One of my favorite pastimes is the "what if?" question.
Like what if Richmond Triangle Players wasn't the only reason for me to go to Scott's Addition?
So far, it has been but after today's visit to Lunch, I have another just as valid.
Their slogan, "It doesn't matter when you get there, it's always the best meal of the day" certainly sets a high standard.
The tiny little place that used to be Sue's Kitchen is looking a whole lot hipper now.
Maneuvering through a cluster of mostly-filled tables to the counter, I took a seat at the end where takeout orders were coming out rapidly.
A couple of carafes of syrup set nearby, testament to their breakfast service which lasts until 3:00.
A vase of backyard flowers, a bit past their prime, graced the end of the counter near me.
Although sorely tempted by a chalkboard special patty melt, I figure the first thing I needed to know was how well they did a basic lunchtime sandwich.
That led me to the Ike, their house-made albacore tuna salad on thick-sliced multi-grain bread.
It arrived on black and white checked paper and was easily the biggest tuna sandwich I'd ever been served.
With a sweet gherkin and a mound of chips, it proved that Lunch knows lunch.
As I ate, customers came in to place orders or pick them up, so I had a changing array of conversational partners.
My longest chat was with the production director for Richmond Triangle Players, who ordered the Summit as we discussed which plays I'd seen that he'd made sets for.
By the time his to-go box came out, we'd established that since I'll be there next week, we'll be seeing each other again in no time.
Walking out, I felt certain I'll be back for lunch and, given the siren song of Scrapple on the menu, probably next it'll be for breakfast at Lunch.
From there I wound my way down to the site of this weekend's RVA Street Art Festival at the power plant building.
What if RVA found an outlet for the talents of street artists, both local and national?
With the big festival days tomorrow and Sunday, I was curious to see what was happening so far.
Holy creative transformation, Batman!
The site was abuzz with artists, a completed piece, pieces in progress, volunteer artists, media, tourists and more photographers than you could shake a stick at.
One piece, completed last night at 3:30 a.m. by an artist who needed to get back to Washington, showed an enormous dart board with the bottom half of people coming out of it.
That's right, legs and shoes only. It was whimsical and beautifully executed.
Other pieces were works in progress, like the bottom half of what looked like Wonder Woman, a bucolic country scene and a Gibson Girl-like portrait.
Organizer Ed Trask, in his trademark hat, was everywhere, answering questions on camera, talking to the media and looking like he could bust his buttons about this large-scale street art project finally happening in Richmond.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow when almost all of the artists will be on site and available to talk to visitors like me.
What if we found a creative use for abandoned buildings and tapped the talents of people who can make them a destination, not to mention a work of art?
What if Richmond just keeps getting to be a better scene all the way around?
Don't look now, kids, but it's already happening.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
If It Feels Good, Do It
What a long, strange trip it was.
The James River Film Festival kicked off today with the hippie-dippy screening of the documentary "Magic Trip: Ken Kesey's Search for a Kool Place" at the Grace Street Theater.
Appropriately, waiting for the film to start, the music was of the era. "Only the Strong Survive," "Reflections," "Whiter Shade of Pale" and "Wild Thing" got us in the mood to visit the sixties.
The footage that made up the documentary had been shot by Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters back in 1964 when they set out to make a road movie, driving a psychedelic school bus from California to the New York World's Fair.
Their goal was to experience the American landscape and heartscape (I know, very groovy, right?).
With lots of drug taking along the way.
None of the motley crew on the bus knew anything about movie-making, not that it stopped them from trying.
I have to say, it's pretty compelling to watch people tripping on acid, becoming one with the slimy algae in a pond or dancing through meadows with horses.
The filmmakers who were given all this footage by the Kesey family a few years back must have had a hell of a job assembling it into a cohesive format because none of the audio and video synced up.
It was as if all the drug taking affected the cameras' ability to shoot properly.
Driving the bus was seminal Beat member Neal Cassady (the model for Dean Moriarity in Kerouac's "On the Road"), always talking or singing.
"Cassady was like a radio," one girl recalled. "He never shut up. I guess it had a lot to do with the speed he was taking."
You think?
One especially compelling part of the film was the documentation of the early LSD experiments being done by Stanford and in which Kesey was a test participant.
Seeing Mom-looking nurses ask test participants what they were seeing and feeling as they tripped in the small, sterile hospital rooms could have only made the experience more surreal.
Like an acid trip needs more surreality.
Along the way across the country, participants dropped out (one girl because her brain got so scrambled after a bad trip) and people were hooking up left and right ("It was like Soap Opera 101").
Joints were endlessly passed back and forth on the bus and instruments were pulled out at every opportunity, whether people could play them or not.
Once they made it to NYC and to the futuristic fair, one Prankster noted, "The fair was trippy and great...if you were high."
Trippy or not, the consensus on the bus was that the trip had become more important than the destination.
Actually, that theory is the basis of an entire generation's model for how to live life.
Some of us still subscribe to it.
After the fair, they went to visit LSD guru Timothy Leary at his If If spread in upstate New York where, "West coast acid-heads met East coast acid-heads."
Turns out the two groups were incompatible. To each coast its own acid head type apparently.
The bus trip became a metaphor the the change that was happening in 1964 as the country lost innocence and began moving away from the Eisenhower country of the fifties.
An old commercial for LBJ for President began with a wide-eyed, freckled-face little girl and morphed into a bomb going off.
Under that unpleasant segue, the candidate was heard saying "We must all love each other or we all will die. The stakes are too high."
I feel certain no political candidate will ever again exhort the U.S. people to love each other.
Not surprisingly, the Grateful Dead and their music had great appeal to the band of acid heads.
An impossibly young Jerry Garcia was filmed saying, "The Pranksters were the first to get off on our music."
The whole film was like that, full of cultural touchstones of another era.
When Kesey is later arrested for possession of marijuana and serves jail time, he is asked by a reporter on his release, "Do you see yourself becoming square now, like one of us?"
"God, I hope not," he answers to the amazement of the press present.
Clearly you can take the marijuana away from the acid head, but you can't take the desire to experience something different away from a child of the sixties.
Thanks, James River Film Fest; the film was trippy and great...even if you weren't high.
Now can we all just love each other?
The James River Film Festival kicked off today with the hippie-dippy screening of the documentary "Magic Trip: Ken Kesey's Search for a Kool Place" at the Grace Street Theater.
Appropriately, waiting for the film to start, the music was of the era. "Only the Strong Survive," "Reflections," "Whiter Shade of Pale" and "Wild Thing" got us in the mood to visit the sixties.
The footage that made up the documentary had been shot by Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters back in 1964 when they set out to make a road movie, driving a psychedelic school bus from California to the New York World's Fair.
Their goal was to experience the American landscape and heartscape (I know, very groovy, right?).
With lots of drug taking along the way.
None of the motley crew on the bus knew anything about movie-making, not that it stopped them from trying.
I have to say, it's pretty compelling to watch people tripping on acid, becoming one with the slimy algae in a pond or dancing through meadows with horses.
The filmmakers who were given all this footage by the Kesey family a few years back must have had a hell of a job assembling it into a cohesive format because none of the audio and video synced up.
It was as if all the drug taking affected the cameras' ability to shoot properly.
Driving the bus was seminal Beat member Neal Cassady (the model for Dean Moriarity in Kerouac's "On the Road"), always talking or singing.
"Cassady was like a radio," one girl recalled. "He never shut up. I guess it had a lot to do with the speed he was taking."
You think?
One especially compelling part of the film was the documentation of the early LSD experiments being done by Stanford and in which Kesey was a test participant.
Seeing Mom-looking nurses ask test participants what they were seeing and feeling as they tripped in the small, sterile hospital rooms could have only made the experience more surreal.
Like an acid trip needs more surreality.
Along the way across the country, participants dropped out (one girl because her brain got so scrambled after a bad trip) and people were hooking up left and right ("It was like Soap Opera 101").
Joints were endlessly passed back and forth on the bus and instruments were pulled out at every opportunity, whether people could play them or not.
Once they made it to NYC and to the futuristic fair, one Prankster noted, "The fair was trippy and great...if you were high."
Trippy or not, the consensus on the bus was that the trip had become more important than the destination.
Actually, that theory is the basis of an entire generation's model for how to live life.
Some of us still subscribe to it.
After the fair, they went to visit LSD guru Timothy Leary at his If If spread in upstate New York where, "West coast acid-heads met East coast acid-heads."
Turns out the two groups were incompatible. To each coast its own acid head type apparently.
The bus trip became a metaphor the the change that was happening in 1964 as the country lost innocence and began moving away from the Eisenhower country of the fifties.
An old commercial for LBJ for President began with a wide-eyed, freckled-face little girl and morphed into a bomb going off.
Under that unpleasant segue, the candidate was heard saying "We must all love each other or we all will die. The stakes are too high."
I feel certain no political candidate will ever again exhort the U.S. people to love each other.
Not surprisingly, the Grateful Dead and their music had great appeal to the band of acid heads.
An impossibly young Jerry Garcia was filmed saying, "The Pranksters were the first to get off on our music."
The whole film was like that, full of cultural touchstones of another era.
When Kesey is later arrested for possession of marijuana and serves jail time, he is asked by a reporter on his release, "Do you see yourself becoming square now, like one of us?"
"God, I hope not," he answers to the amazement of the press present.
Clearly you can take the marijuana away from the acid head, but you can't take the desire to experience something different away from a child of the sixties.
Thanks, James River Film Fest; the film was trippy and great...even if you weren't high.
Now can we all just love each other?
Bacon Days, Disco Nights
If you're going to wake up in the same condition you went to sleep, you'd better have a good lunch plan.
And I did.
I was meeting a friend to go to Arcadia and dish about men, restaurants and being pursued, topics we both had in common.
Friend was a tad disappointed to hear that I wouldn't be drinking with lunch as is our usual habit, but got no end of pleasure from the details of the night that put me in that dry place.
I insisted my friend go on with his plans for wine at lunch, and he happily conceded.
"Sorry you won't be joining me but glad to hear you're a bad girl sometimes," he observed with an evil grin.
Looking for a suitably satisfying day-after meal, I opted for the Arcadia club with fries, notable for the inclusion of real turkey (not deli meat) and thick-sliced duck bacon.
Our server seemed a bit nervous (new at this, are you?) but sweet and eager to please (flashing two thumbs up when describing the soup), replacing my very light fountain Coke with one more suitably dark since it came from a can.
We finished with a chocolate tartufo with "Arcadia" stenciled in cocoa powder on the plate while discussing disco and who knows what about it.
I could relate to his disdain for disco pretenders and their laughable idea of what those days were like.
Given my compromised state, I could talk disco but was only able to eat a couple bites of the tartufo, an unusually weak dessert effort for me.
After depositing him back at his restaurant, I moved on to the Second Tuesday Artwalk, also known as me finally making it to some of the gallery shows I'd missed by being at the museum last Friday instead of on Broad Street.
Candela Gallery had a show of Julio Mitchel's "Vintage Photographs" taken from the 60s through the 90s.
I found the most striking ones to be the older ones, of course, like the one of "Midget Movies, 3 Features, 5 cents each" with a man bending down to look through the slot-like viewer (peephole?) for his features.
Train imagery ran throughout and I always find scenes of them in the pre-Amtrack days fascinating for their window into a time when train travel was a true experience.
One photograph showed a Central train car and all eight windows framed a man reading the daily newspaper.
Eight men, eight papers, one shared habit.
Another showed the "bar car" of the train from the outside. In that one, a window framed men (what else?) drinking cocktails while another framed a black man in a white server's jacket mixing more.
There was a series of backstage pictures of cross-dressing men preparing for a drag show.
Beautifully made up faces with sassy hairdos sat on broad shoulders, narrow hips and, uh, banana hammocks.
One that required closer inspection was a fog-shrouded image on the water and at the picture's center was the Statue of Liberty, so small that it was almost unrecognizable in the mist.
A photograph of a brick wall with the words "Bar Entrance" and an arrow pointing down featured two men passed out against the wall.
Clearly they'd been through that entrance.
After Candela, I went over to Ghostprint Gallery to see George Pratt's paintings.
Painterly and colorful, they were at times impressionistic and showed a clear mastery of form.
I saw shades of Renoir in "Kristina" and "Angela," two pink-cheeked women who had been depicted in the most feminine manner, all soft colors and brushstrokes.
In "Haylee," the swirl of Pratt's brush suggested rather than depicted the woman and the room, except for one part.
The curve of her shoulder and arm was as pure a line drawing as could be done, not surprising for a man who is also a graphic novelist and illustrator.
"Dead Man" was the suggestion of a figure on the ground, not even close to fully formed, but completely evocative of the human body.
Dabs of bright red pigment coming from the head and shoulder remind the viewer of the subject's fate.
I found "Geisha with Mirror" to be the most representational piece with none of the impressions and dabs of paint of the rest of the show.
In "Country store" the paint had been applied to the canvas so thinly that its grain showed through, a marked contrast to the layers of paint on other canvases.
The show's final image, "Warming the Water" had a decidedly Manet-esque vibe with both the color palette and the exotic crouching figure suggesting the first Impressionist's style.
But just to remind the viewer that this is a 21st century work, there was an area near the woman's feet with an array of color splotches that were impossible to read as anything representational.
They looked to be there purely for the sake of adding color. Magnificently, I might add.
Walking back down Broad Street to go home after my mini artwalk, it occurred to me that I was no longer feeling the affects of last night's epic odyssey.
Just goes to show what the right lunch partner and a couple of excellent art shows can do to restore the equilibrium of sometimes bad girl.
And let's not ignore the obvious, either.
Bacon makes everything better.
And I did.
I was meeting a friend to go to Arcadia and dish about men, restaurants and being pursued, topics we both had in common.
Friend was a tad disappointed to hear that I wouldn't be drinking with lunch as is our usual habit, but got no end of pleasure from the details of the night that put me in that dry place.
I insisted my friend go on with his plans for wine at lunch, and he happily conceded.
"Sorry you won't be joining me but glad to hear you're a bad girl sometimes," he observed with an evil grin.
Looking for a suitably satisfying day-after meal, I opted for the Arcadia club with fries, notable for the inclusion of real turkey (not deli meat) and thick-sliced duck bacon.
Our server seemed a bit nervous (new at this, are you?) but sweet and eager to please (flashing two thumbs up when describing the soup), replacing my very light fountain Coke with one more suitably dark since it came from a can.
We finished with a chocolate tartufo with "Arcadia" stenciled in cocoa powder on the plate while discussing disco and who knows what about it.
I could relate to his disdain for disco pretenders and their laughable idea of what those days were like.
Given my compromised state, I could talk disco but was only able to eat a couple bites of the tartufo, an unusually weak dessert effort for me.
After depositing him back at his restaurant, I moved on to the Second Tuesday Artwalk, also known as me finally making it to some of the gallery shows I'd missed by being at the museum last Friday instead of on Broad Street.
Candela Gallery had a show of Julio Mitchel's "Vintage Photographs" taken from the 60s through the 90s.
I found the most striking ones to be the older ones, of course, like the one of "Midget Movies, 3 Features, 5 cents each" with a man bending down to look through the slot-like viewer (peephole?) for his features.
Train imagery ran throughout and I always find scenes of them in the pre-Amtrack days fascinating for their window into a time when train travel was a true experience.
One photograph showed a Central train car and all eight windows framed a man reading the daily newspaper.
Eight men, eight papers, one shared habit.
Another showed the "bar car" of the train from the outside. In that one, a window framed men (what else?) drinking cocktails while another framed a black man in a white server's jacket mixing more.
There was a series of backstage pictures of cross-dressing men preparing for a drag show.
Beautifully made up faces with sassy hairdos sat on broad shoulders, narrow hips and, uh, banana hammocks.
One that required closer inspection was a fog-shrouded image on the water and at the picture's center was the Statue of Liberty, so small that it was almost unrecognizable in the mist.
A photograph of a brick wall with the words "Bar Entrance" and an arrow pointing down featured two men passed out against the wall.
Clearly they'd been through that entrance.
After Candela, I went over to Ghostprint Gallery to see George Pratt's paintings.
Painterly and colorful, they were at times impressionistic and showed a clear mastery of form.
I saw shades of Renoir in "Kristina" and "Angela," two pink-cheeked women who had been depicted in the most feminine manner, all soft colors and brushstrokes.
In "Haylee," the swirl of Pratt's brush suggested rather than depicted the woman and the room, except for one part.
The curve of her shoulder and arm was as pure a line drawing as could be done, not surprising for a man who is also a graphic novelist and illustrator.
"Dead Man" was the suggestion of a figure on the ground, not even close to fully formed, but completely evocative of the human body.
Dabs of bright red pigment coming from the head and shoulder remind the viewer of the subject's fate.
I found "Geisha with Mirror" to be the most representational piece with none of the impressions and dabs of paint of the rest of the show.
In "Country store" the paint had been applied to the canvas so thinly that its grain showed through, a marked contrast to the layers of paint on other canvases.
The show's final image, "Warming the Water" had a decidedly Manet-esque vibe with both the color palette and the exotic crouching figure suggesting the first Impressionist's style.
But just to remind the viewer that this is a 21st century work, there was an area near the woman's feet with an array of color splotches that were impossible to read as anything representational.
They looked to be there purely for the sake of adding color. Magnificently, I might add.
Walking back down Broad Street to go home after my mini artwalk, it occurred to me that I was no longer feeling the affects of last night's epic odyssey.
Just goes to show what the right lunch partner and a couple of excellent art shows can do to restore the equilibrium of sometimes bad girl.
And let's not ignore the obvious, either.
Bacon makes everything better.
My Heart is Like a Wheel
Fact: nine out of ten people in Balliceaux had no idea who Patty Hearst was.
I didn't know that when the evening began at Rowland's for happy hour, though.
All I knew was that wine and appetizers were five bucks and that the late afternoon sun was shining directly through the clearstory windows onto us at the bar.
As usual, classic rock was the order of the day with two Elton John songs in the first twenty minutes.
Fortunately that soon morphed to something more 21-st century like.
With me was a Rowland virgin, so after ordering Campi Flegrei Falanghina, I insisted we get their trademark butterbean cake.
It's the one dish the kitchen can never take off the menu because it's so popular and rightly so.
The pan-fried combination of butter beans with a tomato, avocado and cucumber salsa is as unique as it is savory.
We also did the soup, a crimini and shitake mushroom with Chorizo and spinach that had us sopping up the last of the broth with our warm, crusty bread.
For the third time in a week, I had softshelled crab, this one battered and pan-fried to crispy, then served over a mushroom risotto.
It's so easy to get spoiled when softshell season begins; I saw several other diners doing the crabs, too.
There were lots of people there using their Living Social coupons, making for a lively evening of budget-conscious diners.
Nearby was a familiar face, an Aziza server on a date and not wearing the usual predatory jewelry for which she is known.
You just never know who you'll see at happy hour.
We finished up with Iamarca Prosecco and a chocolate hazelnut creme brulee for two while arguing the finer points of art for art's sake.
Yet again, we agreed to disagree.
Stop number two was Balliceaux for an early show (9:30!) and a good-sized crowd was already in place.
Playing tonight was Lake Street Dive, a Boston quartet dropping by RVA on a one-off night from their current tour.
It was the guitar player's first night in his new glasses and he looked quite hipster-hot.
Lead singer Rachael is a jazz vocalist and the band won the John Lennon Songwriting competition in 2006, so they weren't your typical rock band.
Or pop band. Or jazz band, despite the number of local jazz musicians I saw in tonight's crowded audience.
"Is the mayor here?" she asked the audience. "Cause it feels like everyone is here."
A favorite sax player standing next to me for a while eventually said, "I gotta move away from all these people talking behind me."
I knew what he meant; it was an overly social crowd who chatted when they should have been listening.
The band was a lot of fun, even bringing up a local keyboard player for some songs.
"I see y'all aren't up here dancing," Rachael pointed out. "We're not going to be playing these funky tunes all night, you know."
They did cover George Michael's "Faith" as well as Hall and Oates' "Rich Girl."
That was the song which led to the discussion of the 70s rumor that it had been written about Patty Hearst.
I thought it unlikely that most people in the room even knew who Patty Hearst was, but my partner in crime disagreed, insisting that 95% of the crowd would in fact know.
His faith in the cultural history knowledge of the room seemed unrealistic to me.
Moving from stranger to stranger, I asked a dozen guys who she was. Only one had heard the name and everyone else was clueless.
One guy was so interested in why I was asking that he wanted the Cliff's Notes version of who she was and thanked me for bringing him up to speed.
I returned to my corner of the bar to rest my case.
The band had two notable qualities: a female upright bass player (Matt Gold, you would have been in love) and a definite 70s leaning.
By the time they got to Paul McCartney's "Let Me Roll It," the crowd was in full-on groove mode, shoved up against each other and enjoying every second of the band's languorous take on the song.
I figure about 30% of the audience recognized the song, for what that's worth.
Once the show ended, the room became a talkative party scene and I had the chance to chat up several friends I hadn't seen in a while.
We'll just say that "super affectionate girly" girlfriends came up and leave it at that.
"You go down smooth," the band had sung early on in the show.
Actually, the whole evening had gone down smooth, even among a crowd of people with limited cultural history literacy.
It's a bitch, girl, cause you've gone too far and you know it don't matter anymore.
Does anything matter on a Wednesday night when there's butterbeans, funk playing and the mayor isn't present?
I feel certain I could have gotten a consensus on that one, too.
Conclusion: nope.
I didn't know that when the evening began at Rowland's for happy hour, though.
All I knew was that wine and appetizers were five bucks and that the late afternoon sun was shining directly through the clearstory windows onto us at the bar.
As usual, classic rock was the order of the day with two Elton John songs in the first twenty minutes.
Fortunately that soon morphed to something more 21-st century like.
With me was a Rowland virgin, so after ordering Campi Flegrei Falanghina, I insisted we get their trademark butterbean cake.
It's the one dish the kitchen can never take off the menu because it's so popular and rightly so.
The pan-fried combination of butter beans with a tomato, avocado and cucumber salsa is as unique as it is savory.
We also did the soup, a crimini and shitake mushroom with Chorizo and spinach that had us sopping up the last of the broth with our warm, crusty bread.
For the third time in a week, I had softshelled crab, this one battered and pan-fried to crispy, then served over a mushroom risotto.
It's so easy to get spoiled when softshell season begins; I saw several other diners doing the crabs, too.
There were lots of people there using their Living Social coupons, making for a lively evening of budget-conscious diners.
Nearby was a familiar face, an Aziza server on a date and not wearing the usual predatory jewelry for which she is known.
You just never know who you'll see at happy hour.
We finished up with Iamarca Prosecco and a chocolate hazelnut creme brulee for two while arguing the finer points of art for art's sake.
Yet again, we agreed to disagree.
Stop number two was Balliceaux for an early show (9:30!) and a good-sized crowd was already in place.
Playing tonight was Lake Street Dive, a Boston quartet dropping by RVA on a one-off night from their current tour.
It was the guitar player's first night in his new glasses and he looked quite hipster-hot.
Lead singer Rachael is a jazz vocalist and the band won the John Lennon Songwriting competition in 2006, so they weren't your typical rock band.
Or pop band. Or jazz band, despite the number of local jazz musicians I saw in tonight's crowded audience.
"Is the mayor here?" she asked the audience. "Cause it feels like everyone is here."
A favorite sax player standing next to me for a while eventually said, "I gotta move away from all these people talking behind me."
I knew what he meant; it was an overly social crowd who chatted when they should have been listening.
The band was a lot of fun, even bringing up a local keyboard player for some songs.
"I see y'all aren't up here dancing," Rachael pointed out. "We're not going to be playing these funky tunes all night, you know."
They did cover George Michael's "Faith" as well as Hall and Oates' "Rich Girl."
That was the song which led to the discussion of the 70s rumor that it had been written about Patty Hearst.
I thought it unlikely that most people in the room even knew who Patty Hearst was, but my partner in crime disagreed, insisting that 95% of the crowd would in fact know.
His faith in the cultural history knowledge of the room seemed unrealistic to me.
Moving from stranger to stranger, I asked a dozen guys who she was. Only one had heard the name and everyone else was clueless.
One guy was so interested in why I was asking that he wanted the Cliff's Notes version of who she was and thanked me for bringing him up to speed.
I returned to my corner of the bar to rest my case.
The band had two notable qualities: a female upright bass player (Matt Gold, you would have been in love) and a definite 70s leaning.
By the time they got to Paul McCartney's "Let Me Roll It," the crowd was in full-on groove mode, shoved up against each other and enjoying every second of the band's languorous take on the song.
I figure about 30% of the audience recognized the song, for what that's worth.
Once the show ended, the room became a talkative party scene and I had the chance to chat up several friends I hadn't seen in a while.
We'll just say that "super affectionate girly" girlfriends came up and leave it at that.
"You go down smooth," the band had sung early on in the show.
Actually, the whole evening had gone down smooth, even among a crowd of people with limited cultural history literacy.
It's a bitch, girl, cause you've gone too far and you know it don't matter anymore.
Does anything matter on a Wednesday night when there's butterbeans, funk playing and the mayor isn't present?
I feel certain I could have gotten a consensus on that one, too.
Conclusion: nope.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Hot Wenches and Hard Whisks
"That which we call a hog would taste as sweet by any other name."
So there you have my evening: pig and Shakespeare.
Things got rolling at Six Burner where change is a-brewing.
Already the door in the back corner of the restaurant has been uncovered, thus providing natural light in a notoriously dark corner.
Booths will soon go missing, a banquette is coming and, best of all, a menu with more options for the wallet-challenged.
Until then, half-priced wine night will have to suffice and it did magnificently with $3.50 glasses of Gavi.
On top of that, I broke my no-cocktail rule and tried a cilantro gimlet with sugar/chile rims, a lovely warm weather refresher, the recipe for which the bartender had stolen from his favorite piano bar in the West Village.
I think I must have been crazed by all that sunlight pouring in the back door to drink something so uncharacteristic.
Deciding about what to eat was easy: house-made Cotechino pork sausage came with toothsome lentils and broccoli rabe; any bite which included all three was superb.
Then there was local asparagus ('tis the season) with escargot barigoule in a lemongrass sauce and a roasted garlic custard that got my vote for best savory pudding ever.
Can I put in my vote for more like it on menus?
While discussing Matt dressing up as Marilyn Monroe to sing happy birthday to a Ukrop (oh, it'll happen) and the difference between serving bar food and knowing good food, we looked up to discover it was Shakespeare time.
And not just any Shakespeare, but a Richmond Shakespeare Second Tuesday staged reading of "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park" at the Gottwald Theater.
Could there be a better use of my time after a meal of snails and Cotechino?
The play turned out to be a pastiche of "Hamlet" ("My father's spirit roams these trailer parks") "Macbeth," "Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet" and probably any number of others I wasn't able to catch in the fast-paced story.
The action took place in Frog Level and began with three witches stirring a pot of Brunswick stew made with road kill and magic mushrooms.
I may have found this even more hysterical than the rest of the audience since I have actually eaten Brunswick stew in Frog Level.
Mine had neither street scrapings nor hallucinogenic fungi, but I was told I could find a husband if I came back.
And for the record, I've also eaten a salt fish breakfast in Frog Level, but that's another story.
The story revolved around competing families of chefs versus bakers ("You fondle meat, I beat the batter") who lived in double wides ("Double wides are twice the trouble") in warring trailer parks (Montague Acres and Capulet Hills).
The dialog was cleverly written combining Shakespearean rhymes and language ("What light by yonder bug zapper breaks?") with modern references ("Forsooth, I am mellow").
The raunch factor was high ("I pray another part of thee is as hard as thy whisk"), frequent ("She's curdled my codpiece, the hot wench. Let's shack up") and non-stop ("It would have killed the mood if thee were butt ugly").
A pair of pink flamingos, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were "trusty pink spies," moving side to side when they overheard some juicy tidbit.
The cast was completely on point, bringing the NASCAR-obsessed, incestuous characters to life as they battled over which trailer park would be the last one standing when the new Walmart got built.
As you might expect, there was something rotten in Frog Level.
Once Cheese MacBreath was sauced, it was up to his heir to punish the murderer ("To sauce or not to sauce, that is the question").
When the guilty parties have been poisoned with tofu-laden barbecue sauce, the perp, Homeo MacBreath, awakens to find his beloved, the very hot Barbie-Q Bacon, dead by the dagger attachment on her Swiss Army knife.
His despair was evident. "No more shall I nail her."
If ever Shakespeare missed an opportunity to write a play, it was this one about tong-brandishing chefs, cold ones kept in the Kenmore, chefs who train at Blackensburg Culinary College, and spirits who roam the trailer parks to vindicate their untimely death.
The kind of trailer park trash who say of their own, "He swaggers a lot like a drunken sailor and eats us out of home and trailer."
Wisely, playwrights V. Mark Covington and Sharon Caccuabaudo (present in tonight's crowd) kept the trademark couplets so evocative of the Bard, even while having the characters mock their own rhyming language.
"In the haze of last night's rum. something wicked this way comes."
Wickedly funny, well directed and engagingly performed, it was the kind of play that left my motor revving like a stock car, with a huge grin on my face and a desire for a good whisk.
Luckily, the play had advised me how to deal with that aftermath.
"Find someone who will lick the sauce."
You gotta love a staged reading where they say it all out loud.
So there you have my evening: pig and Shakespeare.
Things got rolling at Six Burner where change is a-brewing.
Already the door in the back corner of the restaurant has been uncovered, thus providing natural light in a notoriously dark corner.
Booths will soon go missing, a banquette is coming and, best of all, a menu with more options for the wallet-challenged.
Until then, half-priced wine night will have to suffice and it did magnificently with $3.50 glasses of Gavi.
On top of that, I broke my no-cocktail rule and tried a cilantro gimlet with sugar/chile rims, a lovely warm weather refresher, the recipe for which the bartender had stolen from his favorite piano bar in the West Village.
I think I must have been crazed by all that sunlight pouring in the back door to drink something so uncharacteristic.
Deciding about what to eat was easy: house-made Cotechino pork sausage came with toothsome lentils and broccoli rabe; any bite which included all three was superb.
Then there was local asparagus ('tis the season) with escargot barigoule in a lemongrass sauce and a roasted garlic custard that got my vote for best savory pudding ever.
Can I put in my vote for more like it on menus?
While discussing Matt dressing up as Marilyn Monroe to sing happy birthday to a Ukrop (oh, it'll happen) and the difference between serving bar food and knowing good food, we looked up to discover it was Shakespeare time.
And not just any Shakespeare, but a Richmond Shakespeare Second Tuesday staged reading of "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park" at the Gottwald Theater.
Could there be a better use of my time after a meal of snails and Cotechino?
The play turned out to be a pastiche of "Hamlet" ("My father's spirit roams these trailer parks") "Macbeth," "Merchant of Venice," "Romeo and Juliet" and probably any number of others I wasn't able to catch in the fast-paced story.
The action took place in Frog Level and began with three witches stirring a pot of Brunswick stew made with road kill and magic mushrooms.
I may have found this even more hysterical than the rest of the audience since I have actually eaten Brunswick stew in Frog Level.
Mine had neither street scrapings nor hallucinogenic fungi, but I was told I could find a husband if I came back.
And for the record, I've also eaten a salt fish breakfast in Frog Level, but that's another story.
The story revolved around competing families of chefs versus bakers ("You fondle meat, I beat the batter") who lived in double wides ("Double wides are twice the trouble") in warring trailer parks (Montague Acres and Capulet Hills).
The dialog was cleverly written combining Shakespearean rhymes and language ("What light by yonder bug zapper breaks?") with modern references ("Forsooth, I am mellow").
The raunch factor was high ("I pray another part of thee is as hard as thy whisk"), frequent ("She's curdled my codpiece, the hot wench. Let's shack up") and non-stop ("It would have killed the mood if thee were butt ugly").
A pair of pink flamingos, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were "trusty pink spies," moving side to side when they overheard some juicy tidbit.
The cast was completely on point, bringing the NASCAR-obsessed, incestuous characters to life as they battled over which trailer park would be the last one standing when the new Walmart got built.
As you might expect, there was something rotten in Frog Level.
Once Cheese MacBreath was sauced, it was up to his heir to punish the murderer ("To sauce or not to sauce, that is the question").
When the guilty parties have been poisoned with tofu-laden barbecue sauce, the perp, Homeo MacBreath, awakens to find his beloved, the very hot Barbie-Q Bacon, dead by the dagger attachment on her Swiss Army knife.
His despair was evident. "No more shall I nail her."
If ever Shakespeare missed an opportunity to write a play, it was this one about tong-brandishing chefs, cold ones kept in the Kenmore, chefs who train at Blackensburg Culinary College, and spirits who roam the trailer parks to vindicate their untimely death.
The kind of trailer park trash who say of their own, "He swaggers a lot like a drunken sailor and eats us out of home and trailer."
Wisely, playwrights V. Mark Covington and Sharon Caccuabaudo (present in tonight's crowd) kept the trademark couplets so evocative of the Bard, even while having the characters mock their own rhyming language.
"In the haze of last night's rum. something wicked this way comes."
Wickedly funny, well directed and engagingly performed, it was the kind of play that left my motor revving like a stock car, with a huge grin on my face and a desire for a good whisk.
Luckily, the play had advised me how to deal with that aftermath.
"Find someone who will lick the sauce."
You gotta love a staged reading where they say it all out loud.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Pitch Perfect
If I'd been any more productive today, I'd have gotten a gold star stuck to my forehead.
As it was I had "pitch perfect" and "excellent" tossed my way and that was before I was told that I had on a Marcia Brady dress.
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
As if that weren't enough, I planted the basil and told corporate HQ not to close my local branch.
This is apparently what happens when you get up at the ungodly hour of 7:15 (shudder).
Hopefully never again.
But by early evening, all thoughts of usefulness were forsaken for the allure of "Meet the Chef" at Bistro 27.
Of course I already know the chef, but that's not the point.
The point is that all the wines are five bones and they come with the tapas of the day, which today was braised oxtail empanadas,
I'm guessing an awful lot of people ate out yesterday because the restaurants in my neighborhood all looked pretty slow when I wandered over to 27.
The bar crowd was no more than me, my seatmate, the Arts District's best tattoo artist and a couple of guys.
Like us, they were there for cheap wine, good food and random conversation.
In between chattering, we scarfed down calamari fritti, mussels in a white wine, cream and black pepper broth (especially good for the spice cutting the cream) and gnocchi in braised oxtail ragout.
If it wasn't a good night for oxtail, you couldn't have proven it by us.
One of the male bar sitters turned out to share my appreciation for South Africa and we talked about overly close proximity to rhinos (not as terrifying as it is potentially deadly), perfect pairings in Capetown and the glory of a glass of pinotage.
Unlike me, he was actually having one, the earthy Paarl Heights pinotage I'd enjoyed there just the other day.
To me, it seemed like more of a Gavi evening, although just the other night at 27's speakeasy, I'd tasted the Death in the Afternoon, a surprisingly appealing drink combination of absinthe, sugar and bubbles.
But productive people don't drink Death in the Afternoon on a Monday night if they plan to be productive on Tuesday.
At least this Monday.
We heard a love story (how they met and how it was going looking for a shared place), a travel story (NYC and more food than any two people should consume in a weekend) and some Brazilian history (why is it the women are always the hard workers?).
When it became clear that closing time was going to arrive sooner rather than later, we ordered a mango panna cotta, pleasing the European among us no end with its delicate and refreshing flavor.
Passing a couple of smiling guys eating at a table on my way to the bathroom, I expressed surprise that they were still there eating since they'd been there some time earlier when I'd first walked by.
"As long as you keep on walking by, we're going to keep on eating," the bolder one said with a grin.
I wasn't sure which to admire more, his nerve or his restraint. I know I wouldn't slow my eating for anyone.
On the other hand, I was being productive at getting those guys to clean their plates, so it could be that it was just part of my overall efficiency today.
Maybe my friends are right and people really do say absolutely anything to me.
Or perhaps the Marcia Brady dress is more powerful than I realized.
Hey, whatever makes me productive. But beware.
As it was I had "pitch perfect" and "excellent" tossed my way and that was before I was told that I had on a Marcia Brady dress.
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
As if that weren't enough, I planted the basil and told corporate HQ not to close my local branch.
This is apparently what happens when you get up at the ungodly hour of 7:15 (shudder).
Hopefully never again.
But by early evening, all thoughts of usefulness were forsaken for the allure of "Meet the Chef" at Bistro 27.
Of course I already know the chef, but that's not the point.
The point is that all the wines are five bones and they come with the tapas of the day, which today was braised oxtail empanadas,
I'm guessing an awful lot of people ate out yesterday because the restaurants in my neighborhood all looked pretty slow when I wandered over to 27.
The bar crowd was no more than me, my seatmate, the Arts District's best tattoo artist and a couple of guys.
Like us, they were there for cheap wine, good food and random conversation.
In between chattering, we scarfed down calamari fritti, mussels in a white wine, cream and black pepper broth (especially good for the spice cutting the cream) and gnocchi in braised oxtail ragout.
If it wasn't a good night for oxtail, you couldn't have proven it by us.
One of the male bar sitters turned out to share my appreciation for South Africa and we talked about overly close proximity to rhinos (not as terrifying as it is potentially deadly), perfect pairings in Capetown and the glory of a glass of pinotage.
Unlike me, he was actually having one, the earthy Paarl Heights pinotage I'd enjoyed there just the other day.
To me, it seemed like more of a Gavi evening, although just the other night at 27's speakeasy, I'd tasted the Death in the Afternoon, a surprisingly appealing drink combination of absinthe, sugar and bubbles.
But productive people don't drink Death in the Afternoon on a Monday night if they plan to be productive on Tuesday.
At least this Monday.
We heard a love story (how they met and how it was going looking for a shared place), a travel story (NYC and more food than any two people should consume in a weekend) and some Brazilian history (why is it the women are always the hard workers?).
When it became clear that closing time was going to arrive sooner rather than later, we ordered a mango panna cotta, pleasing the European among us no end with its delicate and refreshing flavor.
Passing a couple of smiling guys eating at a table on my way to the bathroom, I expressed surprise that they were still there eating since they'd been there some time earlier when I'd first walked by.
"As long as you keep on walking by, we're going to keep on eating," the bolder one said with a grin.
I wasn't sure which to admire more, his nerve or his restraint. I know I wouldn't slow my eating for anyone.
On the other hand, I was being productive at getting those guys to clean their plates, so it could be that it was just part of my overall efficiency today.
Maybe my friends are right and people really do say absolutely anything to me.
Or perhaps the Marcia Brady dress is more powerful than I realized.
Hey, whatever makes me productive. But beware.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Overdue Art History
R.I.P. Elizabeth Catlett.
The 97-year old African-American artist died three days after the VMFA opened a show focusing on the pioneering Washington, D.C. Barnett Aden Gallery.
"Making History: 20th Century African American Art" in the Focus Gallery just off the atrium is a fitting gift to the woman whose "I am the Negro Woman" series anchors the show.
A pastel done when she was an undergraduate is arresting for its simple color scheme (black hair and jacket, soft blue wall and vase) but it's the delicate modeling of the face that wouldn't let me take my eyes off of it.
For a student to have such mastery of technique must have caught the attention of every teacher she had.
Because the exhibit is only on view for a limited time, I wasn't willing to wait for company to join me in checking it out. Besides, I had a feeling I'd be willing to go back if anyone asked.
And I would. The 50+ works on display are a who's who of black artists of the mid-twentieth century. And, sadly, Catlett was the only one with whom I was familiar.
Besides Catlett's series, the show includes her iconic "Sharecropper" image from 1952, instantly recognizable because it's been reproduced endlessly over the years.
I was appalled to learn that her social activism working to improve the lives of black and Mexican women had gotten her listed as an "undesirable alien" by the State Department in 1962 and she was banned from returning here for years.
Wow. We were still branding artists for activism as late as 1962?
John Farrar's 1947 "Waiting" shows a woman standing in the yard of a typical Le Droit Park house, a style of architecture I recognize well from a childhood in D.C.
An untitled piece from the 30s or early 40s shows a group of faceless men sitting around an outdoor fire for warmth and a shared meal.
Given the economic climate when it was done, I was hardly surprised to see that it was done in tempera on cardboard and brown paper.
One thing I found fascinating was the myriad influences that 20th century black artists pulled from.
Like Picasso, many were inspired by African tribal motifs (James Lesene Wells' 1929 "African Phantasy" was visually stunning), but their influences were much wider than their motherland.
Wells himself went on to be influenced by German Expressionism while Felrath Hines embraced abstraction and color field painting.
Lloyd G. NcNeill, a flutist in addition to a painter, showed the influence of Cubism in 1963's "Jazz Players" where a (what else?) flute is prominent in the composition.
All the artists in the exhibit were associated with the Barnett Aden Gallery, set up on the first floor of Vernon Herring's house (where he lived with Aden), and the first privately owned black gallery in the country.
My favorite thing about pictures of the gallery was how it proved that a domestic setting emphasized the visual pleasures of living with art, a philosophy I also espouse.
The Barnett Aden Gallery closed in 1969, so it's not like I could have known about it despite its proximity to where I grew up.
But I can't help but wish I could have experienced walking into that house of a gallery and experiencing a world of artists I didn't get to see until now.
On the other hand, better late than never. It ended up being quite the gift today.
And just watch how many art-loving friends I take over there to have the same rush.
The 97-year old African-American artist died three days after the VMFA opened a show focusing on the pioneering Washington, D.C. Barnett Aden Gallery.
"Making History: 20th Century African American Art" in the Focus Gallery just off the atrium is a fitting gift to the woman whose "I am the Negro Woman" series anchors the show.
A pastel done when she was an undergraduate is arresting for its simple color scheme (black hair and jacket, soft blue wall and vase) but it's the delicate modeling of the face that wouldn't let me take my eyes off of it.
For a student to have such mastery of technique must have caught the attention of every teacher she had.
Because the exhibit is only on view for a limited time, I wasn't willing to wait for company to join me in checking it out. Besides, I had a feeling I'd be willing to go back if anyone asked.
And I would. The 50+ works on display are a who's who of black artists of the mid-twentieth century. And, sadly, Catlett was the only one with whom I was familiar.
Besides Catlett's series, the show includes her iconic "Sharecropper" image from 1952, instantly recognizable because it's been reproduced endlessly over the years.
I was appalled to learn that her social activism working to improve the lives of black and Mexican women had gotten her listed as an "undesirable alien" by the State Department in 1962 and she was banned from returning here for years.
Wow. We were still branding artists for activism as late as 1962?
John Farrar's 1947 "Waiting" shows a woman standing in the yard of a typical Le Droit Park house, a style of architecture I recognize well from a childhood in D.C.
An untitled piece from the 30s or early 40s shows a group of faceless men sitting around an outdoor fire for warmth and a shared meal.
Given the economic climate when it was done, I was hardly surprised to see that it was done in tempera on cardboard and brown paper.
One thing I found fascinating was the myriad influences that 20th century black artists pulled from.
Like Picasso, many were inspired by African tribal motifs (James Lesene Wells' 1929 "African Phantasy" was visually stunning), but their influences were much wider than their motherland.
Wells himself went on to be influenced by German Expressionism while Felrath Hines embraced abstraction and color field painting.
Lloyd G. NcNeill, a flutist in addition to a painter, showed the influence of Cubism in 1963's "Jazz Players" where a (what else?) flute is prominent in the composition.
All the artists in the exhibit were associated with the Barnett Aden Gallery, set up on the first floor of Vernon Herring's house (where he lived with Aden), and the first privately owned black gallery in the country.
My favorite thing about pictures of the gallery was how it proved that a domestic setting emphasized the visual pleasures of living with art, a philosophy I also espouse.
The Barnett Aden Gallery closed in 1969, so it's not like I could have known about it despite its proximity to where I grew up.
But I can't help but wish I could have experienced walking into that house of a gallery and experiencing a world of artists I didn't get to see until now.
On the other hand, better late than never. It ended up being quite the gift today.
And just watch how many art-loving friends I take over there to have the same rush.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Partner Trumps Assistant
I'm training to get in shape for the upcoming James River Film Festival.
So I figured the best way to do that was to go see my second movie of the day, albeit one 63 years newer than this morning's.
After having seen the previews to "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen" several times, it seemed like a pretty good bet for beautiful scenery, acting talent and romance.
Besides, you can't go wrong with a film shot partly in the wilds of Scotland
Apparently, atmospheric castles owned by Middle Eastern sheiks are the ideal place for unsuspecting Londoners to start falling in love.
The story of a filthy rich but empathetic sheik who wants to bring sport fishing to the desert was more about faith than fishing.
But that's faith in its broadest definition and not merely in terms of organized religion.
I related to Ewan McGregor's character, who observed, "I don't know anyone who goes to church anymore. On Sundays, we go to Target."
That's a different sort of religion, I think.
Kristin Scott Thomas had the funniest lines as the press secretary to the Prime Minister, saying, "Men like that are a species."
The romance unfolded exquisitely slowly given the complications of him having a wife (after they finish lovemaking, the wife says, "There, that should do you for a while." Yikes!) and her having a recently deployed boyfriend (who is presumed M.I.A. in Afghanistan after their brief a three-week courtship).
Once local terrorists have all but destroyed the dam and presumably the 10,000 shipped-in salmon, it looks like the futility of the whole project is finally clear.
But no, a lone salmon is spotted jumping in the water and the soldier boyfriend sees that she's in love with Ewan and departs.
Next thing you know Ewan's talking about giving the project another try on a smaller scale, working hand in hand with the locals and finally achieving the impossible, fishing in the desert.
She asks if he'll be needing an assistant and once he realizes what she means, he says no, he wants a partner.
And when a guy says "partner" with that look in his eye, you know what he means.
Cut to hand-holding shot reflected in the rippling, fish-filled waters of the dam.
Because nothing says true love like creatures willing to move against the tide to successfully mate.
The fact is, fish or female, that's what we call a romance.
Music swells. Fade out.
So I figured the best way to do that was to go see my second movie of the day, albeit one 63 years newer than this morning's.
After having seen the previews to "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen" several times, it seemed like a pretty good bet for beautiful scenery, acting talent and romance.
Besides, you can't go wrong with a film shot partly in the wilds of Scotland
Apparently, atmospheric castles owned by Middle Eastern sheiks are the ideal place for unsuspecting Londoners to start falling in love.
The story of a filthy rich but empathetic sheik who wants to bring sport fishing to the desert was more about faith than fishing.
But that's faith in its broadest definition and not merely in terms of organized religion.
I related to Ewan McGregor's character, who observed, "I don't know anyone who goes to church anymore. On Sundays, we go to Target."
That's a different sort of religion, I think.
Kristin Scott Thomas had the funniest lines as the press secretary to the Prime Minister, saying, "Men like that are a species."
The romance unfolded exquisitely slowly given the complications of him having a wife (after they finish lovemaking, the wife says, "There, that should do you for a while." Yikes!) and her having a recently deployed boyfriend (who is presumed M.I.A. in Afghanistan after their brief a three-week courtship).
Once local terrorists have all but destroyed the dam and presumably the 10,000 shipped-in salmon, it looks like the futility of the whole project is finally clear.
But no, a lone salmon is spotted jumping in the water and the soldier boyfriend sees that she's in love with Ewan and departs.
Next thing you know Ewan's talking about giving the project another try on a smaller scale, working hand in hand with the locals and finally achieving the impossible, fishing in the desert.
She asks if he'll be needing an assistant and once he realizes what she means, he says no, he wants a partner.
And when a guy says "partner" with that look in his eye, you know what he means.
Cut to hand-holding shot reflected in the rippling, fish-filled waters of the dam.
Because nothing says true love like creatures willing to move against the tide to successfully mate.
The fact is, fish or female, that's what we call a romance.
Music swells. Fade out.
You Better Watch Out
Perhaps I could be called an Easter Grinch.
I don't have a religious bone in my body.
I have no use for people walking up and down Monument Avenue for the sake of looking at each other and displaying their overdressed dogs and children (not that there's anything wrong with that).
I don't want to drive for hours to eat a meal with my family.
So we'll just say I'm bad at Easter and leave it at that.
Even so, I had a most Easter-like Easter in spite of myself.
I began at Movieland for a showing of "Easter Parade," a Judy Garland/Fred Astaire movie I'd never seen before.
As I slid into my seat, I heard the guy nearest me say to his wife, "This is so much better than going to your sister's house today. I bet your mother wishes she were here, too."
Bet she does.
The movie was a 1948 (gaudy and unnatural-looking Technicolor) take on what 1912 (a lunch of roast beef, pie and milk costs Garland fifteen cents) was like, which meant it had elements of both eras.
Most of the best dialog came courtesy of Mike, the bartender, who ministered to the singers and dancers in the neighborhood with wisdom gleaned from years of service.
When Fred Astaire goes in after being dumped by his partner and girlfriend, the bartender hands him a whiskey.
"Can you drown a brunette in this?" he asks him.
"How tall is she?" he asks.
"Five feet six," Astaire says.
"Try this," says the bartender filling his glass up a little more.
I'm guessing it takes more whiskey to drown a brunette than a blond because later another guy comes in needing whiskey and the bartender asks, "Blond or brunette?"
Turns out his was also a brunette.
"They're the ones you have to watch," the barkeep sagely tells him, filling up his glass to the brim.
During the opening credits, I'd noticed one for "Special Effects" and wondered what constituted a special effect in 1948.
I found out in a scene with Astaire and a bunch of dancing girls; after dancing with several of them individually, they move to the back of the stage and Astaire to the front.
There he proceeds to dance in slow motion while all the dancers behind him dance in real time.
Definitely credit-worthy in 1948.
It had romance, too, like when Astaire asks Garland, "Why didn't you tell me I was in love with you?" and "Make every man in the audience wish he were in my shoes."
Yes, it was corny, and the Easter hats were ridiculous, but how better to celebrate a high religious holiday?
The next stop in my unfolding Easter odyssey was Bistro 27 for Easter brunch.
The soundtrack was pitch-perfect for a heathen: classic rhythm and blues.
Marvin Gaye, Barry White, Al Green, Diana Ross -all the traditional Easter hymns I could have hoped for.
It was better than a solid chocolate Easter bunny.
As was the brunch; I began loading my plate only to look down and realize it was covered in nothing but pig.
Bacon, sausage and thick-sliced ham made me realize I needed to diversify, so I added on some green-flecked eggs and lamb.
I did eventually go back for sauteed julienne veggies and a salad, but my heart was in the protein.
The crowd was incredibly diverse, from multi-generational families in church clothes to a less traditional groupings.
My favorite was the one from New Jersey who were staying at the Jefferson (where they claimed they'd been treated poorly).
He had on a hot pink muscle shirt and matching hot pink underwear (visible at the top of his shorts), lots of bling and the most incredible haircut (shaved back and the top stood up jelled within an inch of its life easily three inches).
When it came time to pay, he pulled out a wad of hundreds thicker than my fist.
She was a vision in a strapless pale blue top with rhinestones,skintight jeans, silver shoes with four inch heels and white blond hair over black hair underneath.
The little boys wore white button up shirts, slacks and looks that said, "Somebody's got to the the adults around here."
But I wasn't there to gawk but to eat, so I soon moved on to the two new desserts on 27's list.
The mango panna cotta was a thing of beauty and that's saying a lot coming from a chocoholic.
Refreshing and light with an addictive flavor, I thought it was guaranteed to be a people-pleaser.
The profiterole, drizzled in Nutella, had a filling of ricotta, Nutella and three zest that gave just the right citrus note to the chocolate.
Not that anyone needs two desserts, even on Easter.
For company, I had various staff members who entertained me with pictures of babies in Easter baskets, a video of one when he was nineteen, and a discussion of Santorum's thoughts on where women should work.
All good stuff, but no one to rival Mike, the bartender, who was told in the movie, "I bet you know a lot about women."
"I should," he said polishing the bar."I've been single all my life."
Just the kind of guy I could have used for company on my anti-Easter.
As long as he was willing to risk taking on a brunette.
I don't have a religious bone in my body.
I have no use for people walking up and down Monument Avenue for the sake of looking at each other and displaying their overdressed dogs and children (not that there's anything wrong with that).
I don't want to drive for hours to eat a meal with my family.
So we'll just say I'm bad at Easter and leave it at that.
Even so, I had a most Easter-like Easter in spite of myself.
I began at Movieland for a showing of "Easter Parade," a Judy Garland/Fred Astaire movie I'd never seen before.
As I slid into my seat, I heard the guy nearest me say to his wife, "This is so much better than going to your sister's house today. I bet your mother wishes she were here, too."
Bet she does.
The movie was a 1948 (gaudy and unnatural-looking Technicolor) take on what 1912 (a lunch of roast beef, pie and milk costs Garland fifteen cents) was like, which meant it had elements of both eras.
Most of the best dialog came courtesy of Mike, the bartender, who ministered to the singers and dancers in the neighborhood with wisdom gleaned from years of service.
When Fred Astaire goes in after being dumped by his partner and girlfriend, the bartender hands him a whiskey.
"Can you drown a brunette in this?" he asks him.
"How tall is she?" he asks.
"Five feet six," Astaire says.
"Try this," says the bartender filling his glass up a little more.
I'm guessing it takes more whiskey to drown a brunette than a blond because later another guy comes in needing whiskey and the bartender asks, "Blond or brunette?"
Turns out his was also a brunette.
"They're the ones you have to watch," the barkeep sagely tells him, filling up his glass to the brim.
During the opening credits, I'd noticed one for "Special Effects" and wondered what constituted a special effect in 1948.
I found out in a scene with Astaire and a bunch of dancing girls; after dancing with several of them individually, they move to the back of the stage and Astaire to the front.
There he proceeds to dance in slow motion while all the dancers behind him dance in real time.
Definitely credit-worthy in 1948.
It had romance, too, like when Astaire asks Garland, "Why didn't you tell me I was in love with you?" and "Make every man in the audience wish he were in my shoes."
Yes, it was corny, and the Easter hats were ridiculous, but how better to celebrate a high religious holiday?
The next stop in my unfolding Easter odyssey was Bistro 27 for Easter brunch.
The soundtrack was pitch-perfect for a heathen: classic rhythm and blues.
Marvin Gaye, Barry White, Al Green, Diana Ross -all the traditional Easter hymns I could have hoped for.
It was better than a solid chocolate Easter bunny.
As was the brunch; I began loading my plate only to look down and realize it was covered in nothing but pig.
Bacon, sausage and thick-sliced ham made me realize I needed to diversify, so I added on some green-flecked eggs and lamb.
I did eventually go back for sauteed julienne veggies and a salad, but my heart was in the protein.
The crowd was incredibly diverse, from multi-generational families in church clothes to a less traditional groupings.
My favorite was the one from New Jersey who were staying at the Jefferson (where they claimed they'd been treated poorly).
He had on a hot pink muscle shirt and matching hot pink underwear (visible at the top of his shorts), lots of bling and the most incredible haircut (shaved back and the top stood up jelled within an inch of its life easily three inches).
When it came time to pay, he pulled out a wad of hundreds thicker than my fist.
She was a vision in a strapless pale blue top with rhinestones,skintight jeans, silver shoes with four inch heels and white blond hair over black hair underneath.
The little boys wore white button up shirts, slacks and looks that said, "Somebody's got to the the adults around here."
But I wasn't there to gawk but to eat, so I soon moved on to the two new desserts on 27's list.
The mango panna cotta was a thing of beauty and that's saying a lot coming from a chocoholic.
Refreshing and light with an addictive flavor, I thought it was guaranteed to be a people-pleaser.
The profiterole, drizzled in Nutella, had a filling of ricotta, Nutella and three zest that gave just the right citrus note to the chocolate.
Not that anyone needs two desserts, even on Easter.
For company, I had various staff members who entertained me with pictures of babies in Easter baskets, a video of one when he was nineteen, and a discussion of Santorum's thoughts on where women should work.
All good stuff, but no one to rival Mike, the bartender, who was told in the movie, "I bet you know a lot about women."
"I should," he said polishing the bar."I've been single all my life."
Just the kind of guy I could have used for company on my anti-Easter.
As long as he was willing to risk taking on a brunette.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Raising the Red Flag of Victory
Don't let anyone tell you that you can't have all kinds of fun at the VMFA.
Arriving at the museum before 5:00, I was walking in the Boulevard entrance (the only entrance as far as I'm concerned) when I heard, "Well, hello."
It was Greg, drummer for Goldrush, the band performing to the silent film classic "Battleship Potemkin" and ostensibly the reason I was at the museum tonight.
"Look at those legs," he smiled. "Very sexy, if I may say so."
You may indeed, I told him. What a fine way to start my evening at the museum.
Walking in together, he headed toward the theater and I went upstairs to Amuse to meet a fellow culture lover.
As it turned out, I was the first and only customer in Amuse at that hour, which was fine with me.
I took the center bar stool in front of a vase of white azaleas and greeted a favorite bar wench.
With no one else in the room, I could actually hear the ice melting and shifting in the absinthe drip at the end of the bar.
Which was good because it meant that they'd be ready to do an absinthe drip at any point I desired.
My film-going companion showed up and we eschewed the happy hour specials for some favorite wines.
He went Italian and I opted for the Boxwood Rose, a perennial favorite and never more so than this time of year.
I was delighted to hear that Chef had just redone the menu today so I had some fresh choices.
We began with tall food, namely the tuna tartare stacked over avocado with Chinese five-spice tuille and lemon oil.
The creamy texture of the high-grade tuna and ripe avocado contrasted beautifully with the crispy, spicy and lacy "cookie."
With limited time before the film started, we moved on to the papusa de chicharron after casually mentioning how good it sounded to the bartender.
She said it was her new favorite and we were sold.
The pulled pork in house made corn tortilla pockets with black beans, pickled cabbage and pineapple with red sauce and sour cream was an enormous portion that easily fed two.
Long-cooked pork inside corn made for a satisfying take on Mexican but it was the tart pickled cabbage that gave the dish its piquancy.
As we neared the end of the dish, we noticed the time and requested that our absinthe drips be started.
The moment she sat the sugar cubes in the absinthe spoons and started the ice water drip, the guy next to us inquired, "What is that?"
I think I've heard a stranger ask that just about every time the drip has been pressed into service for me.
I'm just providing an educational service for the uninitiated, you see.
After enjoying our absinthes, we headed down to the theater for the seminal 1925 silent film about a mutiny against the Tsarist regime.
Or as film lecturer Trent Nicholas put it, "Thesis meets antithesis and results in synthesis." Got it.
He said the story-boarding for the film looked like music and in fact the film could be seen as visual music, an imagery I loved.
The twist was having Prabir and the Goldrush providing the soundtrack with guitar, upright bass, violin and drums.
The movie seemed surprisingly undated in many ways although the story cards were a bit heavy-handed at times ("Heavy and gloomy is the sleep of the off-duty").
Having seen Goldrush preform many times, I recognized some of the songs used although they had also added new material to flesh it out.
It was funny; when they sang, "We don't have to worry about shit," an older couple nearby picked up their things and departed, clearly disgusted with such offensive language.
Hell, if they'd stuck around they'd have been appalled when Prabir started singing, "Roll one for me," since he wasn't talking about Easter eggs.
The band seemed to excel during the extended ship escape scene where their music perfectly mirrored the action onscreen.
Shostakovitch, who'd done the original score, would have been proud, assuming he could handle rock and roll.
I have to admit, I felt something stirring when the crew proudly raised the red flag of victory in a black and white movie.
The band got a standing ovation when the film ended with the squadron, which was supposed to stop the Potemkin, instead let them go and cheered on the rebel ship.
Goldrush had done the Potemkin proud and only offended a few people.
Well done, guys.
Since it was still early, I bid my fellow Potemkin-ite adieu and went up to Amuse to close out the night.
The dining room, which only an hour and half earlier had been scarcely a quarter full was now completely packed.
Horrors! I even had to wait for a seat at the bar.
In a stroke of random luck, it was the seat nearest the absinthe drip, so what could I do but order one?
The bartender inquired if I was still too full to eat again but it seemed as good a time as any for dessert.
Mocha java ice cream with maple cream, Merlot caramel and two oatmeal cookies, a recent addition to the menu, seemed like the way to go so I did.
Waiting for it to arrive, I took another look at the French photography show in the nearby hallway gallery.
Do people still kiss on the streets like they did in that classic 1950 Doisneau photograph? And, if not, shouldn't they/
Back at the bar, my dessert arrived and I dug in.
Nearby was a couple from the Northern Neck in town for the evening and we struck up a conversation about hour-old oysters, good restaurants on the Neck and sitting on the dock of the Rappahannock
The woman next to me, on the other hand, wanted to discuss classic vermouth (insisting I taste her Manhattan), San Quentin prison and the movie I'd just seen.
Next thing I knew, a beer rep I know was calling my name, having spotted me from across the room as she ate dinner.
She is convinced that eventually she can make a beer lover of me.
I have my doubts, but enjoyed meeting her new squeeze and hearing about the upcoming beer dinners she thinks I should attend.
I mean, be realistic. I just added absinthe to my wine and tequila-only repertoire last year after eons of drinking nothing else.
Fact is, I can't just jump on the suds bandwagon like that.
By the time they cleared out, it was time for me to go, too. It had, after all, been over five hours since I'd arrived at the VMFA and they were long closed.
Officially anyway.
As I walked out, the bartender called to me.
"First in, last out," she laughed.
Well, sure.
When I can get compliments, art, a terrific meal off a new menu, absinthe, a classic silent movie I've never seen and live music, I'll happily stay until the bitter end.
Or, more accurately, the better end.
Arriving at the museum before 5:00, I was walking in the Boulevard entrance (the only entrance as far as I'm concerned) when I heard, "Well, hello."
It was Greg, drummer for Goldrush, the band performing to the silent film classic "Battleship Potemkin" and ostensibly the reason I was at the museum tonight.
"Look at those legs," he smiled. "Very sexy, if I may say so."
You may indeed, I told him. What a fine way to start my evening at the museum.
Walking in together, he headed toward the theater and I went upstairs to Amuse to meet a fellow culture lover.
As it turned out, I was the first and only customer in Amuse at that hour, which was fine with me.
I took the center bar stool in front of a vase of white azaleas and greeted a favorite bar wench.
With no one else in the room, I could actually hear the ice melting and shifting in the absinthe drip at the end of the bar.
Which was good because it meant that they'd be ready to do an absinthe drip at any point I desired.
My film-going companion showed up and we eschewed the happy hour specials for some favorite wines.
He went Italian and I opted for the Boxwood Rose, a perennial favorite and never more so than this time of year.
I was delighted to hear that Chef had just redone the menu today so I had some fresh choices.
We began with tall food, namely the tuna tartare stacked over avocado with Chinese five-spice tuille and lemon oil.
The creamy texture of the high-grade tuna and ripe avocado contrasted beautifully with the crispy, spicy and lacy "cookie."
With limited time before the film started, we moved on to the papusa de chicharron after casually mentioning how good it sounded to the bartender.
She said it was her new favorite and we were sold.
The pulled pork in house made corn tortilla pockets with black beans, pickled cabbage and pineapple with red sauce and sour cream was an enormous portion that easily fed two.
Long-cooked pork inside corn made for a satisfying take on Mexican but it was the tart pickled cabbage that gave the dish its piquancy.
As we neared the end of the dish, we noticed the time and requested that our absinthe drips be started.
The moment she sat the sugar cubes in the absinthe spoons and started the ice water drip, the guy next to us inquired, "What is that?"
I think I've heard a stranger ask that just about every time the drip has been pressed into service for me.
I'm just providing an educational service for the uninitiated, you see.
After enjoying our absinthes, we headed down to the theater for the seminal 1925 silent film about a mutiny against the Tsarist regime.
Or as film lecturer Trent Nicholas put it, "Thesis meets antithesis and results in synthesis." Got it.
He said the story-boarding for the film looked like music and in fact the film could be seen as visual music, an imagery I loved.
The twist was having Prabir and the Goldrush providing the soundtrack with guitar, upright bass, violin and drums.
The movie seemed surprisingly undated in many ways although the story cards were a bit heavy-handed at times ("Heavy and gloomy is the sleep of the off-duty").
Having seen Goldrush preform many times, I recognized some of the songs used although they had also added new material to flesh it out.
It was funny; when they sang, "We don't have to worry about shit," an older couple nearby picked up their things and departed, clearly disgusted with such offensive language.
Hell, if they'd stuck around they'd have been appalled when Prabir started singing, "Roll one for me," since he wasn't talking about Easter eggs.
The band seemed to excel during the extended ship escape scene where their music perfectly mirrored the action onscreen.
Shostakovitch, who'd done the original score, would have been proud, assuming he could handle rock and roll.
I have to admit, I felt something stirring when the crew proudly raised the red flag of victory in a black and white movie.
The band got a standing ovation when the film ended with the squadron, which was supposed to stop the Potemkin, instead let them go and cheered on the rebel ship.
Goldrush had done the Potemkin proud and only offended a few people.
Well done, guys.
Since it was still early, I bid my fellow Potemkin-ite adieu and went up to Amuse to close out the night.
The dining room, which only an hour and half earlier had been scarcely a quarter full was now completely packed.
Horrors! I even had to wait for a seat at the bar.
In a stroke of random luck, it was the seat nearest the absinthe drip, so what could I do but order one?
The bartender inquired if I was still too full to eat again but it seemed as good a time as any for dessert.
Mocha java ice cream with maple cream, Merlot caramel and two oatmeal cookies, a recent addition to the menu, seemed like the way to go so I did.
Waiting for it to arrive, I took another look at the French photography show in the nearby hallway gallery.
Do people still kiss on the streets like they did in that classic 1950 Doisneau photograph? And, if not, shouldn't they/
Back at the bar, my dessert arrived and I dug in.
Nearby was a couple from the Northern Neck in town for the evening and we struck up a conversation about hour-old oysters, good restaurants on the Neck and sitting on the dock of the Rappahannock
The woman next to me, on the other hand, wanted to discuss classic vermouth (insisting I taste her Manhattan), San Quentin prison and the movie I'd just seen.
Next thing I knew, a beer rep I know was calling my name, having spotted me from across the room as she ate dinner.
She is convinced that eventually she can make a beer lover of me.
I have my doubts, but enjoyed meeting her new squeeze and hearing about the upcoming beer dinners she thinks I should attend.
I mean, be realistic. I just added absinthe to my wine and tequila-only repertoire last year after eons of drinking nothing else.
Fact is, I can't just jump on the suds bandwagon like that.
By the time they cleared out, it was time for me to go, too. It had, after all, been over five hours since I'd arrived at the VMFA and they were long closed.
Officially anyway.
As I walked out, the bartender called to me.
"First in, last out," she laughed.
Well, sure.
When I can get compliments, art, a terrific meal off a new menu, absinthe, a classic silent movie I've never seen and live music, I'll happily stay until the bitter end.
Or, more accurately, the better end.
Friday, April 6, 2012
A Bag and a View
The tag on the bag said it all. "Enjoy your lunch."
As if that were ever in doubt.
A sure sign that Spring has arrived is when Acacia does their first softshell-to-go lunch of the season and that day was today.
Before I could even place my order, I got an e-mail from a friend saying, "I'll order and pay if you pick up and deliver."
What poor writer would turn down that kind of offer?
So there I was pulling up to the curb at Acacia (they only give you a half hour to do so, although I was told the line had begun fifteen minutes beforehand) to grab and go.
Oh, but such grabbing!
A fried local softshell sandwich with curry slaw and cilantro mayo came with a creamy cucumber and pasta salad, all exactingly prepared by Chef Dale Reitzer this morning.
I hate to think how early he had to be in on a Friday to have our lunches ready but I loved the fact that he was willing to do so.
Even better, I was told that more bagged lunches are in the plans for this year than last and I enjoyed every one they did in 2011.
With bag in hand, I hightailed it to my friend's office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue to enjoy my second softshells of the year.
April is turning out to be a great month for crabs for the first time in my life.
Or anyone's, I'm willing to bet.
The perfectly fried velvet softshells and slaw were oozing out of the chewy baguette, making for messy and of-the-moment flavorful eating.
The creamy pasta salad was almost unnecessary given the girth of the sandwich. Almost, but not quite.
One change from last year was that there were no cookies to end the meal.
Instead, we admired the view out the windows of the preparations for Easter on Parade; a stage had been set up at the base of Traveler's hooves.
Friend told me had just ordered a print to hang next to the window's view; it's the vintage Dementi photograph of tobacco growing right up to the base of the Lee monument.
It should make for the picture-perfect accompaniment to today's sunny view.
Not that we needed anything other than the contents of the bag to follow the directive on it.
Rest assured, Acacia. Lunch enjoyed.
As if that were ever in doubt.
A sure sign that Spring has arrived is when Acacia does their first softshell-to-go lunch of the season and that day was today.
Before I could even place my order, I got an e-mail from a friend saying, "I'll order and pay if you pick up and deliver."
What poor writer would turn down that kind of offer?
So there I was pulling up to the curb at Acacia (they only give you a half hour to do so, although I was told the line had begun fifteen minutes beforehand) to grab and go.
Oh, but such grabbing!
A fried local softshell sandwich with curry slaw and cilantro mayo came with a creamy cucumber and pasta salad, all exactingly prepared by Chef Dale Reitzer this morning.
I hate to think how early he had to be in on a Friday to have our lunches ready but I loved the fact that he was willing to do so.
Even better, I was told that more bagged lunches are in the plans for this year than last and I enjoyed every one they did in 2011.
With bag in hand, I hightailed it to my friend's office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue to enjoy my second softshells of the year.
April is turning out to be a great month for crabs for the first time in my life.
Or anyone's, I'm willing to bet.
The perfectly fried velvet softshells and slaw were oozing out of the chewy baguette, making for messy and of-the-moment flavorful eating.
The creamy pasta salad was almost unnecessary given the girth of the sandwich. Almost, but not quite.
One change from last year was that there were no cookies to end the meal.
Instead, we admired the view out the windows of the preparations for Easter on Parade; a stage had been set up at the base of Traveler's hooves.
Friend told me had just ordered a print to hang next to the window's view; it's the vintage Dementi photograph of tobacco growing right up to the base of the Lee monument.
It should make for the picture-perfect accompaniment to today's sunny view.
Not that we needed anything other than the contents of the bag to follow the directive on it.
Rest assured, Acacia. Lunch enjoyed.
Prime Real Esate
Life is good when you're a ticket holder to a sold-out show.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Downstairs with the Dead
The dead people outnumbered the living four to one.
We were in the crypt underneath Monumental Church when it occurred to me how many more of them there were than us.
After a recent lecture at the Library of Virginia, here, I'd had a chance to sign up for a tour of the church built on the site of the Richmond Theater fire in 1811.
I'd always been curious driving by the building on Broad Street and here was my chance to see what it looked like from the inside.
When it was built in 1814, the congregation was shocked by its modernity (for the time) and keenly aware of how plain it looked.
And it still looks very unadorned with no ornamentation, no stained glass windows or elaborate sculpture.
As someone who grew up going to Catholic churches, it was downright stark. And lovely in its simplicity.
The color scheme of salmon walls, gray pews and a deep blue altar is original and based on paint analysis so I knew I was seeing the interior as it would have looked in the mid-19th century.
I found it fascinating that the congregation used only the east and west doors, except for at Easter when everyone entered through the front door.
Designed by Robert Mills, who also did the Washington Monument as well as several other octagonal buildings, the design incorporates all kinds of funerary and Egyptian symbols as a tribute to the theater dead.
Of course like any city project, the funding ran out so the steeple never got added and there's no statue in the portico.
But who needs a steeple when you have a crypt in the basement?
After a perilous walk down a narrow staircase, we were in a low-ceilinged, dirt-floored subterranean space with two mahogany caskets holding the charred remains of the 72 people who died at the theater that night in 1811.
The large bricked crypt didn't just hold the dead, though; it was also part of the foundation of the church.
Beams and joists sat atop the brick crypt to support the floor of the church above.
As I walked around the crypt, I was surprised to see a half dozen folding chairs in a semi-circle at the far end of it.
Seance, perhaps? It would be a convenient place to commune with the nearby dead, I would think.
There was also a door that connected to the infamous underground tunnels around Capital Square.
Our guide postulated that both insane patients from the hospital as well as sneaky politicians used the tunnels to move around out of sight.
On our way back upstairs I saw a small, old wooden box on a mantle labeled "Monumental Church Endowment Fund."
Perhaps dropping something in might have guaranteed me an invitation for the next seance.
We were in the crypt underneath Monumental Church when it occurred to me how many more of them there were than us.
After a recent lecture at the Library of Virginia, here, I'd had a chance to sign up for a tour of the church built on the site of the Richmond Theater fire in 1811.
I'd always been curious driving by the building on Broad Street and here was my chance to see what it looked like from the inside.
When it was built in 1814, the congregation was shocked by its modernity (for the time) and keenly aware of how plain it looked.
And it still looks very unadorned with no ornamentation, no stained glass windows or elaborate sculpture.
As someone who grew up going to Catholic churches, it was downright stark. And lovely in its simplicity.
The color scheme of salmon walls, gray pews and a deep blue altar is original and based on paint analysis so I knew I was seeing the interior as it would have looked in the mid-19th century.
I found it fascinating that the congregation used only the east and west doors, except for at Easter when everyone entered through the front door.
Designed by Robert Mills, who also did the Washington Monument as well as several other octagonal buildings, the design incorporates all kinds of funerary and Egyptian symbols as a tribute to the theater dead.
Of course like any city project, the funding ran out so the steeple never got added and there's no statue in the portico.
But who needs a steeple when you have a crypt in the basement?
After a perilous walk down a narrow staircase, we were in a low-ceilinged, dirt-floored subterranean space with two mahogany caskets holding the charred remains of the 72 people who died at the theater that night in 1811.
The large bricked crypt didn't just hold the dead, though; it was also part of the foundation of the church.
Beams and joists sat atop the brick crypt to support the floor of the church above.
As I walked around the crypt, I was surprised to see a half dozen folding chairs in a semi-circle at the far end of it.
Seance, perhaps? It would be a convenient place to commune with the nearby dead, I would think.
There was also a door that connected to the infamous underground tunnels around Capital Square.
Our guide postulated that both insane patients from the hospital as well as sneaky politicians used the tunnels to move around out of sight.
On our way back upstairs I saw a small, old wooden box on a mantle labeled "Monumental Church Endowment Fund."
Perhaps dropping something in might have guaranteed me an invitation for the next seance.
Welcome, Spring
Sometimes the best plan is no plan at all.
It was the rare evening with no performance, no place to be at a certain time, no must-do. A luxury, time-wise.
With the temperature hovering at ninety degrees, I headed to Bistro 27 to see what trouble I could find.
First off, a glass of happy hour $4 wine, namely my favorite Gavi to whet my whistle on a day that felt more June-like than April fourth.
Sitting at the bar was a handsome man I'd met at a birthday party last year and I was flattered when he remembered my name.
We were soon joined by another of my random acquaintances, this one an art-lover with a talent for musical theater whom I'd met at 27 last Fall.
He had the new "Style Weekly," so we discussed my piece on the billboard art project, essentially saving him the trouble of reading it by hearing even more about it in person.
Sadly, it's true; I can go on and on.
But luckily, he's an art lover, too, so we moved on from billboard art to French photography and promised that we'd meet up at the museum soon.
Then it was on to meet a fellow Roosevelt lover and go to dinner once we covered the subject of rankling.
We were both in the mood for my favorite Church Hill establishment, but less sure about arriving close to 8:00 and finding bar stools.
It worked out fine because the apparent combination of a very warm day and later light has distracted people from early dining.
Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris made for the ideal start because nothing says easy drinking summer wine like white pinot noir.
An appetizer special of scallop carpaccio with an apple radish slaw and bacon-lemon vinaigrette knocked our socks off with its delicately nuanced flavors and the silky mouthfeel of the scallops.
It was accompanied by rollicking New Orleans-style dance music that had my fellow eater commenting, "It's a good thing you don't dance."
And of course I do, I have, but not at the Roosevelt.
I can now say that Spring has officially arrived because of what I had for dinner tonight.
It was another special, this time an entree of a soft shelled crab with sausage, butterbeans and rice.
Oh, yes, it's the fourth day of April and I was eating both softshells and butterbeans.
I can safely say that I have never had either this early in the season. And yet both tasted like they were at peak perfection.
The sausage added some spice to the meaty and fork-tender crab and the enormous butterbeans were positively swoon-worthy.
Okay, maybe not for everybody, but as someone who didn't get butterbeans growing up (my mother thought they tasted like paste and refused to serve them to us), I still savor them every time I can get them.
They're such a big deal to me that part of my annual trek to the beach includes stopping for them at a roadside stand on the way down so that I can eat them all week long while I'm there.
When it came time for dessert, we were made an offer we couldn't refuse - new desserts on trial.
So in the interest of helping the Roosevelt critique some new sweet offerings, we graciously assented to trying out two of the new three.
The Tyler pie was a custard pie, delicately flavored and, according to my companion, much like a traditional Italian Easter cake.
All I know is that it would appeal to even a non-dessert lover and paired beautifully with King Family's Loreley.
As luck would have it, we got the last glass of Loreley, which necessitated a switch to King Family's Seven to pair with the pecan pie.
Made in the traditional Porto style with 100% Merlot and fortified with brandy, it made for the best pecan pie of my life.
Don't get me wrong, pecan pie is all well and good, but the combination of its dark richness and the depth of the Seven made my vote for the pecan pie a shoe-in.
As long, I was adamant about making clear, as they didn't take the coconut cake off the menu.
It's not just my love of coconut cake, but at this point that cake is practically a heritage item on the menu and needs to remain for the ages.
I mean, if you're going to ask my opinion on desserts, I'm going to have lots to say.
As opposed to any other time. Especially on a night where I didn't have anywhere to go or anything in particular to do.
It might be my new favorite plan.
It was the rare evening with no performance, no place to be at a certain time, no must-do. A luxury, time-wise.
With the temperature hovering at ninety degrees, I headed to Bistro 27 to see what trouble I could find.
First off, a glass of happy hour $4 wine, namely my favorite Gavi to whet my whistle on a day that felt more June-like than April fourth.
Sitting at the bar was a handsome man I'd met at a birthday party last year and I was flattered when he remembered my name.
We were soon joined by another of my random acquaintances, this one an art-lover with a talent for musical theater whom I'd met at 27 last Fall.
He had the new "Style Weekly," so we discussed my piece on the billboard art project, essentially saving him the trouble of reading it by hearing even more about it in person.
Sadly, it's true; I can go on and on.
But luckily, he's an art lover, too, so we moved on from billboard art to French photography and promised that we'd meet up at the museum soon.
Then it was on to meet a fellow Roosevelt lover and go to dinner once we covered the subject of rankling.
We were both in the mood for my favorite Church Hill establishment, but less sure about arriving close to 8:00 and finding bar stools.
It worked out fine because the apparent combination of a very warm day and later light has distracted people from early dining.
Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris made for the ideal start because nothing says easy drinking summer wine like white pinot noir.
An appetizer special of scallop carpaccio with an apple radish slaw and bacon-lemon vinaigrette knocked our socks off with its delicately nuanced flavors and the silky mouthfeel of the scallops.
It was accompanied by rollicking New Orleans-style dance music that had my fellow eater commenting, "It's a good thing you don't dance."
And of course I do, I have, but not at the Roosevelt.
I can now say that Spring has officially arrived because of what I had for dinner tonight.
It was another special, this time an entree of a soft shelled crab with sausage, butterbeans and rice.
Oh, yes, it's the fourth day of April and I was eating both softshells and butterbeans.
I can safely say that I have never had either this early in the season. And yet both tasted like they were at peak perfection.
The sausage added some spice to the meaty and fork-tender crab and the enormous butterbeans were positively swoon-worthy.
Okay, maybe not for everybody, but as someone who didn't get butterbeans growing up (my mother thought they tasted like paste and refused to serve them to us), I still savor them every time I can get them.
They're such a big deal to me that part of my annual trek to the beach includes stopping for them at a roadside stand on the way down so that I can eat them all week long while I'm there.
When it came time for dessert, we were made an offer we couldn't refuse - new desserts on trial.
So in the interest of helping the Roosevelt critique some new sweet offerings, we graciously assented to trying out two of the new three.
The Tyler pie was a custard pie, delicately flavored and, according to my companion, much like a traditional Italian Easter cake.
All I know is that it would appeal to even a non-dessert lover and paired beautifully with King Family's Loreley.
As luck would have it, we got the last glass of Loreley, which necessitated a switch to King Family's Seven to pair with the pecan pie.
Made in the traditional Porto style with 100% Merlot and fortified with brandy, it made for the best pecan pie of my life.
Don't get me wrong, pecan pie is all well and good, but the combination of its dark richness and the depth of the Seven made my vote for the pecan pie a shoe-in.
As long, I was adamant about making clear, as they didn't take the coconut cake off the menu.
It's not just my love of coconut cake, but at this point that cake is practically a heritage item on the menu and needs to remain for the ages.
I mean, if you're going to ask my opinion on desserts, I'm going to have lots to say.
As opposed to any other time. Especially on a night where I didn't have anywhere to go or anything in particular to do.
It might be my new favorite plan.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Never Soon Enough
Something old, something new, something sweet, something shot.
Hopefully it wasn't my backside.
Tonight was the inaugural food truck court at the Virginia Historical Society and I was curious enough to go see what it was all about.
Arriving right at the start time of 6:00, I was amazed at how many people were already there, including TV crews and photographers.
Oddly enough, it must have been a bad day for food trucks because two of the trucks were late due to mechanical issues.
In fact, the Boka truck had to be towed to the site, but they were set up and in business within five minutes.
That's dedication to the cart cause.
And the Dressed & Press truck didn't pull in for another twenty minutes.
Luckily, nobody was in a hurry, so a late arrival wasn't that big a deal.
Meanwhile I ran into a friend sporting facial hair for the first time in the fifteen years I've known him.
A charming couple I'd met at Amour spotted me and we chatted about late nights and easy walks.
I decided on the Boka truck and got in line only to notice that within minutes the line was most of the way across the parking lot.
With that many hungry people behind me, I quickly decided on a fish and pineapple salsa soft taco and an Asian beef taco.
Because the beauty of the Boka truck is that you can pick your ethnicity, Asian, Mexican or American.
As I waited for my food, another girl got hers and a photographer quickly approached her asking to take her smiling picture with her food.
When they called out my name, I responded with "Yo!" and needless to say, got it and beat feet for a picnic table so I wouldn't have to gulp and grin for the camera.
Only once I sat down and met the table's other occupants was I told that my picture had also been taken when I got my food.
Somehow I doubt they got my best side.
By the time I finished eating and talking to strangers, it was time to meet friends for a pre-Listening Room drink at the Camel.
Sipping my Sauza and chatting with my friend about her time in Albany (her comment about the hot guys there will go down in history as one of the funniest lines ever), we were surprised when the bartender approached us with a box of open Girl Scout cookies.
"Want a Samoa?" she inquired as if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer people cookies in a bar.
Not gonna lie, I had one and so did my friends.
Properly fortified with soft tacos, tequila and a Samoa, I adjourned to the Listening Room.
Our friendly substitute emcee Rob was gracious enough to thank those who'd provided baked goods, so I got to hear my name called out along with the others who'd done oven duty for the sake of feeding the the music lovers.
I was completely excited about the first band, Wes Swing, whom I'd seen at Balliceaux about a month ago.
Let's see, there was so much to love. Cello plucked and bowed, upright bass, male and female vocals, looping of said cello and beautiful, literate songs that I didn't want to end.
As a friend noted after their set, "That may be my favorite Listening Room band ever."
She didn't have to sing their praises to me; I'd walked into the room a fan.
One song was based on a poem by Ezra Pound and the last, "Lullabye" romantically crooned, "I can't sleep tonight without you."
Favorite lyric: "And are we soon enough?"
I could sigh just thinking about it.
Up second was Ramona Robbins who began by playing a few songs accompanied by her guitar before moving to the piano.
Her voice was much easier to hear over the piano and those of her songs that leaned toward jazz benefited from the keyboard.
After her set, Rob noted that her pop leanings made for a different sound than what we usually hear at the Listening Room.
It was a valid point because while there have been a fair number of female singers who've performed, few have played the piano, so her girl-on-keyboards sound was something different.
We don't get a lot of Regina Spektor types performing at the Listening Room.
During the break I got all kinds of compliments on the chocolate caramel cookies I'd brought. You'd have thought I'd brought something really good like Samoas.
Last up was Stivali Comodi, a trio of two guys on guitar and a girl on banjo and cello with each taking lead vocals on different songs.
When someone asked about the meaning of the band's name, one member suggested we go home and ask Mr. Google before the girl said that it apparently translates as "loose-fitting boots."
Because each of their voices was so different, there was a completely different feel to each song.
Throughout their set, I'd been curious about what looked like a white toy piano in front of one of the guitarists.
He finally played it for the last song but instead of the "plink, plink, plink" I expected to hear, what we got instead was more of a harmonium sound.
It was a fitting way to end Listening Room number 28.
Wow, twenty eight shows. Time flies when you're hearing good music.
And eating cookies.
Hopefully it wasn't my backside.
Tonight was the inaugural food truck court at the Virginia Historical Society and I was curious enough to go see what it was all about.
Arriving right at the start time of 6:00, I was amazed at how many people were already there, including TV crews and photographers.
Oddly enough, it must have been a bad day for food trucks because two of the trucks were late due to mechanical issues.
In fact, the Boka truck had to be towed to the site, but they were set up and in business within five minutes.
That's dedication to the cart cause.
And the Dressed & Press truck didn't pull in for another twenty minutes.
Luckily, nobody was in a hurry, so a late arrival wasn't that big a deal.
Meanwhile I ran into a friend sporting facial hair for the first time in the fifteen years I've known him.
A charming couple I'd met at Amour spotted me and we chatted about late nights and easy walks.
I decided on the Boka truck and got in line only to notice that within minutes the line was most of the way across the parking lot.
With that many hungry people behind me, I quickly decided on a fish and pineapple salsa soft taco and an Asian beef taco.
Because the beauty of the Boka truck is that you can pick your ethnicity, Asian, Mexican or American.
As I waited for my food, another girl got hers and a photographer quickly approached her asking to take her smiling picture with her food.
When they called out my name, I responded with "Yo!" and needless to say, got it and beat feet for a picnic table so I wouldn't have to gulp and grin for the camera.
Only once I sat down and met the table's other occupants was I told that my picture had also been taken when I got my food.
Somehow I doubt they got my best side.
By the time I finished eating and talking to strangers, it was time to meet friends for a pre-Listening Room drink at the Camel.
Sipping my Sauza and chatting with my friend about her time in Albany (her comment about the hot guys there will go down in history as one of the funniest lines ever), we were surprised when the bartender approached us with a box of open Girl Scout cookies.
"Want a Samoa?" she inquired as if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer people cookies in a bar.
Not gonna lie, I had one and so did my friends.
Properly fortified with soft tacos, tequila and a Samoa, I adjourned to the Listening Room.
Our friendly substitute emcee Rob was gracious enough to thank those who'd provided baked goods, so I got to hear my name called out along with the others who'd done oven duty for the sake of feeding the the music lovers.
I was completely excited about the first band, Wes Swing, whom I'd seen at Balliceaux about a month ago.
Let's see, there was so much to love. Cello plucked and bowed, upright bass, male and female vocals, looping of said cello and beautiful, literate songs that I didn't want to end.
As a friend noted after their set, "That may be my favorite Listening Room band ever."
She didn't have to sing their praises to me; I'd walked into the room a fan.
One song was based on a poem by Ezra Pound and the last, "Lullabye" romantically crooned, "I can't sleep tonight without you."
Favorite lyric: "And are we soon enough?"
I could sigh just thinking about it.
Up second was Ramona Robbins who began by playing a few songs accompanied by her guitar before moving to the piano.
Her voice was much easier to hear over the piano and those of her songs that leaned toward jazz benefited from the keyboard.
After her set, Rob noted that her pop leanings made for a different sound than what we usually hear at the Listening Room.
It was a valid point because while there have been a fair number of female singers who've performed, few have played the piano, so her girl-on-keyboards sound was something different.
We don't get a lot of Regina Spektor types performing at the Listening Room.
During the break I got all kinds of compliments on the chocolate caramel cookies I'd brought. You'd have thought I'd brought something really good like Samoas.
Last up was Stivali Comodi, a trio of two guys on guitar and a girl on banjo and cello with each taking lead vocals on different songs.
When someone asked about the meaning of the band's name, one member suggested we go home and ask Mr. Google before the girl said that it apparently translates as "loose-fitting boots."
Because each of their voices was so different, there was a completely different feel to each song.
Throughout their set, I'd been curious about what looked like a white toy piano in front of one of the guitarists.
He finally played it for the last song but instead of the "plink, plink, plink" I expected to hear, what we got instead was more of a harmonium sound.
It was a fitting way to end Listening Room number 28.
Wow, twenty eight shows. Time flies when you're hearing good music.
And eating cookies.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Pilgrimage to Virtue and Back
"Much virtue in herbs, Little in men."~ kitchen trivet in my childhood home
No camera, no fanny pack, but still playing tourist today.
The afternoon began with our Richmond visitors helping support the educational mission of the Smithsonian Institution.
Translation: we started with lunch in the courtyard cafe of the National Portrait Gallery/Museum of American Art and that's what our receipt said we were doing.
It wasn't about the food; we availed ourselves of an extensive salad bar, loading on every marinated combination we could find (peppers, Mozzarella, tomatoes, artichokes).
It was a little about the tradition; childhood trips to the National Gallery often involved lunch in their museum cafe, unappealing as it was. In the best childhood tradition, we also finished with chocolate pudding today, a museum cafeteria standard if ever there was one.
It was mostly about the Kogod Courtyard that connects the two museums with its soaring elegant glass canopy.
Sitting in that huge courtyard under sunlight filtered through a curved glass roof is a unique pleasure. Nearby less than an inch of water runs over a slate section of the floor, making for a delightful sound and the world's shallowest public fountain.
At least until a nearby diner's phone rang.
"We're in Washington," the very portly and conservative man in the red sweater explained. "We spent the morning at the Spy Museum. Ask me anything."
Okay, how come you think it's polite to have a loud conversation one table from us while we're trying to enjoy our midday meal?
From there we went to see "Annie Leibovitz: Pilgrimage,' a departure from her usual photographs of people.
Instead she had captured the essence of famous dead people through their things.
Things like photos of Freud's couch. Emily Dickinson's herb pressings and stuffed birds (a little distasteful honestly).
Virginia Woolf's stained desk (her husband Leonard having said it was "not merely untidy but squalid"). Thoreau's bed frame. Emerson's books.
Not dead exactly, but positively riveting were photographs of "Spiral Jetty: Great Salt Lake," an earthwork created by Smithson.
The curlicue of earthworks was a thing of beauty and even more notable because shortly after he finished it in 1970, the water rose and covered it for thirty years.
When it re-emerged, Leibovitz took pictures of it but now it's completely submerged again.
The wonder of that has returned to me any number of times since we left that gallery.
Leaving the show, I considered what objects might make good photographic subjects to depict a departed one's life.
"In Vibrant Color: Vintage Celebrity Portraits from the Warnecke Studio" had early color photographs of military, sports, music and Hollywood stars.
Probably the most beautiful was one of Lucille Ball at age 33; she is lovely, colorful and impossibly young.
Orson Welles, Roy Rogers (with his pants pulled up practically to his armpits) and Louis Armstrong all looked to be in their prime.
The overly saturated colors were a testament to the multi-step process before color film was in common use and gave a vintage "Life" Magazine quality to them.
We breezed through the Presidents exhibit, stopping long enough to appreciate some particularly outstanding Presidential portraits.
Abstract expressionist Elaine (not Willem) de Kooning's depiction of JFK is full of chaotic green brushstrokes and a face that couldn't be more handsome (leave it to a woman).
Norman Rockwell's "Nixon" somehow makes him look like a laid-back and congenial Chief of Staff. It was no surprise to read that the artist intentionally flattered the beleaguered President in the work.
Clinton had been done by Chuck Close, so I had last year's VMFA show of Close works as a familiar reference for the many-faceted face of Bill.
I was especially taken by Oliphant's bronze of "George H.W. Bush as a Horseshoe Player." With its attenuated limbs, hapless look and obvious modeling, it could have been a Giacometti.
And who knew the world's biggest political cartoonist was also a sculptor? Not this art geek.
Last but not least was the morbidly fascinating "Memories Arrested in Space, a Centennial tribute to Jackson Pollock."
Gathered together were letters to the artists, a telegrams telling him he'd sold his first painting, a program from his first exhibition and loads of black and white pictures.
Considering the name recognition of Pollock, it's easy to forget his career from first to last exhibition was a mere twelve years.
I'm just not sure it's worth it to burn so brightly for such a short time. I think I'll take less talent over a longer less turbulent period.
To avoid the turbulence of 95-South, we opted for dinner at Alexandria s Virtue Feed & Grain ("A loud fun bar" the menu calls itself) in the old Olsson's Books and Music.
I'd chosen it for its Restaurant Eve connection as well as the menu section devoted to "Weird Stuff."
Naturally weird stuff was the first thing I ordered.
Crubeens, the Irish street food made of boiled down pig's feet with mirepoix, was crispy on the outside and full of gummy pig goodness inside.
Set on top of a house made whole grain creamy mustard, the rich trotter meat benefited from its contrasting condiment.
The Irish-themed menu next delivered Irish pigs in a blanket, meaning bangers in a pastry crust ("About the size of a Hotpocket," our friendly bartender informed us and he looked like he knew Hotpockets well).
One bite of the crust's buttery flakiness and I had to think there was a pastry chef involved.
Don't get me wrong, I love all sausage and that includes bangers, but that crust was a work of art.
Cockels and mussels ("Alive, alive-o!") arrived in a butter sauce so rich it was obscene.
It also required a bread basket to absorb it with once all the fruit de mer disappeared.
Besides, the O'Donnell half of me was reveling in being in a place with Irish-style food of the highest order.
Everyone in my party was thoroughly impressed with the music at Virtue, too; Pinback, Band of Horses, the XX and even a Dr. Dog cover of an Architecture in Helsinki song made for a stellar soundtrack atypical for a restaurant.
The Sweet Fix of the day was a chocolate creme pie with strawberry Chantilly and jam, sort of a an upscale cousin to our lunch's trailer trash chocolate pudding.
The enormous and thick slice of pie contained a creme filling with so much butterfat that it bordered on non-frozen gelato.
The Chantilly's flavored creaminess was the only delicate part of this dense and dark dessert. And we were fine with that.
"Goodness and mercy will follow," the menu said at the bottom and what I think they meant was goodness will be served and mercy on your arteries will follow if you don't eat at Virtue too often.
I think mine are safe; it's a little out of my usual dining territory.
When we finally waddled out, we were feeling highly satisfied if not overly virtuous.
Maybe it's time for a trivet more relevant than my Mom's.
"Much virtue in butter, Irish food and some men. Little in moderation or restraint."
There's the object that can be photographed to represent me when I'm gone.
No camera, no fanny pack, but still playing tourist today.
The afternoon began with our Richmond visitors helping support the educational mission of the Smithsonian Institution.
Translation: we started with lunch in the courtyard cafe of the National Portrait Gallery/Museum of American Art and that's what our receipt said we were doing.
It wasn't about the food; we availed ourselves of an extensive salad bar, loading on every marinated combination we could find (peppers, Mozzarella, tomatoes, artichokes).
It was a little about the tradition; childhood trips to the National Gallery often involved lunch in their museum cafe, unappealing as it was. In the best childhood tradition, we also finished with chocolate pudding today, a museum cafeteria standard if ever there was one.
It was mostly about the Kogod Courtyard that connects the two museums with its soaring elegant glass canopy.
Sitting in that huge courtyard under sunlight filtered through a curved glass roof is a unique pleasure. Nearby less than an inch of water runs over a slate section of the floor, making for a delightful sound and the world's shallowest public fountain.
At least until a nearby diner's phone rang.
"We're in Washington," the very portly and conservative man in the red sweater explained. "We spent the morning at the Spy Museum. Ask me anything."
Okay, how come you think it's polite to have a loud conversation one table from us while we're trying to enjoy our midday meal?
From there we went to see "Annie Leibovitz: Pilgrimage,' a departure from her usual photographs of people.
Instead she had captured the essence of famous dead people through their things.
Things like photos of Freud's couch. Emily Dickinson's herb pressings and stuffed birds (a little distasteful honestly).
Virginia Woolf's stained desk (her husband Leonard having said it was "not merely untidy but squalid"). Thoreau's bed frame. Emerson's books.
Not dead exactly, but positively riveting were photographs of "Spiral Jetty: Great Salt Lake," an earthwork created by Smithson.
The curlicue of earthworks was a thing of beauty and even more notable because shortly after he finished it in 1970, the water rose and covered it for thirty years.
When it re-emerged, Leibovitz took pictures of it but now it's completely submerged again.
The wonder of that has returned to me any number of times since we left that gallery.
Leaving the show, I considered what objects might make good photographic subjects to depict a departed one's life.
"In Vibrant Color: Vintage Celebrity Portraits from the Warnecke Studio" had early color photographs of military, sports, music and Hollywood stars.
Probably the most beautiful was one of Lucille Ball at age 33; she is lovely, colorful and impossibly young.
Orson Welles, Roy Rogers (with his pants pulled up practically to his armpits) and Louis Armstrong all looked to be in their prime.
The overly saturated colors were a testament to the multi-step process before color film was in common use and gave a vintage "Life" Magazine quality to them.
We breezed through the Presidents exhibit, stopping long enough to appreciate some particularly outstanding Presidential portraits.
Abstract expressionist Elaine (not Willem) de Kooning's depiction of JFK is full of chaotic green brushstrokes and a face that couldn't be more handsome (leave it to a woman).
Norman Rockwell's "Nixon" somehow makes him look like a laid-back and congenial Chief of Staff. It was no surprise to read that the artist intentionally flattered the beleaguered President in the work.
Clinton had been done by Chuck Close, so I had last year's VMFA show of Close works as a familiar reference for the many-faceted face of Bill.
I was especially taken by Oliphant's bronze of "George H.W. Bush as a Horseshoe Player." With its attenuated limbs, hapless look and obvious modeling, it could have been a Giacometti.
And who knew the world's biggest political cartoonist was also a sculptor? Not this art geek.
Last but not least was the morbidly fascinating "Memories Arrested in Space, a Centennial tribute to Jackson Pollock."
Gathered together were letters to the artists, a telegrams telling him he'd sold his first painting, a program from his first exhibition and loads of black and white pictures.
Considering the name recognition of Pollock, it's easy to forget his career from first to last exhibition was a mere twelve years.
I'm just not sure it's worth it to burn so brightly for such a short time. I think I'll take less talent over a longer less turbulent period.
To avoid the turbulence of 95-South, we opted for dinner at Alexandria s Virtue Feed & Grain ("A loud fun bar" the menu calls itself) in the old Olsson's Books and Music.
I'd chosen it for its Restaurant Eve connection as well as the menu section devoted to "Weird Stuff."
Naturally weird stuff was the first thing I ordered.
Crubeens, the Irish street food made of boiled down pig's feet with mirepoix, was crispy on the outside and full of gummy pig goodness inside.
Set on top of a house made whole grain creamy mustard, the rich trotter meat benefited from its contrasting condiment.
The Irish-themed menu next delivered Irish pigs in a blanket, meaning bangers in a pastry crust ("About the size of a Hotpocket," our friendly bartender informed us and he looked like he knew Hotpockets well).
One bite of the crust's buttery flakiness and I had to think there was a pastry chef involved.
Don't get me wrong, I love all sausage and that includes bangers, but that crust was a work of art.
Cockels and mussels ("Alive, alive-o!") arrived in a butter sauce so rich it was obscene.
It also required a bread basket to absorb it with once all the fruit de mer disappeared.
Besides, the O'Donnell half of me was reveling in being in a place with Irish-style food of the highest order.
Everyone in my party was thoroughly impressed with the music at Virtue, too; Pinback, Band of Horses, the XX and even a Dr. Dog cover of an Architecture in Helsinki song made for a stellar soundtrack atypical for a restaurant.
The Sweet Fix of the day was a chocolate creme pie with strawberry Chantilly and jam, sort of a an upscale cousin to our lunch's trailer trash chocolate pudding.
The enormous and thick slice of pie contained a creme filling with so much butterfat that it bordered on non-frozen gelato.
The Chantilly's flavored creaminess was the only delicate part of this dense and dark dessert. And we were fine with that.
"Goodness and mercy will follow," the menu said at the bottom and what I think they meant was goodness will be served and mercy on your arteries will follow if you don't eat at Virtue too often.
I think mine are safe; it's a little out of my usual dining territory.
When we finally waddled out, we were feeling highly satisfied if not overly virtuous.
Maybe it's time for a trivet more relevant than my Mom's.
"Much virtue in butter, Irish food and some men. Little in moderation or restraint."
There's the object that can be photographed to represent me when I'm gone.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Song 1 in the Mist
The best reason to be back in my hometown is for no reason at all.
A couple of days in D.C. is reason enough to find things I want to do and drag a willing accomplice along.
Arriving late in the afternoon, the easy default was to go to the National Gallery to see "Picasso's Drawings: 1890-192, Reinventing Tradition."
As a companion piece for last year's VMFA Picasso show, it too traced the development of his career, but with nothing but drawings.
One done at age nine and another at age eleven were mesmerizing for his facility at such tender ages.
Most fascinating was seeing how the artist easily demonstrated his competence in everyone else's style. It was like Ryan Adams" "Rick and Roll," a way for the artist to demonstrate he could do any style he chose.
An attenuated figure of a man was pure Aubrey Beasley. A drawing of a dancer screamed Toulouse Lautrec.
But it was the one done in the style of Paul Gauguin that was not only an homage to the former banker, but a tribute to one of Picasso's heroes.
So much so that he actually signed it "Paul Picasso" in a nod to Gauguin. Now it's hard to conceive of the egotist Picasso being so worshipful.
My favorite was "Young Man with Arms Crossed," a gouache and charcoal from 1899-1900, striking to me for the handsome and direct gaze of the subject.
The man's black suit was loosely sketched, barely filled in with lines to suggest the texture of the suit, but irrelevant given the compelling stare that drew this viewer back to his face time and time again.
I got to enjoy a moment of civic pride at seeing "Woman in Kerchief," on loan from our own VMFA and a beautiful image.
From there it was upstairs to see "Civic Pride: Group Portraits from Amsterdam," two large scale works of city fathers done thirteen years apart.
In the earlier image, the old men portrayed in an unadorned, dark hall were serious, sedate and conveyed their ability to make wise decisions.
Fast forward and the new crop of leaders were younger, clearly drinking and far more concerned with conviviality than the business of a city.
Oyster shells littered the floor even as scullery maids brought in platters of more. Nearly everyone has an adult beverage and smiles abound.
What a difference a few years make in now powerful men wanted themselves depicted.
We decided to depict ourselves eating and drinking as well, heading to Palena Cafe for dinner.
Despite a reservation, we let the personable host be the bad guy and rearrange bar sitters so we could have seats at the bar and began with Dutour Chinon Rose "Cuvee Marie Justine."
Sunday night means the Sunday menu (starters, pastas, pizzas and sides) and while I am no pasta lover, that's right where I went.
Tagliatelle a duo guancia promised two kinds of cheeks in a ragout over Neapolitan pasta (also sold in the adjoining Palena Market) and before I could even order it, my companion drolly observed that "Of course you're going to get the most disgusting thing on the menu."
The bartender immediately corrected him, saying, "It's the best thing on the menu" and once he tasted it, agreed that it was an earthy and yet otherworldly dish.
I got to taste his linguine with rock shrimp, Calabrian chilis and lemon bread crumbs, perfectly al dente
and with delicately nuanced flavor, but certainly no cheeks.
The Calabrian chilis also showed up as part of the rapini, providing a new twist on greens.
We finished with a chocolate meringue torte with a red wine reduction that I would kill to see on a Richmond dessert menu.
The sweetness of the brown sugar meringue was the ideal foil for the bittersweet torte, making the whipped cream superfluous, and the deep flavor of the red wine reduction could have been mistaken for a mature fruit coulis.
We paired it with a 2008 Domaine Perroud Brouilli because beaujolais seemed up to the task of standing up to such a stellar sweet.
For the record,I intend to sing the praises of that dessert to everyone I know who wields a pastry brush or egg white whisk.
Not much could have topped such a lovely meal, but we managed to do so anyway.
No surprise, it was with more art.
The Hirshhorn's new installation is a 360-degree projection by Doug Aitken that shows on the exterior of the cylindrical building from sunset to midnight.
Blending visuals of people singing, driving, working and playing cards, they are set to the classic song "I Only Have Eyes for You" sung by all kinds of singers.
Beck, Devendra Banhart, James Murphy, John Legend, the list of people who sing a few bars of the iconic song is all over the place.
There was a light rain falling when we arrived, so we took an umbrella and began the process of seeing Aitken's "Song 1."
The pleasures of it were myriad; walking through the bricked paths of the sculpture garden afforded new impressions of it with every step.
Sometimes trees were silhouetted against the moving images and sometimes grand sculptures between the viewer and the film combined.
The speakers, we noticed, were positioned well and being played at a far greater volume than even a music lover could have dared wish for.
It was never too loud and yet there was a distinct pleasure to walking away from one speaker only to begin hearing the next.
We watched from across the street, from under trees and projectors, from bricked corners and stairs and remained constantly engaged.
Perhaps it was being in the bubble of the umbrella as raindrops fell on the fragrant garden around us.
Perhaps it was the choice of song, so much an American standard that it could be heard continuously for an hour, albeit by different voices, without ever growing tired of it.
Perhaps it was having the right company for such a meandering day.
Perhaps it was the discussion: was the song meant to be sung to the beloved or sung to the heavens about the beloved?
I'm not even sure the "why" matters.
It was enough being in my hometown on a beautiful damp spring night full of cheeks, chocolate and wine and listening to one of the most beautiful love songs of the past century in a sculpture garden.
To be clear, I still don't want to move back.
But with cities, as with people, it's always satisfying to remember why I fell in love with it in the first place.
Oh, yes. I remember.
A couple of days in D.C. is reason enough to find things I want to do and drag a willing accomplice along.
Arriving late in the afternoon, the easy default was to go to the National Gallery to see "Picasso's Drawings: 1890-192, Reinventing Tradition."
As a companion piece for last year's VMFA Picasso show, it too traced the development of his career, but with nothing but drawings.
One done at age nine and another at age eleven were mesmerizing for his facility at such tender ages.
Most fascinating was seeing how the artist easily demonstrated his competence in everyone else's style. It was like Ryan Adams" "Rick and Roll," a way for the artist to demonstrate he could do any style he chose.
An attenuated figure of a man was pure Aubrey Beasley. A drawing of a dancer screamed Toulouse Lautrec.
But it was the one done in the style of Paul Gauguin that was not only an homage to the former banker, but a tribute to one of Picasso's heroes.
So much so that he actually signed it "Paul Picasso" in a nod to Gauguin. Now it's hard to conceive of the egotist Picasso being so worshipful.
My favorite was "Young Man with Arms Crossed," a gouache and charcoal from 1899-1900, striking to me for the handsome and direct gaze of the subject.
The man's black suit was loosely sketched, barely filled in with lines to suggest the texture of the suit, but irrelevant given the compelling stare that drew this viewer back to his face time and time again.
I got to enjoy a moment of civic pride at seeing "Woman in Kerchief," on loan from our own VMFA and a beautiful image.
From there it was upstairs to see "Civic Pride: Group Portraits from Amsterdam," two large scale works of city fathers done thirteen years apart.
In the earlier image, the old men portrayed in an unadorned, dark hall were serious, sedate and conveyed their ability to make wise decisions.
Fast forward and the new crop of leaders were younger, clearly drinking and far more concerned with conviviality than the business of a city.
Oyster shells littered the floor even as scullery maids brought in platters of more. Nearly everyone has an adult beverage and smiles abound.
What a difference a few years make in now powerful men wanted themselves depicted.
We decided to depict ourselves eating and drinking as well, heading to Palena Cafe for dinner.
Despite a reservation, we let the personable host be the bad guy and rearrange bar sitters so we could have seats at the bar and began with Dutour Chinon Rose "Cuvee Marie Justine."
Sunday night means the Sunday menu (starters, pastas, pizzas and sides) and while I am no pasta lover, that's right where I went.
Tagliatelle a duo guancia promised two kinds of cheeks in a ragout over Neapolitan pasta (also sold in the adjoining Palena Market) and before I could even order it, my companion drolly observed that "Of course you're going to get the most disgusting thing on the menu."
The bartender immediately corrected him, saying, "It's the best thing on the menu" and once he tasted it, agreed that it was an earthy and yet otherworldly dish.
I got to taste his linguine with rock shrimp, Calabrian chilis and lemon bread crumbs, perfectly al dente
and with delicately nuanced flavor, but certainly no cheeks.
The Calabrian chilis also showed up as part of the rapini, providing a new twist on greens.
We finished with a chocolate meringue torte with a red wine reduction that I would kill to see on a Richmond dessert menu.
The sweetness of the brown sugar meringue was the ideal foil for the bittersweet torte, making the whipped cream superfluous, and the deep flavor of the red wine reduction could have been mistaken for a mature fruit coulis.
We paired it with a 2008 Domaine Perroud Brouilli because beaujolais seemed up to the task of standing up to such a stellar sweet.
For the record,I intend to sing the praises of that dessert to everyone I know who wields a pastry brush or egg white whisk.
Not much could have topped such a lovely meal, but we managed to do so anyway.
No surprise, it was with more art.
The Hirshhorn's new installation is a 360-degree projection by Doug Aitken that shows on the exterior of the cylindrical building from sunset to midnight.
Blending visuals of people singing, driving, working and playing cards, they are set to the classic song "I Only Have Eyes for You" sung by all kinds of singers.
Beck, Devendra Banhart, James Murphy, John Legend, the list of people who sing a few bars of the iconic song is all over the place.
There was a light rain falling when we arrived, so we took an umbrella and began the process of seeing Aitken's "Song 1."
The pleasures of it were myriad; walking through the bricked paths of the sculpture garden afforded new impressions of it with every step.
Sometimes trees were silhouetted against the moving images and sometimes grand sculptures between the viewer and the film combined.
The speakers, we noticed, were positioned well and being played at a far greater volume than even a music lover could have dared wish for.
It was never too loud and yet there was a distinct pleasure to walking away from one speaker only to begin hearing the next.
We watched from across the street, from under trees and projectors, from bricked corners and stairs and remained constantly engaged.
Perhaps it was being in the bubble of the umbrella as raindrops fell on the fragrant garden around us.
Perhaps it was the choice of song, so much an American standard that it could be heard continuously for an hour, albeit by different voices, without ever growing tired of it.
Perhaps it was having the right company for such a meandering day.
Perhaps it was the discussion: was the song meant to be sung to the beloved or sung to the heavens about the beloved?
I'm not even sure the "why" matters.
It was enough being in my hometown on a beautiful damp spring night full of cheeks, chocolate and wine and listening to one of the most beautiful love songs of the past century in a sculpture garden.
To be clear, I still don't want to move back.
But with cities, as with people, it's always satisfying to remember why I fell in love with it in the first place.
Oh, yes. I remember.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Absurdist Take
You have to be a true literary nerd and film geek to see a 10:00 screening on a Saturday night of a film about Camus.
Let's just go ahead and say I'm both.
Before I showed my true colors, though, I walked the red carpet with a most urbane girlfriend to mingle with the French and French-minded.
As an added bonus, the French Film Festival reception was held at the Scott House, meaning I got to satisfy my passion for architecture, too.
An imposing American Renaissance structure on Franklin Street, and one I'd never set foot in, I found it notable for the fact that every room had been designed in a different style.
As if that alone doesn't connote big money, a typical radiator cover had marble on the top and ornate pilasters on the side.
But I wasn't there for an architectural tour (sadly) but food, wine and good company, and I got them all.
The food came from any number of expected restaurants (Bistro Bobette, Amour Wine Bistro, Jean Jacques Bakery) and any number of head-scratching ones (Weezie's Kitchen, Millie's).
Bobette was doing buckwheat crepes with ham and Gruyere, so I kissed the chef European-style and walked away with a hot crepe.
Amour had their Tartelette Flambee, Belle Vie was doing veal meatballs and, inexplicably, Millie's was doing pork tacos.
We made the rounds of the endless rooms of food and drink while admiring ornate staircases, stained glass windows and hand-carved moldings.
Dessert came from Pearl's Cupcakes and Michel Ciuizel Chocolates, where we tried the tiniest mousses.
A multi-layered table in the back room was a monument to cheese with a dozen kinds surrounded by fruit of all kinds.
I'm not going to lie; we lingered there a while, enjoying just about every one.
Once sated, we left the madding crowds, photographers and French speakers for the Byrd Theatre and more of the same.
Waiting for the rest of the audience to be seated, a very tall Frenchman chose the row right in front of us.
Smiling, he said, "I don't want to disturb you, so I will sit here," gesturing at the seat in front of the empty seat next to me.
"Is okay?" he inquired in his accented voice, turning in his seat to ask. "My wife will sit here," pointing to the seat in front of me. "She is short."
She soon arrived and then an older white-haired American woman asked if she could take the remaining aisle seat.
I was immediately charmed by her friendliness to the French couple, her dangling rhinestone earrings and especially when she pulled out her lipstick and mirror and began applying pink.
She may not have had a date on this Saturday night, but she was looking good and enjoying herself anyway.
My kind of a woman.
Actor Stephane Freiss, the star of "Camus" introduced the film, saying, "They asked me to say two or three words. Have a good projection! I guess that's four."
The story of the Nobel Prize-winning author's last ten years was told through the eyes of the women with whom he was involved.
And, frankly my dear, nothing interests me quite like a woman's take on a man.
The story moved through his damaged marriage, multiple affairs ("She gives herself in ways I've never seen before") and a passion to his Algerian roots and their struggle for freedom.
Of course the dialog was stellar; we're talking about the words of a man who gained fame for his words.
"Traitors ares what they call those who are true to themselves," he explains.
Despite how very tired I was after last night's ridiculously short horizontal period, I was caught up in the story of the second youngest Nobel winner for literature (Kipling had been a few years younger) who died unexpectedly young in a car crash three years later.
No doubt leaving behind all kinds of women to mourn his passing, each for different reasons. And I think he would have been okay with that.
He may not have been perfect, but he seemed to have carved out a life measured by integrity, humanity and love.
An absurdist or not, he knew how basic that was.
"But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?" Camus famously asked.
Indeed.
That's certainly the definition of this woman's happiness.
Let's just go ahead and say I'm both.
Before I showed my true colors, though, I walked the red carpet with a most urbane girlfriend to mingle with the French and French-minded.
As an added bonus, the French Film Festival reception was held at the Scott House, meaning I got to satisfy my passion for architecture, too.
An imposing American Renaissance structure on Franklin Street, and one I'd never set foot in, I found it notable for the fact that every room had been designed in a different style.
As if that alone doesn't connote big money, a typical radiator cover had marble on the top and ornate pilasters on the side.
But I wasn't there for an architectural tour (sadly) but food, wine and good company, and I got them all.
The food came from any number of expected restaurants (Bistro Bobette, Amour Wine Bistro, Jean Jacques Bakery) and any number of head-scratching ones (Weezie's Kitchen, Millie's).
Bobette was doing buckwheat crepes with ham and Gruyere, so I kissed the chef European-style and walked away with a hot crepe.
Amour had their Tartelette Flambee, Belle Vie was doing veal meatballs and, inexplicably, Millie's was doing pork tacos.
We made the rounds of the endless rooms of food and drink while admiring ornate staircases, stained glass windows and hand-carved moldings.
Dessert came from Pearl's Cupcakes and Michel Ciuizel Chocolates, where we tried the tiniest mousses.
A multi-layered table in the back room was a monument to cheese with a dozen kinds surrounded by fruit of all kinds.
I'm not going to lie; we lingered there a while, enjoying just about every one.
Once sated, we left the madding crowds, photographers and French speakers for the Byrd Theatre and more of the same.
Waiting for the rest of the audience to be seated, a very tall Frenchman chose the row right in front of us.
Smiling, he said, "I don't want to disturb you, so I will sit here," gesturing at the seat in front of the empty seat next to me.
"Is okay?" he inquired in his accented voice, turning in his seat to ask. "My wife will sit here," pointing to the seat in front of me. "She is short."
She soon arrived and then an older white-haired American woman asked if she could take the remaining aisle seat.
I was immediately charmed by her friendliness to the French couple, her dangling rhinestone earrings and especially when she pulled out her lipstick and mirror and began applying pink.
She may not have had a date on this Saturday night, but she was looking good and enjoying herself anyway.
My kind of a woman.
Actor Stephane Freiss, the star of "Camus" introduced the film, saying, "They asked me to say two or three words. Have a good projection! I guess that's four."
The story of the Nobel Prize-winning author's last ten years was told through the eyes of the women with whom he was involved.
And, frankly my dear, nothing interests me quite like a woman's take on a man.
The story moved through his damaged marriage, multiple affairs ("She gives herself in ways I've never seen before") and a passion to his Algerian roots and their struggle for freedom.
Of course the dialog was stellar; we're talking about the words of a man who gained fame for his words.
"Traitors ares what they call those who are true to themselves," he explains.
Despite how very tired I was after last night's ridiculously short horizontal period, I was caught up in the story of the second youngest Nobel winner for literature (Kipling had been a few years younger) who died unexpectedly young in a car crash three years later.
No doubt leaving behind all kinds of women to mourn his passing, each for different reasons. And I think he would have been okay with that.
He may not have been perfect, but he seemed to have carved out a life measured by integrity, humanity and love.
An absurdist or not, he knew how basic that was.
"But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?" Camus famously asked.
Indeed.
That's certainly the definition of this woman's happiness.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Dead Love
The only sure thing at the French Film Festival besides interesting films is the waiting.
In my experience, screenings never start on time and this afternoon's was no exception.
Arriving at 12:30 for a 1:00 film, I was dubbed "line leader" and the lively group that fell in behind me addressed all their questions to me.
Did they have to stand single file (no)? Did they have to hold hands with their buddy (no)? Could one person hold a place for twelve of their friends (preferably not)? Had I seen "My Week with Marilyn" (yes)? Why don't you just join in our conversation (thanks, I will)?
We were waiting for "Poupoupidou," a mystery thriller comedy set in the coldest village in France and involving a cheese model whose life eerily echoed Marilyn Monroe's.
During the endless wait once we were seated, I was delighted to see a warning flash on the screen.
"No texting during screening. Violators may be removed."
Amen to that.
Before the film began, we were informed that its star, Sophie Quinton, had had a last minute family emergency so wouldn't be here today to take questions after the film.
Disappointing but not a deal breaker.
The movie began with an excellent cover of "I Put a Spell on You" by Xenia, which was rivaled only by a cover of "California Dreaming" during car scenes in the frozen landscape.
The story was pretty basic: a blocked writer (are there any other kind in movies?) uses the death of a local model as inspiration for a new book.
Along the way he figures out how she died (not by suicide as the local gendarmes claim) and has her life story revealed to him through reading the journals she'd kept since she was a teen.
Note to self: destroy all journals before death.
Of course, everything that occurred did so in a very French (read: unAmerican) manner, which was delightful.
When the writer calls back to Paris to find a letter a fan had written him, he thanks the girl he speaks to (whom he calls "Moneypenny") by saying, "What do I owe you?"
"An 18-pound wheel of Comte" is the offering.
That's a lot of stinky gratitude and I'd happily accept it in thanks for a job well done.
The Snowflake Hotel where the writer stays while he's investigating has a broken boiler, so no heat, a situation hard to imagine an American guest accepting.
The girl who works the front desk comes on to him, brings a hot toddy to him in the bathroom (after taking a healthy swig) and by film's end when he's yet to ask her out, tells him, "It never would have worked between us anyway."
I can't recall the last time I saw that kind of personal service at a hotel here.
It's only after being electrocuted, punched by her ex-husband and bandaging the foot of one of her admirers that the writer discovers how she died.
And by then he's convinced that if they'd met, she wouldn't have died.
Because how can you have a French movie without love?
Impossible.
"It's always by the end that stories begin," he concludes at the end.
Yet it's always at the beginning of a line that all French Film Festival stories begin.
And as line leader, it's my job to remind people to hold onto the rope so no one will get lost.
In my experience, screenings never start on time and this afternoon's was no exception.
Arriving at 12:30 for a 1:00 film, I was dubbed "line leader" and the lively group that fell in behind me addressed all their questions to me.
Did they have to stand single file (no)? Did they have to hold hands with their buddy (no)? Could one person hold a place for twelve of their friends (preferably not)? Had I seen "My Week with Marilyn" (yes)? Why don't you just join in our conversation (thanks, I will)?
We were waiting for "Poupoupidou," a mystery thriller comedy set in the coldest village in France and involving a cheese model whose life eerily echoed Marilyn Monroe's.
During the endless wait once we were seated, I was delighted to see a warning flash on the screen.
"No texting during screening. Violators may be removed."
Amen to that.
Before the film began, we were informed that its star, Sophie Quinton, had had a last minute family emergency so wouldn't be here today to take questions after the film.
Disappointing but not a deal breaker.
The movie began with an excellent cover of "I Put a Spell on You" by Xenia, which was rivaled only by a cover of "California Dreaming" during car scenes in the frozen landscape.
The story was pretty basic: a blocked writer (are there any other kind in movies?) uses the death of a local model as inspiration for a new book.
Along the way he figures out how she died (not by suicide as the local gendarmes claim) and has her life story revealed to him through reading the journals she'd kept since she was a teen.
Note to self: destroy all journals before death.
Of course, everything that occurred did so in a very French (read: unAmerican) manner, which was delightful.
When the writer calls back to Paris to find a letter a fan had written him, he thanks the girl he speaks to (whom he calls "Moneypenny") by saying, "What do I owe you?"
"An 18-pound wheel of Comte" is the offering.
That's a lot of stinky gratitude and I'd happily accept it in thanks for a job well done.
The Snowflake Hotel where the writer stays while he's investigating has a broken boiler, so no heat, a situation hard to imagine an American guest accepting.
The girl who works the front desk comes on to him, brings a hot toddy to him in the bathroom (after taking a healthy swig) and by film's end when he's yet to ask her out, tells him, "It never would have worked between us anyway."
I can't recall the last time I saw that kind of personal service at a hotel here.
It's only after being electrocuted, punched by her ex-husband and bandaging the foot of one of her admirers that the writer discovers how she died.
And by then he's convinced that if they'd met, she wouldn't have died.
Because how can you have a French movie without love?
Impossible.
"It's always by the end that stories begin," he concludes at the end.
Yet it's always at the beginning of a line that all French Film Festival stories begin.
And as line leader, it's my job to remind people to hold onto the rope so no one will get lost.
Crashing and Burning
No matter how you start out, if you end up dancing, it's a good night.
For the record, I began with a worthy opponent and a bottle of Gabrielle Rause Vin Gris, which, because it's made from 100 % pinot noir, is the ultimate sipping wine for a warm day like today.
Yes, it was a perfect day for white pinot noir.
So we sipped and discussed philosophical matters while admiring the skill required for an Italian winemaker working with Virginia grapes.
Gabrielle, I am your obedient servant. Especially where your Vin Gris is concerned.
Acacia was our ultimate destination, and by our, I mean any number of successive dinner companions.
The first was the best, eager to prove compatibility, but also funny and complimentary.
We chose the Gavi to sustain us and were soon joined by a friend who is soon to depart for points north.
She went with bubbles, while we ordered everything on the small plate menu.
Hush puppies with lobster, scallions and jalapeno relish were first, followed by empanadas of sweetbreads, mushrooms and leeks.
I won't even gush over fried bread, but the addition of lobster was a whole new level of pleasure for fried bread.
The empanada if served in a more generous portion could have been a meal with its earthy flavors.
The smoked duck ham had an apple and ginger salad with enough spice to speak to the strongest of plates.
A vegetable terrine done in aspic with smoked tomato sauce was notable since your rarely see it on menus.
The soon-to-be departed ordered the Tocco Prosecco (notable for my beloved friend Mike Tocco...we'll say Miami, Matthew Sweet and leave it at that) and Thai-flavored parsnip soup with roasted mushrooms, peanuts and lime.
It's fascinating watching friends meet for the first time, not sure if the common thread of me will be enough to make them appreciate one another.
Once the musical one departed, the girlfriend and I were joined by a favorite couple who are always looking for a good time,
They immediately ordered more Tocco Prosecco as well as dinner (sauteed scallops for her and sauteed snapper for him) while I enjoyed a sweet course.
After four small plates, I was ready for something dessert-like and happily got the Black Forest, a chocolate sponge cake with Luxardo cream. Kirsch cherries, cocoa streusel and (most awesome of all) a sour cherry sorbet.
The only thing missing was another dessert hound to share it with me.
I managed all by myself before the female half of my favorite couple insisted we indulge in some Green Chartreuse.
My last green chartreuse was in the summer of 1998 and involved an after Jumpin' in July party in my backyard, temperatures of 97+ and humidity of about the same.
No one who came to that party and imbibed of the chartreuse was ever quite the same.
Mine is not to explain why that was.
Tonight's foray reminded me of the allure of chartreuse. Made of 130 herbal elements, it's one liqueur that continues to age and improve in the bottle.
Because, let's face it, not everyone thing improves with age.
But green chartreuse is the exception and the two of us savored it while discussing the new French street photography exhibit at the VMFA.
When it became clear that we were the last customers in the house, we moved on, them to home and me to Balliceaux.
I hadn't intended to. Really.
I was just minding my own business driving home up Lombardy when I saw the crowd and remembered that Black Girls were playing.
Since I first saw them in the overcrowded back room at Sprout in February 2011, the crowds have just gotten bigger and the band has only gotten tighter.
That said, the music is still the same.
So much so that one of the band admitted last night that, "We've been playing the same six songs for the last six months."
But their groove is so infectious that even as many times as I've seen them, I was one of many dancing before long.
Meanwhile I ran into a favorite mixologist who joined me in the center of the dance floor.
Since I was a late arrival, before I knew it, their set was over and replacing the white boys known as the Black Girls was a DJ playing "Word Up."
Surely Cameo couldn't have anticipated the staying power of that song.
I, however, having been around in 1986, wasn't nearly as caught up in it as some.
Besides, I'd had a most pleasurable nine-hour evening and there's really nothing better to do after dancing than crashing.
Unless you can find someone who wants to start a conversation at that hour.
Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as you might think.
For the record, I began with a worthy opponent and a bottle of Gabrielle Rause Vin Gris, which, because it's made from 100 % pinot noir, is the ultimate sipping wine for a warm day like today.
Yes, it was a perfect day for white pinot noir.
So we sipped and discussed philosophical matters while admiring the skill required for an Italian winemaker working with Virginia grapes.
Gabrielle, I am your obedient servant. Especially where your Vin Gris is concerned.
Acacia was our ultimate destination, and by our, I mean any number of successive dinner companions.
The first was the best, eager to prove compatibility, but also funny and complimentary.
We chose the Gavi to sustain us and were soon joined by a friend who is soon to depart for points north.
She went with bubbles, while we ordered everything on the small plate menu.
Hush puppies with lobster, scallions and jalapeno relish were first, followed by empanadas of sweetbreads, mushrooms and leeks.
I won't even gush over fried bread, but the addition of lobster was a whole new level of pleasure for fried bread.
The empanada if served in a more generous portion could have been a meal with its earthy flavors.
The smoked duck ham had an apple and ginger salad with enough spice to speak to the strongest of plates.
A vegetable terrine done in aspic with smoked tomato sauce was notable since your rarely see it on menus.
The soon-to-be departed ordered the Tocco Prosecco (notable for my beloved friend Mike Tocco...we'll say Miami, Matthew Sweet and leave it at that) and Thai-flavored parsnip soup with roasted mushrooms, peanuts and lime.
It's fascinating watching friends meet for the first time, not sure if the common thread of me will be enough to make them appreciate one another.
Once the musical one departed, the girlfriend and I were joined by a favorite couple who are always looking for a good time,
They immediately ordered more Tocco Prosecco as well as dinner (sauteed scallops for her and sauteed snapper for him) while I enjoyed a sweet course.
After four small plates, I was ready for something dessert-like and happily got the Black Forest, a chocolate sponge cake with Luxardo cream. Kirsch cherries, cocoa streusel and (most awesome of all) a sour cherry sorbet.
The only thing missing was another dessert hound to share it with me.
I managed all by myself before the female half of my favorite couple insisted we indulge in some Green Chartreuse.
My last green chartreuse was in the summer of 1998 and involved an after Jumpin' in July party in my backyard, temperatures of 97+ and humidity of about the same.
No one who came to that party and imbibed of the chartreuse was ever quite the same.
Mine is not to explain why that was.
Tonight's foray reminded me of the allure of chartreuse. Made of 130 herbal elements, it's one liqueur that continues to age and improve in the bottle.
Because, let's face it, not every
But green chartreuse is the exception and the two of us savored it while discussing the new French street photography exhibit at the VMFA.
When it became clear that we were the last customers in the house, we moved on, them to home and me to Balliceaux.
I hadn't intended to. Really.
I was just minding my own business driving home up Lombardy when I saw the crowd and remembered that Black Girls were playing.
Since I first saw them in the overcrowded back room at Sprout in February 2011, the crowds have just gotten bigger and the band has only gotten tighter.
That said, the music is still the same.
So much so that one of the band admitted last night that, "We've been playing the same six songs for the last six months."
But their groove is so infectious that even as many times as I've seen them, I was one of many dancing before long.
Meanwhile I ran into a favorite mixologist who joined me in the center of the dance floor.
Since I was a late arrival, before I knew it, their set was over and replacing the white boys known as the Black Girls was a DJ playing "Word Up."
Surely Cameo couldn't have anticipated the staying power of that song.
I, however, having been around in 1986, wasn't nearly as caught up in it as some.
Besides, I'd had a most pleasurable nine-hour evening and there's really nothing better to do after dancing than crashing.
Unless you can find someone who wants to start a conversation at that hour.
Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as you might think.
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