Turns out Dorothy Parker and I have a lot in common.
Like drinking and talking.
Which I began my evening by doing at my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, to pre-game before the theater.
Between my week at the beach and Chef Carlos' trip to Brazil, it had been ages since I'd seen him.
We corrected that with some face time tonight, early enough in the evening that the place had not yet filled up.
Vinho Verde in hand, I listened as he told me his concept for a TV show that involved a chef, a front-of-the-house manager and a writer sharing their opinions as they visited every gay bar in the country.
Now there's a career path I could get behind.
As long as I was there, it seemed silly to resist a new small plate of braised calamari over white beans.
The garlic and clam juice-infused beans under the shallot-braised calamari with micro-greens was a flavorful way to kick off my night.
I met some nearby bar-sitters, foodies from Hanover County, and we talked about the local eating scene while they experienced 27 for the first time.
It's always a pleasure to watch as newcomers get sucked into the 27 web, first by Carlos' charm and then by the exceptional food.
Let's just say that I expect that I'll see those two again at my neighborhood bar.
My next stop was at Prudence's house to pick her up for an enlightening evening at the VMFA.
"The Portable Dorothy Parker," a one-act, one-actress play with Broadway actress Margot Avery, drew a sell-out crowd (mostly women or men with women).
Three be the things I shall never attain
Ency, content and sufficient champagne
Most of the performance was laugh-out-loud funny, but for some of us, none more so than her observations about the writing life.
When I was younger, I was already gainfully unemployed.
I called it freelancing.
Amen, sister.
The set was simple - a wing chair with a telephone table, a table for a bar (frequently used) and a desk covered in books and manuscript pages.
But I shall stay the way I am
Because I do not give a damn
Avery used them to advantage, frequently making drinks before collapsing back in her desk chair to answer questions from the unseen assistant.
As Dorothy, she talked a lot about the members of the Algonquin round table and what a boys' club it had been.
All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.
It was an audience of Parker fans, quick to laugh at every bon mot, and, like me and Prudence, familiar with many of them.
And while Dorothy drank throughout, her smoking habit was conspicuously absent.
I couldn't decide if this was a nod to the VMFA crowd or a politically correct concession.
Either way, bad call.
The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue
Through observations about love, men and life, I consistently found myself laughing most at her comments about the writing life.
The two most beautiful words in the English language are "check enclosed."
God knows that's true.
Once the play ended, we didn't go far, ending up at Deco for a bottle and a bite.
The little restaurant was just about full when we arrived and our server, sweet and eager, told us she'd just turned 21.
Her extreme youth meant that she couldn't tell us anything about the 2011 Cantina del Taburno Falanghina we were considering, but the owner breezed by, assuring us that if we didn't like it, he'd happily drink it instead.
Pshaw.
Crisp, intense and with a long finish, we needed no help from the boss man to polish off the bottle without him.
We made a meal of the Sicilian street food menu, with arancini con carne stuffed with Mozzarella, falling-off-the-bones pork ribs in marinara, and meatballs with currants and pine nuts, a dish I get every time I go.
"All meat?" Prudence asked, raising an eyebrow, as if that were a problem.
As I told her, after an evening of sparkling wit, I'm happy to make do with meat.
Because, as Dorothy, Prudence and I agree, there can never be sufficient champagne.
We make up for that with meat, bone-sucking and long discussions of love, men and life.
The cure for boredom is curiosity
There is no cure for curiosity
Nor would I want there to be.
Showing posts with label vinho verde. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vinho verde. Show all posts
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Light Envy
I'm hearing an an awful lot about Italy lately.
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Sunday, September 18, 2011
If You Build It, They Will Come
For everyone thrilled about the fall-like weather, don't look to me for reinforcement.
I'm frickin' cold.
Just to walk the four blocks to ADA Gallery tonight, I needed to put on a blazer.
Three nights ago, I wore a sundress to a wine tasting. I'm so not ready for this.
But walk I did to see the opening of "Our Yasu," a joint show by Rachel Hayes and Jiha Moon at ADA.
Hayes' large-scale installation "Chutes and Tears" was part paper, part fabric, part acrylic and lots of denim.
When it had originally been installed in NYC, it had been in a window, making it more of a caged presentation.
At the time, the Japanese tsunami had just happened and many viewers interpreted the piece as representing a make-shift shelter.
To many people, the strips of denim represented people, jean-clad people.
But tonight's installation, with the ability to walk through and around it, felt more like a glorious canopy, brightly colored and whimsical.
It's all about the moment in time.
In the next gallery, Moon's collage-like pieces hung as individual units on the wall.
Unlike Western art with traditional rectangular canvases, hers were irregularly shaped pastiches of fabric, paper, paint, vinyl, and, yes, lots of denim.
Moon said she liked denim for its ability to change from almost white to the deepest blue.
She saw the stonewashed pieces as evocative of the 70s and 80s, a time before she was born.
I loved how lyrical her pieces were with the most beautiful combinations of off-colors, delicate painting, swatches and pockets of denim and calligraphy.
ADA Gallery was packed with art lovers eager to spend a Saturday evening seeing fresh work, including the Man-About-Town with whom I happily discussed "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" since he'd seen it, too.
Then he was off to a party and I to Selba to meet a friend.
I was charmed walking in to hear a guy playing piano, especially since the last time I'd been in the instrument had been no more than an empty glass receptacle.
The live music didn't mitigate the buzz-kill effect of the two TVs at the bar (nothing could) but I knew about them going in.
Unfortunately, the pianist stopped playing within moments of me walking in. Was it something I said?
There were only a few people at the long bar so I took a middle stool to wait for my friend with a glass of Vinho Verde.
Once she arrived, chiding me for always choosing poorly marked restaurants, we got down to the amuse bouche, a chilled melon soup with roasted cherry tomato.
She started with the wild mushroom tart (oyster, shitake and white mushies with puff pastry and sherry caramel), her only complaint being the scarcity of puff pastry.
I was more than satisfied with the richness of the mushroom saute.
I couldn't resist the Tri-tip steak, seared rare with red wine caper vinaigrette, Stilton cheese and chopped hard boiled egg over butter lettuce.
It turned out to be a generous amount of thinly sliced tri-tip, a cut you rarely see on restaurant menus.
Our server told us that many people see the word "tip" and expect beef tips, so he has to warn them of what they'll get to avoid surprise or disappointment.
I was neither and quite enjoyed the flavorful slices with the Stilton.
When the piano player stood up, I asked if he was going to play again, which he was.
Tonight was a new gig for him after losing one at Maggiano's. As he said, you take whatever jobs you can find.
We fell into conversation about eking out a living, whether by playing music or writing and then he was off to play.
Next my friend and I had the vegetarian spring rolls, which I remembered as the best thing I'd had on my first visit to Selba.
Mid-roll, we were unexpectedly joined by a man who walked up and said to me, "My son says you're the blogger."
As I explained to him, his article was all wrong. While I am a blogger, I am hardly the blogger.
He gave me enough of a running start for me to recall exactly when and where I'd met his son who, by some weird coincidence, was also having dinner at Selba tonight.
But not with his father.
At least he came over to say hello, expressing as much surprise that I remembered him as I had that he remembered me.
I was flattered to learn that they're both regular readers, a huge compliment since I'd only met the son once and the father never.
Turns out the father not only reads me, but takes dining suggestions from a stranger.
He's discovered Ettamae's because of my posts, which gave us an excuse to verbally drool about the corned beef hash and stellar ever-changing dinner menu.
He reads me well enough to ask, "Where exactly is the Camel? And why do you go there?"
And naturally he asked me why I blog.
And I answered truthfully, but I might well have asked him a question myself.
Why do you read me?
I'm frickin' cold.
Just to walk the four blocks to ADA Gallery tonight, I needed to put on a blazer.
Three nights ago, I wore a sundress to a wine tasting. I'm so not ready for this.
But walk I did to see the opening of "Our Yasu," a joint show by Rachel Hayes and Jiha Moon at ADA.
Hayes' large-scale installation "Chutes and Tears" was part paper, part fabric, part acrylic and lots of denim.
When it had originally been installed in NYC, it had been in a window, making it more of a caged presentation.
At the time, the Japanese tsunami had just happened and many viewers interpreted the piece as representing a make-shift shelter.
To many people, the strips of denim represented people, jean-clad people.
But tonight's installation, with the ability to walk through and around it, felt more like a glorious canopy, brightly colored and whimsical.
It's all about the moment in time.
In the next gallery, Moon's collage-like pieces hung as individual units on the wall.
Unlike Western art with traditional rectangular canvases, hers were irregularly shaped pastiches of fabric, paper, paint, vinyl, and, yes, lots of denim.
Moon said she liked denim for its ability to change from almost white to the deepest blue.
She saw the stonewashed pieces as evocative of the 70s and 80s, a time before she was born.
I loved how lyrical her pieces were with the most beautiful combinations of off-colors, delicate painting, swatches and pockets of denim and calligraphy.
ADA Gallery was packed with art lovers eager to spend a Saturday evening seeing fresh work, including the Man-About-Town with whom I happily discussed "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" since he'd seen it, too.
Then he was off to a party and I to Selba to meet a friend.
I was charmed walking in to hear a guy playing piano, especially since the last time I'd been in the instrument had been no more than an empty glass receptacle.
The live music didn't mitigate the buzz-kill effect of the two TVs at the bar (nothing could) but I knew about them going in.
Unfortunately, the pianist stopped playing within moments of me walking in. Was it something I said?
There were only a few people at the long bar so I took a middle stool to wait for my friend with a glass of Vinho Verde.
Once she arrived, chiding me for always choosing poorly marked restaurants, we got down to the amuse bouche, a chilled melon soup with roasted cherry tomato.
She started with the wild mushroom tart (oyster, shitake and white mushies with puff pastry and sherry caramel), her only complaint being the scarcity of puff pastry.
I was more than satisfied with the richness of the mushroom saute.
I couldn't resist the Tri-tip steak, seared rare with red wine caper vinaigrette, Stilton cheese and chopped hard boiled egg over butter lettuce.
It turned out to be a generous amount of thinly sliced tri-tip, a cut you rarely see on restaurant menus.
Our server told us that many people see the word "tip" and expect beef tips, so he has to warn them of what they'll get to avoid surprise or disappointment.
I was neither and quite enjoyed the flavorful slices with the Stilton.
When the piano player stood up, I asked if he was going to play again, which he was.
Tonight was a new gig for him after losing one at Maggiano's. As he said, you take whatever jobs you can find.
We fell into conversation about eking out a living, whether by playing music or writing and then he was off to play.
Next my friend and I had the vegetarian spring rolls, which I remembered as the best thing I'd had on my first visit to Selba.
Mid-roll, we were unexpectedly joined by a man who walked up and said to me, "My son says you're the blogger."
As I explained to him, his article was all wrong. While I am a blogger, I am hardly the blogger.
He gave me enough of a running start for me to recall exactly when and where I'd met his son who, by some weird coincidence, was also having dinner at Selba tonight.
But not with his father.
At least he came over to say hello, expressing as much surprise that I remembered him as I had that he remembered me.
I was flattered to learn that they're both regular readers, a huge compliment since I'd only met the son once and the father never.
Turns out the father not only reads me, but takes dining suggestions from a stranger.
He's discovered Ettamae's because of my posts, which gave us an excuse to verbally drool about the corned beef hash and stellar ever-changing dinner menu.
He reads me well enough to ask, "Where exactly is the Camel? And why do you go there?"
And naturally he asked me why I blog.
And I answered truthfully, but I might well have asked him a question myself.
Why do you read me?
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