You'd think that people who had been naked for a week wouldn't get nervous about much.
Butt tonight's Lobo Marino Homecoming show dispelled that theory.
The Firehouse Theater played host to a show of three Richmond favorites, all with wildly divergent sounds: Allison Self, Homemade Knives and the returning heroes, Lobo Marino.
The house was slow to fill up and the show didn't start on time, but once chanteuse Allison Self opened her mouth to sing, all that was forgotten.
If you haven't heard Allison before, it's a shock when you first hear this twenty-something's voice, because it sounds like a vintage 20s or 30s record, maybe something from Lucille Bogan's era.
Although she did a couple of original songs, Allison leans toward covering classic Americana and did so tonight with excellent choices by Loretta Lynn, Gillian Welch and the Memphis Jug Band while accompanying herself on ukulele.
During the break, I was talking with friends about the next band, Homemade Knives. A story was told about a friend who brought tissues to their show because, she said, "Their songs make me weepy."
There is something heart-breaking and sad about HK's lyrics as well as Will Loyal's earnest and low-key vocals, especially with Anousheh and Jonathan's beautiful harmonies behind him.
Will commented that he took up the guitar late and didn't seem to be getting any better at it.
"Are we in tune?" he asked Jonathan, who answered affirmatively.
"He's the one who knows," Will acknowledged.
Late in the set while Jonathan was playing guitar and harmonica, his holder suddenly slipped.
Without missing a beat, he caught it and returned it to the upright position in time to play the next note.
Afterwards he asked rhetorically, "How was that for a harmonica save?" Pretty damn impressive, actually.
Favorite lyric: "I will hold you like sugar on my tongue."
Both Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino had mentioned during the break how nervous they were, which seemed odd considering how many times I've seen them play out and how many friends they had in the audience.
Taking the stage, Laney noticed a lot of new faces in the crowd and introduced themselves, saying they were just back from tour.
"We've played all over the country. I've never been as nervous as tonight," she laughed. Playing in front of strangers carries no stress compared to playing for friends apparently.
In between playing songs like "Pope's Nose" and "Animal Hands," they told stories of their travels.
Describing the creepiest place they'd slept brought on stories of a bar in Florida near the lake where the alligators were relocated when Disney Land was built.
Adorned with decapitated baby dolls and zombies on the ceiling, a woman in the bar told them that the place used to have a spirit living there, but that she'd cleared it out. Laney said she'd slept just fine.
She also acknowledged LM's third member, multi-instrumentalist Nathaniel (banjo, drum, trumpet, to name just three) who had joined them for part of the tour before returning to Virginia.
Addressing her remarks to Nathaniel's girlfriend, she said, "Thank you for loaning us Nathanael. He missed you so much. It was pathetic."
Who doesn't want to hear that they were missed? Certainly not me.
For us long-time LM fans, it was a thrill to be treated to a new song written while the band was in California with no clothes on.
For a week they were staying at a clothing-optional commune, which had nothing to do with optional, as Jameson explained. "That means no clothes."
There among the giant redwoods and the nudity, a new song was written. Tonight was its debut.
"That proves we were productive on tour," Jameson said afterwards about the beautiful song.
The next time I'm struggling with low productivity, I think I'll strip down and see what it does for my creative juices.
Let's just say I've been inspired by the Homecoming King and Queen of Lobo Marino.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Maryland Stamp of Approval
I've concluded that if I take a guy to M Bistro, he will order the lamb burger.
It's happened twice now, so I'm beginning to see a pattern. Apparently the combination of BBQ bacon and lamb on a bun is irresistible to men.
It's fine with me because they always give me a bite, which given the number of truffle fries I ate off of my friend's plate today, was plenty.
My own lunch was the crabcake on heirloom tomatoes with mixed greens, fennel, a green olive relish and a grilled tomato vinaigrette.
Crabcakes are Chef Michael Hall's signature dish and I was curious if it would measure up to my raised-in-Maryland standards.
Did it ever! Lump crabmeat lightly bound with no filler was sauteed just enough to form the golden brown crust that frames the lumps.
I have no tolerance for deep-fried crabcakes, breaded crabcakes or any other adulteration of the crab meat beyond seasonings. This one would fly in Maryland, a fact I shared with the Chef.
Although the dining room wasn't as mobbed as the first time I'd been in, there were still familiar faces (Daphne Maxwell Reid) and local restaurant people, no doubt curious about the buzz.
The ABC license has finally arrived and the bistro will open for dinner tomorrow night, so I'm curious to have a meal in the space during the evening.
I think it has great potential to be an appealing nighttime spot, but I want to see what the room looks like after dark.
I especially want to see what the giant "M" bat symbol on the side of the building looks like at night.
For dessert, we inadvertently chose the one thing not made in-house, the raspberry sorbet, a refreshing option on a hot afternoon at Rockett's Landing, where concrete seems to be everywhere and shade trees are still in short supply.
But not lamb burger lovers. They too seem to be everywhere down there.
It's happened twice now, so I'm beginning to see a pattern. Apparently the combination of BBQ bacon and lamb on a bun is irresistible to men.
It's fine with me because they always give me a bite, which given the number of truffle fries I ate off of my friend's plate today, was plenty.
My own lunch was the crabcake on heirloom tomatoes with mixed greens, fennel, a green olive relish and a grilled tomato vinaigrette.
Crabcakes are Chef Michael Hall's signature dish and I was curious if it would measure up to my raised-in-Maryland standards.
Did it ever! Lump crabmeat lightly bound with no filler was sauteed just enough to form the golden brown crust that frames the lumps.
I have no tolerance for deep-fried crabcakes, breaded crabcakes or any other adulteration of the crab meat beyond seasonings. This one would fly in Maryland, a fact I shared with the Chef.
Although the dining room wasn't as mobbed as the first time I'd been in, there were still familiar faces (Daphne Maxwell Reid) and local restaurant people, no doubt curious about the buzz.
The ABC license has finally arrived and the bistro will open for dinner tomorrow night, so I'm curious to have a meal in the space during the evening.
I think it has great potential to be an appealing nighttime spot, but I want to see what the room looks like after dark.
I especially want to see what the giant "M" bat symbol on the side of the building looks like at night.
For dessert, we inadvertently chose the one thing not made in-house, the raspberry sorbet, a refreshing option on a hot afternoon at Rockett's Landing, where concrete seems to be everywhere and shade trees are still in short supply.
But not lamb burger lovers. They too seem to be everywhere down there.
How Often, Indeed?
How often do you do something crafty at happy hour?
Almost never, but today was different. I went to the Anderson Gallery's happy hour to meet a friend (and ran into several others) for the final event of the series.
Artist Hope Ginsburg was conducting a felting workshop, known as "Felt-Making for Nomads" and promising the acquisition of a new skill set to craft bowls, socks or a weatherproof house for life on the steppes.
With plenty of bowls, socks and no desire to live on the steppes, all I made was a blue felt ball, but that's all anyone made. Some balls were just bigger or more colorful than others.
The group was comprised of 95% females and the rest confident males. During the extended period where all you do is roll your ball from hand to hand, conversation started flowing.
That's when I realized that felt ball making was the perfect activity to accompany group therapy. As we stood around, talk flowed from all of us on any number of unrelated topics.
How often do you have group therapy at happy hour?
With finished balls in hand, my friend and I walked across the street to Cous Cous for a bite afterwards. The wine choices left a lot to be desired (Siema Pinot Grigio) but the drafts were cheap.
Life is a series of compromises.
We munched on a lamb wrap thick with meat, lettuce, tomato and enough sauce for ten wraps and the curry platas, fries with that divine curry sauce. Felt-making works up an appetite, it would seem.
My friend was telling me about the motorcycle class she took over the weekend but I'd done nothing nearly as ambitious as all that since she'd last seen me.
Does being invited to go skinny dipping count?
When she left to go home and work on a drawing project, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for another in their Modern Monthly Movies series.
This time it was "Journeyman Architect: The Life and Work of Donald Wexler." The architect who sat next to me asked if I knew who Wexler was, but I didn't.
I explained to him that I was there to learn about a desert architect I hadn't even known existed. He nodded approvingly.
As I was to discover, Wexler was a major force in the mid-century Palm Springs architecture scene, both private and public.
His motto of "Stay small and keep busy" was as sensible as his "Architecture is fine art but also a business."
This from an architect who couldn't ever remember a design of his being turned down by a client.
That could be construed as proof that he was a people-pleaser or that he was the right man in the right place. I came away inclined toward the second.
The houses and buildings he designed were notable for their steel construction, canopies, and ability to bring the outdoors in.
Looking at some of his designs for the Palm Springs Airport and singer Dinah Shore's house show an architect with a commanding grasp of desert design.
Placing an airport inside a ring of mountains makes for superb views and dramatic landings. Architectural score.
And I liked his spirit. "In the 50s, 60s and 70s," he said, "There was no fear in architecture." That has to be the last time that was the case.
My final plans were to meet a friend at Amour Wine Bistro to catch up after nearly eight months.
The evening got off to a fine start with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.
The Alsatian owner teasingly suggested that I should like a wine from his homeland and he was right. He need not have worried; it had a lovely creaminess and a lingering finish that I loved.
My friend and I had tons to talk about. At our last meeting, I'd learned she had a new boyfriend (a restaurant-owner, no less) but no more details.
Tonight I got to hear the very romantic story of their first meeting. I was not surprised that bubbles were involved.
We allowed ourselves to be talked into a peach tart and kiwi sorbet, two lovely desserts we did not need, but ate anyway.
To accompany such fine desserts, I had Chateau de le Roulerie Coteaux de Layon, a perfect pairing made all the better for not being overly sweet or highly alcoholic.
Sipping bubbly afterwards, we talked about some of the new restaurants on our radar and she admitted how great it was to have a boyfriend who cooks so well.
She considers herself spoiled, but I'd say lucky is more like it.
And all she had to do was sit there with friends until he noticed her and fell for her.
That doesn't sound too difficult.
How often do you sit at a bar and end up with a boyfriend?
Almost never, but today was different. I went to the Anderson Gallery's happy hour to meet a friend (and ran into several others) for the final event of the series.
Artist Hope Ginsburg was conducting a felting workshop, known as "Felt-Making for Nomads" and promising the acquisition of a new skill set to craft bowls, socks or a weatherproof house for life on the steppes.
With plenty of bowls, socks and no desire to live on the steppes, all I made was a blue felt ball, but that's all anyone made. Some balls were just bigger or more colorful than others.
The group was comprised of 95% females and the rest confident males. During the extended period where all you do is roll your ball from hand to hand, conversation started flowing.
That's when I realized that felt ball making was the perfect activity to accompany group therapy. As we stood around, talk flowed from all of us on any number of unrelated topics.
How often do you have group therapy at happy hour?
With finished balls in hand, my friend and I walked across the street to Cous Cous for a bite afterwards. The wine choices left a lot to be desired (Siema Pinot Grigio) but the drafts were cheap.
Life is a series of compromises.
We munched on a lamb wrap thick with meat, lettuce, tomato and enough sauce for ten wraps and the curry platas, fries with that divine curry sauce. Felt-making works up an appetite, it would seem.
My friend was telling me about the motorcycle class she took over the weekend but I'd done nothing nearly as ambitious as all that since she'd last seen me.
Does being invited to go skinny dipping count?
When she left to go home and work on a drawing project, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for another in their Modern Monthly Movies series.
This time it was "Journeyman Architect: The Life and Work of Donald Wexler." The architect who sat next to me asked if I knew who Wexler was, but I didn't.
I explained to him that I was there to learn about a desert architect I hadn't even known existed. He nodded approvingly.
As I was to discover, Wexler was a major force in the mid-century Palm Springs architecture scene, both private and public.
His motto of "Stay small and keep busy" was as sensible as his "Architecture is fine art but also a business."
This from an architect who couldn't ever remember a design of his being turned down by a client.
That could be construed as proof that he was a people-pleaser or that he was the right man in the right place. I came away inclined toward the second.
The houses and buildings he designed were notable for their steel construction, canopies, and ability to bring the outdoors in.
Looking at some of his designs for the Palm Springs Airport and singer Dinah Shore's house show an architect with a commanding grasp of desert design.
Placing an airport inside a ring of mountains makes for superb views and dramatic landings. Architectural score.
And I liked his spirit. "In the 50s, 60s and 70s," he said, "There was no fear in architecture." That has to be the last time that was the case.
My final plans were to meet a friend at Amour Wine Bistro to catch up after nearly eight months.
The evening got off to a fine start with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.
The Alsatian owner teasingly suggested that I should like a wine from his homeland and he was right. He need not have worried; it had a lovely creaminess and a lingering finish that I loved.
My friend and I had tons to talk about. At our last meeting, I'd learned she had a new boyfriend (a restaurant-owner, no less) but no more details.
Tonight I got to hear the very romantic story of their first meeting. I was not surprised that bubbles were involved.
We allowed ourselves to be talked into a peach tart and kiwi sorbet, two lovely desserts we did not need, but ate anyway.
To accompany such fine desserts, I had Chateau de le Roulerie Coteaux de Layon, a perfect pairing made all the better for not being overly sweet or highly alcoholic.
Sipping bubbly afterwards, we talked about some of the new restaurants on our radar and she admitted how great it was to have a boyfriend who cooks so well.
She considers herself spoiled, but I'd say lucky is more like it.
And all she had to do was sit there with friends until he noticed her and fell for her.
That doesn't sound too difficult.
How often do you sit at a bar and end up with a boyfriend?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Laid Off Lunch #5
What goes around comes around.
When I got laid off in December 2008, my friends met me for lunch and listened to my tales of adjustment and confusion at the unexpected twist my life had taken.
And one by one as they've been laid off, we've had lunch so that they can tell me their tales of adjustment and confusion.
For today's lay-off lunch, I suggested Ettamae's Cafe, a favorite of mine in the neighborhood and a place my newly unemployed friend had never been.
Walking in, I was greeted as the "Duchess of Jackson Ward" by the "Jester of Jackson Ward." Chef Matt, who was a tad busy working over a hot stove, merely called me Karen.
My friend arrived, having awakened a short half hour earlier; he's already learning one of the pleasures of unemployment.
We settled in upstairs and ordered lunch while catching up.
He'd recently been to Philly for the first time, so we discussed our consensus about Philly locals and the abundance of great live music any night of the week.
And don't even get me started reminiscing about Naked Chocolate Cafe...
Back in J-Ward, I got one of today's specials, a cold sesame noodle salad with arugula and cilantro; he got the enormous salmon cake sandwich on my recommendation.
If my Richmond grandmother had been at the table with us, she'd have been appalled at our manners.
We had so much to talk about while the well-oiled noodles were slipping out of my mouth unintentionally and his thick sandwich was challenging his ability to get his movie star smile around it.
It wasn't pretty, perhaps, but very satisfying.
He's still at the early-onset stage where he can't find enough to do to fill his days. He's also unsure how to feel about himself since he, like most guys, defined himself by his work.
And while I had had neither of those issues, one thing we did agree on was that extroverts like us need people by the end of the day. I now have work, but it's solitary work for the most part.
Like me, he's found that more frequent evenings out are doable when no night is a school night.
Sounds like he's already learned two of the benefits of unemployment.
When I got laid off in December 2008, my friends met me for lunch and listened to my tales of adjustment and confusion at the unexpected twist my life had taken.
And one by one as they've been laid off, we've had lunch so that they can tell me their tales of adjustment and confusion.
For today's lay-off lunch, I suggested Ettamae's Cafe, a favorite of mine in the neighborhood and a place my newly unemployed friend had never been.
Walking in, I was greeted as the "Duchess of Jackson Ward" by the "Jester of Jackson Ward." Chef Matt, who was a tad busy working over a hot stove, merely called me Karen.
My friend arrived, having awakened a short half hour earlier; he's already learning one of the pleasures of unemployment.
We settled in upstairs and ordered lunch while catching up.
He'd recently been to Philly for the first time, so we discussed our consensus about Philly locals and the abundance of great live music any night of the week.
And don't even get me started reminiscing about Naked Chocolate Cafe...
Back in J-Ward, I got one of today's specials, a cold sesame noodle salad with arugula and cilantro; he got the enormous salmon cake sandwich on my recommendation.
If my Richmond grandmother had been at the table with us, she'd have been appalled at our manners.
We had so much to talk about while the well-oiled noodles were slipping out of my mouth unintentionally and his thick sandwich was challenging his ability to get his movie star smile around it.
It wasn't pretty, perhaps, but very satisfying.
He's still at the early-onset stage where he can't find enough to do to fill his days. He's also unsure how to feel about himself since he, like most guys, defined himself by his work.
And while I had had neither of those issues, one thing we did agree on was that extroverts like us need people by the end of the day. I now have work, but it's solitary work for the most part.
Like me, he's found that more frequent evenings out are doable when no night is a school night.
Sounds like he's already learned two of the benefits of unemployment.
A New Deal for Richmond
Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort ~Franklin D. Roosevelt
The Roosevelt, Church Hill's new restaurant, opened with a nearly full house despite no ABC license. Even so, neighbors and friends kept the tables turning over all night.
When I arrived, there were two men working on the side of the building, repainting the old advertisement that had been painted there decades ago. I complimented their work. "Wait till you see how good it looks when it's done!" one guy said as I walked underneath his cherry-picker to go inside. I intended to.
Because of all the glass on the corner building, diners get to enjoy an ever-changing light level, from early evening sun right through softly-lit nighttime glow. I was meeting Southside friends where I was greeted by a familiar face behind the bar who served me a Sprecher root beer to whet my whistle.
Evidence of the achievements and the creative effort of The Roosevelt are myriad. The former Que Pasa has been transformed from a garish orange and yellow shell into an enticing New Orleans dining room, a well-dressed lady hinting at pleasure.
Kendra Feather does it yet again.
Pale blue hand-stenciled walls set off an enormous old map of Richmond, vintage black and white photographs and WWII posters ("Eat More of These!"). A hundred details express the creative effort that went into this place. A wooden box turned on its side and hung on the wall houses small plants.
A black beaded chandelier hangs over the bar and an ornate black-framed mirror is over the fireplace. Ferns frame the front door. New Orleans-style jazz plays on the sound system.
Toto, I don't think we're in Richmond anymore.
The creativity extends to Chef Lee Gregory's menu, which was everything I expected out of a culinary whiz who's been on my short list for years. How could I not be devoted to the man who, unbidden, introduced me to my first crispy fried pig's head?
Everyone's already talking about his Double Downer, a double burger made with Sausage Craft custom patties, cheddar and bacon jam. I know I'm a lucky person because not one but two people offered me bites of their burgers. One told me it was the best burger in Richmond. Believe him.
But with a chef like Lee, you get the satisfaction of a burger but you also get potted pork (rillette-like) on crostini with onion jam. You get smoked bluefish salad with radish, cucumber, egg and the tenderest butter lettuce in a buttermilk dressing. The smoked fish melts in my mouth like buttah
Pimento cheese is served with house-made potato chips. Sliced candy striped beets are roasted and served in an orange juice and ginger sauce that has everyone raving. Mussels, roasted with vermouth and garlic, are served with grilled bread. Gnocchi, mac and cheese style, melts in everyone's mouth and causes rapture for its delicate flavor and decadent texture.
And that's just what I ate. Still to come for me are the Frogmore stew, Kentucky fried quail and the roasted pork belly with red eye gravy.
By about 8:00, the place was in full swing, tables busy, servers hopping and music lost in the crowd conversation. "You'd never know it was opening night," my friend observed. True that.
The staff was on point, food was coming out steadily from the kitchen and every dish except the mussels elicited the same response.
"This isn't like any other dish in Richmond," was how my friend put it repeatedly. "Lee Gregory," was how I responded each time he did.
All three of us got dessert. The winner for most Southern was the peanut butter pie, which had much more of a peanut taste rather than peanut butter. Very real tasting. For best use of a seasonal ingredient, my roasted peaches with caramel ice cream scored high points. Even with my peach allergy, I finished every bite of the classic peaches and cream pairing.
And (drum roll) for most charming and creative presentation, the award definitely went to the buttermilk panna cotta, which is made in a small Mason jar. It arrives with the lid on; once that's opened, a layer of local blueberries sit atop the panna cotta, which has a delicious tang from the acidity of the buttermilk.
Once the crowd began to clear out, the music became more integral to the vibe and the room took on a more relaxed feeling. Had alcohol been available, I feel sure the bar would have been mobbed. Who wouldn't be curious to check out the all-Virginia wine list knowing it's the first in Central Virginia?
As it was, a couple of single neighbors stopped by only to find the kitchen closed (well, it was almost 11:00) and no alcohol being served. Both enthusiastically promised to be back. Frankly, I'd be surprised if anyone in the room chose not to come back for five-dollar desserts and entrees that top out at $17 (and there's only one of those).
The Roosevelt appears to already have a handle on where happiness lies.
At least the kind you can find in a neighborhood restaurant.
The Roosevelt, Church Hill's new restaurant, opened with a nearly full house despite no ABC license. Even so, neighbors and friends kept the tables turning over all night.
When I arrived, there were two men working on the side of the building, repainting the old advertisement that had been painted there decades ago. I complimented their work. "Wait till you see how good it looks when it's done!" one guy said as I walked underneath his cherry-picker to go inside. I intended to.
Because of all the glass on the corner building, diners get to enjoy an ever-changing light level, from early evening sun right through softly-lit nighttime glow. I was meeting Southside friends where I was greeted by a familiar face behind the bar who served me a Sprecher root beer to whet my whistle.
Evidence of the achievements and the creative effort of The Roosevelt are myriad. The former Que Pasa has been transformed from a garish orange and yellow shell into an enticing New Orleans dining room, a well-dressed lady hinting at pleasure.
Kendra Feather does it yet again.
Pale blue hand-stenciled walls set off an enormous old map of Richmond, vintage black and white photographs and WWII posters ("Eat More of These!"). A hundred details express the creative effort that went into this place. A wooden box turned on its side and hung on the wall houses small plants.
A black beaded chandelier hangs over the bar and an ornate black-framed mirror is over the fireplace. Ferns frame the front door. New Orleans-style jazz plays on the sound system.
Toto, I don't think we're in Richmond anymore.
The creativity extends to Chef Lee Gregory's menu, which was everything I expected out of a culinary whiz who's been on my short list for years. How could I not be devoted to the man who, unbidden, introduced me to my first crispy fried pig's head?
Everyone's already talking about his Double Downer, a double burger made with Sausage Craft custom patties, cheddar and bacon jam. I know I'm a lucky person because not one but two people offered me bites of their burgers. One told me it was the best burger in Richmond. Believe him.
But with a chef like Lee, you get the satisfaction of a burger but you also get potted pork (rillette-like) on crostini with onion jam. You get smoked bluefish salad with radish, cucumber, egg and the tenderest butter lettuce in a buttermilk dressing. The smoked fish melts in my mouth like buttah
Pimento cheese is served with house-made potato chips. Sliced candy striped beets are roasted and served in an orange juice and ginger sauce that has everyone raving. Mussels, roasted with vermouth and garlic, are served with grilled bread. Gnocchi, mac and cheese style, melts in everyone's mouth and causes rapture for its delicate flavor and decadent texture.
And that's just what I ate. Still to come for me are the Frogmore stew, Kentucky fried quail and the roasted pork belly with red eye gravy.
By about 8:00, the place was in full swing, tables busy, servers hopping and music lost in the crowd conversation. "You'd never know it was opening night," my friend observed. True that.
The staff was on point, food was coming out steadily from the kitchen and every dish except the mussels elicited the same response.
"This isn't like any other dish in Richmond," was how my friend put it repeatedly. "Lee Gregory," was how I responded each time he did.
All three of us got dessert. The winner for most Southern was the peanut butter pie, which had much more of a peanut taste rather than peanut butter. Very real tasting. For best use of a seasonal ingredient, my roasted peaches with caramel ice cream scored high points. Even with my peach allergy, I finished every bite of the classic peaches and cream pairing.
And (drum roll) for most charming and creative presentation, the award definitely went to the buttermilk panna cotta, which is made in a small Mason jar. It arrives with the lid on; once that's opened, a layer of local blueberries sit atop the panna cotta, which has a delicious tang from the acidity of the buttermilk.
Once the crowd began to clear out, the music became more integral to the vibe and the room took on a more relaxed feeling. Had alcohol been available, I feel sure the bar would have been mobbed. Who wouldn't be curious to check out the all-Virginia wine list knowing it's the first in Central Virginia?
As it was, a couple of single neighbors stopped by only to find the kitchen closed (well, it was almost 11:00) and no alcohol being served. Both enthusiastically promised to be back. Frankly, I'd be surprised if anyone in the room chose not to come back for five-dollar desserts and entrees that top out at $17 (and there's only one of those).
The Roosevelt appears to already have a handle on where happiness lies.
At least the kind you can find in a neighborhood restaurant.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Proper French Lunch
When lunching with a French friend, a French restaurant is required. We chose Amour Wine Bistro.
There were already people seated when we arrived, so we took a back table near the bar. Tucked away in the back, we felt away from the sun and hustle and bustle of Cary Street.
Lunch got off to a fine start with a bottle of Mas de Cadenet Rouge, a lovely complex French Rose chosen by my friend. All I had to do was drink.
He informed me that few French drink white wine, preferring to go pink throughout the warm weather and red all winter long. I would fit in nicely based on that.
There was a picture-perfect watermelon sitting on the shelf between the dining room and the bar.
A bowl of big, beautiful Hanover tomatoes adorned the bar. The weekly soup is a chilled blueberry with a sour cream swirl; the berries come from the blueberry farm off Genito Road where I've picked berries myself.
Bread arrived with a dish of chopped Hanover tomatoes, roasted garlic and bacon.
It would have been fresh and lovely in vegetarian form, but, as we all know, bacon makes everything better.
Lunch was tartlette flambee, simple and satisfying, followed by a cheese and charcuterie plate.
The beautifully arranged tray had fresh blueberries and grapes, all kinds of dried fruits, mustards, cornichons and bread to complement the Morbier and Comte cheeses and the Olli prosciutto, Saucisson sec and rosette de Lyon.
Enjoying the soft meats, my friend told me about his father's daily habit of eating great hunks of the rich and creamy Morbiere, a cheese he said they always had on hand growing up.
In fact, he said, they'd always have a wheel or two of cheese in the house. Sadly, I grew up in a house where the biggest hunk of cheese would have been Velveeta.
It was really a perfect lunch, leisurely and satisfying with wine, bread, meat and cheese the stars.
It led to a discussion of the French tradition of vacationing for the entire month of August, a most civilized habit I could happily embrace despite a childhood tarnished by Velveeta.
Such a meal cried out for a final course, so we chose the chocolate, caramel and sea salt creme brulee, as it turned out, an outstanding choice.
The darkness of the chocolate set off by the large crystals of fleur de sel with a caramel sauce on top impressed us both.
To make a stellar experience even better, we enjoyed two dessert wines, the Rivesaltes Domaine Cazes Ambre, both the 2006 and 1996 vintages.
The 2006 added a lovely note to the creme brulee, but the 1996 took the dessert to a whole new level with its dark color, nutty taste and long toffee finish.
As if that weren't enough, my friend ordered an espresso. "Single or double shot?" he was asked rhetorically.
Please, he's French. Single shots are for small children and the sickly.
We enjoyed freshly made madeleines while he drank his caffeine and I finished my wine.
If the staff at Amour had offered me anything else to eat or drink at that point, I would have declined. Nirvana had been achieved.
The French certainly know how to enjoy a mid-day meal.
There were already people seated when we arrived, so we took a back table near the bar. Tucked away in the back, we felt away from the sun and hustle and bustle of Cary Street.
Lunch got off to a fine start with a bottle of Mas de Cadenet Rouge, a lovely complex French Rose chosen by my friend. All I had to do was drink.
He informed me that few French drink white wine, preferring to go pink throughout the warm weather and red all winter long. I would fit in nicely based on that.
There was a picture-perfect watermelon sitting on the shelf between the dining room and the bar.
A bowl of big, beautiful Hanover tomatoes adorned the bar. The weekly soup is a chilled blueberry with a sour cream swirl; the berries come from the blueberry farm off Genito Road where I've picked berries myself.
Bread arrived with a dish of chopped Hanover tomatoes, roasted garlic and bacon.
It would have been fresh and lovely in vegetarian form, but, as we all know, bacon makes everything better.
Lunch was tartlette flambee, simple and satisfying, followed by a cheese and charcuterie plate.
The beautifully arranged tray had fresh blueberries and grapes, all kinds of dried fruits, mustards, cornichons and bread to complement the Morbier and Comte cheeses and the Olli prosciutto, Saucisson sec and rosette de Lyon.
Enjoying the soft meats, my friend told me about his father's daily habit of eating great hunks of the rich and creamy Morbiere, a cheese he said they always had on hand growing up.
In fact, he said, they'd always have a wheel or two of cheese in the house. Sadly, I grew up in a house where the biggest hunk of cheese would have been Velveeta.
It was really a perfect lunch, leisurely and satisfying with wine, bread, meat and cheese the stars.
It led to a discussion of the French tradition of vacationing for the entire month of August, a most civilized habit I could happily embrace despite a childhood tarnished by Velveeta.
Such a meal cried out for a final course, so we chose the chocolate, caramel and sea salt creme brulee, as it turned out, an outstanding choice.
The darkness of the chocolate set off by the large crystals of fleur de sel with a caramel sauce on top impressed us both.
To make a stellar experience even better, we enjoyed two dessert wines, the Rivesaltes Domaine Cazes Ambre, both the 2006 and 1996 vintages.
The 2006 added a lovely note to the creme brulee, but the 1996 took the dessert to a whole new level with its dark color, nutty taste and long toffee finish.
As if that weren't enough, my friend ordered an espresso. "Single or double shot?" he was asked rhetorically.
Please, he's French. Single shots are for small children and the sickly.
We enjoyed freshly made madeleines while he drank his caffeine and I finished my wine.
If the staff at Amour had offered me anything else to eat or drink at that point, I would have declined. Nirvana had been achieved.
The French certainly know how to enjoy a mid-day meal.
Girl Groups and Gazpacho
I got my music fix early and I got it nearby.
Steady Sounds was hosting a show with locals White Laces and Bake Sale from Memphis. How could I resist a free show three blocks from home?
Waiting for the show to begin, I flipped through albums, looking to see what was over-represented. My conclusion: bad 80s one-hit wonders and Dan Fogelberg.
I'd have thought that since his untimely death a few years ago that he would have been rediscovered by now. Apparently not.
I did, however, happen on a vintage copy of Elvis's first Christmas album ("I'll have a blue, blue,blue Christmas without you..."), eliciting a smile for an album I'd heard of, but never actually laid eyes on.
I was looking forward to seeing White Laces again since the last time had been at the Courtyard on a First Friday. Loud is an inadequate description of that show, and I know from loud.
The screaming guitar and pounding drum reverberated off those hard brick walls, essentially preventing the crowd from appreciating White Laces' sound.
Tonight, as they explained, it was just the two of them (guitar and bass), so that they purposely wouldn't be too loud for the space.
A performance that I could actually hear yielded an opinion I'd anticipated; I like White Laces' shoegaze sound. Especially like tonight when I could actually appreciate the bass line, hear the vocals.
Lead singer Landis acknowledged, "We're trying to make all our songs sound as much like Galaxie 500 songs as we can." Well done, guys.
Their set was too short, but helped me realize that I need to get out and see them play again.
Up next was Bake Sale from Memphis, a four-piece girl group who were all about some garage rock.
Let's just say that my friend Paul would have approved and he is tough to please. Prickly, even.
They meshed girl group vocals (with two or three at a time sharing vocals) with screaming guitars and pounding drums. THey were hard and fast and cute. That's not sexism, that's fact.
At one point the guitarist with the pale green guitar (as opposed to the yellow guitar) handed off her guitar to the drummer and they switched places.
Every guy in the room had their laser beams set to the female quartet rocking our faces off.
It's highly irregular to have such a high level of musical satisfaction before 9:00, but the circumstances were unusual. Thanks, Steady Sounds.
Happy with the first few hours of my evening, I was off to the near West End to meet a friend for drinks at the Blue Goat.
She is one of the countless Westhampton neighbors who is positively thrilled with their new hot spot.
As it turned out, a Monday night at 9:15 was light years from last Wednesday's 6:30 visit.
The bar was mostly full but not every single table was occupied. It was a great opportunity to relax and enjoy the ambiance.
The rose had already exited the menu, so I moved over to the tequila selection, flummoxing my bartender by choosing the Hornitos.
Best of all, I could easily hear the music tonight and it could have been programmed for me.
I heard a couple of favorite Pete Yorn songs, another couple of Everything But the Girl favorites and a terrific Latin-infused cover of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
Let's just say I was so impressed that I asked for the music's source. Turns out that it was the owner's mix. Tres impressive.
My friend ordered the white gazpacho, a lovely melange of cucumbers and white grapes with a definite heat behind it. She thought it was superb and I agreed. The contrast of heat and cool was addictive.
We drank and talked until the bar was long-closed (officially it's 10 during the week), but didn't feel too bad since a few other people lingered as well. The weekend end time is "until...."
As one of the servers noted, "Once the Continental Lounge opens, this'll be a regular destination bar block."
I think my friend echoed the neighbourhood sentiment.
"About damn time."
Steady Sounds was hosting a show with locals White Laces and Bake Sale from Memphis. How could I resist a free show three blocks from home?
Waiting for the show to begin, I flipped through albums, looking to see what was over-represented. My conclusion: bad 80s one-hit wonders and Dan Fogelberg.
I'd have thought that since his untimely death a few years ago that he would have been rediscovered by now. Apparently not.
I did, however, happen on a vintage copy of Elvis's first Christmas album ("I'll have a blue, blue,blue Christmas without you..."), eliciting a smile for an album I'd heard of, but never actually laid eyes on.
I was looking forward to seeing White Laces again since the last time had been at the Courtyard on a First Friday. Loud is an inadequate description of that show, and I know from loud.
The screaming guitar and pounding drum reverberated off those hard brick walls, essentially preventing the crowd from appreciating White Laces' sound.
Tonight, as they explained, it was just the two of them (guitar and bass), so that they purposely wouldn't be too loud for the space.
A performance that I could actually hear yielded an opinion I'd anticipated; I like White Laces' shoegaze sound. Especially like tonight when I could actually appreciate the bass line, hear the vocals.
Lead singer Landis acknowledged, "We're trying to make all our songs sound as much like Galaxie 500 songs as we can." Well done, guys.
Their set was too short, but helped me realize that I need to get out and see them play again.
Up next was Bake Sale from Memphis, a four-piece girl group who were all about some garage rock.
Let's just say that my friend Paul would have approved and he is tough to please. Prickly, even.
They meshed girl group vocals (with two or three at a time sharing vocals) with screaming guitars and pounding drums. THey were hard and fast and cute. That's not sexism, that's fact.
At one point the guitarist with the pale green guitar (as opposed to the yellow guitar) handed off her guitar to the drummer and they switched places.
Every guy in the room had their laser beams set to the female quartet rocking our faces off.
It's highly irregular to have such a high level of musical satisfaction before 9:00, but the circumstances were unusual. Thanks, Steady Sounds.
Happy with the first few hours of my evening, I was off to the near West End to meet a friend for drinks at the Blue Goat.
She is one of the countless Westhampton neighbors who is positively thrilled with their new hot spot.
As it turned out, a Monday night at 9:15 was light years from last Wednesday's 6:30 visit.
The bar was mostly full but not every single table was occupied. It was a great opportunity to relax and enjoy the ambiance.
The rose had already exited the menu, so I moved over to the tequila selection, flummoxing my bartender by choosing the Hornitos.
Best of all, I could easily hear the music tonight and it could have been programmed for me.
I heard a couple of favorite Pete Yorn songs, another couple of Everything But the Girl favorites and a terrific Latin-infused cover of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
Let's just say I was so impressed that I asked for the music's source. Turns out that it was the owner's mix. Tres impressive.
My friend ordered the white gazpacho, a lovely melange of cucumbers and white grapes with a definite heat behind it. She thought it was superb and I agreed. The contrast of heat and cool was addictive.
We drank and talked until the bar was long-closed (officially it's 10 during the week), but didn't feel too bad since a few other people lingered as well. The weekend end time is "until...."
As one of the servers noted, "Once the Continental Lounge opens, this'll be a regular destination bar block."
I think my friend echoed the neighbourhood sentiment.
"About damn time."
Monday, July 25, 2011
Birthday Presence
I freely admit to disappointment if I go to a birthday party and there's no cake.
At The Richmond Scene's two-year party tonight, the cupcakes were huge, there were two kinds and they had been baked by the mom of Chris Payne, TRS's founder. Cake was present.
But most people were there for music, not cake. The four-band bill promised some excellent variety over the course of the evening.
Arriving at The Camel mere seconds before the bands started, I slid over to the bar for some bar food, planning to move to the stage side of the room after I ate.
I had a clear shot of the stage when Dogs on Main Street (aka Mac) took it. It was maybe the third time I'd seen him and I continue to be impressed with how invested in his performances he is.
As I watched and ate, I had a steady rotating cast of friends stop by to say hi as they passed by from the other side. It was like playing musical dinner companions without asking to play.
Then there are the friends who seem to sniff you out when you have, say, black bean nachos, and then claim to feel guilty when you insist they have some.
No, really, I won't judge you for helping me with my nachos. I'm happy to have the help.
Eating accomplished, I asked the bartender for my check, only to be told, "No, you can't leave."
There's always one bully at a birthday party. Anyway, he relented.
I arrived on the stage side of the room just as Dave Watkins began playing.
After having recently raved about Dave's debut CD, due out in two weeks, here, it was nice to hear some live improvisation on the heels of that.
From my perch on the wall, I had a great view of both Dave and the people around me who had never seen him before.
One by one I watched them nudge each other ("Man, look at what he's doing!") as they tried to figure out how one guy was making so much sound ("Can you see him?" one guy asked incredulously of his buddy).
Pay attention, boys, you may learn something.
Between sets I caught up with various friends and was introduced to a guy I see at shows everywhere. He said the same of me, so we thought it about time we met.
Baseball-sized vanilla and chocolate cupcakes were passed around the room for the cake-obsessed (I wasn't the only one, it turned out) and the merely festive.
When Snowy Owls were introduced, it was with the admonishment to move closer because, "These guys are a rock band."
I would be more specific and say they are of the nu-gaze mode, with lots of fuzz and moody vocals.
My pleasure comes from lead singer/guitarist Matt, whose inner shoegaze rock god always comes out with this band, but also because I am rabid about the "music from a cave" sound.
In a new twist, bassist Allen Bergendahl had me mesmerized tonight with his contribution to the band's essence.
There were some screaming bass lines that epitomized what I like about the band's sound and the quality of the sound was so much better than it had been at their last show.
By the time their set was over, the air conditioning had chilled our little group to the point that we joined the smokers outside just to warm up.
No establishment has re-calibrated their thermostats since it stopped being 120 degrees in the shade, making dressing for summer problematic indoors after a while.
When I said goodbye to a girlfriend, she gave me a look. "You're leaving before me? Wait, where are you going?"
She didn't believe me when I said home.
Truth be told, I'd celebrated The Richmond Scene, enjoyed three excellent sets of music and had a cupcake.
I could leave the birthday party happy.
At The Richmond Scene's two-year party tonight, the cupcakes were huge, there were two kinds and they had been baked by the mom of Chris Payne, TRS's founder. Cake was present.
But most people were there for music, not cake. The four-band bill promised some excellent variety over the course of the evening.
Arriving at The Camel mere seconds before the bands started, I slid over to the bar for some bar food, planning to move to the stage side of the room after I ate.
I had a clear shot of the stage when Dogs on Main Street (aka Mac) took it. It was maybe the third time I'd seen him and I continue to be impressed with how invested in his performances he is.
As I watched and ate, I had a steady rotating cast of friends stop by to say hi as they passed by from the other side. It was like playing musical dinner companions without asking to play.
Then there are the friends who seem to sniff you out when you have, say, black bean nachos, and then claim to feel guilty when you insist they have some.
No, really, I won't judge you for helping me with my nachos. I'm happy to have the help.
Eating accomplished, I asked the bartender for my check, only to be told, "No, you can't leave."
There's always one bully at a birthday party. Anyway, he relented.
I arrived on the stage side of the room just as Dave Watkins began playing.
After having recently raved about Dave's debut CD, due out in two weeks, here, it was nice to hear some live improvisation on the heels of that.
From my perch on the wall, I had a great view of both Dave and the people around me who had never seen him before.
One by one I watched them nudge each other ("Man, look at what he's doing!") as they tried to figure out how one guy was making so much sound ("Can you see him?" one guy asked incredulously of his buddy).
Pay attention, boys, you may learn something.
Between sets I caught up with various friends and was introduced to a guy I see at shows everywhere. He said the same of me, so we thought it about time we met.
Baseball-sized vanilla and chocolate cupcakes were passed around the room for the cake-obsessed (I wasn't the only one, it turned out) and the merely festive.
When Snowy Owls were introduced, it was with the admonishment to move closer because, "These guys are a rock band."
I would be more specific and say they are of the nu-gaze mode, with lots of fuzz and moody vocals.
My pleasure comes from lead singer/guitarist Matt, whose inner shoegaze rock god always comes out with this band, but also because I am rabid about the "music from a cave" sound.
In a new twist, bassist Allen Bergendahl had me mesmerized tonight with his contribution to the band's essence.
There were some screaming bass lines that epitomized what I like about the band's sound and the quality of the sound was so much better than it had been at their last show.
By the time their set was over, the air conditioning had chilled our little group to the point that we joined the smokers outside just to warm up.
No establishment has re-calibrated their thermostats since it stopped being 120 degrees in the shade, making dressing for summer problematic indoors after a while.
When I said goodbye to a girlfriend, she gave me a look. "You're leaving before me? Wait, where are you going?"
She didn't believe me when I said home.
Truth be told, I'd celebrated The Richmond Scene, enjoyed three excellent sets of music and had a cupcake.
I could leave the birthday party happy.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Clay Street Burden
Our tour guide gave out on Clay Street.
Anyway you look at it, it was an awfully hot day for a walking tour. Our guide said she'd shorten the two-hour walk by half an hour in deference to the heat.
When I was the only person there waiting for the tour to begin, she had even suggested canceling it, but soon more people arrived and she seemed to feel obligated to carry on.
We were touring Carver, the neighborhood adjacent to my beloved Jackson Ward, a neighborhood alternately known as Elba, Sheep Hill and Buchanan Springs.
Settled by Irish (my people), Germans, Jews, Italians and freed blacks, the neighborhood was also home to some enslaved blacks who were loaned out to work the factories and brickyards in Carver.
We admired a couple of Queen Anne houses with their impressive bays and turrets. We saw the old Moore School in front of which Carver Elementary was built; I'd never even noticed it before.
I finally found out where all those mid-century ranchers on Leigh and north of there came from. That's the Hartshorn development, a 1960s HUD project.
Hoe unfortunate that back then it was deemed progress to take down late 19th century homes and replace them with siding-clad one-level boxes.
As well as I know the area, I hadn't known that Leigh and Catherine Streets were primarily for black residents, while Marshall and Clay catered to whites.
There you have it. Without even realizing it, I'm just part of a long Caucasian tradition on Clay Street.
Turns out that it was only in the early twentieth century that Carver and Jackson Ward became predominantly African-American.
No doubt a city ordinance requiring blacks to live north of Broad had a great deal to do with that.
It was when we walked up to Clay Street that our tour guide became over whelmed by the heat and, I guess, the walking.
As she stood there bright red and unable to speak, the group realized that something was wrong, which she finally acknowledged.
A couple of women offered to go get their cars for her. Finally one took the lead decisively, only to turn back to her husband and yell, "Where did we park again? And where are we now?"
As the minutes stretched out waiting for her to come back and rescue our guide, it became clear that she had to be lost somewhere in the adjacent six blocks.
Someone asked her husband if she had a good sense of direction.
"Nope," he said laconically. Oh, good, the rescuer might need her own rescue.
As I stood there thinking how close to home I was (although my car was back at Maggie Walker, where we'd met), another attendee started talking to me about the neighborhood.
He saw it as very sketchy and asked my opinion. I saw him as very West End and unused to city living. Naturally I raved about the area.
Finally the woman returned, screeching up to the sidewalk to pick up the guide and, presumably, her monosyllabic husband.
The last thing our guide told us was that if we ever wanted to do the Carver walking tour again, it was on her.
As the group disbursed, my new friend walked alongside me, peppering me with questions and listening when I pointed out places of note.
And although I'm really good at walking no matter the weather, I'm no tour guide.
But I feel like I have to do my best to convert 'em one person at a time.
Sketchy is in the eye of the beholder.
Anyway you look at it, it was an awfully hot day for a walking tour. Our guide said she'd shorten the two-hour walk by half an hour in deference to the heat.
When I was the only person there waiting for the tour to begin, she had even suggested canceling it, but soon more people arrived and she seemed to feel obligated to carry on.
We were touring Carver, the neighborhood adjacent to my beloved Jackson Ward, a neighborhood alternately known as Elba, Sheep Hill and Buchanan Springs.
Settled by Irish (my people), Germans, Jews, Italians and freed blacks, the neighborhood was also home to some enslaved blacks who were loaned out to work the factories and brickyards in Carver.
We admired a couple of Queen Anne houses with their impressive bays and turrets. We saw the old Moore School in front of which Carver Elementary was built; I'd never even noticed it before.
I finally found out where all those mid-century ranchers on Leigh and north of there came from. That's the Hartshorn development, a 1960s HUD project.
Hoe unfortunate that back then it was deemed progress to take down late 19th century homes and replace them with siding-clad one-level boxes.
As well as I know the area, I hadn't known that Leigh and Catherine Streets were primarily for black residents, while Marshall and Clay catered to whites.
There you have it. Without even realizing it, I'm just part of a long Caucasian tradition on Clay Street.
Turns out that it was only in the early twentieth century that Carver and Jackson Ward became predominantly African-American.
No doubt a city ordinance requiring blacks to live north of Broad had a great deal to do with that.
It was when we walked up to Clay Street that our tour guide became over whelmed by the heat and, I guess, the walking.
As she stood there bright red and unable to speak, the group realized that something was wrong, which she finally acknowledged.
A couple of women offered to go get their cars for her. Finally one took the lead decisively, only to turn back to her husband and yell, "Where did we park again? And where are we now?"
As the minutes stretched out waiting for her to come back and rescue our guide, it became clear that she had to be lost somewhere in the adjacent six blocks.
Someone asked her husband if she had a good sense of direction.
"Nope," he said laconically. Oh, good, the rescuer might need her own rescue.
As I stood there thinking how close to home I was (although my car was back at Maggie Walker, where we'd met), another attendee started talking to me about the neighborhood.
He saw it as very sketchy and asked my opinion. I saw him as very West End and unused to city living. Naturally I raved about the area.
Finally the woman returned, screeching up to the sidewalk to pick up the guide and, presumably, her monosyllabic husband.
The last thing our guide told us was that if we ever wanted to do the Carver walking tour again, it was on her.
As the group disbursed, my new friend walked alongside me, peppering me with questions and listening when I pointed out places of note.
And although I'm really good at walking no matter the weather, I'm no tour guide.
But I feel like I have to do my best to convert 'em one person at a time.
Sketchy is in the eye of the beholder.
Rain, Rain, Pelt Away
I couldn't bear the thought of missing the rain.
Because I had plenty of indoor plans for the evening, I made sure I got to be outside when it began to rain.
That put me parked at Fountain Lake with the car windows partially down, the white noise of the fountain competing with the more precise sound of the rain hitting the car roof.
Interestingly enough, I could see the rain hitting the lake, but couldn't hear it over the other sounds.
But after the week's heat, I was more than willing to feel the rain. Getting wet sounded good.
There were no more than a half dozen other cars parked along the lake. Did they get caught there and have to wait it out?
Or had they come there intentionally, like me, to enjoy the rain on the lake?
I'll never know.
From Byrd Park to Selba, I then went to check out yet another new Richmond restaurant, my fourth this week.
Walking in, I was glad I'd arrived before sundown. The beautiful skylights allowed waning sunlight to illuminate the beams and ceiling details.
The bar was bustling and the bartender was being pre-emptive, warning people that others were in front of them. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was in a hurry.
Food was everywhere, being passed and on tables for the taking.
Before I knew it, I'd had turkey meatloaf, vegetarian spring rolls with ponzu sauce, smoked salmon, mushroom tart, pork loin, panzanella, crabcake and raspberry truffles (yes, plural).
Twice I was told that everything was an abbreviated version of something on the regular menu, so we were tasting a good variety tonight.
Of course, the hook with Selba is the garden room, a conservatory/botanical garden-like room with extensive plantings of flowers, herbs and greenery.
It sits under extensive windows and looks beautiful. Unfortunately, the air conditioning was still set on heat wave and it was freezing in there.
Usually such gardens are a tad warm and the overwhelming scent of plants and flowers dominate, but tonight the low temperature kept all fragrance at bay.
The garden room would have been perfection except for the presence of two large flat screens (as a guy said to me, "Are they trying to make that beautiful space feel like s sports bar with those screens?"), which detracted from the overall vibe.
Screens aside, it's a truly beautiful and relaxing space while the front bar area is lively and hip.
I ran into a few people I knew and then, unexpectedly, into a local sous chef. I didn't recognize him at first because he was totally out of context.
He, on the other hand, greeted me with, "Hi! You're Karen, right?" Well done.
It was great fun to encounter someone else there alone and chat about the new space and other up and coming newbies.
But after a couple of hours, I had plans to head to Capital Ale House for music.
Two of my favorite local indie bands were playing a free show and that's irresistible on a Saturday night.
Ilad had just started when I arrived and listening to the first few songs, I realized it had been a while since I'd heard them last (they don't play out often).
There was a lot of new music I hadn't heard before, the overall sound was less rock-like and Cameron was doing a lot more singing.
When the audience was given a choice of two songs, only me and one other guy voted our preference.
"This is a democracy," Cam said. "They outnumbered you naysayers." So the two of us got our song.
I've been a big fan of Ilad for years. Gabe Churray's keyboards add a truly unique element to their sound.
I see the project as an outlet from Scott and Cam's other bands, which tend to lean more in the jazz direction. Ilad is more about soul and rocking and they excelled at both tonight.
The best thing for me about going to a Marionette show, besides hearing the band's genre-bending sound, is getting to see my friends in the band.
Marshall solicited my opinion of onstage drinking, Keith kindly insisted on buying me another tequila, Kevin asked why he hadn't seen me at the National lately, and Adam, well, Adam and discussed a whole lot of things.
Like why he's so touchy about 90s music (his age), the hazards of falling in love to Death Cab for Cutie (he did) and how being hot can make a musician play harder (ahem).
When their set finally began, it was with the band making noises of all kinds, blowing plastic flutes, drummer Kevin on guitar and guitarist Adam beating on the back of his guitar.
That cacophony is the prelude to a set of ambitious indie music that hangs together in a way less-experienced bands can only wish for.
Despite the late start, a good part of the crowd hung around, many of them obviously Marionette fans, like me.
But I'm guessing that, unlike me, they didn't stat their evening sitting in the car with the windows down, listening to the glorious sound of rain falling.
There's music and then there's music.
I heard the best kinds tonight, natural and man-made.
Because I had plenty of indoor plans for the evening, I made sure I got to be outside when it began to rain.
That put me parked at Fountain Lake with the car windows partially down, the white noise of the fountain competing with the more precise sound of the rain hitting the car roof.
Interestingly enough, I could see the rain hitting the lake, but couldn't hear it over the other sounds.
But after the week's heat, I was more than willing to feel the rain. Getting wet sounded good.
There were no more than a half dozen other cars parked along the lake. Did they get caught there and have to wait it out?
Or had they come there intentionally, like me, to enjoy the rain on the lake?
I'll never know.
From Byrd Park to Selba, I then went to check out yet another new Richmond restaurant, my fourth this week.
Walking in, I was glad I'd arrived before sundown. The beautiful skylights allowed waning sunlight to illuminate the beams and ceiling details.
The bar was bustling and the bartender was being pre-emptive, warning people that others were in front of them. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone was in a hurry.
Food was everywhere, being passed and on tables for the taking.
Before I knew it, I'd had turkey meatloaf, vegetarian spring rolls with ponzu sauce, smoked salmon, mushroom tart, pork loin, panzanella, crabcake and raspberry truffles (yes, plural).
Twice I was told that everything was an abbreviated version of something on the regular menu, so we were tasting a good variety tonight.
Of course, the hook with Selba is the garden room, a conservatory/botanical garden-like room with extensive plantings of flowers, herbs and greenery.
It sits under extensive windows and looks beautiful. Unfortunately, the air conditioning was still set on heat wave and it was freezing in there.
Usually such gardens are a tad warm and the overwhelming scent of plants and flowers dominate, but tonight the low temperature kept all fragrance at bay.
The garden room would have been perfection except for the presence of two large flat screens (as a guy said to me, "Are they trying to make that beautiful space feel like s sports bar with those screens?"), which detracted from the overall vibe.
Screens aside, it's a truly beautiful and relaxing space while the front bar area is lively and hip.
I ran into a few people I knew and then, unexpectedly, into a local sous chef. I didn't recognize him at first because he was totally out of context.
He, on the other hand, greeted me with, "Hi! You're Karen, right?" Well done.
It was great fun to encounter someone else there alone and chat about the new space and other up and coming newbies.
But after a couple of hours, I had plans to head to Capital Ale House for music.
Two of my favorite local indie bands were playing a free show and that's irresistible on a Saturday night.
Ilad had just started when I arrived and listening to the first few songs, I realized it had been a while since I'd heard them last (they don't play out often).
There was a lot of new music I hadn't heard before, the overall sound was less rock-like and Cameron was doing a lot more singing.
When the audience was given a choice of two songs, only me and one other guy voted our preference.
"This is a democracy," Cam said. "They outnumbered you naysayers." So the two of us got our song.
I've been a big fan of Ilad for years. Gabe Churray's keyboards add a truly unique element to their sound.
I see the project as an outlet from Scott and Cam's other bands, which tend to lean more in the jazz direction. Ilad is more about soul and rocking and they excelled at both tonight.
The best thing for me about going to a Marionette show, besides hearing the band's genre-bending sound, is getting to see my friends in the band.
Marshall solicited my opinion of onstage drinking, Keith kindly insisted on buying me another tequila, Kevin asked why he hadn't seen me at the National lately, and Adam, well, Adam and discussed a whole lot of things.
Like why he's so touchy about 90s music (his age), the hazards of falling in love to Death Cab for Cutie (he did) and how being hot can make a musician play harder (ahem).
When their set finally began, it was with the band making noises of all kinds, blowing plastic flutes, drummer Kevin on guitar and guitarist Adam beating on the back of his guitar.
That cacophony is the prelude to a set of ambitious indie music that hangs together in a way less-experienced bands can only wish for.
Despite the late start, a good part of the crowd hung around, many of them obviously Marionette fans, like me.
But I'm guessing that, unlike me, they didn't stat their evening sitting in the car with the windows down, listening to the glorious sound of rain falling.
There's music and then there's music.
I heard the best kinds tonight, natural and man-made.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Isn't It Ironic?
A nomination for Prom Queen is all the proof I need.
The oppressive heat wave blanketing the city has actually made people crazy. And not just a little a little loony, but wacko.
"Whose (yes, incorrect usage) the prommiest of the Prom Queens?" the survey asks.
What does that even mean?
Admittedly, I don't know much about prom kings or queens. I never went to my prom (or any prom).
I graduated from high school a year early to escape such inanity and start college.
But if you went back and asked my former classmates if I ever was or possibly could be prom queen material, they wouldn't laugh at the notion.
They'd look at you puzzled and ask, "Who's Karen?" (Correct usage)
Probably not surprisingly, I was a nerd in high school. My boyfriend was in college already and my friends tended to be older.
I was a complete non-entity to my high school classmates.
Oh, my teachers loved me because I was a straight-A student, but I was pretty much invisible to all but a small clutch of fellow nerds.
Ergo, most definitely not prom queen material.
And I wouldn't have even known about the nomination had a friend not sent me a congratulatory e-mail earlier this evening.
But he has a tendency toward the ironic, so I'm telling myself that he meant it that way. Please, let there be no sincerity to your words, friend.
~Cue musical segue~
Meanwhile, over at a bustling Six Burner, I was happy to see a Virginia wine as the featured white.
Stone Mountain's Virginia Table Wine "Maquillage" was just the pink pick-me-up a non-prom queen type needed.
The label, with its renderings of make-up, seemed particularly apropos for a nerdy type who didn't even start wearing make-up until she was in her mid-twenties.
A blend of Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot had just the right amount of spice and berries while satisfying my Virginia jones.
Tonight's crowd made for a lot of new restaurant talk so I heard about progress on Pasture, The Roosevelt's beer and cocktail list and the neighborhood buzz on Blue Goat.
When I went to leave, a group of guys halfway down the block called to me, so I walked down to see what was up.
"Hey!" one guy said, smiling at me as I approached. "You looked nice, so I wanted to say hello."
"Hey, there," I said, smiling as I turned on my heel, back toward my car.
For the record, that kind of thing never happened to me in high school.
What the hell?
The oppressive heat wave blanketing the city has actually made people crazy. And not just a little a little loony, but wacko.
"Whose (yes, incorrect usage) the prommiest of the Prom Queens?" the survey asks.
What does that even mean?
Admittedly, I don't know much about prom kings or queens. I never went to my prom (or any prom).
I graduated from high school a year early to escape such inanity and start college.
But if you went back and asked my former classmates if I ever was or possibly could be prom queen material, they wouldn't laugh at the notion.
They'd look at you puzzled and ask, "Who's Karen?" (Correct usage)
Probably not surprisingly, I was a nerd in high school. My boyfriend was in college already and my friends tended to be older.
I was a complete non-entity to my high school classmates.
Oh, my teachers loved me because I was a straight-A student, but I was pretty much invisible to all but a small clutch of fellow nerds.
Ergo, most definitely not prom queen material.
And I wouldn't have even known about the nomination had a friend not sent me a congratulatory e-mail earlier this evening.
But he has a tendency toward the ironic, so I'm telling myself that he meant it that way. Please, let there be no sincerity to your words, friend.
~Cue musical segue~
Meanwhile, over at a bustling Six Burner, I was happy to see a Virginia wine as the featured white.
Stone Mountain's Virginia Table Wine "Maquillage" was just the pink pick-me-up a non-prom queen type needed.
The label, with its renderings of make-up, seemed particularly apropos for a nerdy type who didn't even start wearing make-up until she was in her mid-twenties.
A blend of Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot had just the right amount of spice and berries while satisfying my Virginia jones.
Tonight's crowd made for a lot of new restaurant talk so I heard about progress on Pasture, The Roosevelt's beer and cocktail list and the neighborhood buzz on Blue Goat.
When I went to leave, a group of guys halfway down the block called to me, so I walked down to see what was up.
"Hey!" one guy said, smiling at me as I approached. "You looked nice, so I wanted to say hello."
"Hey, there," I said, smiling as I turned on my heel, back toward my car.
For the record, that kind of thing never happened to me in high school.
What the hell?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Curious Enough To Go Find Out
My curiosity takes me many places and, for the early evening, it was to Goochland.
While dining at the Blue Goat the other day, I noticed one of their suppliers was Nadolski's Butcher Shop.
I commented on it to my dinner companion, who informed me that they do butchering demonstrations.
Hot dog! I wanted to see some slaughter, so I came home and did the 21st-century thing and Googled them.
Lo and behold, I'd missed a pig butchering demo by four days. Four days!
On the plus side, I noticed that they did wine tastings on Friday, so I figured it was time for a road trip to downtown Goochland.
To my amazement, I walked in to find my favorite Virginia wine rep was doing the pouring. Small world.
"Do you live around here?" he asked, as surprised as I was.
"Nope, drove thirty miles to taste your wine," I teased him, since I'd had no idea he would be there.
"I've only got one Virginia today, but you're going to like it," he promised.
For that matter, I liked the Prieure Saint-Hippolyte Languedoc Rose for its beautiful fruit and intensity so much that I bought a bottle.
Hell, if I could have afforded it I'd have bought a case.
Every bit as impressive had I been looking for a red wine was the Chester Gap Cabernet Franc from Front Royal, a winery I now know I need to visit.
Soft with smooth tannins and a lovely long finish, I especially liked the cocoa on the back end. It was easily one of the very best Cab Francs I've ever tasted and I'm a big fan of the grape.
Drinking finished, I perused the meat counters, ogling cheese, fish, enormous hunks of local meat, and sausages, and eventually picking up a pound of breakfast sausage for the mornings that require eggs (you know the kind).
I shared how I'd ended up at the shop today so naturally I was asked about my visit to the Blue Goat. He said that they are placing big orders with the shop, which was great to hear.
Hopefully other people will, like me, see them on the menu as one of the restaurant's sources and make the drive west to check them out.
My usual question-asking yielded information about the next butchering event and the fun involved in being there for it. Blood! Guts!
And, as I pointed out to my slaughtering source (who lives in the Fan and drives out there every day), now they know to expect me next time.
I took his recommendation and drove back Route 6 rather than repeating the mind-numbing I-64 and thoroughly enjoyed the rolling hills and fields that lined the road.
It had been a few years since I'd made that drive and I'd never done it alone. Even the prison seemed somewhat scenic from a safe distance.
Before I knew it, I was back in the (shudder) West End and almost home, but with all kinds of new information, a nice pink and some local pig.
Inquisitive people are the funnels of conversation; they do not take in anything for their own use, but merely to pass it to another ~ Sir Richard Steele
I would paraphrase Sir Richard and say that I do not only take in things for my own use, but also to pass them on to another.
So that's one rationalization for my insatiable curiosity.
While dining at the Blue Goat the other day, I noticed one of their suppliers was Nadolski's Butcher Shop.
I commented on it to my dinner companion, who informed me that they do butchering demonstrations.
Hot dog! I wanted to see some slaughter, so I came home and did the 21st-century thing and Googled them.
Lo and behold, I'd missed a pig butchering demo by four days. Four days!
On the plus side, I noticed that they did wine tastings on Friday, so I figured it was time for a road trip to downtown Goochland.
To my amazement, I walked in to find my favorite Virginia wine rep was doing the pouring. Small world.
"Do you live around here?" he asked, as surprised as I was.
"Nope, drove thirty miles to taste your wine," I teased him, since I'd had no idea he would be there.
"I've only got one Virginia today, but you're going to like it," he promised.
For that matter, I liked the Prieure Saint-Hippolyte Languedoc Rose for its beautiful fruit and intensity so much that I bought a bottle.
Hell, if I could have afforded it I'd have bought a case.
Every bit as impressive had I been looking for a red wine was the Chester Gap Cabernet Franc from Front Royal, a winery I now know I need to visit.
Soft with smooth tannins and a lovely long finish, I especially liked the cocoa on the back end. It was easily one of the very best Cab Francs I've ever tasted and I'm a big fan of the grape.
Drinking finished, I perused the meat counters, ogling cheese, fish, enormous hunks of local meat, and sausages, and eventually picking up a pound of breakfast sausage for the mornings that require eggs (you know the kind).
I shared how I'd ended up at the shop today so naturally I was asked about my visit to the Blue Goat. He said that they are placing big orders with the shop, which was great to hear.
Hopefully other people will, like me, see them on the menu as one of the restaurant's sources and make the drive west to check them out.
My usual question-asking yielded information about the next butchering event and the fun involved in being there for it. Blood! Guts!
And, as I pointed out to my slaughtering source (who lives in the Fan and drives out there every day), now they know to expect me next time.
I took his recommendation and drove back Route 6 rather than repeating the mind-numbing I-64 and thoroughly enjoyed the rolling hills and fields that lined the road.
It had been a few years since I'd made that drive and I'd never done it alone. Even the prison seemed somewhat scenic from a safe distance.
Before I knew it, I was back in the (shudder) West End and almost home, but with all kinds of new information, a nice pink and some local pig.
Inquisitive people are the funnels of conversation; they do not take in anything for their own use, but merely to pass it to another ~ Sir Richard Steele
I would paraphrase Sir Richard and say that I do not only take in things for my own use, but also to pass them on to another.
So that's one rationalization for my insatiable curiosity.
Wanting Too Much
If only I could find someone who's looking for a literary nerd, food and drink enthusiast and a music fanatic rolled into one, I'd be all set.
But, alas.
My evening began at the Library of Virginia where author Charles Shields was talking about the subject of his last two books, writers Harper Lee and Kurt Vonnegut.
He contrasted the difficulty of getting Lee to cooperate on a biography (she never did) and the relative ease of getting Vonnegut to tell his story (a postcard with the word "okay" and a drawing of the author smoking).
Lee never agreed to talk to him and Vonnegut gave multiple interviews.
When asked "Do you believe in God?" Vonnegut answered, "I don't know, but who couldn't?"
That's the kind of answer an interviewer lives for.
Vonnegut wrote lots of letters, making the process of writing his biography much easier than Lee's.
Shield said that in a 600-page book about Vonnegut, there are 1800 footnotes due to the 1500 letters he had access to.
He contrasted that to Lee, who stopped giving interviews in 1964.
I was fascinated to learn that she had rewritten "To Kill a Mockingbird" three times before arriving at the final version.
Didn't someone annoying say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again"?
Her comment after the third rewrite says it all. "All I want is a merciful death." No wonder she never wrote another book.
Shields was asked about the lack of written correspondence as a hindrance to future biographers, but he's hopeful that digital records of e-mail, TV and radio broadcasts will replace the handwritten word of yesteryear.
Let's hope so because I would be a sad puppy if biographies went away.
After so much information gathering, I moved on to Aziza's on Main to meet a friend I hadn't seen in over a month.
She had stories of near-breakups and Cape May; the best I could do was mornings that ended at 6 a.m. (don't judge).
We enjoyed a bottle (or two) of Cassillero Del Diablo Sauvignon Blanc (mouth-filling but with great acidity) as we caught each other up on significant developments in our personal lives.
She chose a red pizza with pepperoni and onion for dinner while I kept it simple by ordering the head cheese (pig head with carrots, basil and turnips and roasted veggies on the side) and grilled bread.
I was rewarded with three thick slices, fragrant, flavorful and with enough chunks of pig to satisfy my inner pig fanatic.
Fact: head cheese makes me happy and I don't see it on enough menus.
By the time we got into our second bottle, we were over-sharing to a degree not seen in ages.
She loves my directness and I applaud her relationship success. She is light years ahead of me in that department.
Once Aziza's closed down, she headed home and I went to Cous Cous for music.
The Cinnamon Band was playing and I like them because they make a whole lot of sound for two guys.
It took some time before the music actually began, this being Cous Cous and all, but that gave me time to visit with any number of friends who were there.
I ran into the birthday boy (a photographer) while ordering my Hornitos, then saw a couple of musician friends, another music lover who suggested we dance on the bar if Peaches came on again and the biologist who is taking it easy this summer.
The Cinnamon Band continues to impress every time I see them, engaging the audience with their harmonies, exuberant drumming and low-key charisma.
When they inevitably make it big, I will know that I have been devoted to them since the beginning.
If I had a significant other, I would have just shared my thoughts on Vonnegut, Lee, head cheese and the Cinnamon Band with him and been done with it.
I'd be sound asleep in all likelihood by now.
Instead I sit here scantily clad and sweating in my 94-degree apartment, doing this writing exercise and wondering if things will ever cool down.
Oh, yes, or if the weather will ever improve. Hope springs eternal in the optimist.
The pragmatist just keeps her fingers crossed and mouth shut, ready for anything.
But secretly hoping for the best.
But, alas.
My evening began at the Library of Virginia where author Charles Shields was talking about the subject of his last two books, writers Harper Lee and Kurt Vonnegut.
He contrasted the difficulty of getting Lee to cooperate on a biography (she never did) and the relative ease of getting Vonnegut to tell his story (a postcard with the word "okay" and a drawing of the author smoking).
Lee never agreed to talk to him and Vonnegut gave multiple interviews.
When asked "Do you believe in God?" Vonnegut answered, "I don't know, but who couldn't?"
That's the kind of answer an interviewer lives for.
Vonnegut wrote lots of letters, making the process of writing his biography much easier than Lee's.
Shield said that in a 600-page book about Vonnegut, there are 1800 footnotes due to the 1500 letters he had access to.
He contrasted that to Lee, who stopped giving interviews in 1964.
I was fascinated to learn that she had rewritten "To Kill a Mockingbird" three times before arriving at the final version.
Didn't someone annoying say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again"?
Her comment after the third rewrite says it all. "All I want is a merciful death." No wonder she never wrote another book.
Shields was asked about the lack of written correspondence as a hindrance to future biographers, but he's hopeful that digital records of e-mail, TV and radio broadcasts will replace the handwritten word of yesteryear.
Let's hope so because I would be a sad puppy if biographies went away.
After so much information gathering, I moved on to Aziza's on Main to meet a friend I hadn't seen in over a month.
She had stories of near-breakups and Cape May; the best I could do was mornings that ended at 6 a.m. (don't judge).
We enjoyed a bottle (or two) of Cassillero Del Diablo Sauvignon Blanc (mouth-filling but with great acidity) as we caught each other up on significant developments in our personal lives.
She chose a red pizza with pepperoni and onion for dinner while I kept it simple by ordering the head cheese (pig head with carrots, basil and turnips and roasted veggies on the side) and grilled bread.
I was rewarded with three thick slices, fragrant, flavorful and with enough chunks of pig to satisfy my inner pig fanatic.
Fact: head cheese makes me happy and I don't see it on enough menus.
By the time we got into our second bottle, we were over-sharing to a degree not seen in ages.
She loves my directness and I applaud her relationship success. She is light years ahead of me in that department.
Once Aziza's closed down, she headed home and I went to Cous Cous for music.
The Cinnamon Band was playing and I like them because they make a whole lot of sound for two guys.
It took some time before the music actually began, this being Cous Cous and all, but that gave me time to visit with any number of friends who were there.
I ran into the birthday boy (a photographer) while ordering my Hornitos, then saw a couple of musician friends, another music lover who suggested we dance on the bar if Peaches came on again and the biologist who is taking it easy this summer.
The Cinnamon Band continues to impress every time I see them, engaging the audience with their harmonies, exuberant drumming and low-key charisma.
When they inevitably make it big, I will know that I have been devoted to them since the beginning.
If I had a significant other, I would have just shared my thoughts on Vonnegut, Lee, head cheese and the Cinnamon Band with him and been done with it.
I'd be sound asleep in all likelihood by now.
Instead I sit here scantily clad and sweating in my 94-degree apartment, doing this writing exercise and wondering if things will ever cool down.
Oh, yes, or if the weather will ever improve. Hope springs eternal in the optimist.
The pragmatist just keeps her fingers crossed and mouth shut, ready for anything.
But secretly hoping for the best.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Cracking the Egg
The finest achievement of Faberge's craftsman were their incomparable translucent guilloche enamels, inspired by French objects of art.
As far as I'm concerned, that one sentence from the exhibit explains why it's so hard for me to see the pieces in "Faberge Revealed" as art.
Oh, they're beautiful. Skilled Faberge craftsmen used painstaking techniques to craft some of the most beautiful objects ever made for a tiny group of incredibly wealthy people.
But they took their inspiration from art. They were making objects for sale. Faberge is all about stuff.
And because I'm not much of a "stuff" person, I wasn't fawning over the pieces in the exhibit.
The objects that captured my attention were so ostentatious, so over the top, that I found it difficult to focus on anything but that.
An opulent silver caviar dish over a foot long and shaped like a sturgeon (teeth and all!) with a well to hold an obscene amount of caviar was the definition of flamboyance.
The show is full of cigarette cases, parasol handles, sweetmeat boxes, cane handles (all made with colored golds, precious gems and enamels) and other accoutrements of the rich.
A dessert cutlery set included such things as sweetmeat forks in two sizes, sliced fruit forks, pastry slicers, a pie spade and two lemon squeezers.
Sounds like I would have loved going for dessert at the Tsar's house.
In other examples of over-the-top excess, there was a match striker (two-colored gold, Cabochon sapphire and enamel), a match safe (even smaller, just as showy) and a bookmark (diamonds and gold).
Leaving the exhibit we passed through the gift shop where an employee wore a tiara. How appropriate.
Afterwards, my friends and I discussed what we'd just seen and a couple of things became clear.
The show has hundreds of objects, so plan to see it in smaller bites so that museum fatigue doesn't set in. The objects are small and there's a lot of fascinating stuff worth reading. A lot.
And, truth be told, some people appreciate "stuff" more than others. My friend loves to shop and loves collecting things.
I hate to shop and although I do love buying local art, I eschew "stuff." So we could see where the show had much more appeal for him than it did for me.
My appreciation of the beauty of the pieces was marred by the sense that it was a) a business venture and b) intended only for a tiny percentage of people ever to see or experience.
Ironically now much of it is in museums for even the lowliest people to see, enjoy or disdain, so the ultimate joke is on Faberge.
But you won't know how Faberge moves you until you take the time to see the show.
And even if you think you already know, everyone needs to see a jewel-encrusted match safe before they die.
Tiara-wearing is optional.
As far as I'm concerned, that one sentence from the exhibit explains why it's so hard for me to see the pieces in "Faberge Revealed" as art.
Oh, they're beautiful. Skilled Faberge craftsmen used painstaking techniques to craft some of the most beautiful objects ever made for a tiny group of incredibly wealthy people.
But they took their inspiration from art. They were making objects for sale. Faberge is all about stuff.
And because I'm not much of a "stuff" person, I wasn't fawning over the pieces in the exhibit.
The objects that captured my attention were so ostentatious, so over the top, that I found it difficult to focus on anything but that.
An opulent silver caviar dish over a foot long and shaped like a sturgeon (teeth and all!) with a well to hold an obscene amount of caviar was the definition of flamboyance.
The show is full of cigarette cases, parasol handles, sweetmeat boxes, cane handles (all made with colored golds, precious gems and enamels) and other accoutrements of the rich.
A dessert cutlery set included such things as sweetmeat forks in two sizes, sliced fruit forks, pastry slicers, a pie spade and two lemon squeezers.
Sounds like I would have loved going for dessert at the Tsar's house.
In other examples of over-the-top excess, there was a match striker (two-colored gold, Cabochon sapphire and enamel), a match safe (even smaller, just as showy) and a bookmark (diamonds and gold).
Leaving the exhibit we passed through the gift shop where an employee wore a tiara. How appropriate.
Afterwards, my friends and I discussed what we'd just seen and a couple of things became clear.
The show has hundreds of objects, so plan to see it in smaller bites so that museum fatigue doesn't set in. The objects are small and there's a lot of fascinating stuff worth reading. A lot.
And, truth be told, some people appreciate "stuff" more than others. My friend loves to shop and loves collecting things.
I hate to shop and although I do love buying local art, I eschew "stuff." So we could see where the show had much more appeal for him than it did for me.
My appreciation of the beauty of the pieces was marred by the sense that it was a) a business venture and b) intended only for a tiny percentage of people ever to see or experience.
Ironically now much of it is in museums for even the lowliest people to see, enjoy or disdain, so the ultimate joke is on Faberge.
But you won't know how Faberge moves you until you take the time to see the show.
And even if you think you already know, everyone needs to see a jewel-encrusted match safe before they die.
Tiara-wearing is optional.
Lobster Lunch in the East End
Obviously I wasn't the only one eagerly anticipating the opening of M Bistro and Wine Bar.
Today, the first day they were serving, I saw six people I knew in the mere hour I was there lunching with friends. The place was packed.
I'm sure all of them, like me, were admiring what a handsome space the Bistro is.
I was especially taken with the red and black area rug under tables near the booths where we were ensconced, but the tasteful light fixtures with their large shallow circular shades added a lot, too.
Once dinner service begins, I will be quick to come down and see how the space transforms itself after dark. I can imagine it will be quite atmospheric.
And while the patio out front was seeing no action on a 97-degree day, no doubt it will once the heat wave moves on.
After being told by the hostess and the water-pourer who would be our server, someone of a different sex entirely showed up, so I teased him about what he'd done with our intended server.
He took it well; it's always a good sign when you can crack wise with your server and maybe even help him relax on opening day.
The menu was simple but interesting with some creative salads and a variety of sandwiches. I chose the lobster roll (celery leaves and truffle oil on a New England round bun) with fried asparagus on the side.
They were not serving the housemade ranch chips today, but our server spoke well of the tempura fried asparagus.
There had been some crankiness in the car on the way down because my couple date was as hungry as I was. He ordered the lamb burger with BBQ bacon and she got a salad.
Our food took no time at all; clearly the kitchen is well-staffed.
The chef made his way through the dining room at one point, dapper in his chef coat and blue jeans, and smiling like only a man who finally has his own restaurant can.
The lobster roll was piled high with dressed lobster and the mound of fried asparagus had the lightest of batters crusting it.
My friend was waxing poetic about the BBQ bacon on his burger and gave me a piece to prove his point. To my taste, bacon doesn't need BBQ, but it was distinctly flavorful, manly even.
I did take advantage of his offer to "help" him finish his lamb burger, finding it as satisfying as he had.
The big, beautiful, thickly cut yellow and red tomatoes that came with my sandwich and his tasted like they came out of the garden yesterday.
We were too full for dessert, so that pleasure will have to wait for next time.
Where I will undoubtedly run into more wine reps, restaurant owners, servers from other restaurants and various people I know.
Finally, a Rocketts Landing restaurant for the rest of us.
Today, the first day they were serving, I saw six people I knew in the mere hour I was there lunching with friends. The place was packed.
I'm sure all of them, like me, were admiring what a handsome space the Bistro is.
I was especially taken with the red and black area rug under tables near the booths where we were ensconced, but the tasteful light fixtures with their large shallow circular shades added a lot, too.
Once dinner service begins, I will be quick to come down and see how the space transforms itself after dark. I can imagine it will be quite atmospheric.
And while the patio out front was seeing no action on a 97-degree day, no doubt it will once the heat wave moves on.
After being told by the hostess and the water-pourer who would be our server, someone of a different sex entirely showed up, so I teased him about what he'd done with our intended server.
He took it well; it's always a good sign when you can crack wise with your server and maybe even help him relax on opening day.
The menu was simple but interesting with some creative salads and a variety of sandwiches. I chose the lobster roll (celery leaves and truffle oil on a New England round bun) with fried asparagus on the side.
They were not serving the housemade ranch chips today, but our server spoke well of the tempura fried asparagus.
There had been some crankiness in the car on the way down because my couple date was as hungry as I was. He ordered the lamb burger with BBQ bacon and she got a salad.
Our food took no time at all; clearly the kitchen is well-staffed.
The chef made his way through the dining room at one point, dapper in his chef coat and blue jeans, and smiling like only a man who finally has his own restaurant can.
The lobster roll was piled high with dressed lobster and the mound of fried asparagus had the lightest of batters crusting it.
My friend was waxing poetic about the BBQ bacon on his burger and gave me a piece to prove his point. To my taste, bacon doesn't need BBQ, but it was distinctly flavorful, manly even.
I did take advantage of his offer to "help" him finish his lamb burger, finding it as satisfying as he had.
The big, beautiful, thickly cut yellow and red tomatoes that came with my sandwich and his tasted like they came out of the garden yesterday.
We were too full for dessert, so that pleasure will have to wait for next time.
Where I will undoubtedly run into more wine reps, restaurant owners, servers from other restaurants and various people I know.
Finally, a Rocketts Landing restaurant for the rest of us.
Tails, Ears, and Cheeks but No Tats
This week's proverb: If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you've never tried before.*
So it was that I ended up at the Blue Goat with someone else's husband.
It's not questionable in any way; the wife knew about our rendezvous, she had plans of her own and we're just friends anyway.
But we were both enticed by the thought of a restaurant devoted to "nose to tail" eating. No one told us that we'd be doing nose to tail near West End style.
The poured concrete bar is interestingly shaped. The music (Coldplay, U2) is a good volume but sometimes tough to decipher over the conversation bouncing off all the hard surfaces.
The walls have been stripped to the brick, the ceiling to the girders and the carpeting has given way to linoleum. It's a very attractive space.
Arriving at 6:30 meant arriving at peak time, apparently. Some were even willing to sit outside in the 100 degree heat, but we weren't among them.
People continued to stream in long after we settled into two stools at the far end of the bar nearest the front.
Unfortunately, the seats provided a view of the two large flat screens that sucked the soul out of the bar. I know some people enjoy TV at a bar, but I'm not one of them.
Our bartender was a familiar face (from right here in J-Ward) and supplied us with a heavily bruised martini and a Bodegas Borsao Campo de Borja Rosado, a deep pink rose with good fruit and a refreshing finish.
As we glanced around the lively bar, there was not a seat available. The place was hopping, but then it's new so the curiosity factor is still quite high.
After catching up on each other's lives and recent restaurant meals, we looked at the menu (well-priced at $7-$17) for what looked good.
This is the friend who, like me, eats absolutely everything, so the menu held a lot of temptations.
For our first course, we chose braised goat, Ricotta and Swiss chard homemade ravioli with sage brown butter and shaved Pecorino as well as balsamic-braised pig tail with Gorgonzola polenta.
We loved that the pig tail had a deep sweetness and while we understood the choice of the salty Gorgonzola as an accompaniment, we couldn't rave about the combination (but very much appreciated them separately).
The ravioli's pasta was a tad thick and we looked for more spice in the raised goat, although most people would have just savored the lovely sage butter sauce.
After enjoying these two courses, my friend observed that perhaps the food had been spiced to suit the crowd.
Even the familiar preparations seemed geared to making the diner comfortable with creative ingredients for those who don't usually eat the unusual.
Always a fan of pork cheeks, these were doubly appealing for the spaetzle that accompanied them. Fork-tender, they too were light on the seasoning.
The batter-fried julienne strips of Smithfield pig ears with a sunny side up duck egg with crispy Swiss chard, peppers and onion looked like calamari but packed a salty punch. Incredibly salty, almost inedibly salty.
We did get a kick out of our server telling us to "Break the yolk and mix it all up," as if that wouldn't have occurred to us.
As it turned out, though, the egg was well-done and so there was little yolk to drip despite her instructions.
That's when it hit us. The nose to tail menu was catering to the crowd. We'd only had four things, but all of them seemed to point to making the food accessible to the clientele. Fair enough.
Unfortunately for us,we were not the expected clientele We were looking for something more rustic, more earthy, more flavorful and instead got a very safe selection of body parts.
Still, we did get pig tail, cheeks and ears and that's saying a lot for Richmond.
At one point, my friend looked around and asked, "So what's the one thing that's missing among the people here?" I looked around and hazarded a guess.
"Tattoos?" I asked. He was terribly impressed that I'd nailed it on the first guess.
"Maybe no tattoos means safe food," he hypothesized. It should be noted that neither he nor I are inked.
Still, we usually eat closer in to downtown sharing the bar with the inked and the food suits us better. Necessarily, conclusions are drawn.
But we realized that we were in the minority when the women next to us (both from the immediate neighborhood) told us that it was their second visit and that they'd be back.
But their order told a different story. They'd chosen frites, salad and a charcuterie plate. Not a body part in sight. Ladies, come on. How often do you see this kind of a menu?
And that got my friend and I discussing the restaurant's concept. Can it hold up to a neighborhood that likes food safe and familiar?
Only time will tell, but if the menu doesn't satisfy the foodies willing to drive in and it's off-putting to the locals desperate for a neighborhood restaurant, it seems inevitable that the menu will morph.
Only time will tell. For now, I like the five-choice tequila listing ($7-$15) and the energy at the bar, but I think it's safe to say that the place is not geared for people like me and my borrowed husband.
Which is fine because neither of us lives in the neighborhood and clearly there are plenty of people from right around there who will happily support it.
Once my fiend left for suburbia and his wife, I drove eastward to Secco for a change of pace.
After some pink indecisiveness, I was offered a flight of Mazzolino Sparkling Rose, Domaine Brazilier Côteaux du Vendomois Rose Gris, and Domaine de Fenouillet Ventoux Rose, three lovely pale pink selections with my name on them.
Happily, I found a server with whom I could talk upcoming music shows, a chef to talk food and a bar sitter to talk walking Grace Street with.
I could feel myself relaxing into my kind.
You can take the girl out of the city (proper) but not the city out of the girl, even for pig parts and goat. But I tried.
Lesson learned.
*From The Blue Goat menu
So it was that I ended up at the Blue Goat with someone else's husband.
It's not questionable in any way; the wife knew about our rendezvous, she had plans of her own and we're just friends anyway.
But we were both enticed by the thought of a restaurant devoted to "nose to tail" eating. No one told us that we'd be doing nose to tail near West End style.
The poured concrete bar is interestingly shaped. The music (Coldplay, U2) is a good volume but sometimes tough to decipher over the conversation bouncing off all the hard surfaces.
The walls have been stripped to the brick, the ceiling to the girders and the carpeting has given way to linoleum. It's a very attractive space.
Arriving at 6:30 meant arriving at peak time, apparently. Some were even willing to sit outside in the 100 degree heat, but we weren't among them.
People continued to stream in long after we settled into two stools at the far end of the bar nearest the front.
Unfortunately, the seats provided a view of the two large flat screens that sucked the soul out of the bar. I know some people enjoy TV at a bar, but I'm not one of them.
Our bartender was a familiar face (from right here in J-Ward) and supplied us with a heavily bruised martini and a Bodegas Borsao Campo de Borja Rosado, a deep pink rose with good fruit and a refreshing finish.
As we glanced around the lively bar, there was not a seat available. The place was hopping, but then it's new so the curiosity factor is still quite high.
After catching up on each other's lives and recent restaurant meals, we looked at the menu (well-priced at $7-$17) for what looked good.
This is the friend who, like me, eats absolutely everything, so the menu held a lot of temptations.
For our first course, we chose braised goat, Ricotta and Swiss chard homemade ravioli with sage brown butter and shaved Pecorino as well as balsamic-braised pig tail with Gorgonzola polenta.
We loved that the pig tail had a deep sweetness and while we understood the choice of the salty Gorgonzola as an accompaniment, we couldn't rave about the combination (but very much appreciated them separately).
The ravioli's pasta was a tad thick and we looked for more spice in the raised goat, although most people would have just savored the lovely sage butter sauce.
After enjoying these two courses, my friend observed that perhaps the food had been spiced to suit the crowd.
Even the familiar preparations seemed geared to making the diner comfortable with creative ingredients for those who don't usually eat the unusual.
Always a fan of pork cheeks, these were doubly appealing for the spaetzle that accompanied them. Fork-tender, they too were light on the seasoning.
The batter-fried julienne strips of Smithfield pig ears with a sunny side up duck egg with crispy Swiss chard, peppers and onion looked like calamari but packed a salty punch. Incredibly salty, almost inedibly salty.
We did get a kick out of our server telling us to "Break the yolk and mix it all up," as if that wouldn't have occurred to us.
As it turned out, though, the egg was well-done and so there was little yolk to drip despite her instructions.
That's when it hit us. The nose to tail menu was catering to the crowd. We'd only had four things, but all of them seemed to point to making the food accessible to the clientele. Fair enough.
Unfortunately for us,we were not the expected clientele We were looking for something more rustic, more earthy, more flavorful and instead got a very safe selection of body parts.
Still, we did get pig tail, cheeks and ears and that's saying a lot for Richmond.
At one point, my friend looked around and asked, "So what's the one thing that's missing among the people here?" I looked around and hazarded a guess.
"Tattoos?" I asked. He was terribly impressed that I'd nailed it on the first guess.
"Maybe no tattoos means safe food," he hypothesized. It should be noted that neither he nor I are inked.
Still, we usually eat closer in to downtown sharing the bar with the inked and the food suits us better. Necessarily, conclusions are drawn.
But we realized that we were in the minority when the women next to us (both from the immediate neighborhood) told us that it was their second visit and that they'd be back.
But their order told a different story. They'd chosen frites, salad and a charcuterie plate. Not a body part in sight. Ladies, come on. How often do you see this kind of a menu?
And that got my friend and I discussing the restaurant's concept. Can it hold up to a neighborhood that likes food safe and familiar?
Only time will tell, but if the menu doesn't satisfy the foodies willing to drive in and it's off-putting to the locals desperate for a neighborhood restaurant, it seems inevitable that the menu will morph.
Only time will tell. For now, I like the five-choice tequila listing ($7-$15) and the energy at the bar, but I think it's safe to say that the place is not geared for people like me and my borrowed husband.
Which is fine because neither of us lives in the neighborhood and clearly there are plenty of people from right around there who will happily support it.
Once my fiend left for suburbia and his wife, I drove eastward to Secco for a change of pace.
After some pink indecisiveness, I was offered a flight of Mazzolino Sparkling Rose, Domaine Brazilier Côteaux du Vendomois Rose Gris, and Domaine de Fenouillet Ventoux Rose, three lovely pale pink selections with my name on them.
Happily, I found a server with whom I could talk upcoming music shows, a chef to talk food and a bar sitter to talk walking Grace Street with.
I could feel myself relaxing into my kind.
You can take the girl out of the city (proper) but not the city out of the girl, even for pig parts and goat. But I tried.
Lesson learned.
*From The Blue Goat menu
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Heat Drove Me to Flights of Fancy
On any given beautiful day, I can happily spend hours in a museum.
So on a god-forsaken hot and humid day, I can think of no better place to spend some time than taking in a new exhibit.
And what cooler place is there than the thick stone walls and leaded windows of the Branch House, which houses the Virginia Center for Architecture?
The new show "Flights of Fancy" looks at the form, function and geometry of fences and staircases. Ho-hum, right?
Hardly.
Artist Kirsten Kindler's fascination with architectural detail led her to explore the wrought iron fences that pepper neighborhoods like my beloved Jackson Ward.
From there, she meticulously cuts out imagery from magazines and assembles architectural collages that suggest the intricate design work or directly uses staircase imagery in a new way.
The "Mirrored Filigree" triptych was three 8' tall works on paper that resembled the wrought iron of the porches I see all around me, but in muted shades of silvery blue, bronze gray and brown.
"Study for Impossible Fence I" was enormous and elaborate. At its center was a square with interlocking lines which could have been inspired by the motif on my own iron fence.
From there, the design mutates with curlicues, bead-like imagery and assorted curvilinear shapes.
"Study for Impossible Fence II" looks like a Victorian chandelier that morphed into adjoining and elaborately flocked wallpaper.
A sculptural piece called "Information Entity" uses hand cut magazine images of film projectors, cameras, monitors, phones, microphones TVs and binoculars, layering imagery over each other.
Standing taller than the viewer, it comes across as communications overload, an apt metaphor for our 21st century lives.
For me, the most striking piece was "Escalator Treehouse" a nearly floor to ceiling work on paper showing a series of stairs and railings going up a multi-branched tree.
A spiral staircase winds itself around the trunk and stairs and railings connect branches and trunk. It is almost Escher-like except that the stairs actually go somewhere.
Another sculptural piece of paper mounted on plastic film, "Balustrade Sphere," is hung a few inches from the wall, allowing shadows to be cast behind it.
At its center is a simple Doric column and the many staircases are supported by a single black footed urn at the bottom.
The delicacy of the cut-outs of staircases and railings must surely require a variety of scissors and the surest of hands.
The strength of the show is how Kindler translates the beauty of three dimensional objects (and heavy ones at that, iron) into the most delicate of two-dimensional images on paper.
Her manipulation of dimension and space is the best kind of mind f*ck. Intellectually, you know it makes no sense, and yet it reads believably.
For those of us who can't cut on a straight line, her ability to cut out, for example, endless minute balustrade openings is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
And cool. It was deliciously cool admiring wrought ironwork and fences from someplace other than the sidewalk on a day like today.
So on a god-forsaken hot and humid day, I can think of no better place to spend some time than taking in a new exhibit.
And what cooler place is there than the thick stone walls and leaded windows of the Branch House, which houses the Virginia Center for Architecture?
The new show "Flights of Fancy" looks at the form, function and geometry of fences and staircases. Ho-hum, right?
Hardly.
Artist Kirsten Kindler's fascination with architectural detail led her to explore the wrought iron fences that pepper neighborhoods like my beloved Jackson Ward.
From there, she meticulously cuts out imagery from magazines and assembles architectural collages that suggest the intricate design work or directly uses staircase imagery in a new way.
The "Mirrored Filigree" triptych was three 8' tall works on paper that resembled the wrought iron of the porches I see all around me, but in muted shades of silvery blue, bronze gray and brown.
"Study for Impossible Fence I" was enormous and elaborate. At its center was a square with interlocking lines which could have been inspired by the motif on my own iron fence.
From there, the design mutates with curlicues, bead-like imagery and assorted curvilinear shapes.
"Study for Impossible Fence II" looks like a Victorian chandelier that morphed into adjoining and elaborately flocked wallpaper.
A sculptural piece called "Information Entity" uses hand cut magazine images of film projectors, cameras, monitors, phones, microphones TVs and binoculars, layering imagery over each other.
Standing taller than the viewer, it comes across as communications overload, an apt metaphor for our 21st century lives.
For me, the most striking piece was "Escalator Treehouse" a nearly floor to ceiling work on paper showing a series of stairs and railings going up a multi-branched tree.
A spiral staircase winds itself around the trunk and stairs and railings connect branches and trunk. It is almost Escher-like except that the stairs actually go somewhere.
Another sculptural piece of paper mounted on plastic film, "Balustrade Sphere," is hung a few inches from the wall, allowing shadows to be cast behind it.
At its center is a simple Doric column and the many staircases are supported by a single black footed urn at the bottom.
The delicacy of the cut-outs of staircases and railings must surely require a variety of scissors and the surest of hands.
The strength of the show is how Kindler translates the beauty of three dimensional objects (and heavy ones at that, iron) into the most delicate of two-dimensional images on paper.
Her manipulation of dimension and space is the best kind of mind f*ck. Intellectually, you know it makes no sense, and yet it reads believably.
For those of us who can't cut on a straight line, her ability to cut out, for example, endless minute balustrade openings is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
And cool. It was deliciously cool admiring wrought ironwork and fences from someplace other than the sidewalk on a day like today.
In Case the World Ends
Some days are like a gift from the music gods. Today was one.
It began with a road trip, always a fine time to listen to new music, and for this drive, I had two new CDs.
But not just any CDs, These were both advance copies from musician friends: Dave Watkins' debut CD and Paul Ivey's "This is the Hovercraft."
Since I'd been given Dave's first, I started with it.
How could I not fall in love with a CD with a song called "Marshall Street"? Hello, J-Ward Girl here.
And, as a porch-lover, don't even get me started on "House That's Mostly Porch," which decisively kicks off the album.
For that matter, how could I not be enamored of Dave's unique dulcitar playing and looping?
His soundscapes were the ideal music to accompany me as I drove 60 mph down a mostly deserted road.
Creating endless melodies and rhythms, adding in other instruments and occasional voices, his album is a post-rock lover's roadtrip wet dream.
And like any great post-rock CD, it has that one achingly beautiful but oh-so-short song ("In Case the World Ends") that makes a fan glad that someone makes this kind of music for the sake of giving your heart something to swell about.
Paul Ivey's CD brought back the energy and word play of really good late 70s and 80s New Wave.
Paul is such a talented guitar player and his voice has the sincerity and condescension of one who has an opinion on everything (hmm, funny I should like that so much) and a romantic's heart somewhere deep down.
"Gosnell's Hope" is Paul at his sweetest and "Look Out, Optional Claude!" is the oh-so-short song I want to hear in a club and watch everyone fall in love with it.
"Crushed Glass Pastry," which I've had the pleasure of hearing live, rocks and shows Paul's guitar chops, always a good thing. Favorite lyric: "You're only sorry cause you couldn't get away with it."
After three hours in the car listening to such terrific music, it was a good thing I had more in store. Otherwise, tonight would have been a let-down.
The Listening Room had a meager crowd until five minutes before showtime and then the floodgates opened.
Starting a little late (highly unusual for the LR), Richmonder Matt Lisk got things going by dedicating the first song to his Mom, a fairly regular LR attendee.
After a song where he whistled to replace the other guitar part his band would normally do, he dedicated "Sara's Song" to his sister.
His voice reminded me somewhat of David Gray's and he did several songs on piano rather than guitar.
In a nod to LR founder and local favorite son Jonathan Vassar, he even covered "A Match Made in Heaven."
As the first band to do a repeat performance at the LR, Philadelphia's Birdie Busch (with Todd from Hoots and Hellmouth on upright bass) brought her beautiful voice and lively stage banter back to RVA.
She was halfway through her set before she noticed the people seated on the side and said, "If we were Bruce Springsteen, we'd have a walkway to you."
Comic pause. "Maybe on our third visit," she laughed, before covering Neil Young.
An audience member yelled out (against the LR rules, but the crowd hadn't been reminded to keep quiet tonight. Ahem, Mr. Payne), "Anyone ever say you remind them of Joni Mitchell?"
A Jewel joke resulted, but the implication was clear. Her dulcet tones and heartfelt songs clearly drew from Mitchell and other early female folkies.
It was a shame that the first two sets had run long because a good portion of the audience left after their set, no doubt because it was a school night and getting late.
Those who stuck around for New Yorker Annie Crane's set were rewarded with a unique voice, despite the singer/songwriter having caught a cold from her sister.
She had just come from a songwriting workshop for high schoolers, teaching them about the songs that migrated from the old countries to the New World, and especially Appalachia.
Many in the audience got goosebumps when she sang a traditional Irish song a capella, a song like the kind her mother had sung in her childhood.
Her voice had just a bit of twang to it, leaving the listener with the sense that she was walking a fine line between Americana, folk and country.
Comparisons have been made about her voice to Emmy Lou Harris and Gillian Welch, both apt. Just a shame that more people didn't get to hear her.
In a nod to today's god-awful humidity, both the Philadelphian and the NewYorker made comments about the heat. Naturally, it never occurred to the Richmonder to state the obvious.
It's July, right?
Humidity reigns (although as the clerk in the grocery store noted to me today, "If it rains, it's just gonna feel worse.").
Humidity aside, for me awesome music reigned today, start to finish.
I should probably offer up a sacrifice to the music gods.
If I had a Jewel album, I suppose I could just break it and toss it on a funeral pyre.
But I don't, so I'll just say thank you, oh musical ones, from the bottom of my tone-deaf, music-loving heart.
It began with a road trip, always a fine time to listen to new music, and for this drive, I had two new CDs.
But not just any CDs, These were both advance copies from musician friends: Dave Watkins' debut CD and Paul Ivey's "This is the Hovercraft."
Since I'd been given Dave's first, I started with it.
How could I not fall in love with a CD with a song called "Marshall Street"? Hello, J-Ward Girl here.
And, as a porch-lover, don't even get me started on "House That's Mostly Porch," which decisively kicks off the album.
For that matter, how could I not be enamored of Dave's unique dulcitar playing and looping?
His soundscapes were the ideal music to accompany me as I drove 60 mph down a mostly deserted road.
Creating endless melodies and rhythms, adding in other instruments and occasional voices, his album is a post-rock lover's roadtrip wet dream.
And like any great post-rock CD, it has that one achingly beautiful but oh-so-short song ("In Case the World Ends") that makes a fan glad that someone makes this kind of music for the sake of giving your heart something to swell about.
Paul Ivey's CD brought back the energy and word play of really good late 70s and 80s New Wave.
Paul is such a talented guitar player and his voice has the sincerity and condescension of one who has an opinion on everything (hmm, funny I should like that so much) and a romantic's heart somewhere deep down.
"Gosnell's Hope" is Paul at his sweetest and "Look Out, Optional Claude!" is the oh-so-short song I want to hear in a club and watch everyone fall in love with it.
"Crushed Glass Pastry," which I've had the pleasure of hearing live, rocks and shows Paul's guitar chops, always a good thing. Favorite lyric: "You're only sorry cause you couldn't get away with it."
After three hours in the car listening to such terrific music, it was a good thing I had more in store. Otherwise, tonight would have been a let-down.
The Listening Room had a meager crowd until five minutes before showtime and then the floodgates opened.
Starting a little late (highly unusual for the LR), Richmonder Matt Lisk got things going by dedicating the first song to his Mom, a fairly regular LR attendee.
After a song where he whistled to replace the other guitar part his band would normally do, he dedicated "Sara's Song" to his sister.
His voice reminded me somewhat of David Gray's and he did several songs on piano rather than guitar.
In a nod to LR founder and local favorite son Jonathan Vassar, he even covered "A Match Made in Heaven."
As the first band to do a repeat performance at the LR, Philadelphia's Birdie Busch (with Todd from Hoots and Hellmouth on upright bass) brought her beautiful voice and lively stage banter back to RVA.
She was halfway through her set before she noticed the people seated on the side and said, "If we were Bruce Springsteen, we'd have a walkway to you."
Comic pause. "Maybe on our third visit," she laughed, before covering Neil Young.
An audience member yelled out (against the LR rules, but the crowd hadn't been reminded to keep quiet tonight. Ahem, Mr. Payne), "Anyone ever say you remind them of Joni Mitchell?"
A Jewel joke resulted, but the implication was clear. Her dulcet tones and heartfelt songs clearly drew from Mitchell and other early female folkies.
It was a shame that the first two sets had run long because a good portion of the audience left after their set, no doubt because it was a school night and getting late.
Those who stuck around for New Yorker Annie Crane's set were rewarded with a unique voice, despite the singer/songwriter having caught a cold from her sister.
She had just come from a songwriting workshop for high schoolers, teaching them about the songs that migrated from the old countries to the New World, and especially Appalachia.
Many in the audience got goosebumps when she sang a traditional Irish song a capella, a song like the kind her mother had sung in her childhood.
Her voice had just a bit of twang to it, leaving the listener with the sense that she was walking a fine line between Americana, folk and country.
Comparisons have been made about her voice to Emmy Lou Harris and Gillian Welch, both apt. Just a shame that more people didn't get to hear her.
In a nod to today's god-awful humidity, both the Philadelphian and the NewYorker made comments about the heat. Naturally, it never occurred to the Richmonder to state the obvious.
It's July, right?
Humidity reigns (although as the clerk in the grocery store noted to me today, "If it rains, it's just gonna feel worse.").
Humidity aside, for me awesome music reigned today, start to finish.
I should probably offer up a sacrifice to the music gods.
If I had a Jewel album, I suppose I could just break it and toss it on a funeral pyre.
But I don't, so I'll just say thank you, oh musical ones, from the bottom of my tone-deaf, music-loving heart.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Play's the Thing with Girl Parts
I know all about being surrounded by females.
Because I grew up in an all-girl family with five sisters (okay, obviously there was my Dad; that's where all those sisters came from) I never knew a shortage of females.
The same could be said for Firehouse Theater's staged reading of "A Gender-Reversed Hamlet" tonight.
There were nineteen women in the cast and only three guys.
It was beyond awesome.
Some of Richmond's best actresses had been pulled together to create a female cast in a play where usually men rule.
Not surprisingly, there was a full house to see how "Hamlet" played with estrogen.
There was a period of audience adjustment as we got our minds around seeing a black man (Todd Patterson) play Ophelia and a very tall white man (Joe Inscoe) play the role of Queen Gertrude.
Seeing Joe bend down almost a foot to lay his head on the King's shoulder required a certain open mindedness that challenged people, resulting in some tittering at what they were seeing.
But mostly, we were caught up in the drama of one of the best family tragedies ever written and the novelty of women playing men was forgotten.
Needless to say, this was not a sit-down style staged reading.
The actors moved around, interacting, grave digging and even fighting as the script required (scripts replaced rapiers).
Afterwards during the talkback, several people mentioned the uncomfortable laughter about men in women's roles.
It was explained away as something we're not culturally as comfortable with as women playing men.
The irony here, of course, is that in Shakespeare's time, all the roles would have been played by men.
Come on, Elizabethan women were not worthy of being players.
But that was then.
In tonight's version, Hamlet had a ponytail. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were babes.
Maybe it's my unique family history, but I really liked my Shakespeare with breasts.
Because I grew up in an all-girl family with five sisters (okay, obviously there was my Dad; that's where all those sisters came from) I never knew a shortage of females.
The same could be said for Firehouse Theater's staged reading of "A Gender-Reversed Hamlet" tonight.
There were nineteen women in the cast and only three guys.
It was beyond awesome.
Some of Richmond's best actresses had been pulled together to create a female cast in a play where usually men rule.
Not surprisingly, there was a full house to see how "Hamlet" played with estrogen.
There was a period of audience adjustment as we got our minds around seeing a black man (Todd Patterson) play Ophelia and a very tall white man (Joe Inscoe) play the role of Queen Gertrude.
Seeing Joe bend down almost a foot to lay his head on the King's shoulder required a certain open mindedness that challenged people, resulting in some tittering at what they were seeing.
But mostly, we were caught up in the drama of one of the best family tragedies ever written and the novelty of women playing men was forgotten.
Needless to say, this was not a sit-down style staged reading.
The actors moved around, interacting, grave digging and even fighting as the script required (scripts replaced rapiers).
Afterwards during the talkback, several people mentioned the uncomfortable laughter about men in women's roles.
It was explained away as something we're not culturally as comfortable with as women playing men.
The irony here, of course, is that in Shakespeare's time, all the roles would have been played by men.
Come on, Elizabethan women were not worthy of being players.
But that was then.
In tonight's version, Hamlet had a ponytail. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were babes.
Maybe it's my unique family history, but I really liked my Shakespeare with breasts.
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Citizen's Right to Feed
Although I don't work downtown, I've got no problem lunching down there with the worker bees.
When I'd seen Amuse's chef Greg Hanley last week, he'd asked if I'd been to Citizen yet to sample the food of Greg Johnson, former sous chef at Amuse.
I hadn't then. I have now.
Located below the Mutual Building on Main, the courtyard entrance is actually on 9th Street and a lovely entrance it is, shaded and adorned with plants and a bench for lingering.
Down below, Citizen was a demure space that looked like a typical downtown office lunch spot.
But changes are coming; they're planning to reupholster the seat cushions and were taking votes on the color (I voted, natch).
The simple breakfast and lunch menu isn't large but isn't ho-hum either. Breakfast is served all day and the eggs are local, so I plan to make my next visit earlier in the day and break my fast there.
The Chef said that sweets are on the way, maybe pastries and, with any luck, maybe Country Style donuts from over on Williamsburg Road.
That's great (but dangerous) news for a donut-lover like me.
For lunch, there were six tortas, pressed sandwiches on bolillo rolls (from a Latino bakery on Midlothian Turnpike) and each came with a side and a housemade pickle.
A woman ordering in front of me was on her third visit, despite Citizen only having been open for a week.
She said she intends to go down the menu until she's tasted everything. My kind of woman.
Today she chose the pulled pork with cabbage relish and cumin potatoes and the Chef told her it was his personal favorite.
I chose the salami, ham, Provolone torta with tapenade and on the side, curried chickpea stew.
But rather than eat inside, I took my lunch out to the courtyard.
Citizen plans to provide outdoor seating in the courtyard, but until they do, I planned to make my own.
No one else was out there, so I spread out my feast on the bench and had at it.
I really enjoyed my torta, appreciating that it had just enough tapenade to make it flavorful without overwhelming the meats.
But the star was the curried chickpea stew which, with a slightly larger serving, would have been a meal in and of itself.
A thick melange of delicately-flavored curried chickpeas, tomatoes, corn, and celery had me spooning up a hot dish like the temperature was thirty degrees lower.
Impressive, too, was the house-made pickle, a reminder that there is no resemblance between commercial pickles and those made at the hands of a pickle lover.
Biting into this one was an exercise in appreciating a well-seasoned cucumber.
As I sat eating, a couple of lawyer-looking types entered the courtyard and peered around the railing.
"You should go down," I advised them unasked. "The food is really good."
"They should have better signage," the one grumbled. Actually, I think word of mouth is going to make every downtown worker aware of Citizen very quickly, so signage will be superfluous.
So they went downstairs and I went back to my newspaper and delicious $6.00 lunch.
It may be the closest thing to all those long-ago lunches I ate in Farragut Square that I've had since moving here.
As a bonus, there were no annoying pigeons begging for food. Or bloated lobbyists walking by.
Then again, the Gen Ass isn't in session.
Note to self: now's the time to enjoy Citizen.
When I'd seen Amuse's chef Greg Hanley last week, he'd asked if I'd been to Citizen yet to sample the food of Greg Johnson, former sous chef at Amuse.
I hadn't then. I have now.
Located below the Mutual Building on Main, the courtyard entrance is actually on 9th Street and a lovely entrance it is, shaded and adorned with plants and a bench for lingering.
Down below, Citizen was a demure space that looked like a typical downtown office lunch spot.
But changes are coming; they're planning to reupholster the seat cushions and were taking votes on the color (I voted, natch).
The simple breakfast and lunch menu isn't large but isn't ho-hum either. Breakfast is served all day and the eggs are local, so I plan to make my next visit earlier in the day and break my fast there.
The Chef said that sweets are on the way, maybe pastries and, with any luck, maybe Country Style donuts from over on Williamsburg Road.
That's great (but dangerous) news for a donut-lover like me.
For lunch, there were six tortas, pressed sandwiches on bolillo rolls (from a Latino bakery on Midlothian Turnpike) and each came with a side and a housemade pickle.
A woman ordering in front of me was on her third visit, despite Citizen only having been open for a week.
She said she intends to go down the menu until she's tasted everything. My kind of woman.
Today she chose the pulled pork with cabbage relish and cumin potatoes and the Chef told her it was his personal favorite.
I chose the salami, ham, Provolone torta with tapenade and on the side, curried chickpea stew.
But rather than eat inside, I took my lunch out to the courtyard.
Citizen plans to provide outdoor seating in the courtyard, but until they do, I planned to make my own.
No one else was out there, so I spread out my feast on the bench and had at it.
I really enjoyed my torta, appreciating that it had just enough tapenade to make it flavorful without overwhelming the meats.
But the star was the curried chickpea stew which, with a slightly larger serving, would have been a meal in and of itself.
A thick melange of delicately-flavored curried chickpeas, tomatoes, corn, and celery had me spooning up a hot dish like the temperature was thirty degrees lower.
Impressive, too, was the house-made pickle, a reminder that there is no resemblance between commercial pickles and those made at the hands of a pickle lover.
Biting into this one was an exercise in appreciating a well-seasoned cucumber.
As I sat eating, a couple of lawyer-looking types entered the courtyard and peered around the railing.
"You should go down," I advised them unasked. "The food is really good."
"They should have better signage," the one grumbled. Actually, I think word of mouth is going to make every downtown worker aware of Citizen very quickly, so signage will be superfluous.
So they went downstairs and I went back to my newspaper and delicious $6.00 lunch.
It may be the closest thing to all those long-ago lunches I ate in Farragut Square that I've had since moving here.
As a bonus, there were no annoying pigeons begging for food. Or bloated lobbyists walking by.
Then again, the Gen Ass isn't in session.
Note to self: now's the time to enjoy Citizen.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Now I'm a Rare Noteworthy Object
Alas, how love can trifle with itself.
Nothing like a little outdoor Shakespeare to remind me of the many ways there are to love and the endless outcomes of doing so.
Arriving at Agecroft Hall early enough to spread a blanket under a shady tree, I admired the view of the river and the train bridge through the trees before settling in with my book.
There weren't many people on the lawn this evening, but I heard a champagne cork pop from somewhere in the bricked garden behind me. That's the way to pre-game at Agecroft.
A group of players came by and offered me one of four monologues; my choices were Much Ado about Nothing, The Tempest, As You Like It or The Taming of the Shrew, which I chose.
Petruchio's speech about how to kill a wife with kindness was delivered beautifully by a young man who afterwards doffed his hat and thanked me for listening.
I gathered up my things as they went over to another group to perform for them.
The house was not sold out tonight, so I easily got a front row center seat with little effort on my part. I'd be able to see the actors spit and sweat.
There were only five others who joined me in the entire front two rows while people sat ten rows back. I'll never understand that choice.
And by sitting in the front, I got acknowledged within the first minute of the play. Valentine wants his friend Proteus to leave town with him and Proteus wants to stay because of a girl.
When Proteus responds, "Will thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, think on thy Proteus, when thou happily seest some rare noteworthy object in thy travel," it was with a gesture toward me.
You don't get that kind of attention sitting in the back rows, no, sir.
Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes
The story about multiple men in love had only one character cross-dressing, but then it's one of Shakespeare's earliest. With time came more.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle a fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words
The cast of a dozen was on point even as they sweated in suits and leather jackets despite a beautifully temperate night for an outdoor play.
That man hath a tongue, I say, is no man
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman
Like all good Agecroft productions, the 500-year old manor house was used to great advantage, with actors spitting in the flower beds, speaking through a window and running down the sides of the courtyard. Shakespeare would be proud.
The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns
But there are risks to the realism. In one scene Sylvia goes running down the aisle, only to return with a skinned knee in the next scene. Somewhere she took a fall, but the show must go on.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her
"Two Gentlemen" has a lot to do with the exuberance of love, but also the importance of forgiveness. When Proteus switches his heart from Julia to Sylvia and back again, he benefits by Julia's forgiveness and abiding love.
I have no reason but a woman's reason
I think him so because I think him so
He moves me
The production also benefited from a duo providing music before the show and during intermission, but also as musicians in the play and for the dancing that ended it all.
Oh, heaven! Were man but constant, he were perfect
And dancing was appropriate by that time because everyone was in love with the right person, mistakes had been forgiven and outlaws had been pardoned.
Hope is a lover's staff
Walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts
By that point, you could almost say all's well that ends well.
Oh, wait, he eventually did.
Nothing like a little outdoor Shakespeare to remind me of the many ways there are to love and the endless outcomes of doing so.
Arriving at Agecroft Hall early enough to spread a blanket under a shady tree, I admired the view of the river and the train bridge through the trees before settling in with my book.
There weren't many people on the lawn this evening, but I heard a champagne cork pop from somewhere in the bricked garden behind me. That's the way to pre-game at Agecroft.
A group of players came by and offered me one of four monologues; my choices were Much Ado about Nothing, The Tempest, As You Like It or The Taming of the Shrew, which I chose.
Petruchio's speech about how to kill a wife with kindness was delivered beautifully by a young man who afterwards doffed his hat and thanked me for listening.
I gathered up my things as they went over to another group to perform for them.
The house was not sold out tonight, so I easily got a front row center seat with little effort on my part. I'd be able to see the actors spit and sweat.
There were only five others who joined me in the entire front two rows while people sat ten rows back. I'll never understand that choice.
And by sitting in the front, I got acknowledged within the first minute of the play. Valentine wants his friend Proteus to leave town with him and Proteus wants to stay because of a girl.
When Proteus responds, "Will thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, think on thy Proteus, when thou happily seest some rare noteworthy object in thy travel," it was with a gesture toward me.
You don't get that kind of attention sitting in the back rows, no, sir.
Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes
The story about multiple men in love had only one character cross-dressing, but then it's one of Shakespeare's earliest. With time came more.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle a fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words
The cast of a dozen was on point even as they sweated in suits and leather jackets despite a beautifully temperate night for an outdoor play.
That man hath a tongue, I say, is no man
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman
Like all good Agecroft productions, the 500-year old manor house was used to great advantage, with actors spitting in the flower beds, speaking through a window and running down the sides of the courtyard. Shakespeare would be proud.
The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns
But there are risks to the realism. In one scene Sylvia goes running down the aisle, only to return with a skinned knee in the next scene. Somewhere she took a fall, but the show must go on.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her
"Two Gentlemen" has a lot to do with the exuberance of love, but also the importance of forgiveness. When Proteus switches his heart from Julia to Sylvia and back again, he benefits by Julia's forgiveness and abiding love.
I have no reason but a woman's reason
I think him so because I think him so
He moves me
The production also benefited from a duo providing music before the show and during intermission, but also as musicians in the play and for the dancing that ended it all.
Oh, heaven! Were man but constant, he were perfect
And dancing was appropriate by that time because everyone was in love with the right person, mistakes had been forgiven and outlaws had been pardoned.
Hope is a lover's staff
Walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts
By that point, you could almost say all's well that ends well.
Oh, wait, he eventually did.
On Wearing a "Legalize It" Sticker
It was a combination of things that got me to an urban chicken documentary this afternoon.
When I was in third grade, our class did a chicken project. Each student had an egg with his name on it in an incubator in the classroom.
We had to turn them daily, eventually they hatched (and class disrupted every time we heard the tell-tale pecking that meant one was on the way out) and then we got to take them home.
You can imagine my city mother's excitement over having a baby chick in the house along with six daughters under eight.
We ended up giving the chick to our milkman Ollie who had a farm where, presumably, the chick lived out a happy free-ranging life.
For all I know, we ate its eggs in the deliveries we got from Ollie over the years.
Every time I drive to the Northern Neck to visit my parents, I pass a farm on Route 360 with a sign on a sample chicken coop saying "Coops for Sale."
Just two days ago, I'd enjoyed a 24-hour old fried egg at Amuse that reminded me what eggs are supposed to taste (and look) like.
So today's showing of "Mad City Chickens" at the Byrd seemed like an interesting and informative way to wile away the afternoon.
While waiting to buy my ticket, the woman in front of me told the ticket seller, "I have my own four chickens. If you ever try your own chicken's eggs, you'll never buy eggs from the store again."
Clearly the audience was going to be a mix of chicken owners and the rest of us.
Beginning with a quite by Grandma Moses, "If I hadn't started painting, I would have raised chickens," the film told the story of long-time chicken owners, recent converts, the people who fought to make keeping chickens legal in their cities and experts like the editor of "Backyard Poultry" magazine.
Color me surprised that there was such a publication, but after an initial printing of 15,000 copies, they had to reprint twice due to demand.
Damn, that's a lot of chicken lovers.
To my amazement, there was even a woman in the movie from the Society for the Preservation of Poultry Antiquities. Where do you think the term "egg money" came from?
I live to find out about arcane facts like that.
For a documentary, there was a lot of humor, including a giant hen stepping out of a painting and taking over the streets chasing terrified workers.
But mostly it was real people talking about the satisfaction and pleasures of owning chickens, savoring fresh eggs and feeling a connection to the source of their food.
Only an idiot wouldn't be taken by the studies showing that pasture-raised eggs have a third less cholesterol as well as significantly more bet-carotene, Vitamin A and Omega 3s than factory-farmed eggs.
During the question and answer period afterwards, a show of hands revealed that fully a third of the audience already have chickens and another third aspire to.
I only know two friends who do, but both rave about the birds and the eggs. And neither is in Jackson Ward.
Of course, Richmond was not listed among the legally chicken-friendly cities like New York, Portland, London, Madison and Seattle. Sigh.
And that's where ChickunzRVA comes in. They're a grass roots movement to legalize urban chickens in the greater Richmond area.
I had plastered one of their stickers to my dress when I bought my ticket and had signed their petition at Broad Appetit.
And while I couldn't possibly add urban chicken raising to everything else that I do, I would love having a neighbor willing to share/barter fresh eggs with me.
To paraphrase Grandma Moses, if I hadn't taken up non-stop culture, eating and drinking, I would have raised chickens.
Seriously, how many people get started in the third grade?
When I was in third grade, our class did a chicken project. Each student had an egg with his name on it in an incubator in the classroom.
We had to turn them daily, eventually they hatched (and class disrupted every time we heard the tell-tale pecking that meant one was on the way out) and then we got to take them home.
You can imagine my city mother's excitement over having a baby chick in the house along with six daughters under eight.
We ended up giving the chick to our milkman Ollie who had a farm where, presumably, the chick lived out a happy free-ranging life.
For all I know, we ate its eggs in the deliveries we got from Ollie over the years.
Every time I drive to the Northern Neck to visit my parents, I pass a farm on Route 360 with a sign on a sample chicken coop saying "Coops for Sale."
Just two days ago, I'd enjoyed a 24-hour old fried egg at Amuse that reminded me what eggs are supposed to taste (and look) like.
So today's showing of "Mad City Chickens" at the Byrd seemed like an interesting and informative way to wile away the afternoon.
While waiting to buy my ticket, the woman in front of me told the ticket seller, "I have my own four chickens. If you ever try your own chicken's eggs, you'll never buy eggs from the store again."
Clearly the audience was going to be a mix of chicken owners and the rest of us.
Beginning with a quite by Grandma Moses, "If I hadn't started painting, I would have raised chickens," the film told the story of long-time chicken owners, recent converts, the people who fought to make keeping chickens legal in their cities and experts like the editor of "Backyard Poultry" magazine.
Color me surprised that there was such a publication, but after an initial printing of 15,000 copies, they had to reprint twice due to demand.
Damn, that's a lot of chicken lovers.
To my amazement, there was even a woman in the movie from the Society for the Preservation of Poultry Antiquities. Where do you think the term "egg money" came from?
I live to find out about arcane facts like that.
For a documentary, there was a lot of humor, including a giant hen stepping out of a painting and taking over the streets chasing terrified workers.
But mostly it was real people talking about the satisfaction and pleasures of owning chickens, savoring fresh eggs and feeling a connection to the source of their food.
Only an idiot wouldn't be taken by the studies showing that pasture-raised eggs have a third less cholesterol as well as significantly more bet-carotene, Vitamin A and Omega 3s than factory-farmed eggs.
During the question and answer period afterwards, a show of hands revealed that fully a third of the audience already have chickens and another third aspire to.
I only know two friends who do, but both rave about the birds and the eggs. And neither is in Jackson Ward.
Of course, Richmond was not listed among the legally chicken-friendly cities like New York, Portland, London, Madison and Seattle. Sigh.
And that's where ChickunzRVA comes in. They're a grass roots movement to legalize urban chickens in the greater Richmond area.
I had plastered one of their stickers to my dress when I bought my ticket and had signed their petition at Broad Appetit.
And while I couldn't possibly add urban chicken raising to everything else that I do, I would love having a neighbor willing to share/barter fresh eggs with me.
To paraphrase Grandma Moses, if I hadn't taken up non-stop culture, eating and drinking, I would have raised chickens.
Seriously, how many people get started in the third grade?
Long Arms to Hold All the Girls
"My heart stopped when I saw you walk in."
Given the right circumstances, those words would make a girl go weak in the knees but they had another meaning entirely tonight.
I'd gone to the Camel to see a triple bill with Long Arms headlining. Long Arms is the band of my fellow nerd and lecture-attendee, James.
He has chastised me more than once for not attending the band's shows (always due to a prior commitment, I might add) so my arrival had been noted immediately.
He gasped, he gave me a hard time, but I was glad to finally take away his ammo. Then I told him what a great Civil War lecture he'd missed Thursday night at the Library of Virginia...and he wanted details.
That's a nerd.
There was already a good-sized crowd milling about and it was barely 10:00, not always the case
It should be noted and exclaimed over that the show began on time. At the Camel on a Saturday night. Whoa.
Promptly at 10, DC singer/songwriter Justin Jones (with an upright bass player, but minus the Driving Rain) started playing, making sure to include some "Saturday night songs."
Despite a well-executed set, the crowd talked on.
A friend came over to ask me why a girl was wearing a see-through shirt, as if I would know what goes on in the mind of a 22-year old.
"Does Taco Bell wrap their burritos in clear plastic?" he asked rhetorically. "No. Where's the anticipation with that?" No clue.
Meanwhile, I noted a guy in a blue "I ♥ Hot Moms" t-shirt, not one you see every day, especially at a show.
When Justin left the stage, his button-down shirt was soaked through front and back from his energetic set.
Horsehead was next and after the first song, a girl walked by me, stopped and noted, "Look at the singer with the hat on. He looks like Kid Rock." True that.
Calling their set a "rock show," the band went hard, with Kevin delivering his usual guitar magnificence.
"This is Kevin's debut on piano," we were told. "If you ask what Kevin plays, Kevin plays everything." And very well, I might add.
The girl at the merch table next to me decided to mount the back of the booth (beer in hand) to see better and as she did so, she requested, "If I fall, you have to catch me."
Ethically, maybe, but she wasn't the boss of me. On the other hand, I did not want a body dropping on to me from above, so I kept one eye peeled in her direction.
In addition to the transparent and the hot mom-loving attire, there was an abundance of girls in strapless and low-cut dresses tonight. It was almost as if a memo had gone out.
Curious about it, I asked someone for an explanation, only to be told that they were hoping to get lucky with James.
Nerdy James? James I see at the Historical Society with alarming regularity? James who gloats over knowing about a lecture I don't?
Inquiring minds had to know. Next time James passed me, I asked him outright.
"I heard all these scantily-clad girls are here because they want to have sex with you."
He grinned.
"They might be," he allowed. "Well, no not really. Well, maybe."
A friend later told me that if I didn't want to sleep with James, I failed the heterosexuality test.
For what it's worth, he's also the friend who greeted me by saying, "I'd ask what you've been up to, but I can do the research myself."
Yet another of my comedian/musician friends.
A cake had been baked for the occasion, frosted in turquoise icing to match the turquoise 7" Horsehead/Long Arms record being released tonight.
I had no qualms whatsoever about being the first to cut the cake (nod to AWB), putting two pieces on my plate and sharing with a friend who assured me that my sexuality was not in question because I didn't want to sleep with James.
Long Arms rocked hard from the second they began their set, playing songs from their CD and the new record.
The highlight came when James said, "This is a song about a woman from the Civil War who lived in Church Hill." A runaway? A spy? Are we talking Elizabeth van Lewes?
Forget Sexy Beast, that's the nerd I know.
Given the right circumstances, those words would make a girl go weak in the knees but they had another meaning entirely tonight.
I'd gone to the Camel to see a triple bill with Long Arms headlining. Long Arms is the band of my fellow nerd and lecture-attendee, James.
He has chastised me more than once for not attending the band's shows (always due to a prior commitment, I might add) so my arrival had been noted immediately.
He gasped, he gave me a hard time, but I was glad to finally take away his ammo. Then I told him what a great Civil War lecture he'd missed Thursday night at the Library of Virginia...and he wanted details.
That's a nerd.
There was already a good-sized crowd milling about and it was barely 10:00, not always the case
It should be noted and exclaimed over that the show began on time. At the Camel on a Saturday night. Whoa.
Promptly at 10, DC singer/songwriter Justin Jones (with an upright bass player, but minus the Driving Rain) started playing, making sure to include some "Saturday night songs."
Despite a well-executed set, the crowd talked on.
A friend came over to ask me why a girl was wearing a see-through shirt, as if I would know what goes on in the mind of a 22-year old.
"Does Taco Bell wrap their burritos in clear plastic?" he asked rhetorically. "No. Where's the anticipation with that?" No clue.
Meanwhile, I noted a guy in a blue "I ♥ Hot Moms" t-shirt, not one you see every day, especially at a show.
When Justin left the stage, his button-down shirt was soaked through front and back from his energetic set.
Horsehead was next and after the first song, a girl walked by me, stopped and noted, "Look at the singer with the hat on. He looks like Kid Rock." True that.
Calling their set a "rock show," the band went hard, with Kevin delivering his usual guitar magnificence.
"This is Kevin's debut on piano," we were told. "If you ask what Kevin plays, Kevin plays everything." And very well, I might add.
The girl at the merch table next to me decided to mount the back of the booth (beer in hand) to see better and as she did so, she requested, "If I fall, you have to catch me."
Ethically, maybe, but she wasn't the boss of me. On the other hand, I did not want a body dropping on to me from above, so I kept one eye peeled in her direction.
In addition to the transparent and the hot mom-loving attire, there was an abundance of girls in strapless and low-cut dresses tonight. It was almost as if a memo had gone out.
Curious about it, I asked someone for an explanation, only to be told that they were hoping to get lucky with James.
Nerdy James? James I see at the Historical Society with alarming regularity? James who gloats over knowing about a lecture I don't?
Inquiring minds had to know. Next time James passed me, I asked him outright.
"I heard all these scantily-clad girls are here because they want to have sex with you."
He grinned.
"They might be," he allowed. "Well, no not really. Well, maybe."
A friend later told me that if I didn't want to sleep with James, I failed the heterosexuality test.
For what it's worth, he's also the friend who greeted me by saying, "I'd ask what you've been up to, but I can do the research myself."
Yet another of my comedian/musician friends.
A cake had been baked for the occasion, frosted in turquoise icing to match the turquoise 7" Horsehead/Long Arms record being released tonight.
I had no qualms whatsoever about being the first to cut the cake (nod to AWB), putting two pieces on my plate and sharing with a friend who assured me that my sexuality was not in question because I didn't want to sleep with James.
Long Arms rocked hard from the second they began their set, playing songs from their CD and the new record.
The highlight came when James said, "This is a song about a woman from the Civil War who lived in Church Hill." A runaway? A spy? Are we talking Elizabeth van Lewes?
Forget Sexy Beast, that's the nerd I know.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Dirty Rotten Reckoning
The last time I went to a Barksdale production where people walked out, it was the older contingent and because of full frontal male nudity.
Today it was wholesome families and because of crude humor and loads of sexual references ("Wrap your legs around my head and crush it like a grape").
Kudos to Barksdale. I say if you can't stand the heat of comedy, stay out of the theatrical kitchen.
We went to the matinee of "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" at the Empire Theater, making for an easy five-block walk from my apartment to our ninth row center seats.
The story of two con men trying to see who can score with a wealthy woman first allowed for lots of physical humor and bawdy talk, but also several local references.
During Scott Wichmann's masterfully-done "Great Big Stuff" rap, he was singing about the things he could afford if only he had money.
"I can finally see a Barksdale show!" he sang to much amusement among the theater-going set.
Later when the seasoned con goes to divide up the world into con territories, he gives the newcomer the lowest locations: China, Iceland, El Salvador...and Goochland. Ouch.
Dialog was funny, often raunchy and quick, so some of the oldsters near me missed a lot of good lines.
You need to stay awake at the opera!
It was six hours!
It was WAGNER!
I don't want to have sex and eat bacon for SIX hours!
Because, as we all know, the barometer by which we measure pleasure in life is having sex and eating bacon. No, really.
But I think it was the references to shaved testicles, genital clamps, KY Jelly, and milkshake enemas that may have caused the happy family next to me to jump ship at intermission, leaving candy wrappers and soda cups strewn in their part of the row they had just vacated.
I could tell when they didn't laugh at seeing Wichmann in boxers with one cheek fully visible, much less at the political jokes, that Mom was not enjoying herself.
Too bad they couldn't just focus on the humor, like the character singing about her heart's desire:
Let me have love unending
Let me look good in shorts
What she said.
I know, it's asking a lot, but it's funny. That's why it's called comedy.
Today it was wholesome families and because of crude humor and loads of sexual references ("Wrap your legs around my head and crush it like a grape").
Kudos to Barksdale. I say if you can't stand the heat of comedy, stay out of the theatrical kitchen.
We went to the matinee of "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" at the Empire Theater, making for an easy five-block walk from my apartment to our ninth row center seats.
The story of two con men trying to see who can score with a wealthy woman first allowed for lots of physical humor and bawdy talk, but also several local references.
During Scott Wichmann's masterfully-done "Great Big Stuff" rap, he was singing about the things he could afford if only he had money.
"I can finally see a Barksdale show!" he sang to much amusement among the theater-going set.
Later when the seasoned con goes to divide up the world into con territories, he gives the newcomer the lowest locations: China, Iceland, El Salvador...and Goochland. Ouch.
Dialog was funny, often raunchy and quick, so some of the oldsters near me missed a lot of good lines.
You need to stay awake at the opera!
It was six hours!
It was WAGNER!
I don't want to have sex and eat bacon for SIX hours!
Because, as we all know, the barometer by which we measure pleasure in life is having sex and eating bacon. No, really.
But I think it was the references to shaved testicles, genital clamps, KY Jelly, and milkshake enemas that may have caused the happy family next to me to jump ship at intermission, leaving candy wrappers and soda cups strewn in their part of the row they had just vacated.
I could tell when they didn't laugh at seeing Wichmann in boxers with one cheek fully visible, much less at the political jokes, that Mom was not enjoying herself.
Too bad they couldn't just focus on the humor, like the character singing about her heart's desire:
Let me have love unending
Let me look good in shorts
What she said.
I know, it's asking a lot, but it's funny. That's why it's called comedy.
Yolks and Oats Took the Cake
It's amazing I could even fit in seeing a film between all the eating that we did tonight.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Amuse and they were bringing her mother, on a visit here from Ukraine.
With the beautiful day pulling people out to the balcony, I had no problem scoring four stools at the bar and was rewarded with a glass of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
While I awaited their arrival, I admired a nearby server's dinner, one of the evening's specials.
Byrd Mill grits supported pork belly and a fried egg from Ayrshire Farms, with Brussels sprouts and Hanover tomato jam on the side. I wanted to face-plant in her plate, but refrained.
The color of the yolk was so brilliant that I knew that the egg hadn't been long out of the chicken. But we were not there to eat because the Friday Film started at 6:30.
Of course once my friends arrived, I glowingly described what I'd witnessed and we ordered it as a pre- movie snack.
Every element was perfection from the just-laid-yesterday egg oozing over it all to the tantalizing sweetness of the tomato jam complementing the slight bitterness of the sprout leaves.
We pig lovers appreciated that the piece of pork belly was large and meaty with just enough of a layer of fat to make it decadent without being able to actually hear your arteries hardening as you ate.
Best of all, Chef Greg Hanley wandered out to introduce himself, so I got a chance to go on and on about the sublime creation we'd just inhaled.
After so many good meals at Amuse, it was a real pleasure to finally put a face and personality to the man's impressive output. He already knew how much I eat.
Before long he was off to the kitchen and we were off to the movies. Showing this evening was local filmmaker Sonali Gulati's film "I Am."
Several years ago, I'd seen her film "Nalini By Day, Nancy By Night" about the double lives of Indian call center employees and had been impressed with her storytelling ability.
When I'd gotten my ticket for tonight's film, the guy selling it to me had said, "It's a really good film. I just got to see it in film class. You're going to like it."
He was correct. Gulati's documentary about returning to India after her mother died and after she'd come out as a lesbian was moving, funny and well-done.
She began by thanking her partner for sitting through it again tonight, "For the 140th time." As I like to remind myself, no sacrifice is too great for love.
Six years in the making, it told the stories of other gays as well as herself, and the difficulties they faced in a country where homosexuality was outlawed until 2009.
The film traced her going to a doctor who said he could cure her of her lesbianism with a serum. She admitted that she hesitated taking it because, "What if it worked?"
It was heartening to see how many Indian parents got over their initial reactions to learning their children were gay.
After homosexuality was decriminalized, the scenes of celebrants included parents proudly supporting their children in a way that seemed unlikely at the start of the film.
As one placard said, "Proud to be Indian. Proud to be gay. No need to choose."
The film got a standing ovation from the very diverse straight and gay crowd.
After the screening, Gulati took questions from the audience, many of whom were curious about how traumatic it had been for her never to have come out to her mother before her untimely death. She handled all questions with poise, humor and honesty.
Then we had to skedaddle before the museum closed and we turned into pumpkins, but not before discussing a desire to see the VMFA (and Amuse) open on additional evenings. Members can hope, can't they?
We decided on dinner at the Empress, settled into a front booth and prepared to eat more than we needed to.
I started with an organic wine, Haut-Poitou Sauvignon Blanc, fresh and crisp and not too fruity (insert corny gay joke here).
An amuse bouche of a tiny slice of sweet potato with a dollop of cream, lemon verbena and volcanic sea salt was a bite of heaven. We were ready for the kitchen to bring it on.
Truffle vichyssoise (looking like a bowl of whipped cream it was so thick and dense), tuna tartare (with a ginger-honey sauce that was irresistible), Meaty Caprese (roll ups of cured meat, Mozzarella and basil over chopped tomatoes and pomegranate molasses), bison lasagna (surprisingly and deliciously spicy with a strong red pepper element), pistachio-crusted duck breast (boasting a habanero-blueberry sauce and feta/mushroom oats, both of which were the undisputed stars of the meal) and the evening fish special (king clip over kale with a tomato pan sauce).
Good thing we'd had a snack before the movie to tide us over. True, there were four of us, but we ate a lot of food for four people, even with two Ukrainians amongst us.
Afterwards, we agreed that dessert was unnecessary, but that we'd listen to the choices. Big mistake.
One of the evening's specials was a lavender and local honey creme brulee. The honey was from Nelson County and the lavender was from their herb garden out behind the restaurant.
My preference is for chocolate creme brulee, but this delicately nuanced version was like inhaling a summer day in the garden. Everyone agreed that it had a beautiful, fresh taste.
And then we all exploded from over-eating and that was the end of the night.
No, no, actually I came home and sat on the porch admiring the full moon and trying to make sense of life on such a beautiful night.
I laughed when a friend recently told me, "Reading your life is like watching a great TV show."
That's one way of looking at it.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Amuse and they were bringing her mother, on a visit here from Ukraine.
With the beautiful day pulling people out to the balcony, I had no problem scoring four stools at the bar and was rewarded with a glass of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
While I awaited their arrival, I admired a nearby server's dinner, one of the evening's specials.
Byrd Mill grits supported pork belly and a fried egg from Ayrshire Farms, with Brussels sprouts and Hanover tomato jam on the side. I wanted to face-plant in her plate, but refrained.
The color of the yolk was so brilliant that I knew that the egg hadn't been long out of the chicken. But we were not there to eat because the Friday Film started at 6:30.
Of course once my friends arrived, I glowingly described what I'd witnessed and we ordered it as a pre- movie snack.
Every element was perfection from the just-laid-yesterday egg oozing over it all to the tantalizing sweetness of the tomato jam complementing the slight bitterness of the sprout leaves.
We pig lovers appreciated that the piece of pork belly was large and meaty with just enough of a layer of fat to make it decadent without being able to actually hear your arteries hardening as you ate.
Best of all, Chef Greg Hanley wandered out to introduce himself, so I got a chance to go on and on about the sublime creation we'd just inhaled.
After so many good meals at Amuse, it was a real pleasure to finally put a face and personality to the man's impressive output. He already knew how much I eat.
Before long he was off to the kitchen and we were off to the movies. Showing this evening was local filmmaker Sonali Gulati's film "I Am."
Several years ago, I'd seen her film "Nalini By Day, Nancy By Night" about the double lives of Indian call center employees and had been impressed with her storytelling ability.
When I'd gotten my ticket for tonight's film, the guy selling it to me had said, "It's a really good film. I just got to see it in film class. You're going to like it."
He was correct. Gulati's documentary about returning to India after her mother died and after she'd come out as a lesbian was moving, funny and well-done.
She began by thanking her partner for sitting through it again tonight, "For the 140th time." As I like to remind myself, no sacrifice is too great for love.
Six years in the making, it told the stories of other gays as well as herself, and the difficulties they faced in a country where homosexuality was outlawed until 2009.
The film traced her going to a doctor who said he could cure her of her lesbianism with a serum. She admitted that she hesitated taking it because, "What if it worked?"
It was heartening to see how many Indian parents got over their initial reactions to learning their children were gay.
After homosexuality was decriminalized, the scenes of celebrants included parents proudly supporting their children in a way that seemed unlikely at the start of the film.
As one placard said, "Proud to be Indian. Proud to be gay. No need to choose."
The film got a standing ovation from the very diverse straight and gay crowd.
After the screening, Gulati took questions from the audience, many of whom were curious about how traumatic it had been for her never to have come out to her mother before her untimely death. She handled all questions with poise, humor and honesty.
Then we had to skedaddle before the museum closed and we turned into pumpkins, but not before discussing a desire to see the VMFA (and Amuse) open on additional evenings. Members can hope, can't they?
We decided on dinner at the Empress, settled into a front booth and prepared to eat more than we needed to.
I started with an organic wine, Haut-Poitou Sauvignon Blanc, fresh and crisp and not too fruity (insert corny gay joke here).
An amuse bouche of a tiny slice of sweet potato with a dollop of cream, lemon verbena and volcanic sea salt was a bite of heaven. We were ready for the kitchen to bring it on.
Truffle vichyssoise (looking like a bowl of whipped cream it was so thick and dense), tuna tartare (with a ginger-honey sauce that was irresistible), Meaty Caprese (roll ups of cured meat, Mozzarella and basil over chopped tomatoes and pomegranate molasses), bison lasagna (surprisingly and deliciously spicy with a strong red pepper element), pistachio-crusted duck breast (boasting a habanero-blueberry sauce and feta/mushroom oats, both of which were the undisputed stars of the meal) and the evening fish special (king clip over kale with a tomato pan sauce).
Good thing we'd had a snack before the movie to tide us over. True, there were four of us, but we ate a lot of food for four people, even with two Ukrainians amongst us.
Afterwards, we agreed that dessert was unnecessary, but that we'd listen to the choices. Big mistake.
One of the evening's specials was a lavender and local honey creme brulee. The honey was from Nelson County and the lavender was from their herb garden out behind the restaurant.
My preference is for chocolate creme brulee, but this delicately nuanced version was like inhaling a summer day in the garden. Everyone agreed that it had a beautiful, fresh taste.
And then we all exploded from over-eating and that was the end of the night.
No, no, actually I came home and sat on the porch admiring the full moon and trying to make sense of life on such a beautiful night.
I laughed when a friend recently told me, "Reading your life is like watching a great TV show."
That's one way of looking at it.
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