Feeling a tad nervous tonight, I figured a stop for a bit of food and wine in familiar environs would be a good way to relax into the rest of my evening.
So I went to Six Burner, also the destination for an awful lot of other people tonight. I did get a chance to see Beth Marchant's show of works after Picasso; they were uncanny for their similarities to the originals. We'll call them cover paintings, like cover songs.
When I was asked what my wine preference was, I asked for the Warwick Pinotage, only to be told that it was no longer the featured red.
It was a good time to put on my pouty face because the wine rep who carries it was sitting at the bar. More is on order, I was told.
A zinfandel was suggested, tasted and rejected and I ended up choosing the Concannon Petit Syrah. Not nearly as good a pairing with springbok as the Pinotage would have been, but then I wasn't having springbok tonight.
Enjoying the roasted beet salad with goat cheese and pistachios in balsamic vinaigrette, I considered the sugar toads, but went with the fluke sashimi (with chicharron, ponzu, red plum, horseradish and bacon powder) instead.
The dish demonstrates why I want talented people to cook for me. The fluke and pork rind combination came together on the plate as if they were meant to be partnered, with the ponzu positively sop-worthy. I savored my first bacon powder, wondering how in the world such a thing is conceived of, much less made.
Tonight it was the staff who kept me entertained because there were no other bar sitters. It worked out well because I got to hear about a breakup that resulted in a reunited couple and who doesn't love a happy ending story?
The owner was telling me about some of the Picasso specials various restaurants have come up with and I had to wonder how many blue drinks Richmond will have for the next three months. Just a thought, folks, but it may have been more appetizing to focus on the painter's Rose Period.
I got to hear a long-time service industry employee get on her restaurant soapbox and tell me her interpretation of how things should be in terms of menus, staff and ambiance. She thanked me for listening and I thanked her for sharing her informed opinions; it's how I learn things.
From there it was on to Patrick Henry's to meet a recent acquaintance for some extended conversation. When he'd suggested it, my first thought had been that it would be perfect in that we could be alone in a roomful of people I wouldn't likely know.
Wrong. Ten minutes in and we had one of my music buddies stop by the table to say hi. My new friend's neighbors came in. Forget discretion in this town because there is no privacy when you're out and about.
But that's fine because the visitor returned to his table, the neighbors ignored us and we had the rest of the evening to discuss all kinds of things amongst ourselves.
It went so well that I wondered why I'd ever been nervous about an evening of talking. Or maybe I mistook anticipation for nerves.
Look at me, actually anticipating. That's progress with a capital P.
Showing posts with label warwick pinotage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label warwick pinotage. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Waylaid at the Wait Station
Attractive older Asian man: You have on very nice socks.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Show Me Something Good
Give me buildings, give me dresses, give me food and wine. I am so happy it's January and life as I know and need it has resumed.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
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