It's all in your perspective.
My Mom used to say that no one missed the good old days who actually lived through them.
Not so for lovers of VHS, as shown in the documentary "Adjust Your Tracking: The Untold Story of the VHS Collector" at the Movie Loft tonight. Mad props to the guy collecting the admission at the door because he was stuffing it in a VHS tape box.
Now that's allegiance to a theme.
I loved the space - two rows of mismatched couches- and promptly sat on one only to be told I was sitting on someone's seat. Oops.
Moving to the front row where the couch wore a soft, pale green blanket, I was allowed to stay and was soon joined by a filmmaker I know. Like me, he's of an age to remember the full history of VHS and not just being taken to the video store as a kid.
Also like me, he's a music fanatic, so before the film, he told me about his recent trip to Maryland to see New Order. I wasn't surprised to hear that all ages were represented at the show but I was very surprised to hear that their encore was all Joy Division, with Ian Curtis' face projected behind them.
And, speaking of the '70s...
Filmmakers Dan Kinem and Levi Peretic humorously warned us that we'd soon be seeing a parade of middle-aged men with bad personal hygiene and a passion for VHS.
Guys who say things like, "VHS, it's my manhood." Guys who give interviews from a colorful ball pit or, more often, from their room-sized collection of VHS tapes.
I was one of the people who remembered that 1983 was the golden age of VHS without hearing it in the film. Actually, in 1983, I was dating a guy who ran a video store. True story.
And they were making a killing.
The collectors talked about how Blockbuster killed the Mom and Pop video stores (like the one my boyfriend worked for) and about the joys of the pops and crackles of VHS tapes. All of them got worked up on the subject of VHS box cover art and how often it belied its contents.
Still, most of them agreed that a great cover was enough reason to rent or buy a tape.
Unbelievably, one guy took his VHS collection and set up a mock video store in his basement, complete with 1990 computer (pre-mouse) and original video store counter (he had to cut it in half to get it down the basement steps).
That's VHS love.
Turns out the holy grail for VHS geeks is the 1978 movie "Tales from the Quadead Zone," impossibly hard to find. One guy happened on a copy, bought it for two bucks and sold it on e-Bay for $660. Both guys were interviewed about it on camera and both were thrilled with what they'd gotten.
"That was the game changer," one said perfectly seriously. As in, that's when it became clear that there was an army of VHS collectors out there, most eager to accumulate as many tapes as they could.
And these guys already had 3900, 4500 or more tapes.
I found it hysterical how one guy said he loved to watch more than one movie at a time, stopping the tape and inserting another before going back to just where he'd left off with the first. We all know that's not something you can do with a DVD.
But you also can't toss DVDs around because they're not the indestructible monsters that VHS tapes are. And who knew that movies are again being made in the VHS format?
It's a good thing I go out so I can learn this kind of stuff.
By the time the documentary ended, my memories of the pleasures of VHS tapes had been brought back into sharper focus. The filmmakers are to be congratulated because the documentary had done its job well, sucking me back into the good, old days.
The rewinding, the tracking adjustments, the trips to the video store and enjoyment from wandering aisle after aisle to choose the perfect obscure film to complete my afternoon or evening.
Way better than the memories of the video store boyfriend.
Naturally, afterwards there was a sale in the back of the loft of, what else, VHS tapes. As it happens, I already have every Perry Mason episode ever filmed on VHS and since I have no VCR (or TV), I didn't really feel the need to add to my collection.
Which I suppose means I'd make a lousy VHS collector.
That and my personal hygiene is really pretty good.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Monday, August 5, 2013
Worldly Early Birds
Birthdays were never meant to be confined to a day.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
No Risk Roulette
Nothing like a neighborhood restaurant for lunch with a friend.
Walking into Comfort, he summed it up for both of us with, "It's been ages since I've been here, but nothing changes here."
That's why it's so comforting, my dear.
He knew he wanted a burger and I knew I wanted a salad, but it was the wine list that charmed me.
"Feeling adventurous? Play wine roulette! Get something random!"
I love a bossy menu.
Who could resist a wine list with such verve and humor?
Not me, that's for sure.
The list read like a set of trade-offs, bracketed by helpful information.
If you like XYZ, described as this and that, then try ABC.
So, if you like chardonnay (rich, white), try this Marsanne/Viognier blend.
If you like Sauvignon Blanc (citrusy, thirst-quenching), try Muscat.
For me, that meant trying the Grange Phillips "Gipsy," a fruity and smooth syrah rose ideally suited to a summer day lunch with a friend.
Shoot, as if I wouldn't have chosen a Rose anyway.
Of course, with my friend, he likes a chardonnay so he ordered a chardonnay.
No wine roulette for him.
Over discussion of hotels (The Rittenhouse versus the Jefferson), "Othello" at Agecroft ("I didn't even fall asleep," he bragged about how much he'd enjoyed the production) and how challenging his job gets, I ate through a chef salad piled high with roasted turkey and country ham.
Other tables filled up around us in the sunny dining room as we wiled away a couple of hours sipping wine, sharing a chocolate mousse and dishing about some Richmond types we despise.
Oh, the pleasures of an unexpected Monday lunch with a friend.
Comforting and close to home.
Oh, right, this is Richmond roulette. No bullets, just easy.
Walking into Comfort, he summed it up for both of us with, "It's been ages since I've been here, but nothing changes here."
That's why it's so comforting, my dear.
He knew he wanted a burger and I knew I wanted a salad, but it was the wine list that charmed me.
"Feeling adventurous? Play wine roulette! Get something random!"
I love a bossy menu.
Who could resist a wine list with such verve and humor?
Not me, that's for sure.
The list read like a set of trade-offs, bracketed by helpful information.
If you like XYZ, described as this and that, then try ABC.
So, if you like chardonnay (rich, white), try this Marsanne/Viognier blend.
If you like Sauvignon Blanc (citrusy, thirst-quenching), try Muscat.
For me, that meant trying the Grange Phillips "Gipsy," a fruity and smooth syrah rose ideally suited to a summer day lunch with a friend.
Shoot, as if I wouldn't have chosen a Rose anyway.
Of course, with my friend, he likes a chardonnay so he ordered a chardonnay.
No wine roulette for him.
Over discussion of hotels (The Rittenhouse versus the Jefferson), "Othello" at Agecroft ("I didn't even fall asleep," he bragged about how much he'd enjoyed the production) and how challenging his job gets, I ate through a chef salad piled high with roasted turkey and country ham.
Other tables filled up around us in the sunny dining room as we wiled away a couple of hours sipping wine, sharing a chocolate mousse and dishing about some Richmond types we despise.
Oh, the pleasures of an unexpected Monday lunch with a friend.
Comforting and close to home.
Oh, right, this is Richmond roulette. No bullets, just easy.
What Dogs Promise
It was an all day affair, given the perfect weather and company.
Take a drive out 250 and stop where we want to.
There was Keswick Vineyards under an umbrella on an impossibly beautiful afternoon.
After tasting through eight wines and discussing our pourer's beagles, Molly and Tuck, we settled in for glasses of the 2012 Viognier, acidic with great length on the palate and layers of pear and apricot.
Dogs were everywhere at the winery, including a sad-faced hound from the Fluvanna SPCA, to whom I gave much love and hopes for a loving family.
I had to laugh at the woman telling her dog, "Remember what you promised!"
To be honest, he didn't look like he'd promised anything.
There was the Barbecue Exchange for brisket, pulled pork, hushpuppies and fries, where I met the man in charge of the 'cue, Van.
"You like tofu?" he asked after our discussion of his pig and cow. Do I look like I like tofu?
His meat was enjoyed at a table on the porch of the Exchange Hotel.
It wasn't my first time at the Exchange, although last time was inside to meet the resident ghost and today was solely for shade during lunch.
Yes, the same hotel where women used to sell fried chicken to the soldiers on the trains passing through Gordonsville.
And, yes, a train passed by and, no, I had no fried chicken to sell.
At Barboursville Vineyard, it was an oversized orange beach towel under a shady tree for a bottle of Vermentino Reserve 2012, dry and with a nice minerality.
Around us, people boringly discussed politics, a couple looked at their phones rather than each other and children rolled down the hill, one landing against my wine glass, which fortunately, I was holding tight.
The endless parade of new arrivals provided more than enough fodder for conversation as we sipped.
Really, platform shoes for winery hopping?
There was a stroll on the downtown mall to decide on a dinner location with Petit Pois the winner because they had outdoor tables and moules.
Add to the mussels a bottle of Virginia Fizz, a plate of fromage and tartare de boeuf, and you've got a recipe for several hours' pleasure.
Dogs slept while tables filled up and we marveled at the briskness of a Sunday night's business on the mall.
Couldn't help hoping that Richmond restaurants were just as busy tonight.
I ran into the delightful musician Guion of the Nettles, on his turf for a change, and heard about his recent adventures with outdoor pizza.
Then there was a stroll through a nearby neighborhood, admiring elaborate porches, hidden gardens and running into a familiar face from Richmond, out walking his dog.
Twelve hours and some mighty fine conversation later, I'd start all over and do it again.
Ready when my ride is.
Take a drive out 250 and stop where we want to.
There was Keswick Vineyards under an umbrella on an impossibly beautiful afternoon.
After tasting through eight wines and discussing our pourer's beagles, Molly and Tuck, we settled in for glasses of the 2012 Viognier, acidic with great length on the palate and layers of pear and apricot.
Dogs were everywhere at the winery, including a sad-faced hound from the Fluvanna SPCA, to whom I gave much love and hopes for a loving family.
I had to laugh at the woman telling her dog, "Remember what you promised!"
To be honest, he didn't look like he'd promised anything.
There was the Barbecue Exchange for brisket, pulled pork, hushpuppies and fries, where I met the man in charge of the 'cue, Van.
"You like tofu?" he asked after our discussion of his pig and cow. Do I look like I like tofu?
His meat was enjoyed at a table on the porch of the Exchange Hotel.
It wasn't my first time at the Exchange, although last time was inside to meet the resident ghost and today was solely for shade during lunch.
Yes, the same hotel where women used to sell fried chicken to the soldiers on the trains passing through Gordonsville.
And, yes, a train passed by and, no, I had no fried chicken to sell.
At Barboursville Vineyard, it was an oversized orange beach towel under a shady tree for a bottle of Vermentino Reserve 2012, dry and with a nice minerality.
Around us, people boringly discussed politics, a couple looked at their phones rather than each other and children rolled down the hill, one landing against my wine glass, which fortunately, I was holding tight.
The endless parade of new arrivals provided more than enough fodder for conversation as we sipped.
Really, platform shoes for winery hopping?
There was a stroll on the downtown mall to decide on a dinner location with Petit Pois the winner because they had outdoor tables and moules.
Add to the mussels a bottle of Virginia Fizz, a plate of fromage and tartare de boeuf, and you've got a recipe for several hours' pleasure.
Dogs slept while tables filled up and we marveled at the briskness of a Sunday night's business on the mall.
Couldn't help hoping that Richmond restaurants were just as busy tonight.
I ran into the delightful musician Guion of the Nettles, on his turf for a change, and heard about his recent adventures with outdoor pizza.
Then there was a stroll through a nearby neighborhood, admiring elaborate porches, hidden gardens and running into a familiar face from Richmond, out walking his dog.
Twelve hours and some mighty fine conversation later, I'd start all over and do it again.
Ready when my ride is.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Underground and Under Newspapers
A moonflower delayed my Saturday night.
I was getting dressed to go to a reading when I glanced out my bedroom window and, much to my surprise, saw my first moonflower of the summer beginning to open on my back porch.
If that doesn't sound impressive, then you've never seen a moonflower open.
It's the only flower I know of that opens so quickly you can watch it happen...in about 90 seconds.
My Mom still tells the story of showing my college boyfriend, Curt, a moonflower vine and watching his jaw drop as flower after flower opened in front of his eyes.
He was flabbergasted, never having heard of flowers that open so quickly.
Every year I grow moonflowers, as much for the novelty of flowers that open at dusk or later as for their entertainment value.
They can be fickle (who among us can't?), but their large, white, deep-throated flowers are stunning twining around a railing or up a trellis.
So when I saw that bud start shaking, I knew that Prudence would have to wait.
As it was, we arrived at Chop Suey in plenty of time for the reading since the event began with an extended mingling period.
I do so love a good reading preceded by time to socialize with a girlfriend while perusing the stacks at Chop Suey.
Dale Brumfield was talking about his new book, "Richmond's Independent Press: A History of the Underground Zine Scene."
And doing so in a most dapper manner wearing a white linen blazer.
He began by stating the obvious, that RVA's alternative papers were born out of disdain for and as a reaction to the dreaded Richmond Times Dispatch and News Leader.
Some things never change.
Those two mainstream papers were not telling the story of the new counterculture movement, demonstrating a clear disdain for the younger generation.
Not a smart choice at a time when youth was on the ascendancy.
But it was when Dale got down to cold, hard facts, that it became clear how key RVA had been in the overall underground press scene.
With a 1960 start, we had the second longest counterculture scene in the U.S., second only to NYC.
And get this, we had the first female editor in a counterculture publication in 1969.
And here I'd thought Richmond women still wearing white gloves in 1969.
Throttle magazine was especially noteworthy.
Among un-financed, free independent papers, they had the fastest circulation growth (from 3,000 to 20,000 copies per month).
I know publishers that would have killed for that kind of growth.
They also won the longevity prize for un-financed, free independent papers, clocking in at eighteen years.
As someone who spent many years working for free, independent papers, I can appreciate how impressive that is.
Dale spoke a bit about Richmond's unique handbill history before bringing readers up to read from his book.
He made it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was read his own words out loud.
Abby read a section about The Sunflower and Tabitha read one about Throttle.
Then Dale called up a man who needed no introduction, giving him none, to read about the Richmond Mercury.
Harry Kollatz, everyone's favorite man-about-town, came up contorting himself and purportedly reading a book called The Best Sex Ever.
The trouble with Harry is he always knows how to get a laugh (including his own).
First he had us rehearse our part (bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow) and then went on to read about when critic Frank Rich reviewed an adult movie at the Lee Adult Theater on Grace Street.
Yes, that Frank Rich who went on to become theater critic of the New York Times and, yes, that theater where men self-pleasured under newspapers in their lap during movies designed for that.
At various parts in the story, we were given the signal to sing our part and did so fairly poorly, I'm afraid.
The end of Harry's reading involved a Mercury interview about VCU girls.
"VCU girls have a reputation," said a University of Richmond student. "They'll do anything."
Anything? Or does that just mean UR girls were boring?
Before you let that judge your opinion of the Mercury, though, know that four of the five founders of the alternative went on to win Pulitzer prizes.
Wow, you think you know your city and then, boom, it surprises you again.
Sort of like a moonflower opening.
I was getting dressed to go to a reading when I glanced out my bedroom window and, much to my surprise, saw my first moonflower of the summer beginning to open on my back porch.
If that doesn't sound impressive, then you've never seen a moonflower open.
It's the only flower I know of that opens so quickly you can watch it happen...in about 90 seconds.
My Mom still tells the story of showing my college boyfriend, Curt, a moonflower vine and watching his jaw drop as flower after flower opened in front of his eyes.
He was flabbergasted, never having heard of flowers that open so quickly.
Every year I grow moonflowers, as much for the novelty of flowers that open at dusk or later as for their entertainment value.
They can be fickle (who among us can't?), but their large, white, deep-throated flowers are stunning twining around a railing or up a trellis.
So when I saw that bud start shaking, I knew that Prudence would have to wait.
As it was, we arrived at Chop Suey in plenty of time for the reading since the event began with an extended mingling period.
I do so love a good reading preceded by time to socialize with a girlfriend while perusing the stacks at Chop Suey.
Dale Brumfield was talking about his new book, "Richmond's Independent Press: A History of the Underground Zine Scene."
And doing so in a most dapper manner wearing a white linen blazer.
He began by stating the obvious, that RVA's alternative papers were born out of disdain for and as a reaction to the dreaded Richmond Times Dispatch and News Leader.
Some things never change.
Those two mainstream papers were not telling the story of the new counterculture movement, demonstrating a clear disdain for the younger generation.
Not a smart choice at a time when youth was on the ascendancy.
But it was when Dale got down to cold, hard facts, that it became clear how key RVA had been in the overall underground press scene.
With a 1960 start, we had the second longest counterculture scene in the U.S., second only to NYC.
And get this, we had the first female editor in a counterculture publication in 1969.
And here I'd thought Richmond women still wearing white gloves in 1969.
Throttle magazine was especially noteworthy.
Among un-financed, free independent papers, they had the fastest circulation growth (from 3,000 to 20,000 copies per month).
I know publishers that would have killed for that kind of growth.
They also won the longevity prize for un-financed, free independent papers, clocking in at eighteen years.
As someone who spent many years working for free, independent papers, I can appreciate how impressive that is.
Dale spoke a bit about Richmond's unique handbill history before bringing readers up to read from his book.
He made it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was read his own words out loud.
Abby read a section about The Sunflower and Tabitha read one about Throttle.
Then Dale called up a man who needed no introduction, giving him none, to read about the Richmond Mercury.
Harry Kollatz, everyone's favorite man-about-town, came up contorting himself and purportedly reading a book called The Best Sex Ever.
The trouble with Harry is he always knows how to get a laugh (including his own).
First he had us rehearse our part (bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow) and then went on to read about when critic Frank Rich reviewed an adult movie at the Lee Adult Theater on Grace Street.
Yes, that Frank Rich who went on to become theater critic of the New York Times and, yes, that theater where men self-pleasured under newspapers in their lap during movies designed for that.
At various parts in the story, we were given the signal to sing our part and did so fairly poorly, I'm afraid.
The end of Harry's reading involved a Mercury interview about VCU girls.
"VCU girls have a reputation," said a University of Richmond student. "They'll do anything."
Anything? Or does that just mean UR girls were boring?
Before you let that judge your opinion of the Mercury, though, know that four of the five founders of the alternative went on to win Pulitzer prizes.
Wow, you think you know your city and then, boom, it surprises you again.
Sort of like a moonflower opening.
Bonjour, Riviera
Here I'm trying to get my French Riviera on and I run smack dab into fan appreciation day.
Drat the luck.
Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.
"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."
No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.
Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.
"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.
Nope, sure won't.
Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"
Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."
Good god, it was 10:40.
I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.
Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.
After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.
"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"
I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.
So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.
You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.
Leave it to Otto Preminger.
David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.
It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.
If only I still had those options for my evenings out.
The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.
It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.
With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.
All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.
Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."
What a waste.
Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.
Drat the luck.
Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.
"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."
No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.
Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.
"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.
Nope, sure won't.
Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"
Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."
Good god, it was 10:40.
I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.
Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.
After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.
"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"
I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.
So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.
You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.
Leave it to Otto Preminger.
David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.
It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.
If only I still had those options for my evenings out.
The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.
It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.
With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.
All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.
Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."
What a waste.
Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.
Hi, Life!
Cold fried chicken, that was it.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Pigskin Proud
I did it for the family legacy.
Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.
Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.
Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."
Click.
So technically, I was off the hook.
But then there was that pesky family history.
Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.
So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.
Want proof?
Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.
With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.
So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.
It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.
You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.
Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.
All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.
As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.
"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.
So I did.
Holy rabid football fans, Batman!
I was a tad overwhelmed atthe stench the number of sweaty bodies in polyester jerseys the sheer number of people roasting in the sun, either watching the field or shopping at one of the many kiosks.
I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.
Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.
But I am nothing if not my father's daughter, so I found a place along the sidelines and watched the players scrimmage under a sunny blue sky.
I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.
Now, that's playing fair.
But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.
Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.
Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.
Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.
Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."
Click.
So technically, I was off the hook.
But then there was that pesky family history.
Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.
So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.
Want proof?
Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.
With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.
So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.
It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.
You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.
Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.
All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.
As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.
"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.
So I did.
Holy rabid football fans, Batman!
I was a tad overwhelmed at
I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.
Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.
I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.
Now, that's playing fair.
But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.
Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.
Over the Rainbow
Sometimes size does matter.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar
If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Sunset on Belle Isle
A regular reader recently told a mutual friend that she's disappointed when she reads one of my posts and finds me "happy and giddy."
Apparently she finds no poignancy in my ramblings when my life is firing on all cylinders.
This brings up a good point.
My blog is a daily writing exercise for me and the fact that anyone at all chooses to read it is a bonus.
That people follow my blog, much less 108 of them, was completely unexpected.
Now I'm wondering if, like her, they were only reading to hear me long for what I wanted.
From where I sat, I'd always thought my blog demonstrated my enthusiasm for whatever life I was leading at any given moment.
When I began this blog back in early 2009, I admit my life was at a low point, with recent losses in job, health and love.
But over the past four and a half years, my life has moved on in many interesting ways and that's what I try to share.
I'm a firm believer in the journey, not the destination, being the purpose and finding satisfaction in whatever life presents me.
I hope there are still readers who find me chronicling my pleasure in the parts of my journey I choose to share worth reading.
And if not, I know there must be plenty of less happy and giddy blogs out there.
I hate to disappoint, but I am who I am.
Poignantly, this post replaces what would have been a happy, giddy post for last night.
Apparently she finds no poignancy in my ramblings when my life is firing on all cylinders.
This brings up a good point.
My blog is a daily writing exercise for me and the fact that anyone at all chooses to read it is a bonus.
That people follow my blog, much less 108 of them, was completely unexpected.
Now I'm wondering if, like her, they were only reading to hear me long for what I wanted.
From where I sat, I'd always thought my blog demonstrated my enthusiasm for whatever life I was leading at any given moment.
When I began this blog back in early 2009, I admit my life was at a low point, with recent losses in job, health and love.
But over the past four and a half years, my life has moved on in many interesting ways and that's what I try to share.
I'm a firm believer in the journey, not the destination, being the purpose and finding satisfaction in whatever life presents me.
I hope there are still readers who find me chronicling my pleasure in the parts of my journey I choose to share worth reading.
And if not, I know there must be plenty of less happy and giddy blogs out there.
I hate to disappoint, but I am who I am.
Poignantly, this post replaces what would have been a happy, giddy post for last night.
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Case of the Missing Red Sauce
In what may be a first, my evening began in a park.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Double Dutch DInner
Once isn't always enough.
Tonight that meant two dinner dates, with the first at Toast.
I'd reviewed Toast last Fall, but it's located way out of my limited world, so I hadn't been back since my four visits back then.
But when one of my couple date suggested dinner there, I happily agreed, even offering to drive.
As we headed westward ho, it became clear from the darkening sky that we were just going to beat the rainstorm.
Walking in with my umbrella clutched in hand, the hostess complimented my wisdom, noting that I was the first to come in prepared.
Well, I was a girl scout.
Within minutes, the skies opened up and a deluge began to fall outside.
I'd offered my extra umbrella to one of my companions, but she'd turned it down, commenting, "I don't melt in a little rain."
Honey, this was a lot of rain and I may not melt, but I can do without wet hair at the beginning of an evening out.
Over peach sangria and happy hour beer, we slowly narrowed our food selections.
Since I had a second dinner date, I kept my choice light with the grilled avocado and cheesy corn chip salad with cucumber, sprouts, sunflower kernels, tomatoes, and pico de gallo in a lemon/smoked honey vinaigrette.
Our food took forever to come out and I wondered if perhaps it had been sitting a while since the cheese on my four corn chips was cold and hard, meaning a long way from freshly melted.
Luckily, the rest of it was fresh and quite delicious, so I overlooked the sub-par chippage.
As we ate, we watched people rush in from the monsoon, eager to escape the outside for drinks and eats.
Meanwhile, we moved on to Toast's signature doughnuts with honey mascarpone, the only dessert I know of that arrives being shaken in a paper bag.
I'm here to tell you that the smell of freshly fried doughnuts shaken in cinnamon sugar is enough to make a person forget she has further dinner plans.
If I'm going to leave my personal orbit and venture as far as Three Chopt and Patterson, these doughnuts are as worthy a reason as I know of.
By the time we left Toast, the rain had stopped and a rainbow was arching over Patterson Avenue as we drove back to the city and all I hold dear.
Dinner #1 done.
Stop #2 was at the home of my friend, Holmes, and the occasion was a visit by a mutual friend.
Our little quartet has an affinity for bubbles and LaMarca Prosecco, the favorite of Holmes' beloved, had ben earmarked as the beverage of the evening.
By the time I arrived, the three of them were already starting the second bottle so I had to hit the ground running.
First order of business was choosing wine tags for our glasses.
Holmes had already claimed "immature," his beloved went with "earthy," the guest chose "rich" and I opted for "supple."
Sometimes we label ourselves as we are and other times as we wish we were.
In any case, it didn't stop people from drinking from the wrong glass on occasion, but what's shared cooties among friends?
My work was cut out for me when I noticed that there was no music playing because I don't see how people can have a dinner party without it.
Holmes allowed me to choose the music (probably since he knew I had to pick from his collection so how bad could it be?) and I began with the Finn Brothers' 2004 album, "Everyone is Here."
One of my favorites on that record is "Anything Can Happen," which seemed like an apt metaphor for tonight's gathering.
I could never give it up
I could never relent
And I can't wait to see
What will happen to me next
Music blasting from the dining room, we prepared to commence the business of making dinner.
This involved grilling shrimp in Holmes' secret sauce whilst preparing chicken and steak to be grilled afterwards.
Despite keeping the meal simple with jasmine rice and sliced Hanover tomatoes sprinkled with Old Bay, it wasn't long before the kitchen and deck resembled a Keystone Cops caper, with people coming and going, taking things that others were looking for and constantly losing what mattered.
But as long as the LaMarca kept flowing, no one seemed to mind.
It seemed to me that such chaos required '80s music, so my next album choice was "Natural History: The Very Best of Talk Talk," a record I never expected to find in Holmes' collection.
Au contraire, he informed me; he had four Talk Talk albums.
Man, you think you know a person.
Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I were sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose
By the time we finally sat down to eat, it was on Holmes' new Japanese placemats, purchased yesterday at an estate sale and leading to a discussion of the pleasures of said sales.
Sometimes it's not about the stuff for sale (an $18,000 cabinet?) but about being inside a house you'd never otherwise get to see.
With three women and only Holmes to represent the simpler sex, I'm afraid the conversation took a decidedly feminine turn, settling on the intricacies of relationships.
Is living together necessarily the goal of a relationship? How long is too long to wait for commitment? How important is the concept of the "right person"?
Hell if we knew.
Once the conversation devolved into our misspent youths, we decided it was dessert time.
Fortunately, bubbly goes extremely well with chocolate eclairs and chocolate mousse cake.
We gorged on sweets while listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Deja Vu," a true time warp, but well-suited to Holmes' taste.
Groovy vibes permeated the room, or perhaps that was the Prosecco.
Everybody, I love you
Everybody, I do
Though your heart is in anger
I need your love to get through
Nothing like a Sunday night with everybody.
Our visiting friend told me she had never seen me looking happier or more vivacious.
I'm just happy to wait and see what will happen next.
Tonight that meant two dinner dates, with the first at Toast.
I'd reviewed Toast last Fall, but it's located way out of my limited world, so I hadn't been back since my four visits back then.
But when one of my couple date suggested dinner there, I happily agreed, even offering to drive.
As we headed westward ho, it became clear from the darkening sky that we were just going to beat the rainstorm.
Walking in with my umbrella clutched in hand, the hostess complimented my wisdom, noting that I was the first to come in prepared.
Well, I was a girl scout.
Within minutes, the skies opened up and a deluge began to fall outside.
I'd offered my extra umbrella to one of my companions, but she'd turned it down, commenting, "I don't melt in a little rain."
Honey, this was a lot of rain and I may not melt, but I can do without wet hair at the beginning of an evening out.
Over peach sangria and happy hour beer, we slowly narrowed our food selections.
Since I had a second dinner date, I kept my choice light with the grilled avocado and cheesy corn chip salad with cucumber, sprouts, sunflower kernels, tomatoes, and pico de gallo in a lemon/smoked honey vinaigrette.
Our food took forever to come out and I wondered if perhaps it had been sitting a while since the cheese on my four corn chips was cold and hard, meaning a long way from freshly melted.
Luckily, the rest of it was fresh and quite delicious, so I overlooked the sub-par chippage.
As we ate, we watched people rush in from the monsoon, eager to escape the outside for drinks and eats.
Meanwhile, we moved on to Toast's signature doughnuts with honey mascarpone, the only dessert I know of that arrives being shaken in a paper bag.
I'm here to tell you that the smell of freshly fried doughnuts shaken in cinnamon sugar is enough to make a person forget she has further dinner plans.
If I'm going to leave my personal orbit and venture as far as Three Chopt and Patterson, these doughnuts are as worthy a reason as I know of.
By the time we left Toast, the rain had stopped and a rainbow was arching over Patterson Avenue as we drove back to the city and all I hold dear.
Dinner #1 done.
Stop #2 was at the home of my friend, Holmes, and the occasion was a visit by a mutual friend.
Our little quartet has an affinity for bubbles and LaMarca Prosecco, the favorite of Holmes' beloved, had ben earmarked as the beverage of the evening.
By the time I arrived, the three of them were already starting the second bottle so I had to hit the ground running.
First order of business was choosing wine tags for our glasses.
Holmes had already claimed "immature," his beloved went with "earthy," the guest chose "rich" and I opted for "supple."
Sometimes we label ourselves as we are and other times as we wish we were.
In any case, it didn't stop people from drinking from the wrong glass on occasion, but what's shared cooties among friends?
My work was cut out for me when I noticed that there was no music playing because I don't see how people can have a dinner party without it.
Holmes allowed me to choose the music (probably since he knew I had to pick from his collection so how bad could it be?) and I began with the Finn Brothers' 2004 album, "Everyone is Here."
One of my favorites on that record is "Anything Can Happen," which seemed like an apt metaphor for tonight's gathering.
I could never give it up
I could never relent
And I can't wait to see
What will happen to me next
Music blasting from the dining room, we prepared to commence the business of making dinner.
This involved grilling shrimp in Holmes' secret sauce whilst preparing chicken and steak to be grilled afterwards.
Despite keeping the meal simple with jasmine rice and sliced Hanover tomatoes sprinkled with Old Bay, it wasn't long before the kitchen and deck resembled a Keystone Cops caper, with people coming and going, taking things that others were looking for and constantly losing what mattered.
But as long as the LaMarca kept flowing, no one seemed to mind.
It seemed to me that such chaos required '80s music, so my next album choice was "Natural History: The Very Best of Talk Talk," a record I never expected to find in Holmes' collection.
Au contraire, he informed me; he had four Talk Talk albums.
Man, you think you know a person.
Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I were sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose
By the time we finally sat down to eat, it was on Holmes' new Japanese placemats, purchased yesterday at an estate sale and leading to a discussion of the pleasures of said sales.
Sometimes it's not about the stuff for sale (an $18,000 cabinet?) but about being inside a house you'd never otherwise get to see.
With three women and only Holmes to represent the simpler sex, I'm afraid the conversation took a decidedly feminine turn, settling on the intricacies of relationships.
Is living together necessarily the goal of a relationship? How long is too long to wait for commitment? How important is the concept of the "right person"?
Hell if we knew.
Once the conversation devolved into our misspent youths, we decided it was dessert time.
Fortunately, bubbly goes extremely well with chocolate eclairs and chocolate mousse cake.
We gorged on sweets while listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's "Deja Vu," a true time warp, but well-suited to Holmes' taste.
Groovy vibes permeated the room, or perhaps that was the Prosecco.
Everybody, I love you
Everybody, I do
Though your heart is in anger
I need your love to get through
Nothing like a Sunday night with everybody.
Our visiting friend told me she had never seen me looking happier or more vivacious.
I'm just happy to wait and see what will happen next.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
15 Minutes of Fame
I'm feeling really lucky about all the art history-themed theater in town lately.
First there was "Red" about Mark Rothko and now there's "Pop" about Andy Warhol, being produced only for the fourth time, playing at Firehouse.
My only disappointment with the performance was not taking a front-row seat when it was offered because the play began with Warhol taking a Polaroid of the woman sitting in front of me, in the seat I turned down.
Curses!
Once I got over my error in judgement, I was dazzled by the circa 1968 costumes of Edie Sedgwick and Viva, two of Warhol's hangers-on and film subjects.
Much as I loved Viva's glammy, bell-bottomed jumpsuit, if it were 1968, I'd have to go with Edie's leopard mini to better show off the legs.
The play was narrated by the lovely (and formerly male) Candy Darling, star of many Warhol films, who won audience hearts with lines like, "It was a dark and stormy night and we were all at Andy's factory. It was the place to be when we had no one better to do."
Andy kept Viva around because of her intelligence, a fact she came to resent. "When you talk smart during all the sex, it's not dirty, it's art."
And there you have the basis of any Warhol film.
One of the most hysterical scenes, at least to this art history geek, was when a trio of abstract expressionists, Pollak, Kline and Motherwell, showed up as suspects in the shooting.
Warhol brilliantly puts them in their place, infuriating them by saying, "I'm such a fan of your work. It looks so easy and fun!"
I don't know if non-artsy types see how hilarious that is, but I laughed long and hard.
During intermission, the bar was serving mimosas ('cause it's Sunday!) and the play's signature drink, the Factory Fizz, which director Jase Smith had promised us before the show would make the second act even more fun.
Even sans drink, I had lots of fun during the second act, especially when Mrs. Warhol sang a eulogy for her "dead" son while he watched unhappily from the casket.
The showstopper was "Big Gun" about Valerie Solanas' anger at Warhol for losing her script of "Up Your Ass," the play she'd been hoping he would produce for her.
With Viva and Edie in opera-length white gloves singing back-up, Audra Honaker as Valerie nailed it as the angry feminist who'd written the SCUM Manifesto (Society for Cutting Up Men) and had a slight problem with all men.
Audra was the standout (even her dancing impressed), but the entire cast was strong, with Warhol's assistants (also playing hapless NYPD cops), Gerard and Ondine, especially strong on physical comedy, drug humor and dancing over people and couches.
And how can you not love a musical with a song called, "Untitled Brawl No. 1"?
Today's matinee was a pay-what-you-will performance and after a highly entertaining afternoon of art history with terrific singing and dancing, I'm not sure I paid nearly enough.
But then, I'm not sure I can afford to pay what it was worth.
First there was "Red" about Mark Rothko and now there's "Pop" about Andy Warhol, being produced only for the fourth time, playing at Firehouse.
My only disappointment with the performance was not taking a front-row seat when it was offered because the play began with Warhol taking a Polaroid of the woman sitting in front of me, in the seat I turned down.
Curses!
Once I got over my error in judgement, I was dazzled by the circa 1968 costumes of Edie Sedgwick and Viva, two of Warhol's hangers-on and film subjects.
Much as I loved Viva's glammy, bell-bottomed jumpsuit, if it were 1968, I'd have to go with Edie's leopard mini to better show off the legs.
The play was narrated by the lovely (and formerly male) Candy Darling, star of many Warhol films, who won audience hearts with lines like, "It was a dark and stormy night and we were all at Andy's factory. It was the place to be when we had no one better to do."
Andy kept Viva around because of her intelligence, a fact she came to resent. "When you talk smart during all the sex, it's not dirty, it's art."
And there you have the basis of any Warhol film.
One of the most hysterical scenes, at least to this art history geek, was when a trio of abstract expressionists, Pollak, Kline and Motherwell, showed up as suspects in the shooting.
Warhol brilliantly puts them in their place, infuriating them by saying, "I'm such a fan of your work. It looks so easy and fun!"
I don't know if non-artsy types see how hilarious that is, but I laughed long and hard.
During intermission, the bar was serving mimosas ('cause it's Sunday!) and the play's signature drink, the Factory Fizz, which director Jase Smith had promised us before the show would make the second act even more fun.
Even sans drink, I had lots of fun during the second act, especially when Mrs. Warhol sang a eulogy for her "dead" son while he watched unhappily from the casket.
The showstopper was "Big Gun" about Valerie Solanas' anger at Warhol for losing her script of "Up Your Ass," the play she'd been hoping he would produce for her.
With Viva and Edie in opera-length white gloves singing back-up, Audra Honaker as Valerie nailed it as the angry feminist who'd written the SCUM Manifesto (Society for Cutting Up Men) and had a slight problem with all men.
Audra was the standout (even her dancing impressed), but the entire cast was strong, with Warhol's assistants (also playing hapless NYPD cops), Gerard and Ondine, especially strong on physical comedy, drug humor and dancing over people and couches.
And how can you not love a musical with a song called, "Untitled Brawl No. 1"?
Today's matinee was a pay-what-you-will performance and after a highly entertaining afternoon of art history with terrific singing and dancing, I'm not sure I paid nearly enough.
But then, I'm not sure I can afford to pay what it was worth.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Sublime and Surreal
Saturday is the new Monday.
Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.
For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.
I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.
Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.
Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.
On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.
Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.
Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.
Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.
Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.
From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.
The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.
Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.
"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."
She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.
I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.
For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.
Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.
Obscene. Sex on a plate.
Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.
The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.
"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."
All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.
The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.
After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.
She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.
Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.
"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."
Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.
She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.
Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.
Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?
By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.
It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.
Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."
The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.
We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.
Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.
It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.
At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.
"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.
A scene with two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.
Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.
One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.
There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.
When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.
One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.
"I'm afraid of dying alone."
"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."
"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."
Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.
Others were universal.
What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.
It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.
Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.
That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.
Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.
For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.
I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.
Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.
Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.
On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.
Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.
Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.
Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.
Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.
From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.
The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.
Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.
"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."
She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.
I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.
For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.
Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.
Obscene. Sex on a plate.
Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.
The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.
"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."
All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.
The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.
After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.
She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.
Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.
"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."
Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.
She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.
Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.
Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?
By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.
It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.
Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."
The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.
We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.
Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.
It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.
At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.
"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.
A scene with two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.
Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.
One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.
There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.
When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.
One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.
"I'm afraid of dying alone."
"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."
"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."
Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.
Others were universal.
What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.
It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.
Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.
That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.
Restaurant Monsters, Inc.
It's best to get the high-brow out of the way so the evening can end with the more, ahem, common pleasures.
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
I had plans late and later, but it was neither late nor later yet.
My default when faced with unexpected free time is usually the same: VMFA.
Walking in to the museum,I immediately headed up the stairs, past two young women on their way out.
On the bright side, they were leaving by the Boulevard entrance, my favorite.
On the downside, one of them gestured down towards Evans Court and said to her friend, "Down there is African art,which I avoid at all costs."
I refrained from saying something, but just barely.
My goal was the changing gallery just before the Near gallery to see Goya's "Los Caprichos." a print series from 1799 with the artist pulling from his vivid imagination rather than reality.
Let's just say that the prints represented a high point in the history of satire.
"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" was hardly reassuring with bats circling above the head of a reasonable sleeper.
"Can't Anyone Untie Us?" showed a couple tied together and to a tree, with a huge bird on top, one talon embedded in the hapless woman's head.
Commentary on marriage or coincidence?
"Bravo!" showed a monkey playing a guitar (lute?) with a rapt ass looking on and bystanders making fun of them both.
Each print made fun of some group or convention in the slyest of manners.
Hard as it was to leave a print of a creature passing gas, I made my way toward the American gallery, where a man stood watching my approach, smiling broadly.
When I got close, he said, "I'm thinking we're the last of the tour," and went to lead me into a back gallery.
Except, I told him, I wasn't on the tour.
But I trailed nearby, listening to the docent talk about Beauford Delaney, a friend of Duke Ellington and Georgia O'Keefe's, and the painter of the stunning and very yellow portrait of Marian Anderson painted in 1965.
Wandering into an adjacent gallery, I ran into an artist/musician friend whom I'd seen playing at Balliceaux just last week.
Tonight, he was in his artist's guise, notebook in hand, strolling the American gallery and saying it had been too long since he'd been to the museum.
Since the VMFA's renovation, I can honestly say I've never had cause to admit that.
Dinner followed at an undisclosed new restaurant, where we spent the better part of the meal discussing whether or not a sense of romance comes standard in most human beings or whether it's a thing that is developed over time and life experience.
After dinner we drove downtown to the city dock to look at the place where the man had driven his car into the river earlier in the week and died.
Since he's now suspected of having stabbed a woman half an hour before propelling himself into the river, we felt no guilt about being gawkers at his death site.
Then it was on to an anniversary party for the Roosevelt, an atypical gathering on a Friday night of a bunch of local chefs and assorted staff.
As I was talking to a couple of chefs and a sausage-maker (and, no, that's not a metaphor), someone mentioned people who don't like oysters.
"If you don't like oysters, you don't like sex," one proclaimed definitively.
I had more than a dozen oysters yesterday, so I think my position on that matter is clear.
There were two cakes, a Coke (or was it penis?)-shaped one for the Roosevelt and another more traditional sheet cake for Magpie, both for their second anniversary.
The party began technically after dinner hours, but a few diners remained, only to be all but trampled as celebrants arrived.
The music was a magnificent pastiche - Ricky Nelson, Looking Glass - when you could hear it, which, as the evening progressed, got difficult.
So many restaurant people, so many drinks, so much volume.
And you know what restaurant people talk about at a party?
Kitchen costs. Opening new restaurants. Brunch menus. Slow summer business.
But they're also hilarious, clearly thrilled to be out with their kind on a Friday night, drinking, hugging and trash-talking with abandon.
Truth be told, the later it got, the more ass-grabbing and ball-punching went on, all in good fun, of course.
Still, ouch.
Because apparently, this is what grown men do on a rare Friday night when they're finally away from the kitchens where they spend the better part of their lives.
And all to celebrate success in a food-crazy town where new restaurants never cease opening.
In many ways, it's optimism of the highest order.
Not for these guys the sleep of reason.
And aren't we lucky for that?
Friday, July 26, 2013
Tuning In
As history lessons go, it's hard to beat one in music history.
The Virginia Historical society's new exhibit, "Revolutions: Songs of Social Change 1860-65 and 1960-65" sounded right up my alley.
It turned out to be stellar.
With a focus on the Civil War and Civil Rights eras, the show explained how strong the relationship was between the music of the two periods.
Let's just say I have a whole new list of things I did not know before.
Like how the Byrds took a traditional folk song called "He Was a Friend of Mine" as the basis of "Turn! Turn! Turn!" which they wrote to lament JFK's assassination.
I had not know it had anything to do with that tragedy.
Or how there was a Civil War-era group called the Christy Minstrels.
Sure, I'd heard of the New Christy Mintrels of the '60s, but it hadn't occurred to me there were old ones first.
Duh.
How Dylan used a Civil War-era song called "No More Auction Block" as the melody for his seminal song, "Blowin' in the Wind."
There were audio versions of him singing both so the proof was right there.
Or how Odetta was considered the "queen of American folk music."
While I was making my way around the gallery, looking at song lyrics, vintage photographs and album covers, two groups came in.
One was an older man and woman and he was bringing her to see a large photograph of the Hampton choir.
"Oh, my alma mater!" she squealed in delight, wondering to him how she might get a copy of the picture, which she couldn't take her eyes off of.
The other group was a Dad and two boys, maybe early teens.
As they walked by a large picture of President and Mrs. Kennedy in the Dallas motorcade taken moments before shots rang out, the kid had no idea who the woman pictured was.
"That's Jackie Kennedy," Dad clarified patiently. "She was the First Lady."
Ohhhhh.
When the boys got around to the picture of Peter, Paul and Mary, there was a frame with a 45 of their hit, "Cruel War" on the wall under it.
The kid clearly didn't see the glass on the frame, reaching in to grab the record and almost knocking the frame off the wall.
They completely bypassed Pete Seeger's banjo head, the one he played on for 40 years.
Hoping to suck them in, I hovered looking at an old banjo, dated 1840-60, made by William Boucher in Baltimore.
It's apparently one of only 40 Boucher banjos known to still exist and it was a beautifully crafted instrument.
Eventually my prolonged interest had the desired effect and they joined me to look at it.
Finally one conceded to the other, "It's kinda cool," before scampering off to the next gallery.
Maybe there is hope for the future, after all.
Music history will always be cool, kid, because you get to listen to music to learn.
Trust me on this.
The Virginia Historical society's new exhibit, "Revolutions: Songs of Social Change 1860-65 and 1960-65" sounded right up my alley.
It turned out to be stellar.
With a focus on the Civil War and Civil Rights eras, the show explained how strong the relationship was between the music of the two periods.
Let's just say I have a whole new list of things I did not know before.
Like how the Byrds took a traditional folk song called "He Was a Friend of Mine" as the basis of "Turn! Turn! Turn!" which they wrote to lament JFK's assassination.
I had not know it had anything to do with that tragedy.
Or how there was a Civil War-era group called the Christy Minstrels.
Sure, I'd heard of the New Christy Mintrels of the '60s, but it hadn't occurred to me there were old ones first.
Duh.
How Dylan used a Civil War-era song called "No More Auction Block" as the melody for his seminal song, "Blowin' in the Wind."
There were audio versions of him singing both so the proof was right there.
Or how Odetta was considered the "queen of American folk music."
While I was making my way around the gallery, looking at song lyrics, vintage photographs and album covers, two groups came in.
One was an older man and woman and he was bringing her to see a large photograph of the Hampton choir.
"Oh, my alma mater!" she squealed in delight, wondering to him how she might get a copy of the picture, which she couldn't take her eyes off of.
The other group was a Dad and two boys, maybe early teens.
As they walked by a large picture of President and Mrs. Kennedy in the Dallas motorcade taken moments before shots rang out, the kid had no idea who the woman pictured was.
"That's Jackie Kennedy," Dad clarified patiently. "She was the First Lady."
Ohhhhh.
When the boys got around to the picture of Peter, Paul and Mary, there was a frame with a 45 of their hit, "Cruel War" on the wall under it.
The kid clearly didn't see the glass on the frame, reaching in to grab the record and almost knocking the frame off the wall.
They completely bypassed Pete Seeger's banjo head, the one he played on for 40 years.
Hoping to suck them in, I hovered looking at an old banjo, dated 1840-60, made by William Boucher in Baltimore.
It's apparently one of only 40 Boucher banjos known to still exist and it was a beautifully crafted instrument.
Eventually my prolonged interest had the desired effect and they joined me to look at it.
Finally one conceded to the other, "It's kinda cool," before scampering off to the next gallery.
Maybe there is hope for the future, after all.
Music history will always be cool, kid, because you get to listen to music to learn.
Trust me on this.
Cloud Song for Bivalves
Today had to be the most exquisite weather Richmond has ever presented us with on July 25th.
So naturally my first thought was to go someplace else.
With a willing companion, we headed east to Merroir and a leisurely meal by the riverside.
Yesterday, Merroir had posted a picture of the view with an impressive looking water spout straight out from the dock.
We didn't require a water spout, just sustenance, libations and a scenic place for sustained conversation.
My first stop on arriving was necessarily the ladies' room and as I made my way there, a large party began greeting me, calling "hello" and "glad you're here" as if they knew me.
When I inquired if they were the welcome committee, they answered in the affirmative.
Turns out they were actually celebrating a birthday and doing so with lots of alcohol, making for a noisy, garrulous group for several hours to come.
Not that it mattered to us because we knew we were going to outlast them.
I have a long-standing record of closing down places even when I don't have good company, so I felt pretty sure they'd cave long before we did.
An unexpectedly beautiful Thursday afternoon at the river surely merits bubbles, so we began with Gruet Brut under a sky packed with clouds and promising spots of blue.
Our server, Ford (short for [and much cooler-sounding than] Clifford, a family name), was ever-present, checking in frequently to see if we were ready to order.
With a view of masts bobbing at the marina, the tempestuous-looking sky and a continuing stream of new arrivals, it seemed a shame to hurry.
I just don't have any trouble making the shift to river time.
But you can only send a nice boy away so many times before agreeing to order oysters to give him something to do.
We tucked into buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and killer Old Salts, while discussing the difficulty (at least for me) of ordering only one type rather than a variety of all three.
I say why limit yourself when you can savor the fruits of three different parts of the river?
Others might say I'm just greedy.
The party table continued their greeting of every new arrival, pretty much drowning out the very '90s music emanating from the porch, not necessarily a bad thing when a decades-old Counting Crows or Third Eye Blind song is playing.
With bubbly and oysters behind us, we moved on to the next course.
Young Ford looked relieved.
Pan-seared scallops with crab slaw, Prospect Farms beef sliders with roasted garlic and herb aioli and the signature crabcake accompanied a bottle of Cave de Pomerols, Picpoul de Pinet, a lovely, acidic default to go with our seafood.
And may I just say what a good idea putting crab into slaw is?
Of course, with my Maryland roots, I probably wouldn't object to putting crab in much of anything savory.
One of the evening's specials was a flat bread "pizza" of butter-poached oysters, bacon, spinach and Parmesan on flat bread, which we'd both seen on Facebook earlier and discussed on the drive down.
But with our lackadaisical ways, by the time we got around to asking for it, we barely made it in time.
Ford put our order in, returning with a grin to inform us we'd gotten the last one.
Well, that was close.
Munching on the coveted final special, we discussed our next move.
Since my last visit to Merroir in late April, they'd greatly enhanced their little piece of riverside heaven.
Besides fancier picnic tables and more metal table and chair sets, there's now a landscaped area down by the dock.
Merroir, we hardly know ye.
Crushed oyster shells defined paths for Adirondack chairs and other seating so that the dock was no longer the only option for sitting.
Not that there's anything wrong with dock-sitting.
We'd already seen the birthday boy from the loud table head down there with a bottle of wine, so why not us?
After informing Ford of our intentions, he informed us that he'd have to be the one to carry our wine to the dock for us.
You just never know when the Virginia ABC will rear its useless head.
Pulling two big chairs side by side, we settled in to enjoy more Languedoc loveliness mere feet from the rippling water.
Uranus was the first arrival in the night sky but we sat there long enough to watch others join it overhead.
Call me old school (or worse), but eventually the big Adirondacks lost their appeal and we moved down to the end of the dock to hang our feet off the edge and admire the fuzzy lights across the river.
Being severely directionally-challenged, I had no idea from where they emanated and even my navigationally-savvy companion could only hazard a guess.
Irvington? White Stone? Smoldering meteorite?
But when you're sitting on a dock drinking wine and listening to fish jump, who really cares what's on the other side?
And just for the record, we did outlast everyone except the staff, who were politely waiting on the porch railings when we finally made our way back.
Say goodnight, Ford.
So naturally my first thought was to go someplace else.
With a willing companion, we headed east to Merroir and a leisurely meal by the riverside.
Yesterday, Merroir had posted a picture of the view with an impressive looking water spout straight out from the dock.
We didn't require a water spout, just sustenance, libations and a scenic place for sustained conversation.
My first stop on arriving was necessarily the ladies' room and as I made my way there, a large party began greeting me, calling "hello" and "glad you're here" as if they knew me.
When I inquired if they were the welcome committee, they answered in the affirmative.
Turns out they were actually celebrating a birthday and doing so with lots of alcohol, making for a noisy, garrulous group for several hours to come.
Not that it mattered to us because we knew we were going to outlast them.
I have a long-standing record of closing down places even when I don't have good company, so I felt pretty sure they'd cave long before we did.
An unexpectedly beautiful Thursday afternoon at the river surely merits bubbles, so we began with Gruet Brut under a sky packed with clouds and promising spots of blue.
Our server, Ford (short for [and much cooler-sounding than] Clifford, a family name), was ever-present, checking in frequently to see if we were ready to order.
With a view of masts bobbing at the marina, the tempestuous-looking sky and a continuing stream of new arrivals, it seemed a shame to hurry.
I just don't have any trouble making the shift to river time.
But you can only send a nice boy away so many times before agreeing to order oysters to give him something to do.
We tucked into buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and killer Old Salts, while discussing the difficulty (at least for me) of ordering only one type rather than a variety of all three.
I say why limit yourself when you can savor the fruits of three different parts of the river?
Others might say I'm just greedy.
The party table continued their greeting of every new arrival, pretty much drowning out the very '90s music emanating from the porch, not necessarily a bad thing when a decades-old Counting Crows or Third Eye Blind song is playing.
With bubbly and oysters behind us, we moved on to the next course.
Young Ford looked relieved.
Pan-seared scallops with crab slaw, Prospect Farms beef sliders with roasted garlic and herb aioli and the signature crabcake accompanied a bottle of Cave de Pomerols, Picpoul de Pinet, a lovely, acidic default to go with our seafood.
And may I just say what a good idea putting crab into slaw is?
Of course, with my Maryland roots, I probably wouldn't object to putting crab in much of anything savory.
One of the evening's specials was a flat bread "pizza" of butter-poached oysters, bacon, spinach and Parmesan on flat bread, which we'd both seen on Facebook earlier and discussed on the drive down.
But with our lackadaisical ways, by the time we got around to asking for it, we barely made it in time.
Ford put our order in, returning with a grin to inform us we'd gotten the last one.
Well, that was close.
Munching on the coveted final special, we discussed our next move.
Since my last visit to Merroir in late April, they'd greatly enhanced their little piece of riverside heaven.
Besides fancier picnic tables and more metal table and chair sets, there's now a landscaped area down by the dock.
Merroir, we hardly know ye.
Crushed oyster shells defined paths for Adirondack chairs and other seating so that the dock was no longer the only option for sitting.
Not that there's anything wrong with dock-sitting.
We'd already seen the birthday boy from the loud table head down there with a bottle of wine, so why not us?
After informing Ford of our intentions, he informed us that he'd have to be the one to carry our wine to the dock for us.
You just never know when the Virginia ABC will rear its useless head.
Pulling two big chairs side by side, we settled in to enjoy more Languedoc loveliness mere feet from the rippling water.
Uranus was the first arrival in the night sky but we sat there long enough to watch others join it overhead.
Call me old school (or worse), but eventually the big Adirondacks lost their appeal and we moved down to the end of the dock to hang our feet off the edge and admire the fuzzy lights across the river.
Being severely directionally-challenged, I had no idea from where they emanated and even my navigationally-savvy companion could only hazard a guess.
Irvington? White Stone? Smoldering meteorite?
But when you're sitting on a dock drinking wine and listening to fish jump, who really cares what's on the other side?
And just for the record, we did outlast everyone except the staff, who were politely waiting on the porch railings when we finally made our way back.
Say goodnight, Ford.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Pink Amidst Dashing Deliveries
The good news is...I can still drink rose and be a bad ass.
I may not have the bumper sticker, but I'd like to think I can embody the sentiment.
Tonight was the third annual Rose crawl and since I've yet to miss one, I wasn't starting this year.
Instead, I collected Prudence and, like me, she was dressed in the de rigueur pink of rose crawls.
We made our way to C street where we were the first and caught the staff unaware.
They immediately began pouring, a gracious gesture, but an inappropriate one since they'd neither asked what I wanted to drink, nor how much.
I love a staff who's quick to pour, but I also have a budget and a liver to keep in mind.
Once chastised, they gave me the requested half pour of The Seeker Rose, a delicately fruity rose with a label clearly written by a frustrated English major.
This sophisticated wine is ideal with shellfish, salads, and berry-based dishes or enjoyed all on its own amidst dashing deliveries.
I only hope for a day with dashing deliveries, not to mention delightful alliteration.
As the room began to fill with pink-clad strangers and a few familiar faces ("We were just talking about you and saying good things"), we moved on to J Brut Rose (Russian River Valley), a wonderfully smooth and complex glass of bubbles despite its U.S. pedigree.
A tomboy friend came in and we compared pinks; she beat me with glittery pink nails but we tied on the pink underwear.
Pru and I enjoyed discussion with a friend and a newcomer about Glaswegians, weather in Scotland and disdain for the English before packing it in for pinker pastures.
We chose to be part of the first wave leaving for Amour, hoping to establish a beachhead before the masses arrived.
Of course Amour was more than ready for us with pink flowers in vases and a lovely pink menu of wine choices and nibbles.
Tres jolie!
That we did at the end of the bar and promptly ordered two glasses: Costieres de Nimes Chateau Valcombe and Cotes de Provence Chateau Montaud, the better to go with our smoked trout mousse on cucumber wedges.
The Valcombe paired beautifully with the smoked trout and we settled in for in-depth chats with several in-the-know friends.
If we looked like we were having too much fun, we probably were.
The gossip was flying fast and furiously, so much so that we couldn't resist trying another stellar rose, this time the floral Cotes de Provence L'opale de la Presqu'ile de St. Tropez.
When you're a pink lover, it's hard to know where to stop when the choices are this good.
Just for good measure, we ordered a half glass of the delicately peachy Bandol Domaines Bunan Mas de la Rouviere, just because we could.
I mean, why be on a rose crawl and not take advantage of all the beautiful pink wines you can?
Soon the clarion call came for us to gather our forces and make our way to our final stop, Secco.
The place was mobbed when we arrived, but then, as the organizer of the crawl, no doubt some people had cut right to the chase.
We hovered in the back near a small table and I ordered a glass of Brazilier Pineau d'Aunis Rose and Prudence ordered the Grange Tiphaine, so we could experience the Loire Valley after an evening tasting Provence and the Russian River Valley.
To keep our strength up, we asked for protein, namely Asher, a spicy cow cheese labeled as "cream-kissed southern blue," robiola due latte, an Italian cow and sheep cheese that promised to be silky and bloomy and Olli Bresaola, an intensely flavorful dried beef sausage.
Before it arrived, we spotted a free table and quickly took it over, much to the surprise of the occupants at the adjacent table.
We used our proximity to find out about them, assuming they were on a date but finding out instead that they were five years married.
That led to a philosophical discussion of the importance of dating during marriage and how long to wait for child-rearing (they'd stuck their toe in the water with a dog).
By the time they left, she was thanking us for our input.
Always glad to help, especially after a few glasses of rose.
And speaking of the magical pink elixir, The New York Times did a piece on roses last week.
They'd rated the Bandol we'd had at Amour #2 for its density and complexity and the #1 spot had gone to the Commanderie de Peyrassol, a wine with a history for me.
I'd discovered it a couple of years ago and enthusiastically blogged about it, causing one reader to comment.
Hmmm..Peyrassol..summer is here and I just bought a case. Love your blog, Karen.
It was my first wine blog fan, at least as far as I knew.
Sometimes I wonder if that Peyrassol lover still reads me.
And if he knows I'm still a bad ass despite a love of pink. Hope so.
I may not have the bumper sticker, but I'd like to think I can embody the sentiment.
Tonight was the third annual Rose crawl and since I've yet to miss one, I wasn't starting this year.
Instead, I collected Prudence and, like me, she was dressed in the de rigueur pink of rose crawls.
We made our way to C street where we were the first and caught the staff unaware.
They immediately began pouring, a gracious gesture, but an inappropriate one since they'd neither asked what I wanted to drink, nor how much.
I love a staff who's quick to pour, but I also have a budget and a liver to keep in mind.
Once chastised, they gave me the requested half pour of The Seeker Rose, a delicately fruity rose with a label clearly written by a frustrated English major.
This sophisticated wine is ideal with shellfish, salads, and berry-based dishes or enjoyed all on its own amidst dashing deliveries.
I only hope for a day with dashing deliveries, not to mention delightful alliteration.
As the room began to fill with pink-clad strangers and a few familiar faces ("We were just talking about you and saying good things"), we moved on to J Brut Rose (Russian River Valley), a wonderfully smooth and complex glass of bubbles despite its U.S. pedigree.
A tomboy friend came in and we compared pinks; she beat me with glittery pink nails but we tied on the pink underwear.
Pru and I enjoyed discussion with a friend and a newcomer about Glaswegians, weather in Scotland and disdain for the English before packing it in for pinker pastures.
We chose to be part of the first wave leaving for Amour, hoping to establish a beachhead before the masses arrived.
Of course Amour was more than ready for us with pink flowers in vases and a lovely pink menu of wine choices and nibbles.
Tres jolie!
That we did at the end of the bar and promptly ordered two glasses: Costieres de Nimes Chateau Valcombe and Cotes de Provence Chateau Montaud, the better to go with our smoked trout mousse on cucumber wedges.
The Valcombe paired beautifully with the smoked trout and we settled in for in-depth chats with several in-the-know friends.
If we looked like we were having too much fun, we probably were.
The gossip was flying fast and furiously, so much so that we couldn't resist trying another stellar rose, this time the floral Cotes de Provence L'opale de la Presqu'ile de St. Tropez.
When you're a pink lover, it's hard to know where to stop when the choices are this good.
Just for good measure, we ordered a half glass of the delicately peachy Bandol Domaines Bunan Mas de la Rouviere, just because we could.
I mean, why be on a rose crawl and not take advantage of all the beautiful pink wines you can?
Soon the clarion call came for us to gather our forces and make our way to our final stop, Secco.
The place was mobbed when we arrived, but then, as the organizer of the crawl, no doubt some people had cut right to the chase.
We hovered in the back near a small table and I ordered a glass of Brazilier Pineau d'Aunis Rose and Prudence ordered the Grange Tiphaine, so we could experience the Loire Valley after an evening tasting Provence and the Russian River Valley.
To keep our strength up, we asked for protein, namely Asher, a spicy cow cheese labeled as "cream-kissed southern blue," robiola due latte, an Italian cow and sheep cheese that promised to be silky and bloomy and Olli Bresaola, an intensely flavorful dried beef sausage.
Before it arrived, we spotted a free table and quickly took it over, much to the surprise of the occupants at the adjacent table.
We used our proximity to find out about them, assuming they were on a date but finding out instead that they were five years married.
That led to a philosophical discussion of the importance of dating during marriage and how long to wait for child-rearing (they'd stuck their toe in the water with a dog).
By the time they left, she was thanking us for our input.
Always glad to help, especially after a few glasses of rose.
And speaking of the magical pink elixir, The New York Times did a piece on roses last week.
They'd rated the Bandol we'd had at Amour #2 for its density and complexity and the #1 spot had gone to the Commanderie de Peyrassol, a wine with a history for me.
I'd discovered it a couple of years ago and enthusiastically blogged about it, causing one reader to comment.
Hmmm..Peyrassol..summer is here and I just bought a case. Love your blog, Karen.
It was my first wine blog fan, at least as far as I knew.
Sometimes I wonder if that Peyrassol lover still reads me.
And if he knows I'm still a bad ass despite a love of pink. Hope so.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Under a Thunder Moon
Holmes always guarantees a good time.
After getting over being mad because I stood him up (for the best of reasons), we had our post-vacation rendezvous tonight.
He was full of vacation stories - alternate routes, vaporizers while grilling, 68 (count 'em) shrimp, eating at Ocean Boulevard.
We discussed the importance of an enclosed outdoor shower, the challenges of returning to clothing and shoes and why sometimes, the second time is cursed.
We met at his house and motored to Acacia, where they were doing a booming Tuesday night business.
After a patient wait in the "lounge" with a bottle of (half-off) Domaine Michel Thomas "Si'lex" Sancerre, not to mention an over-abundance of Proctor-Silex jokes, we scored seats at the bar.
While music like Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" played, we whittled down our meal choices.
Holmes and beloved were unable to resist the siren song of Chef Dale's soft-shells, but I held fast, starting with salame, heirloom tomato jam, pickled fiddleheads and grainy mustard.
I'm a fool for cured meat and besotted with fiddleheads when I can get them.
The beauty of eating with friends is the opportunity to eat their selections and one of tonight's was white anchovies, grilled marinated radicchio and romaine, fourme' d'ambert, pine nuts and a creamy garlic dressing.
Sublime.
Prosciutto and melon delivered my daily dosage of sweet and salty.
Holmes and girlfriend moved on to crabcakes and soft shells, sharing both the obscenely buttery crabcake and the perfectly fried softshells with me.
Chef Dale is nothing if not a master of seafood.
My local jumbo lump crab with rice noodles, fresh corn and peppers and creamy Vidalia dressing looked like a mound of summer, red and yellow and bursting with crab and corn.
Over discussions of beach meals, the importance of 151 rum and fondling under bars, we entertained our bartender and each other.
Holmes likes nothing better than to give me a hard time.
About everything.
When he made a break for the men's room, his beloved and I did some plotting, opting for the chocolate hazelnut dacquoise with caramelized bananas and brown sugar ice cream to go with our young, vibrant and crisp bottle of Jeio Prosecco.
Holmes took the manly route, enjoying some Ardbeg single malt while giving us a hard time about our weakness for dessert and bubbles.
And the problem with said weakness is...?
Enjoying a scotch whiskey seemed only appropriate since we had earlier met a Scotsman named Scott, a man with a slight burr still audible in every word.
I have to admit susceptibility to such things, because a Scotsman had once tried to use that accent to woo me even while I was falling for someone else.
Yes, I'm a language geek, but brains, wit and kissing ability trump all.
Especially if he instinctively understands the beauty of an outdoor shower.
After getting over being mad because I stood him up (for the best of reasons), we had our post-vacation rendezvous tonight.
He was full of vacation stories - alternate routes, vaporizers while grilling, 68 (count 'em) shrimp, eating at Ocean Boulevard.
We discussed the importance of an enclosed outdoor shower, the challenges of returning to clothing and shoes and why sometimes, the second time is cursed.
We met at his house and motored to Acacia, where they were doing a booming Tuesday night business.
After a patient wait in the "lounge" with a bottle of (half-off) Domaine Michel Thomas "Si'lex" Sancerre, not to mention an over-abundance of Proctor-Silex jokes, we scored seats at the bar.
While music like Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" played, we whittled down our meal choices.
Holmes and beloved were unable to resist the siren song of Chef Dale's soft-shells, but I held fast, starting with salame, heirloom tomato jam, pickled fiddleheads and grainy mustard.
I'm a fool for cured meat and besotted with fiddleheads when I can get them.
The beauty of eating with friends is the opportunity to eat their selections and one of tonight's was white anchovies, grilled marinated radicchio and romaine, fourme' d'ambert, pine nuts and a creamy garlic dressing.
Sublime.
Prosciutto and melon delivered my daily dosage of sweet and salty.
Holmes and girlfriend moved on to crabcakes and soft shells, sharing both the obscenely buttery crabcake and the perfectly fried softshells with me.
Chef Dale is nothing if not a master of seafood.
My local jumbo lump crab with rice noodles, fresh corn and peppers and creamy Vidalia dressing looked like a mound of summer, red and yellow and bursting with crab and corn.
Over discussions of beach meals, the importance of 151 rum and fondling under bars, we entertained our bartender and each other.
Holmes likes nothing better than to give me a hard time.
About everything.
When he made a break for the men's room, his beloved and I did some plotting, opting for the chocolate hazelnut dacquoise with caramelized bananas and brown sugar ice cream to go with our young, vibrant and crisp bottle of Jeio Prosecco.
Holmes took the manly route, enjoying some Ardbeg single malt while giving us a hard time about our weakness for dessert and bubbles.
And the problem with said weakness is...?
Enjoying a scotch whiskey seemed only appropriate since we had earlier met a Scotsman named Scott, a man with a slight burr still audible in every word.
I have to admit susceptibility to such things, because a Scotsman had once tried to use that accent to woo me even while I was falling for someone else.
Yes, I'm a language geek, but brains, wit and kissing ability trump all.
Especially if he instinctively understands the beauty of an outdoor shower.
Wings and Fables
Some places you fit in, some places you don't.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
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