Oh, Friday, Friday, I try my best not to do Restaurant Week but sometimes it just turns out that way.
Because I moved into the city in 1993 - a block and a half from Zeus Gallery Cafe - I never knew a time when the quirky little restaurant wasn't in the neighborhood (like the library and the VMFA) that I wound up staying in for 13 years.
Ending up there tonight wasn't the plan but turned out to be the reality, set to local music on the sound system (big ups for that) and La Vieille Ferme Rose the color of pink diamonds.
Lemon vinaigrette kicked up a peppery arugula and Grana padano salad a notch. Red-wine braised veal short ribs got hearty with tomato jam, butternut squash puree and asparagus. I adjusted the flourless chocolate pate by salting it to perfection.
It's my chocolate and I'll salt if I want to.
Altogether a fine meal made even more impressive by the load on the kitchen as a steady stream of diners arrived all night long. "Each night this week gets crazier," the barkeep claimed. Good news for the Foodbank.
She wasn't too worried about it because the minute restaurant week ends, she and her main squeeze are headed to a cabin the mountains with a spectacular view and a hot tub. Oh, and lots of drinking material, she assured us. "I did used to work at Buddy's," she said by way of explanation.
Once back at my host's house, the musical portion of the evening went through Jackson Brown's best of, why David Crosby matters (with a story tangent about how Roger McGuinn still claims that Stephen Stills stole David Crosby from the Byrds), and bluesy Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac.
Seventies California music, in other words. Great guitar stuff. I even heard an Eagles song I'd never heard and didn't hate. That's how deep the cuts went.
A cache of comic books yielded conversation about the one who'd given up drawing years ago, spirited dancing to Jackson Brown, and from the one with scads of siblings, endless intricate family relation stories.
If I could have, I'd have shot the breeze all night as good as the jawing and soundrack were.
Can't be late for the (morning) sky tomorrow, though.
Showing posts with label zeus gallery cafe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zeus gallery cafe. Show all posts
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Friday, May 2, 2014
Porn and Parks, Snow and Rings
Finish what you start, my mother always said (still does).
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
You Make the Call
Our birthday party group had mixed feelings about it. Was it incredibly strange or charming in an offbeat way?
Suppose you were sitting in a restaurant and along about 10:30ish, maybe 11:00, a guy sitting in one of the front booths pulls out a guitar from under the table and starts playing. As he's sitting in the booth. Plates still on the table. With his female companion across the booth from him. Maybe he even sings softly a little. Weird or wonderful?
The evening started innocuously enough at Pescado's China Street with an overdue happy hour with a girlfriend. We enjoyed the deals on wine and appetizers (shrimp nachos, tomato and fennel mussels), did the usual socializing with one of the owners and tried to cover all the personal ground since our last get-together three weeks ago.
For a change, I even had contributions to make to the "what's new in your personal life?" portion of the conversation. As always, we share everything with each other (okay, almost everything), based on our long-time friendship and understanding of each another's needs. And, probably, general nosiness, too. I'll make you feel better about your life by telling you about mine. Deal.
But also as always, she has a significant other waiting at home for her and the talking ends when she asks what else I'm doing for the evening. Sigh. Not what she has planned, that's for sure.
Kate Duffy's new show at Column B Gallery at Chop Suey was entitled Three-Oh! An Early Onset of Midlife Crisis, surely a title ripe for interpretation and commentary (if 30 is the new midlife, I have a few things to say on the subject). The accessibility and appeal of the drawings was clear by the time I arrived late in the opening; easily three quarters of the pieces had already been sold.
Had I been of a mind to buy a piece (and I wasn't, having just this week hung two new pieces on my walls), my choice had already been earmarked for someone else's collection, so it wouldn't have mattered. But it pleased me to see that she'd done so well already. Even in a recession, it's good to know that people still choose to spend money on local art.
My evening was due to culminate at a birthday dinner for a friend at Zeus and I was the last to arrive. The group was well entrenched at the bar, with one bottle of wine already history, so I dove right in to the second bottle and the conversation.
I've mentioned before how friends who read my blog use it as a starting point to dig for further information when they see me and such was the case tonight. A friend immediately pulled me aside, asking "So who was it you went to the beach with and how do you know them?" That wasn't all he asked, either.
I found out from a friend what it will take before he marries his delightful girlfriend (fortunately, she already knows). We had a discussion about how soon a guy should call after a date (I sided with the male opinion on this one, but then I'm not a phone person).
Like with any group eating endeavor, there was much sharing, so I got to enjoy the braised veal and pasta special, the beef tenderloin meatloaf, the Tasso ham grits, the beef carpaccio and whatever else I was offered, being the equal opportunity eater that I am.
And then there was the guitar guy who began strumming away just before we indulged in cake and ice cream, birthday singing, lit candles and picture-taking. One of our group who was especially unimpressed with the impromptu performance went over and asked the guy's girlfriend what in the world he was doing.
"Oh, he does this at Arby's, too," she explained nonsensically.
"Arby's is a Yugo and this place is a Maserati," my friend retorted, making a poor wine-influenced analogy, but it didn't change anything. Our waitress was as baffled and put off by it as some in our group.
But the birthday girl liked it and said so to the rest of us. And the other booth patrons were drifting out into the night, until it was just us and one other group in the side room and they couldn't hear him.
Eventually guitar guy gave up, packed up and took his show on the road. Or home, more likely.
The romantic in me wants to think that he was going to do a private performance for the adoring girlfriend. And that's great.
It's the PDG (public display of guitar) that seemed somehow inappropriate, especially in such a tiny restaurant. And that's coming from a music lover.
My preference would be to keep it in the case, friend. At least until you're in private.
Or at Arby's.
Suppose you were sitting in a restaurant and along about 10:30ish, maybe 11:00, a guy sitting in one of the front booths pulls out a guitar from under the table and starts playing. As he's sitting in the booth. Plates still on the table. With his female companion across the booth from him. Maybe he even sings softly a little. Weird or wonderful?
The evening started innocuously enough at Pescado's China Street with an overdue happy hour with a girlfriend. We enjoyed the deals on wine and appetizers (shrimp nachos, tomato and fennel mussels), did the usual socializing with one of the owners and tried to cover all the personal ground since our last get-together three weeks ago.
For a change, I even had contributions to make to the "what's new in your personal life?" portion of the conversation. As always, we share everything with each other (okay, almost everything), based on our long-time friendship and understanding of each another's needs. And, probably, general nosiness, too. I'll make you feel better about your life by telling you about mine. Deal.
But also as always, she has a significant other waiting at home for her and the talking ends when she asks what else I'm doing for the evening. Sigh. Not what she has planned, that's for sure.
Kate Duffy's new show at Column B Gallery at Chop Suey was entitled Three-Oh! An Early Onset of Midlife Crisis, surely a title ripe for interpretation and commentary (if 30 is the new midlife, I have a few things to say on the subject). The accessibility and appeal of the drawings was clear by the time I arrived late in the opening; easily three quarters of the pieces had already been sold.
Had I been of a mind to buy a piece (and I wasn't, having just this week hung two new pieces on my walls), my choice had already been earmarked for someone else's collection, so it wouldn't have mattered. But it pleased me to see that she'd done so well already. Even in a recession, it's good to know that people still choose to spend money on local art.
My evening was due to culminate at a birthday dinner for a friend at Zeus and I was the last to arrive. The group was well entrenched at the bar, with one bottle of wine already history, so I dove right in to the second bottle and the conversation.
I've mentioned before how friends who read my blog use it as a starting point to dig for further information when they see me and such was the case tonight. A friend immediately pulled me aside, asking "So who was it you went to the beach with and how do you know them?" That wasn't all he asked, either.
I found out from a friend what it will take before he marries his delightful girlfriend (fortunately, she already knows). We had a discussion about how soon a guy should call after a date (I sided with the male opinion on this one, but then I'm not a phone person).
Like with any group eating endeavor, there was much sharing, so I got to enjoy the braised veal and pasta special, the beef tenderloin meatloaf, the Tasso ham grits, the beef carpaccio and whatever else I was offered, being the equal opportunity eater that I am.
And then there was the guitar guy who began strumming away just before we indulged in cake and ice cream, birthday singing, lit candles and picture-taking. One of our group who was especially unimpressed with the impromptu performance went over and asked the guy's girlfriend what in the world he was doing.
"Oh, he does this at Arby's, too," she explained nonsensically.
"Arby's is a Yugo and this place is a Maserati," my friend retorted, making a poor wine-influenced analogy, but it didn't change anything. Our waitress was as baffled and put off by it as some in our group.
But the birthday girl liked it and said so to the rest of us. And the other booth patrons were drifting out into the night, until it was just us and one other group in the side room and they couldn't hear him.
Eventually guitar guy gave up, packed up and took his show on the road. Or home, more likely.
The romantic in me wants to think that he was going to do a private performance for the adoring girlfriend. And that's great.
It's the PDG (public display of guitar) that seemed somehow inappropriate, especially in such a tiny restaurant. And that's coming from a music lover.
My preference would be to keep it in the case, friend. At least until you're in private.
Or at Arby's.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
An Eight-Hour Evening
In a crowded gallery at Chop Suey, a bunch of us gathered to hear zinesters from the U.K. and Portland (as part of the Zines on Toast Tour) read and talk about their experiences at everything from breaking other's people's ankles at a GWAR shows to riding a Greyhound bus to vegan mass catering.
"First there's the benefit of being faceless. Then there's the fact that the reader only learns what the writer chooses to tell them. I am more than the sum of my writing."
It was really kind of interesting listening to 'zine writer Alex read a piece from one of her 'zines about the presumptions people make when they read her zines.
They're the same presumptions people make when they read your blog, and while I really do try to put myself out there, there's an awful lot of me that I hold back. Stuff I think would convey better in person than through the ether.
As it is, I've had commenters presume things about me that are miles from the truth, proving that I don't always clearly represent who I really am. But that's not in the blogging rules, either.
One German-Korean 'zine writer shared her love of how literal the German language was by reading definitions of words that amused her. Hiccups = swallowing up. Nipples = breast warts. Genitals = shame area. Moustache = upper lip beard. Her 'zine is called MorganMuffel, or "grumpy in the morning." She said, "English needs a word for that, too."
There were tales of trying to attack Tony Blair (epic fail), and a new cyclist's story of trying to fit in with the Lycra crowd and falling off her bike repeatedly. And there were confessions. "I changed my name to Alex Wrekk, but my real name is Sunshine. Yes, my parents were hippies."
Zeus Gallery Cafe was mobbed when the three of us got there around 8:30 and our friend was waiting for us in the little lounge-like room. Stretched out languidly on the low, leather couches, she said, "I love this room. I want to bring a guy here and make out. Can you make me a curtain?"
The doorless opening to the room was apparently the only deterrent to making the small space a den of inequity. Yes, I could make her a curtain.
It took several bottles of wine before we got around to ordering and the fact that no one could keep up with which bottle we were drinking at any given moment became a series of jokes a la "Who's on first?" After a while owner Ted just shook his head and made fun of one among us who was having the hardest time remembering (the only male).
My dinner was Hanover tomato, white bean, water cress and Mozzarella salad in roasted tomato vinaigrette, seared foie gras with toasted brioche and seasonal fruit preps, followed by chocolate lava cake with ice cream.
There was a nearby couple holding hands across the table and staring intently into each other's eyes and having low, meaningful conversation, oblivious to the increasing noise of our four-top. Very romantic and I was very envious.
Ipanema Cafe was celebrating its 12th birthday and owner Kendra had promised that any of her friends who didn't show up would be pantsed, which is a little tough to do to someone like me who only wears skirts and dresses. On the other hand, maybe she'd resort to underpantsing me and I didn't want that to happen, so I attended.
Just kidding. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I knew so many people there, like the abstract noise musician ("Why weren't you at the Eels show?"), the boutique owner in the black buckled dress ("Of course you'd be here!"), WRIR DJs ("Given how oblivious they are, our future is fucked."), comic book store employee ("Aren't we supposed to be secretly dating?"), trombone players plural ("Remember when you asked how my apartment was so neat? That's all Larry."), pizza maker ("I'm still working on my technique."), actor ("You saw that performance?"), the photographer whose work I own ("I could come by and sign that for you.") and people who recognized me from I know not where.
As hot as it was on the patio where I spent my first hour meeting and greeting, it was even hotter inside the restaurant. Ice was melting in glasses within minutes and everyone had a sheen of sweat as we squeezed past each other to the dance floor and the bathroom.
I ran into a musician friend, overdressed for the temperature in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Teasing him about his clothing choice, he said he'd just come from working at his restaurant job, which led to a discussion of it. "Ohhhh, so that's what Mac meant when said he couldn't come in to the restaurant because he'd treated a friend badly. Now I get it." Now we all do.
Music was provided by stellar DJs Sara and Greg as well as DJ Troy for a mix of pop, soul, and r & b, causing sweaty dancers to finally fill the floor around 1 a.m.
Time well spent. Happy anniversary, Ipanema and here's to many more.
"First there's the benefit of being faceless. Then there's the fact that the reader only learns what the writer chooses to tell them. I am more than the sum of my writing."
It was really kind of interesting listening to 'zine writer Alex read a piece from one of her 'zines about the presumptions people make when they read her zines.
They're the same presumptions people make when they read your blog, and while I really do try to put myself out there, there's an awful lot of me that I hold back. Stuff I think would convey better in person than through the ether.
As it is, I've had commenters presume things about me that are miles from the truth, proving that I don't always clearly represent who I really am. But that's not in the blogging rules, either.
One German-Korean 'zine writer shared her love of how literal the German language was by reading definitions of words that amused her. Hiccups = swallowing up. Nipples = breast warts. Genitals = shame area. Moustache = upper lip beard. Her 'zine is called MorganMuffel, or "grumpy in the morning." She said, "English needs a word for that, too."
There were tales of trying to attack Tony Blair (epic fail), and a new cyclist's story of trying to fit in with the Lycra crowd and falling off her bike repeatedly. And there were confessions. "I changed my name to Alex Wrekk, but my real name is Sunshine. Yes, my parents were hippies."
Zeus Gallery Cafe was mobbed when the three of us got there around 8:30 and our friend was waiting for us in the little lounge-like room. Stretched out languidly on the low, leather couches, she said, "I love this room. I want to bring a guy here and make out. Can you make me a curtain?"
The doorless opening to the room was apparently the only deterrent to making the small space a den of inequity. Yes, I could make her a curtain.
It took several bottles of wine before we got around to ordering and the fact that no one could keep up with which bottle we were drinking at any given moment became a series of jokes a la "Who's on first?" After a while owner Ted just shook his head and made fun of one among us who was having the hardest time remembering (the only male).
My dinner was Hanover tomato, white bean, water cress and Mozzarella salad in roasted tomato vinaigrette, seared foie gras with toasted brioche and seasonal fruit preps, followed by chocolate lava cake with ice cream.
There was a nearby couple holding hands across the table and staring intently into each other's eyes and having low, meaningful conversation, oblivious to the increasing noise of our four-top. Very romantic and I was very envious.
Ipanema Cafe was celebrating its 12th birthday and owner Kendra had promised that any of her friends who didn't show up would be pantsed, which is a little tough to do to someone like me who only wears skirts and dresses. On the other hand, maybe she'd resort to underpantsing me and I didn't want that to happen, so I attended.
Just kidding. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I knew so many people there, like the abstract noise musician ("Why weren't you at the Eels show?"), the boutique owner in the black buckled dress ("Of course you'd be here!"), WRIR DJs ("Given how oblivious they are, our future is fucked."), comic book store employee ("Aren't we supposed to be secretly dating?"), trombone players plural ("Remember when you asked how my apartment was so neat? That's all Larry."), pizza maker ("I'm still working on my technique."), actor ("You saw that performance?"), the photographer whose work I own ("I could come by and sign that for you.") and people who recognized me from I know not where.
As hot as it was on the patio where I spent my first hour meeting and greeting, it was even hotter inside the restaurant. Ice was melting in glasses within minutes and everyone had a sheen of sweat as we squeezed past each other to the dance floor and the bathroom.
I ran into a musician friend, overdressed for the temperature in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Teasing him about his clothing choice, he said he'd just come from working at his restaurant job, which led to a discussion of it. "Ohhhh, so that's what Mac meant when said he couldn't come in to the restaurant because he'd treated a friend badly. Now I get it." Now we all do.
Music was provided by stellar DJs Sara and Greg as well as DJ Troy for a mix of pop, soul, and r & b, causing sweaty dancers to finally fill the floor around 1 a.m.
Time well spent. Happy anniversary, Ipanema and here's to many more.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Birthday Brunch at Zeus
Let me state right up front that I require breakfast. I need my fast broken almost as soon as I wake up, although I know that most people feel differently about the first meal of the day. And while I've lived with several men (not concurrently, mind you), not a one of them considered breakfast the necessity that I do. I accept that I'm the odd man out on this one.
But on my birthday, I'm not going to get up and have my usual oatmeal and fruit. Nor did I have to because I have a friend who wanted to take me to brunch at 10:00 this morning (in his defense, when we made the plans, I didn't know the extent of my birthday eve plans or I'd have suggested something closer to noon). So by 10:10 or so, we were ensconced at Zeus Gallery Cafe with nearly every other table already taken (including one with a shrieking child...'nuff said).
We both got the Olympic breakfast, with bacon and scrambled eggs for me and sausage and fried eggs for him. My friend had quizzed our server on the nature of the toast, hoping it would be toasted brioche like what they use in their French toast, but was told it was artisinal bread instead.
Artisinal bread makes for fine toast with an unusually good toast crust, but it also requires copious amounts of butter and jam. After all, one must have a sweet element to balance the saltiness of the potatoes, eggs and breakfast meat, no? The meager amount of butter and jam originally served had to supplemented within our first slices and, truth be told, could have used another replenishment. Birthday or not, what's the point of toast without a thick schmear of butter and jam?
My friend admitted that he'd considered bringing along a birthday candle to insert in my food and decided against it. But it wasn't a birthday candle I needed, it was a big old breakfast, which I got. It may have been a little short on butter and jam, but it went a long way toward mitigating last night's Corazon before tonight's debauchery.
But on my birthday, I'm not going to get up and have my usual oatmeal and fruit. Nor did I have to because I have a friend who wanted to take me to brunch at 10:00 this morning (in his defense, when we made the plans, I didn't know the extent of my birthday eve plans or I'd have suggested something closer to noon). So by 10:10 or so, we were ensconced at Zeus Gallery Cafe with nearly every other table already taken (including one with a shrieking child...'nuff said).
We both got the Olympic breakfast, with bacon and scrambled eggs for me and sausage and fried eggs for him. My friend had quizzed our server on the nature of the toast, hoping it would be toasted brioche like what they use in their French toast, but was told it was artisinal bread instead.
Artisinal bread makes for fine toast with an unusually good toast crust, but it also requires copious amounts of butter and jam. After all, one must have a sweet element to balance the saltiness of the potatoes, eggs and breakfast meat, no? The meager amount of butter and jam originally served had to supplemented within our first slices and, truth be told, could have used another replenishment. Birthday or not, what's the point of toast without a thick schmear of butter and jam?
My friend admitted that he'd considered bringing along a birthday candle to insert in my food and decided against it. But it wasn't a birthday candle I needed, it was a big old breakfast, which I got. It may have been a little short on butter and jam, but it went a long way toward mitigating last night's Corazon before tonight's debauchery.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
His Big Fat Birthday Dinner at Zeus
The problem with having a birthday just before Christmas is how easily it can get lost in the holiday shuffle.
My Capricorn friend avoided any chance of that by throwing himself a birthday dinner tonight at Zeus and inviting fourteen of his favorite people to eat, drink and be merry to celebrate another year above ground.
Four hours and $1000 later, he had succeeded magnificently.
We began with field greens with candied nuts, goat cheese and apples, followed by fried oysters with a spicy remoulade.
Platters of both arrived unbidden and were devoured. I then had the crab cakes, but the tenderloin meat loaf with bacon mashed potatoes was also a big hit with several at my table. The shrimp and grits with Tasso ham got raves.
Everything I tasted was birthday-worthy and the endless bottles of Zeus Rouge certainly enhanced the mood.
Among the random things I learned from various party-goers tonight included the fact that there are always a lot of two-dollar bills at racetracks.
There's such a thing as too many pickles if you have to schlep them home from Florida yourself.
I've been missing the outstanding Tuesday specials at Gertrude's in Baltimore by only having been for Sunday brunch.
Not everyone can eat large quantities of candied, sugared nuts (I can).
As you can see, the evening had both educational and entertainment components if you were paying attention (I was).
Since it was a birthday celebration, nearly everyone got dessert (caramel bread pudding, apple crisp with ice cream, key lime pie and molten chocolate cake).
The birthday boy ordered only a spoon and spent the dessert course rotating seats for tasting purposes.
The waitress brought out a lit birthday candle so we could sing to him, but the candle was in her hand, not in any type of cake or dessert item (pictures were taken to document this and then retaken when the first ones were dark).
As our numbers dwindled, two other couples in the restaurant attached themselves to our group for conversational purposes, undoubtedly tired of having put up with us carrying on for hours.
One couple had long-time local roots, so they and Birthday Boy could reminisce about things that happened here long before I arrived in RVA. Kelly's Burgers? Um, okay.
The other couple was celebrating her birthday, too (and were also treated to the candle-in-hand presentation) in what looked like a most romantic way.
One of our party asked how long they'd been a couple and they said they'd been together for eleven years before marrying four years ago.
When asked how that was going, she prosaically said, "Now it's all about the kids." He looked at her and refuted it entirely. "I'm still completely fascinated by her."
What I wouldn't give...
My Capricorn friend avoided any chance of that by throwing himself a birthday dinner tonight at Zeus and inviting fourteen of his favorite people to eat, drink and be merry to celebrate another year above ground.
Four hours and $1000 later, he had succeeded magnificently.
We began with field greens with candied nuts, goat cheese and apples, followed by fried oysters with a spicy remoulade.
Platters of both arrived unbidden and were devoured. I then had the crab cakes, but the tenderloin meat loaf with bacon mashed potatoes was also a big hit with several at my table. The shrimp and grits with Tasso ham got raves.
Everything I tasted was birthday-worthy and the endless bottles of Zeus Rouge certainly enhanced the mood.
Among the random things I learned from various party-goers tonight included the fact that there are always a lot of two-dollar bills at racetracks.
There's such a thing as too many pickles if you have to schlep them home from Florida yourself.
I've been missing the outstanding Tuesday specials at Gertrude's in Baltimore by only having been for Sunday brunch.
Not everyone can eat large quantities of candied, sugared nuts (I can).
As you can see, the evening had both educational and entertainment components if you were paying attention (I was).
Since it was a birthday celebration, nearly everyone got dessert (caramel bread pudding, apple crisp with ice cream, key lime pie and molten chocolate cake).
The birthday boy ordered only a spoon and spent the dessert course rotating seats for tasting purposes.
The waitress brought out a lit birthday candle so we could sing to him, but the candle was in her hand, not in any type of cake or dessert item (pictures were taken to document this and then retaken when the first ones were dark).
As our numbers dwindled, two other couples in the restaurant attached themselves to our group for conversational purposes, undoubtedly tired of having put up with us carrying on for hours.
One couple had long-time local roots, so they and Birthday Boy could reminisce about things that happened here long before I arrived in RVA. Kelly's Burgers? Um, okay.
The other couple was celebrating her birthday, too (and were also treated to the candle-in-hand presentation) in what looked like a most romantic way.
One of our party asked how long they'd been a couple and they said they'd been together for eleven years before marrying four years ago.
When asked how that was going, she prosaically said, "Now it's all about the kids." He looked at her and refuted it entirely. "I'm still completely fascinated by her."
What I wouldn't give...
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