I frequent the Byrd House Market because it's the farmer's market nearest J-Ward, so I can walk or ride my bike.
I like the fact that it's on Tuesdays and not the weekends when I tend to have lots on my plate.
But I hadn't been in weeks and with only four hours sleep under my belt, I was looking for an easy, pleasurable and unchallenging activity for the afternoon.
Buying veggies and fruit? Even the sleep-deprived can do that.
In the intervening weeks since I'd last been, so much good stuff has ripened that it was hard to narrow down my selections to what I'd realistically have time to eat.
But it's tough not to let my eyes rather than my head do the buying when everything looks so ripe and ready.
After multiple laps around the field, I kept it real with apricots, blackberries, yellow wax beans ("try them with blueberries and balsamic," I was advised), beets, squash (how could I resist after my recent reminiscing about squash fritters?) and micro-greens.
Lots of good stuff for the next few days.
Heading out, I was stopped by an eager young man on his first day of canvassing for Repower America, the movement for clean energy and the subsequent jobs to be created by developing U.S. sources rather than continuing our reliance on fossil fuels.
Explaining a little about the movement, the guy told me that they were recording videos today of real people explaining their desire for a shift to clean energy sources.
To demonstrate legitimacy, I think, he said that Al Gore had started the movement.
"The newly single Al Gore?" I inquired.
"The same," he replied. "Make a great video with me and maybe he'll call you for a date."
Well, with an incentive like that, how could I say no?
Of course, I've seen Al's iPod playlist so I would already guess that we're not musically compatible, but I'm sure the conversation on other topics would compensate to some degree.
At least for one date.
So I made my video, trying to be earnest, just an everyday sort of person (who was glad she'd worn a cute dress to the market today) making her online appeal to lessen our dependence on the Middle East and create jobs in the US .
I even threw in the part about my own job issues, just for good measure.
And I smiled with every syllable.
Actually, I do that anyway, but Al wouldn't know that.
After we finished, I signed a release and the guy thanked me.
I then spotted a girl I know who works at the Byrd House Market and went over to talk to her.
We had an awkward moment when she first realized she didn't know about my single status, but we segued right into their upcoming benefit dinners and the sound of cannon fire, of all things, in the distance.
As I was finally leaving for real, I passed Canvasser Guy one last time.
Clipboard in hand, he leaned over toward me, clearly intent on saying something.
"Has Al texted you yet?"
Hard to say who would be more surprised, Al or Canvasser Guy, to discover I'm not textable.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
DC Does Florence
When a man refers to me as a bon vivant the very first time we have dinner together, I'm inclined to accept his subsequent dinner invitation, even when it means my fourth road trip in seven days. It's true what they say about me: Will drive for the right kind of compliment.
Our destination was Acqua Al 2 on Capital Hill, a four-week old Italian restaurant already drawing capacity crowds. What he didn't mention until we were at the bar sipping and swapping two very different roses was that the restaurant was part of a chain.
Mamma Mia! I don't patronize chain restaurants, I told my friend. Not to worry he assured me, it's a Florentine chain. Well, that certainly made me feel better; apparently it's only American chains I have an issue with (although they do have a California location also now).
The purpose of the evening was twofold: to talk non-stop again and to taste as much as possible. We started with the Insalata Caprese (tomatoes more than tolerable but not great yet), followed by the Assaggio di Primi, a consecutively served sampler of five vegetarian pastas, all Chef's choices (bow tie pasta with zucchini, garlic, rosemary and Parmesan was probably my favorite), then a hand cut veal chop grilled and served on a bed of arugula (one of two veal chop offerings), and Topini al Radicchio Rosso (gnocchi with house made tomato sauce, Italian red cabbage, mascarpone and Parmesan) because who doesn't love gnocchi? Don't look at me.
The girl at the table next to us was there because she'd been to the original in Florence and confirmed that the menu was the same, although the bread here was much better. I asked her how the rustic atmosphere, with its exposed brick and tin ceiling, compared and she said it was similar, although the lighting was lower in Italy. One thing I did like was the view out the window behind my friend's head; painted on the facing wall was a shuttered window, a sign and a plant-filled window. A charming view for a wall.
By the time we called it quits after endless courses, a walk was in order. It had rained during the multiple hours we were in the crowded, noisy restaurant (lip-reading would have been an asset at times, although the din also assured privacy of conversational topics), so the air was heavy and humid, expectant even. We strolled through the thickness with the same languor with which we'd eaten through all those courses before I had to hit the highway.
Tonight I was called a truth-teller and complimented for my fierce intelligence, practically guaranteeing that I'll be accepting a subsequent dinner invitation. The soul-sucking I-95 aside, what's a hundred miles between new found friends?
Our destination was Acqua Al 2 on Capital Hill, a four-week old Italian restaurant already drawing capacity crowds. What he didn't mention until we were at the bar sipping and swapping two very different roses was that the restaurant was part of a chain.
Mamma Mia! I don't patronize chain restaurants, I told my friend. Not to worry he assured me, it's a Florentine chain. Well, that certainly made me feel better; apparently it's only American chains I have an issue with (although they do have a California location also now).
The purpose of the evening was twofold: to talk non-stop again and to taste as much as possible. We started with the Insalata Caprese (tomatoes more than tolerable but not great yet), followed by the Assaggio di Primi, a consecutively served sampler of five vegetarian pastas, all Chef's choices (bow tie pasta with zucchini, garlic, rosemary and Parmesan was probably my favorite), then a hand cut veal chop grilled and served on a bed of arugula (one of two veal chop offerings), and Topini al Radicchio Rosso (gnocchi with house made tomato sauce, Italian red cabbage, mascarpone and Parmesan) because who doesn't love gnocchi? Don't look at me.
The girl at the table next to us was there because she'd been to the original in Florence and confirmed that the menu was the same, although the bread here was much better. I asked her how the rustic atmosphere, with its exposed brick and tin ceiling, compared and she said it was similar, although the lighting was lower in Italy. One thing I did like was the view out the window behind my friend's head; painted on the facing wall was a shuttered window, a sign and a plant-filled window. A charming view for a wall.
By the time we called it quits after endless courses, a walk was in order. It had rained during the multiple hours we were in the crowded, noisy restaurant (lip-reading would have been an asset at times, although the din also assured privacy of conversational topics), so the air was heavy and humid, expectant even. We strolled through the thickness with the same languor with which we'd eaten through all those courses before I had to hit the highway.
Tonight I was called a truth-teller and complimented for my fierce intelligence, practically guaranteeing that I'll be accepting a subsequent dinner invitation. The soul-sucking I-95 aside, what's a hundred miles between new found friends?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Fast Times at Parkdale High
Given the weather forecast, it wasn't a very good night to try to see an outdoor movie. But in my never-ending quest to improve my cultural literacy, I nonetheless walked over to the courtyard at Quirk Gallery in hopes of seeing Fast Times at Ridgemont High for the very first time.
Before you raise an eyebrow about how anyone on the planet could not have seen this 1982 film by now, remember that I have also never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so there is a precedent here. It's just that I take so much crap from friends about my movie-going omissions, that when a unique opportunity to finally see something I supposedly "should" have seen presents itself, I do my best to play catch-up.
And, lo and behold, there were two other girls at the courtyard who'd never seen it either, making me feel much better about my movie knowledge, or lack thereof. Tonight was the first in Quirk's summer movie series (next up: Breaking Away) and needless to say, I'm thrilled with any new event in my neighborhood. Wine, beer and popcorn are available for sale which was a nice touch. Personally, I brought a clementine but that's just me.
The crowd wasn't large, but I ran into several people I knew, including my farmer friend, who, after kissing my cheek said, "Of course you'd be here." Later during the movie, he sneaked over and whispered in my ear, asking if the movie was bringing back memories for me.
"I can see it all now, this is gonna be just like last summer. You fell in love with that girl at the Fotomat, you bough $40 worth of fuckin' film and you never even talked to her. You don't even own a camera."
My first job as a 16-year old was as a "Fotomate" at a Fotomat in suburban Maryland, and I clearly remember how bold guys were with a girl alone in a booth in the middle of a parking lot. Grinning, I told my friend this story which caused him to laugh out loud. Yes, the movie was bringing back memories.
Unfortunately, we weren't even an hour in when it started to sprinkle, but the DVD player was covered and we soldiered on with what umbrellas we had until the sky opened up and began to dump buckets. I grabbed my chair and walked the three blocks home, getting more drenched every step of the way. It wasn't so bad walking west, but when I turned north, the wind was pushing the rain horizontally at me.
By the time I got home, my sunflower sundress was literally dripping wet, but the walk itself had been kind of nice. I never mind walking in the rain when the temperature is warm enough; it's only cold and wet I can't tolerate. There's something about the smell of summer rain when you're in it that I love.
But now I'll never know what happened to the kids at Ridgemont High. Come to think of it, I'm going to presume that it was a lot like what happened to the kids at Parkdale High, which is where I went. There were plenty of people smoking pot, everyone was having sex and guys lusted after girls in Fotomats...all set to a soundtrack with the likes of the Go-Gos and Quarterflash.
Ah, it's all becoming clear now. Perhaps that's the reason I never felt compelled to see Fast Times. I may have already been familiar with the story.
Before you raise an eyebrow about how anyone on the planet could not have seen this 1982 film by now, remember that I have also never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so there is a precedent here. It's just that I take so much crap from friends about my movie-going omissions, that when a unique opportunity to finally see something I supposedly "should" have seen presents itself, I do my best to play catch-up.
And, lo and behold, there were two other girls at the courtyard who'd never seen it either, making me feel much better about my movie knowledge, or lack thereof. Tonight was the first in Quirk's summer movie series (next up: Breaking Away) and needless to say, I'm thrilled with any new event in my neighborhood. Wine, beer and popcorn are available for sale which was a nice touch. Personally, I brought a clementine but that's just me.
The crowd wasn't large, but I ran into several people I knew, including my farmer friend, who, after kissing my cheek said, "Of course you'd be here." Later during the movie, he sneaked over and whispered in my ear, asking if the movie was bringing back memories for me.
"I can see it all now, this is gonna be just like last summer. You fell in love with that girl at the Fotomat, you bough $40 worth of fuckin' film and you never even talked to her. You don't even own a camera."
My first job as a 16-year old was as a "Fotomate" at a Fotomat in suburban Maryland, and I clearly remember how bold guys were with a girl alone in a booth in the middle of a parking lot. Grinning, I told my friend this story which caused him to laugh out loud. Yes, the movie was bringing back memories.
Unfortunately, we weren't even an hour in when it started to sprinkle, but the DVD player was covered and we soldiered on with what umbrellas we had until the sky opened up and began to dump buckets. I grabbed my chair and walked the three blocks home, getting more drenched every step of the way. It wasn't so bad walking west, but when I turned north, the wind was pushing the rain horizontally at me.
By the time I got home, my sunflower sundress was literally dripping wet, but the walk itself had been kind of nice. I never mind walking in the rain when the temperature is warm enough; it's only cold and wet I can't tolerate. There's something about the smell of summer rain when you're in it that I love.
But now I'll never know what happened to the kids at Ridgemont High. Come to think of it, I'm going to presume that it was a lot like what happened to the kids at Parkdale High, which is where I went. There were plenty of people smoking pot, everyone was having sex and guys lusted after girls in Fotomats...all set to a soundtrack with the likes of the Go-Gos and Quarterflash.
Ah, it's all becoming clear now. Perhaps that's the reason I never felt compelled to see Fast Times. I may have already been familiar with the story.
Bar Hopping on a Saturday Night
With nothing cultural calling to me tonight, I decided to do an abbreviated pub crawl after seeking out a graffiti show in Scott's Addition to no avail. Without anything better to do, why not spend some quality time with a couple of my favorite bartenders?
Leading the parade was Josh at Six Burner, always a reliable source of music talk and good banter. Since I was in the mood for white wine, he suggested the Vernaccia di S. Gimighano and I took the bait, enjoying its crisp dryness. I was pleased to learn that 6B is starting up their live music series again and we reminisced about some of the craziness of past shows, including the memorable winter sweat-fest, here.
Josh brought out an amuse bouche in the form of a tiny pie-shaped wedge of pork rillette with minute Granny Smith apple chunks, mustard seed and chives. Honestly, it was the perfect portion because, for me, even an appetizer- sized serving of pork rillette quickly becomes too rich, too much. Retrieving my plate afterwards, Josh asked, "Amused?" All signs pointed to yes.
There were several new items on the menu so I decided on the squash blossoms stuffed with smoked salmon, Parmesan and squash with curry squash sauce. Oh. My. Goodness. I took that first bite and was transported back to my first taste of a squash fritter.
When I began my 13-year stint on Floyd Avenue in the 90s, my 70+ neighbor Bertha was good enough to offer to share the bounty of her veggie garden with me. The first time she brought me squash, though, she asked me in a suspicious tone what I was going to do with it and whether I knew how to make squash fritters. I didn't.
She gave me her crusty old recipe and I made my first squash fritter batter and fried them up in a cast iron skillet. I still remember that initial bite and wondering how I'd never tasted squash in such a magnificent guise up until that moment. Tonight's squash gave me that same rush of fried and fresh.
A bite or two in and Josh came over to check on me. "This is freaking awesome," I said, willing better words to come. "I know. It's badass, isn't it?" Josh returned. There were the words I had been seeking. Badass squash, that was it.
Later the server T. came over to probe. "What are you doing here on a Saturday night, Karen?" he inquired. "You're messing with my whole concept of the week." It's true, I don't often visit 6B on a Saturday night, but I wasn't expecting to be called out on it. either. Just another pleasure of being a regular.
With promises of CDs to come later in the week from Josh, I said goodnight only after getting his approval for my next stop: Balliceaux and the equally music-savvy Austin. He was fine with handing me off to a fellow bartender he knew would be up to the job.
Walking down Lombardy Street, I saw a large illustrated banner hanging from a nearby apartment. It read, "Don't tread on me. GO US! Beat England" Such patriotism on a Saturday night! Balliceaux was partly full but hardly hopping and the bar completely empty when I walked in, so I figured Austin would appreciate the company and and he was already waving me back before I was halfway through the restaurant.
We talked about his upcoming trip to Cambridge, MA and I advised him to bring his bike to take advantage of the abundance of bike lanes, not to mention a car culture that actually allows for safe and enjoyable biking everywhere. Personally, I loved it. He was psyched to say the least.
Meanwhile, I was poured a glass of the Broadbent Vino Verde as we slipped into talk of Yeasayer, Mrs. Robinson and Stevie Wonder. He'd been at the Broken Bells show at the 9:30 Club Monday night, so I got his take on that show, after having just read the Post's review of it.
A couple of barsitters came in and ordered and I couldn't resist commenting on their pork belly. It turned out to be yet another instance where I got incredibly lucky. We got to talking food and restaurants and it turned out that this charming couple eats out five nights a week. Soul mates! I never meet anyone who eats out as much as I do, so we talked for hours about just about every restaurant in the city (and even a few outside it).
For the most part, our opinions dovetailed and then one or the other of us would share a specific bit of information that the other didn't know. The male half of the couple identified himself as anal when he sheepishly told me that he keeps a list on his phone of every food culture represented in RVA.
Not surprisingly given that, he also keeps a spreadsheet of all their restaurant visits, which puts them in a whole different league than me. I just like to eat and spreadsheets make me nervous. But they were great fun to talk to and we exchanged information in hopes of meeting up again. They even shared their semolina-olive oil cake with lemon and ginger with me, so you know we'd become fast friends by then (my favorite part was the icing).
Shortly thereafter the bar was nearing empty and it was time to end my pub crawl. The evening ended with one of the kitchen guys coming out for a shot and to enthusiastically talk World Cup briefly with us before he was off to meet friends. "Come back on Tuesday," he said, pointing at me. "And wear that dress!"
Interesting the people you meet when you bypass culture for pub crawling. It's all so very interesting.
Leading the parade was Josh at Six Burner, always a reliable source of music talk and good banter. Since I was in the mood for white wine, he suggested the Vernaccia di S. Gimighano and I took the bait, enjoying its crisp dryness. I was pleased to learn that 6B is starting up their live music series again and we reminisced about some of the craziness of past shows, including the memorable winter sweat-fest, here.
Josh brought out an amuse bouche in the form of a tiny pie-shaped wedge of pork rillette with minute Granny Smith apple chunks, mustard seed and chives. Honestly, it was the perfect portion because, for me, even an appetizer- sized serving of pork rillette quickly becomes too rich, too much. Retrieving my plate afterwards, Josh asked, "Amused?" All signs pointed to yes.
There were several new items on the menu so I decided on the squash blossoms stuffed with smoked salmon, Parmesan and squash with curry squash sauce. Oh. My. Goodness. I took that first bite and was transported back to my first taste of a squash fritter.
When I began my 13-year stint on Floyd Avenue in the 90s, my 70+ neighbor Bertha was good enough to offer to share the bounty of her veggie garden with me. The first time she brought me squash, though, she asked me in a suspicious tone what I was going to do with it and whether I knew how to make squash fritters. I didn't.
She gave me her crusty old recipe and I made my first squash fritter batter and fried them up in a cast iron skillet. I still remember that initial bite and wondering how I'd never tasted squash in such a magnificent guise up until that moment. Tonight's squash gave me that same rush of fried and fresh.
A bite or two in and Josh came over to check on me. "This is freaking awesome," I said, willing better words to come. "I know. It's badass, isn't it?" Josh returned. There were the words I had been seeking. Badass squash, that was it.
Later the server T. came over to probe. "What are you doing here on a Saturday night, Karen?" he inquired. "You're messing with my whole concept of the week." It's true, I don't often visit 6B on a Saturday night, but I wasn't expecting to be called out on it. either. Just another pleasure of being a regular.
With promises of CDs to come later in the week from Josh, I said goodnight only after getting his approval for my next stop: Balliceaux and the equally music-savvy Austin. He was fine with handing me off to a fellow bartender he knew would be up to the job.
Walking down Lombardy Street, I saw a large illustrated banner hanging from a nearby apartment. It read, "Don't tread on me. GO US! Beat England" Such patriotism on a Saturday night! Balliceaux was partly full but hardly hopping and the bar completely empty when I walked in, so I figured Austin would appreciate the company and and he was already waving me back before I was halfway through the restaurant.
We talked about his upcoming trip to Cambridge, MA and I advised him to bring his bike to take advantage of the abundance of bike lanes, not to mention a car culture that actually allows for safe and enjoyable biking everywhere. Personally, I loved it. He was psyched to say the least.
Meanwhile, I was poured a glass of the Broadbent Vino Verde as we slipped into talk of Yeasayer, Mrs. Robinson and Stevie Wonder. He'd been at the Broken Bells show at the 9:30 Club Monday night, so I got his take on that show, after having just read the Post's review of it.
A couple of barsitters came in and ordered and I couldn't resist commenting on their pork belly. It turned out to be yet another instance where I got incredibly lucky. We got to talking food and restaurants and it turned out that this charming couple eats out five nights a week. Soul mates! I never meet anyone who eats out as much as I do, so we talked for hours about just about every restaurant in the city (and even a few outside it).
For the most part, our opinions dovetailed and then one or the other of us would share a specific bit of information that the other didn't know. The male half of the couple identified himself as anal when he sheepishly told me that he keeps a list on his phone of every food culture represented in RVA.
Not surprisingly given that, he also keeps a spreadsheet of all their restaurant visits, which puts them in a whole different league than me. I just like to eat and spreadsheets make me nervous. But they were great fun to talk to and we exchanged information in hopes of meeting up again. They even shared their semolina-olive oil cake with lemon and ginger with me, so you know we'd become fast friends by then (my favorite part was the icing).
Shortly thereafter the bar was nearing empty and it was time to end my pub crawl. The evening ended with one of the kitchen guys coming out for a shot and to enthusiastically talk World Cup briefly with us before he was off to meet friends. "Come back on Tuesday," he said, pointing at me. "And wear that dress!"
Interesting the people you meet when you bypass culture for pub crawling. It's all so very interesting.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
DIshing in Dawn
Gladys took my $7 and welcomed me. Pat led me to the food table and invited me to sit at her table with Alma and Evelyn. Irene was in charge of the whole event and walked the room like a general overseeing her troops. Tilly wasn't there at the moment, but she'd done loads of work behind the scenes. And Delores made the coleslaw, a fact I know only because she'd used a Magic Marker to write her name across the lid of the enormous pink Tupperware bowl that held it, a bowl that was the width of my shoulders.
What's in a vintage name? Everything it would appear when you're at a Fish Fry Benefit at the Dawn Community Center in Hanover County. As I've mentioned before, I love community eating events, like this and this, the kind that don't much happen anymore except in more rural areas. Having never been to a fish fry and jumble sale, I'd had this date marked on my calendar since the salt fish breakfast at the firehouse.
The community of Dawn is trying to raise funds to build a new library and, being the book nerd that I am, I wanted to help support that effort. Plus I love some good fried trout and that's what was on the menu, along with Delores' coleslaw, another neighbor's potato salad, which could have been made with my own mother's recipe, and someone else's baked beans containing almost as much bacon as beans in them.
A White House roll completed the plate and for dessert, they had slices of lemon pound cake in individual baggies in case you were too full and wanted to take yours home (I did, after taking one bite of the cake crust, my favorite part). What more could a city girl want?
The trout was being fried up continuously by two sweaty volunteers out behind the community center, a hot as hell effort on a day like today. It was so perfectly cooked that I didn't even bother with propriety and just used my plastic fork to hold it in place while I tore off crispy bites of the enormous piece I'd been given.
My table mates were full of curiosity about how I'd found out about the event and why I would bother driving up 301 for it. I explained my love for books (and fried trout) and my enthusiasm for community eating events. After a while, we were so comfortable with each other that we started talking about ourselves; Pat is a transplant from NOVA, so we discussed the shift to central Virginia that we've both made. Alma hates wearing athletic shoes because they make her feet feel confined, so we talked about going barefoot versus open-style shoes.
Evelyn just wanted to get my take on upcoming events and what other city folk might find interesting enough to drive up for. As the least representative person to speak for my fellow Richmonders, I just suggested better advertising (they didn't even have a sign for today's event) so that they might reach other oddballs like me. Alma only half-jokingly suggested that they needed me on their Board. Gladys asked for my e-mail address so that they could notify me of future fundraisers.
I had such a good time lunching with these ladies and enjoying the fruits of the community's labor. When I'd first come in, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb, though, because one of the first questions directed at me had been, "Are you from Ladysmith?" Despite that erroneous assumption, they'd kindly taken to me as if I'd just moved to Dawn and they were the welcoming committee.
I was terribly flattered that they were as interested in talking to me as I was to them. As we said our goodbyes well over an hour later, they were all but beaming at me. Pat capped it off with, "You're going to be the talk of our next Board meeting."
No, no, I'm just a fish fry fan. You charming ladies did me the favor. Let's get that library built.
What's in a vintage name? Everything it would appear when you're at a Fish Fry Benefit at the Dawn Community Center in Hanover County. As I've mentioned before, I love community eating events, like this and this, the kind that don't much happen anymore except in more rural areas. Having never been to a fish fry and jumble sale, I'd had this date marked on my calendar since the salt fish breakfast at the firehouse.
The community of Dawn is trying to raise funds to build a new library and, being the book nerd that I am, I wanted to help support that effort. Plus I love some good fried trout and that's what was on the menu, along with Delores' coleslaw, another neighbor's potato salad, which could have been made with my own mother's recipe, and someone else's baked beans containing almost as much bacon as beans in them.
A White House roll completed the plate and for dessert, they had slices of lemon pound cake in individual baggies in case you were too full and wanted to take yours home (I did, after taking one bite of the cake crust, my favorite part). What more could a city girl want?
The trout was being fried up continuously by two sweaty volunteers out behind the community center, a hot as hell effort on a day like today. It was so perfectly cooked that I didn't even bother with propriety and just used my plastic fork to hold it in place while I tore off crispy bites of the enormous piece I'd been given.
My table mates were full of curiosity about how I'd found out about the event and why I would bother driving up 301 for it. I explained my love for books (and fried trout) and my enthusiasm for community eating events. After a while, we were so comfortable with each other that we started talking about ourselves; Pat is a transplant from NOVA, so we discussed the shift to central Virginia that we've both made. Alma hates wearing athletic shoes because they make her feet feel confined, so we talked about going barefoot versus open-style shoes.
Evelyn just wanted to get my take on upcoming events and what other city folk might find interesting enough to drive up for. As the least representative person to speak for my fellow Richmonders, I just suggested better advertising (they didn't even have a sign for today's event) so that they might reach other oddballs like me. Alma only half-jokingly suggested that they needed me on their Board. Gladys asked for my e-mail address so that they could notify me of future fundraisers.
I had such a good time lunching with these ladies and enjoying the fruits of the community's labor. When I'd first come in, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb, though, because one of the first questions directed at me had been, "Are you from Ladysmith?" Despite that erroneous assumption, they'd kindly taken to me as if I'd just moved to Dawn and they were the welcoming committee.
I was terribly flattered that they were as interested in talking to me as I was to them. As we said our goodbyes well over an hour later, they were all but beaming at me. Pat capped it off with, "You're going to be the talk of our next Board meeting."
No, no, I'm just a fish fry fan. You charming ladies did me the favor. Let's get that library built.
Get Me Started and It Just Spills Out
For the second time this week, a guy told me that he liked my passion. In this case, the comment came from a Dallas transplant (originally a New Englander) whom I'd met at Tarrant's when I went there to eat dinner and visit with a favorite bartender friend.
He was the only other bar sitter when I arrived and was busy doing something with his phone, so I didn't pay him any mind. Seeing me, he put it down and said, "I shouldn't be on my phone out on a Friday night." Given my phone feelings, that was an opening too wide for me not to jump in, so I did, eventually convincing him to bury the dreaded device under a menu and start enjoying Saturday eve.
Apparently I wasn't too overbearing because he soon began his incremental move around the bar to eventually sit next to me and pick my brain about what to do in Richmond. He's only been here since January, so his feelings about RVA are still mixed. As the bartender knowingly informed him, "You're talking to the right girl."
It's a bit challenging to just launch into what a newcomer should check out here without first getting some sense of his interests and dislikes. With a little probing, I discovered that he appreciates art, including local work and has already found a piece at Davis and Main that he plans to purchase. He'd also planned to visit the VMFA tomorrow, so I gave him my four-visit take on it.
As I made recommendations for what to see and do, I tucked into my fish tacos (grilled Mahi-Mahi, pepper jack cheese, corn relish, and guacamole with black beans), having ordered them because of a rave I'd recently heard. After having had my photographer friend over for a chatty happy hour earlier (Inama Soave Classico), I was in need of some grub to fill in the cracks and they seemed ideal for that purpose. Luckily, my transplant friend didn't seem to mind listening to a girl with guacamole dripping down her chin.
Because I was on a limited time budget (I wanted to make a show at Gallery 5 and, specifically, see the opener), I cut right to the chase and told him about my blog, suggesting he peruse it and let me know which activities I mentioned might be of interest to him and from there I would make further recommendations about what to see and do. He then graciously insisted on paying for my dinner and assured me that he'd be in touch about things to do. J-Ward girl strikes again!
The bill at Gallery 5 consisted of Long Division, Seas and Autocue, and I'd already seen the latter two, which is why I'd been determined to make it in time to see the first. Simply put, Long Division made my night. For the second time in one week, I got an excellent set of post-rock, full of swelling guitars, intricate interplay and the added pleasure of a trumpet in parts.
As much as I love a good lyric and I absolutely do, I am a complete sucker for post-rock. The band said that their influences were Sonic Youth and Radiohead, but, I'm telling you, I heard Explosions in the Sky and Yndi Halda. I can't wait for this Norfolk band to come back through town: I will insist on some of my music geek friends joining me to hear them.
Seas played next and I'd heard their 70s-influenced sound at Live at Ipanema back in March. They said tonight's show was only their 8th or 9th, so they were still working things out. They sounded terrific, though, and I think a big part of the crowd was there for them. I wanted to tsk-tsk the drummer, I'm afraid, when he admitted that he'd lived in RVA for three years and this was his first time in Gallery 5. Sorry, kids, I just can't get to everyone and tell them what to do, although clearly my efforts are sorely needed.
Last up was Autocue, they of the massive and expensive stage-filling equipment (last time I saw them at G5, their abundance of high-end gear blew out all the power in the place, not once, but twice). I'd already heard that they'd done an extremely long sound check, but the vocal was still too low in the mix, at least in my musically-challenged opinion. I ran into a guy who remembered talking to me at the last Autocue show (I'm ashamed to say that I didn't recognize him at all) and we enthusiastically compared notes on the first two bands before Autocue got started .
You might even say we had a passionate discussion. As has been duly noted of late, my passion does tend to show itself when I get to talking.
He was the only other bar sitter when I arrived and was busy doing something with his phone, so I didn't pay him any mind. Seeing me, he put it down and said, "I shouldn't be on my phone out on a Friday night." Given my phone feelings, that was an opening too wide for me not to jump in, so I did, eventually convincing him to bury the dreaded device under a menu and start enjoying Saturday eve.
Apparently I wasn't too overbearing because he soon began his incremental move around the bar to eventually sit next to me and pick my brain about what to do in Richmond. He's only been here since January, so his feelings about RVA are still mixed. As the bartender knowingly informed him, "You're talking to the right girl."
It's a bit challenging to just launch into what a newcomer should check out here without first getting some sense of his interests and dislikes. With a little probing, I discovered that he appreciates art, including local work and has already found a piece at Davis and Main that he plans to purchase. He'd also planned to visit the VMFA tomorrow, so I gave him my four-visit take on it.
As I made recommendations for what to see and do, I tucked into my fish tacos (grilled Mahi-Mahi, pepper jack cheese, corn relish, and guacamole with black beans), having ordered them because of a rave I'd recently heard. After having had my photographer friend over for a chatty happy hour earlier (Inama Soave Classico), I was in need of some grub to fill in the cracks and they seemed ideal for that purpose. Luckily, my transplant friend didn't seem to mind listening to a girl with guacamole dripping down her chin.
Because I was on a limited time budget (I wanted to make a show at Gallery 5 and, specifically, see the opener), I cut right to the chase and told him about my blog, suggesting he peruse it and let me know which activities I mentioned might be of interest to him and from there I would make further recommendations about what to see and do. He then graciously insisted on paying for my dinner and assured me that he'd be in touch about things to do. J-Ward girl strikes again!
The bill at Gallery 5 consisted of Long Division, Seas and Autocue, and I'd already seen the latter two, which is why I'd been determined to make it in time to see the first. Simply put, Long Division made my night. For the second time in one week, I got an excellent set of post-rock, full of swelling guitars, intricate interplay and the added pleasure of a trumpet in parts.
As much as I love a good lyric and I absolutely do, I am a complete sucker for post-rock. The band said that their influences were Sonic Youth and Radiohead, but, I'm telling you, I heard Explosions in the Sky and Yndi Halda. I can't wait for this Norfolk band to come back through town: I will insist on some of my music geek friends joining me to hear them.
Seas played next and I'd heard their 70s-influenced sound at Live at Ipanema back in March. They said tonight's show was only their 8th or 9th, so they were still working things out. They sounded terrific, though, and I think a big part of the crowd was there for them. I wanted to tsk-tsk the drummer, I'm afraid, when he admitted that he'd lived in RVA for three years and this was his first time in Gallery 5. Sorry, kids, I just can't get to everyone and tell them what to do, although clearly my efforts are sorely needed.
Last up was Autocue, they of the massive and expensive stage-filling equipment (last time I saw them at G5, their abundance of high-end gear blew out all the power in the place, not once, but twice). I'd already heard that they'd done an extremely long sound check, but the vocal was still too low in the mix, at least in my musically-challenged opinion. I ran into a guy who remembered talking to me at the last Autocue show (I'm ashamed to say that I didn't recognize him at all) and we enthusiastically compared notes on the first two bands before Autocue got started .
You might even say we had a passionate discussion. As has been duly noted of late, my passion does tend to show itself when I get to talking.
Friday, June 11, 2010
I Will Miss His Frequency
Old friends are best. King James used to call for his old shoes; they were easiest to his feet.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
Historical Conquesting at Groovin' and GayRVA
My, my, my. When it rains, it pours. Fortunately I love a rainy spell because, metaphorically speaking, it's been a deluge. Every time I've turned around for the past week, I've been met with another unexpected and exciting situation or possibility. I still haven't ruled out the possibility of my head exploding.
The evening began in the shade of the sound booth at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. The bulk of the audience was sitting in the blazing sun and I spread my pink blanket in a shaded oasis with built-in conversational partners, the sound guys. How do I get so lucky?
Sahara Smith was up first with her ethereal voice and only a fellow guitarist accompanying her. All kinds of love and heartbreak songs followed. Her comment, "I wrote this song because I was broke on Valentine's Day. But I think I would have written it anyway," about summed up her attitude about romance. I will always enjoy listening to a fellow hopeless romantic.
Mason Jennings followed with a lively and often amusing set and then the man of the evening graced us with his presence. Josh Ritter played Groovin' in the Garden last year (I'll keep your dirty little secret about that, Andrew) and immediately acknowledged it by saying, "Last time we were here, it rained like hell. Thanks for coming back." As if there was any question?
I love his latest CD So Runs the World Away (although, for an album title, he'll never top The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter), so I couldn't have been more thrilled when his second song was "Change of Time." The song is pure poetry to someone like me.
I had a dream last night
And when I opened my eyes
Your shoulder blade, your spine
Were shorelines in the moonlight
New worlds for the weary
New lands for the living
I could make it if I tried
I closed my eyes, I kept on swimming
Sigh. He followed that with "Rumors" and then "Folk Blood Bath" and the tone was set for the evening. I was in a great place when I gathered up my pink blanket to pick up my "date" and head to Carytown.
When we arrived at New York Deli for the GayRVA first birthday party, it was in full swing. The theme was Hello Cupcake! and while there were plenty of people we wanted to say hello to, there were a few we wanted just as much to avoid. My friend is funny; she's not quite as outgoing as I am, but everyone knows her, so we eventually had to escape to the patio, where I got to see the handsome Elliott in his briefs ("What are you looking at first?" he challenged me. "What do you think?" I countered).
We said hi to the girls we know in Cherry Bomb, I gave another friend every delicious detail of the Josh Ritter show he'd missed and I ran into a restaurant owner who once employed one of my exes. There was no shortage of people to talk to as we wedged ourselves through the crowd.
One Maker's Mark and ginger and one Tres Generations later, it was time to change locations, so we crossed the street to Bonvenu where the dinner crowd was down to just a couple of tables and the bar staff seemed happy to see us. Vino Verde was poured so that the discussion could begin.
My friend summed it up perfectly. "How is it we don't see each other for only four days and we've both got big stuff to share?" If I knew the answer to that, I'd also know why strangers propose to me on the street or why guys unfriend me on Facebook when I won't date them (that'll show her!). It's a mad, mad world, I'm afraid.
One of the servers at Bonvenu was celebrating her birthday, although it was the anniversary of her breasts and not her birth. Seems she feels that "the girls" deserve a day of their own to commemorate the day they arrived on her body. She refers to one as Marilyn and the other as Monroe, and has a specific drink she makes to celebrate: champagne and grenadine, sort of a grown-up Shirley Temple, which she refers to as a Mingles Monroe. She insisted we "mingle" with her and who were we to argue? Pink drinking? We're in.
But eventually even they had to close and we moved to an undisclosed location to further the evening with a bottle of Sancerre and a discussion of how to wow a guy with a mix tape, what to wear on an unofficial first date and the best way to respond to an encouraging text from an appealing source.
If it hadn't already been almost 2 a.m., we might have gone on and solved everyone else's problems too. As it was, we decided that it may be time for some historical conquests of our own.
The evening began in the shade of the sound booth at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. The bulk of the audience was sitting in the blazing sun and I spread my pink blanket in a shaded oasis with built-in conversational partners, the sound guys. How do I get so lucky?
Sahara Smith was up first with her ethereal voice and only a fellow guitarist accompanying her. All kinds of love and heartbreak songs followed. Her comment, "I wrote this song because I was broke on Valentine's Day. But I think I would have written it anyway," about summed up her attitude about romance. I will always enjoy listening to a fellow hopeless romantic.
Mason Jennings followed with a lively and often amusing set and then the man of the evening graced us with his presence. Josh Ritter played Groovin' in the Garden last year (I'll keep your dirty little secret about that, Andrew) and immediately acknowledged it by saying, "Last time we were here, it rained like hell. Thanks for coming back." As if there was any question?
I love his latest CD So Runs the World Away (although, for an album title, he'll never top The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter), so I couldn't have been more thrilled when his second song was "Change of Time." The song is pure poetry to someone like me.
I had a dream last night
And when I opened my eyes
Your shoulder blade, your spine
Were shorelines in the moonlight
New worlds for the weary
New lands for the living
I could make it if I tried
I closed my eyes, I kept on swimming
Sigh. He followed that with "Rumors" and then "Folk Blood Bath" and the tone was set for the evening. I was in a great place when I gathered up my pink blanket to pick up my "date" and head to Carytown.
When we arrived at New York Deli for the GayRVA first birthday party, it was in full swing. The theme was Hello Cupcake! and while there were plenty of people we wanted to say hello to, there were a few we wanted just as much to avoid. My friend is funny; she's not quite as outgoing as I am, but everyone knows her, so we eventually had to escape to the patio, where I got to see the handsome Elliott in his briefs ("What are you looking at first?" he challenged me. "What do you think?" I countered).
We said hi to the girls we know in Cherry Bomb, I gave another friend every delicious detail of the Josh Ritter show he'd missed and I ran into a restaurant owner who once employed one of my exes. There was no shortage of people to talk to as we wedged ourselves through the crowd.
One Maker's Mark and ginger and one Tres Generations later, it was time to change locations, so we crossed the street to Bonvenu where the dinner crowd was down to just a couple of tables and the bar staff seemed happy to see us. Vino Verde was poured so that the discussion could begin.
My friend summed it up perfectly. "How is it we don't see each other for only four days and we've both got big stuff to share?" If I knew the answer to that, I'd also know why strangers propose to me on the street or why guys unfriend me on Facebook when I won't date them (that'll show her!). It's a mad, mad world, I'm afraid.
One of the servers at Bonvenu was celebrating her birthday, although it was the anniversary of her breasts and not her birth. Seems she feels that "the girls" deserve a day of their own to commemorate the day they arrived on her body. She refers to one as Marilyn and the other as Monroe, and has a specific drink she makes to celebrate: champagne and grenadine, sort of a grown-up Shirley Temple, which she refers to as a Mingles Monroe. She insisted we "mingle" with her and who were we to argue? Pink drinking? We're in.
But eventually even they had to close and we moved to an undisclosed location to further the evening with a bottle of Sancerre and a discussion of how to wow a guy with a mix tape, what to wear on an unofficial first date and the best way to respond to an encouraging text from an appealing source.
If it hadn't already been almost 2 a.m., we might have gone on and solved everyone else's problems too. As it was, we decided that it may be time for some historical conquests of our own.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
An Ode to Delicate Men
I feel fairly certain that I was the only attendee at today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society who drew a connection between a Confederate soldier's quote and a line from a song by the National.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Author and historian Jeffrey McClurken was doing the talking today and his topic was his new book Taking Care of the Living: Reconstructing Confederate Veteran Families in Virginia.
I was impressed with his inspiration for writing the book, a Baptist minister's quote after the war, that while "It was fine to raise monuments to the dead, but more importantly to take care of the living."
And with nearly 20% of white men of military age (that would be ages 13-43) dead by the end of the war, there were a lot of families needing attention.
McClurken spent two years compiling a database of the men who served, using military records and census records (some future historian/author will be eternally grateful for my census efforts in J-Ward someday).
Two years!
His research showed that having a family member return from the war maimed, sick or having been imprisoned was nearly as financially devastating to the family as if the man had been killed.
Household incomes fell more than 80% as a result of either circumstance.
What surprised me most was that having a male in the family return from war healthy and unscathed still resulted in a 70% drop in household worth, so the stress levels on families must have been terrific.
To the aid of these desperate families were churches, rich folk, the state asylum (Western Lunatic Asylum) and State Confederate Aid, which amounted to a limited social welfare system exclusively for whites (are we surprised?).
With the war framed as the central event of every Southerner's life, it's hardly surprising the number of people who developed psychological issues as a result of participating or witnessing the horror.
As one applicant for state aid was described, "He was discharged from the army...and has been a very delicate man ever since."
As Matt Berninger of the National describes himself in the song Lemonworld, "This pricey stuff makes me dizzy. I guess I've always been a delicate man."
Historically or musically, I would say that delicate men have always held a certain fascination for me.
I'm sure that's nerdy, too, although I've not yet sure how so.
And are you really surprised?
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Author and historian Jeffrey McClurken was doing the talking today and his topic was his new book Taking Care of the Living: Reconstructing Confederate Veteran Families in Virginia.
I was impressed with his inspiration for writing the book, a Baptist minister's quote after the war, that while "It was fine to raise monuments to the dead, but more importantly to take care of the living."
And with nearly 20% of white men of military age (that would be ages 13-43) dead by the end of the war, there were a lot of families needing attention.
McClurken spent two years compiling a database of the men who served, using military records and census records (some future historian/author will be eternally grateful for my census efforts in J-Ward someday).
Two years!
His research showed that having a family member return from the war maimed, sick or having been imprisoned was nearly as financially devastating to the family as if the man had been killed.
Household incomes fell more than 80% as a result of either circumstance.
What surprised me most was that having a male in the family return from war healthy and unscathed still resulted in a 70% drop in household worth, so the stress levels on families must have been terrific.
To the aid of these desperate families were churches, rich folk, the state asylum (Western Lunatic Asylum) and State Confederate Aid, which amounted to a limited social welfare system exclusively for whites (are we surprised?).
With the war framed as the central event of every Southerner's life, it's hardly surprising the number of people who developed psychological issues as a result of participating or witnessing the horror.
As one applicant for state aid was described, "He was discharged from the army...and has been a very delicate man ever since."
As Matt Berninger of the National describes himself in the song Lemonworld, "This pricey stuff makes me dizzy. I guess I've always been a delicate man."
Historically or musically, I would say that delicate men have always held a certain fascination for me.
I'm sure that's nerdy, too, although I've not yet sure how so.
And are you really surprised?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Southern Bedtime
Friend: So where are you off to after this?
Me: Not sure. A bartender friend invited me to come by and visit. And there's music at Balliceaux tonight. But I'm thinking of going home and just reading a book and going to bed.
Friend: Who are you and what have you done with Karen?
I met up with a Secco virgin tonight to introduce her to the wine bar's combination of extremely reasonable prices and offbeat small plates (not to mention killer music when the "Karen mix" is being played...so that you know). We met early at 5:00 and it was a a bit of a shock to walk in and find only one table occupied. There was an air of calm about the place, but I knew it wouldn't last and it didn't.
Another Secco virgin arrived and acknowledged to my companion that it was her first time, too. "We'll go through this together," she reassured my friend. Neither of them had anything to worry about; it's a simple enough process to absorb. We began by tasting a few wines until we found a Spaniard for her and an Italian for me.
A nearby bar sitter solved the perennial question of what to order by starting with a glass of white and a glass of red. He was obviously a smart guy (if a bit conventional looking for my taste) because he'd already been by 8 1/2 and picked up an Italian sub for afterwards; he'd wanted the pork, but it was sold out, which we all know happens.
He mentioned that he'd gotten a bit tired of finding Billy Bread in so many restaurants around town, but that it still made the best sub rolls and I tend to agree on both counts. I also started wishing that I had an Italian sub waiting for me.
Since it was my friend's first time, it was imperative that she experience curd nerd Sarah's skill at cheese selection. With only "Make it stinky" to guide her, Sarah handed us a plate with Montenebro, Valdeon and a barnyard-stinky soft Meunster for our eating pleasure. In typical cheese whiz fashion, she had delivered the stinkiest possible cow, goat and cow/goat cheese she had. Thoughts of Italian cold cuts began to recede.
Life had been particularly colorful for both of us since our last meet up, in both positive and negative ways, so we each told tales as we whittled down the stinkiness and ordered more wine. It was as the wine was winding us down that we had a version of the conversation above about my post-Secco plans.
The interesting part of her reaction is that I have not always been a late night person. Before the trifecta of major life events I experienced in a six-week period last year, I was devoted to an early and regular bedtime, usually in the 10:00 range during the week.
It's nothing like that anymore. My bedtime reliably comes in after midnight now and frequently much later. And the fact is, the last four nights have all been post 2 a.m, which is not as uncommon as it should be. Which is why I was thinking of ending on a low-key note tonight.
So I came home and took my book to the back porch to read until it got too dark. The big vase of gardenias on the table next to my rocking chair was so incredibly fragrant, though, that they set my mind to wandering. Certain flower scents have always had the ability to summon up feelings in me (just a whiff of lilacs and I'm convinced that big love is possible) and the vintage smell of gardenias was working its magic.
So I moved them to my bedside. If I'm going to have a semi-reasonable bedtime tonight, I think it might be lovely to fall asleep to such a heady scent and see what kind of dreams it evokes.
If I weren't such a Northerner, I might think that that was a positively Southern thing to do. I'll see what I dream about and then make that call.
Me: Not sure. A bartender friend invited me to come by and visit. And there's music at Balliceaux tonight. But I'm thinking of going home and just reading a book and going to bed.
Friend: Who are you and what have you done with Karen?
I met up with a Secco virgin tonight to introduce her to the wine bar's combination of extremely reasonable prices and offbeat small plates (not to mention killer music when the "Karen mix" is being played...so that you know). We met early at 5:00 and it was a a bit of a shock to walk in and find only one table occupied. There was an air of calm about the place, but I knew it wouldn't last and it didn't.
Another Secco virgin arrived and acknowledged to my companion that it was her first time, too. "We'll go through this together," she reassured my friend. Neither of them had anything to worry about; it's a simple enough process to absorb. We began by tasting a few wines until we found a Spaniard for her and an Italian for me.
A nearby bar sitter solved the perennial question of what to order by starting with a glass of white and a glass of red. He was obviously a smart guy (if a bit conventional looking for my taste) because he'd already been by 8 1/2 and picked up an Italian sub for afterwards; he'd wanted the pork, but it was sold out, which we all know happens.
He mentioned that he'd gotten a bit tired of finding Billy Bread in so many restaurants around town, but that it still made the best sub rolls and I tend to agree on both counts. I also started wishing that I had an Italian sub waiting for me.
Since it was my friend's first time, it was imperative that she experience curd nerd Sarah's skill at cheese selection. With only "Make it stinky" to guide her, Sarah handed us a plate with Montenebro, Valdeon and a barnyard-stinky soft Meunster for our eating pleasure. In typical cheese whiz fashion, she had delivered the stinkiest possible cow, goat and cow/goat cheese she had. Thoughts of Italian cold cuts began to recede.
Life had been particularly colorful for both of us since our last meet up, in both positive and negative ways, so we each told tales as we whittled down the stinkiness and ordered more wine. It was as the wine was winding us down that we had a version of the conversation above about my post-Secco plans.
The interesting part of her reaction is that I have not always been a late night person. Before the trifecta of major life events I experienced in a six-week period last year, I was devoted to an early and regular bedtime, usually in the 10:00 range during the week.
It's nothing like that anymore. My bedtime reliably comes in after midnight now and frequently much later. And the fact is, the last four nights have all been post 2 a.m, which is not as uncommon as it should be. Which is why I was thinking of ending on a low-key note tonight.
So I came home and took my book to the back porch to read until it got too dark. The big vase of gardenias on the table next to my rocking chair was so incredibly fragrant, though, that they set my mind to wandering. Certain flower scents have always had the ability to summon up feelings in me (just a whiff of lilacs and I'm convinced that big love is possible) and the vintage smell of gardenias was working its magic.
So I moved them to my bedside. If I'm going to have a semi-reasonable bedtime tonight, I think it might be lovely to fall asleep to such a heady scent and see what kind of dreams it evokes.
If I weren't such a Northerner, I might think that that was a positively Southern thing to do. I'll see what I dream about and then make that call.
Eating and Talking Like a Critic
I'm not a restaurant reviewer, nor do I play one in the blogosphere, but I'm more than qualified to accompany an actual critic to dinner and play eater and conversationalist.
The invitation came from Todd, the food critic for Washingtonian magazine and a fellow PG County-ite I'd met here. Not having finished his new book, The Wild Vine yet, I wasn't quite ready to present my book report, but he was gracious enough to overlook that, so I hit the highway to DC.
The restaurant under the microscope tonight was going to be Blue Duck Tavern at 24th and M, which provided a wonderful trip down memory lane for me since for years I lived three blocks away at 21st and N Streets. Tellingly, the parking goddess must have recognized me from years gone by because I scored a space directly out front. Unheard of.
Since we were new friends, with less than an hour of conversation under our belts, there was no way of knowing what to expect out of an evening eating together. I couldn't have hoped for a more intense or enjoyable outcome, though; the abundance of food was exceeded only by six hours of non-stop conversation with someone as talkative as I am. Maybe it was something in the water in P.G. County.
So what did we eat while the overly attentive staff hovered around us? Morel mushroom custard with roasted morels, fava beans and caraway oil (tasty but oddly served in a wide, shallow dish), sauteed frog legs, fiddlehead fern ravioli and fava beans (we were friendly enough by then to suck meat off the same bone), oven roasted bone marrow (oilier than I've ever seen it), ricotta cheese dumplings, ragout of young goat with English peas and Virginia ham (yes, I drove to DC for Virginia pig), baby green Romaine with yoghurt dressing and salted anchovy (definitely a highlight) and the pork chop and braised pork cheek with grain mustard sauce (done in the sous-vide method, so let's talk texture).
It was interesting that Todd made the same comment that Ruth Reichl had when I'd seen her talk at the Smithsonian back in April, here. Critics bring people along on reviewing expeditions for company, for amusement, for conversation, but not to share their opinions of what they're eating. Which worked out well for me, because I'm an eater, not a critic and I'd much rather be over analyzing relationships and discussing reading habits than dissecting dishes. (Full disclosure: when he asked for my opinions, I did provide them. I can't help it. Opining is what I do.)
Afterwards we moved to the bar to escape the helicopter staff buzzing about and get comfortable in the lounge for even more, surprise, conversation. I'm telling you, this is a guy who was no more spent after the first four hours of continuous talk than I was. Some restaurant critics can go on and on.
And, as we know, I like that.
The invitation came from Todd, the food critic for Washingtonian magazine and a fellow PG County-ite I'd met here. Not having finished his new book, The Wild Vine yet, I wasn't quite ready to present my book report, but he was gracious enough to overlook that, so I hit the highway to DC.
The restaurant under the microscope tonight was going to be Blue Duck Tavern at 24th and M, which provided a wonderful trip down memory lane for me since for years I lived three blocks away at 21st and N Streets. Tellingly, the parking goddess must have recognized me from years gone by because I scored a space directly out front. Unheard of.
Since we were new friends, with less than an hour of conversation under our belts, there was no way of knowing what to expect out of an evening eating together. I couldn't have hoped for a more intense or enjoyable outcome, though; the abundance of food was exceeded only by six hours of non-stop conversation with someone as talkative as I am. Maybe it was something in the water in P.G. County.
So what did we eat while the overly attentive staff hovered around us? Morel mushroom custard with roasted morels, fava beans and caraway oil (tasty but oddly served in a wide, shallow dish), sauteed frog legs, fiddlehead fern ravioli and fava beans (we were friendly enough by then to suck meat off the same bone), oven roasted bone marrow (oilier than I've ever seen it), ricotta cheese dumplings, ragout of young goat with English peas and Virginia ham (yes, I drove to DC for Virginia pig), baby green Romaine with yoghurt dressing and salted anchovy (definitely a highlight) and the pork chop and braised pork cheek with grain mustard sauce (done in the sous-vide method, so let's talk texture).
It was interesting that Todd made the same comment that Ruth Reichl had when I'd seen her talk at the Smithsonian back in April, here. Critics bring people along on reviewing expeditions for company, for amusement, for conversation, but not to share their opinions of what they're eating. Which worked out well for me, because I'm an eater, not a critic and I'd much rather be over analyzing relationships and discussing reading habits than dissecting dishes. (Full disclosure: when he asked for my opinions, I did provide them. I can't help it. Opining is what I do.)
Afterwards we moved to the bar to escape the helicopter staff buzzing about and get comfortable in the lounge for even more, surprise, conversation. I'm telling you, this is a guy who was no more spent after the first four hours of continuous talk than I was. Some restaurant critics can go on and on.
And, as we know, I like that.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I Can Like Women, Too
Because the bulk of my friends are male, it's not often that I get invited to a girls' night in. And in this case, the person doing the inviting was Virginia Rowland of Rowland Fine Dining, so I knew it would be a house full of interesting females, with an abundance of wine and amazing food. I was right on all counts.
I admire Virginia; she's half of a long-time happy relationship (marriage even!), she's a hugely talented chef (and her skills as a pastry chef speak to my sweet heart) and, probably most importantly, she is that knockout combination of gorgeous and practical. My own practical streak is far too wide to put up with frivolous female types.
The party got off to a cliched start when not a single woman in the room could make her iPod work through the stereo. We tried everything, making fun of our own sex and yet a little mortified at our collective ignorance. How tough could this be and did we really need someone with a Y chromosome to do it? Input, output, we thought we understood this stuff.
Sadly, yes, the cavalry had to be called (in the form of a husband) but he at least had the decency to arrive in a wig and carrying a purse. After solving the problem, he also knew enough to exit quickly. Let the wine-drenched girl talk begin.
Given the makeup of the group, it was no surprise that there was a lot of restaurant chatter, a thorough dissection of Broad Appetit (especially the prizewinners), some colorful customer stories and, yes, even discussion of who has the most attractive single male customers in their restaurant. What's the point in having a girls' night in if it doesn't devolve into men, dating and relationship stories?
Despite having cooked 500 butterbean cakes for Broad Appetit, Virginia obligingly made more for us tonight and we doused them in the cucumber, feta, grape tomato, avocado salsa and spicy cilantro oil that elevates them from stellar to sublime. She'd also done hanger steak wraps, vegetarian wraps, her take on deviled eggs, an olive platter (plenty of which ended up on the eggs), an extensive assortment of cheeses and various exotic fruits. The salsa her Peruvian brother had made was, without question, the best-tasting thing called salsa that I've ever put in my mouth; I could have eaten it off a spoon. And two kinds of chocolate for dessert.
Growing up as one of six girls in my family, I am completely comfortable in a room full of talkative females because I had nothing but practice at it for so many years. But the fact is, that's undoubtedly part of the reason I've required so few female friends as an adult.
On the other hand, an evening like this with a group of strong-willed and well-spoken women is an excellent reminder that there's a lot to like about my people. My XX people that is.
I admire Virginia; she's half of a long-time happy relationship (marriage even!), she's a hugely talented chef (and her skills as a pastry chef speak to my sweet heart) and, probably most importantly, she is that knockout combination of gorgeous and practical. My own practical streak is far too wide to put up with frivolous female types.
The party got off to a cliched start when not a single woman in the room could make her iPod work through the stereo. We tried everything, making fun of our own sex and yet a little mortified at our collective ignorance. How tough could this be and did we really need someone with a Y chromosome to do it? Input, output, we thought we understood this stuff.
Sadly, yes, the cavalry had to be called (in the form of a husband) but he at least had the decency to arrive in a wig and carrying a purse. After solving the problem, he also knew enough to exit quickly. Let the wine-drenched girl talk begin.
Given the makeup of the group, it was no surprise that there was a lot of restaurant chatter, a thorough dissection of Broad Appetit (especially the prizewinners), some colorful customer stories and, yes, even discussion of who has the most attractive single male customers in their restaurant. What's the point in having a girls' night in if it doesn't devolve into men, dating and relationship stories?
Despite having cooked 500 butterbean cakes for Broad Appetit, Virginia obligingly made more for us tonight and we doused them in the cucumber, feta, grape tomato, avocado salsa and spicy cilantro oil that elevates them from stellar to sublime. She'd also done hanger steak wraps, vegetarian wraps, her take on deviled eggs, an olive platter (plenty of which ended up on the eggs), an extensive assortment of cheeses and various exotic fruits. The salsa her Peruvian brother had made was, without question, the best-tasting thing called salsa that I've ever put in my mouth; I could have eaten it off a spoon. And two kinds of chocolate for dessert.
Growing up as one of six girls in my family, I am completely comfortable in a room full of talkative females because I had nothing but practice at it for so many years. But the fact is, that's undoubtedly part of the reason I've required so few female friends as an adult.
On the other hand, an evening like this with a group of strong-willed and well-spoken women is an excellent reminder that there's a lot to like about my people. My XX people that is.
My Sunday Menage a Trois
Nothing like a nap to get re-energized after a long afternoon eating and drinking on Broad Street. And what better way to spend that energy than at tonight's Live at Ipanema show? Best of all, this month's photographer for the event is a good friend, but a family man whom I never get to see after dark. And we weren't even meeting until after 9, so it was bound to be enjoyable for all kinds of reasons.
It was still muggy and hot when I got there, despite all the rumbling and sprinkling of a fruitless front change. Inside Ipanema, it was only marginally better, but since I'd gotten a bit of sunburn on my shoulders today (as had my friend, although she hadn't even noticed hers), I'd worn a sundress, so the interior warmth suited me just fine. It drives me crazy that I have to bring a wrap to combat frigid a/c temperatures in some places during the summer months. It's not natural, people, we're supposed to be warm in June. End rant.
Photog friend began with a compliment and moved on to scoping out the joint for pictorial possibilities. Regulars and newbies started to filter in for the show while I filled in my friend on the more colorful aspects of the past few days. He reads the blog, but he also knows that a lot doesn't make it in, so he demands details and I deliver. What are friends for?
Tonight's show was billed as the Florentines, but it was actually just the lead singer Chad doing his singer/songwriter turn. He's also a member of the Colloquial Orchestra, from whom I'd just heard a terrific performance Friday night. His songwriting is heartfelt and sometimes downright sorrowful, the kind of lyrics worth straining to hear.
He began on one guitar and then switched to another, explaining himself. "I hate it when people tell guitar stories," he said, launching into his own; this guitar was a $30 online find and never stays in tune for long. I'm guessing the humidity didn't help the tuning problem much either.
Chad's third instrument ("play the weird instrument," someone from the audience called out) was the bouzouki, a relation of the mandolin and a beautiful- sounding instrument. And best of all, the audience respectfully shut up while the performance was being recorded. All was right with the world for that time.
After the music was over, we moved our little group outside where, to everyone's surprise, the cool front had more than arrived; it was breezy, dry and absolutely perfect patio weather. We ran into the girls from Six Burner, looking completely wiped out after the grease fire that nearly took out their booth today. The English bartender everyone knows from days gone by unexpectedly showed up. The guys from the Nile made a late-night appearance.
It was a lovely ending for a full day after a long and late night before. I finished the day with the fine friend I'd begun it with at Broad Appetit and also with the longtime friend I haven't spent an evening with in years. He summed it up by saying, "I love it that you two are such good friends."
What I love is having a few close friends of both sexes with whom I can talk endlessly and share my sordid little secrets on occasion. Honestly, for me it's all about the conversation...well, that and the music.
It was still muggy and hot when I got there, despite all the rumbling and sprinkling of a fruitless front change. Inside Ipanema, it was only marginally better, but since I'd gotten a bit of sunburn on my shoulders today (as had my friend, although she hadn't even noticed hers), I'd worn a sundress, so the interior warmth suited me just fine. It drives me crazy that I have to bring a wrap to combat frigid a/c temperatures in some places during the summer months. It's not natural, people, we're supposed to be warm in June. End rant.
Photog friend began with a compliment and moved on to scoping out the joint for pictorial possibilities. Regulars and newbies started to filter in for the show while I filled in my friend on the more colorful aspects of the past few days. He reads the blog, but he also knows that a lot doesn't make it in, so he demands details and I deliver. What are friends for?
Tonight's show was billed as the Florentines, but it was actually just the lead singer Chad doing his singer/songwriter turn. He's also a member of the Colloquial Orchestra, from whom I'd just heard a terrific performance Friday night. His songwriting is heartfelt and sometimes downright sorrowful, the kind of lyrics worth straining to hear.
He began on one guitar and then switched to another, explaining himself. "I hate it when people tell guitar stories," he said, launching into his own; this guitar was a $30 online find and never stays in tune for long. I'm guessing the humidity didn't help the tuning problem much either.
Chad's third instrument ("play the weird instrument," someone from the audience called out) was the bouzouki, a relation of the mandolin and a beautiful- sounding instrument. And best of all, the audience respectfully shut up while the performance was being recorded. All was right with the world for that time.
After the music was over, we moved our little group outside where, to everyone's surprise, the cool front had more than arrived; it was breezy, dry and absolutely perfect patio weather. We ran into the girls from Six Burner, looking completely wiped out after the grease fire that nearly took out their booth today. The English bartender everyone knows from days gone by unexpectedly showed up. The guys from the Nile made a late-night appearance.
It was a lovely ending for a full day after a long and late night before. I finished the day with the fine friend I'd begun it with at Broad Appetit and also with the longtime friend I haven't spent an evening with in years. He summed it up by saying, "I love it that you two are such good friends."
What I love is having a few close friends of both sexes with whom I can talk endlessly and share my sordid little secrets on occasion. Honestly, for me it's all about the conversation...well, that and the music.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
One Broad's Appetite
I'm going to be honest. I made two laps at Broad Appetit over the course of an hour and a half and did more talking than eating. I then spent the next three hours in the air-conditioned comfort of Bistro 27, eating, drinking and listening to Gypsy Roots play. I make no apologies for any of my behavior.
June's weather is too reliably hot for a large-scale cooking event featuring 100+ vendors with grills and warming tables. Three blocks is not enough space to try to cram 25,000 people, half of whom are pushing sunburnt children in strollers. Serving hot soup or heavy dishes = a really poor marketing plan. Those are my personal takeaways from today's event, and I've been to them all.
As for what I spent my $3 chunks of change on, we've already established in these very blog pages that I am a sucker for pork belly. Which means I couldn't resist the fried pork belly with Asian slaw from Six Burner. Fatty and tangy, yea man, and served by all those familiar faces from the front and back of the house whom I know so well.
If any one dish spoke to me today it was UR's crab, lobster and corn gazpacho. Cold. light and fresh-tasting, this is what I'm talking about wanting to eat on a hot day.
Likewise, I couldn't pass up the watermelon "soda" made by Julep's master mixologist Bobby, (who lured me in to tell me about the tequila tasting he knew I wouldn't want to miss). Unlike some drink offerings I heard about today, his was chilled and served in a large cup without an overabundance of ice and it was about the most refreshing taste you can imagine.
It was a lot like having a cup of the juices that run down your arm when you're eating a hunk of watermelon at a picnic. And while not a fermented beverage, it definitely fell right in line with my recent trend of drinking pink.
The award for brilliance goes to Bacchus for their homemade dark chocolate and strawberry ice creams, a real mood lightener in today's tropic-like heat. I can attest to their strawberry being heavenly with loads of strawberry chunks throughout.
It was easy to pass up on Acacia's softshell sliders because of my recent bagged lunch from there of that very dish except in full-size format, raved about here. Three dollars for a couple of bites of that stellar taste combination can't compare to an entire baguette of softshells and slaw with a side and dessert for $10, so I didn't bother with that line today.
My friend and I were the first bar customers to escape the heat at 27 and passed several very enjoyable hours after all that hot hullabaloo, drinking Gavi di Gavi and Vino Verde. By 3:00 we were feeling peckish (and "tipsy in the afternoon" if you want to listen to my friend's assessment) and decided to eat up. She had a Ceasar salad with salty anchovies and sauteed calamari in a tomato sauce over creamy polenta while I had a bowl of mussels in white wine cream sauce, soaked up by a whole lot of crusty bread.
Before you question why I would sit in a restaurant (and a place I frequent often) rather than availing msyelf of further sampling possibilities at the festival, allow me to remind you of the purpose of Broad Appetit. It was conecived to bring people downtown and affordably introuduce them to the wealth of independent restaurants in RVA, in hopes that they might return to the city for a full meal at a later date.
That's a lesson so firmly ingrained in me already that one could almost say I preach it in my daily blog ramblings about my endless eating experiences, almost always within the city limits.
Broad appetite? Hell, this broad already has one.
June's weather is too reliably hot for a large-scale cooking event featuring 100+ vendors with grills and warming tables. Three blocks is not enough space to try to cram 25,000 people, half of whom are pushing sunburnt children in strollers. Serving hot soup or heavy dishes = a really poor marketing plan. Those are my personal takeaways from today's event, and I've been to them all.
As for what I spent my $3 chunks of change on, we've already established in these very blog pages that I am a sucker for pork belly. Which means I couldn't resist the fried pork belly with Asian slaw from Six Burner. Fatty and tangy, yea man, and served by all those familiar faces from the front and back of the house whom I know so well.
If any one dish spoke to me today it was UR's crab, lobster and corn gazpacho. Cold. light and fresh-tasting, this is what I'm talking about wanting to eat on a hot day.
Likewise, I couldn't pass up the watermelon "soda" made by Julep's master mixologist Bobby, (who lured me in to tell me about the tequila tasting he knew I wouldn't want to miss). Unlike some drink offerings I heard about today, his was chilled and served in a large cup without an overabundance of ice and it was about the most refreshing taste you can imagine.
It was a lot like having a cup of the juices that run down your arm when you're eating a hunk of watermelon at a picnic. And while not a fermented beverage, it definitely fell right in line with my recent trend of drinking pink.
The award for brilliance goes to Bacchus for their homemade dark chocolate and strawberry ice creams, a real mood lightener in today's tropic-like heat. I can attest to their strawberry being heavenly with loads of strawberry chunks throughout.
It was easy to pass up on Acacia's softshell sliders because of my recent bagged lunch from there of that very dish except in full-size format, raved about here. Three dollars for a couple of bites of that stellar taste combination can't compare to an entire baguette of softshells and slaw with a side and dessert for $10, so I didn't bother with that line today.
My friend and I were the first bar customers to escape the heat at 27 and passed several very enjoyable hours after all that hot hullabaloo, drinking Gavi di Gavi and Vino Verde. By 3:00 we were feeling peckish (and "tipsy in the afternoon" if you want to listen to my friend's assessment) and decided to eat up. She had a Ceasar salad with salty anchovies and sauteed calamari in a tomato sauce over creamy polenta while I had a bowl of mussels in white wine cream sauce, soaked up by a whole lot of crusty bread.
Before you question why I would sit in a restaurant (and a place I frequent often) rather than availing msyelf of further sampling possibilities at the festival, allow me to remind you of the purpose of Broad Appetit. It was conecived to bring people downtown and affordably introuduce them to the wealth of independent restaurants in RVA, in hopes that they might return to the city for a full meal at a later date.
That's a lesson so firmly ingrained in me already that one could almost say I preach it in my daily blog ramblings about my endless eating experiences, almost always within the city limits.
Broad appetite? Hell, this broad already has one.
My Maudlin Career, er Evening
When I was out artwalking on Friday night, I'd paused in front of 27 to see how busy they were and wave hi to whomever might be working.
From behind the very busy bar, Dave the comedian spotted me, smiled and pointed and began to unbutton his shirt, as if to strip down.
Naturally I smiled back and since I was conveniently wearing a wide-necked dress, began to pull the dress down over my shoulders as if to bare my chest.
At that moment, no less than four pairs of male eyes turned around to see what Dave was looking at.
So there I was, grinning like a fool, with my dress heading south on my arms, no doubt viewed as part of the street theater that is First Fridays.
Needless to say, I decided not to go into 27 after that, but I knew I'd take crap for it, so I went tonight instead.
And I did take crap for not coming in the night before, but, hey, I was here now.
It was hot, so while I had aspirations to drink red, I began with Carlos' favorite white, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi, which went down like water.
Not surprisingly, the staff and I were talking about the impending Broad Appetit and one of the dishes Carlos will be serving tomorrow is his ensalata caprese, which put me in the mood for a full-size serving of it myself.
He was telling me how poorly suited he'd be for assembly line work; a day of repetitiously making hundreds of the same two dishes had resulted in a monotony headache.
I could commiserate because I'm no better suited for routine than he is.
We talked about how much fun the Memorial Day cookout had been and 27's new late bar hours, which I'm thrilled about.
Many's the time I want to stop off in the neighborhood on my way home from an event , so now that'll be a no-brainer.
And speaking of drinking, with the Gavi di Gavi gone, I was ready for red and Carlos suggested switching to the Andes malbec, knowing I'd like it.
The problem then became deciding what to eat for dinner and I wasn't leaning in any particular direction.
Ron saved the day by giving me a peek at the soon-to-be-debuted menu and letting me choose off of that.
Score!
I'll have the Spanish Blood Sausage over a spicy potato mixture, thank you very much.
The sausage was outstanding and Carlos came over to join me while I ate it.
There were no good bar sitters last night, but fortunately all my favorite staff were there to take care of my conversational needs, which were extensive.
After nearly finishing the bottle of Malbec (don't judge), it was time for me to high-tail it over to the National for Camera Obscura.
A friend had told me he'd chosen not to go to the show because he'd heard that they sound exactly like their records, but I didn't care about that because I'm so fond of their charming little girl Scottish voices.
Besides, how can I not love a group that sings "Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken"?
(Been there. Not ready.)
The crowd was smaller than it should have been.
In fact the last time I saw a crowd so paltry was at the Passion Pit show last June and that was just as inexcusable.
In any case, I took my usual spot, chatted up a nearby fan (like me, he didn't care either how album-like they sounded) and settled in for a night of pretty and poppy.
When all was said and sung, I left my second destination of the evening as well sated as the first.
That's what we call a good night.
And bonus points if you can appreciate the positive connotation of maudlin.
I do so love a word nerd.
From behind the very busy bar, Dave the comedian spotted me, smiled and pointed and began to unbutton his shirt, as if to strip down.
Naturally I smiled back and since I was conveniently wearing a wide-necked dress, began to pull the dress down over my shoulders as if to bare my chest.
At that moment, no less than four pairs of male eyes turned around to see what Dave was looking at.
So there I was, grinning like a fool, with my dress heading south on my arms, no doubt viewed as part of the street theater that is First Fridays.
Needless to say, I decided not to go into 27 after that, but I knew I'd take crap for it, so I went tonight instead.
And I did take crap for not coming in the night before, but, hey, I was here now.
It was hot, so while I had aspirations to drink red, I began with Carlos' favorite white, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi, which went down like water.
Not surprisingly, the staff and I were talking about the impending Broad Appetit and one of the dishes Carlos will be serving tomorrow is his ensalata caprese, which put me in the mood for a full-size serving of it myself.
He was telling me how poorly suited he'd be for assembly line work; a day of repetitiously making hundreds of the same two dishes had resulted in a monotony headache.
I could commiserate because I'm no better suited for routine than he is.
We talked about how much fun the Memorial Day cookout had been and 27's new late bar hours, which I'm thrilled about.
Many's the time I want to stop off in the neighborhood on my way home from an event , so now that'll be a no-brainer.
And speaking of drinking, with the Gavi di Gavi gone, I was ready for red and Carlos suggested switching to the Andes malbec, knowing I'd like it.
The problem then became deciding what to eat for dinner and I wasn't leaning in any particular direction.
Ron saved the day by giving me a peek at the soon-to-be-debuted menu and letting me choose off of that.
Score!
I'll have the Spanish Blood Sausage over a spicy potato mixture, thank you very much.
The sausage was outstanding and Carlos came over to join me while I ate it.
There were no good bar sitters last night, but fortunately all my favorite staff were there to take care of my conversational needs, which were extensive.
After nearly finishing the bottle of Malbec (don't judge), it was time for me to high-tail it over to the National for Camera Obscura.
A friend had told me he'd chosen not to go to the show because he'd heard that they sound exactly like their records, but I didn't care about that because I'm so fond of their charming little girl Scottish voices.
Besides, how can I not love a group that sings "Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken"?
(Been there. Not ready.)
The crowd was smaller than it should have been.
In fact the last time I saw a crowd so paltry was at the Passion Pit show last June and that was just as inexcusable.
In any case, I took my usual spot, chatted up a nearby fan (like me, he didn't care either how album-like they sounded) and settled in for a night of pretty and poppy.
When all was said and sung, I left my second destination of the evening as well sated as the first.
That's what we call a good night.
And bonus points if you can appreciate the positive connotation of maudlin.
I do so love a word nerd.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
R.I.P. Marshall Street Cafe
How's this for irony?
On the eve of Broad Appetit, with 25,000 people expected in Jackson Ward tomorrow to eat, we lost one of our neighborhood restaurants this afternoon.
And by lost, I don't mean went out of business, I mean gone.
The building is in rubble.
I lost power briefly this morning, so I didn't think anything of it when it went out again an hour or so ago.
But the sirens that followed were a sure sign that something major had happened and it wasn't long before a neighbor called and told me to get over to the Marshall Street Cafe...or what was left of it
Approaching the corner where the restaurant used to sit now sat a crumbling building with a car squarely in the restaurant and the one that hit it right behind it.
It was like a cross-section of a building diagram; you could see the remaining part of the apartment above the restaurant and where the Marshall Street Cafe used to be was a tangle of cars surrounded by brick and debris.
Sadly, it seems likely that the building will have to come down completely.
It was one of those classic corner buildings with with two walls of windows converging at a corner door.
While it wasn't a trendy spot, but it was a reliable neighborhood place, here, and had a devoted happy hour crowd. I
A place that will be missed in the neighborhood, for sure.
And on top of that, we've lost an historical commercial building in a neighborhood built on commerce as well as residences.
The restaurant business is a notoriously tough one, but what happened to the Marshall Street Cafe amounts to nothing more than the worst kind of luck.
Someone ran a red light, caused an accident and now a local business is destroyed.
I sincerely hope the owners of Marshall Street Cafe reopen somewhere else in J-Ward, but the fact is, that corner will never look the same.
Sadly, Jackson Ward may have lost another piece of its history this afternoon.
Let's keep our fingers crossed that it can be rebuilt.
On the eve of Broad Appetit, with 25,000 people expected in Jackson Ward tomorrow to eat, we lost one of our neighborhood restaurants this afternoon.
And by lost, I don't mean went out of business, I mean gone.
The building is in rubble.
I lost power briefly this morning, so I didn't think anything of it when it went out again an hour or so ago.
But the sirens that followed were a sure sign that something major had happened and it wasn't long before a neighbor called and told me to get over to the Marshall Street Cafe...or what was left of it
Approaching the corner where the restaurant used to sit now sat a crumbling building with a car squarely in the restaurant and the one that hit it right behind it.
It was like a cross-section of a building diagram; you could see the remaining part of the apartment above the restaurant and where the Marshall Street Cafe used to be was a tangle of cars surrounded by brick and debris.
Sadly, it seems likely that the building will have to come down completely.
It was one of those classic corner buildings with with two walls of windows converging at a corner door.
While it wasn't a trendy spot, but it was a reliable neighborhood place, here, and had a devoted happy hour crowd. I
A place that will be missed in the neighborhood, for sure.
And on top of that, we've lost an historical commercial building in a neighborhood built on commerce as well as residences.
The restaurant business is a notoriously tough one, but what happened to the Marshall Street Cafe amounts to nothing more than the worst kind of luck.
Someone ran a red light, caused an accident and now a local business is destroyed.
I sincerely hope the owners of Marshall Street Cafe reopen somewhere else in J-Ward, but the fact is, that corner will never look the same.
Sadly, Jackson Ward may have lost another piece of its history this afternoon.
Let's keep our fingers crossed that it can be rebuilt.
Friday, June 4, 2010
In the Heat of the Night
The humidity's been at around 82% all evening. All my activities tonight involved lots of sweaty bodies. Everyone who hugged me this evening was sticky. And not one of those statements is a complaint (I'll take hot over cold any time).
My Friday night began at the new pizza place Stuzzi, which was packed for its unofficial opening night soiree. The ABC license hadn't arrived until 2:00 this afternoon (whew!), but the choices tonight were limited to wine and liquor (beer is coming, not that I care). They had no change so only cards were being taken in payment for drinks. Food was on the house with comments being actively solicited. And the a/c struggled to keep up with the crowd and the pizza oven cranking out non-stop pies.
I found my spot at the front bar and ordered my wine from a list on a yellow legal pad (how often does that happen twice in one week?) consisting of a Pinot Grigio, a Chardonnay and a blend of Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. It will be interesting to see what actually ends up on the wine list.
The large staff was rushing about furiously, figuring out their systems as they went along; everyone was friendly, pleasant and glistening. There were five Stuzzi Chini (delicious little things), two salads, the classic Pizze D.O.C., the Margherita, along with five other pizzas and four pastas. Oh, and three desserts for those who care about such things.
I ordered the spring mix with Gorgonzola and the Italian Sausage (Salsiccia) Pizze with San Marzano tomato sauce, housemade Mozzarella, sausage, basil and EVOO. My salad had so much Gorgonzola on it that I actually didn't finish it all (knowing I had a pie on the way) and that's really saying something. The greens were fresh and it was not overdressed so I gave it a thumbs up. Owner Peter teased me about not being able to finish such wonderful cheese from the originating town. Cheese fail, Karen.
The beauty of a pizza oven with stones from Mt. Vesuvius is that a pie is ready in 60 to 90 seconds. The rustic and amorphic pizza was superb and I shared a piece with an old friend and former neighbor who had stopped by ("I should have known I'd find you here.") on his way to a benefit and he agreed that the pie was beautifully done. Since unlike me, he still lives a block away, he's thrilled with their presence in the Museum District.
Leaving, I ran into Tanya of Belmont Butchery, whom I hadn't chatted with since a party a few months back. She wanted to show me the butchery's garden, so we headed around the corner to meet up with the charming Henry and admire the corn. And the lima beans (be still my heart). And the beets and the mesclun and the peppers and the haricots verts. Strolling the back forty with a light breeze was the perfect after-dinner activity; promises of gifts from their bounty only added to my personal enjoyment of it all. Lima lovers "R" us.
I left the old 'hood for the current one to meet up with a friend and do the artwalk (duh, it is First Friday after all). I specifically wanted to see the "Richmond Illustrators Club 4th Annual Juried Show" because it is always one of my favorite (and best) shows of the year. There was such a variety of talent on Ghostprint's walls tonight and many of the prints were extremely reasonably priced. There was more than one that I could happily look at every day on my own walls.
ADA's "Anniversary Affordable Works and Garage Sale" offered up all kinds of delights in practically every medium. I loved Daniel Davidson's symmetrical images; he only draws the left side and then uses a simple process to transfer it to the right side. Shown was a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge and another of Queen Elizabeth; the detail in both was riveting. And how clever is he? Half the work and a full picture.
Art 6 had a Juneteenth exhibit that shone for its vintage photographs of blacks posing for the camera pre-1900. Another photography standout was "Soul Rebel: An Intimate Portrait of Bob Marley" by David Burnett at Metro Space Gallery, with a local reggae band conveniently playing outside. Lots of blissed out faces, but no suspicious smells.
I knew I wanted to finish in the courtyard because the Colloquial Orchestra was playing and after hearing them once, I wanted to hear them some more. They started playing with no introduction and it took a few minutes for the crowd, or at least those who were there to hear music, to realize it.
They have an amazing sound and I checked and I'm not speaking out of turn by calling them post-rock. Their dynamic sound builds and wraps around the listener's ear in a way that makes the music everything...unless you're talking and then, sadly for you, it's just background.
Talking to the guys in the band afterwards, they acknowledged a lot of improvisation going on in between certain set points in the music. They also said that they ldo isten to a lot of post-rock, too, and laughingly suggested that they're post-post rock.
What they are to me is a collection of talented musicians playing interesting instruments and creating a sound that doesn't fall neatly into 3 or 4 minute songs, but which will totally capture you for the duration. There could have been no better way to wrap up the evening.
Walking back past Gallery 5, we saw a bit of a fire performance and some belly dancing as we paused on the sidewalk. It was my friend's first First Friday in over two years, so he was particularly thrilled with the events of the evening. I know because he told me so as he gave me a sweaty hug before leaving J-Ward.
As for me, now that I've finished my nightly over-sharing and it's only 12:45, I plan to take my wine and my sticky self and go sit on my balcony for a while to enjoy the heat.
It's not like anyone will know how sweaty I am...and I kind of like it on a June night.
My Friday night began at the new pizza place Stuzzi, which was packed for its unofficial opening night soiree. The ABC license hadn't arrived until 2:00 this afternoon (whew!), but the choices tonight were limited to wine and liquor (beer is coming, not that I care). They had no change so only cards were being taken in payment for drinks. Food was on the house with comments being actively solicited. And the a/c struggled to keep up with the crowd and the pizza oven cranking out non-stop pies.
I found my spot at the front bar and ordered my wine from a list on a yellow legal pad (how often does that happen twice in one week?) consisting of a Pinot Grigio, a Chardonnay and a blend of Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. It will be interesting to see what actually ends up on the wine list.
The large staff was rushing about furiously, figuring out their systems as they went along; everyone was friendly, pleasant and glistening. There were five Stuzzi Chini (delicious little things), two salads, the classic Pizze D.O.C., the Margherita, along with five other pizzas and four pastas. Oh, and three desserts for those who care about such things.
I ordered the spring mix with Gorgonzola and the Italian Sausage (Salsiccia) Pizze with San Marzano tomato sauce, housemade Mozzarella, sausage, basil and EVOO. My salad had so much Gorgonzola on it that I actually didn't finish it all (knowing I had a pie on the way) and that's really saying something. The greens were fresh and it was not overdressed so I gave it a thumbs up. Owner Peter teased me about not being able to finish such wonderful cheese from the originating town. Cheese fail, Karen.
The beauty of a pizza oven with stones from Mt. Vesuvius is that a pie is ready in 60 to 90 seconds. The rustic and amorphic pizza was superb and I shared a piece with an old friend and former neighbor who had stopped by ("I should have known I'd find you here.") on his way to a benefit and he agreed that the pie was beautifully done. Since unlike me, he still lives a block away, he's thrilled with their presence in the Museum District.
Leaving, I ran into Tanya of Belmont Butchery, whom I hadn't chatted with since a party a few months back. She wanted to show me the butchery's garden, so we headed around the corner to meet up with the charming Henry and admire the corn. And the lima beans (be still my heart). And the beets and the mesclun and the peppers and the haricots verts. Strolling the back forty with a light breeze was the perfect after-dinner activity; promises of gifts from their bounty only added to my personal enjoyment of it all. Lima lovers "R" us.
I left the old 'hood for the current one to meet up with a friend and do the artwalk (duh, it is First Friday after all). I specifically wanted to see the "Richmond Illustrators Club 4th Annual Juried Show" because it is always one of my favorite (and best) shows of the year. There was such a variety of talent on Ghostprint's walls tonight and many of the prints were extremely reasonably priced. There was more than one that I could happily look at every day on my own walls.
ADA's "Anniversary Affordable Works and Garage Sale" offered up all kinds of delights in practically every medium. I loved Daniel Davidson's symmetrical images; he only draws the left side and then uses a simple process to transfer it to the right side. Shown was a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge and another of Queen Elizabeth; the detail in both was riveting. And how clever is he? Half the work and a full picture.
Art 6 had a Juneteenth exhibit that shone for its vintage photographs of blacks posing for the camera pre-1900. Another photography standout was "Soul Rebel: An Intimate Portrait of Bob Marley" by David Burnett at Metro Space Gallery, with a local reggae band conveniently playing outside. Lots of blissed out faces, but no suspicious smells.
I knew I wanted to finish in the courtyard because the Colloquial Orchestra was playing and after hearing them once, I wanted to hear them some more. They started playing with no introduction and it took a few minutes for the crowd, or at least those who were there to hear music, to realize it.
They have an amazing sound and I checked and I'm not speaking out of turn by calling them post-rock. Their dynamic sound builds and wraps around the listener's ear in a way that makes the music everything...unless you're talking and then, sadly for you, it's just background.
Talking to the guys in the band afterwards, they acknowledged a lot of improvisation going on in between certain set points in the music. They also said that they ldo isten to a lot of post-rock, too, and laughingly suggested that they're post-post rock.
What they are to me is a collection of talented musicians playing interesting instruments and creating a sound that doesn't fall neatly into 3 or 4 minute songs, but which will totally capture you for the duration. There could have been no better way to wrap up the evening.
Walking back past Gallery 5, we saw a bit of a fire performance and some belly dancing as we paused on the sidewalk. It was my friend's first First Friday in over two years, so he was particularly thrilled with the events of the evening. I know because he told me so as he gave me a sweaty hug before leaving J-Ward.
As for me, now that I've finished my nightly over-sharing and it's only 12:45, I plan to take my wine and my sticky self and go sit on my balcony for a while to enjoy the heat.
It's not like anyone will know how sweaty I am...and I kind of like it on a June night.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
VMFA: Music was Jumpin' Again
To hear me wax poetic about Jackson Ward, you'd think I'd lived here forever, but actually it's not quite four years now. Before that, I lived in the much more sedate (and therefore less enjoyable) Museum District back when it was still called "West of the Boulevard" and as such won in 1996 as "West of the Boulevard, Richmond's Neighborhood of the Year" (no joke; I have the t-shirt to prove it).
And while it was usually a very well-behaved neighborhood, it did have the benefit of being home to the VMFA's Jumpin' concert series, which I attended faithfully because it was two blocks from home. I know, I know, it had a reputation as a meat market, but I actually went for the music. Really. There's a lot to be said for live music in a sculpture garden on a summer evening, no matter what most of the attendees are there for.
I saw some outstanding bands there and the schedule always included music from all over the globe and representing all genres. Amongst the more memorable were Shemeika Copeland, Nuevo Menco, The Insteps and for those of us who like girl on girl action, both Antigone Rising and Fruit wowed the crowd with their girrrl power performances.
Well, after six years of no Jumpin', the series returned tonight and, as luck would have it, the threat of bad weather moved the show inside to the atrium; unfortunately, that meant I missed the rainbow I've already heard so much about. So while Jumpin' is back, it won't really feel that way until I attend an actual outdoor show.
Tonight it was Alejandro Escovedo and the Sensitive Boys, a band I almost drove to Charlottesville to see last year, so definitely someone I wanted to hear live. Except for the loudest songs crashing off all the hard surfaces in the atrium, the band put on a great performance. The first set of two was especially hit-heavy and the crowd was the type that knew the lyrics to many of the songs.
There was a brief power outage during the second set and the staff scrambled to put it right. A much larger crowd had assembled by that time, probably most unaware that when you choose to arrive late at Jumpin' you miss the entire first set, not a wise choice for a music lover. When the band came back out for its encore, they began by playing the lead-in to "Black Dog," thrilling the audience. Alejandro joked that they were "the worst Led Zeppelin cover band ever," but I don't think the adoring audience saw it that way.
The show attracted all kinds of people I know or knew, including the guy who once leaned in like he was going to kiss me and instead told me I wasn't attractive, here (he was right, I'm not, but his timing!). I hadn't seen him in years, but he's still being overly-complimentary to compensate.
I also ran into a DJ, a farmer, a magazine writer, a botanist, a hipster and a random blogger and her main squeeze, so I was not lacking for people to talk to before and after the music. Hell, I even knew the teetotaling girl who served me my Y & B Rose (an organic winery with oh-so-green packaging, written up as recently as yesterday in the Washington Post). Best of all, there was no meat market vibe; it actually seemed like people were there for the music.
Maybe it's just a shift in the cultural wind in the intervening years. People will now come to Jumpin' for musical rather than hormonal reasons and next thing you know, I'll be wearing a new t-shirt.
But it's not going to be white and the wording will be a bit less sedately 1996; check it out:
J-Ward
RVA's 'Hood of the Year
2010
But you'll have to demonstrate that you can shut up at shows in order to get one.
And while it was usually a very well-behaved neighborhood, it did have the benefit of being home to the VMFA's Jumpin' concert series, which I attended faithfully because it was two blocks from home. I know, I know, it had a reputation as a meat market, but I actually went for the music. Really. There's a lot to be said for live music in a sculpture garden on a summer evening, no matter what most of the attendees are there for.
I saw some outstanding bands there and the schedule always included music from all over the globe and representing all genres. Amongst the more memorable were Shemeika Copeland, Nuevo Menco, The Insteps and for those of us who like girl on girl action, both Antigone Rising and Fruit wowed the crowd with their girrrl power performances.
Well, after six years of no Jumpin', the series returned tonight and, as luck would have it, the threat of bad weather moved the show inside to the atrium; unfortunately, that meant I missed the rainbow I've already heard so much about. So while Jumpin' is back, it won't really feel that way until I attend an actual outdoor show.
Tonight it was Alejandro Escovedo and the Sensitive Boys, a band I almost drove to Charlottesville to see last year, so definitely someone I wanted to hear live. Except for the loudest songs crashing off all the hard surfaces in the atrium, the band put on a great performance. The first set of two was especially hit-heavy and the crowd was the type that knew the lyrics to many of the songs.
There was a brief power outage during the second set and the staff scrambled to put it right. A much larger crowd had assembled by that time, probably most unaware that when you choose to arrive late at Jumpin' you miss the entire first set, not a wise choice for a music lover. When the band came back out for its encore, they began by playing the lead-in to "Black Dog," thrilling the audience. Alejandro joked that they were "the worst Led Zeppelin cover band ever," but I don't think the adoring audience saw it that way.
The show attracted all kinds of people I know or knew, including the guy who once leaned in like he was going to kiss me and instead told me I wasn't attractive, here (he was right, I'm not, but his timing!). I hadn't seen him in years, but he's still being overly-complimentary to compensate.
I also ran into a DJ, a farmer, a magazine writer, a botanist, a hipster and a random blogger and her main squeeze, so I was not lacking for people to talk to before and after the music. Hell, I even knew the teetotaling girl who served me my Y & B Rose (an organic winery with oh-so-green packaging, written up as recently as yesterday in the Washington Post). Best of all, there was no meat market vibe; it actually seemed like people were there for the music.
Maybe it's just a shift in the cultural wind in the intervening years. People will now come to Jumpin' for musical rather than hormonal reasons and next thing you know, I'll be wearing a new t-shirt.
But it's not going to be white and the wording will be a bit less sedately 1996; check it out:
J-Ward
RVA's 'Hood of the Year
2010
But you'll have to demonstrate that you can shut up at shows in order to get one.
A Mashup for the Masses
Part of the beauty of working the census is the random things (and people) I happen upon walking the streets for my government (envision snappy salute). So far, all my assignments have been in my home 'hood, Jackson Ward, but today I had to venture over to Monroe Ward to try to entice a stubborn type to cooperate after another enumerator had met with no success.
And, lo and behold, there on the lawn of the Linden Row Inn was something both sculptural and architectural and completely unexpected, so naturally I had to check it out. As part of the VMFA's reopening, 1708 Gallery had placed this piece in a satellite location in hopes of it being observed and admired by the masses.
"Octagonal Living Unit 2.0" by Craig Pleasants took its inspiration in part from two VMFA works, Robert Gwathmey's "Family Portrait" and Bruce Marden's "Meritatio." The structure/sculpture is a 112" x 115" x 115" styrofoam, steel and latex paint shelter meant to be experienced both inside and outside. The piece I was looking at is a smaller version of a 500 square foot housing unit inspired by the housing crises in Haiti, Chile and China.
The sculpture had eight walls and took its color scheme from Marden's abstract color field painting. The front and back walls were peaked, I assume for visual interest. I can't imagine anyone preferring a standard mobile home over this colorful and easily assembled living space (which, by the way, takes only a few hours to assemble).
Pleasants is on record as having said that he doe not rely on the power of ornamentation for power and admiring this house as I stood on Franklin Street across from the library, it was clear that ornamentation was not necessary. The Gwathmey painting from which it partly took its inspiration depicts two families in adjoining open-front shelters and I could easily imagine a small family happily occupying this space, appreciative of both the below-market cost of it and the satisfying aesthetic of it.
The artist referred to it as a visual and conceptual mashup, but it didn't take much to envision it as a person's home. Standing on the sidewalk, it struck me as an example of real world art, even as a toothless, homeless man was asking me for spare change.
In the greater sense, Pleasants is obviously part of the solution, not the problem. But don't wait to happen on this visual treat like I did or you might miss it. And that would be your loss.
And, lo and behold, there on the lawn of the Linden Row Inn was something both sculptural and architectural and completely unexpected, so naturally I had to check it out. As part of the VMFA's reopening, 1708 Gallery had placed this piece in a satellite location in hopes of it being observed and admired by the masses.
"Octagonal Living Unit 2.0" by Craig Pleasants took its inspiration in part from two VMFA works, Robert Gwathmey's "Family Portrait" and Bruce Marden's "Meritatio." The structure/sculpture is a 112" x 115" x 115" styrofoam, steel and latex paint shelter meant to be experienced both inside and outside. The piece I was looking at is a smaller version of a 500 square foot housing unit inspired by the housing crises in Haiti, Chile and China.
The sculpture had eight walls and took its color scheme from Marden's abstract color field painting. The front and back walls were peaked, I assume for visual interest. I can't imagine anyone preferring a standard mobile home over this colorful and easily assembled living space (which, by the way, takes only a few hours to assemble).
Pleasants is on record as having said that he doe not rely on the power of ornamentation for power and admiring this house as I stood on Franklin Street across from the library, it was clear that ornamentation was not necessary. The Gwathmey painting from which it partly took its inspiration depicts two families in adjoining open-front shelters and I could easily imagine a small family happily occupying this space, appreciative of both the below-market cost of it and the satisfying aesthetic of it.
The artist referred to it as a visual and conceptual mashup, but it didn't take much to envision it as a person's home. Standing on the sidewalk, it struck me as an example of real world art, even as a toothless, homeless man was asking me for spare change.
In the greater sense, Pleasants is obviously part of the solution, not the problem. But don't wait to happen on this visual treat like I did or you might miss it. And that would be your loss.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Ogling the New Pizza Ovens
I spent the evening doing the progressive thing, moving around and enjoying a bit of everywhere I went. It wasn't so much an ADD thing as it was a last minute call from a friend suggesting we meet up when I already had some wandering in mind for myself anyway.
After getting an effusive e-mail today from my Italian friend directing me to Stuzzi, I dropped by and dropped his name and was promptly taken on a tour and given the full-on razzle-dazzle. It is a truly magnificent pizza oven with its Venetian glass and center stage presence and I oohed and ahhed appropriately and sincerely.
It's hard not to appreciate an oven designated as one of the ten official (of the thousands in existence in the US) by the Italian government. It's also hard not to appreciate being called a beautiful woman by an effusive Italian man (have we established yet that I'm a sucker for compliments? See my past for why) with a new restaurant. Flown-in tomatoes and house made Mozzarella aside, these guys seem like the real deal.
Next up was Secco for a glass of Portugese wine (2008 Esporao Reserve DOC Alentejo), lushly perfumed and full-bodied (like a certain kind of woman, but don't look at me; I don't wear perfume). The crowd was manageable when I arrived but quickly grew to capacity. Of note was that owner Julia finally caved, right in front of my eyes, and henceforth food will be served to those waiting on the couches, something she had resisted from Day One. But then, life is a series of concessions, as all wise ones know.
I was meeting a friend at Bellytimber afterwards to see what the owners of Mezzanine had concocted for a casual bar space. Their intention, they said, was to serve fresh and tasty food at affordable bar prices. The interior is definitely an improvement over the former Border location, but the two huge flat screens told me all I needed to know.
I loved the open windows along Plum Street and bartender Sean's iPod was so indie right-on that I had to compliment him on it (Temper Trap, Killers, Peter, Bjorn and John et al). Despite his claim that he's been a bartender forever (followed by a laundry list of all the places he's tended bar), fortunately for customers like me, his musical taste is of the moment.
Seeing the igloo-looking mound from our perches at the far end of the bar, it was inevitable that we'd try the pizza. The couple next to us had raved about the pepperoni, but we couldn't resist the caramelized bacon and onion, which turned out to be quite good. An enthusiastic kitchen staffer gave me a tour, so to speak, of the oven with its logs burning briskly and its heat blasting directly into the kitchen. Three minutes and done! No need for delayed pizza gratification here.
We bypassed the Scotch egg (hard boiled egg encased in house made ground pork sausage) despite a recommendation from a nearby Jagermesiter drinker, and got the pirogis (homemade egg noodle dumplings stuffed with mashed potato, seared with onions and served with sour cream); the slices of green onion tops made the dish, we agreed. It qualified for bar comfort food in the best possible way.
I was actually surprised to find several vegetarian/vegan choices on the menu, although I'm not sure why they caught me off guard. Several local offerings were noted, including Victory Farms greens and Twin Oaks tofu. They also make their own rolls and potato chips, for those who appreciate such things.
Bellytimber 's ABC license is very new, so the wine list is still handwritten on a piece of yellow legal pad (a printed version arrives tomorrow, I was told), which I found charming. I went with Cava at the bartender's suggestion ("Feel like bubbles?"), a restaurant opening, even a soft one, being a festive occasion.Entrees are not yet available but will be shortly. Coming soon! Meat!
We made one last stop at Comfort because my friend had heard they were doing live music, but it had been cancelled, so we made that the end of our forward progress.
Besides, seeing as how I was now merely blocks from home with my wanderlust sated, all that was left was to share my stories...just in case anyone's curious. Anyone at all.
After getting an effusive e-mail today from my Italian friend directing me to Stuzzi, I dropped by and dropped his name and was promptly taken on a tour and given the full-on razzle-dazzle. It is a truly magnificent pizza oven with its Venetian glass and center stage presence and I oohed and ahhed appropriately and sincerely.
It's hard not to appreciate an oven designated as one of the ten official (of the thousands in existence in the US) by the Italian government. It's also hard not to appreciate being called a beautiful woman by an effusive Italian man (have we established yet that I'm a sucker for compliments? See my past for why) with a new restaurant. Flown-in tomatoes and house made Mozzarella aside, these guys seem like the real deal.
Next up was Secco for a glass of Portugese wine (2008 Esporao Reserve DOC Alentejo), lushly perfumed and full-bodied (like a certain kind of woman, but don't look at me; I don't wear perfume). The crowd was manageable when I arrived but quickly grew to capacity. Of note was that owner Julia finally caved, right in front of my eyes, and henceforth food will be served to those waiting on the couches, something she had resisted from Day One. But then, life is a series of concessions, as all wise ones know.
I was meeting a friend at Bellytimber afterwards to see what the owners of Mezzanine had concocted for a casual bar space. Their intention, they said, was to serve fresh and tasty food at affordable bar prices. The interior is definitely an improvement over the former Border location, but the two huge flat screens told me all I needed to know.
I loved the open windows along Plum Street and bartender Sean's iPod was so indie right-on that I had to compliment him on it (Temper Trap, Killers, Peter, Bjorn and John et al). Despite his claim that he's been a bartender forever (followed by a laundry list of all the places he's tended bar), fortunately for customers like me, his musical taste is of the moment.
Seeing the igloo-looking mound from our perches at the far end of the bar, it was inevitable that we'd try the pizza. The couple next to us had raved about the pepperoni, but we couldn't resist the caramelized bacon and onion, which turned out to be quite good. An enthusiastic kitchen staffer gave me a tour, so to speak, of the oven with its logs burning briskly and its heat blasting directly into the kitchen. Three minutes and done! No need for delayed pizza gratification here.
We bypassed the Scotch egg (hard boiled egg encased in house made ground pork sausage) despite a recommendation from a nearby Jagermesiter drinker, and got the pirogis (homemade egg noodle dumplings stuffed with mashed potato, seared with onions and served with sour cream); the slices of green onion tops made the dish, we agreed. It qualified for bar comfort food in the best possible way.
I was actually surprised to find several vegetarian/vegan choices on the menu, although I'm not sure why they caught me off guard. Several local offerings were noted, including Victory Farms greens and Twin Oaks tofu. They also make their own rolls and potato chips, for those who appreciate such things.
Bellytimber 's ABC license is very new, so the wine list is still handwritten on a piece of yellow legal pad (a printed version arrives tomorrow, I was told), which I found charming. I went with Cava at the bartender's suggestion ("Feel like bubbles?"), a restaurant opening, even a soft one, being a festive occasion.Entrees are not yet available but will be shortly. Coming soon! Meat!
We made one last stop at Comfort because my friend had heard they were doing live music, but it had been cancelled, so we made that the end of our forward progress.
Besides, seeing as how I was now merely blocks from home with my wanderlust sated, all that was left was to share my stories...just in case anyone's curious. Anyone at all.
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