The Southern gentleman next to me wanted to talk about public nudity.
At tonight's opening performance of Firehouse Theater's "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," I had the pleasure of a man with a delightful drawl sitting next to me.
The first thing he explained to me after introducing himself was that he was not in his usual seat.
Not that it was any of my business.
He and his partner, who was tonight seated directly in front of him, had been asked to move.
So the happy couple didn't get to sit next to each other, but I had unexpectedly charming company.
We talked about the upcoming play, which actors we'd seen before and how tickled he was to see his partner drinking a PBR can.
He even shared with me what he'd made for a pre-theater supper ("Salad with everything in it, even chicken. And ham biscuits!").
And then chuckling, he said he'd just learned about San Francisco's nudity laws and did I know about them.
Why no, but I'm always eager to learn.
"You know you have to put a towel down when you sit in a public place," he told me. Made sense to me.
"And if you get an erection, you have to leave!" he shared, as if it was a punch line.
And on that note, Tennessee Williams' play about repressed homosexuality and dysfunctional families began.
It wasn't my first time seeing COAHTF produced and the last time had been with an all-black cast, so I was eager to see it in its pure form.
Although the cat of the title is Maggie, the play was most alive when Big Daddy, played by Alan Sader, was on stage.
Last seen in Richmond Shakespeare's "King Lear," he was just as magnificent here as he'd been in that.
The play is long, two and a half hours with two ten-minute intermissions (we joked that the Brick character needed two bathroom breaks because of all the "whiskey" he was drinking onstage), but it moves along with so much dramatic dialog that the audience never loses interest.
One comment that I heard from several people during intermissions was about some of the actors' Southern accents.
Sader handled his admirably, but the accents of a few others left some of the Southerners in the audience cold.
"It's like they're trying too hard to sound Southern," the guy behind me said. He also said he was from Southside.
My very Southern seatmate agreed in his effortless Southern accent, but, like me, was thoroughly enjoying the drama and insightful wit of the story.
Because it was opening night, there was a party afterwards; since it had been catered by Sticky Rice, there were many people eating with their fingers rather than attempting chopstick usage standing up.
And because it was Sticky Rice, there was a big bowl of Tater Tots, amazing some of the attendees not familiar with the sushi place's trademark dish.
Brave (foolish?) soul that I am, I balanced a paper plate and used chopsticks as I chatted with strangers about the play.
Even the Southern-accented agreed that it had been an enjoyable night of theater.
What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?
Just stayin' on it, I guess, long as she can.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
West Virginians: Smart Cookies
Hunter Lesser is to West Virginia what I am to Jackson Ward.
He lives there, he loves it, he sings its praises. And today he was putting some historical perspective on it at the Library of Virginia.
"Virginia Divided: The Forgotten First campaign" centered on how Western Virginia was a proving ground for statesmen and soldiers in the early years of the Civil War.
And despite West Virginia jokes to the contrary, Lesser was a smart man.
Greeting attendees was a slide that said "Cookies for the front row."
But since the front row can only hold so many people he began his talk by passing around a package of Chips Ahoy for all to enjoy.
Already it was my kind of lecture.
Talking about how Western Virginia was divided by geography (Wheeling was a long way from Richmond), culturally (not many mountain folk had slaves) and economically (that area had far more ties to Ohio and Pennsylvania than the South), Lesser made a case for that part of the state's eventual secession from Virginia.
He spoke of how McClellan became an immediate star in those early battles in West Virginia mainly because of 19th century Twitter.
That is, because McClellan set up the first telegraph on a battlefield he was able to send out his own glowing press releases to the War Department.
It worked and he went from leading the Army of Western Virginia to heading up the Army of the Potomac.
Sometimes it pays to be self-aggrandizing.
Lee, however, got off to a slow start out there and became known as "The Great Evacuator," which sounds totally disgusting to me and "Granny Lee" before learning a few lessons and applying them to the rest of the war effort.
Not surprisingly, the Civil War literally pitted family members against each other in Western Virginia since 60% of the area favored the Union and 40% the Confederacy.
Many towns had both a Federal sheriff and a Confederate sheriff.
Stonewall Jackson and his sister, long close because of being orphaned at a young age, were two such people.
His sister sided with the Union and became a nurse, claiming she could nurse the wounded as fast as Stonewall could shoot them.
But my favorite takeaway was that West Virginia was the only state to form by seceding from a Confederate state and during the Civil War, too.
And that funky panhandle that juts along the Pennsylvania border?
That was kept there solely to keep the B & O Railroad out of Confederate hands.
Lesser closed the lecture by suggesting we visit historic West Virginia, his birthplace and home, and a place of great beauty in his opinion.
I'm sure it's no Jackson Ward, but I have to appreciate the guy's passion for his place.
He lives there, he loves it, he sings its praises. And today he was putting some historical perspective on it at the Library of Virginia.
"Virginia Divided: The Forgotten First campaign" centered on how Western Virginia was a proving ground for statesmen and soldiers in the early years of the Civil War.
And despite West Virginia jokes to the contrary, Lesser was a smart man.
Greeting attendees was a slide that said "Cookies for the front row."
But since the front row can only hold so many people he began his talk by passing around a package of Chips Ahoy for all to enjoy.
Already it was my kind of lecture.
Talking about how Western Virginia was divided by geography (Wheeling was a long way from Richmond), culturally (not many mountain folk had slaves) and economically (that area had far more ties to Ohio and Pennsylvania than the South), Lesser made a case for that part of the state's eventual secession from Virginia.
He spoke of how McClellan became an immediate star in those early battles in West Virginia mainly because of 19th century Twitter.
That is, because McClellan set up the first telegraph on a battlefield he was able to send out his own glowing press releases to the War Department.
It worked and he went from leading the Army of Western Virginia to heading up the Army of the Potomac.
Sometimes it pays to be self-aggrandizing.
Lee, however, got off to a slow start out there and became known as "The Great Evacuator," which sounds totally disgusting to me and "Granny Lee" before learning a few lessons and applying them to the rest of the war effort.
Not surprisingly, the Civil War literally pitted family members against each other in Western Virginia since 60% of the area favored the Union and 40% the Confederacy.
Many towns had both a Federal sheriff and a Confederate sheriff.
Stonewall Jackson and his sister, long close because of being orphaned at a young age, were two such people.
His sister sided with the Union and became a nurse, claiming she could nurse the wounded as fast as Stonewall could shoot them.
But my favorite takeaway was that West Virginia was the only state to form by seceding from a Confederate state and during the Civil War, too.
And that funky panhandle that juts along the Pennsylvania border?
That was kept there solely to keep the B & O Railroad out of Confederate hands.
Lesser closed the lecture by suggesting we visit historic West Virginia, his birthplace and home, and a place of great beauty in his opinion.
I'm sure it's no Jackson Ward, but I have to appreciate the guy's passion for his place.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Not Yet, But I Will
This is my week to go Greek.
Only tonight that included a road trip to Williamsburg for a Greek wine tasting and seminar at the Blue Talon Bistro.
I love that drive down Route 5 to the 'burg although today's trip was an up-close look at all the tree damage from the recent storms.
Everywhere trees were down, uprooted or already cut up and sitting near the road's edge.
Twice I got stopped by road crews who had taken the road down to one lane and were directing traffic.
But I didn't mind because it gave me a chance to sit on Route 5, a rarity since there are no lights, and just smell the woods on either side of me.
As pleasant as that was, I was the last one to arrive at the tasting so everyone was already seated at their tables when I walked in.
I didn't feel too bad because I'm betting I had the longest commute. Well, except for the wine guy who'd come from Charlotte.
It's not like every town has a Greek wine pusher apparently.
Taking a seat at a table with six others, I soon learned the answer to the perennial song, "One of these things is not like the other..."
One couple had met and married in Greece 48 years ago when he was working at the embassy.
She, the Greek, was still stunning with thick white hair and a classic profile.
One couple had been to Greece seven times in their 38 years of marriage. "We like to get lost there," he bragged.
Next to me sat a woman who was skipping church choir practice to come with her husband, who was of Greek heritage.
She looked very demure and is no doubt a valuable member of her church and choir, but she cracked me up when she said, "I don't bother with white wines. They're boring. Give me a great big red and I'm happy."
They ordered two and a half cases of wine before leaving. Just saying.
The tables had been laid with platters of cheese, meats and compressed watermelon.
One of the men asked me if I'd been to Greece and I said no.
"Not yet," he corrected me.
We jumped right into the first of three whites with Petros Honas Dry Muscat "Phelonoe," with a big floral nose but dry as a bone.
Give me a warm day and a porch and that would be a wine that would go down like water.
Next up was Nikiforou Cellars Moschofilero and since I'd had a Moschofilero just last night, I was one of the very few who could raise their hand when asked who'd had the grape before.
From one noble grape to another, our next pour was a 2007 Hatzidakis Santorini "Barrel Fermented," by far the most complex of the whites and no longer being made to boot.
The island of Santorini turned out to be a favorite place of everyone at the table (although not me yet), but no one knew there were ten wineries there.
Most interestingly, our guide said that the vines of this grape are trained in basket shapes and the grapes grown inside them.
I think I'd make a point to see thatif when I get to Santorini.
Finally it was time to make my seatmate happy with the reds and there were five of them.
There were three from Konstantinos Vineyards: a blend of Cab and Greek Temperanillo and two Cabernet Sauvignons.
It was the last Cab, a 2000 "Anny's Animus" that, because it was priced at $56 a bottle, we all expected to blow us away.
It was nicely tannic and well balanced and tastier than the "Ftelia" at $39, but didn't rock anyone's world, at least at my table.
He of Greek heritage, whose parents had been in the restaurant business, said that his Greek relatives would mock (or backhand) him if he told them he'd paid $56 for a bottle of Greek wine.
Jeez, where's the national pride, people?
My favorite red was the 2005 Mitravelas Estate "Agiorgitiko," a true Mediterranean-style wine that tasted of blueberries, so I couldn't help but love it.
We finished with the Dalamara Xinomavro "Paliokalias" which, had I not already gotten my Wine Century Club certification, would have been a great one to add; it's made with the obscure Xinomavro grape.
By the time we finished tasting the leftovers from my phantom date's pourings, my new friends were assuring me that I'd have no problem finding a husband if I'd just spend a month in Greece.
It does sound like there's something in the wine that makes for long-lasting relationships.
Just in case, I'm drinking up.
Only tonight that included a road trip to Williamsburg for a Greek wine tasting and seminar at the Blue Talon Bistro.
I love that drive down Route 5 to the 'burg although today's trip was an up-close look at all the tree damage from the recent storms.
Everywhere trees were down, uprooted or already cut up and sitting near the road's edge.
Twice I got stopped by road crews who had taken the road down to one lane and were directing traffic.
But I didn't mind because it gave me a chance to sit on Route 5, a rarity since there are no lights, and just smell the woods on either side of me.
As pleasant as that was, I was the last one to arrive at the tasting so everyone was already seated at their tables when I walked in.
I didn't feel too bad because I'm betting I had the longest commute. Well, except for the wine guy who'd come from Charlotte.
It's not like every town has a Greek wine pusher apparently.
Taking a seat at a table with six others, I soon learned the answer to the perennial song, "One of these things is not like the other..."
One couple had met and married in Greece 48 years ago when he was working at the embassy.
She, the Greek, was still stunning with thick white hair and a classic profile.
One couple had been to Greece seven times in their 38 years of marriage. "We like to get lost there," he bragged.
Next to me sat a woman who was skipping church choir practice to come with her husband, who was of Greek heritage.
She looked very demure and is no doubt a valuable member of her church and choir, but she cracked me up when she said, "I don't bother with white wines. They're boring. Give me a great big red and I'm happy."
They ordered two and a half cases of wine before leaving. Just saying.
The tables had been laid with platters of cheese, meats and compressed watermelon.
One of the men asked me if I'd been to Greece and I said no.
"Not yet," he corrected me.
We jumped right into the first of three whites with Petros Honas Dry Muscat "Phelonoe," with a big floral nose but dry as a bone.
Give me a warm day and a porch and that would be a wine that would go down like water.
Next up was Nikiforou Cellars Moschofilero and since I'd had a Moschofilero just last night, I was one of the very few who could raise their hand when asked who'd had the grape before.
From one noble grape to another, our next pour was a 2007 Hatzidakis Santorini "Barrel Fermented," by far the most complex of the whites and no longer being made to boot.
The island of Santorini turned out to be a favorite place of everyone at the table (although not me yet), but no one knew there were ten wineries there.
Most interestingly, our guide said that the vines of this grape are trained in basket shapes and the grapes grown inside them.
I think I'd make a point to see that
Finally it was time to make my seatmate happy with the reds and there were five of them.
There were three from Konstantinos Vineyards: a blend of Cab and Greek Temperanillo and two Cabernet Sauvignons.
It was the last Cab, a 2000 "Anny's Animus" that, because it was priced at $56 a bottle, we all expected to blow us away.
It was nicely tannic and well balanced and tastier than the "Ftelia" at $39, but didn't rock anyone's world, at least at my table.
He of Greek heritage, whose parents had been in the restaurant business, said that his Greek relatives would mock (or backhand) him if he told them he'd paid $56 for a bottle of Greek wine.
Jeez, where's the national pride, people?
My favorite red was the 2005 Mitravelas Estate "Agiorgitiko," a true Mediterranean-style wine that tasted of blueberries, so I couldn't help but love it.
We finished with the Dalamara Xinomavro "Paliokalias" which, had I not already gotten my Wine Century Club certification, would have been a great one to add; it's made with the obscure Xinomavro grape.
By the time we finished tasting the leftovers from my phantom date's pourings, my new friends were assuring me that I'd have no problem finding a husband if I'd just spend a month in Greece.
It does sound like there's something in the wine that makes for long-lasting relationships.
Just in case, I'm drinking up.
Did I Say That Out Loud?
The world's gone mad when I can arrive at the Camel at 8:45 and have missed the first band.
Part of the problem may have been making a stop at Stella's to meet a girlfriend for a quickie.
In a truly odd moment, as I was walking toward the front door, an SUV pulled up to turn around and the driver looked at me and said, "Karen!"
I have no earthly idea who he was and he proceeded to backed up and drove away.
Why does anything still surprise me?
It was a good thing we wanted to sit at the bar because every table was in use or reserved. Yes, every single one.
Stella, are you putting crack in the spanikopita or what?
Someone had drunk up all the rose, so I got the 2009 Boutari Moschoflero after inhaling its lovely floral nose and tasting its full bodied intensity.
I'm on a mission to build my Greek grape vocabulary, both literally and figuratively speaking.
It was so busy in there that my friend inadvertently gave two different food orders to two different servers while waiting for me to make up my mind.
It didn't matter.
As one server said, "Somebody else will want what you didn't and we'll just give it to them."
No doubt there are restaurants that would kill for that kind of crazy busy-ness.
I ordered a heartier-sounding meze, namely the lamb frites. Hearty doesn't begin to describe it.
A pile of thick-cut steak fries was smothered in sliced leg of lamb, tons of onion (both white and green), Feta and Manouri cheese.
It arrived in all its glory, looking like a $10 heart attack on a plate.
I'm not going to claim I ate it all but I will say there was no lamb or onions at all left when I pushed it away.
My friend insisted we get the chocolate hazelnut baklava for which I had limited capacity given my disdain for honey, which I find cloying. Two bites sufficed.
I'd warned my friend that I had limited time and a show to see and I was out of there in what I thought was plenty of time to drive the short distance.
Wrong.
I arrived to find that the three-band bill had expanded to four and that the first band, Snowy Owls, had already played.
Color me surprised...and disappointed.
Fortunately Marionette was up next and although their set was too short (chop, chop, four bands!), they played a new song and a strong set.
I've been a fan for years now and I appreciate the evolution of their sound from a six-piece to a four-piece with more emphasis on the band's impeccable instrumentation.
Lots of friends were there and there's still plenty of Wye Oak talk going around with attendees still savoring and non-attendees still kicking themselves.
I savored.
Next up was Brother William from Mechanicsville.
The big draw was Hotel Lights, a quintet fronted by the former drummer for Ben Folds Five, Darren Jessee,a fact that may have attracted some people.
I found myself attracted to their sound which never strayed far from something achingly sad yet beautiful, even when upbeat and rocking.
Let's just say haunting.
How can I rave about their sound? Let me count the ways.
The layers of synths, the post-punk electric guitar, the minimalist drumming, the rhythmic bass and always Darren's gentle voice.
"This song began at Patrick Henry's and moved on to Poe's," he told us, reminding the crowd of their Richmond connection.
By the time they'd finished creating an atmosphere that washed over the room, their set was over, but the crowd was having none of it.
Calling for one more, the band obliged with two and we were treated to a little more exquisite sadness that was all the more moving for knowing it was about to end.
As all Tuesday nights must end.
It's only those twenty five minutes I'll never get back.
Part of the problem may have been making a stop at Stella's to meet a girlfriend for a quickie.
In a truly odd moment, as I was walking toward the front door, an SUV pulled up to turn around and the driver looked at me and said, "Karen!"
I have no earthly idea who he was and he proceeded to backed up and drove away.
Why does anything still surprise me?
It was a good thing we wanted to sit at the bar because every table was in use or reserved. Yes, every single one.
Stella, are you putting crack in the spanikopita or what?
Someone had drunk up all the rose, so I got the 2009 Boutari Moschoflero after inhaling its lovely floral nose and tasting its full bodied intensity.
I'm on a mission to build my Greek grape vocabulary, both literally and figuratively speaking.
It was so busy in there that my friend inadvertently gave two different food orders to two different servers while waiting for me to make up my mind.
It didn't matter.
As one server said, "Somebody else will want what you didn't and we'll just give it to them."
No doubt there are restaurants that would kill for that kind of crazy busy-ness.
I ordered a heartier-sounding meze, namely the lamb frites. Hearty doesn't begin to describe it.
A pile of thick-cut steak fries was smothered in sliced leg of lamb, tons of onion (both white and green), Feta and Manouri cheese.
It arrived in all its glory, looking like a $10 heart attack on a plate.
I'm not going to claim I ate it all but I will say there was no lamb or onions at all left when I pushed it away.
My friend insisted we get the chocolate hazelnut baklava for which I had limited capacity given my disdain for honey, which I find cloying. Two bites sufficed.
I'd warned my friend that I had limited time and a show to see and I was out of there in what I thought was plenty of time to drive the short distance.
Wrong.
I arrived to find that the three-band bill had expanded to four and that the first band, Snowy Owls, had already played.
Color me surprised...and disappointed.
Fortunately Marionette was up next and although their set was too short (chop, chop, four bands!), they played a new song and a strong set.
I've been a fan for years now and I appreciate the evolution of their sound from a six-piece to a four-piece with more emphasis on the band's impeccable instrumentation.
Lots of friends were there and there's still plenty of Wye Oak talk going around with attendees still savoring and non-attendees still kicking themselves.
I savored.
Next up was Brother William from Mechanicsville.
The big draw was Hotel Lights, a quintet fronted by the former drummer for Ben Folds Five, Darren Jessee,a fact that may have attracted some people.
I found myself attracted to their sound which never strayed far from something achingly sad yet beautiful, even when upbeat and rocking.
Let's just say haunting.
How can I rave about their sound? Let me count the ways.
The layers of synths, the post-punk electric guitar, the minimalist drumming, the rhythmic bass and always Darren's gentle voice.
"This song began at Patrick Henry's and moved on to Poe's," he told us, reminding the crowd of their Richmond connection.
By the time they'd finished creating an atmosphere that washed over the room, their set was over, but the crowd was having none of it.
Calling for one more, the band obliged with two and we were treated to a little more exquisite sadness that was all the more moving for knowing it was about to end.
As all Tuesday nights must end.
It's only those twenty five minutes I'll never get back.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Audio Voyeurism
I love a good story; hearing someone else's secrets is a guilty pleasure.
Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.
Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.
And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.
Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.
Best of all, he named names.
Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.
Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.
Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.
That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.
Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a dead elephant.
The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.
What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.
It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.
You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.
After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.
He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.
Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.
Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.
It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.
My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.
After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.
As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.
In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).
We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.
In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.
Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.
Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.
And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.
Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.
Best of all, he named names.
Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.
Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.
Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.
That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.
Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a dead elephant.
The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.
What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.
It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.
You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.
After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.
He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.
Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.
Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.
It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.
My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.
After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.
As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.
In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).
We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.
In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Don't You Forget About Me
My regular Monday lunch buddy forgot all about me last Monday.
Fair enough; it was Labor Day and, according to him, felt like a Sunday. So today he wasn't allowed to screw up.
We were both starving when he came to get me.
He was in the mood for Chinese, trying to talk me into Joy Garden ("Come on, let's have some Americanized Chinese!") before driving to Full Kee ("Come on, let's have some...").
Walking in we saw all the flyers written in Chinese on the front window and he stopped to read them.
I don't think they're meant for us, I informed him.
Ogling the whole roasted ducks and chickens complete with their roasted beaks in the front case is a great way to whet your appetite before eating.
The barbecued pork that hangs with the poultry, striped with fat, is positively mouth-watering.
We needed no enticement.
He had two weeks of relationship stories to unload while eating his scallops in brown sauce and I was working on my chopstick skills with my spicy Peking chicken.
The funniest moment came when he asked me, of all people, "How do you communicate what you need to say to your partner and not just want you want to say?"
How do they get ship models in those tiny bottle openings?
Dessert was ordered in the shape of Jin Dui, those sesame balls with red bean paste that are so irresistible, but by the time they arrived, we were too full.
Fortune cookies were all we could manage and mine seemed particularly applicable.
You are going on well with your business.
That just might be true, although it has absolutely nothing to do with earning a living.
Fair enough; it was Labor Day and, according to him, felt like a Sunday. So today he wasn't allowed to screw up.
We were both starving when he came to get me.
He was in the mood for Chinese, trying to talk me into Joy Garden ("Come on, let's have some Americanized Chinese!") before driving to Full Kee ("Come on, let's have some...").
Walking in we saw all the flyers written in Chinese on the front window and he stopped to read them.
I don't think they're meant for us, I informed him.
Ogling the whole roasted ducks and chickens complete with their roasted beaks in the front case is a great way to whet your appetite before eating.
The barbecued pork that hangs with the poultry, striped with fat, is positively mouth-watering.
We needed no enticement.
He had two weeks of relationship stories to unload while eating his scallops in brown sauce and I was working on my chopstick skills with my spicy Peking chicken.
The funniest moment came when he asked me, of all people, "How do you communicate what you need to say to your partner and not just want you want to say?"
How do they get ship models in those tiny bottle openings?
Dessert was ordered in the shape of Jin Dui, those sesame balls with red bean paste that are so irresistible, but by the time they arrived, we were too full.
Fortune cookies were all we could manage and mine seemed particularly applicable.
You are going on well with your business.
That just might be true, although it has absolutely nothing to do with earning a living.
Life Is Not a Movie in the Hot Tub
Richmond has reached a new level of music awesomeness when we can have an all-day music festival and still have an outstanding show at the National the same night.
Although barely promoted, the Wye Oak/Okkervil River bill was one that would have caught the eye and ear of any indie music fan worth his salt.
If, that is, Best Coast and Girl Talk hadn't played Richmond today.
But they did, launching a music festival that hopefully will become an annual tradition, so when I walked into the National tonight, it was to a crowd of maybe a hundred people.
Usually there are more people than that hanging around outside the venue before the show, much less inside.
But I immediately ran into two musician friends, so I had good company and couldn't worry about the turnout, which increased somewhat, but not enough.
Because of all the buzz around Wye Oak, I'd been eager to see them for a while. This was their first show in Richmond, as they acknowledged somewhat sheepishly.
"I don't know why. You're right down the road," singer Jenn said.
The Baltimore duo mixes quieter folk-sounding elements with full on noisy dream pop.
Screaming guitar, meet Jenn's girly vocal.
Andy, the drummer, was amazing to watch, playing drums with his right hand and keyboard with his left.
Jenn said they were impressed with the venue and that she'd wanted to use the hot tub.
Until, she said, someone warned her, "I wouldn't get in there if I were you." She was pondering what questionable bands might have been in that hot tub and left their cooties.
A look at recent shows past might answer that question easily enough.
Wye Oak's music was a study in contrasts, quiet followed by loud, slow preceded by fast. It was a lot of sound coming from two people.
Despite the less-than-full room, their big sound had plenty of room to open up and resonate without being deadened by the usual oversold collection of sweaty bodies.
And by the end of their set, we were all totally satisfied. Or, as my friend put it then, "I'm good now."
Jenn had opened their set cryptically by saying, "We're from Baltimore, so we're having a good day."
We figured it was probably a sports reference, but it could have been about their performance.
For the audience, it was better than a good day. It was downright excellent.
Austin's Okkervil River played next and I'd seen them a few years back opening for the New Pornographers.
The six-piece had all the components- horn, lap steel, violin, banjo. keyboards, mandolin -for some beautifully dense sound fronted by lead singer Will's heartfelt and dramatic voice.
A girl yelled out that she had seen the band ten years ago, but Will, in his wool sports coat with elbow patches, challenged her on that.
"I'm not that old!" he laughed. "Maybe seven years ago?" She countered with nine, but he didn't buy that either.
Fans love Okkervil River's intelligent lyrics, but a cover of "Sloop John B" got almost as big a response from the crowd as "Lost Coastlines" and "Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe."
And that despite a good part of the audience not having been born when the Beach Boys redid the song.
Will thanked the audience profusely at the beginning and end of their set for having come out to the show on a day when so much other music was available to Richmonders.
I'd thank two excellent bands who were willing to finish off a stellar musical weekend...and didn't even require a cootie-free hot tub to do it.
Although barely promoted, the Wye Oak/Okkervil River bill was one that would have caught the eye and ear of any indie music fan worth his salt.
If, that is, Best Coast and Girl Talk hadn't played Richmond today.
But they did, launching a music festival that hopefully will become an annual tradition, so when I walked into the National tonight, it was to a crowd of maybe a hundred people.
Usually there are more people than that hanging around outside the venue before the show, much less inside.
But I immediately ran into two musician friends, so I had good company and couldn't worry about the turnout, which increased somewhat, but not enough.
Because of all the buzz around Wye Oak, I'd been eager to see them for a while. This was their first show in Richmond, as they acknowledged somewhat sheepishly.
"I don't know why. You're right down the road," singer Jenn said.
The Baltimore duo mixes quieter folk-sounding elements with full on noisy dream pop.
Screaming guitar, meet Jenn's girly vocal.
Andy, the drummer, was amazing to watch, playing drums with his right hand and keyboard with his left.
Jenn said they were impressed with the venue and that she'd wanted to use the hot tub.
Until, she said, someone warned her, "I wouldn't get in there if I were you." She was pondering what questionable bands might have been in that hot tub and left their cooties.
A look at recent shows past might answer that question easily enough.
Wye Oak's music was a study in contrasts, quiet followed by loud, slow preceded by fast. It was a lot of sound coming from two people.
Despite the less-than-full room, their big sound had plenty of room to open up and resonate without being deadened by the usual oversold collection of sweaty bodies.
And by the end of their set, we were all totally satisfied. Or, as my friend put it then, "I'm good now."
Jenn had opened their set cryptically by saying, "We're from Baltimore, so we're having a good day."
We figured it was probably a sports reference, but it could have been about their performance.
For the audience, it was better than a good day. It was downright excellent.
Austin's Okkervil River played next and I'd seen them a few years back opening for the New Pornographers.
The six-piece had all the components- horn, lap steel, violin, banjo. keyboards, mandolin -for some beautifully dense sound fronted by lead singer Will's heartfelt and dramatic voice.
A girl yelled out that she had seen the band ten years ago, but Will, in his wool sports coat with elbow patches, challenged her on that.
"I'm not that old!" he laughed. "Maybe seven years ago?" She countered with nine, but he didn't buy that either.
Fans love Okkervil River's intelligent lyrics, but a cover of "Sloop John B" got almost as big a response from the crowd as "Lost Coastlines" and "Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe."
And that despite a good part of the audience not having been born when the Beach Boys redid the song.
Will thanked the audience profusely at the beginning and end of their set for having come out to the show on a day when so much other music was available to Richmonders.
I'd thank two excellent bands who were willing to finish off a stellar musical weekend...and didn't even require a cootie-free hot tub to do it.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Little Miss Predictable
You can smell the tobacco from two galleries away.
Approaching "Xu Bing: Tobacco Project" at the VMFA, the overwhelming scent of tobacco, not burning cigarettes, but cured leaf, greets visitors.
But what do you expect from 500,000 cigarettes assembled to look like a room-filling tiger-striped rug?
I was unprepared for how the "rug" looks completely different depending on the vantage point from which you view it.
As a guard told me, "I like it from the back corner because it's all brown and white."
And it is much browner when viewed from that place, but it's mesmerizing from any direction.
There's just something about seeing a half million cigarettes stood on end that draws the eye.
Surrounding galleries hold the rest of the project, including a video about Bing's inspiration and trips to tobacco country, a pipe with seven stems, boxes of uncut cigarettes joined at the filter and cigs with poetry and quotations on them, to mention only a few.
There's a bale of tobacco, a tobacco plant, a book made of tobacco leaves and a partially burnt long cigarette defacing a reproduction of "Traveling Down the River," an ancient painting considered to be China's "Mona Lisa."
The exhibit explores the complicated role tobacco plays with humans, who both revile and crave it, as both subject and material.
I'd have stayed longer, but my companion is allergic to cigarettes and started to sneeze and tear up.
Our second stop was Chop Suey for a reading.
Sandra Beasley, a poet turned memoirist, was reading from her memoir, "Don't Kill the Birthday Girl: Tales From an Allergic Life" about her many allergies and how they've shaped her life.
And lest you think the title is overly dramatic, at her own birthday parties (where she ate something completely different than what her guests ate), kissing or hugging her could result in hives if they'd eaten something she was allergic to.
Her book is a combination of the cultural history of allergies and her own experiences as someone known in college as "cod girl" because she couldn't eat beef, chicken, cheese or any other dining hall protein staple.
The best the dining hall could come up with for her was unseasoned cod day after day.
Kill me now.
Her memoir was laced with much humor and her reading did justice to the inanity of trying to exist in a food world that wants to poison her at every turn.
Hearing about the hives she got after eating an uncle's fries off his plate (he'd also had a burger) made me appreciate how lucky I am to have no food allergy other than peaches.
Naturally that made me want to go eat whatever I wanted as soon as the reading was over.
Since it's Sunday, 821 Cafe seemed a logical choice since parking wouldn't be the usual weekday nightmare.
We slid right into a booth behind a real loud talker and his female companion.
They were having drinks and waiting for their food to come while he was explaining why he now likes cole slaw, a food he used to avoid but had just ordered.
"When I was in lockup," he told her, "I found out you never know when your next food is coming, so you better eat what they give you or you're gonna end up f**king hungry!"
He followed up that emphatic statement with an order for "Another round of bourbon and Cokes, miss!"
Sounds like he must have regretted sending back that cole slaw.
One of the other servers came up to me to say hello and ask why I hadn't been in lately.
I didn't have a good reason and as I was stammering out a non-answer, she looked at me accusingly, but with a smile.
"Are you getting nachos?" she asked rhetorically as our server set black bean nachos down on the table and we dove in.
Hey, I'm not allergic to them and I doubt I could get them in lockup. Why the hell not?
Approaching "Xu Bing: Tobacco Project" at the VMFA, the overwhelming scent of tobacco, not burning cigarettes, but cured leaf, greets visitors.
But what do you expect from 500,000 cigarettes assembled to look like a room-filling tiger-striped rug?
I was unprepared for how the "rug" looks completely different depending on the vantage point from which you view it.
As a guard told me, "I like it from the back corner because it's all brown and white."
And it is much browner when viewed from that place, but it's mesmerizing from any direction.
There's just something about seeing a half million cigarettes stood on end that draws the eye.
Surrounding galleries hold the rest of the project, including a video about Bing's inspiration and trips to tobacco country, a pipe with seven stems, boxes of uncut cigarettes joined at the filter and cigs with poetry and quotations on them, to mention only a few.
There's a bale of tobacco, a tobacco plant, a book made of tobacco leaves and a partially burnt long cigarette defacing a reproduction of "Traveling Down the River," an ancient painting considered to be China's "Mona Lisa."
The exhibit explores the complicated role tobacco plays with humans, who both revile and crave it, as both subject and material.
I'd have stayed longer, but my companion is allergic to cigarettes and started to sneeze and tear up.
Our second stop was Chop Suey for a reading.
Sandra Beasley, a poet turned memoirist, was reading from her memoir, "Don't Kill the Birthday Girl: Tales From an Allergic Life" about her many allergies and how they've shaped her life.
And lest you think the title is overly dramatic, at her own birthday parties (where she ate something completely different than what her guests ate), kissing or hugging her could result in hives if they'd eaten something she was allergic to.
Her book is a combination of the cultural history of allergies and her own experiences as someone known in college as "cod girl" because she couldn't eat beef, chicken, cheese or any other dining hall protein staple.
The best the dining hall could come up with for her was unseasoned cod day after day.
Kill me now.
Her memoir was laced with much humor and her reading did justice to the inanity of trying to exist in a food world that wants to poison her at every turn.
Hearing about the hives she got after eating an uncle's fries off his plate (he'd also had a burger) made me appreciate how lucky I am to have no food allergy other than peaches.
Naturally that made me want to go eat whatever I wanted as soon as the reading was over.
Since it's Sunday, 821 Cafe seemed a logical choice since parking wouldn't be the usual weekday nightmare.
We slid right into a booth behind a real loud talker and his female companion.
They were having drinks and waiting for their food to come while he was explaining why he now likes cole slaw, a food he used to avoid but had just ordered.
"When I was in lockup," he told her, "I found out you never know when your next food is coming, so you better eat what they give you or you're gonna end up f**king hungry!"
He followed up that emphatic statement with an order for "Another round of bourbon and Cokes, miss!"
Sounds like he must have regretted sending back that cole slaw.
One of the other servers came up to me to say hello and ask why I hadn't been in lately.
I didn't have a good reason and as I was stammering out a non-answer, she looked at me accusingly, but with a smile.
"Are you getting nachos?" she asked rhetorically as our server set black bean nachos down on the table and we dove in.
Hey, I'm not allergic to them and I doubt I could get them in lockup. Why the hell not?
I Will If You Will
My timing was impeccable tonight.
A friend had suggested we have dinner at Six Burner and since I had no definitive plans, I agreed.
Food? Yes, sir!
We're fairly well matched in terms of our food taste, so it's usually a good time when we dine together.
With the raucous Tech fans screaming across the street at Home Team Grill, I found an oasis of calm when I walked into Six Burner.
My friend soon arrived, commented on my parking job and suggested libations. I started with Broadbent Vinho Verde and he had a vodka martini (sorry, purists).
Chef Philip had several interesting offerings (hello braised honeycomb tripe) so we ordered deviled eggs with ham to tide us over while we perused the menu.
Friend is a deviled egg fanatic and I probably haven't had one in five years, so we came at these eggs from wildly different perspectives.
We both loved them with a capital "L"; their peppery sass with just the right amount of thin-sliced ham elevated them to so much more than a picnic side dish.
Next up was house smoked eel with local muscadine grape unagi-style sauce, wasabi peas and sesame powder over local lettuces.
Our libations long gone, we got a bottle of 2002 Domaine du Viking Vouvray Cuvee Aurelie, a rich and slightly sweet golden-colored wine with an incredibly long finish.
It met its match in the foie gras-stuffed pig's foot with roasted red pepper and roasted eggplant sauce that followed.
Sadly, I couldn't talk him into the tripe (but then he doesn't like lentils, either, so he's far from perfect) so we had the Rappahannock oysters.
The selection of Old Salts, Stingrays and Witch Ducks came with a blueberry mignonette but my friend insisted on also getting a more traditional tarragon mignonette, only to prefer the blueberry.
As an ex once told me, it's not just a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse although I was tempted by the house-made waffles with roasted peaches.
The problem was that I'd had a peach earlier today and my allergy probably wasn't going to allow for two in one day without my tongue blowing up like an eggplant.
I wasn't going to push it because I now had plans after dinner.
The girlfriend with the visiting boyfriend had called just before I left and invited me to join them for an after-dinner drink at Amour.
"Call first to make sure we're still there," she'd foolishly suggested. Call? As if.
How about I come by and if you guys are already gone, I'll just enjoy myself at Amour without you?
But there they were in the front window enjoying the last of their dessert and cheese plate, so I pulled up a chair.
Magically a glass of Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, a personal favorite, arrived and my friend offered me a bite of her dark chocolate creme brulee (to-die-for good).
They told me about their day exploring Richmond, stopping at the Jefferson and Maymont, as they biked around the city.
I heard tales from the VMFA Richard Branson party the night before and raves about their meal and pairings at Amour that night.
Next on their agenda was Stella's because it was on their way home and they tried to convince me to join them there.
Awkward.
All I could think of was that if my out-of-town boyfriend was finally visiting RVA, I wouldn't want to share him with my talkative friend all evening.
I begged off and they went on their way just as a girlfriend walked through the door of Amour.
This was turning into a seamless sort of an evening.
She was coming in for a glass of wine, so I decided to stay for some girl talk and perhaps more wine.
We moved to the bar in the back, out of the glare of the bustle of Carytown on a Saturday night.
Sometimes you want to see, sometimes to be seen and sometimes neither.
As if Brut Rose and an unexpected friend weren't treats enough, owner Paul brought over a plate of little multi-colored macarons for our sampling pleasure.
They were from Petites Bouchees, a local company that's giving Richmonders a taste of a classic French cookie one small bite at a time.
I tasted chocolate with espresso butter cream, hazelnut with slated butter caramel, pistachio with bittersweet chocolate, and almond with passion fruit milk chocolate as we chatted.
We moved on to Lucien Albrecht Blanc de Blancs Brut to accompany our macaron fest
Every now and then, I'd stop and ask myself if I really needed to eat another bite and usually the Brut convinced me that I did.
The later it got, the more we kept on talking, both of us savoring the unexpected pleasure of meeting up.
I knew my dinner companion was long asleep and hopefully the lovebirds were reveling in each other's company, so I'd totally lucked out in running into a friend with her late evening free.
Recently a friend complimented me on my busy-ness and I'd made the comment to her that "Anyone could do what I do." She'd insisted that most people didn't have my stamina.
Hell, I'm thinking stamina feeds on things like Alsatian bubbles, macarons and unexpected friends.
A friend had suggested we have dinner at Six Burner and since I had no definitive plans, I agreed.
Food? Yes, sir!
We're fairly well matched in terms of our food taste, so it's usually a good time when we dine together.
With the raucous Tech fans screaming across the street at Home Team Grill, I found an oasis of calm when I walked into Six Burner.
My friend soon arrived, commented on my parking job and suggested libations. I started with Broadbent Vinho Verde and he had a vodka martini (sorry, purists).
Chef Philip had several interesting offerings (hello braised honeycomb tripe) so we ordered deviled eggs with ham to tide us over while we perused the menu.
Friend is a deviled egg fanatic and I probably haven't had one in five years, so we came at these eggs from wildly different perspectives.
We both loved them with a capital "L"; their peppery sass with just the right amount of thin-sliced ham elevated them to so much more than a picnic side dish.
Next up was house smoked eel with local muscadine grape unagi-style sauce, wasabi peas and sesame powder over local lettuces.
Our libations long gone, we got a bottle of 2002 Domaine du Viking Vouvray Cuvee Aurelie, a rich and slightly sweet golden-colored wine with an incredibly long finish.
It met its match in the foie gras-stuffed pig's foot with roasted red pepper and roasted eggplant sauce that followed.
Sadly, I couldn't talk him into the tripe (but then he doesn't like lentils, either, so he's far from perfect) so we had the Rappahannock oysters.
The selection of Old Salts, Stingrays and Witch Ducks came with a blueberry mignonette but my friend insisted on also getting a more traditional tarragon mignonette, only to prefer the blueberry.
As an ex once told me, it's not just a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse although I was tempted by the house-made waffles with roasted peaches.
The problem was that I'd had a peach earlier today and my allergy probably wasn't going to allow for two in one day without my tongue blowing up like an eggplant.
I wasn't going to push it because I now had plans after dinner.
The girlfriend with the visiting boyfriend had called just before I left and invited me to join them for an after-dinner drink at Amour.
"Call first to make sure we're still there," she'd foolishly suggested. Call? As if.
How about I come by and if you guys are already gone, I'll just enjoy myself at Amour without you?
But there they were in the front window enjoying the last of their dessert and cheese plate, so I pulled up a chair.
Magically a glass of Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, a personal favorite, arrived and my friend offered me a bite of her dark chocolate creme brulee (to-die-for good).
They told me about their day exploring Richmond, stopping at the Jefferson and Maymont, as they biked around the city.
I heard tales from the VMFA Richard Branson party the night before and raves about their meal and pairings at Amour that night.
Next on their agenda was Stella's because it was on their way home and they tried to convince me to join them there.
Awkward.
All I could think of was that if my out-of-town boyfriend was finally visiting RVA, I wouldn't want to share him with my talkative friend all evening.
I begged off and they went on their way just as a girlfriend walked through the door of Amour.
This was turning into a seamless sort of an evening.
She was coming in for a glass of wine, so I decided to stay for some girl talk and perhaps more wine.
We moved to the bar in the back, out of the glare of the bustle of Carytown on a Saturday night.
Sometimes you want to see, sometimes to be seen and sometimes neither.
As if Brut Rose and an unexpected friend weren't treats enough, owner Paul brought over a plate of little multi-colored macarons for our sampling pleasure.
They were from Petites Bouchees, a local company that's giving Richmonders a taste of a classic French cookie one small bite at a time.
I tasted chocolate with espresso butter cream, hazelnut with slated butter caramel, pistachio with bittersweet chocolate, and almond with passion fruit milk chocolate as we chatted.
We moved on to Lucien Albrecht Blanc de Blancs Brut to accompany our macaron fest
Every now and then, I'd stop and ask myself if I really needed to eat another bite and usually the Brut convinced me that I did.
The later it got, the more we kept on talking, both of us savoring the unexpected pleasure of meeting up.
I knew my dinner companion was long asleep and hopefully the lovebirds were reveling in each other's company, so I'd totally lucked out in running into a friend with her late evening free.
Recently a friend complimented me on my busy-ness and I'd made the comment to her that "Anyone could do what I do." She'd insisted that most people didn't have my stamina.
Hell, I'm thinking stamina feeds on things like Alsatian bubbles, macarons and unexpected friends.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Desire to Cemetery and Ride Six Blocks
Allow me to be a complete literary geek for a moment.
Richmond is having a Tennessee Williams Centennial Celebration until October 22! Right here in River City!
Over a month devoted to one of our greatest playwrights with a schedule of plays, movies and staged readings will provide a host of field trips to complement my recent completion of "Tom: The Unknown Tennessee Williams" about the early life shaping events of this seminal Southerner.
Today's treat was a screening of "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Byrd Theater, but presented by Firehouse.
New Orleans in 1951 didn't much resemble New Orleans in 2006 (the last time I visited), at least as portrayed by Hollywood.
Besides the obvious, like the streetcars being gone and air conditioning replacing fans and open windows, it was the scenes of the offbeat street life that stood out.
I got a kick from the hot dog man, pushing his wooden cart down the narrow streets and yelling "Red hots!"
Likewise the street vendor selling flowers for the dead (in French) by knocking on doors and offering them up.
One constant was booze, which isn't too surprising given Willimas' weakness for it.
Blanche DuBois perhaps put it best, "A shot never did a Coke any harm."
And then there was the language of wooing, always a soft spot for me.
"I like you exactly the way you are, because in all my experience, I have never known anyone like you," Mitch tells Blanche on a starry night.
What female wouldn't want to hear that?
"Believe me, honey, I feel more than I tell you." True that.
Like all of Williams' work, there are references to homosexuality, characters with mental illness and always a longing for a better world.
"An hour isn't an hour but a little piece of eternity dropped in our hands."
Sigh.
Between those kind of lines and a ridiculously young Marlon Brando in a sweaty form-fitting t-shirt, I couldn't think of a better kick-off to the Tennessee Williams Celebration.
As Blanche said, "I don't want realism, I want magic."
I want to live in a city that celebrates the intersection of reality and magic.
Oh, wait. I already do.
Lucky me, lucky Richmond.
Richmond is having a Tennessee Williams Centennial Celebration until October 22! Right here in River City!
Over a month devoted to one of our greatest playwrights with a schedule of plays, movies and staged readings will provide a host of field trips to complement my recent completion of "Tom: The Unknown Tennessee Williams" about the early life shaping events of this seminal Southerner.
Today's treat was a screening of "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Byrd Theater, but presented by Firehouse.
New Orleans in 1951 didn't much resemble New Orleans in 2006 (the last time I visited), at least as portrayed by Hollywood.
Besides the obvious, like the streetcars being gone and air conditioning replacing fans and open windows, it was the scenes of the offbeat street life that stood out.
I got a kick from the hot dog man, pushing his wooden cart down the narrow streets and yelling "Red hots!"
Likewise the street vendor selling flowers for the dead (in French) by knocking on doors and offering them up.
One constant was booze, which isn't too surprising given Willimas' weakness for it.
Blanche DuBois perhaps put it best, "A shot never did a Coke any harm."
And then there was the language of wooing, always a soft spot for me.
"I like you exactly the way you are, because in all my experience, I have never known anyone like you," Mitch tells Blanche on a starry night.
What female wouldn't want to hear that?
"Believe me, honey, I feel more than I tell you." True that.
Like all of Williams' work, there are references to homosexuality, characters with mental illness and always a longing for a better world.
"An hour isn't an hour but a little piece of eternity dropped in our hands."
Sigh.
Between those kind of lines and a ridiculously young Marlon Brando in a sweaty form-fitting t-shirt, I couldn't think of a better kick-off to the Tennessee Williams Celebration.
As Blanche said, "I don't want realism, I want magic."
I want to live in a city that celebrates the intersection of reality and magic.
Oh, wait. I already do.
Lucky me, lucky Richmond.
Art and Gnocchi Make the World Go Round
I've learned that beginning my evening with art all but guarantees a superior follow-up.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Who Questions Much Shall Learn Much
Was Lewis Ginter gay? How good is a vegan cookie? How can you stand three feet from a musician and not hear the sounds that he's making?
Should a blog post start with all questions?
My evening began with a reading at Chop Suey Books where Brian Burns was talking about his new book "Lewis Ginter."
I'd met Brian at a hurricane party last week and caught his enthusiasm for his subject matter, the man who brought mass-produced cigarettes to the U.S.
Well, that and the Jefferson Hotel. And the neighborhoods of Ginter Park and Bellevue.
Brian had made sure that the reading was more like a get-together with a cooler full of drinks (including Stewart's orange soda in bottles and lemonade) and a tray of cheese and crackers ("Ooh, Captain's wafers!" one attendee exclaimed).
Since Ginter left no personal papers, Burns turned to old newspapers from the 1880s through the 19920s, recently digitized and available ("Isn't that fabulous?" he asked).
Using the keywords Ginter, tobacco and Pope (Ginter's long-time companion and the man he mentored was John Pope), Burns uncovered plenty of source material about Ginter.
When Ginter started his cigarette factory, they were hand rolled by white women. Jefferson was his idol.
Tobacco was part of the rations for a Civil War soldier, of which Ginter was one.
His motto was "If you see an opportunity, take it."
He designed his own cigarette packs and was a major supporter of the arts.
But did it mean anything that Ginter lived with a man thirty years his junior until his death?
Burns didn't uncover the answer to that one, despite untold hours researching it and inquiring minds wanting to know.
But with the two framed pictures sitting on the table, Ginter and Pope side by side as they had been in real life, it didn't seem that far-fetched.
Not that it was the kind of thing Ginter would have wanted to share in 19th-century Richmond. Oh, my, no.
All the talk of repressed sexuality was making me hungry.
A mere three blocks away at Amuse, I arrived to a full dining room and an empty bar. Empty of people, not of spirits, that is.
I had the Sette Ventiquattro Spumante, a Prosecco-style sparkler that worked well with my mussels and Surry sausage in a lemon butter broth.
Unexpectedly, I had company when a friend who'd just gotten off sat down next to me for dinner, also ordering the mussels and sharing the Spumante with me.
We got in a discussion with the bartender about friends and wanna-be friends and how no one has enough time to spend it with people they don't care about.
That's when I was told about the "reject line," a handy-dandy phone number to give people who request your digits when you don't want to hear from them.
And here I've just been saying no when asked. Leave it to technology to save people the trouble of being honest face to face.
For dessert, we got an item brand-new to the menu, so new that the bartender hadn't even laid eyes on it yet.
It was a chickpea cookie with saffron and Mandarin and lemon sorbet on the side.
True, the cookie was gluten-free and vegan, but I don't know who could tell that from a taste of it.
We talked about how a lot of people probably wouldn't order it because they wouldn't understand what it was, but if they tasted it without knowing, they'd think it delicious.
But I think that's true of sweetbreads, too.
A torrential rain began while we ate our dessert and since I had to leave soon, my friend saved me from becoming a soggy mess when he pulled out an extra rain jacket from his backpack.
Only a guy would have two rain jackets in his bag and if that sounds sexist, so be it.
I didn't have far to go in the rain, but the jacket couldn't save my feet, which had to step through ankle-deep puddles to get to my car.
My cute sandals will never be the same.
But wet feet couldn't keep me from the Musicircus, the annual tribute to composer John Cage that drummer Brian Jones coordinates every year.
From outside the Visual Arts Center, I could see Matt Coyle playing vibes in a front window but all I could hear was the driving rain.
Just inside, I stood three feet from Josh small playing banjo, but all I could hear was the Gamelan orchestra in the next room.
Moving from room to room, I heard sax player Jason Scott playing as a duo with a grimacing drummer, trombonist Bryan Hooten with two other horn players, Marionette's bassist with two clarinet players, and of course Brian Jones, tonight playing as part of a two-bassist jazz quintet.
SCUO, the duo of Scott Clark and Scott Burton finished just as I walked in their room. My loss.
One of the more interesting musicians played a collection of everyday items, like clay flower pots, restaurant-style metal kitchen containers, cans of paint taped together, a watering can and a piece of sheet metal.
It was a percussion wonderland amidst a musical extravaganza.
You have to experience the musicircus to understand how fascinating it is to see one group playing and hear another.
Or how you have to practically get on top of some musicians to hear them over the cacophony of others.
Or to realize how lucky we are to have an annual free Musicircus featuring some of the best musicians in Richmond.
Wouldn't Lewis Ginter and John Pope have raised a glass of Spumante to that?
Should a blog post start with all questions?
My evening began with a reading at Chop Suey Books where Brian Burns was talking about his new book "Lewis Ginter."
I'd met Brian at a hurricane party last week and caught his enthusiasm for his subject matter, the man who brought mass-produced cigarettes to the U.S.
Well, that and the Jefferson Hotel. And the neighborhoods of Ginter Park and Bellevue.
Brian had made sure that the reading was more like a get-together with a cooler full of drinks (including Stewart's orange soda in bottles and lemonade) and a tray of cheese and crackers ("Ooh, Captain's wafers!" one attendee exclaimed).
Since Ginter left no personal papers, Burns turned to old newspapers from the 1880s through the 19920s, recently digitized and available ("Isn't that fabulous?" he asked).
Using the keywords Ginter, tobacco and Pope (Ginter's long-time companion and the man he mentored was John Pope), Burns uncovered plenty of source material about Ginter.
When Ginter started his cigarette factory, they were hand rolled by white women. Jefferson was his idol.
Tobacco was part of the rations for a Civil War soldier, of which Ginter was one.
His motto was "If you see an opportunity, take it."
He designed his own cigarette packs and was a major supporter of the arts.
But did it mean anything that Ginter lived with a man thirty years his junior until his death?
Burns didn't uncover the answer to that one, despite untold hours researching it and inquiring minds wanting to know.
But with the two framed pictures sitting on the table, Ginter and Pope side by side as they had been in real life, it didn't seem that far-fetched.
Not that it was the kind of thing Ginter would have wanted to share in 19th-century Richmond. Oh, my, no.
All the talk of repressed sexuality was making me hungry.
A mere three blocks away at Amuse, I arrived to a full dining room and an empty bar. Empty of people, not of spirits, that is.
I had the Sette Ventiquattro Spumante, a Prosecco-style sparkler that worked well with my mussels and Surry sausage in a lemon butter broth.
Unexpectedly, I had company when a friend who'd just gotten off sat down next to me for dinner, also ordering the mussels and sharing the Spumante with me.
We got in a discussion with the bartender about friends and wanna-be friends and how no one has enough time to spend it with people they don't care about.
That's when I was told about the "reject line," a handy-dandy phone number to give people who request your digits when you don't want to hear from them.
And here I've just been saying no when asked. Leave it to technology to save people the trouble of being honest face to face.
For dessert, we got an item brand-new to the menu, so new that the bartender hadn't even laid eyes on it yet.
It was a chickpea cookie with saffron and Mandarin and lemon sorbet on the side.
True, the cookie was gluten-free and vegan, but I don't know who could tell that from a taste of it.
We talked about how a lot of people probably wouldn't order it because they wouldn't understand what it was, but if they tasted it without knowing, they'd think it delicious.
But I think that's true of sweetbreads, too.
A torrential rain began while we ate our dessert and since I had to leave soon, my friend saved me from becoming a soggy mess when he pulled out an extra rain jacket from his backpack.
Only a guy would have two rain jackets in his bag and if that sounds sexist, so be it.
I didn't have far to go in the rain, but the jacket couldn't save my feet, which had to step through ankle-deep puddles to get to my car.
My cute sandals will never be the same.
But wet feet couldn't keep me from the Musicircus, the annual tribute to composer John Cage that drummer Brian Jones coordinates every year.
From outside the Visual Arts Center, I could see Matt Coyle playing vibes in a front window but all I could hear was the driving rain.
Just inside, I stood three feet from Josh small playing banjo, but all I could hear was the Gamelan orchestra in the next room.
Moving from room to room, I heard sax player Jason Scott playing as a duo with a grimacing drummer, trombonist Bryan Hooten with two other horn players, Marionette's bassist with two clarinet players, and of course Brian Jones, tonight playing as part of a two-bassist jazz quintet.
SCUO, the duo of Scott Clark and Scott Burton finished just as I walked in their room. My loss.
One of the more interesting musicians played a collection of everyday items, like clay flower pots, restaurant-style metal kitchen containers, cans of paint taped together, a watering can and a piece of sheet metal.
It was a percussion wonderland amidst a musical extravaganza.
You have to experience the musicircus to understand how fascinating it is to see one group playing and hear another.
Or how you have to practically get on top of some musicians to hear them over the cacophony of others.
Or to realize how lucky we are to have an annual free Musicircus featuring some of the best musicians in Richmond.
Wouldn't Lewis Ginter and John Pope have raised a glass of Spumante to that?
Sparkling Diamonds and Rose
Pardon me for having a three-hour lunch, but it's not every day a good friend gets engaged.
Much less the friend with whom I've discussed relationships past, present and future endlessly for two and a half years.
Secco was the setting for the celebration accompanied by Bugey-Cerdon Sparkling Rose, off-dry and the prettiest pink color, the better to show off the string of bubbles.
Before we could order, I had to hear the story of how and where he'd proposed and how she'd handled it and admire the ring, which was just beautiful (and I am so not a jewelry person).
Ignoring the four or five other tables of diners who came in after us, we settled in for a major league catch-up session since it had been months since our last girls' lunch out.
"I have so much to tell you," she began, "but I feel like I say that every time we have lunch." She does, but for a change, I had so much to tell her, too.
We got the ball rolling with a couple of cheeses, the Spanish Idiazabal (unpasteurized sheep's milk) and Washington's Beecher's Reserve, a two-year aged white cheddar my friend coveted.
The cheese menu will change in a couple of weeks when Cheese Whiz Sarah gets back from Italy, so I wanted to try a couple I hadn't tried yet.
You never know what's going to go away and not come back.
We dished non-stop right through our salads; mine was a wheatberry salad with tomatoes, watermelon, pearl onions in agrodolce, pugliese cucumber and Manouri cheese in a watermelon vinaigrette that made this wheatberry virgin a wheatberry convert.
Looking around the restaurant, we were pleased to see wine on every table, so it wasn't just us looking for noontime grapes.
I still remember the first night she'd briefly met her fiance; she'd met me afterwards and gushed about the man she'd just met.
Now less than a year later, they're betrothed.
It's incredibly romantic any way you look at it, but especially through the rose-colored glasses and second glass of rose of a hopeless romantic.
Just as her story was winding down, I caught her up on my life, the most satisfying moment being her enthusiastic, "Yes!" when I gave her the prelude.
While I sat there listening to her take on everything, our Florentine donuts arrived.
The pistachio bembolini with peach cream filling came hot out of the fryer and smelling like a little bit of heaven.
I'm sure there are people who don't like fried dough (I don't actually know any but they must exist) but they can't know what they are missing out on.
Looking up from our disappearing donuts, I realized that all the other tables had since cleared out. We outlasted everyone else.
Amateurs.
You just can't rush a girly orgy of bubbles, baubles and relationship talk. Who knows if it will happen again.
Seems unlikely.
Much less the friend with whom I've discussed relationships past, present and future endlessly for two and a half years.
Secco was the setting for the celebration accompanied by Bugey-Cerdon Sparkling Rose, off-dry and the prettiest pink color, the better to show off the string of bubbles.
Before we could order, I had to hear the story of how and where he'd proposed and how she'd handled it and admire the ring, which was just beautiful (and I am so not a jewelry person).
Ignoring the four or five other tables of diners who came in after us, we settled in for a major league catch-up session since it had been months since our last girls' lunch out.
"I have so much to tell you," she began, "but I feel like I say that every time we have lunch." She does, but for a change, I had so much to tell her, too.
We got the ball rolling with a couple of cheeses, the Spanish Idiazabal (unpasteurized sheep's milk) and Washington's Beecher's Reserve, a two-year aged white cheddar my friend coveted.
The cheese menu will change in a couple of weeks when Cheese Whiz Sarah gets back from Italy, so I wanted to try a couple I hadn't tried yet.
You never know what's going to go away and not come back.
We dished non-stop right through our salads; mine was a wheatberry salad with tomatoes, watermelon, pearl onions in agrodolce, pugliese cucumber and Manouri cheese in a watermelon vinaigrette that made this wheatberry virgin a wheatberry convert.
Looking around the restaurant, we were pleased to see wine on every table, so it wasn't just us looking for noontime grapes.
I still remember the first night she'd briefly met her fiance; she'd met me afterwards and gushed about the man she'd just met.
Now less than a year later, they're betrothed.
It's incredibly romantic any way you look at it, but especially through the rose-colored glasses and second glass of rose of a hopeless romantic.
Just as her story was winding down, I caught her up on my life, the most satisfying moment being her enthusiastic, "Yes!" when I gave her the prelude.
While I sat there listening to her take on everything, our Florentine donuts arrived.
The pistachio bembolini with peach cream filling came hot out of the fryer and smelling like a little bit of heaven.
I'm sure there are people who don't like fried dough (I don't actually know any but they must exist) but they can't know what they are missing out on.
Looking up from our disappearing donuts, I realized that all the other tables had since cleared out. We outlasted everyone else.
Amateurs.
You just can't rush a girly orgy of bubbles, baubles and relationship talk. Who knows if it will happen again.
Seems unlikely.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Full Frontal Laughter
All those who would go out in a driving rain to hear a lecture on Civil War photography, say aye.
That would be a chorus of about a dozen and a half of us tonight at the Museum of the Confederacy's Citizen School Lecture.
And for those of you who weren't there, you missed not only a fascinating up-close look at RVA images from the Library of Congress' photography collection, but one hell of an hysterical running commentary.
That came courtesy of Mike Gorman, a Park Ranger at Richmond Battlefield Park, and a highly entertaining guy who spoke on "Richmond Again Taken: Photographing the Confederate Capital."
No, he did not wear his uniform.
He did get right to the point, showing us photos of Matthew Brady and Alexander Gardner. Alexander who?
"If you take away only one thing tonight, it's this. Matthew Brady was blind as a bat. He never took a Civil War photograph. He hired people to do that."
People like Gardener it turns out. I was already feeling better informed.
Gorman was the best kind of photo geek, the kind who makes self-deprecating remarks about his lack of life allowing him endless time to blow up pictures, examine details and figure out specifics.
And loving every minute of it.
The topic of the talk, how photographers flocked to Richmond once it had fallen to shoot the last vestiges of the Lost Cause, explained one major photography omission.
There are no photographs of Lee surrendering because all the photographers were in RVA shooting the charred remains (not nearly as extensive as the rest of the country believed) of the Confederate capital.
That turned out to be a bad call; they were all hoping to make a fortune shooting the fallen city and selling the pictures to their prime market: former soldiers.
The problem with that was that a soldier made $16 a month by the end of the war and a picture cost $1.50.
Do the math. No soldier could afford $1.50 for one picture.
Lee would have been the moneymaker, but no one got the shot. We now call that epic fail.
What I loved about the photos we were shown was seeing them blown up to expose the smallest details, a feat that tickled Gorman even more than it did me.
A shot of Tredegar Iron Works, when shown in detail, reveals Madison's tomb at Hollywood Cemetery almost a mile away.
But almost every picture was like that. Shots of buildings revealed handbills you could read, street urchins mugging for the camera or a view inside a window of a clock's face with the time visible.
A picture of Lee wearing white socks with black shoes was marked "Do Not Use." Gentlemen know better than to make the white sock faux pas and no decent photographer was going to flaunt his oversight.
One recurring motif was Matthew Brady himself with his pointy beard and top hat showing up somewhere in the frame.
Gorman called him the "Where's Waldo?" of the Civil War-era.
The man had witticisms to cover every occasion, like when he showed a shot across the canal basin toward the Capital.
Asking his audience what the blob in the water was, he clicked his pointer and the words "Nasty dead horse" appeared in red.
The photographer had taken two pictures of this view minutes apart, both with N.D.H., so Gorman had made them into the Civil War-era's only "movie."
He ran it repeatedly to show us "motion." I'm telling you, the guy had a sense of humor and impeccable delivery.
I can't remember the last time I went to a lecture and laughed out loud so many times.
And just to make sure he left us on a high note, the last photo was of a naked man, no doubt a soldier, standing in the water (maybe the canal basin, although I saw no nasty dead horses) looking right at at the photographer.
Call me what you will, but I'm all about some full-frontal exposure to history and the art of photography.
That would be a chorus of about a dozen and a half of us tonight at the Museum of the Confederacy's Citizen School Lecture.
And for those of you who weren't there, you missed not only a fascinating up-close look at RVA images from the Library of Congress' photography collection, but one hell of an hysterical running commentary.
That came courtesy of Mike Gorman, a Park Ranger at Richmond Battlefield Park, and a highly entertaining guy who spoke on "Richmond Again Taken: Photographing the Confederate Capital."
No, he did not wear his uniform.
He did get right to the point, showing us photos of Matthew Brady and Alexander Gardner. Alexander who?
"If you take away only one thing tonight, it's this. Matthew Brady was blind as a bat. He never took a Civil War photograph. He hired people to do that."
People like Gardener it turns out. I was already feeling better informed.
Gorman was the best kind of photo geek, the kind who makes self-deprecating remarks about his lack of life allowing him endless time to blow up pictures, examine details and figure out specifics.
And loving every minute of it.
The topic of the talk, how photographers flocked to Richmond once it had fallen to shoot the last vestiges of the Lost Cause, explained one major photography omission.
There are no photographs of Lee surrendering because all the photographers were in RVA shooting the charred remains (not nearly as extensive as the rest of the country believed) of the Confederate capital.
That turned out to be a bad call; they were all hoping to make a fortune shooting the fallen city and selling the pictures to their prime market: former soldiers.
The problem with that was that a soldier made $16 a month by the end of the war and a picture cost $1.50.
Do the math. No soldier could afford $1.50 for one picture.
Lee would have been the moneymaker, but no one got the shot. We now call that epic fail.
What I loved about the photos we were shown was seeing them blown up to expose the smallest details, a feat that tickled Gorman even more than it did me.
A shot of Tredegar Iron Works, when shown in detail, reveals Madison's tomb at Hollywood Cemetery almost a mile away.
But almost every picture was like that. Shots of buildings revealed handbills you could read, street urchins mugging for the camera or a view inside a window of a clock's face with the time visible.
A picture of Lee wearing white socks with black shoes was marked "Do Not Use." Gentlemen know better than to make the white sock faux pas and no decent photographer was going to flaunt his oversight.
One recurring motif was Matthew Brady himself with his pointy beard and top hat showing up somewhere in the frame.
Gorman called him the "Where's Waldo?" of the Civil War-era.
The man had witticisms to cover every occasion, like when he showed a shot across the canal basin toward the Capital.
Asking his audience what the blob in the water was, he clicked his pointer and the words "Nasty dead horse" appeared in red.
The photographer had taken two pictures of this view minutes apart, both with N.D.H., so Gorman had made them into the Civil War-era's only "movie."
He ran it repeatedly to show us "motion." I'm telling you, the guy had a sense of humor and impeccable delivery.
I can't remember the last time I went to a lecture and laughed out loud so many times.
And just to make sure he left us on a high note, the last photo was of a naked man, no doubt a soldier, standing in the water (maybe the canal basin, although I saw no nasty dead horses) looking right at at the photographer.
Call me what you will, but I'm all about some full-frontal exposure to history and the art of photography.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Trying Not to Sin
Now that's what I'm talking about.
VCU is back in session and already I'm seeing more cultural options available to me.
Tonight's was their new Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater featuring ten weeks of world and independent films.
I admit it, I was a few minutes late arriving, but there were still a dozen people smoking outside the theater (the international symbol for show not started) when I got there, so I figured I was safe.
Inside was a decent crowd with lots of students present, most sitting in the back naturally, so I found a good aisle seat in the front.
As I was about to sit in it, the guy two seats down started picking up his umbrella and bag to move them, asking, "Is it only going to be you?"
Smiling, I said, "Yes, but thanks for pointing that out." He laughed and put his stuff back down.
On tonight's bill was a Russian film, "The Island" by Pavel Lungin, a film that had won the equivalent of six Russian Oscars.
The obvious question would be, do their statuettes hold a tiny bottle of vodka or a tiny potato?
We were told little about the film before it showed other than it wouldn't be Tarkovsky-like and that the cinematography would be stunning.
All I knew of Tarkovsky was that Bergman thought he was the greatest director of the 20th century, which didn't help me a whole lot with that statement.
The story of a man racked by guilt after being forced to shoot his shipmate follows his years working in a remote monastery stoking a coal fire trying to atone for his sin.
He can exorcise demons, see the future and heal the sick, but he can't get past what he'd done as a teenager.
The movie was heavy on Russian orthodoxy, with lots of praying and rituals.
It was even heavier on beautiful imagery from Turner-esque water scenes in blues and grays to good versus evil black and white scenes of ships in the night.
It wasn't until three quarters of the way through the film that a female character appeared (possessed though she was) and wouldn't you just know that she brings about a startling revelation.
And unlike a Hollywood movie where such a revelation would change everything, especially the ending, Russians see things more pragmatically apparently.
The man's dying advice to a fellow monk about summed it up.
"Do the best that you can and try not to sin too much."
Not to brag or anything, but I'd already figured that much out.
VCU is back in session and already I'm seeing more cultural options available to me.
Tonight's was their new Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater featuring ten weeks of world and independent films.
I admit it, I was a few minutes late arriving, but there were still a dozen people smoking outside the theater (the international symbol for show not started) when I got there, so I figured I was safe.
Inside was a decent crowd with lots of students present, most sitting in the back naturally, so I found a good aisle seat in the front.
As I was about to sit in it, the guy two seats down started picking up his umbrella and bag to move them, asking, "Is it only going to be you?"
Smiling, I said, "Yes, but thanks for pointing that out." He laughed and put his stuff back down.
On tonight's bill was a Russian film, "The Island" by Pavel Lungin, a film that had won the equivalent of six Russian Oscars.
The obvious question would be, do their statuettes hold a tiny bottle of vodka or a tiny potato?
We were told little about the film before it showed other than it wouldn't be Tarkovsky-like and that the cinematography would be stunning.
All I knew of Tarkovsky was that Bergman thought he was the greatest director of the 20th century, which didn't help me a whole lot with that statement.
The story of a man racked by guilt after being forced to shoot his shipmate follows his years working in a remote monastery stoking a coal fire trying to atone for his sin.
He can exorcise demons, see the future and heal the sick, but he can't get past what he'd done as a teenager.
The movie was heavy on Russian orthodoxy, with lots of praying and rituals.
It was even heavier on beautiful imagery from Turner-esque water scenes in blues and grays to good versus evil black and white scenes of ships in the night.
It wasn't until three quarters of the way through the film that a female character appeared (possessed though she was) and wouldn't you just know that she brings about a startling revelation.
And unlike a Hollywood movie where such a revelation would change everything, especially the ending, Russians see things more pragmatically apparently.
The man's dying advice to a fellow monk about summed it up.
"Do the best that you can and try not to sin too much."
Not to brag or anything, but I'd already figured that much out.
Marines Save the Day
Today's trip to the beach got postponed thanks to Tropical Storm Lee, so my companions and I decided to make the most of a rainy day inside instead.
For lack of a better idea, we decided to go the jarhead route and check out the National Museum of the Marine Corps.
I'd been there back before the museum opened to do a video shoot and had been curious ever since to go back and see the finished product.
My main memory of that last visit had been of what an interactive experience they were creating for the visitor, even us non-military sorts.
Still, we were probably in the minority since an awful lot of visitors looked like or wore identifying things to show their military backgrounds.
I know exactly one former Marine and he moved to Washington last year, so it seemed unlikely we were going to get up there together.
Instead, the two very un-Marine types and I drove through pelting rain to arrive in Quantico and take a stroll through Marine history.
The U.S. Marine Corps WANTS YOU!
Apply at 633 East Broad Street Richmond, Virginia
That message came courtesy of a a World War II recruiting poster I saw today, one of many, but by far the most relevant to me.
Living where I live now, it would have been an easy walk for me to sign up as a female Marine, if I'd been so inclined (it seems unlikely).
More likely, I would have heeded the newsreels of the day, like the one we saw promoting "American Women Power!" telling my people to do a job on the home front to free up a man to go to war.
Now that I could have done.
You can tell that the museum was built with private funds because no expense was spared; the museum is state of the art and interactive to the max.
Witness the laser firing range. Today's high score: 94%.
From planes hanging from every ceiling to an engraved mess kit (W.M. Marrs, Motor Transport and showing a flag, a cross and an explosive shell)) to guns bigger than me, the museum showed artifacts and photographs from every marine involvement.
Walking the hall towards Vietnam, we saw a woman stop a guard and ask, "Where's the Guadalcanal?" only to be directed there.
Ask for a war zone and ye shall receive.
We stood in a medical transport helicopter before descending to the medical staging area with the sound of explosives going off around us.
The museum is huge with probably eight galleries, all large and chock-a-block with things to look at, including lots of video for the ADD set.
By the time we left, the rain had stopped, we were starving and all of us had gotten something out of the experience.
It was no day at the beach, but maybe a history lesson was more appropriate for the first day of school anyway.
For lack of a better idea, we decided to go the jarhead route and check out the National Museum of the Marine Corps.
I'd been there back before the museum opened to do a video shoot and had been curious ever since to go back and see the finished product.
My main memory of that last visit had been of what an interactive experience they were creating for the visitor, even us non-military sorts.
Still, we were probably in the minority since an awful lot of visitors looked like or wore identifying things to show their military backgrounds.
I know exactly one former Marine and he moved to Washington last year, so it seemed unlikely we were going to get up there together.
Instead, the two very un-Marine types and I drove through pelting rain to arrive in Quantico and take a stroll through Marine history.
The U.S. Marine Corps WANTS YOU!
Apply at 633 East Broad Street Richmond, Virginia
That message came courtesy of a a World War II recruiting poster I saw today, one of many, but by far the most relevant to me.
Living where I live now, it would have been an easy walk for me to sign up as a female Marine, if I'd been so inclined (it seems unlikely).
More likely, I would have heeded the newsreels of the day, like the one we saw promoting "American Women Power!" telling my people to do a job on the home front to free up a man to go to war.
Now that I could have done.
You can tell that the museum was built with private funds because no expense was spared; the museum is state of the art and interactive to the max.
Witness the laser firing range. Today's high score: 94%.
From planes hanging from every ceiling to an engraved mess kit (W.M. Marrs, Motor Transport and showing a flag, a cross and an explosive shell)) to guns bigger than me, the museum showed artifacts and photographs from every marine involvement.
Walking the hall towards Vietnam, we saw a woman stop a guard and ask, "Where's the Guadalcanal?" only to be directed there.
Ask for a war zone and ye shall receive.
We stood in a medical transport helicopter before descending to the medical staging area with the sound of explosives going off around us.
The museum is huge with probably eight galleries, all large and chock-a-block with things to look at, including lots of video for the ADD set.
By the time we left, the rain had stopped, we were starving and all of us had gotten something out of the experience.
It was no day at the beach, but maybe a history lesson was more appropriate for the first day of school anyway.
Monday, September 5, 2011
So Long, Farewell
Once you've touched the lead singer's sweaty chest, it's hard to go back in the hot room.
Tonight was the going away party for Sprout, the restaurant/venue that went out of business yesterday.
For their last hurrah, they invited something like fourteen bands to perform beginning at 5:00. And in true RVA fashion, the first band didn't start till after 6:00.
Not that it mattered.
The late start gave us early arrivals time to mingle and remember the many shows we'd seen at Sprout.
A good part of the restaurant's CD collection was available for the taking.
Band photographer PJ Sykes pulled a half dozen out of the pile and handed them to me. "You need these," he said. I believed him.
When the music finally started, the small crowd all moved into the back room to hear Miss Bliss (apparently a TV reference, so I didn't get it).
The duo of guitarist/singer Allison Apperson and drummer Noell Alexander played psychedelic surf pop with, wait for it, kazoo solos.
They closed with a cover of the Drifters' "Up on the Roof," dedicating it to Spout and the Fourth of July.
During the break, I wandered out and ran into Coffee Guy and helped owner Laurie remove tea lights from punch cups.
Shannon Cleary played next with violinist Joon Kim backing him up on violin, making for a fuller sound than usual.
Shannon covered an Itchy Hearts song as well as doing a particularly lovely "On the Way Home" by the late Nathan Joyce.
Taking the stage quickly, Ben Shepherd placed his bottle of Beaujolais to the side, strapped on his guitar and jumped right in.
Ben's a strong songwriter; for the first song, my friend jumped up announcing, "I have to give my full attention to this song. It's so well done, written from two points of view."
He's got a strong, clear voice, too, and his pulls on the Beaujolais bottle didn't seem to affect that.
An audience member called out for "Silver Dog" and he closed with it.
The set up for the next band was going to take a few minutes, so everyone moved into the main dining room where Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats did an acoustic set.
I was smart enough to return to the back room and stake out my territory for Snowy Owls' set next.
Feel free to call me a Snowy Owls groupie; I love their reverb-soaked sound, distinctive bass lines and Matt's nu-gaze vocals.
I planted myself on the back of one of the benches so I was higher than everyone in the room despite being in the back.
It's a rare treat for someone 5'5" to look down at a crowd, so I savored it, letting the sound of music from a cave wash over me.
A definite highlight besides the music was hearing a musician friend acknowledge that Snowy Owls rocked way more than he remembered.
He'd been under the impression that since leader Matt is also in the folky Low Branches that Snowy Owls was similar. Now he knows better.
Just as I knew better than to leave my perch when the next band up was Baby Help Me Forget. The crowd began to migrate from the outside and other room and I held fast atop the bench.
No matter how many times I see these guys, I'm always eager to see them again.
The band is high energy and lead singer (and Sprout co-owner) Jamie is the best showman in town.
He joined the band tonight by jumping down from atop the pallet wall that separates the kitchen to the floor in front of the stage.
Laurie sat atop the wall moving and grooving, silhouetted from behind.
Dressed in tight white pants, a patterned shirt, chain belt and velveteen blazer, Jamie looked every inch the part as he danced, gyrated, dropped to his knees and generally tore it up.
The blazer came off after the first few songs.
His non-stop movements, jumping from the stage to the floor, singing on his knees and dancing amongst the crowd whipped up everyone in the room to a frenzy.
Jamie tried to say a few words about the occasion, but summed it up with, "F**king Sprout! That's all I'm going to say!" It was enough.
The shirt came off after a few more songs, tossed into the audience.
Everyone was moving non-stop and the room heated up quickly. But the energy was amazing.
When the band finished, the crowd applauded and demanded more. Despite cords already wound and instruments half put away, the band obliged.
No one tonight, no how, no way, was going to top what we had just experienced. I said as much to the girl sitting next to me.
The mass of humanity that was the audience began to exit the room then, looking for air to breathe although out in front was a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chatting as I waited to get outside, Jamie came by, his shirt now back on. He greeted me and I teased him by asking if I could touch his sweat.
I asked for the sake of giving him a hard time about his exuberant performance, but he just grinned and said, "Gross!" as I touched him.
Standing outside talking to people, I heard the list of bands for the rest of the evening. Four more (three of which I've seen) followed by four noise bands.
The band that was about to start was an hour and a half behind schedule with seven more after them.
And I'd given up my prime real estate in the back room by coming outside.
Nothing was going to exceed the emotional peak I'd just witnessed. I wasn't going to touch anyone else's sweaty chest tonight.
Sprout, you will be missed.
Tonight was the going away party for Sprout, the restaurant/venue that went out of business yesterday.
For their last hurrah, they invited something like fourteen bands to perform beginning at 5:00. And in true RVA fashion, the first band didn't start till after 6:00.
Not that it mattered.
The late start gave us early arrivals time to mingle and remember the many shows we'd seen at Sprout.
A good part of the restaurant's CD collection was available for the taking.
Band photographer PJ Sykes pulled a half dozen out of the pile and handed them to me. "You need these," he said. I believed him.
When the music finally started, the small crowd all moved into the back room to hear Miss Bliss (apparently a TV reference, so I didn't get it).
The duo of guitarist/singer Allison Apperson and drummer Noell Alexander played psychedelic surf pop with, wait for it, kazoo solos.
They closed with a cover of the Drifters' "Up on the Roof," dedicating it to Spout and the Fourth of July.
During the break, I wandered out and ran into Coffee Guy and helped owner Laurie remove tea lights from punch cups.
Shannon Cleary played next with violinist Joon Kim backing him up on violin, making for a fuller sound than usual.
Shannon covered an Itchy Hearts song as well as doing a particularly lovely "On the Way Home" by the late Nathan Joyce.
Taking the stage quickly, Ben Shepherd placed his bottle of Beaujolais to the side, strapped on his guitar and jumped right in.
Ben's a strong songwriter; for the first song, my friend jumped up announcing, "I have to give my full attention to this song. It's so well done, written from two points of view."
He's got a strong, clear voice, too, and his pulls on the Beaujolais bottle didn't seem to affect that.
An audience member called out for "Silver Dog" and he closed with it.
The set up for the next band was going to take a few minutes, so everyone moved into the main dining room where Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats did an acoustic set.
I was smart enough to return to the back room and stake out my territory for Snowy Owls' set next.
Feel free to call me a Snowy Owls groupie; I love their reverb-soaked sound, distinctive bass lines and Matt's nu-gaze vocals.
I planted myself on the back of one of the benches so I was higher than everyone in the room despite being in the back.
It's a rare treat for someone 5'5" to look down at a crowd, so I savored it, letting the sound of music from a cave wash over me.
A definite highlight besides the music was hearing a musician friend acknowledge that Snowy Owls rocked way more than he remembered.
He'd been under the impression that since leader Matt is also in the folky Low Branches that Snowy Owls was similar. Now he knows better.
Just as I knew better than to leave my perch when the next band up was Baby Help Me Forget. The crowd began to migrate from the outside and other room and I held fast atop the bench.
No matter how many times I see these guys, I'm always eager to see them again.
The band is high energy and lead singer (and Sprout co-owner) Jamie is the best showman in town.
He joined the band tonight by jumping down from atop the pallet wall that separates the kitchen to the floor in front of the stage.
Laurie sat atop the wall moving and grooving, silhouetted from behind.
Dressed in tight white pants, a patterned shirt, chain belt and velveteen blazer, Jamie looked every inch the part as he danced, gyrated, dropped to his knees and generally tore it up.
The blazer came off after the first few songs.
His non-stop movements, jumping from the stage to the floor, singing on his knees and dancing amongst the crowd whipped up everyone in the room to a frenzy.
Jamie tried to say a few words about the occasion, but summed it up with, "F**king Sprout! That's all I'm going to say!" It was enough.
The shirt came off after a few more songs, tossed into the audience.
Everyone was moving non-stop and the room heated up quickly. But the energy was amazing.
When the band finished, the crowd applauded and demanded more. Despite cords already wound and instruments half put away, the band obliged.
No one tonight, no how, no way, was going to top what we had just experienced. I said as much to the girl sitting next to me.
The mass of humanity that was the audience began to exit the room then, looking for air to breathe although out in front was a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chatting as I waited to get outside, Jamie came by, his shirt now back on. He greeted me and I teased him by asking if I could touch his sweat.
I asked for the sake of giving him a hard time about his exuberant performance, but he just grinned and said, "Gross!" as I touched him.
Standing outside talking to people, I heard the list of bands for the rest of the evening. Four more (three of which I've seen) followed by four noise bands.
The band that was about to start was an hour and a half behind schedule with seven more after them.
And I'd given up my prime real estate in the back room by coming outside.
Nothing was going to exceed the emotional peak I'd just witnessed. I wasn't going to touch anyone else's sweaty chest tonight.
Sprout, you will be missed.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Moving Beyond Green Eggs & Lamb
Brunch on a holiday weekend is always a crap shoot. You never know who'll be open.
When I'd gotten home last night, I'd found an invitation from a friend saying only "Breakfast tomorrow?"
He wanted to eat at the ungodly hour of 10, so I guess that disqualified it as brunch.
We struck out at Ettamae's because they're on vacation, although Chef Matt was there working away.
He did share that they're debuting a new dinner menu starting next week, so that was worth hearing about.
But where to go now?
Keeping with the "E" theme, we drove down Broad to The Empress, spotted a couple sitting in the window and went in to choose our own window seat.
Our two talkative tables must have been just the incentive people needed because tables continued to be filled from then on.
Today's menu had a breakfast section and a lunch section, but no Green Eggs and Lamb, long my go-to on their brunch menu.
Owner Melissa explained that the price of lamb had tripled, so she'd taken my favorite off the menu. And understandably so.
It was probably a good thing, forcing me to try something different, so I ordered the Chorizo pizza with fresh Mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on herb focaccia.
My friend considered the Manly Man's Breakfast (two fried eggs over bison gravy and mashed potatoes) but chose instead the Simply Breakfast of bacon, seasoned potatoes, two poached eggs and toast with jam.
I didn't consider him any less of a manly man because of his decision. Or maybe I'm just not into manly men.
Of course we got a side of bacon. The two of us try never to go to breakfast or brunch and not have a plate of bacon to nosh on.
My pizza turned out to be an inspired choice; the thick bread made a savory bed for the sliced Chorizo and cheese topping and I scarfed it down like I hadn't eaten all day.
I hadn't. And I'm the type who usually gets up and eats within minutes, so I was starved.
Spying my suddenly empty plate, our server came over and offered to take it, saying, "But I won't take that one because there's still bacon on it."
Good thinking if you don't want a fork in the back of your hand.
My friend's breakfast suited him just as well with perfectly poached eggs, addictive potatoes and The Empress' usual exceptional bread.
Once the bacon was finished, we had a lingering salty taste that could only be cured by dessert.
I'm sure some people would look askance at dessert after breakfast/brunch, but we're not two of them.
When our server offered us the chocolate chile pate, we gave him the "Is that a rhetorical question?" look and soon after it appeared.
There's a good reason their pate took first prize at Broad Appetit last year; the combination of dark chocolate and the heat of the chiles on the finish is sublime.
Not to be overly optimistic, but I think it bodes well for the rest of the day when you've already had dessert by noon.
My friend chalked it up to a bacon/chocolate endorphin high.
I say whatever gets you through a Sunday...
When I'd gotten home last night, I'd found an invitation from a friend saying only "Breakfast tomorrow?"
He wanted to eat at the ungodly hour of 10, so I guess that disqualified it as brunch.
We struck out at Ettamae's because they're on vacation, although Chef Matt was there working away.
He did share that they're debuting a new dinner menu starting next week, so that was worth hearing about.
But where to go now?
Keeping with the "E" theme, we drove down Broad to The Empress, spotted a couple sitting in the window and went in to choose our own window seat.
Our two talkative tables must have been just the incentive people needed because tables continued to be filled from then on.
Today's menu had a breakfast section and a lunch section, but no Green Eggs and Lamb, long my go-to on their brunch menu.
Owner Melissa explained that the price of lamb had tripled, so she'd taken my favorite off the menu. And understandably so.
It was probably a good thing, forcing me to try something different, so I ordered the Chorizo pizza with fresh Mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on herb focaccia.
My friend considered the Manly Man's Breakfast (two fried eggs over bison gravy and mashed potatoes) but chose instead the Simply Breakfast of bacon, seasoned potatoes, two poached eggs and toast with jam.
I didn't consider him any less of a manly man because of his decision. Or maybe I'm just not into manly men.
Of course we got a side of bacon. The two of us try never to go to breakfast or brunch and not have a plate of bacon to nosh on.
My pizza turned out to be an inspired choice; the thick bread made a savory bed for the sliced Chorizo and cheese topping and I scarfed it down like I hadn't eaten all day.
I hadn't. And I'm the type who usually gets up and eats within minutes, so I was starved.
Spying my suddenly empty plate, our server came over and offered to take it, saying, "But I won't take that one because there's still bacon on it."
Good thinking if you don't want a fork in the back of your hand.
My friend's breakfast suited him just as well with perfectly poached eggs, addictive potatoes and The Empress' usual exceptional bread.
Once the bacon was finished, we had a lingering salty taste that could only be cured by dessert.
I'm sure some people would look askance at dessert after breakfast/brunch, but we're not two of them.
When our server offered us the chocolate chile pate, we gave him the "Is that a rhetorical question?" look and soon after it appeared.
There's a good reason their pate took first prize at Broad Appetit last year; the combination of dark chocolate and the heat of the chiles on the finish is sublime.
Not to be overly optimistic, but I think it bodes well for the rest of the day when you've already had dessert by noon.
My friend chalked it up to a bacon/chocolate endorphin high.
I say whatever gets you through a Sunday...
A Locavore Loss
Tonight was Sprout Cafe's last night in business.
As someone who has eaten brunch, lunch and dinner, enjoyed more than a few drinks and heard countless bands play there, I am understandably upset about the loss.
Sprout's devotion to Virginia sourcing and live music made them practically a weekly destination for me.
That ended tonight with a full house, most of whom I had never laid eyes on before, despite being a regular.
It was interesting; looking around at the crowd, a friend commented on all the unfamiliar faces. Actually, so did the staff.
Proving the maxim that you don't appreciate what you have until you lose it, loads of people showed up tonight, probably giving Sprout a banner night in sales.
Unfortunately, not in time. Likewise, the FB response has been effusive and sentimental but likely not representative of how often people actually spent money at Sprout.
Still, better late than never.
By the time I arrived, their to-die-for sausage pizettas were history and the menu was down to just three items, all vegetarian.
I got the Feta cheese hushpuppies with a spicy dipping sauce and some Vinho Verde so I could (figuratively) cry into my wine.
Two bands played while I was there, but for a change I stayed in the main room chatting with friends and giving my eardrums a break.
As a friend pointed out tonight, some people complained about Sprout's prices, but an Extreme pizza runs $20, he said, so it's all about where you want your dining dollar to go.
There's a lot to be said for using it to keep Virginia's economy moving forward.
I don't know if I'll ever again be treated to a chocolate cake made with Virginia flour, milk, eggs and butter like I was the very first time I ate at Sprout.
It's not just my loss. It's Richmond's loss.
As owner Laurie pragmatically said tonight, "I hope it inspires someone else to carry it forward."
We can only hope.
As someone who has eaten brunch, lunch and dinner, enjoyed more than a few drinks and heard countless bands play there, I am understandably upset about the loss.
Sprout's devotion to Virginia sourcing and live music made them practically a weekly destination for me.
That ended tonight with a full house, most of whom I had never laid eyes on before, despite being a regular.
It was interesting; looking around at the crowd, a friend commented on all the unfamiliar faces. Actually, so did the staff.
Proving the maxim that you don't appreciate what you have until you lose it, loads of people showed up tonight, probably giving Sprout a banner night in sales.
Unfortunately, not in time. Likewise, the FB response has been effusive and sentimental but likely not representative of how often people actually spent money at Sprout.
Still, better late than never.
By the time I arrived, their to-die-for sausage pizettas were history and the menu was down to just three items, all vegetarian.
I got the Feta cheese hushpuppies with a spicy dipping sauce and some Vinho Verde so I could (figuratively) cry into my wine.
Two bands played while I was there, but for a change I stayed in the main room chatting with friends and giving my eardrums a break.
As a friend pointed out tonight, some people complained about Sprout's prices, but an Extreme pizza runs $20, he said, so it's all about where you want your dining dollar to go.
There's a lot to be said for using it to keep Virginia's economy moving forward.
I don't know if I'll ever again be treated to a chocolate cake made with Virginia flour, milk, eggs and butter like I was the very first time I ate at Sprout.
It's not just my loss. It's Richmond's loss.
As owner Laurie pragmatically said tonight, "I hope it inspires someone else to carry it forward."
We can only hope.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Man That Got Away
I'll never finish my movie bucket list at the rate I'm going, but I checked off another one today.
Since I don't watch movies at home, I have to wait for the ones I want to see to show up in theaters, so it's not a terribly efficient process.
Life is not about efficiency, though.
But Movieland's Movies and Mimosas was showing the 1954 version of "A Star is Born" with Judy Garland and James Mason, so I had to go.
Having recently finished David O. Selznick's overblown bography (appropriately, a 700-page tome), I had read the laborious behind-the-scenes story of the 1937 version of this movie being made so I was curious to see the remake.
It's l-o-n-g.
I knew that it had been cut for its original theatrical release to two and a half hours, but apparently that lost footage was restored in the 80s so it's back to a full three-hour spectacle with intermission.
And it is a spectacle, between all the scenes of shooting big Hollywood musicals and living the movie star life in 50s-era Tinsel Town.
I am fascinated by scenes of old-school night clubs, lamps glowing on each table, women in evening clothes, a live band or orchestra providing the entertainment and a sense of glamour that seems very long ago.
On the other hand, when Garland's character complains about being on tour with a band and having to wash her gloves in motel sinks, I can appreciate the evolution of the expectations of women.
Because the story is a romance, there were many touching moments, perhaps the sweetest being when she performs for him, singing, dancing and clowning, in their living room.
She is trying to make him laugh (and succeeds), easily one of the most romantic things a person can do to another.
But for sheer grand gesture, when he takes her lipstick from her hand when they first meet and uses it to draw a heart with their initials in it on the wall, both Garland and I were smitten.
Granted, it did use up the better part of a good lipstick.
Still, I'm a sucker for seeing things in writing.
Even when it's only in a movie.
Since I don't watch movies at home, I have to wait for the ones I want to see to show up in theaters, so it's not a terribly efficient process.
Life is not about efficiency, though.
But Movieland's Movies and Mimosas was showing the 1954 version of "A Star is Born" with Judy Garland and James Mason, so I had to go.
Having recently finished David O. Selznick's overblown bography (appropriately, a 700-page tome), I had read the laborious behind-the-scenes story of the 1937 version of this movie being made so I was curious to see the remake.
It's l-o-n-g.
I knew that it had been cut for its original theatrical release to two and a half hours, but apparently that lost footage was restored in the 80s so it's back to a full three-hour spectacle with intermission.
And it is a spectacle, between all the scenes of shooting big Hollywood musicals and living the movie star life in 50s-era Tinsel Town.
I am fascinated by scenes of old-school night clubs, lamps glowing on each table, women in evening clothes, a live band or orchestra providing the entertainment and a sense of glamour that seems very long ago.
On the other hand, when Garland's character complains about being on tour with a band and having to wash her gloves in motel sinks, I can appreciate the evolution of the expectations of women.
Because the story is a romance, there were many touching moments, perhaps the sweetest being when she performs for him, singing, dancing and clowning, in their living room.
She is trying to make him laugh (and succeeds), easily one of the most romantic things a person can do to another.
But for sheer grand gesture, when he takes her lipstick from her hand when they first meet and uses it to draw a heart with their initials in it on the wall, both Garland and I were smitten.
Granted, it did use up the better part of a good lipstick.
Still, I'm a sucker for seeing things in writing.
Even when it's only in a movie.
I Saw the Crescent, You Saw the Whole of the Moon
When people ask me for some of my favorite restaurants, I never fail to mention Aziza's on Main.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
Friday, September 2, 2011
The Story Thus Far
Once, on a hot day in August, I met a painter at Secco so we could talk about life and drink pink wine together.
The wine was Domaine de Fenouillet Cotes du Ventoux Rose, a pale pink fruity gem with a nice mineral finish, and the painter was Josh George, a NYC transplant with a soft voice and an understated charm.
A retelling of that conversation appeared in "Style Weekly," here, this week, so when I went to Ghostprint Gallery for Josh's opening tonight, there it was laid out on the counter for all to see.
As a non-artist, I've never gotten so much attention at an art opening before and all I did was write about the talent.
And the fact is, I'd have been there to see "The Story Thus Far" whether I'd written the piece or not.
I rarely miss a Ghostprint preview; it's the only sane way to see a show given the crowds on art walk nights (at least back in the days before roving teenagers became an issue).
I'd seen Josh's last show and had been impressed enough to want to see his new work. I was a sure thing tonight.
Tonight's preview was very crowded, perhaps because others also prefer Thursdays and maybe because Josh is extremely talented and the local cognoscenti have picked up on that.
Many of the pieces were large scale works and all were a combination of paint, collage and layers of varnish, giving a depth of detail and intricacy that required slow and mindful viewing so as not to miss anything.
Walking in, I went over to the first painting where a guy was staring intently at the scene of a band performing.
When he saw me, he turned and said with awe, "That's Iron Maiden, you know!"
I hadn't known that, but I had known that Josh is a death metal fan, so I wasn't as surprised as this guy was.
His friend smiled at me as if to say, "Thanks for tolerating his enthusiasm," but I understood.
The rest of the show is full of domestic scenes and city scenes, some showing buildings much taller than anything in Richmond.
As I had discovered during my Secco interlude, Josh is a wine lover (the first thing he'd told me after saying hello tonight was to get a glass of the Italian sparkler because it was good) and wine made its presence known in more than a few paintings.
In "Carrot Chopper," a bottle of Vouvray sits on the women's cutting board, perhaps her reward once her chopping was finished.
Josh's dry wit came through in "Posso Avere il Conto Per Favore?" where a bottle of wine on the waiter's tray is labeled with "Masterpiece Musee Picasso."
A similar reinterpretation is seen in "Man's Best Soup" where one of the cans on the shelf behind the soup-eater has a label saying "Mastercard accepted in more than 6500 shops and restaurants in Belgium."
If the viewer didn't look closely at the wine glass or the can, though, they'd miss the subtle humor of both.
"Formidable Opponent" showed a woman taking down two men, one of whom she was holding by the feet upside down.
Formidable indeed.
During the reception, a woman I know came up and conspiratorially asked me about my blog.
"I can't tell from reading it if you have a man, or you're looking for a man or if you're not. Tell me, what's really going on?"
As I opened my mouth to answer her, a guy appeared behind her and asked me, "Didn't we meet before?"
It wasn't a line; we had met a Balliceaux a while back when he was considering moving from Brooklyn to RVA.
Last week he moved here, just in time for Hurricane Irene.
I got so busy talking to him about Sazeracs, antelope and Napoleon cabs that I never got a chance to get back to that other conversation.
Really, what is going on?
The wine was Domaine de Fenouillet Cotes du Ventoux Rose, a pale pink fruity gem with a nice mineral finish, and the painter was Josh George, a NYC transplant with a soft voice and an understated charm.
A retelling of that conversation appeared in "Style Weekly," here, this week, so when I went to Ghostprint Gallery for Josh's opening tonight, there it was laid out on the counter for all to see.
As a non-artist, I've never gotten so much attention at an art opening before and all I did was write about the talent.
And the fact is, I'd have been there to see "The Story Thus Far" whether I'd written the piece or not.
I rarely miss a Ghostprint preview; it's the only sane way to see a show given the crowds on art walk nights (at least back in the days before roving teenagers became an issue).
I'd seen Josh's last show and had been impressed enough to want to see his new work. I was a sure thing tonight.
Tonight's preview was very crowded, perhaps because others also prefer Thursdays and maybe because Josh is extremely talented and the local cognoscenti have picked up on that.
Many of the pieces were large scale works and all were a combination of paint, collage and layers of varnish, giving a depth of detail and intricacy that required slow and mindful viewing so as not to miss anything.
Walking in, I went over to the first painting where a guy was staring intently at the scene of a band performing.
When he saw me, he turned and said with awe, "That's Iron Maiden, you know!"
I hadn't known that, but I had known that Josh is a death metal fan, so I wasn't as surprised as this guy was.
His friend smiled at me as if to say, "Thanks for tolerating his enthusiasm," but I understood.
The rest of the show is full of domestic scenes and city scenes, some showing buildings much taller than anything in Richmond.
As I had discovered during my Secco interlude, Josh is a wine lover (the first thing he'd told me after saying hello tonight was to get a glass of the Italian sparkler because it was good) and wine made its presence known in more than a few paintings.
In "Carrot Chopper," a bottle of Vouvray sits on the women's cutting board, perhaps her reward once her chopping was finished.
Josh's dry wit came through in "Posso Avere il Conto Per Favore?" where a bottle of wine on the waiter's tray is labeled with "Masterpiece Musee Picasso."
A similar reinterpretation is seen in "Man's Best Soup" where one of the cans on the shelf behind the soup-eater has a label saying "Mastercard accepted in more than 6500 shops and restaurants in Belgium."
If the viewer didn't look closely at the wine glass or the can, though, they'd miss the subtle humor of both.
"Formidable Opponent" showed a woman taking down two men, one of whom she was holding by the feet upside down.
Formidable indeed.
During the reception, a woman I know came up and conspiratorially asked me about my blog.
"I can't tell from reading it if you have a man, or you're looking for a man or if you're not. Tell me, what's really going on?"
As I opened my mouth to answer her, a guy appeared behind her and asked me, "Didn't we meet before?"
It wasn't a line; we had met a Balliceaux a while back when he was considering moving from Brooklyn to RVA.
Last week he moved here, just in time for Hurricane Irene.
I got so busy talking to him about Sazeracs, antelope and Napoleon cabs that I never got a chance to get back to that other conversation.
Really, what is going on?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Don't Be Discovering Me
"You steal men's souls, don't you?"
Foe those of you who are not female and who have not gone out with a girlfriend, you might not believe it, but that's the kind of thing guys say to strangers in bars.
No, really.
And not even at meat market bars, but at tasteful places like Lemaire.
A girlfriend and I decided to meet there for Discovery Wine Wednesdays, the great deal they offer on wine for $15 a bottle.
I arrived first and found a stool safely out of TV range (a male friend recently pointed out to me that Lemaire is a great sports bar because of all the TVs; sad, but true) and at the end with a view of everyone.
My tardy friend arrived and we chose to discover the Valminor Albarino Rias Baixas for our poison.
Actually it was quite nice with a fruity nose and strong minerality.
Around us, the bar was filling up with visitors, hotel guests and locals.
We ignored them all, comfortable in our own little bubble discussing plans for her out-of-town boyfriend's upcoming visit.
Our affable bartender suggested we take advantage of the bar deal offering any three appetizers for $20 until 7:00.
Given that we were already drinking on the cheap, why not avail ourselves of some well-priced food as well?
We ordered the slow-braised BBQ pork quesadillas, the P.E.I. mussels with Jim Kite's country ham and the chilled Laughing Bird shrimp salad with Belgian endive.
Although the mussels had a different broth than stated on the menu, it was delicious and totally soppable, so what did we care about specifics?
Or maybe that makes us mussel whores. Please don't judge.
Not long after we finished eating, a guy asked if he could take the stool next to us.
He looked normal enough, so we agreed. It's not like we were stewards of the stools anyway.
He was in town because of the "Lincoln" filming or so he said.
On the other hand, his business card was a piece of 35 mm film with his information on it, so it seemed plausible.
And what a character he turned out to be! He began by saying he always sits down next to the most beautiful woman at a bar.
Not to worry; I laughed out loud at him when he said that.
He was definitely a tale-teller.
We heard of his Los Angeles exploits, his days courting sirens and his current and very kind wife ("She's in love with another woman. And with her mother.").
He told us of being sued in absentia after being rear-ended at a yield sign. His lawyer wanted to fire him as a client.
He talked about tantric sex and told me I was capable of unconditional love.
He said he'd come over to join us after spotting a hair on my chest, a hair which he removed and then placed in his wallet after singeing it on the candle.
When we went to leave, he walked out with us and hugged me before asking me (a stranger for all intents and purposes) for a kiss.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.
And I don't want to. Non-fiction is a much better read than any fiction I could concoct.
Foe those of you who are not female and who have not gone out with a girlfriend, you might not believe it, but that's the kind of thing guys say to strangers in bars.
No, really.
And not even at meat market bars, but at tasteful places like Lemaire.
A girlfriend and I decided to meet there for Discovery Wine Wednesdays, the great deal they offer on wine for $15 a bottle.
I arrived first and found a stool safely out of TV range (a male friend recently pointed out to me that Lemaire is a great sports bar because of all the TVs; sad, but true) and at the end with a view of everyone.
My tardy friend arrived and we chose to discover the Valminor Albarino Rias Baixas for our poison.
Actually it was quite nice with a fruity nose and strong minerality.
Around us, the bar was filling up with visitors, hotel guests and locals.
We ignored them all, comfortable in our own little bubble discussing plans for her out-of-town boyfriend's upcoming visit.
Our affable bartender suggested we take advantage of the bar deal offering any three appetizers for $20 until 7:00.
Given that we were already drinking on the cheap, why not avail ourselves of some well-priced food as well?
We ordered the slow-braised BBQ pork quesadillas, the P.E.I. mussels with Jim Kite's country ham and the chilled Laughing Bird shrimp salad with Belgian endive.
Although the mussels had a different broth than stated on the menu, it was delicious and totally soppable, so what did we care about specifics?
Or maybe that makes us mussel whores. Please don't judge.
Not long after we finished eating, a guy asked if he could take the stool next to us.
He looked normal enough, so we agreed. It's not like we were stewards of the stools anyway.
He was in town because of the "Lincoln" filming or so he said.
On the other hand, his business card was a piece of 35 mm film with his information on it, so it seemed plausible.
And what a character he turned out to be! He began by saying he always sits down next to the most beautiful woman at a bar.
Not to worry; I laughed out loud at him when he said that.
He was definitely a tale-teller.
We heard of his Los Angeles exploits, his days courting sirens and his current and very kind wife ("She's in love with another woman. And with her mother.").
He told us of being sued in absentia after being rear-ended at a yield sign. His lawyer wanted to fire him as a client.
He talked about tantric sex and told me I was capable of unconditional love.
He said he'd come over to join us after spotting a hair on my chest, a hair which he removed and then placed in his wallet after singeing it on the candle.
When we went to leave, he walked out with us and hugged me before asking me (a stranger for all intents and purposes) for a kiss.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.
And I don't want to. Non-fiction is a much better read than any fiction I could concoct.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Picture Postcard Perfect
Today's absolutely perfect Richmond moment was a first for me, despite years living in this city.
Driving down Monument Avenue I saw two mounted officers trotting down the wide median, verdant trees on either side of them and the sky a blue that no crayon could capture.
The cops looked mighty content, but my first thought was that the horses must be loving their grassy stroll.
As always, I marvel at being in the right place at the right time.
This town never ceases to delight me.
Driving down Monument Avenue I saw two mounted officers trotting down the wide median, verdant trees on either side of them and the sky a blue that no crayon could capture.
The cops looked mighty content, but my first thought was that the horses must be loving their grassy stroll.
As always, I marvel at being in the right place at the right time.
This town never ceases to delight me.
Tom and Jerry Saved Me
In terms of music, last week was an epic fail.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Tales of the "V" Table
Take six chefs, six pig parts, six women and seven wines. Mix well and spread generously over four hours.
Yield: a sWine dinner and the kind of conversation the best writers couldn't write.
Secco was hosting a six-course wine dinner with swine and had bought in additional chefs and tables to handle the crowd.
I was lucky enough to be seated with five other solo diners, all female, at a big table in front where there are usually two couches.
We took advantage of our prime position to check out passers-by and dish on everything from second dates to port and tequila ice cream to younger men.
The festivities kicked off with a reception where we sipped Le Nouveau Nez, admiring its bubbles and seeing how many in the room we knew (not many; my total was only three).
An amuse bouche of pork liver mousse with fennel flower and sea salt brought raves from all but one of us who wasn't a liver fan.
Course #1 was head cheese with three sauces from Secco's Tim Bereika, served with Musar "Jeune" 2009 Blanc.
The savory pig head parts mixed with pistachio and fresh parsley found fans of all three sauces, the savory tomato-berbere jam, the watermelon rind mustard and the mayo-like sauce gribiche.
Two of the people at my table didn't think they liked head cheese (we considered banishing them), only to be proven wrong upon tasting Tim's version.
But we all agreed that we were off to a fine porcine start.
Enoteca's Lee Baedke prepared the second dish, squid-stuffed with ground pork shoulder with garlic, oregano, Pecorino Romano, tomato and Pancetta.
His girlfriend was at our table and told us about how she'd helped stuff the squid (she had a tendency to over-stuff according to her beloved), but we didn't let that influence us.
It was beautifully done and well paired with Bisson 2009 Bianchetta Genovese.
The next course came from The Roosevelt's Lee Gregory, so naturally it had a Southern twist.
It consisted of a roasted scallop, braised pig tails, a lima bean succotash that had the whole table enthralled and pork jus, served with Naranjuez 2009 Sauvignon Blanc (reeking of cat piss and pleasing some of the wine geeks at the table no end).
Lee told us that he'd paired the scallop with the tails, "So hopefully we can slow your heart down a little." Goodness knows we needed it at that point.
After four wine courses, my table mates and I were as good as old friends. We heard boyfriend/husband stories, we shared first date stories and everyone knew who had power and who didn't.
Jason Alley of Comfort (and the soon-to-come Pasture) did a deconstructed pig's foot Wellington with a mushroom mousse and white toast.
We enjoyed that with a Chapelle des Bois 2009 Fleurie, as young tasting as a Beaujolais and just perfect with Jason's dish.
This wine was a big hit at our table, but maybe we were just ready for a red.
We switched to pink for the next course by Michael Braune of Secco, specifically the Cuilleron 2010 "Sybel" Rose de Syrah.
Michael's course was a braised pork belly complemented by a host of local veggies, including squash, leeks (okay, so they weren't local), padron pepper tapenade, fresh oregano and yellow tomato sauce.
Now that pork belly is everywhere, I have tasted differences in quality, but this one was outstanding.
The pig was sourced from Babes in the Woods, a Dillwyn farm that allows their pigs free range to forage for nuts and berries, giving the pigs a rich flavor.
Pork belly and pink wine pretty much finished us off. We were full by that time.
Not too full to talk, of course, or crack ourselves up (server Matt said, "I knew this table would be trouble") and knowing that dessert was next, we began a discussion of dessert versus additional wine and who had a preference for what.
I like to think that I'm entitled to both, but perhaps that's delusion on my part.
And while not delusional, there was definitely an oblivious quality to the people who continued to come through Secco's front door despite a bright green sign saying they were closed for a private event.
Some stood there like deer in headlights, some were informed by our table of their error and, when we were mid-story or laughing raucously, some had to be escorted out by staff.
At long last we reached the final course, which was both sweet and savory and created by Rachel DiSylvester of Secco.
Her pork rind biscuit with black raspberry compote had whipped honey and crystallized ginger for a finale (Julia: "Finale,not dessert") lifted from a 70s cookbook.
It was divine, especially with La Stoppa 2009 Malvasia Dolce, slightly sweet and lightly sparkling, the ideal wine for a pork rind biscuit, should I ever be lucky enough to have another.
And if not, I can grow old and become one of those people who sits around and talks about the glory days, back when I ate six courses of pig and lived to tell about it.
Assuming, of course, that my heart doesn't shut down trying to process so much pig tonight.
In which case, I'll just be part of the legend of the "V" table.
Yield: a sWine dinner and the kind of conversation the best writers couldn't write.
Secco was hosting a six-course wine dinner with swine and had bought in additional chefs and tables to handle the crowd.
I was lucky enough to be seated with five other solo diners, all female, at a big table in front where there are usually two couches.
We took advantage of our prime position to check out passers-by and dish on everything from second dates to port and tequila ice cream to younger men.
The festivities kicked off with a reception where we sipped Le Nouveau Nez, admiring its bubbles and seeing how many in the room we knew (not many; my total was only three).
An amuse bouche of pork liver mousse with fennel flower and sea salt brought raves from all but one of us who wasn't a liver fan.
Course #1 was head cheese with three sauces from Secco's Tim Bereika, served with Musar "Jeune" 2009 Blanc.
The savory pig head parts mixed with pistachio and fresh parsley found fans of all three sauces, the savory tomato-berbere jam, the watermelon rind mustard and the mayo-like sauce gribiche.
Two of the people at my table didn't think they liked head cheese (we considered banishing them), only to be proven wrong upon tasting Tim's version.
But we all agreed that we were off to a fine porcine start.
Enoteca's Lee Baedke prepared the second dish, squid-stuffed with ground pork shoulder with garlic, oregano, Pecorino Romano, tomato and Pancetta.
His girlfriend was at our table and told us about how she'd helped stuff the squid (she had a tendency to over-stuff according to her beloved), but we didn't let that influence us.
It was beautifully done and well paired with Bisson 2009 Bianchetta Genovese.
The next course came from The Roosevelt's Lee Gregory, so naturally it had a Southern twist.
It consisted of a roasted scallop, braised pig tails, a lima bean succotash that had the whole table enthralled and pork jus, served with Naranjuez 2009 Sauvignon Blanc (reeking of cat piss and pleasing some of the wine geeks at the table no end).
Lee told us that he'd paired the scallop with the tails, "So hopefully we can slow your heart down a little." Goodness knows we needed it at that point.
After four wine courses, my table mates and I were as good as old friends. We heard boyfriend/husband stories, we shared first date stories and everyone knew who had power and who didn't.
Jason Alley of Comfort (and the soon-to-come Pasture) did a deconstructed pig's foot Wellington with a mushroom mousse and white toast.
We enjoyed that with a Chapelle des Bois 2009 Fleurie, as young tasting as a Beaujolais and just perfect with Jason's dish.
This wine was a big hit at our table, but maybe we were just ready for a red.
We switched to pink for the next course by Michael Braune of Secco, specifically the Cuilleron 2010 "Sybel" Rose de Syrah.
Michael's course was a braised pork belly complemented by a host of local veggies, including squash, leeks (okay, so they weren't local), padron pepper tapenade, fresh oregano and yellow tomato sauce.
Now that pork belly is everywhere, I have tasted differences in quality, but this one was outstanding.
The pig was sourced from Babes in the Woods, a Dillwyn farm that allows their pigs free range to forage for nuts and berries, giving the pigs a rich flavor.
Pork belly and pink wine pretty much finished us off. We were full by that time.
Not too full to talk, of course, or crack ourselves up (server Matt said, "I knew this table would be trouble") and knowing that dessert was next, we began a discussion of dessert versus additional wine and who had a preference for what.
I like to think that I'm entitled to both, but perhaps that's delusion on my part.
And while not delusional, there was definitely an oblivious quality to the people who continued to come through Secco's front door despite a bright green sign saying they were closed for a private event.
Some stood there like deer in headlights, some were informed by our table of their error and, when we were mid-story or laughing raucously, some had to be escorted out by staff.
At long last we reached the final course, which was both sweet and savory and created by Rachel DiSylvester of Secco.
Her pork rind biscuit with black raspberry compote had whipped honey and crystallized ginger for a finale (Julia: "Finale,not dessert") lifted from a 70s cookbook.
It was divine, especially with La Stoppa 2009 Malvasia Dolce, slightly sweet and lightly sparkling, the ideal wine for a pork rind biscuit, should I ever be lucky enough to have another.
And if not, I can grow old and become one of those people who sits around and talks about the glory days, back when I ate six courses of pig and lived to tell about it.
Assuming, of course, that my heart doesn't shut down trying to process so much pig tonight.
In which case, I'll just be part of the legend of the "V" table.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Get the Party Started
You have to love a party that begins with dessert.
This was originally a "Farewell to Summer" party which had morphed into a "Hurricane Recovery Party" two days ago.
I was one of the first to arrive, no doubt because I never lost power and there was nothing I could do about my collapsed ceiling today except sweep up the debris.
The hosts were still without power, so the cookout had been changed to a taco party and the guests began to gather on the deck.
Our soundtrack was the next door neighbor's generator, buzzing away noisily in the late afternoon sun.
No power meant no ice, so one host was out trying to find some while the other greeted party-goers.
He insisted that we begin with ice cream since it was rapidly becoming soup cream.
Hard at work until 3:30 a.m. last night, he'd added a Guinness Stout reduction to vanilla ice cream and was serving it with chocolate ganache.
I may not be a beer drinker, but this was about the chocolate and the cream, not the beer.
Once we'd gotten dessert out of the way, we moved on to his basil peach sangria, which packed quite a punch.
Sangria is usually so mild-mannered, but my host had chosen to cut the sweetness of the wine with vodka, resulting in what one guest called a peach mojito.
You know, the old "cut alcohol with alcohol" trick.
Plain and simple, it was a big old cocktail, albeit a beautifully flavored one, and although I'm allergic to peaches and not a cocktail drinker, I drank up.
By some miracle, just as we started eating dinner, the neighbors turned off the generator. It was like a gift to our eardrums.
The crowd was eclectic - an author, comedians, a DJ, several IT types, bloggers, symphony musicians and several Henrico County school employees who got the word that they were off tomorrow mid-party- so the conversations were all over the place.
Where do you send a NYC transplant who asks, "Where can I go to meet people?" someone asked about a new coworker.
Well that depends on what kind of people you want to meet, I said.
Without knowing their preference, someone suggested that you send them to a place that has available men and women so they can pick their favorite flavor.
During a discussion of cell phones (nerdy vs. trendy, sleek vs. washing machine-like), I volunteered to the group that I didn't have one.
Stunned silence.
"Wow! That makes you the biggest hipster here," a girl finally said.
"Do you have a land line?" someone else asked. I nodded.
"Even more so," she pronounced.
Win friends and influence people by being a Luddite.
At dusk, the hosts brought out scads of candles and began making Guinness floats for those with an alcoholic sweet tooth.
Soon the tiki torches were lit and a fire was roaring in a small grill in the back yard.
After the third person asked me what my next stop was, I figured it was time to go.
I stopped home to make sure that no more ceiling had fallen before going to meet friends at the one bar that never seems to close, Bamboo.
And because it's Bamboo, there were as many people outside smoking as there were inside drinking.
Amongst those doing the latter were my friends who had spent a good part of the day shooting a video for their band.
During the shoot, they'd created a house party, with everyone drinking, talking and having a good time.
In essence, the exact same thing they were now doing at Bamboo, but without the cameras rolling. Even some of the extras showed up in their party girl dresses.
But the band members were tired of all that and wanted to talk about more substantive things like "Koyaanisqatsi," Lewis Ginter's mausoleum and surviving a broken heart when your ex walks into Bamboo.
You have to love a party where nerds win out over party girls.
This was originally a "Farewell to Summer" party which had morphed into a "Hurricane Recovery Party" two days ago.
I was one of the first to arrive, no doubt because I never lost power and there was nothing I could do about my collapsed ceiling today except sweep up the debris.
The hosts were still without power, so the cookout had been changed to a taco party and the guests began to gather on the deck.
Our soundtrack was the next door neighbor's generator, buzzing away noisily in the late afternoon sun.
No power meant no ice, so one host was out trying to find some while the other greeted party-goers.
He insisted that we begin with ice cream since it was rapidly becoming soup cream.
Hard at work until 3:30 a.m. last night, he'd added a Guinness Stout reduction to vanilla ice cream and was serving it with chocolate ganache.
I may not be a beer drinker, but this was about the chocolate and the cream, not the beer.
Once we'd gotten dessert out of the way, we moved on to his basil peach sangria, which packed quite a punch.
Sangria is usually so mild-mannered, but my host had chosen to cut the sweetness of the wine with vodka, resulting in what one guest called a peach mojito.
You know, the old "cut alcohol with alcohol" trick.
Plain and simple, it was a big old cocktail, albeit a beautifully flavored one, and although I'm allergic to peaches and not a cocktail drinker, I drank up.
By some miracle, just as we started eating dinner, the neighbors turned off the generator. It was like a gift to our eardrums.
The crowd was eclectic - an author, comedians, a DJ, several IT types, bloggers, symphony musicians and several Henrico County school employees who got the word that they were off tomorrow mid-party- so the conversations were all over the place.
Where do you send a NYC transplant who asks, "Where can I go to meet people?" someone asked about a new coworker.
Well that depends on what kind of people you want to meet, I said.
Without knowing their preference, someone suggested that you send them to a place that has available men and women so they can pick their favorite flavor.
During a discussion of cell phones (nerdy vs. trendy, sleek vs. washing machine-like), I volunteered to the group that I didn't have one.
Stunned silence.
"Wow! That makes you the biggest hipster here," a girl finally said.
"Do you have a land line?" someone else asked. I nodded.
"Even more so," she pronounced.
Win friends and influence people by being a Luddite.
At dusk, the hosts brought out scads of candles and began making Guinness floats for those with an alcoholic sweet tooth.
Soon the tiki torches were lit and a fire was roaring in a small grill in the back yard.
After the third person asked me what my next stop was, I figured it was time to go.
I stopped home to make sure that no more ceiling had fallen before going to meet friends at the one bar that never seems to close, Bamboo.
And because it's Bamboo, there were as many people outside smoking as there were inside drinking.
Amongst those doing the latter were my friends who had spent a good part of the day shooting a video for their band.
During the shoot, they'd created a house party, with everyone drinking, talking and having a good time.
In essence, the exact same thing they were now doing at Bamboo, but without the cameras rolling. Even some of the extras showed up in their party girl dresses.
But the band members were tired of all that and wanted to talk about more substantive things like "Koyaanisqatsi," Lewis Ginter's mausoleum and surviving a broken heart when your ex walks into Bamboo.
You have to love a party where nerds win out over party girls.
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