway notes in the crema.
Because the restaurant was so busy and several people had babies with them (don't get me started), we had to lean into each other to gossip and share stories, a sacrifice we were more than willing to make to catch up.
I was seeking her advice on taking a selfie, something I need to do for an assignment and clearly something with which I have no practice, asking her to recommend filters and effects. She's the kind of wise ass friend who tries to tell me about one that makes you look enormous and another that ages you, neither of which hold much appeal. I may be a Luddite, but I'm not a complete idiot.
No doubt I'll be able to figure it out. If I can take pictures of others with my camera, I ought to be able to shoot myself this once.
With another glass of Fizz to cut the richness, I dove into a bowl of gnocchi carbonara with spicy Surry sausage and al dente peas, only to look up and see a friend coming through the door.
It was the singer and fan of sad folk songs I know and she was obviously on a date with the handsome man whom I'd heard about when we'd had brunch recently.
Given the shortage of available stools, they had no choice but to sit beside us so I tried to stay hidden behind my date so as to not cramp her style. Besides, I'll hear the details later if she wants to share.
While my date enjoyed peanut butter pie (I'm not a fan but helped her with the whipped cream), the chef came out and chatted with us while he enjoyed a beer and making us laugh.
Fully fed, lubricated with bubbles and laughing at dry humor from a Beard nominee.
Some nights require no effort on my part whatsoever.
Today I drove to the northern neck, passing a gas station sign that read, "Coming soon, Spring!" and an insurance office sign that said, "Life is a roller coaster. Enjoy the ride!"
Promises and advice, what more could you ask of a road trip?
My destination was Warsaw to spend the afternoon with a furniture maker, a man who lives on the 800 acre property his family has owned since the 19th century.
He asked if I was up for a walk and we set off to see wood and trees, past bamboo groves planted by his grandfather.
He told me that they were most striking after a snow, when they were bent from the weight of it and the scene resembled a Japanese print.
My only complaint as we meandered around looking at drying trees, stacked boards and the ruins of the original house built in 1840 was the wind, which was fierce.
When we headed back toward the house he spent 15 years building to replace the old farmhouse, his mother came out to offer us razzleberry pie with ice cream.
Make no mistake, she hadn't baked it for us, but for her two old St. Catherine's school buddies who'd come to lunch.
Never one to turn down pie, much less razzleberry which I'd never had and needed to know more about, I answered yes for both of us.
Turns out razzleberry pie is made with raspberries and marion berries and she was one of those women who makes a crispy, buttery crust, so the unexpected mid-afternoon dessert was a real treat and we finished the interview with our tongues stained purple.
After an easy drive home, I found a message from my date tonight, changing the time we were meeting at the Roosevelt.
Just as well since I needed a good clean-up after traipsing through the back forty (or 400).
When I got to the Roosevelt, the joint was jumping, but I found two empty stools and sat down to wait for my friend.
I'd brought Sunday's Post travel section, knowing I'd get there first and figuring it would give me time to catch up on my reading.
The magnificently-bearded bartender Brandon was good enough to bring me the Virginia Fizz I was craving while I followed the story of intrepid travelers intent on having breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and dinner in Barcelona, courtesy of a new higher speed train.
Spoiler alert: lunch at Gare de Lyon's Le Train Bleu was by the far the highlight. Crispy pig and escargot terrine would have won my heart, too.
Maybe it was reading about that meal, but it wasn't long before I realized that I wasn't going to be able to sip bubbles indefinitely without sustenance.
Razzleberry pie only takes a girl so far.
To tide me over, I asked Brandon for a snack of crostini with ricotta and Charlottesville honey and he delivered not only that but tales of his recent move, characterizing his shift from the Hill to Carytown briefly and back as the "Church Hill shuffle."
As in, people try to leave and can't. The Hill has a hold, apparently.
My friend showed up at last and we moved to stools on the far side of the bar, away from the fray.
Starving, we ordered quickly, both starting with salads of roasted beets, smoked bluefish, "everything" crema, horseradish and pickled onions.
I've had many an everything bagel, but it was my first (but hopefully not last) everything crema, the assortment of flavors tying together the beets, fish and greens to perfection. Friend and I were particularly taken with the caraway notes in the crema.
Because the restaurant was so busy and several people had babies with them (don't get me started), we had to lean into each other to gossip and share stories, a sacrifice we were more than willing to make to catch up.
I was seeking her advice on taking a selfie, something I need to do for an assignment and clearly something with which I have no practice, asking her to recommend filters and effects. She's the kind of wise ass friend who tries to tell me about one that makes you look enormous and another that ages you, neither of which hold much appeal. I may be a Luddite, but I'm not a complete idiot.
No doubt I'll be able to figure it out. If I can take pictures of others with my camera, I ought to be able to shoot myself this once.
With another glass of Fizz to cut the richness, I dove into a bowl of gnocchi carbonara with spicy Surry sausage and al dente peas, only to look up and see a friend coming through the door.
It was the singer and fan of sad folk songs I know and she was obviously on a date with the handsome man whom I'd heard about when we'd had brunch recently.
Given the shortage of available stools, they had no choice but to sit beside us so I tried to stay hidden behind my date so as to not cramp her style. Besides, I'll hear the details later if she wants to share.
While my date enjoyed peanut butter pie (I'm not a fan but helped her with the whipped cream), the chef came out and chatted with us while he enjoyed a beer and making us laugh.
Fully fed, lubricated with bubbles and laughing at dry humor from a Beard nominee.
Some nights require no effort on my part whatsoever.
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.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Tales from a Female Tongue
So now I know the first rule of Fight Club.
And only because they said it so many times because I gotta admit, my eyes were closed for a fair amount of such a violent movie.
But at least now I can say I've seen the cult classic (thanks VMFA and your 60 films in 60 days) and have some context for the quotes and references I've been hearing for fifteen years.
My favorite? "I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect."
Every day in every way.
Cultural homework accomplished, check. As a serene counterpoint to the film, I got to see Chihuly's "Red Reeds" coming out of a frozen reflecting pool, a very different yet beautiful look for them.
After watching men beat each other to a bloody pulp, I needed a little something for the soul, finding it at a reading at the Library of Virginia.
Literary types are apparently a cautious bunch since only a dozen people showed up, far fewer than LVA's usual readings attract.
Mingling at the reception beforehand, I struck up a conversation with a woman only to find we had lots to talk about, including her recent trip to Philly to go to the Barnes, a notable post-Impressionist and early modern art collection recently moved into the city to the consternation of many traditionalists, and one currently on my short list of museums to visit.
When she raved about the hotel she'd stayed in there, I wasn't surprised to hear it was a Kimpton Hotel which delighted her no end to find someone else who'd become one of their devotees.
Turns out I go to readings to discuss the merits of certain hotel bars with strangers.
Getting off on travel topics, she regaled me with her multiple trips to Italy, even two weeks alone in Florence last year, bragging a little about a visit to a church open only one hour a week to see its frescoes.
"It's great to share that with somebody who can appreciate it!" she enthused.
We gabbed right up until Renaissance literature scholar Sarah Kennedy was introduced to read from her new historical novel, "The Altarpiece," set in Henry VIII's time.
Unexpectedly, she began by reading from one of her many books of poetry, saying she'd begun as a poet and had thought she'd be a poet forever, not surprising given lines like, "Watching the moon skid through clouds," from "Revelation 1373."
A fine reader (not all poets are, I've found), we heard "The Changeling" about faeries and "The Visions of Marjorie Kemp," about the second woman to write (well, dictate) her autobiography, with the line, "A female tongue is best silent."
Good thing we got beyond that nonsense.
The reading ended with the first chapter of "The Altarpiece," a book about what happened to nuns in convents after Henry broke with the Pope and started the Church of England.
Let's just say if you didn't come from money or have connections, you were set adrift, not an easy place for a woman of the era to find herself, but a ripe starting point for conjecturing what might have happened to one of them.
When our little reading group broke up, it was time for me to eat, so I started up the slippery slope to Church Hill and the Roosevelt.
My barstool was occupied by a guy complaining about gym membership payments being taken out of his account automatically when he hadn't been to the gym in five months (did you read the small print, buddy?), so I ended up on the long side of the bar, a good thing actually, on a night when every crack of the door delivered an icy blast to my tights-clad legs.
Seeking a glass of blood-thickening red wine, the barkeep recommended the easy-drinking Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend with lots of fruit and soft tannins.
It was nice to see Evrim of Sub Rosa come in and sit down for dinner, a welcome reminder that his bakery is finally up and running across the street again.
I'd ordered one of tonight's specials, chicken liver slathered on toasted, thickly-sliced bread with cucumber slices on top, an earthy and welcome start to my evening when suddenly a friend arrived, spotted me and sat down next to me.
Now things were getting good. We hadn't gotten together in ages, so an unexpected meeting felt like a gift to us both.
She ordered a glass of Abbinato and we let go the conversational floodgates with talk of past, present and futures, hers and mine.
Our non-stop chatter was interrupted repeatedly as one friend after another - the poet, the traveling baker, the curator- came in and over to say hello.
During one particularly funny exchange with some of those friends, we were talking about breakups where one or the other of the ex-partners ends up suddenly engaged or married within record time after the relationship ends.
The poet's brother had a phrase for women guilty of dating men purely as marriage potential -"Bitches be shopping!" - that cracked everyone up.
As someone who avoids shopping (except for food) at all costs, the idea of having to shop for a husband is about as appealing as kissing a snake. But props for the clever description, sir.
Seeing an order of white bean hummus with crudites go by, the veggies on it looked so good I immediately ordered one without breaking stride in conversation with my long-lost girlfriend, who didn't seem to mind me crunching carrots and radishes in her face.
Absence makes the heart grow more tolerant perhaps.
During another conversation, a friend shared a killer story, immediately insisting that I not include it in my post.
No need to worry, my friend.
The first rule of "I Can Go On and On" is that I keep the really juicy stuff to myself.
In other words, never be complete.
And only because they said it so many times because I gotta admit, my eyes were closed for a fair amount of such a violent movie.
But at least now I can say I've seen the cult classic (thanks VMFA and your 60 films in 60 days) and have some context for the quotes and references I've been hearing for fifteen years.
My favorite? "I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect."
Every day in every way.
Cultural homework accomplished, check. As a serene counterpoint to the film, I got to see Chihuly's "Red Reeds" coming out of a frozen reflecting pool, a very different yet beautiful look for them.
After watching men beat each other to a bloody pulp, I needed a little something for the soul, finding it at a reading at the Library of Virginia.
Literary types are apparently a cautious bunch since only a dozen people showed up, far fewer than LVA's usual readings attract.
Mingling at the reception beforehand, I struck up a conversation with a woman only to find we had lots to talk about, including her recent trip to Philly to go to the Barnes, a notable post-Impressionist and early modern art collection recently moved into the city to the consternation of many traditionalists, and one currently on my short list of museums to visit.
When she raved about the hotel she'd stayed in there, I wasn't surprised to hear it was a Kimpton Hotel which delighted her no end to find someone else who'd become one of their devotees.
Turns out I go to readings to discuss the merits of certain hotel bars with strangers.
Getting off on travel topics, she regaled me with her multiple trips to Italy, even two weeks alone in Florence last year, bragging a little about a visit to a church open only one hour a week to see its frescoes.
"It's great to share that with somebody who can appreciate it!" she enthused.
We gabbed right up until Renaissance literature scholar Sarah Kennedy was introduced to read from her new historical novel, "The Altarpiece," set in Henry VIII's time.
Unexpectedly, she began by reading from one of her many books of poetry, saying she'd begun as a poet and had thought she'd be a poet forever, not surprising given lines like, "Watching the moon skid through clouds," from "Revelation 1373."
A fine reader (not all poets are, I've found), we heard "The Changeling" about faeries and "The Visions of Marjorie Kemp," about the second woman to write (well, dictate) her autobiography, with the line, "A female tongue is best silent."
Good thing we got beyond that nonsense.
The reading ended with the first chapter of "The Altarpiece," a book about what happened to nuns in convents after Henry broke with the Pope and started the Church of England.
Let's just say if you didn't come from money or have connections, you were set adrift, not an easy place for a woman of the era to find herself, but a ripe starting point for conjecturing what might have happened to one of them.
When our little reading group broke up, it was time for me to eat, so I started up the slippery slope to Church Hill and the Roosevelt.
My barstool was occupied by a guy complaining about gym membership payments being taken out of his account automatically when he hadn't been to the gym in five months (did you read the small print, buddy?), so I ended up on the long side of the bar, a good thing actually, on a night when every crack of the door delivered an icy blast to my tights-clad legs.
Seeking a glass of blood-thickening red wine, the barkeep recommended the easy-drinking Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend with lots of fruit and soft tannins.
It was nice to see Evrim of Sub Rosa come in and sit down for dinner, a welcome reminder that his bakery is finally up and running across the street again.
I'd ordered one of tonight's specials, chicken liver slathered on toasted, thickly-sliced bread with cucumber slices on top, an earthy and welcome start to my evening when suddenly a friend arrived, spotted me and sat down next to me.
Now things were getting good. We hadn't gotten together in ages, so an unexpected meeting felt like a gift to us both.
She ordered a glass of Abbinato and we let go the conversational floodgates with talk of past, present and futures, hers and mine.
Our non-stop chatter was interrupted repeatedly as one friend after another - the poet, the traveling baker, the curator- came in and over to say hello.
During one particularly funny exchange with some of those friends, we were talking about breakups where one or the other of the ex-partners ends up suddenly engaged or married within record time after the relationship ends.
The poet's brother had a phrase for women guilty of dating men purely as marriage potential -"Bitches be shopping!" - that cracked everyone up.
As someone who avoids shopping (except for food) at all costs, the idea of having to shop for a husband is about as appealing as kissing a snake. But props for the clever description, sir.
Seeing an order of white bean hummus with crudites go by, the veggies on it looked so good I immediately ordered one without breaking stride in conversation with my long-lost girlfriend, who didn't seem to mind me crunching carrots and radishes in her face.
Absence makes the heart grow more tolerant perhaps.
During another conversation, a friend shared a killer story, immediately insisting that I not include it in my post.
No need to worry, my friend.
The first rule of "I Can Go On and On" is that I keep the really juicy stuff to myself.
In other words, never be complete.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Awarding the Gold
Just when I think my love life is looking up, it gets trumped in spades.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Baby, Come to Me
Just another evening feeding body and soul.
Remember 1986?
That's the year I moved to Richmond and the year Adam Gopnik began writing for The New Yorker.
Back in 2000, I'd read and loved his book Paris to the Moon, a series of essays about his time spent living as an ex-pat in Paris.
Tonight he was giving a talk at VCU as part of the annual Windmueller Lecture series, so I made sure to be there early enough to get a seat.
Good thing, because before long the Singleton Center was filled to capacity.
Titled "Doing Things and Doubting Things," his lecture was witty from the get-go.
He spoke of his wife, Martha Parker, remarking offhandedly that she had never changed her name or gotten U.S. citizenship despite 30 years of marriage.
Ha! Wonder how many times he's mentioned that in 30 years.
His talk centered on the mystery of mastery and were drawn from a series of essays he's written on learning to do things like drive a car (still a work in progress apparently), draw and bake bread.
As one who continues to try to learn and do new things, I could appreciate his efforts.
The emphasis was on the role of doubt in doing things, how doubt and error propel us forward.
His conclusion that the liberal arts are the basis for all change and that science follows after was bolstered with example of Galileo and Leonardo.
My opinion of him was bolstered by our shared pain. He, too, has five sisters.
The Q & A after the talk was a highlight, with the inquisitive audience really probing him on his comparisons of art and magic.
He gamely took questions for quite some time before sending us back into the world, our minds whirling with his thoughtfully intense and cockeyed way of looking at things.
Walking back up Harrison Street, I started considering where to eat.
I've been busy with so many restaurant reviews lately that I haven't been able to dine where I please as often as I like to.
But tonight no deadline called and I was free to give in to my whim.
Bingo. It had been too long since the Roosevelt.
On this beautiful evening with a last quarter moon, I walked in to find the bar half empty.
Taking a seat near the end, I settled in for a relaxing evening with nothing more than the staff for company.
It took less than two minutes for a nearby barsitter to overhear the bartender talking to me and insert herself into the conversation, letting us know that she also knew the person we were mentioning.
Next thing I knew, she was introducing herself and we were discussing tequilas.
Isn't that always the way in Richmond?
With Jerry Lee Lewis blaring on the speakers, I ordered a glass of Rockbridge Pinot Noir and fried duck nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and pineapple relish.
I couldn't resist once bartender T told me that it was Chef Lee's take on Chick-fil-A's Polynesian nuggets.
You gotta love a chef who riffs on Chick-fil-A.
Across the street, we noticed Sub Rosa Bakery's owner Evrim standing on his stoop speaking to about 20 people.
No one had any idea what the occasion could be and everyone was too lazy to walk across the street.
Me, I was ready for more food.
One of my restaurant pet peeves is tempting-sounding specials only available in entree size.
So when I heard about seared red fish with plum and salsify in black walnut butter, I politely asked about a half portion.
Not a problem, I was told and while the meaty fish was definitely the star, the contrasting textures of the soft plum and crunchy, tuberous salsify were perfect together.
Meanwhile, my infotainment was coming from T, who was lecturing two new arrivals about emerging east coast Madeiras.
I'd already noticed that there were no longer any Ports or dessert wines on the menu, replaced by ciders, probably because it's the season.
I asked and he let me know that glasses were still available if one was interested.
Good to know, but at this point, more Pinot Noir would do just fine.
Chef Lee came out to chat and ask about all the places I'd recently reviewed, making me think he's too busy to pick up a Style and read it for himself.
Or maybe he just likes to hear it from the horse's mouth.
When I inquired where he'd eaten lately, I got a typical chef answer: carryout from the local Vietnamese place in his neighborhood.
By then I was trying to decide between another small plate and dessert and he swayed me in the savory direction by suggesting an unadvertised special for a great price.
Twist my arm.
It wasn't long before an obscenely rich small plate arrived with rabbit three ways.
Tiny, little pieces of liver, loin, kidneys and slivers of belly sat atop black lentils with golden raisins, fried brussels sprouts and radish slices.
Be still my heart (which the rabbit's apparently was given the other items on the plate), this was a mighty decadent thing to be eating at this point in the evening.
Did that stop me? Perish the thought.
I ate most of it anyway, my arteries clogging and blood thickening as I savored the distinct flavors of each.
So much for dessert. Goodbye, Port.
As for doing things and doubting things, Adam Gopnik would have been proud.
I never doubted that I could eat so much delectable food and I ended up doing it.
Okay, so maybe that wasn't what he meant...
Remember 1986?
That's the year I moved to Richmond and the year Adam Gopnik began writing for The New Yorker.
Back in 2000, I'd read and loved his book Paris to the Moon, a series of essays about his time spent living as an ex-pat in Paris.
Tonight he was giving a talk at VCU as part of the annual Windmueller Lecture series, so I made sure to be there early enough to get a seat.
Good thing, because before long the Singleton Center was filled to capacity.
Titled "Doing Things and Doubting Things," his lecture was witty from the get-go.
He spoke of his wife, Martha Parker, remarking offhandedly that she had never changed her name or gotten U.S. citizenship despite 30 years of marriage.
Ha! Wonder how many times he's mentioned that in 30 years.
His talk centered on the mystery of mastery and were drawn from a series of essays he's written on learning to do things like drive a car (still a work in progress apparently), draw and bake bread.
As one who continues to try to learn and do new things, I could appreciate his efforts.
The emphasis was on the role of doubt in doing things, how doubt and error propel us forward.
His conclusion that the liberal arts are the basis for all change and that science follows after was bolstered with example of Galileo and Leonardo.
My opinion of him was bolstered by our shared pain. He, too, has five sisters.
The Q & A after the talk was a highlight, with the inquisitive audience really probing him on his comparisons of art and magic.
He gamely took questions for quite some time before sending us back into the world, our minds whirling with his thoughtfully intense and cockeyed way of looking at things.
Walking back up Harrison Street, I started considering where to eat.
I've been busy with so many restaurant reviews lately that I haven't been able to dine where I please as often as I like to.
But tonight no deadline called and I was free to give in to my whim.
Bingo. It had been too long since the Roosevelt.
On this beautiful evening with a last quarter moon, I walked in to find the bar half empty.
Taking a seat near the end, I settled in for a relaxing evening with nothing more than the staff for company.
It took less than two minutes for a nearby barsitter to overhear the bartender talking to me and insert herself into the conversation, letting us know that she also knew the person we were mentioning.
Next thing I knew, she was introducing herself and we were discussing tequilas.
Isn't that always the way in Richmond?
With Jerry Lee Lewis blaring on the speakers, I ordered a glass of Rockbridge Pinot Noir and fried duck nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and pineapple relish.
I couldn't resist once bartender T told me that it was Chef Lee's take on Chick-fil-A's Polynesian nuggets.
You gotta love a chef who riffs on Chick-fil-A.
Across the street, we noticed Sub Rosa Bakery's owner Evrim standing on his stoop speaking to about 20 people.
No one had any idea what the occasion could be and everyone was too lazy to walk across the street.
Me, I was ready for more food.
One of my restaurant pet peeves is tempting-sounding specials only available in entree size.
So when I heard about seared red fish with plum and salsify in black walnut butter, I politely asked about a half portion.
Not a problem, I was told and while the meaty fish was definitely the star, the contrasting textures of the soft plum and crunchy, tuberous salsify were perfect together.
Meanwhile, my infotainment was coming from T, who was lecturing two new arrivals about emerging east coast Madeiras.
I'd already noticed that there were no longer any Ports or dessert wines on the menu, replaced by ciders, probably because it's the season.
I asked and he let me know that glasses were still available if one was interested.
Good to know, but at this point, more Pinot Noir would do just fine.
Chef Lee came out to chat and ask about all the places I'd recently reviewed, making me think he's too busy to pick up a Style and read it for himself.
Or maybe he just likes to hear it from the horse's mouth.
When I inquired where he'd eaten lately, I got a typical chef answer: carryout from the local Vietnamese place in his neighborhood.
By then I was trying to decide between another small plate and dessert and he swayed me in the savory direction by suggesting an unadvertised special for a great price.
Twist my arm.
It wasn't long before an obscenely rich small plate arrived with rabbit three ways.
Tiny, little pieces of liver, loin, kidneys and slivers of belly sat atop black lentils with golden raisins, fried brussels sprouts and radish slices.
Be still my heart (which the rabbit's apparently was given the other items on the plate), this was a mighty decadent thing to be eating at this point in the evening.
Did that stop me? Perish the thought.
I ate most of it anyway, my arteries clogging and blood thickening as I savored the distinct flavors of each.
So much for dessert. Goodbye, Port.
As for doing things and doubting things, Adam Gopnik would have been proud.
I never doubted that I could eat so much delectable food and I ended up doing it.
Okay, so maybe that wasn't what he meant...
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