If I say I'm going to be at your house at 3:30, I'm going to be at your house at 3:30. Ahem.
And if it changes the rest of my life, so be it.
The problem with starting a blog when you're recovering from illness, unemployed and not in a relationship is that you hope that all those things will change. And while I can be healthy and employed while still finding the time to blog, it's a different story now that I'm in a real relationship.
Whatever that means, it's not anything I've done before.
So after a three day weekend celebrating love and luck, rituals and romance, I'm looking back at all the things I could blog about except that work is preventing me from going on and on long enough to cover even half of that.
Do I begin with the Prosecco kick-off to a six-hour meal at Dinamo, complete with drop-in guest for the much anticipated 3:30 toast with Gabriella Pinot Gris? How about the chocolate espresso torte taken home to enjoy rather than amongst the V-Day celebrants?
And don't get me started on the Year in Review, a photo album documenting 80 moments I may recall with clarity now but probably won't forever.
As for the cozy interlude at Lift to sip whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, well, that was just to take advantage of walking in the snowy/rain mix under a big umbrella together.
Or do I go directly to seeing "Once" at Virginia Rep and reveling in a 13-person cast, all of whom played their own instruments - mandolin, guitar, banjo, violin, drums - and a charming, if unresolved, love story? I first saw "Once" at an arthouse theater in Philly in August 2007, only to leave the theater in tears to drive back down I-95 south alone.
Let's just say it was far preferable to watch the musical love story unfold live with Mr. Wright and stroll home talking about it instead. Best line used 3 times: "I'm always serious. I'm Czech!"
For that matter, I definitely don't have time to go into details about going to see "From Here to Eternity" (a film I'd never seen before) at the Byrd Theatre. And because it was one of our themed movie dates, we followed up a classic film set in Hawaii with dinner at the Hawaiian-influenced Perch. Except that rather than tiki drinks, we went Spanish with Poema Cava to toast the future.
Favorite things about the movie? Burt Lancaster in fitted, '50s-style swimming trunks. Montgomery Clift in a pre-car accident role before his face got messed up. Outdoor Hawaiian Tiki bars circa 1953. Deborah Kerr in stylish high-waisted shorts. Raven-haired Donna Reed as a bad girl who wants to go "proper."
What I did have time for was wallowing in a long weekend with the most hilarious man I know without writing a single word for profit or for the online curious.
I can't promise that will be the case once the Year of Upheaval begins. But for now, I'm doing my best.
Showing posts with label va repertory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label va repertory. Show all posts
Monday, February 18, 2019
Monday, October 15, 2018
The Dark of the Matinee
There is a certain charm to an afternoon performance.
Unlike an evening play where you have to eat at a ridiculously early hour to be in your seat before the curtain rises at 7:30 or 8, a matinee allows for a leisurely morning and, after the production is over, a leisurely dinner.
It's all so civilized.
Mr. Wright and I met Pru and Beau to see "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" in front of Virginia Repertory Theatre, where they were hanging about like a bad smell anticipating our arrival. Since our seats weren't together, we used the time to discuss the fact that no one except Pru had read the best-selling book that had spawned the play.
She was not impressed when she found us lacking. On the other hand, she already knew what was going to happen, while for the rest of us, everything that unfolded would be a surprise.
"The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" managed to take the audience into the mind of a 15-year old boy who was both autistic and a savant when it came to numbers, a boy who couldn't bear being touched but was determined to accomplish something on his own.
The boy's determination to do some detecting to figure out who killed the neighbor's dog made for a sweet story, even as his father tried to shut his investigation down, while the discoveries he makes about his own family turned the simple detective story into something much heavier and darker.
Still, I found the production curiously satisfying since I never for a moment had any sense where the story would end up.
Leaving Virginia Rep, we made the easiest possible choice for dinner, heading directly across the street to Bar Solita, the latest offering from the Tarrant's team.
Right off the bat, they got major points for having taken the space conceived of by New Jersey bad boy chef (and #MeToo accused) Mike Isabella - a black, industrial, ornament-free cavern of a restaurant - and turning it into something softer with shades of green and yellow, curves and plants, all of which translated to Pru and I as having been accomplished with the obvious eye of a woman.
We especially liked the deep windowsills along the wall that provided room for multiple bottles of wine, purses, programs and anything else we wanted to stow.
Since Bar Solita is so new, it was a bit of a surprise that they were already out of the Sancerre Pru coveted, and for a moment, they thought they were out of our choice - Laurent Miguel Grenache Blanc - too, before managing to find a bottle of the easy-drinking wine. Meanwhile Pru and Beau made do with a Pinot Noir.
Everyone at the table was intrigued when we saw that they made a fig lemonade, so we each got one to satisfy our fig lust. Delicious, it was a tad light on fig for a true figophile.
Our server's first question had been if we'd come from the theater. Affirmative. With a bit of digging, I ascertained that the big news was that she had also read "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time." Praise be, Pru was no longer alone in her literary leanings. The only problem was, our server explained that she had little memory of the story, so she wouldn't be good for discussing anything.
Pru may have thrown up her hands and given up at that point. We simply turned to food.
Mushrooms and sherry - garlic and olive oil-infused mushrooms roasted and lazing in a bath of sherry - were every bit as seductive as they sound. Next came shrimp swimming in garlic-infused olive oil with wedges of focaccia to soak up all that goodness with.
We were all so busy eating, sipping and talking that I regret to report that I have no clue what tapas Pru and Beau devoured. Tacos? Croquettes? I really can't say and they were less than two feet away.
Wisely, the Bar Solita folks had kept Isabella's wood-fired pizza oven. We made an excellent choice with the basil pesto pizza, notable for the roasted winter squash, housemade ricotta, red onion and shaved Brussels sprouts sprinkled with roasted and spiced squash seeds. Those seeds led to a discussion of toasting pumpkin seeds, something Mr. Wright is apparently fond of doing.
That he chooses not to salt them caused a mild conversational ruckus, but to each his own.
On the other side of the table was a breakfast pizza loaded with bacon, breakfast sausage, ricotta, mozzarella, red onions, sliced garlic and two eggs, which they claimed was delicious although unlike us, they couldn't finish it all. Amateurs.
As we dined, we covered all the important bases: bowtie-tying lessons, single malt Scotch, watching movies in the park and what we'd liked about Dubrovnik and Athens. We shared our new-found affinity for Mastika and our server, overhearing, texted a friend to find out if that was the same digestif she'd also fallen in love with. When she returned with a scrap of paper reading, "Mastica," we knew we were taken with the same Greek spirit.
Now, if only the Virginia ABC carried it. But they don't. A liquor run to Washington as part of my next museum trip now assumes greater urgency.
Dessert choices were a bit slim since, perish the thought, I wasn't about to eat baklava a week after returning from Athens. With no such issues, Pru and Beau couldn't resist the phylo-wrapped custard galaktoboureko, which also hails from Greece.
In fact, the only topic not nailed down as the sun set and we stayed put was when Pru is having her champagne and fried chicken party, although she claims the date is up to Beau. Inquiring minds are also curious about whether or not the absinthe fountain will come out for the big event, so stay tuned.
Because the beauty of a matinee is that you can have hours of these kind of discussions in between courses and bottles. The only end point is when the restaurant closes.
Gives a whole new meaning to afternoon delight.
Unlike an evening play where you have to eat at a ridiculously early hour to be in your seat before the curtain rises at 7:30 or 8, a matinee allows for a leisurely morning and, after the production is over, a leisurely dinner.
It's all so civilized.
Mr. Wright and I met Pru and Beau to see "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" in front of Virginia Repertory Theatre, where they were hanging about like a bad smell anticipating our arrival. Since our seats weren't together, we used the time to discuss the fact that no one except Pru had read the best-selling book that had spawned the play.
She was not impressed when she found us lacking. On the other hand, she already knew what was going to happen, while for the rest of us, everything that unfolded would be a surprise.
"The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" managed to take the audience into the mind of a 15-year old boy who was both autistic and a savant when it came to numbers, a boy who couldn't bear being touched but was determined to accomplish something on his own.
The boy's determination to do some detecting to figure out who killed the neighbor's dog made for a sweet story, even as his father tried to shut his investigation down, while the discoveries he makes about his own family turned the simple detective story into something much heavier and darker.
Still, I found the production curiously satisfying since I never for a moment had any sense where the story would end up.
Leaving Virginia Rep, we made the easiest possible choice for dinner, heading directly across the street to Bar Solita, the latest offering from the Tarrant's team.
Right off the bat, they got major points for having taken the space conceived of by New Jersey bad boy chef (and #MeToo accused) Mike Isabella - a black, industrial, ornament-free cavern of a restaurant - and turning it into something softer with shades of green and yellow, curves and plants, all of which translated to Pru and I as having been accomplished with the obvious eye of a woman.
We especially liked the deep windowsills along the wall that provided room for multiple bottles of wine, purses, programs and anything else we wanted to stow.
Since Bar Solita is so new, it was a bit of a surprise that they were already out of the Sancerre Pru coveted, and for a moment, they thought they were out of our choice - Laurent Miguel Grenache Blanc - too, before managing to find a bottle of the easy-drinking wine. Meanwhile Pru and Beau made do with a Pinot Noir.
Everyone at the table was intrigued when we saw that they made a fig lemonade, so we each got one to satisfy our fig lust. Delicious, it was a tad light on fig for a true figophile.
Our server's first question had been if we'd come from the theater. Affirmative. With a bit of digging, I ascertained that the big news was that she had also read "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time." Praise be, Pru was no longer alone in her literary leanings. The only problem was, our server explained that she had little memory of the story, so she wouldn't be good for discussing anything.
Pru may have thrown up her hands and given up at that point. We simply turned to food.
Mushrooms and sherry - garlic and olive oil-infused mushrooms roasted and lazing in a bath of sherry - were every bit as seductive as they sound. Next came shrimp swimming in garlic-infused olive oil with wedges of focaccia to soak up all that goodness with.
We were all so busy eating, sipping and talking that I regret to report that I have no clue what tapas Pru and Beau devoured. Tacos? Croquettes? I really can't say and they were less than two feet away.
Wisely, the Bar Solita folks had kept Isabella's wood-fired pizza oven. We made an excellent choice with the basil pesto pizza, notable for the roasted winter squash, housemade ricotta, red onion and shaved Brussels sprouts sprinkled with roasted and spiced squash seeds. Those seeds led to a discussion of toasting pumpkin seeds, something Mr. Wright is apparently fond of doing.
That he chooses not to salt them caused a mild conversational ruckus, but to each his own.
On the other side of the table was a breakfast pizza loaded with bacon, breakfast sausage, ricotta, mozzarella, red onions, sliced garlic and two eggs, which they claimed was delicious although unlike us, they couldn't finish it all. Amateurs.
As we dined, we covered all the important bases: bowtie-tying lessons, single malt Scotch, watching movies in the park and what we'd liked about Dubrovnik and Athens. We shared our new-found affinity for Mastika and our server, overhearing, texted a friend to find out if that was the same digestif she'd also fallen in love with. When she returned with a scrap of paper reading, "Mastica," we knew we were taken with the same Greek spirit.
Now, if only the Virginia ABC carried it. But they don't. A liquor run to Washington as part of my next museum trip now assumes greater urgency.
Dessert choices were a bit slim since, perish the thought, I wasn't about to eat baklava a week after returning from Athens. With no such issues, Pru and Beau couldn't resist the phylo-wrapped custard galaktoboureko, which also hails from Greece.
In fact, the only topic not nailed down as the sun set and we stayed put was when Pru is having her champagne and fried chicken party, although she claims the date is up to Beau. Inquiring minds are also curious about whether or not the absinthe fountain will come out for the big event, so stay tuned.
Because the beauty of a matinee is that you can have hours of these kind of discussions in between courses and bottles. The only end point is when the restaurant closes.
Gives a whole new meaning to afternoon delight.
Friday, September 22, 2017
No Sin, No Trespass
Fall arrives and the play's the thing again.
I've been back from the beach for exactly 29 hours and in that time, I've eaten at 2 restaurants, been accompanied by two men, seen two plays, walked 5 miles with a friend I haven't walked with since we had a non-dotard president and interviewed a southern soul legend.
All I can say is, that's a lot to jump back into after being oceanfront for days.
For plot novelty and the elusive lesbian central character, there was Cadence Theatre's production of "Fun Home," spun from the graphic novel of the same name about a young woman growing up in Pennsylvania, discovering who she was and finally learning that her father was a closeted gay man, too.
Now there's a switch from walking on the beach.
Barely a day later, I got Virginia Repertory's production of "Shakespeare in Love," which means Tom Stoppard-written words (Is she obedient? As any mule in Christiandom!), fabulous period costumes and a plot designed for Shakespeare fans and students of love.
I will have poetry in my life!
Upstairs at Max's for dinner, we were part of the sizable pre-theater crowd, though most of them were on their way to see "Shakespeare in Love" and we weren't. But we were greeted by a favorite actor stopping by to say hello and guarantee that we'd be out in time for our curtain.
He wasn't just whistling dixie, either, because he also showed up with trifle at the end of dinner.
On the other hand, it was nothing but crickets chirping at Graffiato's, where we were the lone bar sitters and the crowd didn't even begin arriving until we were well into our roasted cauliflower, pizza and monkfish. Clearly some people didn't have a curtain to make.
The best part of coming back from the beach is all the things the beach doesn't offer, you know, plays and restaurants where people don't all wear flip-flops. Engaging my brain again and restocking on opinions and experiences.
The worst part is all these people complaining today that it's 85 degrees on the first day of fall. We've got plenty of time in the months ahead for cool, dry air and I'm going to enjoy every warm moment until I have to close my windows.
I'm also going to take the advice of the 75-year old southern soul legend, who assured me from Memphis, "Don't give up on love because love won't give up on you."
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe entire plays have been written on that subject. Turns out I go to a lot of them.
Because in addition to the beach, I will have poetry in my life.
I've been back from the beach for exactly 29 hours and in that time, I've eaten at 2 restaurants, been accompanied by two men, seen two plays, walked 5 miles with a friend I haven't walked with since we had a non-dotard president and interviewed a southern soul legend.
All I can say is, that's a lot to jump back into after being oceanfront for days.
For plot novelty and the elusive lesbian central character, there was Cadence Theatre's production of "Fun Home," spun from the graphic novel of the same name about a young woman growing up in Pennsylvania, discovering who she was and finally learning that her father was a closeted gay man, too.
Now there's a switch from walking on the beach.
Barely a day later, I got Virginia Repertory's production of "Shakespeare in Love," which means Tom Stoppard-written words (Is she obedient? As any mule in Christiandom!), fabulous period costumes and a plot designed for Shakespeare fans and students of love.
I will have poetry in my life!
Upstairs at Max's for dinner, we were part of the sizable pre-theater crowd, though most of them were on their way to see "Shakespeare in Love" and we weren't. But we were greeted by a favorite actor stopping by to say hello and guarantee that we'd be out in time for our curtain.
He wasn't just whistling dixie, either, because he also showed up with trifle at the end of dinner.
On the other hand, it was nothing but crickets chirping at Graffiato's, where we were the lone bar sitters and the crowd didn't even begin arriving until we were well into our roasted cauliflower, pizza and monkfish. Clearly some people didn't have a curtain to make.
The best part of coming back from the beach is all the things the beach doesn't offer, you know, plays and restaurants where people don't all wear flip-flops. Engaging my brain again and restocking on opinions and experiences.
The worst part is all these people complaining today that it's 85 degrees on the first day of fall. We've got plenty of time in the months ahead for cool, dry air and I'm going to enjoy every warm moment until I have to close my windows.
I'm also going to take the advice of the 75-year old southern soul legend, who assured me from Memphis, "Don't give up on love because love won't give up on you."
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe entire plays have been written on that subject. Turns out I go to a lot of them.
Because in addition to the beach, I will have poetry in my life.
Friday, June 30, 2017
When You're Home
When you can't vacation, staycation.
For the first time since, I don't know, the early '90s, I won't be on vacation for the week of July fourth. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird.
So in an effort to make the most of being stuck in the city when most of the population bugs out, I'm trying to do things almost as pleasurable as vacation, except I'm still sleeping in my own bed at night.
I'm also not waiting until Saturday to begin doing it.
So after luring a willing walker to join me by the river this morning, I suggested a road trip, although without sharing its destination. We hopped in the car and he obligingly followed my directions, moving toward lower elevations and, as he put it, more sky.
I love that sense you get as you head past cornfields and boat dealers toward sea level and any sense of far ground disappears, leaving trees in the foreground but only the promise of water behind it.
Getting out of the car, he asked incredulously, "How do you know places like this?" Please.
It was an absolutely lovely day to find a table under the canopy at Merroir and spend the afternoon watching boats come and go from the marina, marveling at the changing bands of color on the river and sipping Vino Verde.
If that's not enough to evoke time away from home, I don't know what is.
For my companion, it was an especially interesting sojourn because he's never been much of a seafood eater, having only recently tried mussels for the first time.
Today was the equivalent of a hat trick since we shared crab and vegetable soup (the vegetables tasting like pure summer), smoked cobia salad with pickled cauliflower, butter lettuce and grilled bread and, most impressively, Old Salte oysters.
You know a guy is completely under the spell of the setting (sparkling company?) when he's willing to slurp bivalves for the first time.
We'd barely finished ours when the two couples seated behind us got theirs. They'd already proved themselves worthy as they debated what their first bottle of wine should be when one of the two women announced, "Let's begin with the better bottle since we won't know the difference later."
Eating through their oyster sampler - Rapphannocks, Rochambeaus and Old Saltes - one guy finished the latter and decided, "That's like licking a salt lick!"
Well, you know given my affection for Old Saltes, I had to couch his feelings in more positive terms, so I swung around and explained that, no, it's not salt lick-like, it's like being knocked down by a wave and getting a mouthful of saltwater.
"I never would have come up with those words, but you're right," he said, sounding vaguely amazed. No big deal, sir, I traffic in words.
They then ordered a second dozen, this time all Rappahannocks. Wimps.
Best of all, Merroir wasn't crowded so we felt zero guilt about lingering while we talked about overuse and inappropriate use of quotation marks (If you break a "plate," you will be charged $1.00), our initial sailing experiences (very different) and oyster farming (this was before he saw the oyster chart in the men's room).
Granted, it wasn't sitting on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, but it was no afternoon in the city, either.
We could have lingered hours longer, but one of us had early plans tonight (his were later), so we hit the road before we were ready to give up the gorgeous tableau in front of us. After a crash caused us to have to detour on the way home, we arrived 12 minutes after a friend was to have picked me up at home.
Oops. Luckily, Pru was smart enough to amuse herself until I belatedly made my appearance.
We dished (more accurately, a post-vacation debrief) while I got cleaned up and changed before strolling over to Saison Market for dinner. It's my third time there in five days, not that there's anything wrong with that, but we wound up eating inside because all the outside tables had been claimed on such a lovely day.
Our meal was prelude to seeing Virginia Rep's new production of "In the Heights," a big deal because it's Lin-Manuel Miranda's award-winning pre-"Hamilton" musical.
And we weren't the only ones stoked for it judging by the buzz in the room and sold out house on a Thursday night.
And with good reason. The talented cast wowed the crowd with stellar singing, dancing and acting that brought this rapidly-gentrifying corner in Washington Heights to life against a set that evoked a NYC streetscape with the blinking George Washington bridge in the background.
Despite the large size of the cast, only the handsome Josh Marin was familiar (as Benny), and seeing so many out-of-town faces only increased the sense that I was seeing a play somewhere other than Richmond.
Because sometimes when you're on vacation, you want to relax by the water. Other times, you just need a bit of culture.
And when you're on staycation, sometimes you get both in the same day.
As Pru commented tonight, "It must be exhausting to be you."
When it is, there's always the low-hanging fruit of avacation staycation nap to tide a girl over. Maybe tomorrow...
For the first time since, I don't know, the early '90s, I won't be on vacation for the week of July fourth. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird.
So in an effort to make the most of being stuck in the city when most of the population bugs out, I'm trying to do things almost as pleasurable as vacation, except I'm still sleeping in my own bed at night.
I'm also not waiting until Saturday to begin doing it.
So after luring a willing walker to join me by the river this morning, I suggested a road trip, although without sharing its destination. We hopped in the car and he obligingly followed my directions, moving toward lower elevations and, as he put it, more sky.
I love that sense you get as you head past cornfields and boat dealers toward sea level and any sense of far ground disappears, leaving trees in the foreground but only the promise of water behind it.
Getting out of the car, he asked incredulously, "How do you know places like this?" Please.
It was an absolutely lovely day to find a table under the canopy at Merroir and spend the afternoon watching boats come and go from the marina, marveling at the changing bands of color on the river and sipping Vino Verde.
If that's not enough to evoke time away from home, I don't know what is.
For my companion, it was an especially interesting sojourn because he's never been much of a seafood eater, having only recently tried mussels for the first time.
Today was the equivalent of a hat trick since we shared crab and vegetable soup (the vegetables tasting like pure summer), smoked cobia salad with pickled cauliflower, butter lettuce and grilled bread and, most impressively, Old Salte oysters.
You know a guy is completely under the spell of the setting (sparkling company?) when he's willing to slurp bivalves for the first time.
We'd barely finished ours when the two couples seated behind us got theirs. They'd already proved themselves worthy as they debated what their first bottle of wine should be when one of the two women announced, "Let's begin with the better bottle since we won't know the difference later."
Eating through their oyster sampler - Rapphannocks, Rochambeaus and Old Saltes - one guy finished the latter and decided, "That's like licking a salt lick!"
Well, you know given my affection for Old Saltes, I had to couch his feelings in more positive terms, so I swung around and explained that, no, it's not salt lick-like, it's like being knocked down by a wave and getting a mouthful of saltwater.
"I never would have come up with those words, but you're right," he said, sounding vaguely amazed. No big deal, sir, I traffic in words.
They then ordered a second dozen, this time all Rappahannocks. Wimps.
Best of all, Merroir wasn't crowded so we felt zero guilt about lingering while we talked about overuse and inappropriate use of quotation marks (If you break a "plate," you will be charged $1.00), our initial sailing experiences (very different) and oyster farming (this was before he saw the oyster chart in the men's room).
Granted, it wasn't sitting on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, but it was no afternoon in the city, either.
We could have lingered hours longer, but one of us had early plans tonight (his were later), so we hit the road before we were ready to give up the gorgeous tableau in front of us. After a crash caused us to have to detour on the way home, we arrived 12 minutes after a friend was to have picked me up at home.
Oops. Luckily, Pru was smart enough to amuse herself until I belatedly made my appearance.
We dished (more accurately, a post-vacation debrief) while I got cleaned up and changed before strolling over to Saison Market for dinner. It's my third time there in five days, not that there's anything wrong with that, but we wound up eating inside because all the outside tables had been claimed on such a lovely day.
Our meal was prelude to seeing Virginia Rep's new production of "In the Heights," a big deal because it's Lin-Manuel Miranda's award-winning pre-"Hamilton" musical.
And we weren't the only ones stoked for it judging by the buzz in the room and sold out house on a Thursday night.
And with good reason. The talented cast wowed the crowd with stellar singing, dancing and acting that brought this rapidly-gentrifying corner in Washington Heights to life against a set that evoked a NYC streetscape with the blinking George Washington bridge in the background.
Despite the large size of the cast, only the handsome Josh Marin was familiar (as Benny), and seeing so many out-of-town faces only increased the sense that I was seeing a play somewhere other than Richmond.
Because sometimes when you're on vacation, you want to relax by the water. Other times, you just need a bit of culture.
And when you're on staycation, sometimes you get both in the same day.
As Pru commented tonight, "It must be exhausting to be you."
When it is, there's always the low-hanging fruit of a
Friday, February 3, 2017
Working Out the Now Version of Then
Poetry is everywhere and I'm just the editor.
I can thank Virginia Repertory's production of "Airline Highway" for that line, but it's a different one that resonated even more personally for me.
It's as I'm sitting contentedly (and stuffed to the gills) in the darkened November Theatre next to my dinner date tonight watching the play that a young man inquires sincerely of a young woman, "When we're 70, do you think we'll be friends?"
It's a fair question for two people of any age to consider when they're attracted to each other, although anyone with a cynical bone in their body might assume that, depending on how young the couple are when they got together, the likelihood isn't always good.
Personally, I don't have a whole lot of cynical bones in my body - sarcastic, yes, smart-assed, definitely - and the reason for that can be traced directly to the people who raised me in a rose-colored world.
My parents' long-time successful relationship has been a thorn in my side glowing example of the possibilities of coupledom when two people are fortunate enough to meet "the one" and work at life and love together over the course of decades.
But in this case, it was that line of dialog that reminded me of a letter my Mom had written to my Dad on the occasion of his 70th birthday and recently exhumed when one of my sisters was tasked with doing some restoration work on it after it suffered water damage.
C,
I remember the first time I saw you; I wasn't really interested, but as luck would have it, for you I came around.
You've always told the kids the story about how I chased you down the street, and how you only married me for my mother.
And since it's your birthday, I'll go along with it.
We've had six kids and thirty six years together and I've enjoyed at least two of the kids and four of the years.
P
With that kind of compromise and humor fueling a relationship, of course it was bound to make it to 61 years, which it did last October. Helluva role model.
"Each of us is in charge of holding up one small part of the universe and if we don't, it all comes crashing down," one character says by way of explaining how each of us fits into a bigger picture, whether we can see it or not and, let's face it, we usually can't.
See: "It's a Wonderful Life."
Who wouldn't be grateful to parents who never let their part of the universe come crashing down? And in doing so, they were bound to raise an optimist...or six.
The ragtag group who peopled "Airline Highway" were examples of what happens when dreams die and life goes on, but because their dialog came from the pen of talented New Orleans playwright Lisa D'Amour, they were constantly spouting thoughts worth considering.
"Did I know what my life would become before I was in the middle of it?" one asks. Does anyone? And why would you want to?
I, for one, am perfectly happy lapping up the pleasures, pitfalls and surprises by experiencing them as they unfold...through rose-colored glasses, natch.
I can thank Virginia Repertory's production of "Airline Highway" for that line, but it's a different one that resonated even more personally for me.
It's as I'm sitting contentedly (and stuffed to the gills) in the darkened November Theatre next to my dinner date tonight watching the play that a young man inquires sincerely of a young woman, "When we're 70, do you think we'll be friends?"
It's a fair question for two people of any age to consider when they're attracted to each other, although anyone with a cynical bone in their body might assume that, depending on how young the couple are when they got together, the likelihood isn't always good.
Personally, I don't have a whole lot of cynical bones in my body - sarcastic, yes, smart-assed, definitely - and the reason for that can be traced directly to the people who raised me in a rose-colored world.
My parents' long-time successful relationship has been a t
But in this case, it was that line of dialog that reminded me of a letter my Mom had written to my Dad on the occasion of his 70th birthday and recently exhumed when one of my sisters was tasked with doing some restoration work on it after it suffered water damage.
C,
I remember the first time I saw you; I wasn't really interested, but as luck would have it, for you I came around.
You've always told the kids the story about how I chased you down the street, and how you only married me for my mother.
And since it's your birthday, I'll go along with it.
We've had six kids and thirty six years together and I've enjoyed at least two of the kids and four of the years.
P
With that kind of compromise and humor fueling a relationship, of course it was bound to make it to 61 years, which it did last October. Helluva role model.
"Each of us is in charge of holding up one small part of the universe and if we don't, it all comes crashing down," one character says by way of explaining how each of us fits into a bigger picture, whether we can see it or not and, let's face it, we usually can't.
See: "It's a Wonderful Life."
Who wouldn't be grateful to parents who never let their part of the universe come crashing down? And in doing so, they were bound to raise an optimist...or six.
The ragtag group who peopled "Airline Highway" were examples of what happens when dreams die and life goes on, but because their dialog came from the pen of talented New Orleans playwright Lisa D'Amour, they were constantly spouting thoughts worth considering.
"Did I know what my life would become before I was in the middle of it?" one asks. Does anyone? And why would you want to?
I, for one, am perfectly happy lapping up the pleasures, pitfalls and surprises by experiencing them as they unfold...through rose-colored glasses, natch.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Someday We'll Be Together
Would anyone really want to read yet another sad saga about my attempt to see a play being thwarted by summer weather behaving badly?
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the teamgrunt practice - when rain started and didn't let up, so I slogged on to my landlord's house, at that point, mainly to borrow an umbrella.
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the team
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
Monday, March 10, 2014
With Baited Hook
We lost an hour over the weekend, but it felt like a whole lot more.
Between finishing up several assignments Saturday, I made it over to the Blue Bee Cidery tasting briefly, along with scads of people, including a favorite Museum District couple, clutching bottles of Aragon 1904 and Mill Race Bramble, listening to the sounds of Poisoned Dwarf (great band name, right?) and eating lamb (my choice) or pork sandwiches in the sunshine facing the downtown skyline.
It was to laugh when a guy led some friends across the parking lot and pointed to the buildings on the other side of the river, extending his arm in a "ta-da!" moment as if they'd had to wind through a forest to come to the view when it's in plain sight no matter where you are there.
Hours later, dinner ended up being in almost the exact same spot when Holmes and his beloved suggested I join them at Camden's for a United Nations-worthy evening of pink bubbles- Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, Graham Beck Brut Rose and a hearty bright pink Cava with a name too long to remember by the time I got home - along with succulent pork belly festooned with the Christmas colors of cranberries and sauteed spinach.
Knowing we were destined to lose an hour, we probably shouldn't have stayed up so late chatting and sipping but it had been ages since I'd seen them and there was so much to talk about.
When Sunday dawned clear and warm, it seemed a shame not to walk somewhere for brunch and the Rogue Gentleman got the nod for its proximity.
We were the first to arrive even though they'd been open for two hours at that point, but given my last visit on a mobbed opening night, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.
Well, that's a stretch because between the kitchen staff and wait staff, there were easily four times as many of them as us, but with the sun on our backs in bar stools up front, who was counting?
Punkt sparkling Gruner Veltliner gave way to eggs and bacon and a dish of polenta and eggs, a stellar layering of flavors with preserved lemon under polenta topped by harissa tomato sauce, two fried eggs and pickled thyme.
Since some of us require something sweet for breakfast, I also got brioche doughnut holes rolled in pistachio dust, my only complaint being that they weren't hot.
Not that I said that out loud.
After a stroll through the Hebrew Cemetery and Shockoe Hill cemetery to check on Henrietta Guggenheim and Dr. Norton's grave sites (my pebbles still in place), we headed for the November theater to see Virginia Rep's final production of Moliere's "Tartuffe."
As to be expected, the audience was a seasoned one, but the older couple who sat next to us and immediately began chatting were delightful.
When I told her it was my first time seeing this play (although I've seen "School for Wives"), she recalled that the last time she'd seen "Tartuffe" had been at the Old Vic in London.
The closest I could come was having once seen "Batboy" in London, but no Moliere.
I was expecting fabulous and funny language but was just as taken with the commentary on relationship foibles ("When we're forgotten by a woman's heart our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; or, if we cannot, must at least pretend to"), not to mention the glorious sight of (Ryan Bechard as) Tartuffe's bare bottom. Twice.
There really aren't enough naked male parts on view in Richmond theater.
Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.
Since it was the last performance, the cast was spot on, completely comfortable in their roles and playing them to the hilt. Add to that a gloriously French interior set, lavish costumes and it made for a slapstick, witty and sharp commentary on hypocrisy and religion.
The heathen in me ate it up.
Spilling out of the theater a couple of hours later, it took a few minutes to realize why it was still so sunny and bright out. That lost hour was repaying us now with some bonus time to enjoy a promenade on a beautiful day and talk about the play.
Happily, my date suggested exactly that.
Public scandal is what makes the offense; sinning in private is not sinning at all.
Don't I know it. And, incidentally, not because I went to the school for wives.
Between finishing up several assignments Saturday, I made it over to the Blue Bee Cidery tasting briefly, along with scads of people, including a favorite Museum District couple, clutching bottles of Aragon 1904 and Mill Race Bramble, listening to the sounds of Poisoned Dwarf (great band name, right?) and eating lamb (my choice) or pork sandwiches in the sunshine facing the downtown skyline.
It was to laugh when a guy led some friends across the parking lot and pointed to the buildings on the other side of the river, extending his arm in a "ta-da!" moment as if they'd had to wind through a forest to come to the view when it's in plain sight no matter where you are there.
Hours later, dinner ended up being in almost the exact same spot when Holmes and his beloved suggested I join them at Camden's for a United Nations-worthy evening of pink bubbles- Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, Graham Beck Brut Rose and a hearty bright pink Cava with a name too long to remember by the time I got home - along with succulent pork belly festooned with the Christmas colors of cranberries and sauteed spinach.
Knowing we were destined to lose an hour, we probably shouldn't have stayed up so late chatting and sipping but it had been ages since I'd seen them and there was so much to talk about.
When Sunday dawned clear and warm, it seemed a shame not to walk somewhere for brunch and the Rogue Gentleman got the nod for its proximity.
We were the first to arrive even though they'd been open for two hours at that point, but given my last visit on a mobbed opening night, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.
Well, that's a stretch because between the kitchen staff and wait staff, there were easily four times as many of them as us, but with the sun on our backs in bar stools up front, who was counting?
Punkt sparkling Gruner Veltliner gave way to eggs and bacon and a dish of polenta and eggs, a stellar layering of flavors with preserved lemon under polenta topped by harissa tomato sauce, two fried eggs and pickled thyme.
Since some of us require something sweet for breakfast, I also got brioche doughnut holes rolled in pistachio dust, my only complaint being that they weren't hot.
Not that I said that out loud.
After a stroll through the Hebrew Cemetery and Shockoe Hill cemetery to check on Henrietta Guggenheim and Dr. Norton's grave sites (my pebbles still in place), we headed for the November theater to see Virginia Rep's final production of Moliere's "Tartuffe."
As to be expected, the audience was a seasoned one, but the older couple who sat next to us and immediately began chatting were delightful.
When I told her it was my first time seeing this play (although I've seen "School for Wives"), she recalled that the last time she'd seen "Tartuffe" had been at the Old Vic in London.
The closest I could come was having once seen "Batboy" in London, but no Moliere.
I was expecting fabulous and funny language but was just as taken with the commentary on relationship foibles ("When we're forgotten by a woman's heart our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; or, if we cannot, must at least pretend to"), not to mention the glorious sight of (Ryan Bechard as) Tartuffe's bare bottom. Twice.
There really aren't enough naked male parts on view in Richmond theater.
Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.
Since it was the last performance, the cast was spot on, completely comfortable in their roles and playing them to the hilt. Add to that a gloriously French interior set, lavish costumes and it made for a slapstick, witty and sharp commentary on hypocrisy and religion.
The heathen in me ate it up.
Spilling out of the theater a couple of hours later, it took a few minutes to realize why it was still so sunny and bright out. That lost hour was repaying us now with some bonus time to enjoy a promenade on a beautiful day and talk about the play.
Happily, my date suggested exactly that.
Public scandal is what makes the offense; sinning in private is not sinning at all.
Don't I know it. And, incidentally, not because I went to the school for wives.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Moon Luck Struck
Maybe the full moon gave us luck.
Last Friday, my girlfriend and I had tried unsuccessfully to get rush tickets to see "Red" at Virginia Repertory.
Sadly, when the box office opened, they had only one ticket left and there were two of us.
We waited a week and tried again.
Tonight I arrived before the box office even opened and patiently waited eleven minutes so I could try again.
Not only did I get two tickets, but two in the front row.
Super moon score.
Tickets in hand, I scooped up my girlfriend and we headed back to Magpie for dinner.
It was early enough that we made happy hour, with deals on wine as well as small and medium plates.
The luck was just flowing our way tonight.
We took seats at the bar, thrilled to hear that all wines qualified for happy hour prices.
Despite today's drop in temperature, a Spanish Rose caught my eye and we both ended up with Finca Venta D. Quijote 2011 Rose for its pleasing blend of fresh strawberry and nice acidity.
The bartender tried to woo us to the dark side by letting us taste a blackberry/pear cider very close in color to our Rose, but not nearly as much to my taste.
"Does this have any alcohol in it?" my friend asked after several eminently quaffable sips, clearly tempted.
"Yea, and that's the problem with it," chuckled the barkeep.
We listened to the specials and ordered because we had an 8:00 curtain, but went right back to our discussion once the food was in process.
Friend was doing a mild rant about cultural literacy and her frustration at bringing up things that needed explaining.
In a reference to absinthe at work, she was met by blank stares.
She tried going at it from various angles- art, history, liqueurs, death by wormwood, the Lost Generation, ex-pats- to no avail.
"I finally reduced it to black jellybeans and then they got it," she said in her exasperated way.
Don't get me started.
The food was a worthy distraction from Luddites.
Because it's that time of year, we couldn't resist an asparagus special with Georgian olive oil, ham crumbles and a big, fat poached egg on top.
She had scallops while I went straight for the sausage of the day, a seafood/bacon sausage of crab, scallops, snapper and bacon, served with chevre and pear butter.
The richness of the sausage had my girlfriend saying, "It tastes like meat!"
But it was just the prelude to my next course, snapper collar, served with Romesco and micro basil.
Simply prepared with a crusty skin, the rich collar meat was made even better with the fragrant Romesco and it wasn't long before I was picking pieces off the bone with my fingers.
When the chef came out, I raved about the snapper and, in true fisherman style, he used his hands to show us just how big the whole snapper had been on arrival.
In any case, that explained the large collar.
Not long after, a man came over and asked if I was Karen.
I'd met him and his wife at Secco months ago and we'd since had e-mail contact but hadn't seen each other again.
He's a delightful ad man who managed to compliment us both for multiple reasons within the span of five minutes.
His first order of business was the State of the Plate issue, which he said made them realize they were behind in their new restaurant-going.
Seems he'd spotted me when we'd come in but wasn't sure until his wife confirmed my identity.
I remembered how much I'd liked her when he continued to talk to us even after food started arriving at their table and she looked over and told him to take his time with us.
"I better go because she really will eat it all," he said and since she's a former chef, I didn't doubt it.
By that time, we had to go, too or risk missing our delayed evening with Rothko.
Virginia Repertory was doing "Red," a play about the period in artist Mark Rothko's life when he was painting murals for the Four Seasons restaurant in the then-new Seagram's Building.
The period when he was essentially selling out.
But the play was about him taking on a young painter as his assistant and the dynamic of the conversations as the up and comer challenged the old man.
Everyone likes everything nowadays.
Because the play took place in 1958-9, there was much talk of TV's insidious role and how art had become interior decoration.
There's tragedy in every brushstroke.
Even music became part of the discussion because Rothko played classical music throughout the play while his younger assistant once had the audacity to put on Dave Brubek.
When you pay the rent, you can pick the records.
I hadn't anticipated how much actual painting there was to be.
Canvases were primed, brushes dipped and flung and wet paint ended up all over the floor and their clothing.
It's the flashiest mural commission since the Sistine Chapel.
The two-man show had been perfectly cast, with David Bridgewater completely inhabiting the bigger-than-life artist while Maxwell Eddy's understated performance was a revelation as we watched his character grow in confidence and audacity.
Most of painting is thinking.
For me, most of the play was an art history lesson, as I gleaned all kinds of new information about Rothko.
We had nothing to lose and a vision to gain.
By the end, Rothko pulls out of the project, giving back the commission, so that he can keep his art from being housed in a commercial space, a soul-less restaurant where pretentious people won't care about it.
It was essentially an incredibly well-acted story of artistic integrity.
And best of all, both of us got all the references, so no over-explaining was required as we left the theater only to be knocked out by the night sky.
Better to admire the perfect full moon that brought me so many good things tonight.
Seems to me I've got nothing to lose and a vision to gain.
Last Friday, my girlfriend and I had tried unsuccessfully to get rush tickets to see "Red" at Virginia Repertory.
Sadly, when the box office opened, they had only one ticket left and there were two of us.
We waited a week and tried again.
Tonight I arrived before the box office even opened and patiently waited eleven minutes so I could try again.
Not only did I get two tickets, but two in the front row.
Super moon score.
Tickets in hand, I scooped up my girlfriend and we headed back to Magpie for dinner.
It was early enough that we made happy hour, with deals on wine as well as small and medium plates.
The luck was just flowing our way tonight.
We took seats at the bar, thrilled to hear that all wines qualified for happy hour prices.
Despite today's drop in temperature, a Spanish Rose caught my eye and we both ended up with Finca Venta D. Quijote 2011 Rose for its pleasing blend of fresh strawberry and nice acidity.
The bartender tried to woo us to the dark side by letting us taste a blackberry/pear cider very close in color to our Rose, but not nearly as much to my taste.
"Does this have any alcohol in it?" my friend asked after several eminently quaffable sips, clearly tempted.
"Yea, and that's the problem with it," chuckled the barkeep.
We listened to the specials and ordered because we had an 8:00 curtain, but went right back to our discussion once the food was in process.
Friend was doing a mild rant about cultural literacy and her frustration at bringing up things that needed explaining.
In a reference to absinthe at work, she was met by blank stares.
She tried going at it from various angles- art, history, liqueurs, death by wormwood, the Lost Generation, ex-pats- to no avail.
"I finally reduced it to black jellybeans and then they got it," she said in her exasperated way.
Don't get me started.
The food was a worthy distraction from Luddites.
Because it's that time of year, we couldn't resist an asparagus special with Georgian olive oil, ham crumbles and a big, fat poached egg on top.
She had scallops while I went straight for the sausage of the day, a seafood/bacon sausage of crab, scallops, snapper and bacon, served with chevre and pear butter.
The richness of the sausage had my girlfriend saying, "It tastes like meat!"
But it was just the prelude to my next course, snapper collar, served with Romesco and micro basil.
Simply prepared with a crusty skin, the rich collar meat was made even better with the fragrant Romesco and it wasn't long before I was picking pieces off the bone with my fingers.
When the chef came out, I raved about the snapper and, in true fisherman style, he used his hands to show us just how big the whole snapper had been on arrival.
In any case, that explained the large collar.
Not long after, a man came over and asked if I was Karen.
I'd met him and his wife at Secco months ago and we'd since had e-mail contact but hadn't seen each other again.
He's a delightful ad man who managed to compliment us both for multiple reasons within the span of five minutes.
His first order of business was the State of the Plate issue, which he said made them realize they were behind in their new restaurant-going.
Seems he'd spotted me when we'd come in but wasn't sure until his wife confirmed my identity.
I remembered how much I'd liked her when he continued to talk to us even after food started arriving at their table and she looked over and told him to take his time with us.
"I better go because she really will eat it all," he said and since she's a former chef, I didn't doubt it.
By that time, we had to go, too or risk missing our delayed evening with Rothko.
Virginia Repertory was doing "Red," a play about the period in artist Mark Rothko's life when he was painting murals for the Four Seasons restaurant in the then-new Seagram's Building.
The period when he was essentially selling out.
But the play was about him taking on a young painter as his assistant and the dynamic of the conversations as the up and comer challenged the old man.
Everyone likes everything nowadays.
Because the play took place in 1958-9, there was much talk of TV's insidious role and how art had become interior decoration.
There's tragedy in every brushstroke.
Even music became part of the discussion because Rothko played classical music throughout the play while his younger assistant once had the audacity to put on Dave Brubek.
When you pay the rent, you can pick the records.
I hadn't anticipated how much actual painting there was to be.
Canvases were primed, brushes dipped and flung and wet paint ended up all over the floor and their clothing.
It's the flashiest mural commission since the Sistine Chapel.
The two-man show had been perfectly cast, with David Bridgewater completely inhabiting the bigger-than-life artist while Maxwell Eddy's understated performance was a revelation as we watched his character grow in confidence and audacity.
Most of painting is thinking.
For me, most of the play was an art history lesson, as I gleaned all kinds of new information about Rothko.
We had nothing to lose and a vision to gain.
By the end, Rothko pulls out of the project, giving back the commission, so that he can keep his art from being housed in a commercial space, a soul-less restaurant where pretentious people won't care about it.
It was essentially an incredibly well-acted story of artistic integrity.
And best of all, both of us got all the references, so no over-explaining was required as we left the theater only to be knocked out by the night sky.
Better to admire the perfect full moon that brought me so many good things tonight.
Seems to me I've got nothing to lose and a vision to gain.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Not Normal, but Better
I wasn't prepared to have my emotional socks knocked off at a matinee.
Despite the fact that Cadence Theater Company has been blowing my mind with their play choices and quality productions for over a year now, I had no idea what I was in for.
What I knew was that I was going to see a Pulitzer Prize-winning and multiple Tony Award-winning play produced by Cadence in partnership with Virginia Repertory.
Again.
Cadence seems to thrive on choosing important works never before produced in Richmond and bless 'em for it.
This time it was "Next to Normal."
The song list was extensive - 18 in the first act and 19 in the second - making it feel a little like an operetta with most of the action moving forward through song with some dialog interspersed.
They say love is blind but love is insane.
Having a live band is always a treat at a play, although there were times when the music drowned out the voices, a shame when the lyrics explained so much.
But that was my only quibble since the gut-wrenching story of mental illness and how a family deals with it when it happens to a member was absolutely compelling.
The people who think they're happy are just stupid.
With a cast that was strong across the board, it was impossible not to get caught up in the drama unfolding.
Without telling too much about the story, there's an instance of heartbreak that lives on for eighteen years, coloring everyone's lives.
I know from similar personal experience that unless you've experienced such trauma, you can not imagine the toll it takes on the people involved or their worldview forever after.
Let go of the past and maybe I'll see you at last.
That's not to say that a lot of the lyrics weren't funny, lines like, "I'm a sociopath, I love Sylvia Plath."
But despite upbeat, rocking songs and moments of mirth, it was at heart a play about grieving, mental illness, drug abuse, suicide and life in suburbia.
It's a world where the doctor medicates a person until she says she feels nothing and then he declares her stable.
It had me in tears by the middle of the second act.
This isn't your parents' feel-good musical, but a musical look at some heavy topics that may not be everyone's cup of tea.
That said, the three blue hairs sitting behind me raved at intermission about the acting, the voices, the set and the score, so it maybe it's all in how open-minded you are about new theater works.
What doctors call dysfunction, we call romance.
What Cadence calls their season closer, I call a must-see.
Because life goes on and even when it's difficult, it's always easier set to music.
Despite the fact that Cadence Theater Company has been blowing my mind with their play choices and quality productions for over a year now, I had no idea what I was in for.
What I knew was that I was going to see a Pulitzer Prize-winning and multiple Tony Award-winning play produced by Cadence in partnership with Virginia Repertory.
Again.
Cadence seems to thrive on choosing important works never before produced in Richmond and bless 'em for it.
This time it was "Next to Normal."
The song list was extensive - 18 in the first act and 19 in the second - making it feel a little like an operetta with most of the action moving forward through song with some dialog interspersed.
They say love is blind but love is insane.
Having a live band is always a treat at a play, although there were times when the music drowned out the voices, a shame when the lyrics explained so much.
But that was my only quibble since the gut-wrenching story of mental illness and how a family deals with it when it happens to a member was absolutely compelling.
The people who think they're happy are just stupid.
With a cast that was strong across the board, it was impossible not to get caught up in the drama unfolding.
Without telling too much about the story, there's an instance of heartbreak that lives on for eighteen years, coloring everyone's lives.
I know from similar personal experience that unless you've experienced such trauma, you can not imagine the toll it takes on the people involved or their worldview forever after.
Let go of the past and maybe I'll see you at last.
That's not to say that a lot of the lyrics weren't funny, lines like, "I'm a sociopath, I love Sylvia Plath."
But despite upbeat, rocking songs and moments of mirth, it was at heart a play about grieving, mental illness, drug abuse, suicide and life in suburbia.
It's a world where the doctor medicates a person until she says she feels nothing and then he declares her stable.
It had me in tears by the middle of the second act.
This isn't your parents' feel-good musical, but a musical look at some heavy topics that may not be everyone's cup of tea.
That said, the three blue hairs sitting behind me raved at intermission about the acting, the voices, the set and the score, so it maybe it's all in how open-minded you are about new theater works.
What doctors call dysfunction, we call romance.
What Cadence calls their season closer, I call a must-see.
Because life goes on and even when it's difficult, it's always easier set to music.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
A Ripping Good Time
We should confine ourselves to conversation and not attempt anything intelligent.
So wrote Noel Coward, inspiring a decidedly urbane evening.
A favorite girlfriend reported to Jackson Ward exactly on time, notable because she is usually not the punctual sort.
The conversation began the moment we were in the car together, both of us unwilling to wait to hear the latest.
Stop #1 was Virginia Rep's box office to score rush tickets and where the ticket seller informed me that there are three other people with my exact name in their database.
I was a little surprised, never having met another.
Tickets in hand, we got ourselves downtown for a little pre-theater supper by candlelight.
As many times as I've had lunch at La Parisienne, I'd only been there once at night and that was before they had a full dinner menu.
Our host led us to a two-top by the big front window, advising us to, "Imagine you're in New York City."
After a few minutes ensconced at our table, my friend dryly noted, "Well, it could be New York except there's no people walking by."
She had a point.
We began with glasses of Cotes du Rhone and a little verbal volleying with our server whom, we learned, was named after his grandfather and father, meaning he used his middle name.
I assumed that meant his predecessors had a different middle name, but I was mistaken.
He was a most affable guy, friendly and willing to accommodate our truncated visit, even bringing us an extra table when we ran out of room on ours.
We started with caramelized onion dip with fried crepe chips, surprised at the huge mound of salted and seasoned chips that accompanied the tiny ramekin of dip.
The richness of the dip soon explained itself as the reason why so many crepes had died in service to it.
Once we heard tonight's specials, we chose one of them, a half a lobster tail with Chimay sauce and a carrot slaw over micro-greens.
When we informed our server of our ignorance of Chimay, he offered that it was a reduction of a beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium, "And that's about the extent of what I know."
I like a man who acknowledges his limitations.
All that mattered was we both got a piece of a lobster tail and I got a nice little slaw and salad because my girlfriend doesn't care for mayo.
Next came Zee Onion Soup, a house specialty and ideal when you're sitting next to a window on a cold evening.
It arrived a bit tepid, but our gracious server whisked it back to the kitchen and returned the two crocks piping hot.
The owner came over and when I asked about the music they have on the second Tuesdays of the month, he did a little hip shake, saying, "You should come and dance the salsa."
I clarified my (sadly) rhythm-less state, citing my whiteness, and he laughed saying, "They look at me and think I can dance when I can't. I'm the same as you!"
So we were looking at a man who can't dance because he's white and French, I suppose.
Although we were rapidly running out of time to make our curtain, we couldn't leave without a sweet, choosing a cream puff from the front case rather than something off the dessert menu.
To accompany it, we had a Merlot/Grenache blend from Pomerol in the heart of Burgundy, with dark fruit, a little spiciness and beautiful balance.
Then, like Cinderella's clock chiming midnight, we jumped in the car and headed up the hill to the November Theater.
If I'd forgotten for a minute that it was First Friday art walk, I was soon reminded as clueless pedestrians stepped off curbs against the traffic lights again and again.
"You're better than me," my friend noted." I'd have never seen them and they'd have been hood ornaments."
It's better that I drive when we are downtown.
We made it into the theater and our second row left seats (surprisingly good for last minute and cheapo) with time left to peruse the program.
When the curtain came up on Noel Coward's "Hay Fever," it was on a lovely set of the drawing room of an English country house, complete with windows overlooking the garden and staircase to the second floor.
Not to mention being immediately plunged into the wildly dysfunctional Bliss family and their full house of weekend guests.
I warned him not to expect good manners.
With a writer father and a retired actress mother, the grown Bliss children, Sorel and Simon, are very aware that their family is weird.
And not just aware, but completely accepting of it.
We're very slapdash.
All the members of the very bohemian Bliss family are appalled to learn that each has invited a guest for the weekend without the rest of the family's knowledge.
Needles to say, afternoon tea is very stilted with so many unwanted visitors.
You do say ripping things.
During the first intermission, two women came to stand and chat behind me and I overheard them trying to one-up each other.
"My husband died in 2007," one said about coming to the theater alone.
"I lost mine in 2001," the other countered. "Boy, it goes so fast, doesn't it?"
Anybody got a tissue?
The second act begins after dinner and the fun begins as they all try to play a parlor game involving adverbs and guessing,
These games are too brainy for me.
The cast was extremely high energy, with Irene Ziegler leading the charge as the matriarch, all high drama and garden hats.
I'm a big fan of Molly Hood, who played Myra, one of the visitors, and here she was a saucy brunette, but as always, her diction was superb.
It was great fun seeing Maggie Roop as Jackie, a flapper with no confidence, smiling and crying at the same time, as she tries to navigate a houseful of insanity.
Once the game dissolves, the oddest people pair up and next thing we knew, there was a whole lot of kissing going on.
I never realize how dead I am until I meet people like you.
But it's the Bliss family, so it's kissing for kissing's sake and no one's really in love.
You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.
After the second intermission, it was the next morning and by now all the guests have realized they are visitors at a nuthouse and go to pack.
Do you think they know they're mad?
By the time the Bliss family convenes for breakfast, it's back to business as usual, meaning endless bickering, sibling smackdowns and general chaos.
They never even notice when the guests sneak out the door to escape back to London.
Given so much witty dialog, all kinds of era-appropriate costume changes and two intermissions, I was amazed to find us out on Broad Street only a little after 10:00.
I feel certain Noel Coward would have expected our sophisticated little evening to have lasted a tad longer.
Fortunately, the conversation we'd confined ourselves to had been outstanding, so we'd barely missed anything intelligent at all.
Maybe that just means we're okay with being slapdash.
So wrote Noel Coward, inspiring a decidedly urbane evening.
A favorite girlfriend reported to Jackson Ward exactly on time, notable because she is usually not the punctual sort.
The conversation began the moment we were in the car together, both of us unwilling to wait to hear the latest.
Stop #1 was Virginia Rep's box office to score rush tickets and where the ticket seller informed me that there are three other people with my exact name in their database.
I was a little surprised, never having met another.
Tickets in hand, we got ourselves downtown for a little pre-theater supper by candlelight.
As many times as I've had lunch at La Parisienne, I'd only been there once at night and that was before they had a full dinner menu.
Our host led us to a two-top by the big front window, advising us to, "Imagine you're in New York City."
After a few minutes ensconced at our table, my friend dryly noted, "Well, it could be New York except there's no people walking by."
She had a point.
We began with glasses of Cotes du Rhone and a little verbal volleying with our server whom, we learned, was named after his grandfather and father, meaning he used his middle name.
I assumed that meant his predecessors had a different middle name, but I was mistaken.
He was a most affable guy, friendly and willing to accommodate our truncated visit, even bringing us an extra table when we ran out of room on ours.
We started with caramelized onion dip with fried crepe chips, surprised at the huge mound of salted and seasoned chips that accompanied the tiny ramekin of dip.
The richness of the dip soon explained itself as the reason why so many crepes had died in service to it.
Once we heard tonight's specials, we chose one of them, a half a lobster tail with Chimay sauce and a carrot slaw over micro-greens.
When we informed our server of our ignorance of Chimay, he offered that it was a reduction of a beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium, "And that's about the extent of what I know."
I like a man who acknowledges his limitations.
All that mattered was we both got a piece of a lobster tail and I got a nice little slaw and salad because my girlfriend doesn't care for mayo.
Next came Zee Onion Soup, a house specialty and ideal when you're sitting next to a window on a cold evening.
It arrived a bit tepid, but our gracious server whisked it back to the kitchen and returned the two crocks piping hot.
The owner came over and when I asked about the music they have on the second Tuesdays of the month, he did a little hip shake, saying, "You should come and dance the salsa."
I clarified my (sadly) rhythm-less state, citing my whiteness, and he laughed saying, "They look at me and think I can dance when I can't. I'm the same as you!"
So we were looking at a man who can't dance because he's white and French, I suppose.
Although we were rapidly running out of time to make our curtain, we couldn't leave without a sweet, choosing a cream puff from the front case rather than something off the dessert menu.
To accompany it, we had a Merlot/Grenache blend from Pomerol in the heart of Burgundy, with dark fruit, a little spiciness and beautiful balance.
Then, like Cinderella's clock chiming midnight, we jumped in the car and headed up the hill to the November Theater.
If I'd forgotten for a minute that it was First Friday art walk, I was soon reminded as clueless pedestrians stepped off curbs against the traffic lights again and again.
"You're better than me," my friend noted." I'd have never seen them and they'd have been hood ornaments."
It's better that I drive when we are downtown.
We made it into the theater and our second row left seats (surprisingly good for last minute and cheapo) with time left to peruse the program.
When the curtain came up on Noel Coward's "Hay Fever," it was on a lovely set of the drawing room of an English country house, complete with windows overlooking the garden and staircase to the second floor.
Not to mention being immediately plunged into the wildly dysfunctional Bliss family and their full house of weekend guests.
I warned him not to expect good manners.
With a writer father and a retired actress mother, the grown Bliss children, Sorel and Simon, are very aware that their family is weird.
And not just aware, but completely accepting of it.
We're very slapdash.
All the members of the very bohemian Bliss family are appalled to learn that each has invited a guest for the weekend without the rest of the family's knowledge.
Needles to say, afternoon tea is very stilted with so many unwanted visitors.
You do say ripping things.
During the first intermission, two women came to stand and chat behind me and I overheard them trying to one-up each other.
"My husband died in 2007," one said about coming to the theater alone.
"I lost mine in 2001," the other countered. "Boy, it goes so fast, doesn't it?"
Anybody got a tissue?
The second act begins after dinner and the fun begins as they all try to play a parlor game involving adverbs and guessing,
These games are too brainy for me.
The cast was extremely high energy, with Irene Ziegler leading the charge as the matriarch, all high drama and garden hats.
I'm a big fan of Molly Hood, who played Myra, one of the visitors, and here she was a saucy brunette, but as always, her diction was superb.
It was great fun seeing Maggie Roop as Jackie, a flapper with no confidence, smiling and crying at the same time, as she tries to navigate a houseful of insanity.
Once the game dissolves, the oddest people pair up and next thing we knew, there was a whole lot of kissing going on.
I never realize how dead I am until I meet people like you.
But it's the Bliss family, so it's kissing for kissing's sake and no one's really in love.
You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.
After the second intermission, it was the next morning and by now all the guests have realized they are visitors at a nuthouse and go to pack.
Do you think they know they're mad?
By the time the Bliss family convenes for breakfast, it's back to business as usual, meaning endless bickering, sibling smackdowns and general chaos.
They never even notice when the guests sneak out the door to escape back to London.
Given so much witty dialog, all kinds of era-appropriate costume changes and two intermissions, I was amazed to find us out on Broad Street only a little after 10:00.
I feel certain Noel Coward would have expected our sophisticated little evening to have lasted a tad longer.
Fortunately, the conversation we'd confined ourselves to had been outstanding, so we'd barely missed anything intelligent at all.
Maybe that just means we're okay with being slapdash.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Buy Less, See More, Eat Anything
All I'm shooting for is to be a better person. That's all.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Living the Life, er, Dream
Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.
In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.
No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.
And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?
I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?
To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.
Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.
From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.
Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."
But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.
I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.
By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.
It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.
Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.
Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.
The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.
Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.
Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.
I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."
Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.
The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.
WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.
Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.
I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.
Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.
Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.
Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.
The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.
Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.
Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.
Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.
Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.
To his credit, he fought back and won.
Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.
And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.
For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.
Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.
I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.
Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.
Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.
Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.
Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with the Triangles while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.
After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.
Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.
Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"
Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.
It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.
Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.
And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.
In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.
No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.
And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?
I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?
To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.
Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.
From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.
Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."
But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.
I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.
By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.
It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.
Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.
Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.
The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.
Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.
Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.
I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."
Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.
The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.
WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.
Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.
I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.
Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.
Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.
Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.
The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.
Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.
Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.
Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.
Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.
To his credit, he fought back and won.
Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.
And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.
For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.
Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.
I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.
Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.
Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.
Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.
Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with the Triangles while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.
After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.
Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.
Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"
Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.
It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.
Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.
And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.
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