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.

The Big Night

It was a night for wine, women and song.

Secco was hosting a night in Venice wine party and since I've yet to visit the actual Venice, a proxy evening seemed like just the ticket.

I walked in and staked my territory at the bar, awaiting the arrival of my evening's companion, Roxy.

She soon arrived and we stationed ourselves at the corner of the bar with a view of everything while the music was set to the Italian cafe station on Pandora. As one woman noted, it sounded like the soundtrack to "The Big Night."

Our starting libation was a Venetian spritz of Adami Prosecco "Garbel" with Cappelletti, a slightly bitter wine equivalent of Aperol, making for a refreshing way to begin the evening, even more so when enjoyed with an aged and salty cheese.

There were no gondolas, but we were off to a fine start.

The overwhelmingly estrogen-based population of the bar was soon jarred by the arrival of a strapping, young man who had wandered into the Venetian fray.

When the evening's plan was revealed, he gamely agreed to buy into it, despite this being a first date and an"almost blind" one at that.

I advised him that a first date where there were four courses and five wines would separate the girls from the women and he took my advice and paid for two in advance.

Now I had a front row seat to a first date.

Roxy and I chatted about her favorite Riesling and Champagne (both available on the chalkboard) and about how much she misses her people in San Jose. So much so she will soon move back.

Where she reminded me, she will pay $850 more for an apartment that is 300 square feet smaller than her  beautiful Miller & Rhoads condo.

I have a sentimental attachment to San Jose since my best friend from college was born and raised in San Jose, making Roxy and I practically blood sisters.

Once everyone was ensconced at tables and bar, we were served Dal Maso 2012 Gambellara Ca'Fischele, a fine and acidic wine that neared perfection when eaten with tuna tartare set into hard-boiled eggs with capers and aioli.

Just as we were swooning over this blissful match, marinated squid salad with kale, garlic and chick peas arrived, again demonstrating how perfectly the acidic wine worked with the seafood and salt.

Roxy and I raised a glass to the chef's brilliance. "I'd marry him," Roxy observed. It's tough to beat a man who can cook.

Next came crispy Fontina chips filled with seared cauliflower, parsley and lemon paired with Corte Majoli 2012 Valpolicella, a medium bodied red that showed even better with the obscenely rich next course.

Chicken liver mousse sat atop grilled polenta, accompanied by chicken fat-stewed onions and bits of fried chicken skin, an altogether decadent dish that positively sang with the wine.

As our server noted, it came with a side of Lipitor.

Roxy and I alternately made orgasmic sounds about the dish and flapped our gums about how obscene it was.

Meanwhile, the first dater next to me was telling the girl, "This has a really unusual taste. I've never had liver before. I usually go paleo during the week."

Son, there's nothing paleo about chicken liver or chicken fat. Just so you know.

And, P.S.  Corny lines like, "I just want to know more about your family life" make it tough to keep my liver down.

While waiting for the next course, I took a side trip to the loo, but was stopped by Chef Mike, who was offering up samples to all who passed by.

"This'll be the best bite of the night," he assured me. The piece of Dixie doughnut with a schmear of chicken liver may have been the closest thing to heaven my mouth has tasted.

I returned to a plate of beef and potato meatballs with orange peel and fennel seed in a fennel tomato sauce and matched with Zanta 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon "Due Santi," a complex, full-bodied wine that was a worthy counterpoint to the meatballs.

Truth be told, Roxy and I were lagging by this point.

Oh, not conversationally. First marriages, dimples, body confidence, we'd covered quite a bit. But our stomachs were not bottomless.

Finally the last course arrived, a chocolate roll with roasted nuts and topped with vanilla citrus whipped cream, paired with one of the last four bottles in the state of Dal Maso's 2007 late harvest sweet wine.

For no good reason, this led to a conversation about Deleon Tequila, which Roxy had recently enjoyed with her boyfriend in San Jose and which provided me with a recommendation for something new to try, assuming the VA ABC deems it acceptable to carry.

I'll certainly find out.

Back to the dessert, I have no compunction about admitting my love for chocolate, nuts and cream and while Roxy found the Dal Maso overly sweet, I found it a lovely complement to the chocolate.

I'm not saying it topped the Dixie doughnut with chicken liver mousse, but it was damn good.

After saying farewell to Roxy, I left to pick up a girlfriend for a Virginia wine crawl. Because, you know, one wine event an evening is not enough.

Approaching Pasture, we were greeted by fire performers, breathing and showing off with fire, something I've seen at Gallery 5 enough times to stop worrying if they're going to singe the hair right off their faces or not.

Inside, it was just as circus-like, with acrobats on the floor supporting other acrobats in mid-air.

My friend looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me away from the performers.

Near the back, we found a table serving Breaux Vineyards "Marquis de Lafayette," a shining example of Cabernet Franc, a grape she and I love.

Glasses in hand, we escaped to a table away from the hordes and sat down to catch up on girl stuff, oblivious to the networking going on around us.

We let the interested parties come to us, with only a brief foray out to collect some Gabriele Rausse Nebbiolo, a wine I like so much I once worked an entire day at the Virginia Wine Expo just to score bottles of this luscious grape.

Our idyllic girl time was interrupted when Jason Tessauro mounted the table next top us and began reciting his ode to Virginia wine, with highlights like, "To be or Tannat" and "I deem any man a liar who don't dig Matthew Meyer" (Williamsburg Winery's winemaker), "Keep your loyalties looser" and the fitting closer, "Has Virginia wine arrived? You bet your ass!"

Fortunately, he then dismounted from the table. the ideal moment to escape the madness and make our way to destination #2, Rappahannock.

There we found an old friend from the former Six Burner, Tracey, and Blenheim Winery's winemaker, who was gracious enough to pour us a taste of "Painted White," a delectable blend of Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier being served with scallop ceviche.

The evening's music came courtesy of my neighborhood DJ, Marty of Steady Sounds, and I have to say it was a mix of music I'd never heard him play.

Prince. Michael Jackson, Donna Summer. Diana Ross. Madonna. Needless to say, the crowd was dancing drunkenly in no time.

 I was eager to sample Chatham Vineyards steel fermented Chardonnay and wasn't disappointed to taste the salinity and minerality of the eastern-most of Virginia's wineries.

Resolved: there's a winery I intend to visit come spring.

Next thing we knew, people in tight, red polyester jumpsuits with even their faces covered had joined the crowd and were dancing everywhere. If it hadn't been for the accentuation of their junk, it would have been pretty funny.

At the Boxwood Winery table, we tried  a blend of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot, poured by a taster who was dancing in place to Prince's "Kiss."

Truth be told, I was holding a glass and dancing in place to the same song.

The crowd had gotten so thick (and so loopy) around DJ Marty that we did a full circle around the back of the bar in an attempt to reach the one remaining winery up front.

On the way, a woman stopped me and said point blank, "You have such a pretty face." While I would have liked to have kissed her in gratitude, I settled for thanking her profusely but she went on. "Even your hair is perfect for your face."

It's difficult to properly thank someone for saying something so complimentary and so random, so I just hugged her and went on my way.

We finally made it to the Thibaut Jannison table for a flute of Blanc de Chardonnay, at which point I made a bee line for the freshly shucked oysters and helped myself to a ridiculous number of Olde Salts.

Only when my girlfriend suggested I try some Rapphannocks did I diverge from my single-minded, salty plan.

We found respite far in the back of the room, away from the hordes dancing to "Wanna Be Starting Something" and "Let the Music Play."

From there, we had a bird's eye view of drunken people stumbling around, eyes glazed and footing unsure.

One woman came up and said, "I know you don't like me. But you're a baller when it comes to music."

Like the woman who'd liked my face, there's not a lot I could say to that. Fortunately, by that time, it didn't matter.

Friend and I were ready to move on. To the strains of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now," we made or way through the crowd and to the car.

There, we spent the better part of an hour doing the girl talk thing that all the festivities had interrupted. It was divine.

Over the course of six hours, did I manage to get enough wine, women and song?

You bet your ass I did. My loyalties remain loose with wine and tight with everything else.