Stay on the Streets of This Town

So it's Labor Day weekend and the city is all but dead.

Parking spaces abound, businesses are closed and if you're one of the few left in town, good luck finding action.

With that in mind, I invited Holmes and his favorite gal to meet at Lunch for dinner.

No surprise, we were the only ones in the restaurant when we arrived.

A familiar and pretty server greeted us and brought our favorite Wolf Trap blend to ease us into happy hour.

Music was absent, so I asked our server to correct that.

Within seconds, the '70s and '80s arrived, courtesy of Pandora.

You know what I'm talking about: MJ's "Rock with You," Robbie Dupree's"Steal Away,"  Ambrosia's "Baby Come Back," " Ace's "How Long?" and more Hall and Oates than you could shake a stick at.

Songs I've heard too many times and know every word to.

Still, it made for terrific conversation, especially once Holmes and partner arrived and joined us at our window table.

They followed our Wolf Trap lead and everyone perused the menu eagerly.

Having had 80% of the menu, I couldn't help but go with one of the specials, fish tacos.

Three grilled tilapia, pineapple-mango salsa and shredded cabbage tacos were more than I needed to satisfy my hunger.

All around me, my companions, ordered pig: griddle cakes with pork, chicken with pork, a pork sampler.

The music provided lots of discussion, as did the black and white photographs of old Richmond.

Our server was quick to refill wine glasses and profess her love of Hall and Oates.

It was adorable.

The abundance of pig meant that no one at our table had enough room for dessert, so once again, I didn't taste the brownie with bacon.

Someday, my love.

I lost my date to northern Virginia while Holmes and his beloved agreed to meet me at Carytown Bistro for music.

Somehow, I arrived first, scoring a table far too near the wafting odor of sewer gas.

After a move closer to Chilled Mint, we settled in to enjoy music al fresco.

The restaurant was low on inventory, so we settled for a Close Robert chardonnay, the only white wine available.

Holmes advised the owner to change wine reps if that was the case.

When his love saw the bottle, she noted, "It's 13%. Good, we're not f**king around with a vinho verde.. That's a single serving in a bottle."

I found that a succinct and hilarious observation.

I'd seen Chilled Mint before and had much enjoyed their Latin take on jazz.

With a good friend on sax, jazz guitar, a drummer who only occasionally used anything but his hands to make sound and a bass player on an acoustic bass guitar, they created a smooth and eminently danceable sound.

Sadly, I had no one to dance with.

Even so, they delivered standards and originals, like "Delta Casbah," Dizzy Gillespie's "Night in Tunisia," and the standards, "Autumn Leaves" and "Song for My Father," both of which required the drummer to stand.

One song required the drummer to blow his whistle, conveniently located around his neck.

"I thought it was a crucifix," Holmes admitted once he began blowing.

"It's not just bling," his nearby girlfriend laughingly told us.

Scent of sewer gas and limited wine selection aside, we were more than happy to sit back and enjoy bossa novas and sambas in the warm August night.

When we left there, it was to go to Amour Wine Bistro for a nightcap.

What the hell?

It was a block away, we knew their wine selection would not be limited and there was always the opportunity for dessert.

While Holmes had no preference, his lady love and I immediately went for the Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut rose, a lovely pink sparkler that puts the rose in our cheeks.

As we enjoyed the soundtrack of gypsy jazz (mostly Django Reinhardt), the chalkboard listing the evening's sorbets caught our eye.

"They have fig sorbet," Holmes' beloved noted.

Given the all-too-brief fig season, how could we resist?

Both fig sorbet and a lovely plum sorbet arrived at our request and we savored the delicacy of the flavors.

Eventually, the other couple at the bar joined our conversation, unable to resist Holmes' comment, "Olli soprasetta smells like semen."

Seems they'd done a taste comparison between Boar's Head and Olli soprasetta and Olli had been disqualified for its distinctive scent.

It was a tough thing to even respond to.

Instead, we looked at art, namely that of Vicki Foster Miller, which hung on one wall of the dining room.

Recalling late 19th century post-impressionists, I immediately saw one I coveted.

But at $450 (a steal of a deal, no doubt), it was way beyond my budget.

Still, I can admire.

By the time we left,even the fro-yo customers had vacated the overly bright premises and it was just us on Cary Street.

Approaching my car parked in front of Babe's, I saw a line out the door and considered going in.

The bass was booming and several women gave me inviting looks.

Should I or shouldn't I?

Truth is, even on a holiday weekend, the city is only as dead as you want it to be.

A Criminally Fun Food Fight for Girls

It always comes down to music.

Sure, I could talk about the dinner I had at Lunch (where it was standing room only busy), the Wolftrap white blend, the French onion soup, the witty banter with a favorite recluse.

For that matter, I could  ramble on about "Farewell, My Queen," the French movie we saw afterwards, the opulence of the Versailles setting and costumes contrasted with the harsh reality of Marie Antoinette's time (dead rats, bug bites).

Favorite line: "Words are all I have. I wield them well."

But instead, I'll focus on the show.

Foodfight RVA was a stroke of brilliance - have a show of bands comprised only of people who work together at local restaurants and make it a benefit.

Come on, we all know most servers are really working to support their art or music habit, so it made perfect sense.

And the worthy beneficiary was Girls Rock RVA, the non-profit that holds a week-long empowerment camp every summer to teach girls 8-14 how to play an instrument, write a song and perform it.

Presenting the show was Quickness, the local delivery service that will bring food from a number of restaurants directly to your door.

And they were the first band up.

Just the Tip was a straight-ahead punk band, thrashing hard as they played a song called "Ophelia" about "a lady in Church Hill who always orders barbecue from Alamo and wears a turban."

Just another customer immortalized.

Black Sheep's band was Angry Chef and the Lowboys, a trio in chef coats and aprons all on acoustic guitars (and harmonica).

They got points for clever songwriting, singing "We Got the Kitchen Blues," "86 Bacon" (a dire situation if ever there was one) and perhaps the funniest, "Fry, Baby, Fry."

As you might guess, it sounded a lot like the Beatles "Cry, Baby, Cry" except it had lyrics like, "Kevin's in the kitchen cooking food for the people" and the customer lament, "They want switches and everything on the side."

Some of the women who'd led Girls Rock RVA this year performed next, doing the camp's theme song, but only after informing the crowd what Girls Rock was about.

This year's attendance was 44 (double the first year's) and their final performance was at the Hippodrome.

Hearing about their success made me glad I'd made a donation at the door.

Lamplighter's six-piece Funky Crumpets were next and they introduced themselves as, "We're those dudes who take way too long to make your sandwich."

The crowd laughed. "But they taste real good, don't they?" Much cheering and applause followed because they do.

They got off to a slow start but the guitarist locked into a groove and the singer (who'd said beforehand that she had no idea what she was going to sing) let loose and before long the crowd shut up and took note.

Ipanema's band turned out to be only Jonathan who said his missing band mates were "either working or already playing."

With typical Ips ingenuity, he proceeded to play guitar, loop it, get up and go play drums, loop that and return to guitar.

In other words, he filled in for everybody else, getting an A for effort alone.

Sticky Rice's trio Bonsai were energetic and melodic and especially appropriate for the evening's theme, given they had a female guitarist and drummer.

Duo Fat Side Up came from Alamo Barbecue and they played covers, one from Sublime and another from Fiona Apple ("Criminal").

For their last song, the singer announced he had brought ribs to eat as he sang, and he also waved bones over his head as he finished each one.

Returning from the bathroom mid-show, I ran into a favorite guitarist/server who sweatily informed me, "I'm too old for this shit. I used to do these shows and I remember how they smell."

It was more than a tad warm in Strange Matter tonight, but then a good percentage of the restaurant world was in the house.

Favorite t-shirt: "It's a lifestyle, not a fad."

Selba's Pregenators had a front man who was dying to show off his moves.

Dressed in low-slung jeans, an open black vest and medallion, he showed off his best pelvic thrusts while singing to a bass and drums.

The show closed with the Roosevelt's quartet (who got my vote for best band name), A Consensual Evening with Winston Stablock.

With a smoke machine obliterating bartender and drummer T, they pulled off two well-crafted R & B songs (written by Josh, natch) with him and fellow server Brandon singing back up.

And while I'd heard Mark singing along in the kitchen of the Roosevelt before, I had no idea he had it in him to be a rock star.

Favorite lyric: "I couldn't have you, I had to get you."

After a whole lot of applause, Mark closed by saying, "One more time for the smoke machine" and don't you know the crowd gave it up for the machine.

The audience had thinned considerably by the time the judges got up to award prizes.

The rib-eating Fat Side Up took third place (accepting, the singer said, "I'll bring more ribs next year"), Angry Chef and the Lowboys took second (no doubt for their clever lyrics and only acoustic guitars) and Bonsai took first (maybe being two thirds female helped their odds).

Personally, I'd have also given awards to the two people who had never been on stage before and totally won over the audience.

The guitarist for Funky Crumpets and the singer for A Consensual Evening were both playing their first shows ever.

So, like the aspiring musicians of Girls Rock RVA, they'd practiced, screwed up their nerve and taken the stage only to impress strangers and friends alike.

Because, let's face it, if you want to get good at music (or cooking or anything), you gotta make it a lifestyle, not a fad.

That's the only way I got so good at eating and going to shows.

Off the Rack

As a female who doesn't like to shop, I am a bit of a traitor to my sex.

But sometimes a companion needs to go to Diversity Thrift and why would I not at least browse through the dress choices?

It's not like the pants hold any interest for me.

Among a lot of school marm-looking dresses, I found a couple of things worth trying on because you never really know until you see something on your own body.

The first, a black and red print dress had a vaguely European peasant look to it, not my usual style.

On the other hand, I'd look right at home in Italy in it.

The other was more of a dressing gown with a prairie look. Again, not my style.

So now I can look right at home on the prairie, too.

Maybe it was the heat that had me imagining myself in different ways.

Lunch followed at Lunch where, conveniently, it was happy hour.

The Wolf Trap White Blend from South Africa jumped out at us both for its grapes: viognier, chenin blanc and grenache blanc.

It had everything: floral notes, a woody nose and nicely balanced acidity, making it a fine August afternoon indulgence.

While revisiting the '80s via the restaurant's soundtrack, we tried new-to-us sandwiches like the Parker Field and the 10K.

I know from my Richmond-born father that Parker Field disappeared long before I arrived and I did once walk a 10K, so that was enough justification for our choices.

A few other tables joined us in our late afternoon meal, although no one seemed to be enjoying Men at Work and Depeche Mode quite as much as we were.

We opted out of dessert only because I had homemade peach ice cream in the freezer at home.

With my peach allergy, I shouldn't be eating it in the first place, but the richness of peaches and cream is too alluring.

After the amount I dared to eat, I could have one of two problems.

One, my tongue will swell and my mouth will itch in reaction.

Two, my fitted little peasant dress will display a slightly more well-rounded peasant in it.

Sometimes a woman's just got to take those chances.