It's official. I've now seen Neko Case in four cities, a personal record for any band.
I'd been looking forward to this show for ages. I had an entire day in Charlottesville planned around it. It was going to be spectacular and include all the elements I love.
But if you read the previous post, you know today got away from me. Today got the upper hand.
As it was I had just enough time to pick up my car, get cleaned up and make it to Charlottesville two songs into opener Doug Paisley's set.
As I walked into the Jefferson Theater for the first time, he was telling a story about mailing a package and being asked if it was perishable.
No, he said it was ephemeral and attributed being in a college town to both he and the clerk knowing the relationship between the two words.
His sad songs had a dreamy quality and his smart lyrics reflected a guy with a lot going on in his head. He closed with a stunner, "Come Here, My Love."
He suggested folks find him at the merch table after the show and compare accents (he's Canadian). He looked sad there, too.
Although the box office had signs up saying the show was sold out, it was obvious sold out has a different meaning at the Jefferson than at the National.
The place was full, but not anywhere near uncomfortably so.
Interestingly enough, the first place that filled up was the seated balcony. I saw a lot of people try to go upstairs, only to return and have to "settle" for standing.
I was right in front of the sound booth, as usual, and since the room is much smaller (I'd guess it holds about 600), it had a much more intimate feel than the National.
Neko Case came out, red hair aflame and looking lovely, and began things with "That Teenage Feeling" ("I don't care if forever never comes cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling").
She had a four-piece band (upright bass, drums, guitar and pedal steel/banjo) and her regular backup singer, Hogan.
She chatted a lot with the audience (a talkative one unfortunately) about her band mates, about Kiss songs with flute parts ("That should never happen") and about her 1929 guitar.
Putting her electric guitar down, she said, "If you guys knew how dirty that guitar was, you'd be grossed out."
A fan yelled out a compliment about her toned arms, to which she replied, "Aw, shucks," before explaining the band's pre-show ritual.
"That's what we say to each other after we get dressed for a show: How do I look? Would you tap this?" she said to great laughter. "Then we say I would tap that with the light on."
There probably weren't many guys (and no doubt more than a few women) in the audience who wouldn't jump at the chance to tap Neko Case.
Her set rolled through so many beautiful songs (including the sad ones she said make her cry in rehearsal); she got big reactions to "Don't Forget Me," "Porchlight" and "Hold On," saving "Favorite" for part of the encore.
She must be a favorite of mine considering how many places and times I've seen her (and that doesn't even count with the New Pornographers).
I attribute it to that absolutely unique voice (which was in fine form tonight) and her repertoire of lost love songs.
She makes the perfect music to listen to when you want to wallow in what you don't have.
And if Neko Case is still working on getting it right, no wonder it's not falling in my lap.
Tap-worthy or not.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
An Epic Adventure
It doesn't take much to talk me into a road trip to DC.
In this case it was a gimmee. A friend was staying at an award-winning hotel and wanted me to come up for the night.
We were going to have dinner at a classic Washington restaurant four blocks from where I last lived up there, but one where I'd never eaten.
It wasn't like I had anything better to do.
After an easy drive up, I arrived on Embassy Row just in time for happy hour. I found my friend in the lounge and she admonished me to go upstairs to change and report back ASAP.
Done and done.
Over Chateau Grande Cassagne Rose, we chatted with other hotel guests, many of them attendees of a week-long conference there.
Our plan was to have dinner at the Jockey Club, the venerable restaurant favored by JFK and the Reagans.
My friend, the pickiest of eaters, had raved about the food, making me suspicious. I eat everything and she likes very few things I do, so how likely was it that I'd be as impressed as she?
Leaving the lounge for the restaurant produced no great surprises. The place looked exactly as I expected it would: tasteful, staid and traditional.
Although we chose to dine at the bar, we were warned that there was no bartender. We more than made do with our server, Guillaume, a charming guy from Cameroon who had us laughing within moments.
Turns out he lives in the Atlas District I've been so eager to explore. He kindly invited me up, saying he'd happily show me the neighborhood and what's worth knowing about it.
The amuse bouche was a seafood salad of crab and lobster in tarragon oil. It was two perfect bites and I'd have happily eaten a dish of that for dinner.
Taking our lead, a couple of Louisianians we'd met in the lounge, decided to dine at the bar with us.
We learned that they were with the Department of Transportation, so as you might expect, they liked talking about buses and subways.
From her former visits to the restaurant and hotel, my friend knew to start with the banal-sounding tomato soup and grilled cheese combo.
She was so right.
The Vermont Cheddar on brioche made for the fluffiest take on this old standby and the frothy heirloom tomato soup used a roux (I think?) to make it exceptionally creamy without dairy.
The Chef came out and introduced himself with just enough of an accent to be interesting. His recommendation for dinner was the Dover Sole Meuniere, done tableside, and Hillary Clinton's personal favorite.
And despite my friend having had the sole on her last two visits, she wanted to order it again.
Although she promised me bites of hers, that left me looking for something not chef-recommended.
One of the Louisiana contingent had offered me a bite of his Lobster Thermidor, and it was as rich and classic as you'd expect.
The most exotic thing on the menu was the Steak Tartare and my friend gags at the thought of it. She wanted no bites of that.
I ended up ordering the Pork Three Ways with roasted tenderloin, Nutfield Ham croquettes and pork belly with plum shallot chutney and a glass of Hob Nob Pinot Noir.
Although she was somehow unfamiliar with pork belly, she liked it. But come on, is there anyone who doesn't like pork belly?
The menu was very, very safe and no doubt caters to its crowd, but the restaurant is undergoing a complete change with more of a steakhouse menu being rolled out as soon as next week.
I'd be curious to see if the new menu offers any more creative choices than the old one did. Surely even a venerable institution can entice foodies, too.
Soon another was added to our group and this was a West Virginian who works for The Department of Homeland Security. He immediately took note of our wineglasses and insisted on buying us a glass.
I reverted to pink as we discussed dessert options with the Chef. He recommended the cheese plate and my friend nixed that (she knows she's picky, at least).
Thus our meal ended with chocolate creme brulee, always a good choice and the Chef provided the accompanying bubbles. It was an easy ending to a staid meal.
We moved back to the lounge, our trio of new "friends" following us, only to meet a Floridian who works for the Department of Defense.
I was starting to miss Richmond.
But I managed to turn the conversation to music and that improved things considerably (Defense's first show was Moby Grape...wow!).
When we got ready to make our exit, we said goodnight to the little group, resulting in the creative, the complimentary and the crass.
The Louisianan told me to send him a list of anything I wanted from his home state and he would send them to me. He'd already said cracklins and pralines would be on their way as soon as he got home.
The Floridian told me that I was a magnificent woman and the best conversationalist he'd met in twenty years.
The West Virginian said good night within ear shot of the others and then leaned in and said, "Room 300."
I slept soundly in Room 841.
Walking out into a beautiful morning in the capital of the free world, I had only to walk two blocks to find a place where I could get eggs and bacon on a bialy and enjoy it at a sidewalk table.
Greg, my friend, that bialy was because of you.
Afterwards I headed to the National Archives, a place I'd never been. You can always tell a native Washingtonian because of the places we haven't been.
I've never seen the White House, either.
The exhibit "What's Cooking, Uncle Sam?" was about the government's effect on the American Diet and it was fascinating.
There were food labels (Richmond Abattoir Corned Beef), fun facts (Jefferson smuggled rice from Italy in his coat pockets- a crime punishable by death) and photographs (a 1958 modern housewife surrounded by processed foods to save her time).
A scientist recommended in the 1890s that Americans were eating too much fat and sugars and not getting enough exercise.
If only we'd listened then...
There were menus from White House dinners (Nixon, Carter) as well as Eisenhower's recipe for vegetable soup (give the extra meat scraps to the dogs or your neighbor's chicken, he advised in the recipe).
Recipes from the National School Lunch Program in 1946 included dishes like Liver Loaf and Soy Vegetable Chowder. How many school kids would eat either now?
The exhibit was enlightening in so many ways. I had not known that we sent food explorers to other countries seeking out foods that would do well in our American climate. Or that butter was once one of the seven food groups.
When I left the city, my adventures began anew.
First there was the flat tire on I-95 (a State Trooper arrived within half an hour and graciously changed it for me, even tipping his hat when he finished), and then endless backups and stopped traffic that finally sent me in search of a back road.
Exiting at Falmouth, I realized that my plans for the day were shot. I'd have to get a new tire as soon as I got home and nothing else was going to get accomplished.
So I decided that I might as well stop for lunch. The Mad Crab looked rustic and local enough and although everything on the menu was deep-fried (scallops included), they had three sizes of hardshells.
I ordered a half dozen, sat down next to a couple of gray-haired women doing the same and began cracking and eating. And talking to them, of course.
This wasn't supposed to be how my quickie to DC played out, but, all things considered, it wasn't so bad.
Honestly, the crabs beat out out last night's pig. But then, I'm a crab lover.
And I wouldn't have wanted to miss the Jockey Club experience, either.
I'll take it all.
In this case it was a gimmee. A friend was staying at an award-winning hotel and wanted me to come up for the night.
We were going to have dinner at a classic Washington restaurant four blocks from where I last lived up there, but one where I'd never eaten.
It wasn't like I had anything better to do.
After an easy drive up, I arrived on Embassy Row just in time for happy hour. I found my friend in the lounge and she admonished me to go upstairs to change and report back ASAP.
Done and done.
Over Chateau Grande Cassagne Rose, we chatted with other hotel guests, many of them attendees of a week-long conference there.
Our plan was to have dinner at the Jockey Club, the venerable restaurant favored by JFK and the Reagans.
My friend, the pickiest of eaters, had raved about the food, making me suspicious. I eat everything and she likes very few things I do, so how likely was it that I'd be as impressed as she?
Leaving the lounge for the restaurant produced no great surprises. The place looked exactly as I expected it would: tasteful, staid and traditional.
Although we chose to dine at the bar, we were warned that there was no bartender. We more than made do with our server, Guillaume, a charming guy from Cameroon who had us laughing within moments.
Turns out he lives in the Atlas District I've been so eager to explore. He kindly invited me up, saying he'd happily show me the neighborhood and what's worth knowing about it.
The amuse bouche was a seafood salad of crab and lobster in tarragon oil. It was two perfect bites and I'd have happily eaten a dish of that for dinner.
Taking our lead, a couple of Louisianians we'd met in the lounge, decided to dine at the bar with us.
We learned that they were with the Department of Transportation, so as you might expect, they liked talking about buses and subways.
From her former visits to the restaurant and hotel, my friend knew to start with the banal-sounding tomato soup and grilled cheese combo.
She was so right.
The Vermont Cheddar on brioche made for the fluffiest take on this old standby and the frothy heirloom tomato soup used a roux (I think?) to make it exceptionally creamy without dairy.
The Chef came out and introduced himself with just enough of an accent to be interesting. His recommendation for dinner was the Dover Sole Meuniere, done tableside, and Hillary Clinton's personal favorite.
And despite my friend having had the sole on her last two visits, she wanted to order it again.
Although she promised me bites of hers, that left me looking for something not chef-recommended.
One of the Louisiana contingent had offered me a bite of his Lobster Thermidor, and it was as rich and classic as you'd expect.
The most exotic thing on the menu was the Steak Tartare and my friend gags at the thought of it. She wanted no bites of that.
I ended up ordering the Pork Three Ways with roasted tenderloin, Nutfield Ham croquettes and pork belly with plum shallot chutney and a glass of Hob Nob Pinot Noir.
Although she was somehow unfamiliar with pork belly, she liked it. But come on, is there anyone who doesn't like pork belly?
The menu was very, very safe and no doubt caters to its crowd, but the restaurant is undergoing a complete change with more of a steakhouse menu being rolled out as soon as next week.
I'd be curious to see if the new menu offers any more creative choices than the old one did. Surely even a venerable institution can entice foodies, too.
Soon another was added to our group and this was a West Virginian who works for The Department of Homeland Security. He immediately took note of our wineglasses and insisted on buying us a glass.
I reverted to pink as we discussed dessert options with the Chef. He recommended the cheese plate and my friend nixed that (she knows she's picky, at least).
Thus our meal ended with chocolate creme brulee, always a good choice and the Chef provided the accompanying bubbles. It was an easy ending to a staid meal.
We moved back to the lounge, our trio of new "friends" following us, only to meet a Floridian who works for the Department of Defense.
I was starting to miss Richmond.
But I managed to turn the conversation to music and that improved things considerably (Defense's first show was Moby Grape...wow!).
When we got ready to make our exit, we said goodnight to the little group, resulting in the creative, the complimentary and the crass.
The Louisianan told me to send him a list of anything I wanted from his home state and he would send them to me. He'd already said cracklins and pralines would be on their way as soon as he got home.
The Floridian told me that I was a magnificent woman and the best conversationalist he'd met in twenty years.
The West Virginian said good night within ear shot of the others and then leaned in and said, "Room 300."
I slept soundly in Room 841.
Walking out into a beautiful morning in the capital of the free world, I had only to walk two blocks to find a place where I could get eggs and bacon on a bialy and enjoy it at a sidewalk table.
Greg, my friend, that bialy was because of you.
Afterwards I headed to the National Archives, a place I'd never been. You can always tell a native Washingtonian because of the places we haven't been.
I've never seen the White House, either.
The exhibit "What's Cooking, Uncle Sam?" was about the government's effect on the American Diet and it was fascinating.
There were food labels (Richmond Abattoir Corned Beef), fun facts (Jefferson smuggled rice from Italy in his coat pockets- a crime punishable by death) and photographs (a 1958 modern housewife surrounded by processed foods to save her time).
A scientist recommended in the 1890s that Americans were eating too much fat and sugars and not getting enough exercise.
If only we'd listened then...
There were menus from White House dinners (Nixon, Carter) as well as Eisenhower's recipe for vegetable soup (give the extra meat scraps to the dogs or your neighbor's chicken, he advised in the recipe).
Recipes from the National School Lunch Program in 1946 included dishes like Liver Loaf and Soy Vegetable Chowder. How many school kids would eat either now?
The exhibit was enlightening in so many ways. I had not known that we sent food explorers to other countries seeking out foods that would do well in our American climate. Or that butter was once one of the seven food groups.
When I left the city, my adventures began anew.
First there was the flat tire on I-95 (a State Trooper arrived within half an hour and graciously changed it for me, even tipping his hat when he finished), and then endless backups and stopped traffic that finally sent me in search of a back road.
Exiting at Falmouth, I realized that my plans for the day were shot. I'd have to get a new tire as soon as I got home and nothing else was going to get accomplished.
So I decided that I might as well stop for lunch. The Mad Crab looked rustic and local enough and although everything on the menu was deep-fried (scallops included), they had three sizes of hardshells.
I ordered a half dozen, sat down next to a couple of gray-haired women doing the same and began cracking and eating. And talking to them, of course.
This wasn't supposed to be how my quickie to DC played out, but, all things considered, it wasn't so bad.
Honestly, the crabs beat out out last night's pig. But then, I'm a crab lover.
And I wouldn't have wanted to miss the Jockey Club experience, either.
I'll take it all.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Doughnut Deliverance
It's a classic good news/bad news situation.
Now that Lamplighter is carrying Country Style doughnuts, I don't have to drive out Williamsburg Road for my doughnut fix.
But unless you're at Lamplighter pretty early, the selection gets pretty limited.
I don't get much of anywhere early anymore. Which means when I arrived at Lamplighter for a doughnut around 11:15, there were no more cake doughnuts.
And while I'll eat a yeast doughnut (this morning's was toasted coconut), my preference is always for a cake doughnut.
Ideally, I like a chocolate cake doughnut with chocolate icing, but a plain cake doughnut with chocolate icing is almost as good.
There's something about the heaviness of a cake doughnut that satisfies on a level that a yeast doughnut doesn't.
I used to work with a woman who would go into Krispy Kreme when the "Hot" sign was on, order a dozen glazed doughnuts with a hot chocolate and eat them all there in one sitting.
She was part proud and part ashamed of this fact.
I don't know anyone, male or female who could eat a dozen cake donuts in one sitting. Nor would I want to.
Today's toasted coconut yeast doughnut was enjoyed outside Lamplighter sitting in a pale blue school desk/chair under the prayer flags and shaded from the late morning sun.
It occurred to me that a couple of hours earlier and it could have been a cake doughnut.
Looks like I'll have to revert to the Williamsburg Road location if I'm going to remain a slugabed with a penchant for cake doughnuts.
Now that Lamplighter is carrying Country Style doughnuts, I don't have to drive out Williamsburg Road for my doughnut fix.
But unless you're at Lamplighter pretty early, the selection gets pretty limited.
I don't get much of anywhere early anymore. Which means when I arrived at Lamplighter for a doughnut around 11:15, there were no more cake doughnuts.
And while I'll eat a yeast doughnut (this morning's was toasted coconut), my preference is always for a cake doughnut.
Ideally, I like a chocolate cake doughnut with chocolate icing, but a plain cake doughnut with chocolate icing is almost as good.
There's something about the heaviness of a cake doughnut that satisfies on a level that a yeast doughnut doesn't.
I used to work with a woman who would go into Krispy Kreme when the "Hot" sign was on, order a dozen glazed doughnuts with a hot chocolate and eat them all there in one sitting.
She was part proud and part ashamed of this fact.
I don't know anyone, male or female who could eat a dozen cake donuts in one sitting. Nor would I want to.
Today's toasted coconut yeast doughnut was enjoyed outside Lamplighter sitting in a pale blue school desk/chair under the prayer flags and shaded from the late morning sun.
It occurred to me that a couple of hours earlier and it could have been a cake doughnut.
Looks like I'll have to revert to the Williamsburg Road location if I'm going to remain a slugabed with a penchant for cake doughnuts.
Try Him, You'll Like Him
Reluctantly, I agreed to meet a stranger when I met a friend who doesn't like Acacia at Acacia.
The problem, much to our dismay (and surprise) was that it was half off wine night, so the place was crazed. There was a half-hour wait to be seated at the bar.
My friend was typically late so I waited for bar stools through yes, no and maybe so from the hostess before finally being seated.
My friend may not be a fan of Acacia, but she quickly succumbed to the wine deal with the Montecillo Albarino.
When she tried to order the prix fixe menu, our bartender politely informed her that it was table only (and I wasn't going that way).
After convincing him that I was but a stranger to her, she got her prix fixe and I got my a la carte selections.
Since he knows me and he'd seen her sit down with me, I thought him extremely gracious for caving to her.
I began with the local Ambrosia melons, cashews, mixed lettuces and bleu cheese salad with celery seed vinaigrette.
She insisted I taste her gazpacho, which tasted like a long, cool drink of summer tomatoes.
I followed with country pate with assorted pickles while she enjoyed Mahi Mahi with cheese grits.
My pate had a good, coarse texture and the sweet pickle slices provided the tangy complement to the pate's richness.
Dessert was coconut sorbet with chocolate cremeux and cocoa nibs, which we both shared, along with a second bottle of that Albarino.
It worked out well because she wanted mostly the sorbet, leaving me to finish up the chocolate. What are friends for?
But her intent tonight soon became clear as she spent the evening trying to convince me to meet a guy she is sure I will like.
I need only go to another city to meet him. And, according to her, be my most charming self because we have loads in common.
All that stuff people tell you when they've promised the other person that they'll deliver you. Which she has.
Why do mated friends care so much that I'm still unattached? Sigh.
After that onslaught, I needed a relaxed conversation with friends who aren't trying to fix me up.
So I finished my evening with a leisurely wine tasting at The Roosevelt, where they'd just ended a weekend-like Tuesday night with enough Tweeting customers in the room for them to keep a check on the pulse of the diners and their very public opinions.
We began with an Afton Mountain Festa di Bacco, a Super-Tuscan that about knocked our socks off with its blend of Sangiovese, Cab Franc, Petit Verdot and Merlot.
It was fruity, acidic and had a great big mouth feel, certainly more than your average Virginia red. We approved, but agreed it needed meat.
And the conversation suited me because it wasn't about fixing me up.
Next up was the Blenheim Petit Verdot, which we'd last tasted on my birthday during our day trip to the winery.
Turns out we hadn't been blinded by the beauty of the mountainous countryside that day; it was every bit as beautiful as we remembered and made fans of the others in the room.
It's just once I got home and let my mind wander over the evening, it hit me.
What exactly have I let myself in for?
The problem, much to our dismay (and surprise) was that it was half off wine night, so the place was crazed. There was a half-hour wait to be seated at the bar.
My friend was typically late so I waited for bar stools through yes, no and maybe so from the hostess before finally being seated.
My friend may not be a fan of Acacia, but she quickly succumbed to the wine deal with the Montecillo Albarino.
When she tried to order the prix fixe menu, our bartender politely informed her that it was table only (and I wasn't going that way).
After convincing him that I was but a stranger to her, she got her prix fixe and I got my a la carte selections.
Since he knows me and he'd seen her sit down with me, I thought him extremely gracious for caving to her.
I began with the local Ambrosia melons, cashews, mixed lettuces and bleu cheese salad with celery seed vinaigrette.
She insisted I taste her gazpacho, which tasted like a long, cool drink of summer tomatoes.
I followed with country pate with assorted pickles while she enjoyed Mahi Mahi with cheese grits.
My pate had a good, coarse texture and the sweet pickle slices provided the tangy complement to the pate's richness.
Dessert was coconut sorbet with chocolate cremeux and cocoa nibs, which we both shared, along with a second bottle of that Albarino.
It worked out well because she wanted mostly the sorbet, leaving me to finish up the chocolate. What are friends for?
But her intent tonight soon became clear as she spent the evening trying to convince me to meet a guy she is sure I will like.
I need only go to another city to meet him. And, according to her, be my most charming self because we have loads in common.
All that stuff people tell you when they've promised the other person that they'll deliver you. Which she has.
Why do mated friends care so much that I'm still unattached? Sigh.
After that onslaught, I needed a relaxed conversation with friends who aren't trying to fix me up.
So I finished my evening with a leisurely wine tasting at The Roosevelt, where they'd just ended a weekend-like Tuesday night with enough Tweeting customers in the room for them to keep a check on the pulse of the diners and their very public opinions.
We began with an Afton Mountain Festa di Bacco, a Super-Tuscan that about knocked our socks off with its blend of Sangiovese, Cab Franc, Petit Verdot and Merlot.
It was fruity, acidic and had a great big mouth feel, certainly more than your average Virginia red. We approved, but agreed it needed meat.
And the conversation suited me because it wasn't about fixing me up.
Next up was the Blenheim Petit Verdot, which we'd last tasted on my birthday during our day trip to the winery.
Turns out we hadn't been blinded by the beauty of the mountainous countryside that day; it was every bit as beautiful as we remembered and made fans of the others in the room.
It's just once I got home and let my mind wander over the evening, it hit me.
What exactly have I let myself in for?
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Ripest Peach is the Highest One
I rounded up a peach posse today and headed west to an orchard at the foot of a mountain.
Of course my companions were restaurant people because who else would be off on a Monday?
I drew the short straw and had to play driver, but other than having to listen to other people's road trip CDs (Fleetwood Mac and INXS, wtf?), it was a pretty perfect day.
An hour and a half later, we pulled into Chiles Peach Orchard under a beautiful blue sky with puffy little clouds hanging over the mountaintop.
We had our choice of picked fruit or picking our own, but why drive all that way and not spend time in the orchards?
The trees were laden with picture-perfect fruit (and many pictures were taken by my cohorts) and the ground covered in peaches in various stages of decomposition.
We agreed that we were in no hurry (in fact, that became the mantra of the day) and took our time walking up and down rows of trees to admire them before picking a single peach.
Because I am allergic to peaches, I picked just enough to make peach ice cream and have a peach every other day for a week.
Let's hope it doesn't kill me.
I've been making peach ice cream every summer since I can remember, but this will be the first time with peaches I picked.
For the record, I expect great things.
After the others had gathered enough to suit them, we headed back to the orchard shop to have them weighed.
Part of our motivation in going had been that they also have a dairy shop with fresh peach milkshakes. Yes, we're that shallow.
The sign at the window said they were out of chocolate flavor today. My question would be, who cares?
And who would buy a small peach milkshake instead of a large?
None of us. We took ours out to the porch and sat under the pergola enjoying the richness of peaches and cream while admiring the mountain view.
We were debating whether or not to go pick another kind of peaches, the flat donut peaches, which tend to be even sweeter than the round varieties.
Why not? We weren't in any hurry.
So we wandered up the road to those trees and gathered donut peaches. One of my posse had never even had them before.
Back in the shop, we continued our peach bliss. I got peach cider donuts and one of us got a peach cider slushie.
At that point we knew we were losing our grip on reality and needed to escape the peach fumes before we also bought peach butter or peach pie.
Luckily, we weren't far from what Food Network Magazine had recently dubbed the best pizza in Virginia.
Crozet Pizza, a local mainstay for decades, was next on our agenda.
The unprepossessing building in an old strip center with no separation from the road was everything we hoped it would be.
It was small, dusty, and crowded with the detritus of 35 years in business; the server and pizza maker welcomed us as we walked in.
And they would know about everyone's arrival because a piece of rope is tied to the front door, strung across the ceiling and connected to a bell directly over the tiny kitchen.
I am such a fan of that kind of anti-technology. Even better, they take no plastic. These were my kind of people.
The place was tiny with a focus on one thing: pie. A sign hangs over the counter making that perfectly clear: "NO Pizza, NO Beer!"
But we did want pizza, so getting a Star Hill was not a problem. The hard part was sifting through the list of toppings.
We decided that the oddest were snow peas and peanuts, neither of which we wanted.
FNM had cited their white pizza with mushrooms on a perfectly chewy crust as the best of the best, but we weren't going to let them be the boss of us.
We got a large white (garlic, herbs, onion and olive oil) but with tomatoes and spinach instead of fungus.
It was an outstanding pizza in every way. We took our time with it, even taking breaks to admire the wall of photos of people in far-flung places wearing their red "Crozet Pizza" t-shirts.
The funniest one was the naked couple at a nudist camp, holding one XL t-shirt in front of their birthday suits. Judging by their hair styles, we guessed it was a late 70s gem.
It was clear from the stream of people coming in to pick up pies that this place has a devoted following and with good reason.
Naturally the restaurant types with me ended up talking to the pizza maker since he was so close to our booth and kitchen people love to commiserate with each other.
Leaving, my cohorts agreed that I'd made a terrific suggestion for eating post-picking.
Hey, I may not watch Food Network (okay, any TV), but it was a gamble that paid off. Anyway, I'd read it.
Our last stop was Blue Mountain Brewery, partly for the beer lover in our group and partly so we could sit outside and admire the view before nightfall.
I hadn't been in a couple of years and weather had prohibited an outdoor meal then.
Today, we found a table outside, shaded and facing the mountain, and settled in for some conversation and libations.
Blue Mountain's wine list is short (duh, they're a brewpub) with just a half dozen Virginia wines.
I chose today's special, the Flying Fox Rose, made with Cab Franc and Merlot in a traditional style and pleasantly refreshing on a hot evening.
Beer Geek opted to taste something he hadn't seen before, the Big D.I.P.A, a double IPA that billed itself as less bitter than many IPAs.
Wait, aren't IPAs known for their bitterness? It must have been plenty hoppy enough because he ended up ordering it.
And we ended up lingering, talking about everything and nothing, quaffing our Virginia bevvies as my car filled up with the heady scent of fresh-picked peaches.
On the drive home, my posse was already asking me to start planning another road trip for a future Monday off.
I'll just how to figure out how to top peaches, pizza and pink. Not to mention donuts, milkshakes and Big DIPAs.
Bet I can.
But I won't be driving and we will not be listening to music from the last century.
Planning must have its privileges.
Of course my companions were restaurant people because who else would be off on a Monday?
I drew the short straw and had to play driver, but other than having to listen to other people's road trip CDs (Fleetwood Mac and INXS, wtf?), it was a pretty perfect day.
An hour and a half later, we pulled into Chiles Peach Orchard under a beautiful blue sky with puffy little clouds hanging over the mountaintop.
We had our choice of picked fruit or picking our own, but why drive all that way and not spend time in the orchards?
The trees were laden with picture-perfect fruit (and many pictures were taken by my cohorts) and the ground covered in peaches in various stages of decomposition.
We agreed that we were in no hurry (in fact, that became the mantra of the day) and took our time walking up and down rows of trees to admire them before picking a single peach.
Because I am allergic to peaches, I picked just enough to make peach ice cream and have a peach every other day for a week.
Let's hope it doesn't kill me.
I've been making peach ice cream every summer since I can remember, but this will be the first time with peaches I picked.
For the record, I expect great things.
After the others had gathered enough to suit them, we headed back to the orchard shop to have them weighed.
Part of our motivation in going had been that they also have a dairy shop with fresh peach milkshakes. Yes, we're that shallow.
The sign at the window said they were out of chocolate flavor today. My question would be, who cares?
And who would buy a small peach milkshake instead of a large?
None of us. We took ours out to the porch and sat under the pergola enjoying the richness of peaches and cream while admiring the mountain view.
We were debating whether or not to go pick another kind of peaches, the flat donut peaches, which tend to be even sweeter than the round varieties.
Why not? We weren't in any hurry.
So we wandered up the road to those trees and gathered donut peaches. One of my posse had never even had them before.
Back in the shop, we continued our peach bliss. I got peach cider donuts and one of us got a peach cider slushie.
At that point we knew we were losing our grip on reality and needed to escape the peach fumes before we also bought peach butter or peach pie.
Luckily, we weren't far from what Food Network Magazine had recently dubbed the best pizza in Virginia.
Crozet Pizza, a local mainstay for decades, was next on our agenda.
The unprepossessing building in an old strip center with no separation from the road was everything we hoped it would be.
It was small, dusty, and crowded with the detritus of 35 years in business; the server and pizza maker welcomed us as we walked in.
And they would know about everyone's arrival because a piece of rope is tied to the front door, strung across the ceiling and connected to a bell directly over the tiny kitchen.
I am such a fan of that kind of anti-technology. Even better, they take no plastic. These were my kind of people.
The place was tiny with a focus on one thing: pie. A sign hangs over the counter making that perfectly clear: "NO Pizza, NO Beer!"
But we did want pizza, so getting a Star Hill was not a problem. The hard part was sifting through the list of toppings.
We decided that the oddest were snow peas and peanuts, neither of which we wanted.
FNM had cited their white pizza with mushrooms on a perfectly chewy crust as the best of the best, but we weren't going to let them be the boss of us.
We got a large white (garlic, herbs, onion and olive oil) but with tomatoes and spinach instead of fungus.
It was an outstanding pizza in every way. We took our time with it, even taking breaks to admire the wall of photos of people in far-flung places wearing their red "Crozet Pizza" t-shirts.
The funniest one was the naked couple at a nudist camp, holding one XL t-shirt in front of their birthday suits. Judging by their hair styles, we guessed it was a late 70s gem.
It was clear from the stream of people coming in to pick up pies that this place has a devoted following and with good reason.
Naturally the restaurant types with me ended up talking to the pizza maker since he was so close to our booth and kitchen people love to commiserate with each other.
Leaving, my cohorts agreed that I'd made a terrific suggestion for eating post-picking.
Hey, I may not watch Food Network (okay, any TV), but it was a gamble that paid off. Anyway, I'd read it.
Our last stop was Blue Mountain Brewery, partly for the beer lover in our group and partly so we could sit outside and admire the view before nightfall.
I hadn't been in a couple of years and weather had prohibited an outdoor meal then.
Today, we found a table outside, shaded and facing the mountain, and settled in for some conversation and libations.
Blue Mountain's wine list is short (duh, they're a brewpub) with just a half dozen Virginia wines.
I chose today's special, the Flying Fox Rose, made with Cab Franc and Merlot in a traditional style and pleasantly refreshing on a hot evening.
Beer Geek opted to taste something he hadn't seen before, the Big D.I.P.A, a double IPA that billed itself as less bitter than many IPAs.
Wait, aren't IPAs known for their bitterness? It must have been plenty hoppy enough because he ended up ordering it.
And we ended up lingering, talking about everything and nothing, quaffing our Virginia bevvies as my car filled up with the heady scent of fresh-picked peaches.
On the drive home, my posse was already asking me to start planning another road trip for a future Monday off.
I'll just how to figure out how to top peaches, pizza and pink. Not to mention donuts, milkshakes and Big DIPAs.
Bet I can.
But I won't be driving and we will not be listening to music from the last century.
Planning must have its privileges.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Be Here Now, Be Now Here
I didn't get kissed, despite tempting fate with garlic breath.
It didn't happen at tonight's "Trio of Troubadours" show at Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery.
As the man-about-town quipped upon leaving, "We got absorbed at Sponge tonight."
Come on, that's so bad we have to give him high marks for saying it out loud.
Sponge HQ is the studio of Hope Ginsburg, who teaches felt-making at VCU, so her top floor studio, with its bright green walls, houses felt objects and supplies, art books, a large aquarium and a beehive.
The beehive resides in a screened room at the top of six stairs within the studio.
The wooden box with its slanted sides is home to a good-sized honeycomb and scores of bees. Her beekeeping suit hangs on the outside of the little raised room.
What better place to enjoy a little folk music on a Sunday night?
A wall of windows gave us a view of the roiling sky that deposited next to no rain just before the show.
Attendees brought food to share, including the loveliest baba ganoush, which came with a warning from its maker, a devoted music fan, that serious garlic breath would result after eating.
The kind that would keep vampires away, she said.
"It's not like I'll be kissing anyone tonight," I told her, digging in.
"It always happens when you least expect it," she laughed. Pshaw, I told her I was looking for a garlic-lover anyway.
Hope had put a honeycomb in a bowl and the honey that dripped down from it was enjoyed by those who stuck a finger into the bowl to collect a taste.
She assured us that honey had antibacterial qualities, so we didn't have to worry about cooties (not that I was).
The studio had a window unit air conditioner which had to be turned off for the unamplified show, but the warmth didn't make its presence known until things were almost over.
Jonathan Vassar was up first and began with a couple of songs usually done with his band, The Speckled Bird.
"I don't know why I'm doing all these Speckled Bird songs," he wondered aloud. "The Speckled Bird is here, just without their instruments."
He did one song by his other side project, Ophelia, as well as a song I hadn't heard him play in ages, "See a Man about a Dog" and an even older song he'd written in high school.
That was for his parents, who were in the audience, but he proudly noted that he hadn't teared up at their presence for a change.
A seamless transition delivered Philadelphian Chris Kasper to the front of the room.
Having seen him before, I was looking forward to his set.
He admitted his affection for RVA and its music scene and noted that we should stop by his hometown and "See Independence Hall and have a cheese steak."
Chris is a good songwriter with an engaging voice and those hearing him for the first time were quickly won over.
He spoke of fans who recorded shows, "And it's nice to have the archives, but sometimes it's just about being in the moment. And tonight is like that."
Being there in the moment tonight meant we got to hear several songs as yet unrecorded, so our memories will be the only record of them.
In our 24/7 documented world, I really appreciated his emphasis on the here and now.
Chris brought his musical partner-in-crime Kiley up for a few songs and she added violin, vocals and dimples to the last few songs, excellent additions all.
Favorite lyric: "I will not turn my back when love is speaking."
David Shultz had drawn the closing spot by default.
As I was parking my car, I'd seen him walking down Franklin Street. Rolling down my window, I called to him.
"Excuse me sir, but don't you have a show to perform?"
He allowed as how a guy sometimes needs to clear his head and continued down the street.
But he made it back in time for his set, taking the front stool and asking of Hope if the bees were asleep for the night (they were, she said).
Jonathan provided harmonica and harmonizing for the first few songs, including an Ophelia number.
He covered Paul Simon's "The Obvious Child," inviting the audience to provide the drum parts (some did).
It was great; like Chris Kasper, he played new stuff to an attentive crowd before returning to established material.
Favorite lyric: "Just because you're losing your balance doesn't mean you're falling down."
Just because you spend the evening in a room with bees doesn't mean you'll get stung.
Take it from there.
It didn't happen at tonight's "Trio of Troubadours" show at Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery.
As the man-about-town quipped upon leaving, "We got absorbed at Sponge tonight."
Come on, that's so bad we have to give him high marks for saying it out loud.
Sponge HQ is the studio of Hope Ginsburg, who teaches felt-making at VCU, so her top floor studio, with its bright green walls, houses felt objects and supplies, art books, a large aquarium and a beehive.
The beehive resides in a screened room at the top of six stairs within the studio.
The wooden box with its slanted sides is home to a good-sized honeycomb and scores of bees. Her beekeeping suit hangs on the outside of the little raised room.
What better place to enjoy a little folk music on a Sunday night?
A wall of windows gave us a view of the roiling sky that deposited next to no rain just before the show.
Attendees brought food to share, including the loveliest baba ganoush, which came with a warning from its maker, a devoted music fan, that serious garlic breath would result after eating.
The kind that would keep vampires away, she said.
"It's not like I'll be kissing anyone tonight," I told her, digging in.
"It always happens when you least expect it," she laughed. Pshaw, I told her I was looking for a garlic-lover anyway.
Hope had put a honeycomb in a bowl and the honey that dripped down from it was enjoyed by those who stuck a finger into the bowl to collect a taste.
She assured us that honey had antibacterial qualities, so we didn't have to worry about cooties (not that I was).
The studio had a window unit air conditioner which had to be turned off for the unamplified show, but the warmth didn't make its presence known until things were almost over.
Jonathan Vassar was up first and began with a couple of songs usually done with his band, The Speckled Bird.
"I don't know why I'm doing all these Speckled Bird songs," he wondered aloud. "The Speckled Bird is here, just without their instruments."
He did one song by his other side project, Ophelia, as well as a song I hadn't heard him play in ages, "See a Man about a Dog" and an even older song he'd written in high school.
That was for his parents, who were in the audience, but he proudly noted that he hadn't teared up at their presence for a change.
A seamless transition delivered Philadelphian Chris Kasper to the front of the room.
Having seen him before, I was looking forward to his set.
He admitted his affection for RVA and its music scene and noted that we should stop by his hometown and "See Independence Hall and have a cheese steak."
Chris is a good songwriter with an engaging voice and those hearing him for the first time were quickly won over.
He spoke of fans who recorded shows, "And it's nice to have the archives, but sometimes it's just about being in the moment. And tonight is like that."
Being there in the moment tonight meant we got to hear several songs as yet unrecorded, so our memories will be the only record of them.
In our 24/7 documented world, I really appreciated his emphasis on the here and now.
Chris brought his musical partner-in-crime Kiley up for a few songs and she added violin, vocals and dimples to the last few songs, excellent additions all.
Favorite lyric: "I will not turn my back when love is speaking."
David Shultz had drawn the closing spot by default.
As I was parking my car, I'd seen him walking down Franklin Street. Rolling down my window, I called to him.
"Excuse me sir, but don't you have a show to perform?"
He allowed as how a guy sometimes needs to clear his head and continued down the street.
But he made it back in time for his set, taking the front stool and asking of Hope if the bees were asleep for the night (they were, she said).
Jonathan provided harmonica and harmonizing for the first few songs, including an Ophelia number.
He covered Paul Simon's "The Obvious Child," inviting the audience to provide the drum parts (some did).
It was great; like Chris Kasper, he played new stuff to an attentive crowd before returning to established material.
Favorite lyric: "Just because you're losing your balance doesn't mean you're falling down."
Just because you spend the evening in a room with bees doesn't mean you'll get stung.
Take it from there.
Bacon Starts the Day Right
"Excuse me, miss, could we have a plate of bacon to start?"
Sometimes nothing but a side of pig will get you through an arduous task like trying to decide what to order for brunch.
A friend had to work today so we'd made plans to sandwich brunch between his morning client meeting and his afternoon filing a brief.
I, on the other hand, planned to sandwich it between getting up and taking a nap.
Sure, I felt a little bad about the discrepancy in our plans until he told me that his normal Sunday routine is to get up, eat breakfast and go back to bed.
At least I got dressed and went out in between quality time spent between the sheets.
But I didn't go far. To his e-mail this morning of "Where, princess?" I responded with the closest possible place for me: The Belvidere at Broad.
And since we arrived minutes after they opened, it was just us and the staff for a while.
We sat under a large-scale painting of Byrd Lake done by Paul Steinberg, part of a show that included other local places of note.
Techno music played on the sound system reminding us that we weren't all that far removed from Saturday night.
We were having a tough time deciding what we wanted, which is how he ended up ordering a mound of bacon to enjoy while we discussed our options.
Once I told my friend that they smoke their salmon in-house, his decision was made: bagel and lox with chived cream cheese, chopped red onion, chopped egg and capers.
I did the same, as much out of laziness as anything. The bacon was satisfying me so nicely that I would have been happy with anything on the menu at that point.
I did opt for fresh fruit on the side while he got home-fried potatoes, large chunks with the skin on that he raved about.
Part way through my bagel, our server showed up with additional cream cheese for me. Wondering how she'd known I'd need more, she said, "Well, if I ate cream cheese, I know I'd need more than they gave you."
That's service with a capital "S."
Sadly, our bacon appetizer meant that our bagels defeated us, maybe because we both got very generous servings of the melt-in-your-mouth smoked salmon.
We only wished we'd saved room for the dessert special, a chocolate espresso pudding.
Walking back to his car and my house, we stopped to admire a charming Louisiana-style raised cottage that caught his eye.
Standing across the street from it, we discussed the abomination of siding and bad brick planter additions but got reverential about its gingerbread trim and narrow two-sided porch.
If we hadn't both had things to do, I'd have taken him on a walking tour of other Jackson Ward architectural gems.
But bacon and bagel behind us, brief and bed were calling.
Sometimes nothing but a side of pig will get you through an arduous task like trying to decide what to order for brunch.
A friend had to work today so we'd made plans to sandwich brunch between his morning client meeting and his afternoon filing a brief.
I, on the other hand, planned to sandwich it between getting up and taking a nap.
Sure, I felt a little bad about the discrepancy in our plans until he told me that his normal Sunday routine is to get up, eat breakfast and go back to bed.
At least I got dressed and went out in between quality time spent between the sheets.
But I didn't go far. To his e-mail this morning of "Where, princess?" I responded with the closest possible place for me: The Belvidere at Broad.
And since we arrived minutes after they opened, it was just us and the staff for a while.
We sat under a large-scale painting of Byrd Lake done by Paul Steinberg, part of a show that included other local places of note.
Techno music played on the sound system reminding us that we weren't all that far removed from Saturday night.
We were having a tough time deciding what we wanted, which is how he ended up ordering a mound of bacon to enjoy while we discussed our options.
Once I told my friend that they smoke their salmon in-house, his decision was made: bagel and lox with chived cream cheese, chopped red onion, chopped egg and capers.
I did the same, as much out of laziness as anything. The bacon was satisfying me so nicely that I would have been happy with anything on the menu at that point.
I did opt for fresh fruit on the side while he got home-fried potatoes, large chunks with the skin on that he raved about.
Part way through my bagel, our server showed up with additional cream cheese for me. Wondering how she'd known I'd need more, she said, "Well, if I ate cream cheese, I know I'd need more than they gave you."
That's service with a capital "S."
Sadly, our bacon appetizer meant that our bagels defeated us, maybe because we both got very generous servings of the melt-in-your-mouth smoked salmon.
We only wished we'd saved room for the dessert special, a chocolate espresso pudding.
Walking back to his car and my house, we stopped to admire a charming Louisiana-style raised cottage that caught his eye.
Standing across the street from it, we discussed the abomination of siding and bad brick planter additions but got reverential about its gingerbread trim and narrow two-sided porch.
If we hadn't both had things to do, I'd have taken him on a walking tour of other Jackson Ward architectural gems.
But bacon and bagel behind us, brief and bed were calling.
Unexpected Chocolates and Men
The best nights always end up being about the people you meet.
It started out as just another couple date, albeit with one of my favorite couples.
I dressed cute because my friend always gives me bonus points for doing so and because I never know when it will pay off.
We'd tried to make a reservation at the bar for dinner at Bistro M, but they said they didn't take bar reservations.
Too bad, because Acacia, Amuse and Bonvenu all happily take bar reservations.
We lucked on to three stools, but only after after a duo slid down. I recognized our server from Lemaire, accused him of moonlighting and had my hunch confirmed.
We began with the Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc because they were out of my friend's first choice, the Wild Rock.
The fact that they have an ABC off license means that people are enjoying a wine for dinner and then buying it to take home, making for a reduced stock for other diners. That's a good thing.
One of our bartenders was of the Tom Cruise variety, slinging mixing cups and doing showy things totally unnecessary for customers like us. I wanted to write him off immediately.
He was a poli-sci masters student with LA and NYC bar experience and a tad pretty for my taste, but he provided decent conversation.
For starters, we had the deep fried pork with Sriracha, kale and green onions, the salad nicoise, and the New Zealand mussels on bacon with Great Northern beans, garlic and tomatoes with white wine basil cream sauce.
As many times as I have had mussels, this was my first time with beans and I am happy to say I loved the combination.
The cream broth was nothing short of obscene and it was good that they only gave me three slices of crusty bread with which to sop it up or I' d have kept going till the bowl was dry.
As I queried of the bartender, "Who doesn't like deep-fried pork?" especially with Sriracha for heat to balance the fat.
The spiciness of this one was reminiscent of the heat of Hunan dishes or Thai food.
The Nicoise salad had everything except the tuna, with capers, olives, eggs and greens and, at $5, a steal.
Since they were out of my choice, the Kanu Chenin Blanc from South Africa, we settled on the Vina Nora Albarino, a worthy substitute.
Dinner came in the form of tonight's special, a mixed grill (lamb chops, chicken sausage and a giant pawn), molasses marinated Muscovy duck breast and portabella steak with Bernaise and crabmeat, all superb.
We listened to the dessert selections, but since not one of them included chocolate, we demurred out loud, enumerating our reasons.
Moving on to another bottle of Albarino, we were very surprised to be have an array of chocolates from the Bistro's market unexpedtedly laid out before us. Our chiseled bartender had seen to our chocolate needs unbidden.
Appropriate points given.
Along about that time, a friend of my friend's showed up and he turned out to be a Rocketts landing resident. He joined us for some Sharecroppers Pinot Noir and conversation.
He asked for the abridged version of my life since I arrived in RVA and I delivered. I always love seeing people's reactions to my come-here story and subsequent neighborhood shifts.
Outside, it was starting to sprinkle as we left, a weather event so wonderful that we lingered outside to enjoy it.
We moved on to Julep's, where a private party was in full swing, so we ended up at Lulu's for our nightcap with the new friend.
He ordered a bottle of the Heron Pinot Noir, nicely balanced and not too alcoholic, key at this point in the evening.
Next to me turned out to be a music lover so I enjoyed conversation with him on any number of shows in Richmond, both recent and from days gone by. We'd been to many of the same shows.
He tried to make a case for his frequency in going out, but finally acknowledged that he couldn't hold a candle to me.
On the table were Bon Iver, Lucinda Williams, Carol King, The Eagles, Toad the Wet Sprocket and Springsteen. I can discuss them all, but my preferences are public record here.
Still, it's a real treat to meet somebody who's into discussing music non-stop with me and this guy did.
By the time we left Lulu's, Shockoe Bottom was in full swing with girls in short tight skirts (shorter even than mine), high heels (4 and 5 inches) and police everywhere.
That's always the right time to beat feet for J-Ward (me) and points beyond (my friends).
Meeting two new people in one night is plenty. As it is, there are only seven nights in the week.
No one can say I'm not putting myself out there, even if it is within the comfort of a couple date.
It started out as just another couple date, albeit with one of my favorite couples.
I dressed cute because my friend always gives me bonus points for doing so and because I never know when it will pay off.
We'd tried to make a reservation at the bar for dinner at Bistro M, but they said they didn't take bar reservations.
Too bad, because Acacia, Amuse and Bonvenu all happily take bar reservations.
We lucked on to three stools, but only after after a duo slid down. I recognized our server from Lemaire, accused him of moonlighting and had my hunch confirmed.
We began with the Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc because they were out of my friend's first choice, the Wild Rock.
The fact that they have an ABC off license means that people are enjoying a wine for dinner and then buying it to take home, making for a reduced stock for other diners. That's a good thing.
One of our bartenders was of the Tom Cruise variety, slinging mixing cups and doing showy things totally unnecessary for customers like us. I wanted to write him off immediately.
He was a poli-sci masters student with LA and NYC bar experience and a tad pretty for my taste, but he provided decent conversation.
For starters, we had the deep fried pork with Sriracha, kale and green onions, the salad nicoise, and the New Zealand mussels on bacon with Great Northern beans, garlic and tomatoes with white wine basil cream sauce.
As many times as I have had mussels, this was my first time with beans and I am happy to say I loved the combination.
The cream broth was nothing short of obscene and it was good that they only gave me three slices of crusty bread with which to sop it up or I' d have kept going till the bowl was dry.
As I queried of the bartender, "Who doesn't like deep-fried pork?" especially with Sriracha for heat to balance the fat.
The spiciness of this one was reminiscent of the heat of Hunan dishes or Thai food.
The Nicoise salad had everything except the tuna, with capers, olives, eggs and greens and, at $5, a steal.
Since they were out of my choice, the Kanu Chenin Blanc from South Africa, we settled on the Vina Nora Albarino, a worthy substitute.
Dinner came in the form of tonight's special, a mixed grill (lamb chops, chicken sausage and a giant pawn), molasses marinated Muscovy duck breast and portabella steak with Bernaise and crabmeat, all superb.
We listened to the dessert selections, but since not one of them included chocolate, we demurred out loud, enumerating our reasons.
Moving on to another bottle of Albarino, we were very surprised to be have an array of chocolates from the Bistro's market unexpedtedly laid out before us. Our chiseled bartender had seen to our chocolate needs unbidden.
Appropriate points given.
Along about that time, a friend of my friend's showed up and he turned out to be a Rocketts landing resident. He joined us for some Sharecroppers Pinot Noir and conversation.
He asked for the abridged version of my life since I arrived in RVA and I delivered. I always love seeing people's reactions to my come-here story and subsequent neighborhood shifts.
Outside, it was starting to sprinkle as we left, a weather event so wonderful that we lingered outside to enjoy it.
We moved on to Julep's, where a private party was in full swing, so we ended up at Lulu's for our nightcap with the new friend.
He ordered a bottle of the Heron Pinot Noir, nicely balanced and not too alcoholic, key at this point in the evening.
Next to me turned out to be a music lover so I enjoyed conversation with him on any number of shows in Richmond, both recent and from days gone by. We'd been to many of the same shows.
He tried to make a case for his frequency in going out, but finally acknowledged that he couldn't hold a candle to me.
On the table were Bon Iver, Lucinda Williams, Carol King, The Eagles, Toad the Wet Sprocket and Springsteen. I can discuss them all, but my preferences are public record here.
Still, it's a real treat to meet somebody who's into discussing music non-stop with me and this guy did.
By the time we left Lulu's, Shockoe Bottom was in full swing with girls in short tight skirts (shorter even than mine), high heels (4 and 5 inches) and police everywhere.
That's always the right time to beat feet for J-Ward (me) and points beyond (my friends).
Meeting two new people in one night is plenty. As it is, there are only seven nights in the week.
No one can say I'm not putting myself out there, even if it is within the comfort of a couple date.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Winding Down with a Bug
I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.
Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.
But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.
Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.
What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.
ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.
And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.
But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.
But up on Broad, it was uniform city.
I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."
Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?
I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.
From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.
"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."
Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.
The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.
I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.
Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.
Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.
Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.
But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.
The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.
So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.
Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.
It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."
Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.
As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."
Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.
Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.
It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the musical imagery.
All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.
But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.
The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.
Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.
I liked his thinking on that.
Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).
He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?
Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.
Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.
Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.
Geeks like me are going to love it.
Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.
But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.
Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.
What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.
ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.
And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.
But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.
But up on Broad, it was uniform city.
I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."
Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?
I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.
From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.
"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."
Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.
The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.
I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.
Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.
Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.
Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.
But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.
The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.
So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.
Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.
It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."
Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.
As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."
Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.
Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.
It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the musical imagery.
All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.
But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.
The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.
Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.
I liked his thinking on that.
Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).
He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?
Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.
Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.
Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.
Geeks like me are going to love it.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Shapes Like Mine
It begins with considering being a nude model and ends with embracing a sweaty guy.
But we'll call that art and music.
Tonight was Ghostprint Gallery's preview night for "Shapes Not Ours," which opens tomorrow night.
When I got there, a large bearded man sitting in the window cross legged and sipping a beer said to me, "I'd forgotten how civilized these preview nights are."
Yes, aren't they?
Jenna Chew's mixed media works told me that she lives locally. A graphite drawing of Harrison Street Coffee Shop showed faceless customers talking to staff.
A mixed media piece showed booths at Can-Can. But my favorite registered with me before I even saw the title.
The piece depicted three chairs stacked one on top of the other. The moment I saw it, I knew those chairs.
They are the ones that sit outside Garnett's, which was the title of the work.
I hadn't even realized how familiar I was with those random chairs but they were instantly recognizable.
Crystal Cregge's photographs were images of the female body, from the side, from above and from behind.
I was told she uses some sort of light wash to get the painterly effect that gave the photos a gauzy tone.
Word in the gallery was that she has converted her bathroom to a darkroom where she works this magic on her images.
I have to assume she has a second bathroom for more basic functions.
Looking at the photographs, some of which became abstract due to the angle or proximity, I found myself wishing I could be the model for such artistic takes on the female form.
Her photographs were not about perfect female bodies; the figure in "Venus," for example was downright zaftig.
Rather, it was the way the shadows fell, the way the bodies were lit and which curves were accentuated that made the photographs such things of beauty.
Moving on from my reverie imagining myself as the subject of a black and white photo, I continued down Broad Street for an epic event.
Tonight was the Dave Watkins CD Release show and with three other bands playing, it promised a full night of musical delights.
I'd like to say it started on time butthis is Richmond this was at the Camel, so there were sound problems.
Recent transplant Nelly Kate led off and since I'd seen her before, I knew to expect a compelling voice and endless looping.
With only a guitar (and sad-sounding guitar at that, according to my friend), keyboard and her voice, she created layers of sound to produce dense songs from one small girl.
For her last song, she gave the audience a choice of guitar song or clapping song and the latter won out.
She proceeded to clap different rhythms and overlaid them with her song until the entire effect filled the room.
Finishing, she said, "It's so nice to play with other people who loop."
The first time I'd sen her play, I'd called her a "female Dave Watkins" for exactly that reason.
Tonight's touring band was All My Dear Friends, which was really a guy named Mark who said, "I came all the way from Gainesville, Florida to play my violin for you." And his pedals.
Like Nelly, he built up layers by using multiple things, in his case violin, guitar and voice.
He stopped suddenly when he broke a violin string, asking for volunteers from the audience to entertain while he changed strings.
Pointing at a girl in the front row, he said, "How about you? I know you have a ukulele in your bag!" She declined.
But folkies Lobo Marino quickly brought their acoustic presence to the front, first imitating a looped version of "Animal Hands" and then doing it their way.
"Back to our normally scheduled program," Mark said when they finished.
His soundscapes were both huge and poignant, no doubt due to the violin, which he plucked, bowed and generally did anything he wanted to get sound from it.
His plucking style especially reminded me of Andrew Bird, a sound I like very much.
Lobo Marino began their set with a nod to their predecessor.
"Thanks to Mark. I've never seen anyone go from lovemaking on the violin to hate-f*cking it," Jameson said to much clapped agreement.
The band did a shorter than expected set so as to get to the star of the evening's performance before it got too late and people began leaving (it being a school night and all).
The one new song they did showed a lot of poppiness and rumor has it that their next CD will have more of a poppy feel to it.
The main event was Dave Watkins and his dulcitar and pedals. And on that subject, he said he actually had a pedal called "cave."
That's right, as in "music from a " and a sound I've written volumes about since I'm hugely enamored of it.
Introducing a song "where I sing" (which is not usually the case for Dave), he was about to play "Pangea's Revenge," saying it had cheesy love song lyrics, when he got some audience input.
"Laney said if we got married today, that would be the song that we walked down the aisle to," Jameson shouted to Dave.
"Oh, man, now the pressure's on!" Dave joked.
He played a version of an improvised piece he'd created last weekend that had been compared to Tubular Bells (something he had to Google to get) and then asked for suggestions for a name for the next piece.
We got to hear "Dirt Nap versus the Compost Pile" before Dave did his usual show-closer, "Marshall Street."
It's a stellar piece from the new CD and usually ends with him beating on a drum.
Tonight the three members of Lobo Marino added drumming and tambourine playing to that big finish.
Afterwards, I couldn't resist giving my very best hug to the talented Mr. W, probably the last thing he wanted (or needed) since he was still sweaty from his set.
From there, I had no choice but to drive my usual route home down Marshall Street, listening all the while to "Marshall Street."
Just another satisfying evening at the intersection of art and music.
But we'll call that art and music.
Tonight was Ghostprint Gallery's preview night for "Shapes Not Ours," which opens tomorrow night.
When I got there, a large bearded man sitting in the window cross legged and sipping a beer said to me, "I'd forgotten how civilized these preview nights are."
Yes, aren't they?
Jenna Chew's mixed media works told me that she lives locally. A graphite drawing of Harrison Street Coffee Shop showed faceless customers talking to staff.
A mixed media piece showed booths at Can-Can. But my favorite registered with me before I even saw the title.
The piece depicted three chairs stacked one on top of the other. The moment I saw it, I knew those chairs.
They are the ones that sit outside Garnett's, which was the title of the work.
I hadn't even realized how familiar I was with those random chairs but they were instantly recognizable.
Crystal Cregge's photographs were images of the female body, from the side, from above and from behind.
I was told she uses some sort of light wash to get the painterly effect that gave the photos a gauzy tone.
Word in the gallery was that she has converted her bathroom to a darkroom where she works this magic on her images.
I have to assume she has a second bathroom for more basic functions.
Looking at the photographs, some of which became abstract due to the angle or proximity, I found myself wishing I could be the model for such artistic takes on the female form.
Her photographs were not about perfect female bodies; the figure in "Venus," for example was downright zaftig.
Rather, it was the way the shadows fell, the way the bodies were lit and which curves were accentuated that made the photographs such things of beauty.
Moving on from my reverie imagining myself as the subject of a black and white photo, I continued down Broad Street for an epic event.
Tonight was the Dave Watkins CD Release show and with three other bands playing, it promised a full night of musical delights.
I'd like to say it started on time but
Recent transplant Nelly Kate led off and since I'd seen her before, I knew to expect a compelling voice and endless looping.
With only a guitar (and sad-sounding guitar at that, according to my friend), keyboard and her voice, she created layers of sound to produce dense songs from one small girl.
For her last song, she gave the audience a choice of guitar song or clapping song and the latter won out.
She proceeded to clap different rhythms and overlaid them with her song until the entire effect filled the room.
Finishing, she said, "It's so nice to play with other people who loop."
The first time I'd sen her play, I'd called her a "female Dave Watkins" for exactly that reason.
Tonight's touring band was All My Dear Friends, which was really a guy named Mark who said, "I came all the way from Gainesville, Florida to play my violin for you." And his pedals.
Like Nelly, he built up layers by using multiple things, in his case violin, guitar and voice.
He stopped suddenly when he broke a violin string, asking for volunteers from the audience to entertain while he changed strings.
Pointing at a girl in the front row, he said, "How about you? I know you have a ukulele in your bag!" She declined.
But folkies Lobo Marino quickly brought their acoustic presence to the front, first imitating a looped version of "Animal Hands" and then doing it their way.
"Back to our normally scheduled program," Mark said when they finished.
His soundscapes were both huge and poignant, no doubt due to the violin, which he plucked, bowed and generally did anything he wanted to get sound from it.
His plucking style especially reminded me of Andrew Bird, a sound I like very much.
Lobo Marino began their set with a nod to their predecessor.
"Thanks to Mark. I've never seen anyone go from lovemaking on the violin to hate-f*cking it," Jameson said to much clapped agreement.
The band did a shorter than expected set so as to get to the star of the evening's performance before it got too late and people began leaving (it being a school night and all).
The one new song they did showed a lot of poppiness and rumor has it that their next CD will have more of a poppy feel to it.
The main event was Dave Watkins and his dulcitar and pedals. And on that subject, he said he actually had a pedal called "cave."
That's right, as in "music from a " and a sound I've written volumes about since I'm hugely enamored of it.
Introducing a song "where I sing" (which is not usually the case for Dave), he was about to play "Pangea's Revenge," saying it had cheesy love song lyrics, when he got some audience input.
"Laney said if we got married today, that would be the song that we walked down the aisle to," Jameson shouted to Dave.
"Oh, man, now the pressure's on!" Dave joked.
He played a version of an improvised piece he'd created last weekend that had been compared to Tubular Bells (something he had to Google to get) and then asked for suggestions for a name for the next piece.
We got to hear "Dirt Nap versus the Compost Pile" before Dave did his usual show-closer, "Marshall Street."
It's a stellar piece from the new CD and usually ends with him beating on a drum.
Tonight the three members of Lobo Marino added drumming and tambourine playing to that big finish.
Afterwards, I couldn't resist giving my very best hug to the talented Mr. W, probably the last thing he wanted (or needed) since he was still sweaty from his set.
From there, I had no choice but to drive my usual route home down Marshall Street, listening all the while to "Marshall Street."
Just another satisfying evening at the intersection of art and music.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Hello, Stella
Today proved that there's no better way to follow a lecture on Jews than with food from a Greek.
Robert Gillette was giving the Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society and his topic was, "The Virginia Plan: William Thalhimer and a Rescue from Nazi Germany."
For such a heavy topic, Gillette began with humor, remarking on the Byrd's recent marquee touting their air conditioning.
"So if you came because we have air conditioning, that's fine," he joked. I didn't, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
Gillette's book told the story of an agricultural training center for youth in Germany created during the 1930s.
When Hitler's rumblings began to scare people, the German Jews worried about their children's future and figured they'd have more success being accepted as immigrants elsewhere if they had marketable skills.
And few skills were as marketable as putting food on the table.
Thalhmer was on a buying trip in Europe when he first saw and heard the Brown Shirts and the experience scared him into coming home immediately.
As the national chairman for all refugee resettlement, he conceived of a farm for refugees in Virginia, with hopes that the idea would be replicated all over the US.
It eventually happened in Burkeville, Virginia with thirty German Jewish refugees working the farm.
The woman, especially, were thrilled with the greater responsibilities they were given on a farm in this country.
But all of the immigrants had a serious problem with Virginia's heat after Germany's temperate weather. Some things never change.
Gillette, a good speaker and a man clearly impressed with his subject, had the audience enthralled with the humanitarian contribution of the local department-store magnate.
Whatever else he may have accomplished, Gillette insisted that Thalhimer should go down in history for the difference one man can make.
Leaving by the front steps of the Historical Society, my friend came by and scooped me up so we could go to the new Stella's for lunch.
Us and half the city, that is. The charming space was mobbed when we arrived and it was going on 2:00.
Rather than wait for a table, we sat at the bar, only to flummox our handsome young bartender.
He got us water, but when I asked for a menu, he responded with, "A beer menu?"
No, I said, a food menu. We're starving, we explained with hungry grins.
"Well, you're at the bar and you look ready," he said, justifying his question. It was very sweet.
While we awaited menus, we admired the beautiful space. The pressed tin ceiling is one of the most striking I've ever seen.
I was thrilled to see a community table and terribly sorry I hadn't noticed it before we sat down.
Black and white photographs of the family sat on a nearby shelf. Congratulatory bouquets of flowers were everywhere, making for a lush feel with so much flora.
The screening separating the front and back booths reminded me of the kind used in confessionals. If it wasn't intentional, it should have been.
There were so many delectable Greek choices on the menu and with Stella in the kitchen (she came out at one point, in all her tiny beauty, a colorful pastel scarf tied around her white hair), we knew we couldn't go wrong with any of it.
For our first visit, we began with the basics. I had a pork souvlaki pita (tomato, onion, lettuce, green pepper and tzatziki) with a Greek salad on the side.
They were already out of the Greek potato salad I'd hoped for (which our server had raved about when I asked him). My friend went with the lamb gyro with the fried potatoes on the side.
We didn't go wrong with any of it and with Stella-size portions, we were stuffed.
Of note was my side Greek salad which was head and shoulders above a typical side salad with huge hunks of the very best Feta, good olives and cherry tomato halves as sweet as candy.
I'm already looking forward to my next visit, but I've decided that it will be for Meze Ora from 4-6:00.
Daughter Katrina said that they'll be doing smaller versions of their meze for $3 and $4 with wine and beer specials, with any luck beginning next Monday.
She said it in that hopeful but harried (because they've only been open four days) way, but it's painted right on the mirror behind the bar, so eventually I feel sure it will come to be.
I can't imagine a better way to sample around Stella's menu. Chances are, 4-6 p.m. is going to end up as popular as 2:00 lunches.
The staff probably don't even want to think about brunch starting up in September, but that, too, is coming.
I want to be just as energetic as Stella when I'm her age.
I'm not into cooking like she is, but I'm sure I can find plenty of other things to do with that kind of energy.
Robert Gillette was giving the Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society and his topic was, "The Virginia Plan: William Thalhimer and a Rescue from Nazi Germany."
For such a heavy topic, Gillette began with humor, remarking on the Byrd's recent marquee touting their air conditioning.
"So if you came because we have air conditioning, that's fine," he joked. I didn't, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
Gillette's book told the story of an agricultural training center for youth in Germany created during the 1930s.
When Hitler's rumblings began to scare people, the German Jews worried about their children's future and figured they'd have more success being accepted as immigrants elsewhere if they had marketable skills.
And few skills were as marketable as putting food on the table.
Thalhmer was on a buying trip in Europe when he first saw and heard the Brown Shirts and the experience scared him into coming home immediately.
As the national chairman for all refugee resettlement, he conceived of a farm for refugees in Virginia, with hopes that the idea would be replicated all over the US.
It eventually happened in Burkeville, Virginia with thirty German Jewish refugees working the farm.
The woman, especially, were thrilled with the greater responsibilities they were given on a farm in this country.
But all of the immigrants had a serious problem with Virginia's heat after Germany's temperate weather. Some things never change.
Gillette, a good speaker and a man clearly impressed with his subject, had the audience enthralled with the humanitarian contribution of the local department-store magnate.
Whatever else he may have accomplished, Gillette insisted that Thalhimer should go down in history for the difference one man can make.
Leaving by the front steps of the Historical Society, my friend came by and scooped me up so we could go to the new Stella's for lunch.
Us and half the city, that is. The charming space was mobbed when we arrived and it was going on 2:00.
Rather than wait for a table, we sat at the bar, only to flummox our handsome young bartender.
He got us water, but when I asked for a menu, he responded with, "A beer menu?"
No, I said, a food menu. We're starving, we explained with hungry grins.
"Well, you're at the bar and you look ready," he said, justifying his question. It was very sweet.
While we awaited menus, we admired the beautiful space. The pressed tin ceiling is one of the most striking I've ever seen.
I was thrilled to see a community table and terribly sorry I hadn't noticed it before we sat down.
Black and white photographs of the family sat on a nearby shelf. Congratulatory bouquets of flowers were everywhere, making for a lush feel with so much flora.
The screening separating the front and back booths reminded me of the kind used in confessionals. If it wasn't intentional, it should have been.
There were so many delectable Greek choices on the menu and with Stella in the kitchen (she came out at one point, in all her tiny beauty, a colorful pastel scarf tied around her white hair), we knew we couldn't go wrong with any of it.
For our first visit, we began with the basics. I had a pork souvlaki pita (tomato, onion, lettuce, green pepper and tzatziki) with a Greek salad on the side.
They were already out of the Greek potato salad I'd hoped for (which our server had raved about when I asked him). My friend went with the lamb gyro with the fried potatoes on the side.
We didn't go wrong with any of it and with Stella-size portions, we were stuffed.
Of note was my side Greek salad which was head and shoulders above a typical side salad with huge hunks of the very best Feta, good olives and cherry tomato halves as sweet as candy.
I'm already looking forward to my next visit, but I've decided that it will be for Meze Ora from 4-6:00.
Daughter Katrina said that they'll be doing smaller versions of their meze for $3 and $4 with wine and beer specials, with any luck beginning next Monday.
She said it in that hopeful but harried (because they've only been open four days) way, but it's painted right on the mirror behind the bar, so eventually I feel sure it will come to be.
I can't imagine a better way to sample around Stella's menu. Chances are, 4-6 p.m. is going to end up as popular as 2:00 lunches.
The staff probably don't even want to think about brunch starting up in September, but that, too, is coming.
I want to be just as energetic as Stella when I'm her age.
I'm not into cooking like she is, but I'm sure I can find plenty of other things to do with that kind of energy.
Good Things To Eat
If I say I brought a bottle of Virginia wine in my bag, does that tell you where I ended up?
It says nothing about where I started out, which was at The Camel for Todd Raviotta's art opening.
Before I even made it inside, I ran into a musician headed up to WRIR for an interview. That yielded some fun conversation and a FB friend request before I even got home.
The prolific photographer was showing his art work, all of it based on a life going to shows in Richmond. I know because I see him everywhere.
The first image I saw was of Prabir and the Goldrush, a band I know well.
In Raviotta's image, Treesa's dress was green glitter and Prabir was singing with his mouth wide open and Matt had his head bent, the better to hear his bass (I strain, too).
An image of No BS Brass band showed the musicians mid-note, with everyone's mouth open and singing.
There were many images of burlesque dancers in addition to one of a six headed DJ (actually three double exposures).
I admire Todd because he eschews the use of Photoshop in his photography; instead, he prints his pictures on waterproof paper, creating a canvas for further work.
Then, using nail polish (and often glitter nail polish) he paints on the photographs. It's interesting what gets his brushstrokes and what doesn't. Treesa's dress did.
Todd said tonight that this art form was his way of combining his love of photography with painting and his affinity for the people in his world (musicians and burlesque performers) without having to resort to using a screen.
After perusing the paintings and talking to the artist, I headed up the hill to The Roosevelt, where I arrived to a standing-room-only dining room.
It was also the first night of full ABC service. Just in case, though, I'd brought a bottle of my own. For the record, it was Virginia wine.
I took the seat vacated by Jason Alley, chef at Comfort, and was immediately introduced to my seatmate, a merchandiser for Urban Outfitters and a charming conversationalist.
Considering my Diversity Thrift summer dress, I'm fortunate that he even deigned to talk to me. But he did, and with enthusiasm
I asked for the Virginia Fizz, which had already sold so well that the remainder was on ice being chilled down.
Rather than wait, I opted for the Boxwood Rose, which came to me highly recommended by the owner. She was right.
The conversation with my new found friend was fascinating; we covered suburban childhoods (his), diversity in the neighborhood (mine) and the appeal of beer labels in making a selection (given his line of work, not surprising).
The good news is that The Roosevelt carries no throwaway beers, so bring your best beer-drinking game when you come. Beer and a shot comes with knowledge, not on the menu.
After lively discussion of city life and Mama J's, I found myself hungry and ordered the squash fritters with Tabasco remoulade at my new friend's suggestion.
The irregularly shaped fritters had the right amount of crunch outside to balance the savory inside, especially when dredged in the remoulade.
My companion, a highly visual type, described the decor of some favorite high-end restaurants and hotels while I enjoyed my fritters
The dining room became a tad more civilized as a few tables got up to go and were not immediately filled.
A musician friend (and, as it turned out, blog reader) appeared with his beloved and we talked local music until he had to go. Readers seem to turn up everywhere.
Then I ordered the steak tartare with egg yolk, pickled mustard seed and grilled bread.
The dish was amazing; the couple next to me ordered it twice tonight. The yolk made the dish, imparting a a richness that the tartare could only absorb.
I pricked it, it oozed and I savored it like, well, I hadn't had a a good yolk in a while. Metaphor-like.
The grilled bread, when eaten with the tartare, gave a cooked quality to the beef that was wholly unexpected...and perfect.
With my raw meat, I enjoyed a pairing of Mountfair Merlot. As good a pairing as it was, the raw meat and yolk were the star. Still, I drank on.
After dinner, I was invited to join a contingent at the center table. Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to bring a bottle of 2008 Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc/Viognier to share.
While celebrating Virginia's new BYOB law, we talked about wineries, American food origins and why it's important to stand up to people who disagree with you (this happens to us both frequently).
Be nice, but be firm. Hate no one. And when in doubt, ignore the people who don't matter.
One of my favorite drummers came in and I greeted him enthusiastically, not having known before that he was a Church Hill resident. Like the other neighbors, he is rejoicing at The Roosevelt's opening.
"We're just going to sit you out front with a bottle of wine and you can bring in business," my friend informed me.
It was at that point that we switched to a bottle of Whitehall Cabernet Franc, very different from the last.
I sipped it while flipping through a fascinating book, "Rufus Estes Good Things to Eat," the first cookbook by an African-American (full of yummy things like tongue toast).
There were no less than ten return customers at The Roosevelt tonight, all raving about the food and thrilled that the ABC license has arrived.
I was just another returning face with a bottle of Virginia wine and a propensity to talk to everyone.
The Roosevelt, not just for teetotalers anymore.
It says nothing about where I started out, which was at The Camel for Todd Raviotta's art opening.
Before I even made it inside, I ran into a musician headed up to WRIR for an interview. That yielded some fun conversation and a FB friend request before I even got home.
The prolific photographer was showing his art work, all of it based on a life going to shows in Richmond. I know because I see him everywhere.
The first image I saw was of Prabir and the Goldrush, a band I know well.
In Raviotta's image, Treesa's dress was green glitter and Prabir was singing with his mouth wide open and Matt had his head bent, the better to hear his bass (I strain, too).
An image of No BS Brass band showed the musicians mid-note, with everyone's mouth open and singing.
There were many images of burlesque dancers in addition to one of a six headed DJ (actually three double exposures).
I admire Todd because he eschews the use of Photoshop in his photography; instead, he prints his pictures on waterproof paper, creating a canvas for further work.
Then, using nail polish (and often glitter nail polish) he paints on the photographs. It's interesting what gets his brushstrokes and what doesn't. Treesa's dress did.
Todd said tonight that this art form was his way of combining his love of photography with painting and his affinity for the people in his world (musicians and burlesque performers) without having to resort to using a screen.
After perusing the paintings and talking to the artist, I headed up the hill to The Roosevelt, where I arrived to a standing-room-only dining room.
It was also the first night of full ABC service. Just in case, though, I'd brought a bottle of my own. For the record, it was Virginia wine.
I took the seat vacated by Jason Alley, chef at Comfort, and was immediately introduced to my seatmate, a merchandiser for Urban Outfitters and a charming conversationalist.
Considering my Diversity Thrift summer dress, I'm fortunate that he even deigned to talk to me. But he did, and with enthusiasm
I asked for the Virginia Fizz, which had already sold so well that the remainder was on ice being chilled down.
Rather than wait, I opted for the Boxwood Rose, which came to me highly recommended by the owner. She was right.
The conversation with my new found friend was fascinating; we covered suburban childhoods (his), diversity in the neighborhood (mine) and the appeal of beer labels in making a selection (given his line of work, not surprising).
The good news is that The Roosevelt carries no throwaway beers, so bring your best beer-drinking game when you come. Beer and a shot comes with knowledge, not on the menu.
After lively discussion of city life and Mama J's, I found myself hungry and ordered the squash fritters with Tabasco remoulade at my new friend's suggestion.
The irregularly shaped fritters had the right amount of crunch outside to balance the savory inside, especially when dredged in the remoulade.
My companion, a highly visual type, described the decor of some favorite high-end restaurants and hotels while I enjoyed my fritters
The dining room became a tad more civilized as a few tables got up to go and were not immediately filled.
A musician friend (and, as it turned out, blog reader) appeared with his beloved and we talked local music until he had to go. Readers seem to turn up everywhere.
Then I ordered the steak tartare with egg yolk, pickled mustard seed and grilled bread.
The dish was amazing; the couple next to me ordered it twice tonight. The yolk made the dish, imparting a a richness that the tartare could only absorb.
I pricked it, it oozed and I savored it like, well, I hadn't had a a good yolk in a while. Metaphor-like.
The grilled bread, when eaten with the tartare, gave a cooked quality to the beef that was wholly unexpected...and perfect.
With my raw meat, I enjoyed a pairing of Mountfair Merlot. As good a pairing as it was, the raw meat and yolk were the star. Still, I drank on.
After dinner, I was invited to join a contingent at the center table. Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to bring a bottle of 2008 Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc/Viognier to share.
While celebrating Virginia's new BYOB law, we talked about wineries, American food origins and why it's important to stand up to people who disagree with you (this happens to us both frequently).
Be nice, but be firm. Hate no one. And when in doubt, ignore the people who don't matter.
One of my favorite drummers came in and I greeted him enthusiastically, not having known before that he was a Church Hill resident. Like the other neighbors, he is rejoicing at The Roosevelt's opening.
"We're just going to sit you out front with a bottle of wine and you can bring in business," my friend informed me.
It was at that point that we switched to a bottle of Whitehall Cabernet Franc, very different from the last.
I sipped it while flipping through a fascinating book, "Rufus Estes Good Things to Eat," the first cookbook by an African-American (full of yummy things like tongue toast).
There were no less than ten return customers at The Roosevelt tonight, all raving about the food and thrilled that the ABC license has arrived.
I was just another returning face with a bottle of Virginia wine and a propensity to talk to everyone.
The Roosevelt, not just for teetotalers anymore.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
A History of Sadness on CD
In terms of starting a new relationship, we are all beginners.
That's the crux of the movie "Beginners" at the Westhampton Theater, which is how a girlfriend and I began our evening.
Her new husband is away (motorcycling cross-country...in this heat...sleeping in a tent) and they never go to the movies, so she is busy doing fun stuff while he is away.
The kind of stuff he doesn't do. I'm just her willing accomplice.
The movie is not for those with short attention spans or a need to see things blown up. This is a smart movie.
It unfolds organically, telling the story of a 75-year old man who comes out after his wife dies.
His 38-year old son, meanwhile, is a serial failure at relationships (as are plenty of us) but finds himself inspired by his father's new-found enthusiasm for life and love.
But as those of us eager for a relationship but without one know well, wanting and achieving successful love are two vastly different things.
The son is an illustrator working on CD art for a band which, rather than the desired pictures of the band, ends up being a "History of Sadness" and what band wants that?
Okay, maybe an emo band, but not the band in the movie. Jonathan Vassar sings mostly sad songs and I don't even think he'd want it.
The arc of him learning to trust love and not be sad is the counterpoint to the newly-outed father going to clubs (and discovering house music), finding a handsome (younger) lover and eventually dying of cancer.
It's a lot like life, but I know not everyone wants reality in their movies.
I found the slice-of-life story moving, even when it ended on the uncertainty of two people in love and one of them unsure about moving forward.
Cinema verite, baby. The kind of movie I can relate to.
Walking out of the theater with cramped legs from the inadequate spacing of the rows (clearly people were shorter when the theater was built in 1938), we were faced with the obvious choice.
Blue Goat or Blue Goat? We chose Blue Goat, sliding into the bar and trying not to stand out too much amongst the West Enders.
We failed miserably, but found a friendly face in the bartender.
Looking at the cocktail menu, my friend ordered Bulleit bourbon, to which the bartender responded, "I love you!"
They'd just gotten Bulleit in today and she was a fan.
So she instead poured Bulleit Rye for us both to taste, commenting on its smoothness on the sides of the tongue, but absence in the center.
The vintage-looking brown bottle was a thing of beauty, like something dug up in a J-Ward backyard excavation.
My friend got Bulleit rye and I got Hornitos. Neither of us could imagine drinking the other's poison.
We had a small window during which to order before the kitchen closed, so we got two simple dishes, a salad (Manakintowne arugula, apple, avocado, Hanover tomato, house-made goat cheese, lemon herbed vinaigrette) and forest mushroom ragout with mascarpone polenta.
As we ate, the Rico Suave middle-aged guy next to us moved outside to work his magic on a table of girls, eventually succeeding.
The guy who replaced him next to us commented favorably on the choice of Bulleit. That was about as close as we came to fitting in there.
But as beginners, we fit in perfectly.
Despite our colorful life experiences (also a topic of much merriment and conversation tonight), we agreed that it can be scary to go forward with someone you love.
It's just that the alternative is completely unacceptable.
In the Venn diagram of life, it appears that beginners may overlap with hopeless romantics.
That's the crux of the movie "Beginners" at the Westhampton Theater, which is how a girlfriend and I began our evening.
Her new husband is away (motorcycling cross-country...in this heat...sleeping in a tent) and they never go to the movies, so she is busy doing fun stuff while he is away.
The kind of stuff he doesn't do. I'm just her willing accomplice.
The movie is not for those with short attention spans or a need to see things blown up. This is a smart movie.
It unfolds organically, telling the story of a 75-year old man who comes out after his wife dies.
His 38-year old son, meanwhile, is a serial failure at relationships (as are plenty of us) but finds himself inspired by his father's new-found enthusiasm for life and love.
But as those of us eager for a relationship but without one know well, wanting and achieving successful love are two vastly different things.
The son is an illustrator working on CD art for a band which, rather than the desired pictures of the band, ends up being a "History of Sadness" and what band wants that?
Okay, maybe an emo band, but not the band in the movie. Jonathan Vassar sings mostly sad songs and I don't even think he'd want it.
The arc of him learning to trust love and not be sad is the counterpoint to the newly-outed father going to clubs (and discovering house music), finding a handsome (younger) lover and eventually dying of cancer.
It's a lot like life, but I know not everyone wants reality in their movies.
I found the slice-of-life story moving, even when it ended on the uncertainty of two people in love and one of them unsure about moving forward.
Cinema verite, baby. The kind of movie I can relate to.
Walking out of the theater with cramped legs from the inadequate spacing of the rows (clearly people were shorter when the theater was built in 1938), we were faced with the obvious choice.
Blue Goat or Blue Goat? We chose Blue Goat, sliding into the bar and trying not to stand out too much amongst the West Enders.
We failed miserably, but found a friendly face in the bartender.
Looking at the cocktail menu, my friend ordered Bulleit bourbon, to which the bartender responded, "I love you!"
They'd just gotten Bulleit in today and she was a fan.
So she instead poured Bulleit Rye for us both to taste, commenting on its smoothness on the sides of the tongue, but absence in the center.
The vintage-looking brown bottle was a thing of beauty, like something dug up in a J-Ward backyard excavation.
My friend got Bulleit rye and I got Hornitos. Neither of us could imagine drinking the other's poison.
We had a small window during which to order before the kitchen closed, so we got two simple dishes, a salad (Manakintowne arugula, apple, avocado, Hanover tomato, house-made goat cheese, lemon herbed vinaigrette) and forest mushroom ragout with mascarpone polenta.
As we ate, the Rico Suave middle-aged guy next to us moved outside to work his magic on a table of girls, eventually succeeding.
The guy who replaced him next to us commented favorably on the choice of Bulleit. That was about as close as we came to fitting in there.
But as beginners, we fit in perfectly.
Despite our colorful life experiences (also a topic of much merriment and conversation tonight), we agreed that it can be scary to go forward with someone you love.
It's just that the alternative is completely unacceptable.
In the Venn diagram of life, it appears that beginners may overlap with hopeless romantics.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Texans and Telecasters
Sprout is spoiling live music lovers.
It's gotten to the point where a Monday night show isn't even all that unusual.
For that matter, looking at their August calendar (and today is only the first), there were already shows planned for every night except four.
And shows of all kinds: folk, metal, indie rock. Now if only they'd get the shows started before 10:30.
But a late starting time allows for conversation and food beforehand and their kitchen accommodates that (admittedly, the amount of conversation they offer varies).
Tonight I broke bad and had the chocolate raspberry torte, a decadent slice of very dark chocolate studded with fresh raspberries throughout and covered in real whipped cream.
As Chef Laurie said, "That other stuff isn't whipped cream." Amen to that. Give me full fat whipping cream every time.
Unbelievably, I couldn't even finish it. Now, at 1:30, it seems to be no problem.
On tonight's bill was Dane Ferguson, an affable folk singer from Southern Virginia. I say affable because he got the call two hours before the show asking him to open.
He did a fine job sharing his melodic songs on such short notice. A relative newcomer to the area, he'll be playing Sprout again later in the month.
The Lusitania was from El Paso, Texas and word in the room was that they were alt-country, but they rocked their alt-country hard. Sometimes even in a punk direction.
My favorite part of the band's sound was the keyboards, which kept the band from veering too close to classic rock-like for my taste (a cardinal sin in my book).
The singer's gravely southern voice and two strong guitarists made for an energetic set with songs about parties ("You know, those last few hours when things get weird and druggy") and songs about songs (Galaxie 500, being mentioned for the second time in a week by a performer).
In the crowd were former Texans The Diamond Center supporting their Lone Star State brethren.
Adah played last and you can always count on volume with any of Joon's line-ups.
I saw a musician in the audience go to the bathroom for t.p. to use as earplugs after only two songs.
Mother Nature did the lighting for the show with heat lightening providing a strobe effect in the room throughout the evening.
Usually, Joon plays at least part of the band's set on violin (and ends up writhing on the floor playing it), but tonight he stuck to guitar, asking band mates at one point if he should go get his violin for the next song.
After being told no, he said to the audience, "Okay, here's a song I don't know how to play on guitar." Not so.
For the finale, he instructed musician Matt Klimas, standing in the crowd, to grab the Telecaster and warned the audience, "If you were thinking of leaving, now is the time to leave."
Naturally no one left.
The band launched into Yo la Tengo's "Tom Courtenay" much to the delight of the music geeks in the room, some of whom could not resist dancing in place.
I just reveled in hearing a song from one of my all-time favorite bands covered by other YLT lovers.
Dark chocolate and reverb on a Monday night, oh, my!
It's gotten to the point where a Monday night show isn't even all that unusual.
For that matter, looking at their August calendar (and today is only the first), there were already shows planned for every night except four.
And shows of all kinds: folk, metal, indie rock. Now if only they'd get the shows started before 10:30.
But a late starting time allows for conversation and food beforehand and their kitchen accommodates that (admittedly, the amount of conversation they offer varies).
Tonight I broke bad and had the chocolate raspberry torte, a decadent slice of very dark chocolate studded with fresh raspberries throughout and covered in real whipped cream.
As Chef Laurie said, "That other stuff isn't whipped cream." Amen to that. Give me full fat whipping cream every time.
Unbelievably, I couldn't even finish it. Now, at 1:30, it seems to be no problem.
On tonight's bill was Dane Ferguson, an affable folk singer from Southern Virginia. I say affable because he got the call two hours before the show asking him to open.
He did a fine job sharing his melodic songs on such short notice. A relative newcomer to the area, he'll be playing Sprout again later in the month.
The Lusitania was from El Paso, Texas and word in the room was that they were alt-country, but they rocked their alt-country hard. Sometimes even in a punk direction.
My favorite part of the band's sound was the keyboards, which kept the band from veering too close to classic rock-like for my taste (a cardinal sin in my book).
The singer's gravely southern voice and two strong guitarists made for an energetic set with songs about parties ("You know, those last few hours when things get weird and druggy") and songs about songs (Galaxie 500, being mentioned for the second time in a week by a performer).
In the crowd were former Texans The Diamond Center supporting their Lone Star State brethren.
Adah played last and you can always count on volume with any of Joon's line-ups.
I saw a musician in the audience go to the bathroom for t.p. to use as earplugs after only two songs.
Mother Nature did the lighting for the show with heat lightening providing a strobe effect in the room throughout the evening.
Usually, Joon plays at least part of the band's set on violin (and ends up writhing on the floor playing it), but tonight he stuck to guitar, asking band mates at one point if he should go get his violin for the next song.
After being told no, he said to the audience, "Okay, here's a song I don't know how to play on guitar." Not so.
For the finale, he instructed musician Matt Klimas, standing in the crowd, to grab the Telecaster and warned the audience, "If you were thinking of leaving, now is the time to leave."
Naturally no one left.
The band launched into Yo la Tengo's "Tom Courtenay" much to the delight of the music geeks in the room, some of whom could not resist dancing in place.
I just reveled in hearing a song from one of my all-time favorite bands covered by other YLT lovers.
Dark chocolate and reverb on a Monday night, oh, my!
Monday, August 1, 2011
Itchy Mouth Be Damned
As many times as I've been through the Farm to Family bus at local events, I'd never been to their storefront.
Although I pass it regularly on my way to the Northern Neck, I'm never inclined to stop on Mechanicsville Turnpike once I'm on my way.
So today I addressed that with a visit and a look-see.
I liked how DIY it was; a handwritten sign on the door informed us that milk was buy one, get one free and both local tomatoes and peaches were only $1.99 a pound.
Browsing through jars of local apple butter, a staple of my childhood, and honey, I turned around to find "grab and go" boxes.
It was like getting your weekly CSA delivery without having to commit to a CSA and the boxes were stuffed with summer bounty.
But like the reason for my resistance to joining a CSA, it's way too much food for one person, especially one with a taste for eating out.
Or I could look at it as one more reason I need a partner.
Browsing the aisles was a colorful delight and it was hard not to take pleasure in the satisfying imperfections of local produce (all from 150 miles or less).
The heirloom tomatoes, especially, are so gloriously oddly shaped (one positioned at the register appeared to have an, ahem, appendage growing out of it) as to be sculptural; I couldn't resist the orange or yellow ones.
And despite my peach allergy, the smell wafting up from the baskets was so intoxicating that I had to get some of them, too. My tongue will just have to swell.
Hopefully a perfectly fried duck egg over easy will take care of any residual itchiness.
Although I pass it regularly on my way to the Northern Neck, I'm never inclined to stop on Mechanicsville Turnpike once I'm on my way.
So today I addressed that with a visit and a look-see.
I liked how DIY it was; a handwritten sign on the door informed us that milk was buy one, get one free and both local tomatoes and peaches were only $1.99 a pound.
Browsing through jars of local apple butter, a staple of my childhood, and honey, I turned around to find "grab and go" boxes.
It was like getting your weekly CSA delivery without having to commit to a CSA and the boxes were stuffed with summer bounty.
But like the reason for my resistance to joining a CSA, it's way too much food for one person, especially one with a taste for eating out.
Or I could look at it as one more reason I need a partner.
Browsing the aisles was a colorful delight and it was hard not to take pleasure in the satisfying imperfections of local produce (all from 150 miles or less).
The heirloom tomatoes, especially, are so gloriously oddly shaped (one positioned at the register appeared to have an, ahem, appendage growing out of it) as to be sculptural; I couldn't resist the orange or yellow ones.
And despite my peach allergy, the smell wafting up from the baskets was so intoxicating that I had to get some of them, too. My tongue will just have to swell.
Hopefully a perfectly fried duck egg over easy will take care of any residual itchiness.
Belonging to Everyone Who Meets You
It was almost like a day at the beach, but without the ocean.
It started out as usual, with breakfast and walking, which for a change here lately wasn't miserable because it was overcast and not even in the 90s.
How quickly we lower our standards!
And then not long after I got home, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of rain outside.
Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the morning's Washington Post, which I had not yet started, and moved to my back porch which overlooks the yard.
And with the sound of the rain on the metal roof and the occasional raindrops hitting me in my rocking chair, I savored my morning newspaper.
I read about three different books I must read. One was about the art scene in L.A. in the sixties, one about the generation that started the California wineries and one about the most beautiful walks in Paris.
Any or all would make terrific beach reads, not that I'll wait that long to find out.
It was so pleasant on the porch with the rain falling all around me after the heat of the past few weeks. Just as I was nearing the end of the paper, it let up and started to get brighter.
Seemed like a good time to take a nap, so I went inside and did.
After lunch and some actual time devoted to work, I decided to take another reading break, picking up the beach read I have still not finished since returning home.
After 70 pages or so of "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick," I realized it was the perfect time for a nap. Again.
Can't say I know what got into me today. This is how I behave at the beach, reading and napping at will, but it's not my M.O. at home.
I finally left the house around 8:30 this evening for music and to make sure I still knew how to talk to other people.
The Camel was hosting a Singer/Songwriter Night and I only recognized one name on the list, so I figured it would be interesting.
Obviously anticipating a small crowd, the show had been set up on the bar side of the restaurant with the folding door to the main room shut.
Within no time, they adjusted the plan, opened the door and brought chairs over for the overflow of people standing, like me.
First up were Miriam and Jordan of local band the Kindling Kind, whom I'd never heard of.
Miriam had a distinctive voice which reminded me of English singer Lauren Christy.
Her songs were confessional in nature and Jordan's guitar playing added a nice richness to them. I'd be interested to hear the whole band.
Robert Lacey, originally from Charlottesville but currently living in New Orleans, was up next and began with a song inspired by Tom Robbins.
I wasn't sure about him after the first song, but his intensity and voice got progressively stronger until he was riveting to hear.
Favorite lyric: "I wanted to believe in the curve of your freckled hip between my knees"
The crowd was respectful and hushed for both the first two sets, so I should have known it was too good to last.
No sooner had organizer Paul Wilson begun his set when the noise of the crowd became offensively loud.
After his first song, he addressed the problem. "If everyone would be quiet and listen, it's an awesome thing when you just listen."
And people were quiet when he said that. And as soon as he went back to singing they went back to shouting over him. It was a shame.
Lydia Ooghe dueted with Paul on a couple of songs, teasing the audience since she was the next performer.
The rudeness continued during Lydia's set of mostly new material.
She has such a delicate voice and although Paul actually went up to some of the worst offenders and asked them to move to the back and keep it low, they quickly forgot.
Lydia mentioned a recent singer/songwriter showcase she'd done in C-ville where all the performers were asked to write a song based on another song.
She had chose one called "If I Could Play a Piano" and redone it, using similar music elements as "If I Could Sleep."
Starting a song, she said, "Oops, there goes my capo! Technical difficulties!" and a quick audience member responded, "Don't fret it!"
I laughed out loud and he looked pretty pleased with himself.
I enjoyed major bliss when she covered David Byrne's "Everyone's in Love with You," easily one of my very favorite Byrne songs and quite a tribute to someone.
Hearing a song written and sung by a man performed by a women gave extra poignancy to the lyrics, which I appreciated.
It was a stellar choice on Lydia's part and she did an outstanding job with it.
And the crowd shouted on. Even though there were more performers to come, I was tired of the drunken rudeness and left before I got to hear the remaining singers.
It may have felt like a day at the beach all day, but this evening made for a solid return to normal life in RVA.
Otherwise I'd be typing this from the porch swing overlooking the ocean.
Jackson Ward has much to recommend it, but no ocean.
It started out as usual, with breakfast and walking, which for a change here lately wasn't miserable because it was overcast and not even in the 90s.
How quickly we lower our standards!
And then not long after I got home, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of rain outside.
Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the morning's Washington Post, which I had not yet started, and moved to my back porch which overlooks the yard.
And with the sound of the rain on the metal roof and the occasional raindrops hitting me in my rocking chair, I savored my morning newspaper.
I read about three different books I must read. One was about the art scene in L.A. in the sixties, one about the generation that started the California wineries and one about the most beautiful walks in Paris.
Any or all would make terrific beach reads, not that I'll wait that long to find out.
It was so pleasant on the porch with the rain falling all around me after the heat of the past few weeks. Just as I was nearing the end of the paper, it let up and started to get brighter.
Seemed like a good time to take a nap, so I went inside and did.
After lunch and some actual time devoted to work, I decided to take another reading break, picking up the beach read I have still not finished since returning home.
After 70 pages or so of "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick," I realized it was the perfect time for a nap. Again.
Can't say I know what got into me today. This is how I behave at the beach, reading and napping at will, but it's not my M.O. at home.
I finally left the house around 8:30 this evening for music and to make sure I still knew how to talk to other people.
The Camel was hosting a Singer/Songwriter Night and I only recognized one name on the list, so I figured it would be interesting.
Obviously anticipating a small crowd, the show had been set up on the bar side of the restaurant with the folding door to the main room shut.
Within no time, they adjusted the plan, opened the door and brought chairs over for the overflow of people standing, like me.
First up were Miriam and Jordan of local band the Kindling Kind, whom I'd never heard of.
Miriam had a distinctive voice which reminded me of English singer Lauren Christy.
Her songs were confessional in nature and Jordan's guitar playing added a nice richness to them. I'd be interested to hear the whole band.
Robert Lacey, originally from Charlottesville but currently living in New Orleans, was up next and began with a song inspired by Tom Robbins.
I wasn't sure about him after the first song, but his intensity and voice got progressively stronger until he was riveting to hear.
Favorite lyric: "I wanted to believe in the curve of your freckled hip between my knees"
The crowd was respectful and hushed for both the first two sets, so I should have known it was too good to last.
No sooner had organizer Paul Wilson begun his set when the noise of the crowd became offensively loud.
After his first song, he addressed the problem. "If everyone would be quiet and listen, it's an awesome thing when you just listen."
And people were quiet when he said that. And as soon as he went back to singing they went back to shouting over him. It was a shame.
Lydia Ooghe dueted with Paul on a couple of songs, teasing the audience since she was the next performer.
The rudeness continued during Lydia's set of mostly new material.
She has such a delicate voice and although Paul actually went up to some of the worst offenders and asked them to move to the back and keep it low, they quickly forgot.
Lydia mentioned a recent singer/songwriter showcase she'd done in C-ville where all the performers were asked to write a song based on another song.
She had chose one called "If I Could Play a Piano" and redone it, using similar music elements as "If I Could Sleep."
Starting a song, she said, "Oops, there goes my capo! Technical difficulties!" and a quick audience member responded, "Don't fret it!"
I laughed out loud and he looked pretty pleased with himself.
I enjoyed major bliss when she covered David Byrne's "Everyone's in Love with You," easily one of my very favorite Byrne songs and quite a tribute to someone.
I introduce you to my friends
& that's the last I see of you
All the world's discovered my big secret
Everyone's in love with you
They're fascinated by your smile
They copy all the things you do
I wish that you & I could be together, but
Everyone's in love with you, yeah
Everyone's in love with you
God gives, God's wise
The way that she smiles
It should be no surprise
At work, at home
I'm introduced to so & so
But you're the one they want to know
I'm jealous & a little proud
I want to kill & kiss you too
You belong to everyone who meets you
Everyone's in love with you
God gives, God takes
Don't misunderstand I'm a satisfied man
So sweet, so strange
I guess I'll never understand the things she does to all my friends
Hearing a song written and sung by a man performed by a women gave extra poignancy to the lyrics, which I appreciated.
It was a stellar choice on Lydia's part and she did an outstanding job with it.
And the crowd shouted on. Even though there were more performers to come, I was tired of the drunken rudeness and left before I got to hear the remaining singers.
It may have felt like a day at the beach all day, but this evening made for a solid return to normal life in RVA.
Otherwise I'd be typing this from the porch swing overlooking the ocean.
Jackson Ward has much to recommend it, but no ocean.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
For Karen, Forever Ago
I bought my ticket for the Bon Iver show the second week in May, which meant I had to wait nearly three months for it.
At the time, the opening band was an unknown entity, so I felt doubly lucky when it was announced that the Rosebuds would open.
I'm a huge fan of the Raleigh band, having seen them in May 2008 when they opened for British Sea Power in Charlottesville. I fell in love with them that night.
As I told a friend today, I'd have gone to the show tonight if it had just been them.
But of course, it wasn't; the biggest draw was Bon Iver, made all the more significant because Richmond's own Reggie Pace is a member of the band these days.
When I arrived, the crowd was already shoulder to shoulder and the Rosebuds weren't coming on for another 45 minutes. That's highly unusual.
Just as rare was the temperature inside the National. I've been to shows in July there and about froze to death because of the air conditioning.
Tonight was nothing like that. If someone bumped into you, it was sticky. Body heat radiated off of everyone.
A friend of a friend recognized me as soon as I took up my usual post in front of the sound booth. She, too, was a big Rosebuds fan so I was happy to meet a kindred soul.
There's no one genre that the Rosebuds fit neatly into because their sound varies from folk to full on rock and a lot in between.
Like countless bands before them, the relationship between the two principals (who were once married but are no longer) makes for great songwriting fodder.
Tonight's crowd was either eager to be entertained or smart enough to appreciate the talent of what they were seeing, but seemed to give the Rosebuds the audience they deserved.
But when it came down to it, most people were there for Bon Iver. From the moment the band took the stage, the energy in the room was palpable.
Having Reggie up there, such a familiar presence in Richmond with his tireless performing out with No BS, Glows in the Dark, and FTBB, made for an electricity in the room.
Justin Vernon noticed it, acknowledging the crowd throughout for their enthusiasm.
A couple of people bordered on obnoxious; a guy who tried to start chants of "RVA!" and a girl who kept shouting, "I love you, Justin."
After awhile, the crowd began telling them to shush.
Some of the fans who prefer the band's first album "For Emma, Forever Ago" have a problem with the new self-titled album being far less spare and more lushly produced.
For them, the large touring band behind Vernon gave additional weight to many originally-simpler songs. Percussion played a major role in the show (drummer nirvana even), as did horns, and Reggie did both.
That said, some of the most spare songs retained that quality with just Justin and his guitar and a surprisingly hushed crowd.
I refuse to pick a favorite album. I fell in love with "For Emma, Forever Ago" back in 2008 when I was living another life. It was beautiful; his voice and earnestness captured me. I wore that CD out.
But that album, written after Justin lost his job, got dumped and had mono resonated in a different way with me once I experienced all that (substituting pneumonia for mono) myself a few months later.
The new album sounds fuller and is obviously the work of a man in a much better place. He has a talented girlfriend, his health appears robust and, well, his job is what he was doing tonight.
Nice work if you can get it.
You can't sound heartbroken, sick and upset when you're happy. Nor should you try to.
So I can honestly say I like both the albums equally, unlike a lot of people, for the different life stages and mindsets they represent.
The band covered Bjork, closed the set with the heartbreaking "For Emma" and came back for an encore that included the crowd favorite "Skinny Love" and a crowd singalong.
Sweaty as the room was, I saw no one leave before the encore was over. Perhaps they were stuck to their neighbors, but that, too, is unusual.
As I was waiting in the endless line to exit the building, I stood next to Bon Iver's sound guy, whom Justin had introduced during the show as a major talent in their sound.
"You must love your job," I said to him.
"It takes a lot out of you," he acknowledged. "But yea."
"I'm sure it gives a lot back," I countered. "That was such an amazing show. But I guess it always is."
"Actually, this was one of the best ever. This was something special tonight," he said smiling.
"Well, it was great for us to see Justin and Reggie," I explained.
Instant reaction. "Reggie is such a sweet guy," he enthused. "And so talented!"
Seems like the rest of the world is discovering that Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop Reggie Pace is one in a million.
At the time, the opening band was an unknown entity, so I felt doubly lucky when it was announced that the Rosebuds would open.
I'm a huge fan of the Raleigh band, having seen them in May 2008 when they opened for British Sea Power in Charlottesville. I fell in love with them that night.
As I told a friend today, I'd have gone to the show tonight if it had just been them.
But of course, it wasn't; the biggest draw was Bon Iver, made all the more significant because Richmond's own Reggie Pace is a member of the band these days.
When I arrived, the crowd was already shoulder to shoulder and the Rosebuds weren't coming on for another 45 minutes. That's highly unusual.
Just as rare was the temperature inside the National. I've been to shows in July there and about froze to death because of the air conditioning.
Tonight was nothing like that. If someone bumped into you, it was sticky. Body heat radiated off of everyone.
A friend of a friend recognized me as soon as I took up my usual post in front of the sound booth. She, too, was a big Rosebuds fan so I was happy to meet a kindred soul.
There's no one genre that the Rosebuds fit neatly into because their sound varies from folk to full on rock and a lot in between.
Like countless bands before them, the relationship between the two principals (who were once married but are no longer) makes for great songwriting fodder.
Tonight's crowd was either eager to be entertained or smart enough to appreciate the talent of what they were seeing, but seemed to give the Rosebuds the audience they deserved.
In a particularly satisfying Rosebuds moment, a very tall couple moved directly in front of me just before the band started.
But when they began putting their heads together and talking to each other non-stop, a girl behind me yelled "Shut up!" at them and they soon moved.
She was my hero
But when it came down to it, most people were there for Bon Iver. From the moment the band took the stage, the energy in the room was palpable.
Having Reggie up there, such a familiar presence in Richmond with his tireless performing out with No BS, Glows in the Dark, and FTBB, made for an electricity in the room.
Justin Vernon noticed it, acknowledging the crowd throughout for their enthusiasm.
A couple of people bordered on obnoxious; a guy who tried to start chants of "RVA!" and a girl who kept shouting, "I love you, Justin."
After awhile, the crowd began telling them to shush.
Some of the fans who prefer the band's first album "For Emma, Forever Ago" have a problem with the new self-titled album being far less spare and more lushly produced.
For them, the large touring band behind Vernon gave additional weight to many originally-simpler songs. Percussion played a major role in the show (drummer nirvana even), as did horns, and Reggie did both.
That said, some of the most spare songs retained that quality with just Justin and his guitar and a surprisingly hushed crowd.
I refuse to pick a favorite album. I fell in love with "For Emma, Forever Ago" back in 2008 when I was living another life. It was beautiful; his voice and earnestness captured me. I wore that CD out.
But that album, written after Justin lost his job, got dumped and had mono resonated in a different way with me once I experienced all that (substituting pneumonia for mono) myself a few months later.
The new album sounds fuller and is obviously the work of a man in a much better place. He has a talented girlfriend, his health appears robust and, well, his job is what he was doing tonight.
Nice work if you can get it.
You can't sound heartbroken, sick and upset when you're happy. Nor should you try to.
So I can honestly say I like both the albums equally, unlike a lot of people, for the different life stages and mindsets they represent.
The band covered Bjork, closed the set with the heartbreaking "For Emma" and came back for an encore that included the crowd favorite "Skinny Love" and a crowd singalong.
Sweaty as the room was, I saw no one leave before the encore was over. Perhaps they were stuck to their neighbors, but that, too, is unusual.
As I was waiting in the endless line to exit the building, I stood next to Bon Iver's sound guy, whom Justin had introduced during the show as a major talent in their sound.
"You must love your job," I said to him.
"It takes a lot out of you," he acknowledged. "But yea."
"I'm sure it gives a lot back," I countered. "That was such an amazing show. But I guess it always is."
"Actually, this was one of the best ever. This was something special tonight," he said smiling.
"Well, it was great for us to see Justin and Reggie," I explained.
Instant reaction. "Reggie is such a sweet guy," he enthused. "And so talented!"
Seems like the rest of the world is discovering that Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop Reggie Pace is one in a million.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
A Dozen Lost Weekends on Film
I would have been satisfied with just the film fest, but my companion wanted dessert, too.
We agreed to meet at Can-Can and the one block walk from my car there left my tissue paper-thin silk dress wet with sweat.
Such an attractive way to enter an establishment.
But once seated at the bar, that was forgotten in the pleasures of a Framboise fizz, made with mint tea, fresh raspberries, raspberry syrup, soda and a splash of lime.
As beautiful (and frothy) as it was delicious, the greatest pleasure was the bits of fresh raspberries that came up through the straw, bubble tea-like.
No wonder the barkeeps were making them endlessly.
Dessert was chocolate sticky toffee pudding cake, served with orange segments and the best part, brown sugar glaze.
The cake became something truly decadent after being dredged in that buttery glaze.
We left a bite or two, but only because we ran out of glaze. That and we intended to get buttered popcorn at the Byrd anyway.
Then it was on to the 48-Hour Film Project screening to see what local filmmakers had wrought in the 48 hours of last weekend's heat.
I saw a lot of local actors and directors in the films, including a handful I'd just seen in the gender-reversed Hamlet that Firehouse had done.
As with the past four years of this event, the acting, scriptwriting and technical savvy vary widely from film to film.
It seemed like there were more suburban locations used and fewer city landmarks than I recall from past years but Belle Isle, as always, put in an appearance.
Outtakes used over the credits continue to get a good laugh. It seemed that music was used to especially good effect this year.
No subject was so taboo as to be off limits: cancer, death and diarrhea all reared their comedic heads.
As a precaution, the audience was warned ahead of time about language, subject matter and possible nudity (butt cracks and a bra and underwear shot being the extent of that), "In case you brought children or are easily offended."
At the conclusion of the screening, we cast our ballots for the audience favorites while the judges will decide which film goes on to the National 48-Hour Film Project screening.
Personally, I would be quite satisfied with cancer, death or diarrhea representing Richmond.
But I'm no film critic.
We agreed to meet at Can-Can and the one block walk from my car there left my tissue paper-thin silk dress wet with sweat.
Such an attractive way to enter an establishment.
But once seated at the bar, that was forgotten in the pleasures of a Framboise fizz, made with mint tea, fresh raspberries, raspberry syrup, soda and a splash of lime.
As beautiful (and frothy) as it was delicious, the greatest pleasure was the bits of fresh raspberries that came up through the straw, bubble tea-like.
No wonder the barkeeps were making them endlessly.
Dessert was chocolate sticky toffee pudding cake, served with orange segments and the best part, brown sugar glaze.
The cake became something truly decadent after being dredged in that buttery glaze.
We left a bite or two, but only because we ran out of glaze. That and we intended to get buttered popcorn at the Byrd anyway.
Then it was on to the 48-Hour Film Project screening to see what local filmmakers had wrought in the 48 hours of last weekend's heat.
I saw a lot of local actors and directors in the films, including a handful I'd just seen in the gender-reversed Hamlet that Firehouse had done.
As with the past four years of this event, the acting, scriptwriting and technical savvy vary widely from film to film.
It seemed like there were more suburban locations used and fewer city landmarks than I recall from past years but Belle Isle, as always, put in an appearance.
Outtakes used over the credits continue to get a good laugh. It seemed that music was used to especially good effect this year.
No subject was so taboo as to be off limits: cancer, death and diarrhea all reared their comedic heads.
As a precaution, the audience was warned ahead of time about language, subject matter and possible nudity (butt cracks and a bra and underwear shot being the extent of that), "In case you brought children or are easily offended."
At the conclusion of the screening, we cast our ballots for the audience favorites while the judges will decide which film goes on to the National 48-Hour Film Project screening.
Personally, I would be quite satisfied with cancer, death or diarrhea representing Richmond.
But I'm no film critic.
She Covets Antelope
As exciting as all the new restaurant openings have been, it's doubly so when the restaurant is in my neighborhood.
Such was the case at the Magpie, a charming place in Carver and a short walk from my house. I knew one of the owners from my forays out (Stronghill and Bacchus) and, even closer to home, from census taking in Jackson Ward.
The last time I'd set foot in that space, it was the Leigh Street Grill and my friend and I had scarfed down some most excellent chicken and waffles.
Today, I found a turn-of-the-century style restaurant with a pressed tin ceiling, an elaborate red velvet settee and one of the most eclectic art collections I've seen, with lithographs, oils, local art and etchings.
On the stereo was Pandora tuned to a classic rock station. Except for the occasional misstep ("Rock Me Like a Hurricane"?) it was straight on with The Who, Beatles, Rolling Stones and the like. Scorpions need not apply.
Pale green walls had a faux-marble finish and the dark wood everywhere was quite striking against it.
The menu had so many interesting choices that I labored over it while trying to decide. Wine was easy; I chose the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose and was quite satisfied with its peppery dark fruit.
One stool away was a familiar restaurant face obviously enjoying his meal, so I solicited his opinion on what to order.
He had high praise for the grilled housemade sausage, so I stored that information for the future and ordered instead the local heirloom tomato salad with basil and Mozzarella ice cream.
It's hard to go wrong with a Caprese salad at this time of year, but this one had an ace in the hole.
The beautiful heirlooms tasted of summer, but it was that Mozzarella ice cream that will be the topic on the lips of everyone who orders this dish.
Its sweetness, the creamy texture and, yes, the cold of the ice cream made for a truly memorable tomato dish, a variation on the classic sweet and salty.
As a side note, it has romantic origins. The chef created it for his vegetarian girlfriend who eats a Caprese salad anytime she sees it on a menu.
The small bar lends itself to being a community space and, at least tonight, there was much shared conversation and offering of shared wine among us.
Just as I was getting more rose, a familiar restaurateur came in with a friend and they added more lively voices to the group.
For my next course, I had the braised Wagyu beef tongue ravioli, made with Dave and Dee's oyster mushrooms over an asparagus puree with grilled white corn kernels.
The earthiness of the tongue complemented the elegant taste of the asparagus and the niblets of corn gave a nice crunch to an otherwise creamy dish. Well done.
The chef stopped by to ask how I'd liked my food and I shared my thoughts. I put in a plug for seeing the seared antelope with drunken blackberry sauce on the small plate menu so people like me could try it.
I briefly considered the small chocolate milkshake with peanut butter cookies on the dessert menu, but opted for a half a pink instead.
But one of my fellow bar sitters had it and the look on his face said it all.
Before long, I expect to see the same slow drivers I usually encounter in front of Black Sheep in front of the Magpie.
We neighbors call it the "Carver cruise" and it's where those unfamiliar or unsure of the neighborhood drive by the restaurant v-e-r-y slowly and usually repeatedly before letting out the womenfolk directly in front of the restaurant and then doing the manly thing by parking the car.
I'll be walking over, so none of that affects me as long as they leave a stool open for me at the new neighborhood joint.
After dinner, I was meeting a friend and his new girlfriend at Balliceaux.
They weren't yet there, so I found a barstool, ordered a Hornitos and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me.
It was fate; he's living in NYC and considering a move down here and if anyone relishes the challenge of convincing someone what a great town this is, it's yours truly.
Over the course of the next hour or so, I learned that he was into art, music and restaurants (and iPod apps, but I was willing to overlook that), so we found loads to talk about.
He's decided that rather than build the new Institute for Contemporary Art at Belvidere and Broad, it should be an Institute of Contemporary Cuisine.
I say why not both?
When he finally left to meet a friend at Selba (after soliciting my opinion on it), I moved to the back bar where Amazing Ghost was to play.
Tonight's show had been billed as "Christmas in July" and when I walked back there, the DJ was playing music from Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
It may be the first time I'd heard that song in July, but it wasn't completely unwelcome, either. My favorite server had already warned me that he'd be playing an inappropriate Santa in the shortest possible shorts.
I found a musician friend with whom to discuss over-produced sophomore albums (Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, in his opinion) as the crowd around us continued to grow.
Finally my friend showed up and we moved back up front so I could met his beloved and be able to talk about what she could do in Richmond (telling me that, "I've told her so much about you that she thought you were multiple people").
Are we noticing a pattern here?
But of course, I do think there are myriad reasons to stay in Richmond, so we spent several hours drinking and talking about all the things they need to see and do.
The fact is, I'd met this friend when he moved back here and became a regular reader of my blog.
He was always leaving comments, amazed at an activity or food or something he hadn't known was in Richmond until he read my posts.
I don't look like a cheerleader, but maybe that's my lot in life, at least for the moment. It's not like I don't have the time to do it.
On the other hand, I did come home to two phone messages and an e-mail from a friend who's in DC on business.
They all said essentially the same thing, although the voice mails used a fevered voice to convey the message.
"Brace yourself. I met the man of your dreams in DC. You need to meet this guy! It's all arranged. Can you be up here Tuesday night?"
Surely I need to be selling someone on how great Richmond is that night.
Such was the case at the Magpie, a charming place in Carver and a short walk from my house. I knew one of the owners from my forays out (Stronghill and Bacchus) and, even closer to home, from census taking in Jackson Ward.
The last time I'd set foot in that space, it was the Leigh Street Grill and my friend and I had scarfed down some most excellent chicken and waffles.
Today, I found a turn-of-the-century style restaurant with a pressed tin ceiling, an elaborate red velvet settee and one of the most eclectic art collections I've seen, with lithographs, oils, local art and etchings.
On the stereo was Pandora tuned to a classic rock station. Except for the occasional misstep ("Rock Me Like a Hurricane"?) it was straight on with The Who, Beatles, Rolling Stones and the like. Scorpions need not apply.
Pale green walls had a faux-marble finish and the dark wood everywhere was quite striking against it.
The menu had so many interesting choices that I labored over it while trying to decide. Wine was easy; I chose the Thurston Wolfe Lemberger Rose and was quite satisfied with its peppery dark fruit.
One stool away was a familiar restaurant face obviously enjoying his meal, so I solicited his opinion on what to order.
He had high praise for the grilled housemade sausage, so I stored that information for the future and ordered instead the local heirloom tomato salad with basil and Mozzarella ice cream.
It's hard to go wrong with a Caprese salad at this time of year, but this one had an ace in the hole.
The beautiful heirlooms tasted of summer, but it was that Mozzarella ice cream that will be the topic on the lips of everyone who orders this dish.
Its sweetness, the creamy texture and, yes, the cold of the ice cream made for a truly memorable tomato dish, a variation on the classic sweet and salty.
As a side note, it has romantic origins. The chef created it for his vegetarian girlfriend who eats a Caprese salad anytime she sees it on a menu.
The small bar lends itself to being a community space and, at least tonight, there was much shared conversation and offering of shared wine among us.
Just as I was getting more rose, a familiar restaurateur came in with a friend and they added more lively voices to the group.
For my next course, I had the braised Wagyu beef tongue ravioli, made with Dave and Dee's oyster mushrooms over an asparagus puree with grilled white corn kernels.
The earthiness of the tongue complemented the elegant taste of the asparagus and the niblets of corn gave a nice crunch to an otherwise creamy dish. Well done.
The chef stopped by to ask how I'd liked my food and I shared my thoughts. I put in a plug for seeing the seared antelope with drunken blackberry sauce on the small plate menu so people like me could try it.
I briefly considered the small chocolate milkshake with peanut butter cookies on the dessert menu, but opted for a half a pink instead.
But one of my fellow bar sitters had it and the look on his face said it all.
Before long, I expect to see the same slow drivers I usually encounter in front of Black Sheep in front of the Magpie.
We neighbors call it the "Carver cruise" and it's where those unfamiliar or unsure of the neighborhood drive by the restaurant v-e-r-y slowly and usually repeatedly before letting out the womenfolk directly in front of the restaurant and then doing the manly thing by parking the car.
I'll be walking over, so none of that affects me as long as they leave a stool open for me at the new neighborhood joint.
After dinner, I was meeting a friend and his new girlfriend at Balliceaux.
They weren't yet there, so I found a barstool, ordered a Hornitos and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me.
It was fate; he's living in NYC and considering a move down here and if anyone relishes the challenge of convincing someone what a great town this is, it's yours truly.
Over the course of the next hour or so, I learned that he was into art, music and restaurants (and iPod apps, but I was willing to overlook that), so we found loads to talk about.
He's decided that rather than build the new Institute for Contemporary Art at Belvidere and Broad, it should be an Institute of Contemporary Cuisine.
I say why not both?
When he finally left to meet a friend at Selba (after soliciting my opinion on it), I moved to the back bar where Amazing Ghost was to play.
Tonight's show had been billed as "Christmas in July" and when I walked back there, the DJ was playing music from Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
It may be the first time I'd heard that song in July, but it wasn't completely unwelcome, either. My favorite server had already warned me that he'd be playing an inappropriate Santa in the shortest possible shorts.
I found a musician friend with whom to discuss over-produced sophomore albums (Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, in his opinion) as the crowd around us continued to grow.
Finally my friend showed up and we moved back up front so I could met his beloved and be able to talk about what she could do in Richmond (telling me that, "I've told her so much about you that she thought you were multiple people").
Are we noticing a pattern here?
But of course, I do think there are myriad reasons to stay in Richmond, so we spent several hours drinking and talking about all the things they need to see and do.
The fact is, I'd met this friend when he moved back here and became a regular reader of my blog.
He was always leaving comments, amazed at an activity or food or something he hadn't known was in Richmond until he read my posts.
I don't look like a cheerleader, but maybe that's my lot in life, at least for the moment. It's not like I don't have the time to do it.
On the other hand, I did come home to two phone messages and an e-mail from a friend who's in DC on business.
They all said essentially the same thing, although the voice mails used a fevered voice to convey the message.
"Brace yourself. I met the man of your dreams in DC. You need to meet this guy! It's all arranged. Can you be up here Tuesday night?"
Surely I need to be selling someone on how great Richmond is that night.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Come On!
You never know who's going to be on vacation any given week during the summer.
A friend and I were craving Garnett's today but arrived to find an "On vacation until 8/1" sign on the door. Time to regroup.
We decided to give Six Burner a try since they're now doing lunch and arrived to find business men types, small groups and two women at the back table with a small baby.
Considering the blanket of heat, it was amazing that anyone was venturing out at all.
Opting for the bar, we absorbed the menu quickly so we could order as soon as possible. We'd gotten a late start, we'd already made a detour and we were both hungry to start with.
My friend is the kind of guy who can eat a burger every day if presented with one. On the drive over, he'd mentioned getting a salad today because he'd had two Five Guys burgers yesterday. Two.
Luckily for him, there were four salads on the menu, in addition to things like an oyster po' boy, a monstrous grilled cheese with avocado and fried green tomato, and a BLT with avocado, which I ordered.
To no one's surprise, he got the 1/3-pound burger on a brioche bun with a mound of fries, essentially a slight variation of his lunch yesterday. And, for all I know, the day before.
But I don't judge such things, so we moved on to more compelling conversation.
Our bartender friend who'd given up his player ways, gotten married and moved north is now expecting his second child. Color us both impressed.
He surprised me by saying that every single day he still thinks about a mutual friend who died unexpectedly a few years back. I have a picture of her that he took and it always gives me a twinge when I look at it. She was so young.
Naturally he asked about the state of my love life, giving me a disgusted "Come on!" and a brief lecture about its lack of forward progress.
If he weren't right, I might have given him crap about the lack of forward progress in his diet, which is still heavily indebted to pizza and burgers at nearly 40.
In any case, forward progress varies from eater to lover.
A friend and I were craving Garnett's today but arrived to find an "On vacation until 8/1" sign on the door. Time to regroup.
We decided to give Six Burner a try since they're now doing lunch and arrived to find business men types, small groups and two women at the back table with a small baby.
Considering the blanket of heat, it was amazing that anyone was venturing out at all.
Opting for the bar, we absorbed the menu quickly so we could order as soon as possible. We'd gotten a late start, we'd already made a detour and we were both hungry to start with.
My friend is the kind of guy who can eat a burger every day if presented with one. On the drive over, he'd mentioned getting a salad today because he'd had two Five Guys burgers yesterday. Two.
Luckily for him, there were four salads on the menu, in addition to things like an oyster po' boy, a monstrous grilled cheese with avocado and fried green tomato, and a BLT with avocado, which I ordered.
To no one's surprise, he got the 1/3-pound burger on a brioche bun with a mound of fries, essentially a slight variation of his lunch yesterday. And, for all I know, the day before.
But I don't judge such things, so we moved on to more compelling conversation.
Our bartender friend who'd given up his player ways, gotten married and moved north is now expecting his second child. Color us both impressed.
He surprised me by saying that every single day he still thinks about a mutual friend who died unexpectedly a few years back. I have a picture of her that he took and it always gives me a twinge when I look at it. She was so young.
Naturally he asked about the state of my love life, giving me a disgusted "Come on!" and a brief lecture about its lack of forward progress.
If he weren't right, I might have given him crap about the lack of forward progress in his diet, which is still heavily indebted to pizza and burgers at nearly 40.
In any case, forward progress varies from eater to lover.
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