I have found my perfect Stella's time, which I didn't think was possible.
It is during meze ora. The time from 4-6:00 when there are a dozen $4 meze. When a carafe of wine is ten bucks.
And when the crowds are mercifully gone and the din is non-existent.
When the bartender came to take our drink order, I asked her to come back because my companion was busy texting his ex to let her know that he'd left a cat litter container on her back porch.
You know, because otherwise she might not have known what it was.
It got a good laugh from the bartender anyway.
We did a straight ahead assault on that meze menu, beginning with a carafe of Kourtaki Retsina (promised to us by our server as "not as syrupy" as other retsinas).
It had the requisite pine on the finish, providing the right Greek notes to go with our munchies.
Caprese elliniro ( roasted red pepper, feta, basil, EVOO), fresh fig compote/goat cheese crostini and loukaniko (grilled Greek sausage, orange peel, fennel and tzatziki) got us started.
The one other couple at the bar left and a group of three replaced them. Now we were five in the restaurant.
The bartender informed us that with their lighted Stella taps, they were the third biggest seller of Stella in the city.
We added in spanikopita, tiropita and prawns and skordalia (puree of garlic, potato and lemon) to finish us off.
A group of two came to the bar, and were joined by another couple looking for all the world like people who needed a drink.
Okay, I'm being kind. They looked annoying.
One guy asked if they had Hendrick's and when told yes, for a dry martini. The bartender suggested one of their signature drinks.
She explained its ingredients to him and the man questioned the rosemary syrup in the drink. She assured him it was just something different.
With just a little bit of a leer, he looked at me saying, "I think I'm ready for something different."
But of course he wasn't and got his Hendrick's martini.
But at least I knew I'd been right about his type.
Look of entitlement? Check. Corny humor? Check. Ineffectual Lothario? Check.
Gradually over meze ora, which is wisely really two hours, people came in to claim reservations and, if they didn't have them, begin filling up the community table.
The bustle had begun. I knew within a short time, the place would be packed and the noise level as bad as a show at the Camel.
But it didn't matter. We'd had plenty to eat, taken our last quaff of pine and talked about which guy looked most like my type.
There were maybe twenty people in the restaurant when we took our leave around 6:30.
Too bad for them; they'd already missed the most pleasurable of all possible times at Stella's.
But to meze ora, I say a resounding, "Stin iyia mas."
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
How Deep is My Well
Never let it be said that I can't stop the music.
After stopping at Bellytimber for dinner, we were headed to the Camel for a four-band show.
And while I'm fine with four bands most nights of the week, anyone should know that it's going to be tough to get a crowd to stay until 1 a.m. on Monday eve.
Luckily, that's not an issue for me or my partner in crime for the evening.
Three of the bands were touring and the fourth, while local, was in between returning from Puerto Rico and leaving for their own tour.
The best way to describe the musical variety of the evening would be as an analogy for a pinball game.
In other words, all over the place.
When we got there, the WRIR volunteer party was in full swing, so there were lots of familiar faces slurping up beer after a hard week spent fundraising.
Surprisingly, only a couple of the volunteers stayed for the music. What's up with that?
Once the music started, we moved to that room when we heard Paul Diello's voice and keyboards.
The Englishman in Richmond, he had an Elton John meets Tori Amos thing going on as far as his sound went.
But it was his big voice that carried the music and after he mentioned usually playing with a much larger band, it was easy to imagine that voice with all kinds of backing instruments.
As it was, his keys were a fine accompaniment for his own songs as well as the Tori Amos cover he did.
He was followed by Murder of One, which was a guy from Florida with a guitar named Charles, who had sort of a punk folk thing going on.
He immediately noted the difference in his hardscrabble voice compared to Paul's, saying, "I wish I'd had voice lessons after listening to Paul."
But his songs were heartfelt and a distinct change from what came before.
Favorite lyric: "The wishing well wasn't deep enough for me."
Naturally given the evening's pattern, his Americana was followed by emo, in the form of Brooklyn's Darling Waste, playing as a three piece, although usually five.
And by emo, I mean scene bangs and tortured lyrics.
While they broke down, Lobo Marino set up in front of the stage and began playing.
They're recently back from old San Juan where they'd had a blast for the most part, including writing some new music.
A lot of it, Jameson said, was about oceans. No surprise there.
They did a few old songs ("Animal Hands" and "The Pope's Nose") and a new song, which they later said they'd screwed up.
Laney has added harmonium to her repertoire, making their sound even more distinctive.
They'd decided to finish their set as the Colloquial Orchestra, which means Dave Watkins on dulcitar and Joon Kim on violin joined them for an epic soundscape that meandered beautifully.
Soaking it all in, I was overcome, not by music but by the open door and the fact that the world is suddenly in bloom (and, no, that's not a metaphor).
I let out an explosive sneeze that, for whatever reason, put the period at the end of the music.
It wasn't intentional, but every pinball game has to end and there was nowhere to go after such a fine final performance.
Except out into the Sunday night calm under the loveliest of moons.
I may not be a musician, but I've been known to add some sound to a Sunday night.
And, yes, that's a metaphor.
After stopping at Bellytimber for dinner, we were headed to the Camel for a four-band show.
And while I'm fine with four bands most nights of the week, anyone should know that it's going to be tough to get a crowd to stay until 1 a.m. on Monday eve.
Luckily, that's not an issue for me or my partner in crime for the evening.
Three of the bands were touring and the fourth, while local, was in between returning from Puerto Rico and leaving for their own tour.
The best way to describe the musical variety of the evening would be as an analogy for a pinball game.
In other words, all over the place.
When we got there, the WRIR volunteer party was in full swing, so there were lots of familiar faces slurping up beer after a hard week spent fundraising.
Surprisingly, only a couple of the volunteers stayed for the music. What's up with that?
Once the music started, we moved to that room when we heard Paul Diello's voice and keyboards.
The Englishman in Richmond, he had an Elton John meets Tori Amos thing going on as far as his sound went.
But it was his big voice that carried the music and after he mentioned usually playing with a much larger band, it was easy to imagine that voice with all kinds of backing instruments.
As it was, his keys were a fine accompaniment for his own songs as well as the Tori Amos cover he did.
He was followed by Murder of One, which was a guy from Florida with a guitar named Charles, who had sort of a punk folk thing going on.
He immediately noted the difference in his hardscrabble voice compared to Paul's, saying, "I wish I'd had voice lessons after listening to Paul."
But his songs were heartfelt and a distinct change from what came before.
Favorite lyric: "The wishing well wasn't deep enough for me."
Naturally given the evening's pattern, his Americana was followed by emo, in the form of Brooklyn's Darling Waste, playing as a three piece, although usually five.
And by emo, I mean scene bangs and tortured lyrics.
While they broke down, Lobo Marino set up in front of the stage and began playing.
They're recently back from old San Juan where they'd had a blast for the most part, including writing some new music.
A lot of it, Jameson said, was about oceans. No surprise there.
They did a few old songs ("Animal Hands" and "The Pope's Nose") and a new song, which they later said they'd screwed up.
Laney has added harmonium to her repertoire, making their sound even more distinctive.
They'd decided to finish their set as the Colloquial Orchestra, which means Dave Watkins on dulcitar and Joon Kim on violin joined them for an epic soundscape that meandered beautifully.
Soaking it all in, I was overcome, not by music but by the open door and the fact that the world is suddenly in bloom (and, no, that's not a metaphor).
I let out an explosive sneeze that, for whatever reason, put the period at the end of the music.
It wasn't intentional, but every pinball game has to end and there was nowhere to go after such a fine final performance.
Except out into the Sunday night calm under the loveliest of moons.
I may not be a musician, but I've been known to add some sound to a Sunday night.
And, yes, that's a metaphor.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
You Again?
No matter how you try to explain the Roosevelt to a newbie, they never get it.
So when I tell my friend to pick me up at 5:15 and she arrives at 5:40, we have already missed the window of opportunity to find seats at the bar on a Saturday night.
But that's okay. We find a lone unoccupied stool and camp out on it like it's our last hope, which it is.
When the bar madness dies down enough that we can place an order, it's for a bottle of the Chester Gap Cabernet Franc.
At least with a bottle, we won't have to bother the bartender again any time soon.
When we finally see a couple paying their bar bill, we hover over them, appropriating their stools while they're still warm.
It feels good to sit. By now the crowds are seemingly endless as they continue to stream in the door.
Some wait and others leave once they hear the wait time.
To tide us over, we get an order of cornbread with honey vanilla butter and inhale it like we've been there for hours, which we practically have.
And it's the perfect lead in to my meal of seared rabbit terrine over lentils and roasted beets, a dish so succulent you'd think there had to be pig involved.
I follow that with fried chicken skin with shark sauce and spicy honey mustard; a miniature bottle of Tabasco arrives on the plate.
If I died tonight and went to heaven, there would be fried chicken skin waiting for me in heaven.
My friend eventually stopped eating the skin out of guilt, but I had no such remorse.
We talked about dating and about men dating younger rather than their own age.
I made a crack about guys preferring younger and my friend quickly corrected me.
"Not every man would rather have a Beaujolais Nouveau when he could have a Bordeaux," she said, sounding serious but really just chiding me for my miscalculation.
We chatted up the couple next to us who were out for a rare date night having left their kids to a sitter. Their nervousness was written all over her face.
She tried the cocktail with bourbon and bacon only to find that she was out of practice with cocktailing.
I felt a tap on mu shoulder and turned to find my friend Rob who has been stalker-like in his appearances in my life this week.
He was at the storytelling at Balliceaux, fine. Naturally he was at the Sponge show the next night.
But there he was at the Lion King backstage tour I'd been invited on.
And now, again, he was grinning at me guiltily at the Roosevelt.
But I was glad to see him and he teased me about following my calendar, a feat few could manage.
By the time we brought our attention back to the bar, we were thinking dessert.
Since my friend was a first-timer, we got the buttermilk panna cotta in a Mason jar.
The presentation is the most charming of any dessert I know.
With it, we had glasses of the King Family Loreley, a dessert wine I'd had at the winery last fall.
It has a a candied fruit quality that I love despite a usual resistance to sweeter wine.
And it was delightful with the panna cotta.
When our four-hour adventure at the Roosevelt ended, we decided to head to Amour for a nightcap.
They were busy, too, but the bar was empty and two stools had our name on them.
After tasting the Whitehall Viognier, we settled on the Domaine de Salices Viognier for its beautiful nose and complexity.
And while we needed no further food, we went with a cheese plate just to ensure that we were doing something other than drinking and talking.
Both of us laughed when we looked up to find a friend we'd seen at the Roosevelt, except that now he was dateless.
Apparently she hadn't made the cut and he'd stopped by for a much-needed nightcap.
We finished out the night talking to him about dating; he claimed that women over 40 have too many deal breakers, women in their thirties all want to have babies and twenty-something women are the most open to whatever.
If it hadn't already been an eight hour plus evening, I might have gone ahead and argued the point with him.
But he knew enough; he was at least clear on the essential part of any relationship.
I know I am.
So when I tell my friend to pick me up at 5:15 and she arrives at 5:40, we have already missed the window of opportunity to find seats at the bar on a Saturday night.
But that's okay. We find a lone unoccupied stool and camp out on it like it's our last hope, which it is.
When the bar madness dies down enough that we can place an order, it's for a bottle of the Chester Gap Cabernet Franc.
At least with a bottle, we won't have to bother the bartender again any time soon.
When we finally see a couple paying their bar bill, we hover over them, appropriating their stools while they're still warm.
It feels good to sit. By now the crowds are seemingly endless as they continue to stream in the door.
Some wait and others leave once they hear the wait time.
To tide us over, we get an order of cornbread with honey vanilla butter and inhale it like we've been there for hours, which we practically have.
And it's the perfect lead in to my meal of seared rabbit terrine over lentils and roasted beets, a dish so succulent you'd think there had to be pig involved.
I follow that with fried chicken skin with shark sauce and spicy honey mustard; a miniature bottle of Tabasco arrives on the plate.
If I died tonight and went to heaven, there would be fried chicken skin waiting for me in heaven.
My friend eventually stopped eating the skin out of guilt, but I had no such remorse.
We talked about dating and about men dating younger rather than their own age.
I made a crack about guys preferring younger and my friend quickly corrected me.
"Not every man would rather have a Beaujolais Nouveau when he could have a Bordeaux," she said, sounding serious but really just chiding me for my miscalculation.
We chatted up the couple next to us who were out for a rare date night having left their kids to a sitter. Their nervousness was written all over her face.
She tried the cocktail with bourbon and bacon only to find that she was out of practice with cocktailing.
I felt a tap on mu shoulder and turned to find my friend Rob who has been stalker-like in his appearances in my life this week.
He was at the storytelling at Balliceaux, fine. Naturally he was at the Sponge show the next night.
But there he was at the Lion King backstage tour I'd been invited on.
And now, again, he was grinning at me guiltily at the Roosevelt.
But I was glad to see him and he teased me about following my calendar, a feat few could manage.
By the time we brought our attention back to the bar, we were thinking dessert.
Since my friend was a first-timer, we got the buttermilk panna cotta in a Mason jar.
The presentation is the most charming of any dessert I know.
With it, we had glasses of the King Family Loreley, a dessert wine I'd had at the winery last fall.
It has a a candied fruit quality that I love despite a usual resistance to sweeter wine.
And it was delightful with the panna cotta.
When our four-hour adventure at the Roosevelt ended, we decided to head to Amour for a nightcap.
They were busy, too, but the bar was empty and two stools had our name on them.
After tasting the Whitehall Viognier, we settled on the Domaine de Salices Viognier for its beautiful nose and complexity.
And while we needed no further food, we went with a cheese plate just to ensure that we were doing something other than drinking and talking.
Both of us laughed when we looked up to find a friend we'd seen at the Roosevelt, except that now he was dateless.
Apparently she hadn't made the cut and he'd stopped by for a much-needed nightcap.
We finished out the night talking to him about dating; he claimed that women over 40 have too many deal breakers, women in their thirties all want to have babies and twenty-something women are the most open to whatever.
If it hadn't already been an eight hour plus evening, I might have gone ahead and argued the point with him.
But he knew enough; he was at least clear on the essential part of any relationship.
I know I am.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Cougar Town
For the record, I do not read nor respond to Twitter.
I was meeting friends at C'est le Vin in the Bottom and when I arrived, found the chef on the sidewalk outside.
In the past, we'd enjoyed her food and now that she'd moved further east, my friends and I were curious.
And there she was standing in front of the restaurant/wine shop like a Walmart greeter.
Saying I'd come to eat her food, she laughed.
Apparently she'd just tweeted something about now that her twenties were nearly over, she'd have be on the lookout for cougars.
"I thought that might be why you were here!" she teased.
I had to confess that I was meeting friends for her food, not to satisfy any cougar fantasies she might have.
Inside, I was directed to a Greek wine tasting, soon to be joined by my party of three.
Live jazz was being performed in the back of the restaurant, much to one of my friends' delight. She said it reminded her of New Orleans.
Next thing you know we were discussing the best tongue on Magazine Street and the best music on Frenchman Street.
We scored a table near the front and our server turned out to be another former Empress employee who recognized me at once.
Fortunately, he didn't mention anything about cougars.
It's tough to beat the pricing when you drink at a wine shop and our well-priced Tochuelo Tenoranillo-Garnacha was an aromatic and fruity pleasure to drink.
Friends went with the amusingly named Cono Sur Pinot Noir from Chile.
Over conversation about favorite mixologists, the dry eggplant and lack of decor at Peter Chang's and the Heart Attack Cafe, we began ordering a parade of food.
Dates stuffed with tetilla cheese and wrapped in Jamon Serrano delivered sweet and salty.
Salt cod with peppers, tomatoes, olives and parsley had been a favorite on our last visit.
We got our vegetables with roasted asparagus with smoked salmon and a dish of sauteed spinach, golden raisins, apples and pine nuts.
The roasted wild mushrooms with garlic were dripping in butter, so they were a hit.
We discussed "The Artist," a film my partner in crime and I had seen opening week before there was any buzz and had thoroughly enjoyed.
One of my friends disagreed, saying it was trite, but he'd seen it after weeks of talk. And he likes to be contrary.
Silent films aside, we all agreed that "Midnight in Paris" had been an impressive piece of filmmaking with Owen Wilson doing a superb Woody Allen imitation.
By the time we got to the entree portion of the meal, I was pretty full, so we shared two generously-sized pieces of pork belly over beans with asparagus.
And while we probably should have stopped eating there, as the band broke down and the DJ set up, we instead ordered a salted chocolate caramel torte with candied orange peel.
So dark it was almost black, the caramel brought the sweetness but the candied orange peel made the chocolate come alive.
Later the chef asked if the chocolate portion would be better in a lighter more mousse-like form, but we didn't think so.
On the other hand, we were also drunk on food at that point and probably not qualified to make any thoughtful food decisions, either.
Besides, it had been such a long time since I'd gotten together with this particular couple and there'd been enough bantering and teasing of one another that I couldn't concern myself with how to make a delicious dessert better.
I leave those decisions to a chef who might be developing a taste for cougars.
I've got enough on my plate already. Ahem.
I was meeting friends at C'est le Vin in the Bottom and when I arrived, found the chef on the sidewalk outside.
In the past, we'd enjoyed her food and now that she'd moved further east, my friends and I were curious.
And there she was standing in front of the restaurant/wine shop like a Walmart greeter.
Saying I'd come to eat her food, she laughed.
Apparently she'd just tweeted something about now that her twenties were nearly over, she'd have be on the lookout for cougars.
"I thought that might be why you were here!" she teased.
I had to confess that I was meeting friends for her food, not to satisfy any cougar fantasies she might have.
Inside, I was directed to a Greek wine tasting, soon to be joined by my party of three.
Live jazz was being performed in the back of the restaurant, much to one of my friends' delight. She said it reminded her of New Orleans.
Next thing you know we were discussing the best tongue on Magazine Street and the best music on Frenchman Street.
We scored a table near the front and our server turned out to be another former Empress employee who recognized me at once.
Fortunately, he didn't mention anything about cougars.
It's tough to beat the pricing when you drink at a wine shop and our well-priced Tochuelo Tenoranillo-Garnacha was an aromatic and fruity pleasure to drink.
Friends went with the amusingly named Cono Sur Pinot Noir from Chile.
Over conversation about favorite mixologists, the dry eggplant and lack of decor at Peter Chang's and the Heart Attack Cafe, we began ordering a parade of food.
Dates stuffed with tetilla cheese and wrapped in Jamon Serrano delivered sweet and salty.
Salt cod with peppers, tomatoes, olives and parsley had been a favorite on our last visit.
We got our vegetables with roasted asparagus with smoked salmon and a dish of sauteed spinach, golden raisins, apples and pine nuts.
The roasted wild mushrooms with garlic were dripping in butter, so they were a hit.
We discussed "The Artist," a film my partner in crime and I had seen opening week before there was any buzz and had thoroughly enjoyed.
One of my friends disagreed, saying it was trite, but he'd seen it after weeks of talk. And he likes to be contrary.
Silent films aside, we all agreed that "Midnight in Paris" had been an impressive piece of filmmaking with Owen Wilson doing a superb Woody Allen imitation.
By the time we got to the entree portion of the meal, I was pretty full, so we shared two generously-sized pieces of pork belly over beans with asparagus.
And while we probably should have stopped eating there, as the band broke down and the DJ set up, we instead ordered a salted chocolate caramel torte with candied orange peel.
So dark it was almost black, the caramel brought the sweetness but the candied orange peel made the chocolate come alive.
Later the chef asked if the chocolate portion would be better in a lighter more mousse-like form, but we didn't think so.
On the other hand, we were also drunk on food at that point and probably not qualified to make any thoughtful food decisions, either.
Besides, it had been such a long time since I'd gotten together with this particular couple and there'd been enough bantering and teasing of one another that I couldn't concern myself with how to make a delicious dessert better.
I leave those decisions to a chef who might be developing a taste for cougars.
I've got enough on my plate already. Ahem.
Friday, March 9, 2012
I'd Recognize That Horse's Ass Anywhere
"I need some girl time!" a friend messaged me about lunch today.
We chose Secco and walked into find a restaurant full of other people already enjoying girl (or boy) time.
Almost all were enjoying some Friday grape.
Their new community table is a beautiful thing, replacing the couches that used to be in the front window. and offering seating for eight or standing room for ten.
Our community today was going to be just us two, so we took seats at the bar, sadly near where some idiot had carved his initials into the cork.
Honestly, were you people raised by wolves? In a barn? Don't we call that destruction of property?
Starting with the addictive fried almonds with za'atar and sea salt, we dove right into our girl time.
The many moods of men, shameless partner requests, restaurant gossip, we covered a lot before our lunches arrived.
In keeping with our girly theme, we'd both chosen the duck confit salad with dried cherries, Stilton, arugula and walnuts in a roasted shallot vinaigrette.
The combination of peppery greens, stinky cheese and intensely sweet cherries proved yet again what amazing salads that kitchen comes up with, which is one reason we like it so much for lunch.
Another would be for the chance to drink a new wine not even on the list yet (see: secret stash), this one from Ladoix and very Burgundian (like the mourners I saw yesterday but far tastier).
Somehow we kidded ourselves that the wine would be our dessert.
We watched as three different guys came in by themselves, sat at the bar, ordered the grilled lamb burger and fries and inhaled it.
Everyone loves Secco for their own reasons and that burger is as good as any.
Looking out the glass front, I recognized the same two mounted policemen I'd seen on Grace Street this morning.
There, they had been ticketing people left and right for running the red light.
I get such a kick out of seeing that.
Today they were just trotting down Cary Street in the sunshine, so we got in my friend's car and followed after them to Meadow.
Our second stop was at Garnett's for dessert where I had a slice of chocolate espresso cake with white icing and she had gluten-free lemon chess pie.
Part of the definition of girl time is eating dessert, so we were sticking to the plan.
Then she was off to do paperwork and I to get my hair trimmed.
"You curled your hair!" the woman who cuts my hair exclaimed. "I know that must mean something!"
She wouldn't have had to be guessing what that might be if she'd been a fly on the wall during our girl time.
We chose Secco and walked into find a restaurant full of other people already enjoying girl (or boy) time.
Almost all were enjoying some Friday grape.
Their new community table is a beautiful thing, replacing the couches that used to be in the front window. and offering seating for eight or standing room for ten.
Our community today was going to be just us two, so we took seats at the bar, sadly near where some idiot had carved his initials into the cork.
Honestly, were you people raised by wolves? In a barn? Don't we call that destruction of property?
Starting with the addictive fried almonds with za'atar and sea salt, we dove right into our girl time.
The many moods of men, shameless partner requests, restaurant gossip, we covered a lot before our lunches arrived.
In keeping with our girly theme, we'd both chosen the duck confit salad with dried cherries, Stilton, arugula and walnuts in a roasted shallot vinaigrette.
The combination of peppery greens, stinky cheese and intensely sweet cherries proved yet again what amazing salads that kitchen comes up with, which is one reason we like it so much for lunch.
Another would be for the chance to drink a new wine not even on the list yet (see: secret stash), this one from Ladoix and very Burgundian (like the mourners I saw yesterday but far tastier).
Somehow we kidded ourselves that the wine would be our dessert.
We watched as three different guys came in by themselves, sat at the bar, ordered the grilled lamb burger and fries and inhaled it.
Everyone loves Secco for their own reasons and that burger is as good as any.
Looking out the glass front, I recognized the same two mounted policemen I'd seen on Grace Street this morning.
There, they had been ticketing people left and right for running the red light.
I get such a kick out of seeing that.
Today they were just trotting down Cary Street in the sunshine, so we got in my friend's car and followed after them to Meadow.
Our second stop was at Garnett's for dessert where I had a slice of chocolate espresso cake with white icing and she had gluten-free lemon chess pie.
Part of the definition of girl time is eating dessert, so we were sticking to the plan.
Then she was off to do paperwork and I to get my hair trimmed.
"You curled your hair!" the woman who cuts my hair exclaimed. "I know that must mean something!"
She wouldn't have had to be guessing what that might be if she'd been a fly on the wall during our girl time.
Pull My Puppet Strings and I'll Dance
Yep, that was me standing in the center of the Landmark stage tonight.
But I worked up to it gradually, beginning with music.
Certain bands play so infrequently out that when they do, I want to be there. Now Sleepyhead is one of my favorites of those.
They were doing an early show at the Camel tonight with Emily Peal. Except that when I arrived, it turned out that Emily had pneumonia.
She has my sincere sympathy for that, knowing, as I do, how that can unexpectedly scratch the record of your life mid-note.
But all was not lost because the show was going on with just Now Sleepyhead.
To pass the time, I bellied up to the bar and ordered nachos and chatted with the bartender whom I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night for storytelling.
Just as my food arrived, a guy sat down next to me at the bar, knocking into me as he did so.
"Do you do a ton of drugs? How do you feel about drug confessions?" he immediately asked the bartender, who demurred.
Turning to me, he pointed to my nachos. "I'm a hippie. Can I have half of those?"
No, I told him, so he turned and ordered a margarita with "lots of salt and even more extra booze."
When the bartender handed it to him, he asked him, "What's your definition of a hippie? I say it's someone who has money but uses it for good."
The bartender said that that was not his definition of a hippie.
He turned back to me. "You're pretty. Can I buy you a drink?"
Luckily his attention span was short and he abruptly left (after asking the bartender if he had any peyote), leaving those of us who'd dealt with him to shake our heads.
"God speed," a guy near me said.
Just before Now Sleepyhead began playing, the owner asked him to step outside to talk and he wasn't allowed back in.
God speed indeed.
Once the band started playing, all was right with the world because the audience was made up of long-time fans of theirs, many grateful for an early show on a Thursday night.
The combination of keyboards, multiple guitars, French horn and xylophone makes for both an ambient and dreamgaze sound enhanced by multiple vocalists.
Warning that it was a soft song, they played "Use Your Bicycle as an Antenna" and their song for the ages, "Who the Fuck?"
As always, they traded instruments throughout the set and thanked the crowd repeatedly for coming when really we should have bee thanking them.
For my second act, my beekeeping friend had invited me to join a small backstage tour of "The Lion King" given by her friend, Bruce, whom I'd met a Balliceaux Monday evening.
No, I haven't seen the production (although I did meet a hyena at Secco), but how could I turn down an invitation to be at the Landmark stage door at 10:15?
Let's just say I've never been to a stage door before.
Like the eager beaver I am, I was there ten minutes early chatting up another invitee, telling him that no, I hadn't seen the show, but I had met a hyena.
Lo and behold, a woman walks by, looks at me and does a double take.
"I met you at Secco!" said the hyena's wife, assuring me that they'd used my suggestions about what to do in Richmond while they'd been here.
This town is even small when it comes to out-of-towners.
Before we knew it, we were being led through the stage door to the bowels of the Landmark Theater.
Once there, we saw the scads of costumes and puppets that fill twenty semi-trailers when the show moves from city to city (New Orleans is next).
We saw a wall of gazelle heads, all made of carbon fiber and weighing next to nothing.
Moving toward one of the make-up areas, a giraffe looked at our little group and noted, "Wow! You guys must be special. You got Bruce!"
I'd already been feeling like a pretty big deal just to be on this tour; knowing that Bruce never gave them just added another level of thrilling.
And then to get to walk out on to the Landmark stage, where I'd seen the likes of Prince, R.E.M., Paul Simon and Janet Jackson perform, well, it's a good thing there was a lot of head room.
But, as we learned from our guide, there really wasn't. The Landmark has been the most problematic of all the venues the production has used.
Its small doorways make it difficult to get tall giraffes and fat warthogs through inadequate openings.
Just as I was coming down from the high of looking in the orchestra pit from the stage, we walked into the room where Bruce and two others work their magic on the puppets.
A crew member inside stopped cold. "You guys are very lucky! You're the first touring group to come back to the puppet room!"
There we saw the Scar headdress and the separate mechanics and cables that make it move.
He passed just the headpiece around, warning us, "Be very careful with it. It's worth more than a baby."
We saw an entire cabinet of animal heads for the understudies, necessary because each is made exactly to the actor's head size.
I admired the Hyena Rack (labeled as such), knowing that I'd met a hyena.
Bruce explained about how "The Lion King" was conceived of as a double event, meaning the audience sees both the puppet's movement and the actor's simultaneously.
Looking at the warthog's costume, which weighed 40 pounds and had a separate fabric puppet for its tongue, we marveled at the skill of the actor in it.
The Timon puppet was attached to the actor's feet with rods, to his solar plexus with a chest mount and his hands controlled the arms and mouth.
Big budget, meet Walt Disney Industries.
By the time we'd scoured the backstage area, I was in awe of a production I've never seen and likely won't.
But not because I wasn't bowled over by the creativity, ingenuity and sheer scope of the production.
No, it was more of a budget constraint than anything.
In any case, I got to stand on the stage of the Landmark and take a bow in my Berlin tights.
I like to think that had there been an audience, the Tights Queen might have even gotten some applause.
My only challenge then would have been to get my head out those inadequate doors.
But I worked up to it gradually, beginning with music.
Certain bands play so infrequently out that when they do, I want to be there. Now Sleepyhead is one of my favorites of those.
They were doing an early show at the Camel tonight with Emily Peal. Except that when I arrived, it turned out that Emily had pneumonia.
She has my sincere sympathy for that, knowing, as I do, how that can unexpectedly scratch the record of your life mid-note.
But all was not lost because the show was going on with just Now Sleepyhead.
To pass the time, I bellied up to the bar and ordered nachos and chatted with the bartender whom I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night for storytelling.
Just as my food arrived, a guy sat down next to me at the bar, knocking into me as he did so.
"Do you do a ton of drugs? How do you feel about drug confessions?" he immediately asked the bartender, who demurred.
Turning to me, he pointed to my nachos. "I'm a hippie. Can I have half of those?"
No, I told him, so he turned and ordered a margarita with "lots of salt and even more extra booze."
When the bartender handed it to him, he asked him, "What's your definition of a hippie? I say it's someone who has money but uses it for good."
The bartender said that that was not his definition of a hippie.
He turned back to me. "You're pretty. Can I buy you a drink?"
Luckily his attention span was short and he abruptly left (after asking the bartender if he had any peyote), leaving those of us who'd dealt with him to shake our heads.
"God speed," a guy near me said.
Just before Now Sleepyhead began playing, the owner asked him to step outside to talk and he wasn't allowed back in.
God speed indeed.
Once the band started playing, all was right with the world because the audience was made up of long-time fans of theirs, many grateful for an early show on a Thursday night.
The combination of keyboards, multiple guitars, French horn and xylophone makes for both an ambient and dreamgaze sound enhanced by multiple vocalists.
Warning that it was a soft song, they played "Use Your Bicycle as an Antenna" and their song for the ages, "Who the Fuck?"
As always, they traded instruments throughout the set and thanked the crowd repeatedly for coming when really we should have bee thanking them.
For my second act, my beekeeping friend had invited me to join a small backstage tour of "The Lion King" given by her friend, Bruce, whom I'd met a Balliceaux Monday evening.
No, I haven't seen the production (although I did meet a hyena at Secco), but how could I turn down an invitation to be at the Landmark stage door at 10:15?
Let's just say I've never been to a stage door before.
Like the eager beaver I am, I was there ten minutes early chatting up another invitee, telling him that no, I hadn't seen the show, but I had met a hyena.
Lo and behold, a woman walks by, looks at me and does a double take.
"I met you at Secco!" said the hyena's wife, assuring me that they'd used my suggestions about what to do in Richmond while they'd been here.
This town is even small when it comes to out-of-towners.
Before we knew it, we were being led through the stage door to the bowels of the Landmark Theater.
Once there, we saw the scads of costumes and puppets that fill twenty semi-trailers when the show moves from city to city (New Orleans is next).
We saw a wall of gazelle heads, all made of carbon fiber and weighing next to nothing.
Moving toward one of the make-up areas, a giraffe looked at our little group and noted, "Wow! You guys must be special. You got Bruce!"
I'd already been feeling like a pretty big deal just to be on this tour; knowing that Bruce never gave them just added another level of thrilling.
And then to get to walk out on to the Landmark stage, where I'd seen the likes of Prince, R.E.M., Paul Simon and Janet Jackson perform, well, it's a good thing there was a lot of head room.
But, as we learned from our guide, there really wasn't. The Landmark has been the most problematic of all the venues the production has used.
Its small doorways make it difficult to get tall giraffes and fat warthogs through inadequate openings.
Just as I was coming down from the high of looking in the orchestra pit from the stage, we walked into the room where Bruce and two others work their magic on the puppets.
A crew member inside stopped cold. "You guys are very lucky! You're the first touring group to come back to the puppet room!"
There we saw the Scar headdress and the separate mechanics and cables that make it move.
He passed just the headpiece around, warning us, "Be very careful with it. It's worth more than a baby."
We saw an entire cabinet of animal heads for the understudies, necessary because each is made exactly to the actor's head size.
I admired the Hyena Rack (labeled as such), knowing that I'd met a hyena.
Bruce explained about how "The Lion King" was conceived of as a double event, meaning the audience sees both the puppet's movement and the actor's simultaneously.
Looking at the warthog's costume, which weighed 40 pounds and had a separate fabric puppet for its tongue, we marveled at the skill of the actor in it.
The Timon puppet was attached to the actor's feet with rods, to his solar plexus with a chest mount and his hands controlled the arms and mouth.
Big budget, meet Walt Disney Industries.
By the time we'd scoured the backstage area, I was in awe of a production I've never seen and likely won't.
But not because I wasn't bowled over by the creativity, ingenuity and sheer scope of the production.
No, it was more of a budget constraint than anything.
In any case, I got to stand on the stage of the Landmark and take a bow in my Berlin tights.
I like to think that had there been an audience, the Tights Queen might have even gotten some applause.
My only challenge then would have been to get my head out those inadequate doors.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Putting on His Socks in the Sunshine
Knowing it was going to be 72 degrees today, a friend had invited me to lunch 24 hours ago.
Wanting to do it outside, I chose Amuse for the patio overlooking the sculpture garden.
So imagine our surprise when we arrived only to find that the patio was closed due to high winds.
This is what mothers warn you about when they tell you life's not fair.
Although they had one unreserved table open, we opted for the bar where we had at least a clear view of the sculpture garden where many people were lunching or sitting and strolling.
One couple had adopted the poses of Manet's "Dejeuner sur L'Herbe," with the girl sitting and the guy reclining on their blanket as she fed him.
It looked very cozy, so much so that when they finally got up to leave after an hour plus, she put his socks on for him.
I thought it seemed very sweet, but my friend mentioned that there are better things a woman could do than put a man's socks on for him.
The Amuse menu is particularly appealing these days, with the irresistible (at least to me) skate wing now on it.
It was sauteed with miso eggplant, roasted red pepper salad and a spicy Thai pepper sauce, so a creative take on a too-rarely seen option from the sea.
The sauce had loads of heat and the delicate meat was the prefect vehicle for it.
We discussed classic cocktails with the bartender referencing her 1971 "Playboy Guide to Bartending," which led us to the topic of bar jokes.
My friend had several at the ready, including one that could be used as a litmus test for cultural literacy.
Rene Descartes walks into a bar and the bartender asks if he wants a drink. "I don't think so," Descartes says and poof! He disappears.
Okay, I laughed hysterically but he said the last group he told it to looked puzzled and asked for the punch line.
Don't get me started.
My friend is as devoted to dessert as I am, so we tried the enormous chocolate cake with chocolate ganache, creme anglaise, cashews, whipped cream and cashew brittle.
Because it's a beautiful, sunny March day and I can, I couldn't resist getting a visit from the green fairy and my friend watched with fascination as the ice water dripped down over the sugar cube into my glass of absinthe.
Chocolate and absinthe and smart bar jokes? Heavenly.
And from heaven we went to death by going down to the marble hall to see "The Mourners: Tomb Sculptures from the Court of Burgundy."
Late medieval sculpture masterpieces, the smaller-than-expected pieces so extravagantly carved in marble are a testament to the grieving process.
Figures wail, cry, wipe away tears, clutch rosary beads and generally do all the things Catholics do in following a funeral procession.
The deep blue of the walls in the exhibit evoke grief, much the way Death Cab for Cutie's lyrics to "Your Heart is an Empty Room" do.
Burn it down till the embers smoke on the ground
And start anew when your heart is an empty room
With walls of the deepest blue
So we've got indie corroboration; deep blue is the color of sad.
And walking outside afterwards, a far lighter blue was the color of the sky and the wind had settled down considerably.
So we didn't get our lunch al fresco.
I got bar jokes ("A grasshopper walks into a bar..."), skate wing, nut brittle and a Renaissance exhibit I've been eager to see.
You couldn't find a drop of deep blue in me.
Anywhere.
Wanting to do it outside, I chose Amuse for the patio overlooking the sculpture garden.
So imagine our surprise when we arrived only to find that the patio was closed due to high winds.
This is what mothers warn you about when they tell you life's not fair.
Although they had one unreserved table open, we opted for the bar where we had at least a clear view of the sculpture garden where many people were lunching or sitting and strolling.
One couple had adopted the poses of Manet's "Dejeuner sur L'Herbe," with the girl sitting and the guy reclining on their blanket as she fed him.
It looked very cozy, so much so that when they finally got up to leave after an hour plus, she put his socks on for him.
I thought it seemed very sweet, but my friend mentioned that there are better things a woman could do than put a man's socks on for him.
The Amuse menu is particularly appealing these days, with the irresistible (at least to me) skate wing now on it.
It was sauteed with miso eggplant, roasted red pepper salad and a spicy Thai pepper sauce, so a creative take on a too-rarely seen option from the sea.
The sauce had loads of heat and the delicate meat was the prefect vehicle for it.
We discussed classic cocktails with the bartender referencing her 1971 "Playboy Guide to Bartending," which led us to the topic of bar jokes.
My friend had several at the ready, including one that could be used as a litmus test for cultural literacy.
Rene Descartes walks into a bar and the bartender asks if he wants a drink. "I don't think so," Descartes says and poof! He disappears.
Okay, I laughed hysterically but he said the last group he told it to looked puzzled and asked for the punch line.
Don't get me started.
My friend is as devoted to dessert as I am, so we tried the enormous chocolate cake with chocolate ganache, creme anglaise, cashews, whipped cream and cashew brittle.
Because it's a beautiful, sunny March day and I can, I couldn't resist getting a visit from the green fairy and my friend watched with fascination as the ice water dripped down over the sugar cube into my glass of absinthe.
Chocolate and absinthe and smart bar jokes? Heavenly.
And from heaven we went to death by going down to the marble hall to see "The Mourners: Tomb Sculptures from the Court of Burgundy."
Late medieval sculpture masterpieces, the smaller-than-expected pieces so extravagantly carved in marble are a testament to the grieving process.
Figures wail, cry, wipe away tears, clutch rosary beads and generally do all the things Catholics do in following a funeral procession.
The deep blue of the walls in the exhibit evoke grief, much the way Death Cab for Cutie's lyrics to "Your Heart is an Empty Room" do.
Burn it down till the embers smoke on the ground
And start anew when your heart is an empty room
With walls of the deepest blue
So we've got indie corroboration; deep blue is the color of sad.
And walking outside afterwards, a far lighter blue was the color of the sky and the wind had settled down considerably.
So we didn't get our lunch al fresco.
I got bar jokes ("A grasshopper walks into a bar..."), skate wing, nut brittle and a Renaissance exhibit I've been eager to see.
You couldn't find a drop of deep blue in me.
Anywhere.
The Shadow Knows I Don't Go to Glen Allen
Not many evenings come with a secret decoder.
In order to get one, I had to go out of my comfort zone to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen.
Naturally I did it without ever getting on the highway.
I was taking my partner in crime to see his first live radio play show by the On the Air Radio Players who were presenting "Return of the Superheroes."
Notice the plural; we weren't just getting Flash Gordon, we were also getting The Shadow and Superman.
The audience was warned to turn off their devices lest they cause anachronistic sound in the recording.
We were taught to clap on cue which some newbies found difficult to do despite a green light saying "Applause."
All three shows were circa pre-World War II, spanning 1935-40. A lot of the audience was about the same.
That would be back in the days when newspapers were viable, so the announcer tells listeners to look for an ad in "your Hearst Sunday paper."
Meanwhile on an alien planet, Flash fought off Ming the Merciless while his lady love fought off an order to marry.
"As for you, Earth woman, you shall love me or die!" he told her.
Fret not; she held off for true love, even if he was a bit flashy.
One of the best part of live radio is the sound effects crew who slam doors, walk shoes, ring bells, type on typewriters and do whatever is needed to covey the action aurally.
During a scene of Singing Jim getting beat up in "The Shadow: The Blind Beggar Dies." one sound woman put on a chest pad and beat herself silly simulating the blows.
Their timing was impeccable..
The Superman episode we saw was the one where he met Lois Lane, who was clearly unimpressed with Clark Kent.
There were infra-gamma rays and top-secret discoveries.
And even though it was the latest of the three, the sexism was rampant.
Editor Perry White says to Lois, "On your way, girlie!"
He sends Lois on an assignment to get an interview with "some lady scientist," clarifying that it wasn't news, just a human interest story.
Ha! That's before they knew that she had built a destruction machine that had been stolen.
This was where Perry should have learned never to underestimate the power of a woman. Even if it was 1940.
The episodes were a blast to listen to because of the serious voice talents doing it.
Affecting different accents (the Bronx, German, Irish), sexes (a woman played a young boy), personalities (character versus lead), they made each of their multiple parts completely believable.
And then in the blink of an eye (okay, an hour) it ends and the credits are read and we clap until our arms want to fall off because it takes so long for the applause light to finally go off.
And that secret decoder? We were too busy laughing to even try to figure out the hidden message.
Hopefully it wasn't any more instructions for earth women.
We've got all we can do to deal with that last one.
In order to get one, I had to go out of my comfort zone to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen.
Naturally I did it without ever getting on the highway.
I was taking my partner in crime to see his first live radio play show by the On the Air Radio Players who were presenting "Return of the Superheroes."
Notice the plural; we weren't just getting Flash Gordon, we were also getting The Shadow and Superman.
The audience was warned to turn off their devices lest they cause anachronistic sound in the recording.
We were taught to clap on cue which some newbies found difficult to do despite a green light saying "Applause."
All three shows were circa pre-World War II, spanning 1935-40. A lot of the audience was about the same.
That would be back in the days when newspapers were viable, so the announcer tells listeners to look for an ad in "your Hearst Sunday paper."
Meanwhile on an alien planet, Flash fought off Ming the Merciless while his lady love fought off an order to marry.
"As for you, Earth woman, you shall love me or die!" he told her.
Fret not; she held off for true love, even if he was a bit flashy.
One of the best part of live radio is the sound effects crew who slam doors, walk shoes, ring bells, type on typewriters and do whatever is needed to covey the action aurally.
During a scene of Singing Jim getting beat up in "The Shadow: The Blind Beggar Dies." one sound woman put on a chest pad and beat herself silly simulating the blows.
Their timing was impeccable..
The Superman episode we saw was the one where he met Lois Lane, who was clearly unimpressed with Clark Kent.
There were infra-gamma rays and top-secret discoveries.
And even though it was the latest of the three, the sexism was rampant.
Editor Perry White says to Lois, "On your way, girlie!"
He sends Lois on an assignment to get an interview with "some lady scientist," clarifying that it wasn't news, just a human interest story.
Ha! That's before they knew that she had built a destruction machine that had been stolen.
This was where Perry should have learned never to underestimate the power of a woman. Even if it was 1940.
The episodes were a blast to listen to because of the serious voice talents doing it.
Affecting different accents (the Bronx, German, Irish), sexes (a woman played a young boy), personalities (character versus lead), they made each of their multiple parts completely believable.
And then in the blink of an eye (okay, an hour) it ends and the credits are read and we clap until our arms want to fall off because it takes so long for the applause light to finally go off.
And that secret decoder? We were too busy laughing to even try to figure out the hidden message.
Hopefully it wasn't any more instructions for earth women.
We've got all we can do to deal with that last one.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Sunny and Smiling
Being a city person, I can't often find a reason to go to Hanover County.
Sure, I'll drive through it for its bucolic scenery on the way to someplace else.
I'll even snicker at the humor of corny church signs I see, like the one today, "God answers knee-mail."
One reason I will go to Hanover County, though, is for art at the Flippo Gallery at Randolph-Macon.
I've seen shows by enough Richmonders there to know it's a worthwhile art stop for someone like me.
Like the show I saw today, "Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On," a photographic installation bu Michael Lease.
And may I just say for the record, that that show title may be the best I've ever heard of for its romantic connotation.
Michael solicited pictures from people in order to make a group portrait.
Each person was to send a school picture from ages 13-17, a current picture, a picture of the pillow they slept on and one shot through a frequently viewed domestic window.
The high school pictures were fascinating just for the moments in time they captured, from what looked like the sixties to the nineties.
The current pictures presented a game for the viewer; how easy was it to connect the teenager and the middle-ager?
In the case of Michael, his school picture couldn't have been more emo looking, all bangs and intensity while his current picture was so calm and collected.
Others were impossible to see as the same person.
The pillow pictures gave away far less, although I thought it was telling that the woman who lives in Italy had a pillow on her bed embroidered with "The New Yorker."
At least four of the pillows had cats laying on them, telling the viewer a lot about the person.
But it was the pictures out each person's home window that I found most compelling.
A view of Prague and another of Berlin were immediately recognizable as not American.
One from Los Angeles proclaimed its provenance with pastel buildings and palm trees.
A Brooklyn shot showed a snow-covered bush pressed up against the glass; it was winter exemplified.
Another Brooklyn shot looked for all intents and purposes like a Hopper painting with many windowed-buildings suggesting intertior scenes.
The two Baltimore views managed to convey both the distinct architectural look and the grittiness of Charm City.
Richmond revealed itself in several of the shots including one of a flowering pink dogwood in a city backyard.
Not surprisingly, the suburban backyards with their trampolines and decks failed to grab me at all.
A view of a balcony in Rome with flower boxes and watering cans in the foreground and a pastel apartment building in the distance looked like a picture postcard.
Once I saw people's window shots, I had to go back and look at them again for clues as to how well suited their views were to how happy they looked.
Because for a lot of us, place is very important and where you live is a big part of who you are.
As for what my window picture would show, it would be a clay window box full of greenery and little pink flowers against open white shades with the branches of a tree taller than my 1876 house framed in it.
And the sun would be shining because it faces south in Jackson Ward.
I don't think anyone would have any trouble seeing how well-suited it was to my current picture.
As for the pillow that I dream on, it's fairly innocuous looking.
It's the dreams that I have on it that aren't.
Sure, I'll drive through it for its bucolic scenery on the way to someplace else.
I'll even snicker at the humor of corny church signs I see, like the one today, "God answers knee-mail."
One reason I will go to Hanover County, though, is for art at the Flippo Gallery at Randolph-Macon.
I've seen shows by enough Richmonders there to know it's a worthwhile art stop for someone like me.
Like the show I saw today, "Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On," a photographic installation bu Michael Lease.
And may I just say for the record, that that show title may be the best I've ever heard of for its romantic connotation.
Michael solicited pictures from people in order to make a group portrait.
Each person was to send a school picture from ages 13-17, a current picture, a picture of the pillow they slept on and one shot through a frequently viewed domestic window.
The high school pictures were fascinating just for the moments in time they captured, from what looked like the sixties to the nineties.
The current pictures presented a game for the viewer; how easy was it to connect the teenager and the middle-ager?
In the case of Michael, his school picture couldn't have been more emo looking, all bangs and intensity while his current picture was so calm and collected.
Others were impossible to see as the same person.
The pillow pictures gave away far less, although I thought it was telling that the woman who lives in Italy had a pillow on her bed embroidered with "The New Yorker."
At least four of the pillows had cats laying on them, telling the viewer a lot about the person.
But it was the pictures out each person's home window that I found most compelling.
A view of Prague and another of Berlin were immediately recognizable as not American.
One from Los Angeles proclaimed its provenance with pastel buildings and palm trees.
A Brooklyn shot showed a snow-covered bush pressed up against the glass; it was winter exemplified.
Another Brooklyn shot looked for all intents and purposes like a Hopper painting with many windowed-buildings suggesting intertior scenes.
The two Baltimore views managed to convey both the distinct architectural look and the grittiness of Charm City.
Richmond revealed itself in several of the shots including one of a flowering pink dogwood in a city backyard.
Not surprisingly, the suburban backyards with their trampolines and decks failed to grab me at all.
A view of a balcony in Rome with flower boxes and watering cans in the foreground and a pastel apartment building in the distance looked like a picture postcard.
Once I saw people's window shots, I had to go back and look at them again for clues as to how well suited their views were to how happy they looked.
Because for a lot of us, place is very important and where you live is a big part of who you are.
As for what my window picture would show, it would be a clay window box full of greenery and little pink flowers against open white shades with the branches of a tree taller than my 1876 house framed in it.
And the sun would be shining because it faces south in Jackson Ward.
I don't think anyone would have any trouble seeing how well-suited it was to my current picture.
As for the pillow that I dream on, it's fairly innocuous looking.
It's the dreams that I have on it that aren't.
Of Dogs and Men
This ain't a scene, it's a lifestyle.
Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.
I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.
Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.
Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."
When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.
You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.
Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.
But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.
Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.
And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.
She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.
And eating.
Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?
In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.
Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.
The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.
Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.
And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.
You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.
Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.
She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."
Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.
The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.
After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."
Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.
The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.
"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.
On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"
Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.
"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.
I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.
Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.
It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.
The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.
Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.
Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.
Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in aroom city full of great beards.
After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."
His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."
But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.
Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.
I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.
When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.
A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.
In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.
Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.
Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.
But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.
I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.
Besides, the pie will be there for me.
It's just another part of the scene.
Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.
I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.
Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.
Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."
When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.
You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.
Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.
But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.
Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.
And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.
She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.
And eating.
Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?
In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.
Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.
The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.
Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.
And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.
You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.
Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.
She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."
Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.
The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.
After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."
Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.
The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.
"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.
On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"
Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.
"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.
I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.
Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.
It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.
The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.
Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.
Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.
Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in a
After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."
His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."
But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.
Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.
I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.
When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.
A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.
In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.
Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.
Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.
But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.
I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.
Besides, the pie will be there for me.
It's just another part of the scene.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Sample and the Shy Type
It's not that I don't have stories.
I do. And I share some of them online, some in person and some I just keep to myself.
That said, it's essential for a good storyteller to match the story to her audience.
But it's hard to even contemplate telling a good story without a little sustenance first.
Besides, I had to do it sometime.
So I suggested to a willing friend that we try S@mple in the old Sprout location.
So, right off the bat, I had a sentimental attachment to what went before this new small plate place.
And I admit I was curious about how the interior, which used to be so recycled, so charmingly simple and so real, now looked.
It couldn't be much further from Sprout. Stained glass and pallet walls are gone with colored lights and sleek furniture the new replacements.
It's borderline unrecognizable except that I spent so much time in Sprout that I'd know it no matter how it was tarted up.
But it was early and we were the only customers, so I ignored the computer screens at the tables, the flat screen over the bar and in the front room and the Macs for rent.
The good news were that all small plates were $8 on Monday, so I tried the knuckles sandwich (lobster knuckle meat salad, baby herbs, toasted brioche) and Friend got the fried shrimp and baby artichokes (green olive tapenade, lemon ailoi).
My knuckle sandwiches (save the bad jokes; I heard all I needed from the cheap laugh king) were thickly spread and delicately flavored, a perfect amount of food for eight bucks.
I did like the addition of so many windows in the early evening light; they framed some lovely sky views and treescapes.
We finished with a sweet course, the hot cinnamon donut holes with chocolate sauce, berries and vanilla ice cream.
I hadn't had warm cinnamon donut holes since the last time I was at Two Amys on a Saturday when they do them and these were a nice reminder of what a satisfying taste that is.
Rather than rent a Mac, we left for Ballcieaux and secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story.
Tonight's theme was road tripping and we heard some good yarns in the overcrowded back room.
The great part of that is people have finally joined me in discovering the pleasures of hearing other people's dirty little secrets and offbeat memories.
We heard about a move to St. Louis by a woman who drank too many red-headed sluts, two guys crossing four borders with illegal botanical specimens and lots of weed, about when an American passport didn't mean shit, and how Iowa could be considered heaven (compared to post-Katrina New Orleans, at least).
We heard an "Animal House"-like story of six college boys going to JMU back when it was still an all girls' teaching college and signing out their dates for the day.
That story centered on Clementine, a not too terribly attractive, but very athletic young lady who was the storyteller's date back in the sixties.
The funniest part was that the storyteller's wife was there tonight and it was even her birthday.
Happy birthday, dear.
When the storytelling breaks, the room always erupts into a party with mass ordering of additional drinks, shouted greetings and mingling.
It's during that time that guests can put their name in the hat to tell their own theme-appropriate story.
If I'd been so inclined, I'd probably have shared a story about a road trip that had me dancing in an old man's fantasy, here.
So after settling back into our second row seats with Campari and tequila (all the essentials of life for the moment) we heard from the audience.
One of my favorites was the guy who was in a band traveling to Ukraine when their bus got stopped and searched.
When the border guards insisted on tasting both the suspicious substances (baking powder and Grandpa's ashes), the guy laughed so heard he peed his skinny jeans.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
There was the cross-country bike trip story ("I'm Rex, like the dinosaur"), the girl who didn't know you needed to put gas in a Prius story (no, really) and the film making trio that set out with grant money to cross the country and drink beer.
Along the way they saw a house made of junk mail and cave houses made of PVC pipe.
Right there, I think the trip was probably worth it.
The evening finished with a storyteller I knew, a photographer friend who did a good job conveying August heat, fear of not getting back to Richmond and appreciation/disdain for a minimalist apartment in NYC.
Kitchen, bathroom, bed, unplugged TV and (get this) book under bed.
At least a minimalist reads.
Because I know him, it was easy to imagine him begging the driver of the Chinatown bus for a seat, getting stuck in the subway turnstile because of his two backpacks and camera case, and his mad dash to catch a second bus.
And the most hysterical part, when he began pulling out Chinese currency to buy a ticket, was completely believable knowing him.
Walking out of Ball0cieaux, I stopped to tell him how much I'd enjoyed his travel tale.
"That's quite a compliment coming from a storyteller like you," he said magnanimously.
Oh, I've got stories. I'm just not putting a microphone in front of me to share them.
I do. And I share some of them online, some in person and some I just keep to myself.
That said, it's essential for a good storyteller to match the story to her audience.
But it's hard to even contemplate telling a good story without a little sustenance first.
Besides, I had to do it sometime.
So I suggested to a willing friend that we try S@mple in the old Sprout location.
So, right off the bat, I had a sentimental attachment to what went before this new small plate place.
And I admit I was curious about how the interior, which used to be so recycled, so charmingly simple and so real, now looked.
It couldn't be much further from Sprout. Stained glass and pallet walls are gone with colored lights and sleek furniture the new replacements.
It's borderline unrecognizable except that I spent so much time in Sprout that I'd know it no matter how it was tarted up.
But it was early and we were the only customers, so I ignored the computer screens at the tables, the flat screen over the bar and in the front room and the Macs for rent.
The good news were that all small plates were $8 on Monday, so I tried the knuckles sandwich (lobster knuckle meat salad, baby herbs, toasted brioche) and Friend got the fried shrimp and baby artichokes (green olive tapenade, lemon ailoi).
My knuckle sandwiches (save the bad jokes; I heard all I needed from the cheap laugh king) were thickly spread and delicately flavored, a perfect amount of food for eight bucks.
I did like the addition of so many windows in the early evening light; they framed some lovely sky views and treescapes.
We finished with a sweet course, the hot cinnamon donut holes with chocolate sauce, berries and vanilla ice cream.
I hadn't had warm cinnamon donut holes since the last time I was at Two Amys on a Saturday when they do them and these were a nice reminder of what a satisfying taste that is.
Rather than rent a Mac, we left for Ballcieaux and secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story.
Tonight's theme was road tripping and we heard some good yarns in the overcrowded back room.
The great part of that is people have finally joined me in discovering the pleasures of hearing other people's dirty little secrets and offbeat memories.
We heard about a move to St. Louis by a woman who drank too many red-headed sluts, two guys crossing four borders with illegal botanical specimens and lots of weed, about when an American passport didn't mean shit, and how Iowa could be considered heaven (compared to post-Katrina New Orleans, at least).
We heard an "Animal House"-like story of six college boys going to JMU back when it was still an all girls' teaching college and signing out their dates for the day.
That story centered on Clementine, a not too terribly attractive, but very athletic young lady who was the storyteller's date back in the sixties.
The funniest part was that the storyteller's wife was there tonight and it was even her birthday.
Happy birthday, dear.
When the storytelling breaks, the room always erupts into a party with mass ordering of additional drinks, shouted greetings and mingling.
It's during that time that guests can put their name in the hat to tell their own theme-appropriate story.
If I'd been so inclined, I'd probably have shared a story about a road trip that had me dancing in an old man's fantasy, here.
So after settling back into our second row seats with Campari and tequila (all the essentials of life for the moment) we heard from the audience.
One of my favorites was the guy who was in a band traveling to Ukraine when their bus got stopped and searched.
When the border guards insisted on tasting both the suspicious substances (baking powder and Grandpa's ashes), the guy laughed so heard he peed his skinny jeans.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
There was the cross-country bike trip story ("I'm Rex, like the dinosaur"), the girl who didn't know you needed to put gas in a Prius story (no, really) and the film making trio that set out with grant money to cross the country and drink beer.
Along the way they saw a house made of junk mail and cave houses made of PVC pipe.
Right there, I think the trip was probably worth it.
The evening finished with a storyteller I knew, a photographer friend who did a good job conveying August heat, fear of not getting back to Richmond and appreciation/disdain for a minimalist apartment in NYC.
Kitchen, bathroom, bed, unplugged TV and (get this) book under bed.
At least a minimalist reads.
Because I know him, it was easy to imagine him begging the driver of the Chinatown bus for a seat, getting stuck in the subway turnstile because of his two backpacks and camera case, and his mad dash to catch a second bus.
And the most hysterical part, when he began pulling out Chinese currency to buy a ticket, was completely believable knowing him.
Walking out of Ball0cieaux, I stopped to tell him how much I'd enjoyed his travel tale.
"That's quite a compliment coming from a storyteller like you," he said magnanimously.
Oh, I've got stories. I'm just not putting a microphone in front of me to share them.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sing Single Girl
It doesn't take much to find a simple way to savor the end of the weekend.
When you walk into Avalon twenty minutes after it opens on a Sunday, it's a safe bet that there will already be some regulars in place.
And the bartender who's been there forever will greet me like a regular even though my frequency there is slight compared to an actual regular.
It helps that I am meeting a true regular, someone whose default after-work bar is Avalon.
Because he has already chosen a brown drink, I do the same, sidestepping wine to order Hornitos and we proceed to cover as much conversational territory as possible in the short time we have.
We talk about my Scottish friend wanting me to come visit and the charm/inevitability of livestock on the roads when you drive in Scotland.
I know it's true because it's happened to me.
Because I know it will crack him up, I tell him my recent oyster story and he tells me that only I could take a walk on a shell bar in the river and have a guy approach me.
I'm quite sure I'm not the only one.
After our limited time together, I head out to collect a willing music lover and spend the evening at Commercial Taphouse listening to a couple of my favorite local performers.
Songbird Allison Self has Grant Hunnicutt of River City Band playing with her tonight and his mandolin and voice are a terrific addition to her big voice.
With a Ploughman's platter of cheeses, pickles,bread, tomato and lettuce to sustain us, we sit in the back most booth because it's the only one free when we walk in.
There's something quite civilized about listening to old bluegrass and Americana, stuff like Carter Family tunes, a favorite of Allison's, and "Single Girl, Married Girl" on a Sunday night.
The crowd was even mostly paying attention, which was appreciated given how good the two sounded in the small restaurant.
It wasn't an earth-shattering kind of evening, but everyone at my table seemed to be having a great time.
But then, we're regulars at having a good time wherever we end up.
When you walk into Avalon twenty minutes after it opens on a Sunday, it's a safe bet that there will already be some regulars in place.
And the bartender who's been there forever will greet me like a regular even though my frequency there is slight compared to an actual regular.
It helps that I am meeting a true regular, someone whose default after-work bar is Avalon.
Because he has already chosen a brown drink, I do the same, sidestepping wine to order Hornitos and we proceed to cover as much conversational territory as possible in the short time we have.
We talk about my Scottish friend wanting me to come visit and the charm/inevitability of livestock on the roads when you drive in Scotland.
I know it's true because it's happened to me.
Because I know it will crack him up, I tell him my recent oyster story and he tells me that only I could take a walk on a shell bar in the river and have a guy approach me.
I'm quite sure I'm not the only one.
After our limited time together, I head out to collect a willing music lover and spend the evening at Commercial Taphouse listening to a couple of my favorite local performers.
Songbird Allison Self has Grant Hunnicutt of River City Band playing with her tonight and his mandolin and voice are a terrific addition to her big voice.
With a Ploughman's platter of cheeses, pickles,bread, tomato and lettuce to sustain us, we sit in the back most booth because it's the only one free when we walk in.
There's something quite civilized about listening to old bluegrass and Americana, stuff like Carter Family tunes, a favorite of Allison's, and "Single Girl, Married Girl" on a Sunday night.
The crowd was even mostly paying attention, which was appreciated given how good the two sounded in the small restaurant.
It wasn't an earth-shattering kind of evening, but everyone at my table seemed to be having a great time.
But then, we're regulars at having a good time wherever we end up.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
No Train, No Cry
It was an evening with some range, from honky tonk to Chateauneuf de Pape.
Starting at Carytown Bistro, I arrived to find a small crowd and Kent South playing inside while a speaker blasted him outside.
Which was convenient for the guy who had been asked to leave when he tried eating a Blowtoad pizza on the Carytown Bistro patio.
I think we all know better than to eat another restaurant's food somewhere other than that restaurant. At least now we do.
I'd been told to come hear Kent South for his country take on covers and original material.
That's exactly what I got.
Covers of songs by Lowell George, Guy Clark (South's fave) , McCartney, Paul Simon and even New Riders of the Purple Sage ("There must have been Original Riders of the Purple Sage," South observed) made up most of the set, with original material in between.
South showed his Texas leaning with stories of wildcatters (an oil well term I'd heard but didn't understand), trains and lost loves.
You know, songs like, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry."
My friend and I discussed whether or not honky-tonks as venues still existed or if that term had been reduced to a generic musical genre.
That is, when he wasn't texting about the pizza incident or talking about the banality of McCartney's songwriting.
When I left there, it was to stop at Amour Wine Bistro for a nibble and some wine.
But, oh, what wine.
I started with a two-ounce pour of Domaine du Beaurenard Red, a rich and tannic blend that spoke to me with its ripeness.
That ripeness would be equivalent to someone who's been playing guitar for decades and is not being willing to play with someone who only knows three chords.
This wine's rounded body and strong personality was not for neophytes.
I followed that with a bowl of their outstanding onion soup, not the gloppy mess that passes for French onion soup in a restaurant with no business having it on the menu, but a true exemplar of what inspired all the pale imitations.
I lucked into a landscaper from Bon Air who had brought not only a vintage '50s French restaurant postcard to share, but a Newsweek with a mention of RVA as an up and coming restaurant town.
Of note and mentioned were Acacia (naturally), Ronnie's Ribs (which I do like) and Black Sheep (of course).
Next up was another small pour of Crozes Hermitage Rouge 2007, fragrant with a long finish and enough spice to grab me.
New to the bar then was a delightful couple I had met at the Beaujolais Nouveau tasting back in November.
Once they had their wine, they turned to me for conversation.
"What have you done today?" she wanted to know.
Before I could answer, they laughed out loud.
"Look at that mischievous look on her face," she noted to him.
"We didn't ask who you'd done today," he clarified with a mile-wide grin.
Brunch, I answered. I'd had a delicious pancake and bacon and fruit brunch at Ettamae's Cafe today.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
That exchange led to talk of a wake for the 100-watt incandescent bulb (150 people showed up), a piano bar in Savannah (my friend, the server, knew it well, as much for the pianist as for his pink drinks and thumbs up) and whether or not the concept would work here in a dark basement (I like to think it would).
Next up was one of the most unique desserts I've had, a cold fruit soup.
The small bowl of flavored cream with fruit at the bottom was wonderful for its rich take on a simple classic.
It required the most unlikely of wine choices at Amour, a Virginia wine.
The Thibaud Janisson Blanc de Chardonnay tasted of yeast and green apples and had the loveliest bubbles imaginable.
The couple and I agreed that to be enjoying it in a French bistro made it all the better.
It was as I was finishing that that I commented on the well-chosen music, which I learned was so fitting because it was Pandora set to Louis Armstrong.
If that's not a starting point for every good (and romantic) song I could hope to hear in a bistro, I'm not sure what is.
Hearing, "Karen?," I turned to find a handsome masseuse I know sitting behind me with a date named Karen.
What are the chances?
After introductions, we began discussing the beautiful bubbles we were drinking and the state of Virgina winemaking since he'd recently been disappointed by Barboursville's Octagon after years of finding it stellar.
On the other hand, it's exciting to see how many other wineries are making noteworthy wines these days besides the tried and true Big B.
For the final tasting of the night, we rose to new heights. And with white, too.
It was my first Chateaneuf du Pape Blanc and I couldn't have been any more impressed.
Full bodied and rich, it tasted as opulent as you'd expect from a name that even non-wine drinkers would recognize.
We can only hope that many hundred of years down the road, there will be a Virginia winery with the same kind of name recognition.
Of course, I'll be long dead, so it won't much affect me.
After saying goodnight to the others, I headed home, amazed to pass no less than eight cabs in the two miles it took me to get home.
Just like in a real city.
You know, the kind of place where you can savor honky-tonk music and Chateauneuf du Pape in the same two block radius.
Saturday night's alright for all kinds of things if you know where to look.
I like to think I do.
Starting at Carytown Bistro, I arrived to find a small crowd and Kent South playing inside while a speaker blasted him outside.
Which was convenient for the guy who had been asked to leave when he tried eating a Blowtoad pizza on the Carytown Bistro patio.
I think we all know better than to eat another restaurant's food somewhere other than that restaurant. At least now we do.
I'd been told to come hear Kent South for his country take on covers and original material.
That's exactly what I got.
Covers of songs by Lowell George, Guy Clark (South's fave) , McCartney, Paul Simon and even New Riders of the Purple Sage ("There must have been Original Riders of the Purple Sage," South observed) made up most of the set, with original material in between.
South showed his Texas leaning with stories of wildcatters (an oil well term I'd heard but didn't understand), trains and lost loves.
You know, songs like, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry."
My friend and I discussed whether or not honky-tonks as venues still existed or if that term had been reduced to a generic musical genre.
That is, when he wasn't texting about the pizza incident or talking about the banality of McCartney's songwriting.
When I left there, it was to stop at Amour Wine Bistro for a nibble and some wine.
But, oh, what wine.
I started with a two-ounce pour of Domaine du Beaurenard Red, a rich and tannic blend that spoke to me with its ripeness.
That ripeness would be equivalent to someone who's been playing guitar for decades and is not being willing to play with someone who only knows three chords.
This wine's rounded body and strong personality was not for neophytes.
I followed that with a bowl of their outstanding onion soup, not the gloppy mess that passes for French onion soup in a restaurant with no business having it on the menu, but a true exemplar of what inspired all the pale imitations.
I lucked into a landscaper from Bon Air who had brought not only a vintage '50s French restaurant postcard to share, but a Newsweek with a mention of RVA as an up and coming restaurant town.
Of note and mentioned were Acacia (naturally), Ronnie's Ribs (which I do like) and Black Sheep (of course).
Next up was another small pour of Crozes Hermitage Rouge 2007, fragrant with a long finish and enough spice to grab me.
New to the bar then was a delightful couple I had met at the Beaujolais Nouveau tasting back in November.
Once they had their wine, they turned to me for conversation.
"What have you done today?" she wanted to know.
Before I could answer, they laughed out loud.
"Look at that mischievous look on her face," she noted to him.
"We didn't ask who you'd done today," he clarified with a mile-wide grin.
Brunch, I answered. I'd had a delicious pancake and bacon and fruit brunch at Ettamae's Cafe today.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
That exchange led to talk of a wake for the 100-watt incandescent bulb (150 people showed up), a piano bar in Savannah (my friend, the server, knew it well, as much for the pianist as for his pink drinks and thumbs up) and whether or not the concept would work here in a dark basement (I like to think it would).
Next up was one of the most unique desserts I've had, a cold fruit soup.
The small bowl of flavored cream with fruit at the bottom was wonderful for its rich take on a simple classic.
It required the most unlikely of wine choices at Amour, a Virginia wine.
The Thibaud Janisson Blanc de Chardonnay tasted of yeast and green apples and had the loveliest bubbles imaginable.
The couple and I agreed that to be enjoying it in a French bistro made it all the better.
It was as I was finishing that that I commented on the well-chosen music, which I learned was so fitting because it was Pandora set to Louis Armstrong.
If that's not a starting point for every good (and romantic) song I could hope to hear in a bistro, I'm not sure what is.
Hearing, "Karen?," I turned to find a handsome masseuse I know sitting behind me with a date named Karen.
What are the chances?
After introductions, we began discussing the beautiful bubbles we were drinking and the state of Virgina winemaking since he'd recently been disappointed by Barboursville's Octagon after years of finding it stellar.
On the other hand, it's exciting to see how many other wineries are making noteworthy wines these days besides the tried and true Big B.
For the final tasting of the night, we rose to new heights. And with white, too.
It was my first Chateaneuf du Pape Blanc and I couldn't have been any more impressed.
Full bodied and rich, it tasted as opulent as you'd expect from a name that even non-wine drinkers would recognize.
We can only hope that many hundred of years down the road, there will be a Virginia winery with the same kind of name recognition.
Of course, I'll be long dead, so it won't much affect me.
After saying goodnight to the others, I headed home, amazed to pass no less than eight cabs in the two miles it took me to get home.
Just like in a real city.
You know, the kind of place where you can savor honky-tonk music and Chateauneuf du Pape in the same two block radius.
Saturday night's alright for all kinds of things if you know where to look.
I like to think I do.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Enjoying the Ride
Nothing turned out as planned.
I rescheduled my date with the international couple. My First Friday art walk couple date canceled on me due to rain.
Weather wimps.
Undaunted by a little precipitation, I began at the Magpie for dinner amongst nothing but couples. Apparently people don't go out on Friday night alone.
Well, except people like me.
But the bartender recognized me, although we couldn't remember why.
When I asked for a glass of Ateca Honoro Vera Granacha, he grinned hugely and asked if I'd ever had it before.
I had. "It's my absolute favorite of our by the glass pours," he affirmed.
So we had that bond.
An amuse bouche of mandarin orange segment with poblano pesto delivered a smoky bite of heaven.
Magpie always has a noteworthy small plate special or two and tonight's choices were goat or rabbit.
I could have gone either way.
I went with the crispy fried rabbit loin with a salad of pea shoots (so Spring must be just around the corner), blood orange and Manchego cheese.
Two good-sized pieces of rabbit wore a spiced batter fried up to perfection.
Thumper never tasted so good.
Making my way to the bathroom, I saw Chef Owen, who said when he saw me he thought sure I'd be the first one to order the goat.
You hate to hear that you let down the chef.
I used the salty crust of the rabbit to justify ordering the bartender's favorite dessert, a chocolate caramel tart with sea salt.
It was the crust of the tart that was the biggest surprise; it was shortbread-like, thick and buttery tasting.
In other words, divine, especially with all that chocolate and caramel inside it.
Meanwhile, instead of the usual classic rock for music, they'd programmed in the unlikely Pandora mix of Tears for Fears and Foster the People, resulting in a schizophrenic mix that delivered Depeche Mode and the Smiths and more Foster the People than anyone should have to hear.
I suppose that means that not a lot of music is of that ilk and, for that, we are grateful.
Perhaps it was because I was on my way to a music show that I was so hard on the soundtrack.
First there was the opening exhibition for "With Signs Following," a video show by Mark Strandquist and Kate Fowler at Gallery 5.
The multi-media exhibit had three screens invisibly suspended from the ceiling, each showing a piece of film shot at one of those snake-handling churches in West Virginia.
I find snakes disturbing, so a movie of these bible-spouting crazies handling rattlesnakes and rattlers was more than a little unsettling.
Sitting behind the video projectors on pedestals were two vintage but non-working Super Slim Slotload projectors with film unspooling off of their reels.
Next to them on the pedestal were empty cans of PBR.
The question was whether or not the cans were part of the piece. A case could be made for either side.
Downstairs was the music and I arrived in time for Caged Animals, whom the New Yorker had described as sounding like "a hip-hop influenced Velvet Underground."
They were quirky, relentless and every song seemed to wrap up in about three and a half minutes.
I loved them.
Favorite lyric: "I want you to find me and live inside me."
Lead singer Vincent was appealing, telling a story after one song about how he'd gotten a letter from a fan about the song.
"It was an essay. It had references, a bibliography. It was totally insane," he laughed.
That, I would posit, is the effect Caged Animals' music has on people. We like it.
Locals Boas were up next and I ran into a jewelry maker I'd met last summer because Boas was playing.
His next door neighbor had a friend in the band and had enticed him to come check them out. But first he wanted to catch up with me.
Asking if I had a pen, he wrote down his name and number and suggested we have lunch. Soon.
Refocusing him on the music, we got into Boas' electronic and ambient sound, which quickly settled over the room and got shoulders and heads moving.
Veering from psychedelic to vaguely experimental with layered beats throughout, they were the perfect way to close out a show that ended ridiculously early.
Like 10:45 early. Unheard of early.
On the other hand, that allowed me time to share a bottle of Virginia grape made stellar in the hands of an Italian winemaker.
That would be the Gabriele Rausse Cabernet Sauvignon, no doubt destined for greatness, but drinking absolutely superbly at the moment.
It's truly impressive what an Italian can do with the right Virginia materials.
All the more so for how unexpected it is. Pure pleasure, even.
I rescheduled my date with the international couple. My First Friday art walk couple date canceled on me due to rain.
Weather wimps.
Undaunted by a little precipitation, I began at the Magpie for dinner amongst nothing but couples. Apparently people don't go out on Friday night alone.
Well, except people like me.
But the bartender recognized me, although we couldn't remember why.
When I asked for a glass of Ateca Honoro Vera Granacha, he grinned hugely and asked if I'd ever had it before.
I had. "It's my absolute favorite of our by the glass pours," he affirmed.
So we had that bond.
An amuse bouche of mandarin orange segment with poblano pesto delivered a smoky bite of heaven.
Magpie always has a noteworthy small plate special or two and tonight's choices were goat or rabbit.
I could have gone either way.
I went with the crispy fried rabbit loin with a salad of pea shoots (so Spring must be just around the corner), blood orange and Manchego cheese.
Two good-sized pieces of rabbit wore a spiced batter fried up to perfection.
Thumper never tasted so good.
Making my way to the bathroom, I saw Chef Owen, who said when he saw me he thought sure I'd be the first one to order the goat.
You hate to hear that you let down the chef.
I used the salty crust of the rabbit to justify ordering the bartender's favorite dessert, a chocolate caramel tart with sea salt.
It was the crust of the tart that was the biggest surprise; it was shortbread-like, thick and buttery tasting.
In other words, divine, especially with all that chocolate and caramel inside it.
Meanwhile, instead of the usual classic rock for music, they'd programmed in the unlikely Pandora mix of Tears for Fears and Foster the People, resulting in a schizophrenic mix that delivered Depeche Mode and the Smiths and more Foster the People than anyone should have to hear.
I suppose that means that not a lot of music is of that ilk and, for that, we are grateful.
Perhaps it was because I was on my way to a music show that I was so hard on the soundtrack.
First there was the opening exhibition for "With Signs Following," a video show by Mark Strandquist and Kate Fowler at Gallery 5.
The multi-media exhibit had three screens invisibly suspended from the ceiling, each showing a piece of film shot at one of those snake-handling churches in West Virginia.
I find snakes disturbing, so a movie of these bible-spouting crazies handling rattlesnakes and rattlers was more than a little unsettling.
Sitting behind the video projectors on pedestals were two vintage but non-working Super Slim Slotload projectors with film unspooling off of their reels.
Next to them on the pedestal were empty cans of PBR.
The question was whether or not the cans were part of the piece. A case could be made for either side.
Downstairs was the music and I arrived in time for Caged Animals, whom the New Yorker had described as sounding like "a hip-hop influenced Velvet Underground."
They were quirky, relentless and every song seemed to wrap up in about three and a half minutes.
I loved them.
Favorite lyric: "I want you to find me and live inside me."
Lead singer Vincent was appealing, telling a story after one song about how he'd gotten a letter from a fan about the song.
"It was an essay. It had references, a bibliography. It was totally insane," he laughed.
That, I would posit, is the effect Caged Animals' music has on people. We like it.
Locals Boas were up next and I ran into a jewelry maker I'd met last summer because Boas was playing.
His next door neighbor had a friend in the band and had enticed him to come check them out. But first he wanted to catch up with me.
Asking if I had a pen, he wrote down his name and number and suggested we have lunch. Soon.
Refocusing him on the music, we got into Boas' electronic and ambient sound, which quickly settled over the room and got shoulders and heads moving.
Veering from psychedelic to vaguely experimental with layered beats throughout, they were the perfect way to close out a show that ended ridiculously early.
Like 10:45 early. Unheard of early.
On the other hand, that allowed me time to share a bottle of Virginia grape made stellar in the hands of an Italian winemaker.
That would be the Gabriele Rausse Cabernet Sauvignon, no doubt destined for greatness, but drinking absolutely superbly at the moment.
It's truly impressive what an Italian can do with the right Virginia materials.
All the more so for how unexpected it is. Pure pleasure, even.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Eating Feet and Feeling Groovy
Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to send up the bat signal to find me.
That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.
They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.
But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.
Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.
It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.
You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.
So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.
Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.
Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.
The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.
We finished with a cream puff to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.
Clearly opposites attract.
A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.
On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.
"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."
Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.
So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.
Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.
Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.
He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.
"No, you won't," she clarified.
Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.
White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.
White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.
The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.
My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.
Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.
"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.
Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.
Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.
But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.
First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.
When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.
Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.
Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).
Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).
And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.
"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.
Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.
When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.
Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.
I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.
I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.
Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.
Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.
My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.
Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."
Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.
On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.
The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.
They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.
Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.
The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.
Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.
And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.
Because that's what girlfriends do.
That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.
They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.
But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.
Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.
It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.
You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.
So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.
Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.
Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.
The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.
We finished with a cream puff to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.
Clearly opposites attract.
A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.
On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.
"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."
Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.
So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.
Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.
Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.
He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.
"No, you won't," she clarified.
Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.
White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.
White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.
The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.
My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.
Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.
"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.
Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.
Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.
But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.
First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.
When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.
Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.
Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).
Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).
And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.
"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.
Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.
When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.
Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.
I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.
I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.
Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.
Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.
My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.
Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."
Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.
On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.
The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.
They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.
Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.
The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.
Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.
And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.
Because that's what girlfriends do.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
After Hours at the Park
Start with a good story and end on the swings.
My favorite wine geek/musician wanted to meet up at the Roosevelt.
Until we saw they were closed for a private party. And it wasn't for us.
We switched the plans to Lemaire and at the last minute he asked if I wanted to meet him south of the river.
I declined with enough defiance and humor to make him realize there was a good story there.
So after scoring a bottle of L'Enclos des Bories Minervois, I spun my tale, saving the punch line for the end.
No way, he insisted.
Way.
Over the next couple of hours, I heard all the good winery stories before we moved on to music, Tori Amos and the urgency of competition.
I was sorry when I had to leave for my next engagement.
It also involved wine, a Fratelli Urciuolo 2010 Fiano di Avellino, scored at last week's River City Cellars tasting.
Crisp with rich undertones and the perfect way to ease into the upcoming evening, it was our aperitif before heading to City Dogs.
And, yes, that's a joke.
To my companion's horror (and fear for his stomach) I was in the mood for a dog dinner, a Tennessee slaw dog for me and Carolina dog for him, although why someone concerned about eating dogs gets pork on pork is beyond me.
When I insisted on a chocolate shake for dessert, he grimaced like I'd suggested the most outlandish thing in the world.
What, who doesn't need a sweet after all that salty?
And, for the record, he consumed fully half of that chocolate shake.
Then it was on to Balliceaux for what I knew was going to be an outstanding evening of music.
The crowd was regrettably small but wildly enthusiastic for the talent we saw.
Robin Bacior played first with a band behind her, including a cello, an instrument I find irresistible for the evocative sounds it can call forth.
I was especially fond of the songs she played on piano, hearkening back to my earlier discussion with friend #1 about the simple pleasures of a confessional girl and keyboards.
She thanked Richmond for being so welcoming, "You guys are so nice to offer your homes, your bed, your medications."
The scientist, sitting next to me, leaned over, saying, "There's a story there."
He would be the same scientist who always shows up with chocolate, although tonight's offering was sub-par.
Some kind of protein bar, he shared a piece with the warning, "It's chocolate, but it tastes a lot like chalk."
Wes Swing from Charlottesville was next and here I heard all kinds of Andrew Bird likenesses, with the upright bass, cello and his literate lyrics.
When Wes switched to playing guitar, I got more of a Nick Drake vibe.
Favorite lyric: "When you're away, my heart comes undone, like a ball of yarn."
A close second was, "I won't take you in until you pay for your sins." In the next verse, "until" became "if" for a variation on a theme.
The star of the evening was Dave Watkins and his new electric dulcitar, a thing of beauty in blue and completely handmade by Dave.
You really have to see this guy to believe the layers of sound he can create with looping and playing, knocking on and blowing into his instrument.
And no, that's not a euphemism.
Toward the end, someone in the audience called out for "Pangea's Revenge," one of the few songs Dave sings on. He tried to demur.
"How often do you get requests at a show?" the fan called out.
Pretty often, he said, before playing it anyway.
By the time the set ended, Dave was sweaty, the audience was totally caught up in his soundscapes and it was practically 2 a.m. on a school night.
But not a soul had been willing to give up such a stellar show to go home and get some sleep.
Some people even followed that with recess on a balmy night.
A person's got to seize an extra day when you have the chance...or wait four long years to exercise your Leap Day privileges.
I wasn't willing to wait.
My favorite wine geek/musician wanted to meet up at the Roosevelt.
Until we saw they were closed for a private party. And it wasn't for us.
We switched the plans to Lemaire and at the last minute he asked if I wanted to meet him south of the river.
I declined with enough defiance and humor to make him realize there was a good story there.
So after scoring a bottle of L'Enclos des Bories Minervois, I spun my tale, saving the punch line for the end.
No way, he insisted.
Way.
Over the next couple of hours, I heard all the good winery stories before we moved on to music, Tori Amos and the urgency of competition.
I was sorry when I had to leave for my next engagement.
It also involved wine, a Fratelli Urciuolo 2010 Fiano di Avellino, scored at last week's River City Cellars tasting.
Crisp with rich undertones and the perfect way to ease into the upcoming evening, it was our aperitif before heading to City Dogs.
And, yes, that's a joke.
To my companion's horror (and fear for his stomach) I was in the mood for a dog dinner, a Tennessee slaw dog for me and Carolina dog for him, although why someone concerned about eating dogs gets pork on pork is beyond me.
When I insisted on a chocolate shake for dessert, he grimaced like I'd suggested the most outlandish thing in the world.
What, who doesn't need a sweet after all that salty?
And, for the record, he consumed fully half of that chocolate shake.
Then it was on to Balliceaux for what I knew was going to be an outstanding evening of music.
The crowd was regrettably small but wildly enthusiastic for the talent we saw.
Robin Bacior played first with a band behind her, including a cello, an instrument I find irresistible for the evocative sounds it can call forth.
I was especially fond of the songs she played on piano, hearkening back to my earlier discussion with friend #1 about the simple pleasures of a confessional girl and keyboards.
She thanked Richmond for being so welcoming, "You guys are so nice to offer your homes, your bed, your medications."
The scientist, sitting next to me, leaned over, saying, "There's a story there."
He would be the same scientist who always shows up with chocolate, although tonight's offering was sub-par.
Some kind of protein bar, he shared a piece with the warning, "It's chocolate, but it tastes a lot like chalk."
Wes Swing from Charlottesville was next and here I heard all kinds of Andrew Bird likenesses, with the upright bass, cello and his literate lyrics.
When Wes switched to playing guitar, I got more of a Nick Drake vibe.
Favorite lyric: "When you're away, my heart comes undone, like a ball of yarn."
A close second was, "I won't take you in until you pay for your sins." In the next verse, "until" became "if" for a variation on a theme.
The star of the evening was Dave Watkins and his new electric dulcitar, a thing of beauty in blue and completely handmade by Dave.
You really have to see this guy to believe the layers of sound he can create with looping and playing, knocking on and blowing into his instrument.
And no, that's not a euphemism.
Toward the end, someone in the audience called out for "Pangea's Revenge," one of the few songs Dave sings on. He tried to demur.
"How often do you get requests at a show?" the fan called out.
Pretty often, he said, before playing it anyway.
By the time the set ended, Dave was sweaty, the audience was totally caught up in his soundscapes and it was practically 2 a.m. on a school night.
But not a soul had been willing to give up such a stellar show to go home and get some sleep.
Some people even followed that with recess on a balmy night.
A person's got to seize an extra day when you have the chance...or wait four long years to exercise your Leap Day privileges.
I wasn't willing to wait.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Hello, Lovely
Shut up, I like tasting menus.
As many times as I've done the Tuesday Tasting at the Empress, it never occurred to me how much I like the concept.
Two of us decided to give their Southern Italian tasting a whirl tonight and joined a small but enthusiastic group of diners doing the same.
Tarczal Dry Moscato was just dry enough to cut the rich garlicky pan sauce over roasted squid stuffed with white beans, spinach and garlic.
Conversation revolved around the stages of a post-relationship friendship. How much is too much?
I'm always thrilled to find fresh anchovies, so the next course of them served with black olive puree, lemon zest, spicy caper sauce and cherry tomato confit pleased me no end.
A Villa Pozzi Pinot Grigio delivered honeysuckle and fruit and got a thumbs up from the nearest Southern Italian.
Then it was time for the third course and Cantina Zaccagnini Montepulciano suited my penchant for a full-bodied red while only slightly intimidating my table mate.
It was paired beautifully with mussels in a red wine, tomato, garlic and pepper flake sauce over gluten-free linguine.
My gluten-intolerant friend would have been over the moon with that dish.
Last up was fried veal sweetbreads with veal jus, roasted green tomato puree and fried sage leaf.
And if you're going to eat innards, you need a luscious and velvety wine like Layer Cake Primitivo to keep things properly primal.
And that's when it occurred to me. How great would it be if a restaurant did this every night?
You pay your twenty bucks and you get four two-ounce pours of different wines with a small plate paired with each.
And not a small plate two people could pick off of, but a true small plate. A few bites of four different dishes.
Call me fickle, call me a Gemini, but know that I enjoy savoring as many different tastes as possible.
So naturally I see a lot of sense in a four-course tasting/pairing, something that offers me both fresh anchovies and sweetbreads in the same meal.
Not to mention squid and mussels.
Plus just enough wine to make it work. Brilliant.
But since no one's calling me for restaurant concept ideas, I'll set that aside for now.
Instead of stopping while we were ahead, we opted for the chocolate/banana crepe to round out our meal.
Between listening to the XX on the restaurant sound system and saying hello to the friend (who thinks of himself as Princess Di) busy plotting with his cohorts how to rule the world ("We want you to be the social director," he insisted), I used my finger to finish up the last of the chocolate sauce on the plate.
Therein lies the beauty of a tasting menu. You not only have room for dessert but time for finger licking.
You know, in case you have bigger fish to fry later.
As many times as I've done the Tuesday Tasting at the Empress, it never occurred to me how much I like the concept.
Two of us decided to give their Southern Italian tasting a whirl tonight and joined a small but enthusiastic group of diners doing the same.
Tarczal Dry Moscato was just dry enough to cut the rich garlicky pan sauce over roasted squid stuffed with white beans, spinach and garlic.
Conversation revolved around the stages of a post-relationship friendship. How much is too much?
I'm always thrilled to find fresh anchovies, so the next course of them served with black olive puree, lemon zest, spicy caper sauce and cherry tomato confit pleased me no end.
A Villa Pozzi Pinot Grigio delivered honeysuckle and fruit and got a thumbs up from the nearest Southern Italian.
Then it was time for the third course and Cantina Zaccagnini Montepulciano suited my penchant for a full-bodied red while only slightly intimidating my table mate.
It was paired beautifully with mussels in a red wine, tomato, garlic and pepper flake sauce over gluten-free linguine.
My gluten-intolerant friend would have been over the moon with that dish.
Last up was fried veal sweetbreads with veal jus, roasted green tomato puree and fried sage leaf.
And if you're going to eat innards, you need a luscious and velvety wine like Layer Cake Primitivo to keep things properly primal.
And that's when it occurred to me. How great would it be if a restaurant did this every night?
You pay your twenty bucks and you get four two-ounce pours of different wines with a small plate paired with each.
And not a small plate two people could pick off of, but a true small plate. A few bites of four different dishes.
Call me fickle, call me a Gemini, but know that I enjoy savoring as many different tastes as possible.
So naturally I see a lot of sense in a four-course tasting/pairing, something that offers me both fresh anchovies and sweetbreads in the same meal.
Not to mention squid and mussels.
Plus just enough wine to make it work. Brilliant.
But since no one's calling me for restaurant concept ideas, I'll set that aside for now.
Instead of stopping while we were ahead, we opted for the chocolate/banana crepe to round out our meal.
Between listening to the XX on the restaurant sound system and saying hello to the friend (who thinks of himself as Princess Di) busy plotting with his cohorts how to rule the world ("We want you to be the social director," he insisted), I used my finger to finish up the last of the chocolate sauce on the plate.
Therein lies the beauty of a tasting menu. You not only have room for dessert but time for finger licking.
You know, in case you have bigger fish to fry later.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Random on the Half Shell
It may be a personal best.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
Italian Philosophy
Life is like a doughnut.
Tonight that doughnut was actually a zeppole because it's Lent.
I know that only because not one, but two restaurant owners I know have told me they've given up red wine for Lent.
A Catholic friend finds it hysterical that you can give up one color or another wine instead of actually making a sacrifice and just, oh, say, give up wine altogether.
I don't know about that but I am Italian-savvy enough to know that zeppoles are only baked after Ash Wednesday.
And while I'm certainly not up on my religious holidays, I did walk by a church on Grace Street last Wednesday that said, "Ash Wednesday, Come in for Quiet Reflection."
I'm not much on ashes or quiet reflection, but I'm all about the custard-filled doughnuts Stuzzi makes every Lenten season.
So after dutifully finishing my margherita pizza and Primitivo, I happily shared with an Italian all that dough and cream and powdered sugar that are a metaphor for life.
The hard part outside with the reward inside and just enough sweetness all around to keep you coming back for more.
I'm thinking life just may be as simple as that.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Un/Fortunately, it's Pass/Fail
Best to begin with the highbrow portion of the evening and degenerate from there.
So we started at Firehouse for "You Don't Know Me: A Trio of One Acts," part of the Acts of Faith Festival.
And, yes, I'm a heathen but they let anybody in, probably hoping to make converts.
The plays were all about those most impolitic of topics, namely race, religion and redemption.
"What Strong Fences Make" and "Beirut Rocks," both by Israel Horovitz, dealt with Arab/Israeli issues and were separated by an interpretive dance piece done first in silence and then to Talking Heads' "Life During Wartime."
In the second piece about Jewish and Arab prejudices, Audra Honaker was especially strong as the Arab girl with a good reason to hate Jews, even as her reaction crossed the line.
I appreciated a scene in that play where the Jewish guy chided his new roommate for sloppy language. "I'm a Lit major, Jake," he shouted, ""Words are inspirational to me,"
In other words, choose your words carefully and say what you mean.
True in context, true in real life.
The final play was one I'd seen a bit of at the Acts of Faith Preview and dealt with racial prejudice at a predominantly white college in Ohio in 1949 .
The subject matter (illegitimate children, unmarried sex and bias against blacks in the early '50s) was strong, a worthy match for Katrinah Carol Lewis' performance as the author who had to live through it all.
The premise of the play was, you want to hear why there's s much violence in the author's books? Listen to her life story.
And we did.
After our culture fix,we headed for dinner around the corner at Cellar Door (where the sandwich board said they were open for lunch and dinner every day but closed for Superbowl), where I immediately ran into a bartender friend.
"You missed a good show last night," he grinned.
I also missed oysters and dinner with an Italian winemaker last night, but as far as I can tell, I can only be in one place at a time.
Goodness knows I try to prove otherwise.
We ended up having a fine supper (Prosciutto-wrapped scallops in beurre blanc, Peruvian chicken and roasted corn salad for me) with reduced price Malbec (always a treat to find happy hour on a weekend).
The final stop of the day was at Sticky Rice (I know, right?) for the final round of their Iron Man chef competition, pitting the Richmond chef against the Baltimore and D.C. chefs.
A Sticky Rice face off, so to speak.
Since I hadn't been in Sticky Rice for years, there was some adjustment period while I took in the crowd, the music, and the vibe before the smoke machine started up and the three finalists came through the front door to music.
It was pretty hysterical and the whole thing was being filmed and broadcast throughout the restaurant.
Don't let anyone tell you there's no good entertainment in RVA on a Sunday night.
My partner in crime and I found a bar stool and claimed it, with me ordering a Hornitos to transition to where we were.
Which was a very noisy bar with a (for all intents and purposes) meaningless competition going on while a comedian made loud jokes with the judges and some people snapped pictures.
No, really.
Although we stayed through the first round of tastings by the judges, the winner wasn't announced, so we may never know which Sticky Rice chef took home the trophy.
On the other hand, we'd revisited a place once recommended in an out-of-state newspaper as a hip place for a visitor to go.
No, really, let's not send our out-of-town guests to Sticky Rice as a representation of who we are.
Even for the Tater Tots.
But all experiences are good conversational fodder and this one was no exception.
We made up stories about the high maintenance-looking blond talking to the guys next to us.
We watched the two cameramen all but trip over each other trying to film the Ironman no one was paying attention to.
The funniest exchange of the evening involved a past event.
"Remember what you said the other day?"
A puzzled look. "Give me the footnotes."
My advice? Take notes if you have to.
No one said it was going to be easy to keep up.
The fun is in trying.
So we started at Firehouse for "You Don't Know Me: A Trio of One Acts," part of the Acts of Faith Festival.
And, yes, I'm a heathen but they let anybody in, probably hoping to make converts.
The plays were all about those most impolitic of topics, namely race, religion and redemption.
"What Strong Fences Make" and "Beirut Rocks," both by Israel Horovitz, dealt with Arab/Israeli issues and were separated by an interpretive dance piece done first in silence and then to Talking Heads' "Life During Wartime."
In the second piece about Jewish and Arab prejudices, Audra Honaker was especially strong as the Arab girl with a good reason to hate Jews, even as her reaction crossed the line.
I appreciated a scene in that play where the Jewish guy chided his new roommate for sloppy language. "I'm a Lit major, Jake," he shouted, ""Words are inspirational to me,"
In other words, choose your words carefully and say what you mean.
True in context, true in real life.
The final play was one I'd seen a bit of at the Acts of Faith Preview and dealt with racial prejudice at a predominantly white college in Ohio in 1949 .
The subject matter (illegitimate children, unmarried sex and bias against blacks in the early '50s) was strong, a worthy match for Katrinah Carol Lewis' performance as the author who had to live through it all.
The premise of the play was, you want to hear why there's s much violence in the author's books? Listen to her life story.
And we did.
After our culture fix,we headed for dinner around the corner at Cellar Door (where the sandwich board said they were open for lunch and dinner every day but closed for Superbowl), where I immediately ran into a bartender friend.
"You missed a good show last night," he grinned.
I also missed oysters and dinner with an Italian winemaker last night, but as far as I can tell, I can only be in one place at a time.
Goodness knows I try to prove otherwise.
We ended up having a fine supper (Prosciutto-wrapped scallops in beurre blanc, Peruvian chicken and roasted corn salad for me) with reduced price Malbec (always a treat to find happy hour on a weekend).
The final stop of the day was at Sticky Rice (I know, right?) for the final round of their Iron Man chef competition, pitting the Richmond chef against the Baltimore and D.C. chefs.
A Sticky Rice face off, so to speak.
Since I hadn't been in Sticky Rice for years, there was some adjustment period while I took in the crowd, the music, and the vibe before the smoke machine started up and the three finalists came through the front door to music.
It was pretty hysterical and the whole thing was being filmed and broadcast throughout the restaurant.
Don't let anyone tell you there's no good entertainment in RVA on a Sunday night.
My partner in crime and I found a bar stool and claimed it, with me ordering a Hornitos to transition to where we were.
Which was a very noisy bar with a (for all intents and purposes) meaningless competition going on while a comedian made loud jokes with the judges and some people snapped pictures.
No, really.
Although we stayed through the first round of tastings by the judges, the winner wasn't announced, so we may never know which Sticky Rice chef took home the trophy.
On the other hand, we'd revisited a place once recommended in an out-of-state newspaper as a hip place for a visitor to go.
No, really, let's not send our out-of-town guests to Sticky Rice as a representation of who we are.
Even for the Tater Tots.
But all experiences are good conversational fodder and this one was no exception.
We made up stories about the high maintenance-looking blond talking to the guys next to us.
We watched the two cameramen all but trip over each other trying to film the Ironman no one was paying attention to.
The funniest exchange of the evening involved a past event.
"Remember what you said the other day?"
A puzzled look. "Give me the footnotes."
My advice? Take notes if you have to.
No one said it was going to be easy to keep up.
The fun is in trying.
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