Some days just go down easily.
Today I drove to the northern neck, passing a gas station sign that read, "Coming soon, Spring!" and an insurance office sign that said, "Life is a roller coaster. Enjoy the ride!"
Promises and advice, what more could you ask of a road trip?
My destination was Warsaw to spend the afternoon with a furniture maker, a man who lives on the 800 acre property his family has owned since the 19th century.
He asked if I was up for a walk and we set off to see wood and trees, past bamboo groves planted by his grandfather.
He told me that they were most striking after a snow, when they were bent from the weight of it and the scene resembled a Japanese print.
My only complaint as we meandered around looking at drying trees, stacked boards and the ruins of the original house built in 1840 was the wind, which was fierce.
When we headed back toward the house he spent 15 years building to replace the old farmhouse, his mother came out to offer us razzleberry pie with ice cream.
Make no mistake, she hadn't baked it for us, but for her two old St. Catherine's school buddies who'd come to lunch.
Never one to turn down pie, much less razzleberry which I'd never had and needed to know more about, I answered yes for both of us.
Turns out razzleberry pie is made with raspberries and marion berries and she was one of those women who makes a crispy, buttery crust, so the unexpected mid-afternoon dessert was a real treat and we finished the interview with our tongues stained purple.
After an easy drive home, I found a message from my date tonight, changing the time we were meeting at the Roosevelt.
Just as well since I needed a good clean-up after traipsing through the back forty (or 400).
When I got to the Roosevelt, the joint was jumping, but I found two empty stools and sat down to wait for my friend.
I'd brought Sunday's Post travel section, knowing I'd get there first and figuring it would give me time to catch up on my reading.
The magnificently-bearded bartender Brandon was good enough to bring me the Virginia Fizz I was craving while I followed the story of intrepid travelers intent on having breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and dinner in Barcelona, courtesy of a new higher speed train.
Spoiler alert: lunch at Gare de Lyon's Le Train Bleu was by the far the highlight. Crispy pig and escargot terrine would have won my heart, too.
Maybe it was reading about that meal, but it wasn't long before I realized that I wasn't going to be able to sip bubbles indefinitely without sustenance.
Razzleberry pie only takes a girl so far.
To tide me over, I asked Brandon for a snack of crostini with ricotta and Charlottesville honey and he delivered not only that but tales of his recent move, characterizing his shift from the Hill to Carytown briefly and back as the "Church Hill shuffle."
As in, people try to leave and can't. The Hill has a hold, apparently.
My friend showed up at last and we moved to stools on the far side of the bar, away from the fray.
Starving, we ordered quickly, both starting with salads of roasted beets, smoked bluefish, "everything" crema, horseradish and pickled onions.
I've had many an everything bagel, but it was my first (but hopefully not last) everything crema, the assortment of flavors tying together the beets, fish and greens to perfection. Friend and I were particularly taken with the caraway notes in the crema.
Because the restaurant was so busy and several people had babies with them (don't get me started), we had to lean into each other to gossip and share stories, a sacrifice we were more than willing to make to catch up.
I was seeking her advice on taking a selfie, something I need to do for an assignment and clearly something with which I have no practice, asking her to recommend filters and effects. She's the kind of wise ass friend who tries to tell me about one that makes you look enormous and another that ages you, neither of which hold much appeal. I may be a Luddite, but I'm not a complete idiot.
No doubt I'll be able to figure it out. If I can take pictures of others with my camera, I ought to be able to shoot myself this once.
With another glass of Fizz to cut the richness, I dove into a bowl of gnocchi carbonara with spicy Surry sausage and al dente peas, only to look up and see a friend coming through the door.
It was the singer and fan of sad folk songs I know and she was obviously on a date with the handsome man whom I'd heard about when we'd had brunch recently.
Given the shortage of available stools, they had no choice but to sit beside us so I tried to stay hidden behind my date so as to not cramp her style. Besides, I'll hear the details later if she wants to share.
While my date enjoyed peanut butter pie (I'm not a fan but helped her with the whipped cream), the chef came out and chatted with us while he enjoyed a beer and making us laugh.
Fully fed, lubricated with bubbles and laughing at dry humor from a Beard nominee.
Some nights require no effort on my part whatsoever.
Showing posts with label virginia fizz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label virginia fizz. Show all posts
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Monday, August 5, 2013
Worldly Early Birds
Birthdays were never meant to be confined to a day.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
Friday, April 27, 2012
A + B = C
It's a dilemma: where do you take a food-loving friend when he visits from out of town?
Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.
After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.
Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.
I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.
Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.
Score one.
Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.
My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.
As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.
He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.
If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.
No reevaluation was required.
He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.
After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.
He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.
According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.
It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.
Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.
The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.
I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.
That's probably why I keep doing it.
Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.
Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.
Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).
As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.
It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.
My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.
I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.
By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.
Score two.
Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.
We had, although the bar was still hopping.
I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.
My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.
Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.
Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.
Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.
Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.
Score three.
It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.
And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.
Bet I get invited back up.
Our original plan to meet at 2:30 had been pushed forward to 5:30 and by then our options had changed a bit.
After meeting at my apartment (because how can you truly know someone until you've seen how she lives?) I showed him my Jackson Ward digs and we headed out.
Unsure where to begin given the limitations of Restaurant Week, my decision was made when he said he was craving a Negroni.
I threw caution to the winds and took him directly to Bobby at Bistro 27, knowing he'd supply something Negroni-like without being merely a Negroni.
Bobby delivered and my friend acknowledged that the beautifully orange and unique concoction would please even a non-Negroni lover.
Score one.
Just as the masses began arriving, we moved on to the Roosevelt so that I could show him how we do it Richmond style.
My favorite bar stools were empty and we slid into them like they'd been reserved for us while my companion began checking out the new-to-him space.
As I'd hoped, the all Virginia wine list pleased him as much as it does me, and he was amazed at the wine pricing.
He went with the Gabriele Rausse Rosso and I predictably began with Virginia Fizz.
If you can't celebrate seeing a D.C. friend with some bubbles, it's time to reevaluate that friendship.
No reevaluation was required.
He was enraptured with the menu, as pleased with its creativity as its pricing.
After last night's feast of two bellies, I bowed to his choices for tonight's meal.
He chose Lee's fried chicken slider, the chilled cucumber, avocado and buttermilk soup with jumbo lump crabmeat and lemon oil, and baked South Carolina polenta with slow cooked egg, grilled asparagus and stewed tomato.
According to him, and he's a pro, a vegetarian dish is the best measure of a kitchen's capabilities.
It took only one bite of the slider for him to start rhapsodizing about it; he thought the simple white roll was perfect, noting that a D.C. restaurant would have gone for a fancier roll (brioche, perhaps?) and killed the slider's beautiful simplicity.
Pshaw, I said, I've had that slider to start brunch just because it's there.
The soup's island of jumbo lump crabmeat gave some heft to the delicately flavored dish, while the egg imparted a richness that belied the vegetarian dish's simple ingredients.
I get such a kick out of taking first-timers to the Roosevelt and watching them fall in love with it all.
That's probably why I keep doing it.
Like those before him, he was charmed by the feel of the room, bowled over by the wine list and menu pricing, impressed with the music, loving the ambiance and friendly vibe and reveling in the lack of pretension.
Yea, yea, just another night out in River City.
Actually it wasn't because we hadn't gotten together for months, meaning we had lots to share, both ancient history (lockers and short skirts in high school) and more recent (young editors and hometown arts districts).
As sunlight gave way to evening, he noted the change in the room's feel and we started considering dessert options to go with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
Like anyone who lives north of northern Virginia, he couldn't resist the siren song of the Coca Cola cake and I had to admit I'd never had it.
It took barely two bites for the Coke flavor to register but actually it was the frosting I liked best.
My friend demurely kept his bites to a few while I ravaged the cake in that way I tend to do when I like a sweet.
I attribute that trait to my mother, who always taught us that no matter how full you are, there's always that little corner of your stomach empty for dessert.
By the time I finished the Coca Cola cake, there wasn't a centimeter of my stomach left empty for anything.
Score two.
Given the need for the out-of-towner to hit the road soon, we made one last, brief stop at Secco, presuming we'd missed the restaurant week crowd.
We had, although the bar was still hopping.
I dug into the secret stash, getting a glass of Domaine de Bagnol Cassis Rose after tasting its bone-dry minerality and seeing it as the ideal way to end my evening.
My visitor chose Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose so as not to duplicate my choice while we snacked on fried chickpeas and Gorgonzola-stuffed fried olives.
Not because we needed to, but because they're bar food of the highest order.
Hell, we could even justify the chickpeas as protein and believe it.
Leaving just as the Byrd let out, Friend commented how much like a university town it felt with people everywhere on the sidewalks and music being played just down the street.
Oh, this old town? We've had it for centuries.
Score three.
It's really no dilemma at all. Take a visitor to the places I like and if they like me, they'll like my favorites.
And if not, they never have to invite me up for dinner again.
Bet I get invited back up.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wanna Be Starting Something
I have been thanked in the liner notes of two albums, but I have never been heard on a recording.
After a sufficient amount of bubbly, that was corrected tonight.
At the suggestion of my wine-making friend, we went to Mezzanine to hang out and discuss life.
A bottle of Thibaud Janisson Virginia Fizz had our name on it and we enjoyed our first glasses with the addition of enough Pama to make for a pretty and pink cocktail.
As we discussed the recent spate of Southern-themed restaurants, we snacked on tempura-fried local mushrooms which had been brought in by the purveyor today after a morning gathering trip in the woods.
They were lightly battered and fried and accompanied by a local kale, apple and onion saute.
We were happily wallowing in local.
Over talk of the safety hazards of bottling bubbly, we enjoyed braised beef short ribs with Byrd Mill grits (thank you, Ashland) and hoison jus.
I'm a sucker for short ribs, long cooked and with bits of fat clinging to the meat, while the grits benefited from the addition of cheese.
Our last course was crispy fried barcat oysters, making for a completely local pairing. It is, after all, Virginia Wine and Dine month.
Not to mention ideal with our Fizz.
Walking back to our cars, we chatted about Charlottesville restaurants and the necessity of music to feed one's soul.
You know, the usual stuff people talk about when they're walking through Carytown.
I'd had to cut our evening short because I'd agreed to be part of a recording session tonight.
Let me be clear, it's not like anyone wanted to hear me sing but fortunately singing ability was not a prerequisite.
Walking up to Gallery 5 a few minutes late, I saw Lobo Marino bandleader Jameson out front talking to a few people.
Whew. So the recording wasn't underway, I was happy to see.
"We wouldn't start without you," he grinned, warning me that I'd have to remove my shoes when I got upstairs.
Once up there, I took off my very disco era-looking rope wedges and found a spot on the floor near other barefoot friends.
The shoeless Lobo Marino took their places by their instruments, explaining that they'd been laying down tracks since noon today.
Jameson began by reading us the riot act, so to speak.
"This is now a live recording studio, so if you're the person who knocks over your drink and makes a noise, everyone will look at you."
No pressure.
Luckily my water bottle was plastic, so I wasn't worried about being the culprit.
For the first song, we were asked to hum/sing a chant sound, even harmonize if we wanted to.
Like I could harmonize. As my Richmond grandmother used to tell me as a child, "Karen, you couldn't carry a tune in a bucket."
Sigh. It took years for me to realize how honest she was.
Even so, I om'd along with the group.
Things got more complicated for the next song, which began with the audience being divided into three groups, one to follow the vocals of each of the band members.
Thankfully, I was assigned to Nathaniel's group, meaning I sang the simplest melody.
Not that my singing mattered next to the amazing tribal-sounding drumming Jameson and Nathaniel were doing.
The beauty of it was the high ceilings and the reverb created in the space with our voices and all that percussion.
Three photographers documented the evening, shooting the band, the audience and the instruments from behind, above and the floor.
During a break between songs, Jameson informed us, "This is also part of the studio experience, just chillaxing."
I was actually quite good at that part.
The beautiful "Young and Old" provided the lyric about kites that gives the new album its name.
Then it happened. A beer bottle fell over.
"You know, on the first song of "Thriller," someone knocked something over but it was on the tempo and Quincy Jones said "Just leave it." So if anyone else knocks something over, do it on rhythm," Jameson informed us.
Our last assignment was to provide the crowd noise for the exit song which required nothing more than talking amongst ourselves.
I was a natural.
And then we were through, having provided all the extra sound needed to begin mixing the album.
Best of all, we'd done so in less time than expected.
As a reward, Lobo Marino did a couple of songs off the new album for us as a thank you.
"Celebrate," which boasted drum, trombone and harmonium, was such a great dance song that a few people in the crowd couldn't resist standing up and letting loose.
The song was so short I didn't have time to put my perfect dancing shoes back on and join in.
Too bad.
It would have made for a great picture of my legs celebrating in the liner notes next to my name.
After a sufficient amount of bubbly, that was corrected tonight.
At the suggestion of my wine-making friend, we went to Mezzanine to hang out and discuss life.
A bottle of Thibaud Janisson Virginia Fizz had our name on it and we enjoyed our first glasses with the addition of enough Pama to make for a pretty and pink cocktail.
As we discussed the recent spate of Southern-themed restaurants, we snacked on tempura-fried local mushrooms which had been brought in by the purveyor today after a morning gathering trip in the woods.
They were lightly battered and fried and accompanied by a local kale, apple and onion saute.
We were happily wallowing in local.
Over talk of the safety hazards of bottling bubbly, we enjoyed braised beef short ribs with Byrd Mill grits (thank you, Ashland) and hoison jus.
I'm a sucker for short ribs, long cooked and with bits of fat clinging to the meat, while the grits benefited from the addition of cheese.
Our last course was crispy fried barcat oysters, making for a completely local pairing. It is, after all, Virginia Wine and Dine month.
Not to mention ideal with our Fizz.
Walking back to our cars, we chatted about Charlottesville restaurants and the necessity of music to feed one's soul.
You know, the usual stuff people talk about when they're walking through Carytown.
I'd had to cut our evening short because I'd agreed to be part of a recording session tonight.
Let me be clear, it's not like anyone wanted to hear me sing but fortunately singing ability was not a prerequisite.
Walking up to Gallery 5 a few minutes late, I saw Lobo Marino bandleader Jameson out front talking to a few people.
Whew. So the recording wasn't underway, I was happy to see.
"We wouldn't start without you," he grinned, warning me that I'd have to remove my shoes when I got upstairs.
Once up there, I took off my very disco era-looking rope wedges and found a spot on the floor near other barefoot friends.
The shoeless Lobo Marino took their places by their instruments, explaining that they'd been laying down tracks since noon today.
Jameson began by reading us the riot act, so to speak.
"This is now a live recording studio, so if you're the person who knocks over your drink and makes a noise, everyone will look at you."
No pressure.
Luckily my water bottle was plastic, so I wasn't worried about being the culprit.
For the first song, we were asked to hum/sing a chant sound, even harmonize if we wanted to.
Like I could harmonize. As my Richmond grandmother used to tell me as a child, "Karen, you couldn't carry a tune in a bucket."
Sigh. It took years for me to realize how honest she was.
Even so, I om'd along with the group.
Things got more complicated for the next song, which began with the audience being divided into three groups, one to follow the vocals of each of the band members.
Thankfully, I was assigned to Nathaniel's group, meaning I sang the simplest melody.
Not that my singing mattered next to the amazing tribal-sounding drumming Jameson and Nathaniel were doing.
The beauty of it was the high ceilings and the reverb created in the space with our voices and all that percussion.
Three photographers documented the evening, shooting the band, the audience and the instruments from behind, above and the floor.
During a break between songs, Jameson informed us, "This is also part of the studio experience, just chillaxing."
I was actually quite good at that part.
The beautiful "Young and Old" provided the lyric about kites that gives the new album its name.
Then it happened. A beer bottle fell over.
"You know, on the first song of "Thriller," someone knocked something over but it was on the tempo and Quincy Jones said "Just leave it." So if anyone else knocks something over, do it on rhythm," Jameson informed us.
Our last assignment was to provide the crowd noise for the exit song which required nothing more than talking amongst ourselves.
I was a natural.
And then we were through, having provided all the extra sound needed to begin mixing the album.
Best of all, we'd done so in less time than expected.
As a reward, Lobo Marino did a couple of songs off the new album for us as a thank you.
"Celebrate," which boasted drum, trombone and harmonium, was such a great dance song that a few people in the crowd couldn't resist standing up and letting loose.
The song was so short I didn't have time to put my perfect dancing shoes back on and join in.
Too bad.
It would have made for a great picture of my legs celebrating in the liner notes next to my name.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
O Canada! How We Do It in the South
I have discovered the most amazing bar food in Richmond and it is Canadian.
But I never would have discovered it if I hadn't gone to meet a bartender friend at The Roosevelt for dinner.
We agreed on 7:00 in order to ensure we found stools before the madding crowd's arrival.
Good thing, too; twenty minutes after we got there, lines appeared at both doors.
Sliding into a stool, I found myself next to one of my favorite wine reps with my dinner partner to my right and the sun on our backs.
I chose the TJ Virginia Fizz to kick off my evening, much to the delight of the rep, who had actually been part of the grape crush for the Fizz vintage I was drinking.
If he'd done it with his feet, I'd have asked him to take off his socks.
As it was, he told me that Claude Thibaut was the best sparkling winemaker on the East Coast and I merely told him how much I liked the Prosecco-like creaminess of the Virginia bubbles I was drinking.
Since it was my friend's first time at The Roosevelt and I eat everything on the menu, I deferred to him on the food selection.
Like so many before him, he couldn't resist the siren song of the squash fritters.
I may have influenced him a tad to order the steak tartare with egg yolk, but only because I was sure he'd love it as much as I had (he did). The pickled green tomato got a thumbs up from us both.
The people watching is always good at The Roosevelt, like the woman stroking her date's hands in front of her face while he made goo-goo eyes at her.
So is the conversation, like mine with the dapper older man who lives across the street and came in to see if he'd like the place ("Well, I got a nice beer and that's a good start!" he said with a wheeze and a smile).
When my Fizz was gone I moved on to the Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris, soft but with a crisp finish.
It turned out to be the perfect thing to go with poutine, Roosevelt-style, which arrived moments after my wine did.
Sure, in Canada poutine may be french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy, but in Chef Lee Gregory's hands, it was all about southern style.
The crispy French fries were there, but covered in ham gravy with chunks of ham throughout; pimento cheese adorned the center of the plate.
It may just have been the ultimate bar food: carb-heavy with enough protein to be satisfying and decadent to the point of no return.
Bartender T came up and asked how we liked it.
"Awesome," I enthused. "We can feel our arteries hardening as we eat it."
"Well, they gotta harden sometime, right?" he asked with a wicked grin. Indeed they do.
Despite our best efforts, the two of us could not entirely finish this Southern tribute to the Canuck palate.
But, oh, we tried. Someday there will be a monument to Lee in the Pig Hall of Fame.
Poutine negated any need for further savory courses, so we cut right to dessert. A chocolate Coca-Cola cake with marshmallow filling had been added since my last visit.
But the chocoholic in me resisted when I saw coconut cake on the menu.
I have a sentimental attachment to coconut cake; a guy once became smitten with me when I ordered it rather than chocolate.
My friend went with the buttermilk panna cotta after he heard my glowing description of it.
As we shared the two desserts, we talked about life and choosing your path and the role that happenstance plays in it all.
We agreed that worry and guilt are not productive uses of our time.
He wanted to hear about the directions my life has taken and its changes; I wanted to hear about his upcoming changes and how his resume will reflect his colorful path so far.
Poutine may harden the arteries, but it seems to loosen the tongue. Don't say you weren't warned.
Just don't pass up a chance to try it.
But I never would have discovered it if I hadn't gone to meet a bartender friend at The Roosevelt for dinner.
We agreed on 7:00 in order to ensure we found stools before the madding crowd's arrival.
Good thing, too; twenty minutes after we got there, lines appeared at both doors.
Sliding into a stool, I found myself next to one of my favorite wine reps with my dinner partner to my right and the sun on our backs.
I chose the TJ Virginia Fizz to kick off my evening, much to the delight of the rep, who had actually been part of the grape crush for the Fizz vintage I was drinking.
If he'd done it with his feet, I'd have asked him to take off his socks.
As it was, he told me that Claude Thibaut was the best sparkling winemaker on the East Coast and I merely told him how much I liked the Prosecco-like creaminess of the Virginia bubbles I was drinking.
Since it was my friend's first time at The Roosevelt and I eat everything on the menu, I deferred to him on the food selection.
Like so many before him, he couldn't resist the siren song of the squash fritters.
I may have influenced him a tad to order the steak tartare with egg yolk, but only because I was sure he'd love it as much as I had (he did). The pickled green tomato got a thumbs up from us both.
The people watching is always good at The Roosevelt, like the woman stroking her date's hands in front of her face while he made goo-goo eyes at her.
So is the conversation, like mine with the dapper older man who lives across the street and came in to see if he'd like the place ("Well, I got a nice beer and that's a good start!" he said with a wheeze and a smile).
When my Fizz was gone I moved on to the Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris, soft but with a crisp finish.
It turned out to be the perfect thing to go with poutine, Roosevelt-style, which arrived moments after my wine did.
Sure, in Canada poutine may be french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy, but in Chef Lee Gregory's hands, it was all about southern style.
The crispy French fries were there, but covered in ham gravy with chunks of ham throughout; pimento cheese adorned the center of the plate.
It may just have been the ultimate bar food: carb-heavy with enough protein to be satisfying and decadent to the point of no return.
Bartender T came up and asked how we liked it.
"Awesome," I enthused. "We can feel our arteries hardening as we eat it."
"Well, they gotta harden sometime, right?" he asked with a wicked grin. Indeed they do.
Despite our best efforts, the two of us could not entirely finish this Southern tribute to the Canuck palate.
But, oh, we tried. Someday there will be a monument to Lee in the Pig Hall of Fame.
Poutine negated any need for further savory courses, so we cut right to dessert. A chocolate Coca-Cola cake with marshmallow filling had been added since my last visit.
But the chocoholic in me resisted when I saw coconut cake on the menu.
I have a sentimental attachment to coconut cake; a guy once became smitten with me when I ordered it rather than chocolate.
My friend went with the buttermilk panna cotta after he heard my glowing description of it.
As we shared the two desserts, we talked about life and choosing your path and the role that happenstance plays in it all.
We agreed that worry and guilt are not productive uses of our time.
He wanted to hear about the directions my life has taken and its changes; I wanted to hear about his upcoming changes and how his resume will reflect his colorful path so far.
Poutine may harden the arteries, but it seems to loosen the tongue. Don't say you weren't warned.
Just don't pass up a chance to try it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
