Turns out Dorothy Parker and I have a lot in common.
Like drinking and talking.
Which I began my evening by doing at my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, to pre-game before the theater.
Between my week at the beach and Chef Carlos' trip to Brazil, it had been ages since I'd seen him.
We corrected that with some face time tonight, early enough in the evening that the place had not yet filled up.
Vinho Verde in hand, I listened as he told me his concept for a TV show that involved a chef, a front-of-the-house manager and a writer sharing their opinions as they visited every gay bar in the country.
Now there's a career path I could get behind.
As long as I was there, it seemed silly to resist a new small plate of braised calamari over white beans.
The garlic and clam juice-infused beans under the shallot-braised calamari with micro-greens was a flavorful way to kick off my night.
I met some nearby bar-sitters, foodies from Hanover County, and we talked about the local eating scene while they experienced 27 for the first time.
It's always a pleasure to watch as newcomers get sucked into the 27 web, first by Carlos' charm and then by the exceptional food.
Let's just say that I expect that I'll see those two again at my neighborhood bar.
My next stop was at Prudence's house to pick her up for an enlightening evening at the VMFA.
"The Portable Dorothy Parker," a one-act, one-actress play with Broadway actress Margot Avery, drew a sell-out crowd (mostly women or men with women).
Three be the things I shall never attain
Ency, content and sufficient champagne
Most of the performance was laugh-out-loud funny, but for some of us, none more so than her observations about the writing life.
When I was younger, I was already gainfully unemployed.
I called it freelancing.
Amen, sister.
The set was simple - a wing chair with a telephone table, a table for a bar (frequently used) and a desk covered in books and manuscript pages.
But I shall stay the way I am
Because I do not give a damn
Avery used them to advantage, frequently making drinks before collapsing back in her desk chair to answer questions from the unseen assistant.
As Dorothy, she talked a lot about the members of the Algonquin round table and what a boys' club it had been.
All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.
It was an audience of Parker fans, quick to laugh at every bon mot, and, like me and Prudence, familiar with many of them.
And while Dorothy drank throughout, her smoking habit was conspicuously absent.
I couldn't decide if this was a nod to the VMFA crowd or a politically correct concession.
Either way, bad call.
The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue
Through observations about love, men and life, I consistently found myself laughing most at her comments about the writing life.
The two most beautiful words in the English language are "check enclosed."
God knows that's true.
Once the play ended, we didn't go far, ending up at Deco for a bottle and a bite.
The little restaurant was just about full when we arrived and our server, sweet and eager, told us she'd just turned 21.
Her extreme youth meant that she couldn't tell us anything about the 2011 Cantina del Taburno Falanghina we were considering, but the owner breezed by, assuring us that if we didn't like it, he'd happily drink it instead.
Pshaw.
Crisp, intense and with a long finish, we needed no help from the boss man to polish off the bottle without him.
We made a meal of the Sicilian street food menu, with arancini con carne stuffed with Mozzarella, falling-off-the-bones pork ribs in marinara, and meatballs with currants and pine nuts, a dish I get every time I go.
"All meat?" Prudence asked, raising an eyebrow, as if that were a problem.
As I told her, after an evening of sparkling wit, I'm happy to make do with meat.
Because, as Dorothy, Prudence and I agree, there can never be sufficient champagne.
We make up for that with meat, bone-sucking and long discussions of love, men and life.
The cure for boredom is curiosity
There is no cure for curiosity
Nor would I want there to be.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Sans Pink and White Checks
I got an unexpected invitation to take a road trip to Colonial Beach.
Not to get too sentimental, but my very first road trip in life was to Colonial Beach when I was two weeks old.
I've got the pictures to prove it - my impossibly young-looking (and proud) parents in bathing suits holding me, naked except for a pink and white checked diaper.
Since then, I've returned several times, always for my annual sister trip with four or five of my sisters (depending on who was unhappy with whom), so I knew it was a pleasant enough drive up 301.
So when I got asked today, I thought,hell yea why not?
I'd interviewed the curator I needed to, I figured I'd be back in time for my meet-up with friends, and the lure of a quick road trip was irresistible.
We made a stop at a farm to admire young chickens, a spoiled horse looking for treats and the most magnificent hedge I'd ever seen.
It resembled a scrunched-up caterpillar with a wild, woolly head of hair.
From there it was on to downtown Colonial Beach, a place where off-track betting ships sit out in the river, the better to serve the gaming needs of the golfcart-riding locals.
But our destination was the highly-recommended Lighthouse, an unlikely name for a Thai/French restaurant.
And by Thai/French, I don't mean a pastiche of the two, but a menu that is half Thai and half French.
And that's besides the extensive chalkboard menu of specials you have to read on your way in.
But I read it, knowing full-well I wouldn't remember it all, before being seated at a window-side table in the dining room, where we had a great view of the outdoor deck (with one couple on it) and the marina.
It took us all of a minute to notify our waiter we wanted to sit outside.
Perched at a red table and chairs, we inquired of the deck's only other inhabitants if bugs were a problem.
They insisted that an occasional raindrop was as unpleasant as it got.
Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted the weather to be any different than what it was - cloudy, warm and smelling like the river.
After ordering splits of bubbles, my companion informed me that the rockfish on the special board had his name on it.
I felt the need to recheck the board, since I couldn't recall if anything had my name on it, so I walked back inside.
To my disappointment, the softshell crab already had an "86" next to it, so I turned to our server who was hovering near me and asked what his favorite was.
"The scallops with bacon are my favroite," he quickly replied. "Those two ladies just had them, too. Ask them."
You know, I think I will interrupt a stranger's meal.
The two had nothing but praise for the scallops, but one warned me that there was lots of bacon, so I should be prepared for that.
Honey, I was born prepared for bacon.
The other told me that she'd had the scallop dish here last night, too.
Two nights in a row? Now there was an irrefutable recommendation.
Outside, we sipped our bubbles admiring the nearby osprey nest, the school of jumping minnows and the boathouse with a steeple just across the water.
Bad jokes about the lord's boats ensued.
Our salads arrived with the reddest tomatoes I've had this year and an array of lettuces, a fine start.
When our entrees came, they definitely qualified as tall food with a stack of grilled vegetables next to our fruits de mer.
My scallops were large and beautifully seared and, yes, there was an abundance of bacon to complement them, so the ladies were right on.
I can't speak to my companion's rockfish but it disappeared completely, always a good sign.
Over two more splits, we watched boat masts bobble in the wake of passing vessels and discussed art collecting, Walmart versus Washington, DC and mutual friends.
Walking back through the dining room to leave, the two women summoned me over for a report.
Not one to mince words, I assured them that their praise of the scallops had not been unwarranted and asked if they were locals.
I was surprised and delighted to hear that they were sisters, in from out of town for some shared time together.
In other words, a sister trip. Perfect.
Riding back down 301 enjoying conversation with my companion as dusk descended, bats swooping overhead, I thought how easy and comfortable the trip to Colonial Beach had been.
It's almost like I've been doing it my whole life.
Oh, wait, I have.
Not to get too sentimental, but my very first road trip in life was to Colonial Beach when I was two weeks old.
I've got the pictures to prove it - my impossibly young-looking (and proud) parents in bathing suits holding me, naked except for a pink and white checked diaper.
Since then, I've returned several times, always for my annual sister trip with four or five of my sisters (depending on who was unhappy with whom), so I knew it was a pleasant enough drive up 301.
So when I got asked today, I thought,
I'd interviewed the curator I needed to, I figured I'd be back in time for my meet-up with friends, and the lure of a quick road trip was irresistible.
We made a stop at a farm to admire young chickens, a spoiled horse looking for treats and the most magnificent hedge I'd ever seen.
It resembled a scrunched-up caterpillar with a wild, woolly head of hair.
From there it was on to downtown Colonial Beach, a place where off-track betting ships sit out in the river, the better to serve the gaming needs of the golfcart-riding locals.
But our destination was the highly-recommended Lighthouse, an unlikely name for a Thai/French restaurant.
And by Thai/French, I don't mean a pastiche of the two, but a menu that is half Thai and half French.
And that's besides the extensive chalkboard menu of specials you have to read on your way in.
But I read it, knowing full-well I wouldn't remember it all, before being seated at a window-side table in the dining room, where we had a great view of the outdoor deck (with one couple on it) and the marina.
It took us all of a minute to notify our waiter we wanted to sit outside.
Perched at a red table and chairs, we inquired of the deck's only other inhabitants if bugs were a problem.
They insisted that an occasional raindrop was as unpleasant as it got.
Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted the weather to be any different than what it was - cloudy, warm and smelling like the river.
After ordering splits of bubbles, my companion informed me that the rockfish on the special board had his name on it.
I felt the need to recheck the board, since I couldn't recall if anything had my name on it, so I walked back inside.
To my disappointment, the softshell crab already had an "86" next to it, so I turned to our server who was hovering near me and asked what his favorite was.
"The scallops with bacon are my favroite," he quickly replied. "Those two ladies just had them, too. Ask them."
You know, I think I will interrupt a stranger's meal.
The two had nothing but praise for the scallops, but one warned me that there was lots of bacon, so I should be prepared for that.
Honey, I was born prepared for bacon.
The other told me that she'd had the scallop dish here last night, too.
Two nights in a row? Now there was an irrefutable recommendation.
Outside, we sipped our bubbles admiring the nearby osprey nest, the school of jumping minnows and the boathouse with a steeple just across the water.
Bad jokes about the lord's boats ensued.
Our salads arrived with the reddest tomatoes I've had this year and an array of lettuces, a fine start.
When our entrees came, they definitely qualified as tall food with a stack of grilled vegetables next to our fruits de mer.
My scallops were large and beautifully seared and, yes, there was an abundance of bacon to complement them, so the ladies were right on.
I can't speak to my companion's rockfish but it disappeared completely, always a good sign.
Over two more splits, we watched boat masts bobble in the wake of passing vessels and discussed art collecting, Walmart versus Washington, DC and mutual friends.
Walking back through the dining room to leave, the two women summoned me over for a report.
Not one to mince words, I assured them that their praise of the scallops had not been unwarranted and asked if they were locals.
I was surprised and delighted to hear that they were sisters, in from out of town for some shared time together.
In other words, a sister trip. Perfect.
Riding back down 301 enjoying conversation with my companion as dusk descended, bats swooping overhead, I thought how easy and comfortable the trip to Colonial Beach had been.
It's almost like I've been doing it my whole life.
Oh, wait, I have.
I'll Have the Lobster and the Bacon
Come on in, honey, and get some of this A/C. I see you finally found a parking space!
It's so nice when a guard oversees your arrival.
I was headed to the Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark" by Paul Herbert.
"It's packed back there!" my new best friend warned me as I headed down to the talk.
Sure enough, the room was already near capacity, with an audience that looked to have a median age of about 70.
No problem. I never mind being on the young side of the demographic.
The VHS blurb had said that Herbert had "loved the Jefferson since his first visit there more than 20 years ago" and I would have guessed that most of this crowd's memories went back two or three times that far.
Hell, my first visit was 21 years ago (for a local radio station's dance night) and I'm not even a local.
Clearly Herbert didn't know that 20 years is nothing in this town.
He'd brought over 50 slides relating to the Jefferson Hotel and proceeded to tell us all kinds of arcane information, a lot of which got the crowd smiling and nodding in agreement.
Starting with how Lewis Ginter, the man who'd originally built the hotel, had made his third fortune in tobacco by selling pre-rolled cigarettes that came with trading cards, he told us about what a model hotel it was when it opened in 1895.
The roof garden shows were a big hit, but only for a while because the Jefferson charged 50 cents while the other venues in town only charged a quarter.
When he got on the subject of the Jefferson being known for the alligators in its Palm Court, the blue hair next to me stated to no one in particular, "I've seen the alligators."
Apparently a common method to herd the baby alligators was sticking the bristle end of a broom in their mouth and dragging them back to the pond.
And despite certain northern newspaper assumptions, the hotel had not been named after Jefferson Davis. Duh.
Herbert mentioned the big-names visitors, essentially "everyone famous who came to the east coast between 1900 and 1960," people like Winston Churchill and John D. Rockefeller (both named "honorary Virginians"), Charles Lindbergh and Elvis (who mortified the Jefferson's manager by eating bacon with his fingers).
I was surprised to learn that the Jefferson had so many full-time residents (80 when it closed in 1980 and as many as 100 before then), including Horace Ganz, its most famous.
Of course, back in those days, the manager and his family lived on site, too.
We heard how the opening of the nearby Hotel John Marshall at the beginning of the Great Depression hurt the Jefferson as people fled further downtown to the fancy new kid on the block.
Prices told the most unbelievable story, with rooms $1.50 in 1895 (with another $1 for a bathroom), a full dinner for $2.50 in 1930, a lobster dinner for $8.50 in 1970 and $7.50 for Mother's Day dinner in 1975.
And, yes, Billy Joel was a 25% owner of the Jefferson for a while, even showing up behind the piano on his occasional visits to town to sing and play.
Sure, that would have been an unexpected treat, but personally, I'd rather sit with Elvis and eat bacon with my fingers.
Historical anecdote aside, is there another way to eat bacon?
It's so nice when a guard oversees your arrival.
I was headed to the Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark" by Paul Herbert.
"It's packed back there!" my new best friend warned me as I headed down to the talk.
Sure enough, the room was already near capacity, with an audience that looked to have a median age of about 70.
No problem. I never mind being on the young side of the demographic.
The VHS blurb had said that Herbert had "loved the Jefferson since his first visit there more than 20 years ago" and I would have guessed that most of this crowd's memories went back two or three times that far.
Hell, my first visit was 21 years ago (for a local radio station's dance night) and I'm not even a local.
Clearly Herbert didn't know that 20 years is nothing in this town.
He'd brought over 50 slides relating to the Jefferson Hotel and proceeded to tell us all kinds of arcane information, a lot of which got the crowd smiling and nodding in agreement.
Starting with how Lewis Ginter, the man who'd originally built the hotel, had made his third fortune in tobacco by selling pre-rolled cigarettes that came with trading cards, he told us about what a model hotel it was when it opened in 1895.
The roof garden shows were a big hit, but only for a while because the Jefferson charged 50 cents while the other venues in town only charged a quarter.
When he got on the subject of the Jefferson being known for the alligators in its Palm Court, the blue hair next to me stated to no one in particular, "I've seen the alligators."
Apparently a common method to herd the baby alligators was sticking the bristle end of a broom in their mouth and dragging them back to the pond.
And despite certain northern newspaper assumptions, the hotel had not been named after Jefferson Davis. Duh.
Herbert mentioned the big-names visitors, essentially "everyone famous who came to the east coast between 1900 and 1960," people like Winston Churchill and John D. Rockefeller (both named "honorary Virginians"), Charles Lindbergh and Elvis (who mortified the Jefferson's manager by eating bacon with his fingers).
I was surprised to learn that the Jefferson had so many full-time residents (80 when it closed in 1980 and as many as 100 before then), including Horace Ganz, its most famous.
Of course, back in those days, the manager and his family lived on site, too.
We heard how the opening of the nearby Hotel John Marshall at the beginning of the Great Depression hurt the Jefferson as people fled further downtown to the fancy new kid on the block.
Prices told the most unbelievable story, with rooms $1.50 in 1895 (with another $1 for a bathroom), a full dinner for $2.50 in 1930, a lobster dinner for $8.50 in 1970 and $7.50 for Mother's Day dinner in 1975.
And, yes, Billy Joel was a 25% owner of the Jefferson for a while, even showing up behind the piano on his occasional visits to town to sing and play.
Sure, that would have been an unexpected treat, but personally, I'd rather sit with Elvis and eat bacon with my fingers.
Historical anecdote aside, is there another way to eat bacon?
Here Comes the Rain Again
I do so enjoy the rain.
If all of Richmond was on vacation last week, they're all out eating this week.
The evidence: on a rainy night that should have kept diners in, a friend and I walked into the Savory Grain about 8:15 and found the only seats available were two at the bar.
If not for the rain, I've no doubt the patio would have been full, too.
Looking around to marvel at another weekday full house (like last night), I noticed name tags on a bunch of people.
It would have made it so easy to go up and talk to strangers, but I refrained.
Turns out they were doing a farm to table five-course dinner tonight and the place was bustling with the sound of lively conversations and servers everywhere.
Ordering a glass of lemony Villa San Martino pinot grigio, I couldn't help but notice a bling-covered blond and her much older date at mid-bar.
I know I'm in the minority by eschewing jewelry altogether, but does anyone really need to wear two rings the size of eggs?
It had been a couple of months since I'd been in, so I was pleased to see some new items on the menu.
Although we weren't eligible for the meal featuring local produce from Farm Table, I decided to go with a salad of baby romaine with cherry tomatoes, bacon, anchovies and lemon-thyme blue cheese dressing, hoping the greens and tomatoes were part of the Farm Table haul.
They certainly tasted fresh enough to be.
My companion went with a behemoth of a crabcake sandwich, a work in progress, we were told, being judged by the Baltimore-raised husband of the owner.
I think we can all agree that only a Marylander is qualified to determine a crabcake's worthiness.
Of course, I say that as someone who was raised in Maryland.
Gradually the name tag people, looking happily sated, began to leave and things settled down to the point where music was audible and it was easier to eavesdrop.
Suddenly a friend appeared and I got to hear about her plans to take off with her boyfriend and dog and work on organic farms indefinitely.
While I admire her sense of adventure, I think I'll happily stay right here in the city, thank you very much.
But even a city girl likes to enjoy a rainy night, and with peach ice cream already crossed off the chalkboard dessert menu, we had no further reason to stay.
Debating between Chimborazo and Byrd Park, we ended up at Fountain Lake where a surprising number of cars were already parked.
We put a blanket on a wet bench, the better to enjoy the wide-open sky view of the lightening show going on, but the reflection of the fountain and street lights on the lake was almost as compelling, if man-made.
The best effects came when the sky lit up and cast enormous, eerie silver reflections on the rippling water.
And while you'd think we were the oddballs for being outside what with lightening and occasional raindrops falling, there was a steady stream of people walking by, also oblivious to or even downright happy about the weather.
I know the duck that suddenly paddled by seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
Still missing the beach, but reminding myself how much there is to like about being home again.
A rainy night will do it every time.
If all of Richmond was on vacation last week, they're all out eating this week.
The evidence: on a rainy night that should have kept diners in, a friend and I walked into the Savory Grain about 8:15 and found the only seats available were two at the bar.
If not for the rain, I've no doubt the patio would have been full, too.
Looking around to marvel at another weekday full house (like last night), I noticed name tags on a bunch of people.
It would have made it so easy to go up and talk to strangers, but I refrained.
Turns out they were doing a farm to table five-course dinner tonight and the place was bustling with the sound of lively conversations and servers everywhere.
Ordering a glass of lemony Villa San Martino pinot grigio, I couldn't help but notice a bling-covered blond and her much older date at mid-bar.
I know I'm in the minority by eschewing jewelry altogether, but does anyone really need to wear two rings the size of eggs?
It had been a couple of months since I'd been in, so I was pleased to see some new items on the menu.
Although we weren't eligible for the meal featuring local produce from Farm Table, I decided to go with a salad of baby romaine with cherry tomatoes, bacon, anchovies and lemon-thyme blue cheese dressing, hoping the greens and tomatoes were part of the Farm Table haul.
They certainly tasted fresh enough to be.
My companion went with a behemoth of a crabcake sandwich, a work in progress, we were told, being judged by the Baltimore-raised husband of the owner.
I think we can all agree that only a Marylander is qualified to determine a crabcake's worthiness.
Of course, I say that as someone who was raised in Maryland.
Gradually the name tag people, looking happily sated, began to leave and things settled down to the point where music was audible and it was easier to eavesdrop.
Suddenly a friend appeared and I got to hear about her plans to take off with her boyfriend and dog and work on organic farms indefinitely.
While I admire her sense of adventure, I think I'll happily stay right here in the city, thank you very much.
But even a city girl likes to enjoy a rainy night, and with peach ice cream already crossed off the chalkboard dessert menu, we had no further reason to stay.
Debating between Chimborazo and Byrd Park, we ended up at Fountain Lake where a surprising number of cars were already parked.
We put a blanket on a wet bench, the better to enjoy the wide-open sky view of the lightening show going on, but the reflection of the fountain and street lights on the lake was almost as compelling, if man-made.
The best effects came when the sky lit up and cast enormous, eerie silver reflections on the rippling water.
And while you'd think we were the oddballs for being outside what with lightening and occasional raindrops falling, there was a steady stream of people walking by, also oblivious to or even downright happy about the weather.
I know the duck that suddenly paddled by seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
Still missing the beach, but reminding myself how much there is to like about being home again.
A rainy night will do it every time.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
We'll Always Have Scuffletown
Some people have Paris, some have cicadas.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
Can I!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
It was hard to imagine there was anywhere more pleasant to be at that moment than in this little pocket park hearing live music.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Don't Question Yourself?
Who hasn't had a close call?
I might have had a few, but I sure as hell wasn't getting up on a stage and telling a crowded roomful of strangers about them.
Nope, I was perfectly happy in a second-row seat with a friend at my side for Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, the bi-monthly event that allows me to eavesdrop on the lives of people I don't know.
Tonight's storytellers apparently had loads of friends and it was soon standing room only when the show belatedly began.
Pre-intermission, the stories have all been vetted for their IQ (interesting quotient) and theme-appropriateness, while post-intermission, any Tom, Dick or Harry can put their name in the hat for a chance to share their close call, this month's topic.
A girl with the somewhat unfortunate nickname of Sharky began with her tale, "Puff the Metal Dragon," one that included her Italian father's dreams of her becoming an opera star and ended with her father and Peter of Peter, Paul and Mary scraping her off a sidewalk in Manhattan after she passed out.
As one who fainted as recently as February, I can assure you it takes two people to lift someone who's gone down.
"Almost Firing" from Emily was a saga of working for a crotchety 85-year old and an unfortunate date with her 29-year old coke-sniffing nephew.
The old lady's ignorant assumptions about the Interwebs were hilarious.
Brook's "Cruise Ship" was both hysterical and horrifying; after missing the ferry back to the ship after an excursion to a topless beach, Brook's Dad proved his superior parenting skills by being able to toss his infant up through a porthole on the ship as they tried to catch up with their boat.
That's "Dad of the Year" material right there.
Between listening to the parade of storytellers, I glanced up through the skylights in Balliceaux's ceiling to admire the pale blue sky I could see through it.
Almost 9:00 at night and still plenty of light outside. You gotta love it.
Jimmy called his story "We Didn't Start the Fire but We Did Smash the TV" and it was about how his high school posse wasted many a night tracking down discarded idiot boxes that they then smashed with baseball bats.
Looking around the room during his memory, I saw most of the guys in the room smiling in appreciation at the thought of guys with bats bashing TVs.
As my friend and I agreed, it's difficult to imagine a gang of girls even conceiving of this plan, much less in delighting in it vicariously.
Circus animals run amok pervaded Jeff's "The Elephants are Coming!" about trying to impress the cool girl from high school and instead being knocked into by a camel, only to end up facing a charging zebra.
No high school crush is worth that kind of terror, if you ask me.
Richard's story was called "7-11" but he got a big laugh right off the bat by admitting, "Despite my supple skin and youthful demeanor, I'm actually 46."
Despite his advanced age, he had impressive comedic timing and tossed off one-liners effortlessly.
"I don't know if some of you know this, but back before Richmond had bike lanes and food trucks, it was actually the murder capital of the country."
Ah, yes, memories...
His story of being drunk at 19 and attempting to pass out daffodils to strangers in the Harrison and Grace 7-11 parking lot resulted in a punch in the face, a stab in the heart and a life lesson.
As long as we learned something, the blood was worth it, right Richard?
Spencer closed out the first half of the evening with his story about "Al," a bi-polar anti-hero who self-medicated using only the pharmaceutical manual and a half-retired doctor who had no problem calling in prescriptions from the golf course.
During intermission, an older couple strolled in, the kind (like a train wreck) that you can't not look at.
She had a blond crew cut (with black roots), a white tank top, black bra, black leather shorts and platform shoes on.
He looked like what Elvis what would look like today if he hadn't died on the toilet.
Jet-black hair, muttonchops, white jumpsuit and studded belt, but with everything drooping after almost 80 years of hip-swiveling.
He got in the bathroom line behind me and eventually asked me when the band was starting.
Turns out they'd come for the RVA Big Band, not to be the intermission entertainment, so I assured him they'd be on in half an hour.
I talked to a musician during intermission and she put voice to something I had noted during the first half.
It's that generation-specific habit so many people have of raising their voices at the end of a statement.
So I decided to hike up a mountain?
WTF?
Where's your conviction, man? Where's your statement of fact, woman?
Why is it okay to make every fact sound like you're not sure you know what you're talking about?
Anyway, I was just glad that someone besides me had noticed what an unfortunate and pervasive verbal tic this is.
During the break, those brave souls (no doubt aided by an hour and a half of drinking) who had a close call to share were invited to put their name in the hat for a chance to be chosen to take the mic.
First called was Ashby for his "My Second Circumcision" story but, alas, he was not in the room.
The crowd clamored to find him because the pretext was too enticing to let go.
We moved on to Joe's "Never Been Born" in the interim, hearing of how his Commonwealth's Attorney father had sat up all night waiting for a criminal named Percy to hunt him down.
Obviously, Percy had not succeeded (he was literally across the street at his girlfriend's house, no doubt taking care of that business before the other) or Joe would not have been standing in front of us tonight.
Ashby had finished feeding his nicotine habit by then and proceeded to go way over the 5-7 minute time limit to tell the painful tale of riding a bike with his brother and almost falling off, a circumstance that may or may not have sheared off histwig berries.
Eventually, he was jumping out of moving cars or throwing up in them, but that's a story for another day.
Liz closed things out with "Taxi Style," a story that would have struck fear into the heart of any parent in the room.
Traveling Europe alone with a backpack, Liz had little success finding a cab or bus once in Croatia to take her to her hostel.
She ends up settling for the offer by an non-English speaker in a company car, only to be terrified as the car is driven way out of town, past all signs of civilization.
Steeling herself to jump out of the car (a recurring them tonight, but then again, if jumping out of a moving vehicle isn't a close call, what is?), she told herself, "Okay, one, two, three, go or they're going to kill me or do other things I want no part of."
This is the part where parents would cringe, I think.
Luckily, they were up to nothing bad and eventually deposited her at her far-flung hostel, located in a remote forest where she arrived relieved and desperately needing wine.
But then, what close call doesn't need a good stiff one by its end?
That's only a metaphor if you want to see it that way.
As always, I delighted in hearing everyone's stories of life gone down a crooked path.
We've all been there.
I might have had a few, but I sure as hell wasn't getting up on a stage and telling a crowded roomful of strangers about them.
Nope, I was perfectly happy in a second-row seat with a friend at my side for Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, the bi-monthly event that allows me to eavesdrop on the lives of people I don't know.
Tonight's storytellers apparently had loads of friends and it was soon standing room only when the show belatedly began.
Pre-intermission, the stories have all been vetted for their IQ (interesting quotient) and theme-appropriateness, while post-intermission, any Tom, Dick or Harry can put their name in the hat for a chance to share their close call, this month's topic.
A girl with the somewhat unfortunate nickname of Sharky began with her tale, "Puff the Metal Dragon," one that included her Italian father's dreams of her becoming an opera star and ended with her father and Peter of Peter, Paul and Mary scraping her off a sidewalk in Manhattan after she passed out.
As one who fainted as recently as February, I can assure you it takes two people to lift someone who's gone down.
"Almost Firing" from Emily was a saga of working for a crotchety 85-year old and an unfortunate date with her 29-year old coke-sniffing nephew.
The old lady's ignorant assumptions about the Interwebs were hilarious.
Brook's "Cruise Ship" was both hysterical and horrifying; after missing the ferry back to the ship after an excursion to a topless beach, Brook's Dad proved his superior parenting skills by being able to toss his infant up through a porthole on the ship as they tried to catch up with their boat.
That's "Dad of the Year" material right there.
Between listening to the parade of storytellers, I glanced up through the skylights in Balliceaux's ceiling to admire the pale blue sky I could see through it.
Almost 9:00 at night and still plenty of light outside. You gotta love it.
Jimmy called his story "We Didn't Start the Fire but We Did Smash the TV" and it was about how his high school posse wasted many a night tracking down discarded idiot boxes that they then smashed with baseball bats.
Looking around the room during his memory, I saw most of the guys in the room smiling in appreciation at the thought of guys with bats bashing TVs.
As my friend and I agreed, it's difficult to imagine a gang of girls even conceiving of this plan, much less in delighting in it vicariously.
Circus animals run amok pervaded Jeff's "The Elephants are Coming!" about trying to impress the cool girl from high school and instead being knocked into by a camel, only to end up facing a charging zebra.
No high school crush is worth that kind of terror, if you ask me.
Richard's story was called "7-11" but he got a big laugh right off the bat by admitting, "Despite my supple skin and youthful demeanor, I'm actually 46."
Despite his advanced age, he had impressive comedic timing and tossed off one-liners effortlessly.
"I don't know if some of you know this, but back before Richmond had bike lanes and food trucks, it was actually the murder capital of the country."
Ah, yes, memories...
His story of being drunk at 19 and attempting to pass out daffodils to strangers in the Harrison and Grace 7-11 parking lot resulted in a punch in the face, a stab in the heart and a life lesson.
As long as we learned something, the blood was worth it, right Richard?
Spencer closed out the first half of the evening with his story about "Al," a bi-polar anti-hero who self-medicated using only the pharmaceutical manual and a half-retired doctor who had no problem calling in prescriptions from the golf course.
During intermission, an older couple strolled in, the kind (like a train wreck) that you can't not look at.
She had a blond crew cut (with black roots), a white tank top, black bra, black leather shorts and platform shoes on.
He looked like what Elvis what would look like today if he hadn't died on the toilet.
Jet-black hair, muttonchops, white jumpsuit and studded belt, but with everything drooping after almost 80 years of hip-swiveling.
He got in the bathroom line behind me and eventually asked me when the band was starting.
Turns out they'd come for the RVA Big Band, not to be the intermission entertainment, so I assured him they'd be on in half an hour.
I talked to a musician during intermission and she put voice to something I had noted during the first half.
It's that generation-specific habit so many people have of raising their voices at the end of a statement.
So I decided to hike up a mountain?
WTF?
Where's your conviction, man? Where's your statement of fact, woman?
Why is it okay to make every fact sound like you're not sure you know what you're talking about?
Anyway, I was just glad that someone besides me had noticed what an unfortunate and pervasive verbal tic this is.
During the break, those brave souls (no doubt aided by an hour and a half of drinking) who had a close call to share were invited to put their name in the hat for a chance to be chosen to take the mic.
First called was Ashby for his "My Second Circumcision" story but, alas, he was not in the room.
The crowd clamored to find him because the pretext was too enticing to let go.
We moved on to Joe's "Never Been Born" in the interim, hearing of how his Commonwealth's Attorney father had sat up all night waiting for a criminal named Percy to hunt him down.
Obviously, Percy had not succeeded (he was literally across the street at his girlfriend's house, no doubt taking care of that business before the other) or Joe would not have been standing in front of us tonight.
Ashby had finished feeding his nicotine habit by then and proceeded to go way over the 5-7 minute time limit to tell the painful tale of riding a bike with his brother and almost falling off, a circumstance that may or may not have sheared off his
Eventually, he was jumping out of moving cars or throwing up in them, but that's a story for another day.
Liz closed things out with "Taxi Style," a story that would have struck fear into the heart of any parent in the room.
Traveling Europe alone with a backpack, Liz had little success finding a cab or bus once in Croatia to take her to her hostel.
She ends up settling for the offer by an non-English speaker in a company car, only to be terrified as the car is driven way out of town, past all signs of civilization.
Steeling herself to jump out of the car (a recurring them tonight, but then again, if jumping out of a moving vehicle isn't a close call, what is?), she told herself, "Okay, one, two, three, go or they're going to kill me or do other things I want no part of."
This is the part where parents would cringe, I think.
Luckily, they were up to nothing bad and eventually deposited her at her far-flung hostel, located in a remote forest where she arrived relieved and desperately needing wine.
But then, what close call doesn't need a good stiff one by its end?
That's only a metaphor if you want to see it that way.
As always, I delighted in hearing everyone's stories of life gone down a crooked path.
We've all been there.
Exit Waves, Enter Music
I miss the sound of the ocean, but at least there was music.
After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.
After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.
I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.
Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.
The crowd was already out the door.
Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.
I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.
"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."
How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.
After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.
After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).
It was a fine homecoming.
While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.
Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.
Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."
It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.
Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.
The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."
When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."
Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.
I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.
Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.
And the attitude.
After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.
After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.
I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.
Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.
The crowd was already out the door.
Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.
I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.
"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."
How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.
After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.
After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).
It was a fine homecoming.
While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.
Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.
Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."
It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.
Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.
The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."
When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."
Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.
I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.
Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.
And the attitude.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Crossing State Lines
Beach log wrap-up.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Ghost Clouds
Beach log, day three
Water temperature low sixties
Current book: Manic Pop Thrill by Rachel Felder
Best random song heard: The Posies' "Dream All Day"
Ghosts of the past: On my walk this morning, I passed a woman who could have been my Washington grandmother's doppelganger. Half an hour later walking back, I saw a guy who could have passed for a former boyfriend, George. Coincidence?
Doing it local style: Went to old school favorite John's for lunch (with a nod to GB), waiting at a shady picnic table for 20 minutes for flounder sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (the best kind of sweet and salty lunch) which we then took back to the house and enjoyed on the back porch overlooking the ocean.
Science lesson: The wind, which managed to come from multiple directions all afternoon, challenging the beach umbrellas, and the cloud variety: cirrus, cumulus, stratus and nimbus, all in the sky at one time. While we'd been at John's, 3 miles away, it had sprinkled on us. Driving home from John's, parts of the road were all but flooded with rain. Back at the cottage, bone dry. Microclimates abound this year.
Cruising Manteo: Taking advantage of a lovely late afternoon, we drove over to Roanoke Island, first to stroll and then to take a sunset cruise on a schooner. Waling down Queen Elizabeth Street, a familiar figure approaches, squealing, "Karennnnn!" It's the lovely Matt, host of the Ghost Light Afterparty and currently playing Sir Andrew Agucheek in "Twelfth Night." We marvel at the randomness of seeing each other as he and his group seek booze on land while mine set out for theirs at sea (okay, sound).
Onward and upward: Bidding him so long, we peruse an open air craft mart where one of us buys leather sandals hand made and even hand tanned in Haiti. On the way to board the Downeast Rover, I note a sign saying that the Acoustaholics are playing at 8 at Poor Richard's. Alas, we will be out on the high seas then.
Bird's eye view: Our little group takes seats on the bow of the schooner while the other ten passengers take bench seats in the middle. From our perch, we can see hang gliders diving off the dunes, enormous bird nests atop channel markers (and filled with gaping mouthed young). a half rainbow piercing a cloud and dolphins frolicking just in front of us.
Ahoy, mate: We chat up the first mate who, it turns out, grew up in Goochland, went to Steward School and used to live in the Fan. It is the smallest of worlds on the Outer Banks.
And the loveliest of sunsets from the water.
Driving home, one of us asks, "What day is it?"
Does it matter?
Water temperature low sixties
Current book: Manic Pop Thrill by Rachel Felder
Best random song heard: The Posies' "Dream All Day"
Ghosts of the past: On my walk this morning, I passed a woman who could have been my Washington grandmother's doppelganger. Half an hour later walking back, I saw a guy who could have passed for a former boyfriend, George. Coincidence?
Doing it local style: Went to old school favorite John's for lunch (with a nod to GB), waiting at a shady picnic table for 20 minutes for flounder sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (the best kind of sweet and salty lunch) which we then took back to the house and enjoyed on the back porch overlooking the ocean.
Science lesson: The wind, which managed to come from multiple directions all afternoon, challenging the beach umbrellas, and the cloud variety: cirrus, cumulus, stratus and nimbus, all in the sky at one time. While we'd been at John's, 3 miles away, it had sprinkled on us. Driving home from John's, parts of the road were all but flooded with rain. Back at the cottage, bone dry. Microclimates abound this year.
Cruising Manteo: Taking advantage of a lovely late afternoon, we drove over to Roanoke Island, first to stroll and then to take a sunset cruise on a schooner. Waling down Queen Elizabeth Street, a familiar figure approaches, squealing, "Karennnnn!" It's the lovely Matt, host of the Ghost Light Afterparty and currently playing Sir Andrew Agucheek in "Twelfth Night." We marvel at the randomness of seeing each other as he and his group seek booze on land while mine set out for theirs at sea (okay, sound).
Onward and upward: Bidding him so long, we peruse an open air craft mart where one of us buys leather sandals hand made and even hand tanned in Haiti. On the way to board the Downeast Rover, I note a sign saying that the Acoustaholics are playing at 8 at Poor Richard's. Alas, we will be out on the high seas then.
Bird's eye view: Our little group takes seats on the bow of the schooner while the other ten passengers take bench seats in the middle. From our perch, we can see hang gliders diving off the dunes, enormous bird nests atop channel markers (and filled with gaping mouthed young). a half rainbow piercing a cloud and dolphins frolicking just in front of us.
Ahoy, mate: We chat up the first mate who, it turns out, grew up in Goochland, went to Steward School and used to live in the Fan. It is the smallest of worlds on the Outer Banks.
And the loveliest of sunsets from the water.
Driving home, one of us asks, "What day is it?"
Does it matter?
Monday, July 1, 2013
And I Feel Fine
Beach log, day two
Water temperature: low sixties (up from positively frigid yesterday)
Current book: "Between Parentheses" by Roberto Bolano
Best random song: acoustic version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It"
Yesterday was travel day, arrival day and the official start of the annual beach vacation.
Color me happy.
Coolish, with a leaden sky and the traditional stop at the Weeping Radish Brewery for their stellar, fat hotdogs with grilled onions for a late lunch made for an especially pleasant trip down.
Afterwards, I cruised past the Gale Force Guns & Ammo Shop. where vacationers can pick up any last minute firearm needs before hitting the banks.
I was expecting changes on the beach after the big storm last fall that decimated Kitty Hawk and, sure enough, there were.
My beloved outside shower moved from beach level to porch level and tons of sand has clearly been brought in although the entire beach is definitely much lower than it used to be.
Otherwise, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Thankfully.
Nineteen years coming to the same house and the greatest pleasure is in how little things change.
Today began with an early morning pelting rain, which necessitated me closing the window over my bed, but not, perish the thought, getting up for another two hours.
Breakfast included Weeping Radish's superb bacon. followed by a long walk on the beach under roiling clouds.
Dolphins put in an appearance just before a late lunch, cavorting right in front of the house.
It was also the first "inane technology" moment as the woman on the gazebo next door proceeded to call someone on her phone and shriek about the dolphins rather than just enjoying the moment.
Don't get me started.
When a light rain forced us off the beach late in the day, we took shelter on the screened porch, drinking tequila and playing Scrabble until the sweet tea lover among us beat the pants off of us.
Damn Southerners.
After multiple attempts, we finally tuned in my favorite cheesy, local radio station, the one who plays the exact same songs every year with the addition of a very few new offerings.
I couldn't stand it year round, but for vacation, it's another welcome reminder that some things never change.
And, just maybe, they have the potential to get even better.
Water temperature: low sixties (up from positively frigid yesterday)
Current book: "Between Parentheses" by Roberto Bolano
Best random song: acoustic version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It"
Yesterday was travel day, arrival day and the official start of the annual beach vacation.
Color me happy.
Coolish, with a leaden sky and the traditional stop at the Weeping Radish Brewery for their stellar, fat hotdogs with grilled onions for a late lunch made for an especially pleasant trip down.
Afterwards, I cruised past the Gale Force Guns & Ammo Shop. where vacationers can pick up any last minute firearm needs before hitting the banks.
I was expecting changes on the beach after the big storm last fall that decimated Kitty Hawk and, sure enough, there were.
My beloved outside shower moved from beach level to porch level and tons of sand has clearly been brought in although the entire beach is definitely much lower than it used to be.
Otherwise, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Thankfully.
Nineteen years coming to the same house and the greatest pleasure is in how little things change.
Today began with an early morning pelting rain, which necessitated me closing the window over my bed, but not, perish the thought, getting up for another two hours.
Breakfast included Weeping Radish's superb bacon. followed by a long walk on the beach under roiling clouds.
Dolphins put in an appearance just before a late lunch, cavorting right in front of the house.
It was also the first "inane technology" moment as the woman on the gazebo next door proceeded to call someone on her phone and shriek about the dolphins rather than just enjoying the moment.
Don't get me started.
When a light rain forced us off the beach late in the day, we took shelter on the screened porch, drinking tequila and playing Scrabble until the sweet tea lover among us beat the pants off of us.
Damn Southerners.
After multiple attempts, we finally tuned in my favorite cheesy, local radio station, the one who plays the exact same songs every year with the addition of a very few new offerings.
I couldn't stand it year round, but for vacation, it's another welcome reminder that some things never change.
And, just maybe, they have the potential to get even better.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Bonne Anniversaire!
An anniversary party made for the ideal sendoff for my vacation.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating three years with bubbles and lots of desserts.
If I ever have an anniversary worth celebrating, I'd do it exactly the same way.
Being the eager beaver, I was there right when things were supposed to get started, but an unusually busy dinner hour was delaying things.
Come to think of it, on the drive over, I'd driven past crowds and lines at most restaurants.
While most people seem to be out of town already (my neighborhood is a ghost town), apparently those still around were all out tonight.
It turned out to be a lively night, with pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, the inevitable glass of wine spilled nearby and an errant spoon that went flying.
I took a seat at the bar and began with a glass of Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose.
The two girls next to me were deep into man talk ("George is the only one I want to marry!") but the guy at the far end perked up when he saw he had someone to talk to.
Once he found out my interests, we had a most interesting discussion of a very old painting of a bishop he'd gotten from his grandfather.
He was eager to find out who'd painted it and asked for suggestions.
Using old letters between his grandparents, he'd found a reference to a Peter Paul Rubens painting his grandfather had bought 100 years ago.
Holy cow, Rubens?
I told him he needed a much higher source than me to start that process.
Like me, he's a regular at Amour, as were all of the crowd who came in tonight to raise a glass to Amour making it three years in a business that's known to chew up and spit out even experienced entrepreneurs.
I saw the cute couple I always see at Amour, the ones who seem to take so much pleasure in each other's company.
Three women came in after seeing "The Comedy of Errors" at Agecroft and we made room for them at the bar.
Turns out they were Carytown merchants as well as regulars, although it was somehow our first time meeting.
Like me, they were tickled to see tonight's dessert menu offering 3 for $3 or 5 for $5.
Now that's a dessert menu I can get behind.
And the choices!
Bourbon maple creme caramel. Key lime tartlette. Plantain cake with avocado buttercream. Chocolate mousse in orange lace cookie. Profiteroles with ganache.
The three of them debated whether they need to order 5 for $5 or 10 for $10, while I kept my order to 3 for $3.
One of the women argued that sharing five small desserts between three women was insufficient.
While they debated, I started on my cake with its delicate flavors and exquisite buttercream.
Next I did profiteroles filled with Chantilly cream, but mine arrived sans ganache.
Then a friend came in (with a friend) and all of a sudden I was moving my bar stool to their bar table to join them for dessert.
They were two, so they chose five desserts.
My friend regaled us with stories of her "crazy" Dad who cuts out the obituaries of his former wife's ex-boyfriends and sends them to my friend, instructing, "Send this to your Mother."
With the cute couple behind us, we discussed playing online Scrabble (she does, I don't), leading her friend to observe that people who play Scrabble on a Kindle can cheat.
I wouldn't know.
You see, I just packed my wooden Scrabble board to take to the beach and there's no cheating with wood.
My last dessert was chocolate mousse in an orange lace cookie with a raspberry, a sublime combination of flavors.
While it seemed fitting to have three desserts to celebrate a third anniversary, I was led astray when suddenly profiteroles with ganache arrived.
I couldn't think of a single reason to resist the dark chocolate-covered delicacies.
You see, it's the contrast of the dark chocolate with the delicately sweet cream that makes a profiterole sing.
As I suspected, all these wonderful desserts were for tonight only and will not be showing up on the regular menu.
You either came and benefited or missed out entirely.
I met a guy who'd read my post about a disco party we'd both attended and we laughed when we heard that the upcoming Bastille day picnic may include another appearance by Amour's smoke machine.
Maybe that's the deep, dark secret of a restaurant making it to the three year point.
Keep things fresh and blow a little smoke every once in a while.
I'll have to remember that if I ever get to a third anniversary again.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating three years with bubbles and lots of desserts.
If I ever have an anniversary worth celebrating, I'd do it exactly the same way.
Being the eager beaver, I was there right when things were supposed to get started, but an unusually busy dinner hour was delaying things.
Come to think of it, on the drive over, I'd driven past crowds and lines at most restaurants.
While most people seem to be out of town already (my neighborhood is a ghost town), apparently those still around were all out tonight.
It turned out to be a lively night, with pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, the inevitable glass of wine spilled nearby and an errant spoon that went flying.
The two girls next to me were deep into man talk ("George is the only one I want to marry!") but the guy at the far end perked up when he saw he had someone to talk to.
Once he found out my interests, we had a most interesting discussion of a very old painting of a bishop he'd gotten from his grandfather.
He was eager to find out who'd painted it and asked for suggestions.
Using old letters between his grandparents, he'd found a reference to a Peter Paul Rubens painting his grandfather had bought 100 years ago.
Holy cow, Rubens?
I told him he needed a much higher source than me to start that process.
Like me, he's a regular at Amour, as were all of the crowd who came in tonight to raise a glass to Amour making it three years in a business that's known to chew up and spit out even experienced entrepreneurs.
I saw the cute couple I always see at Amour, the ones who seem to take so much pleasure in each other's company.
Three women came in after seeing "The Comedy of Errors" at Agecroft and we made room for them at the bar.
Turns out they were Carytown merchants as well as regulars, although it was somehow our first time meeting.
Like me, they were tickled to see tonight's dessert menu offering 3 for $3 or 5 for $5.
Now that's a dessert menu I can get behind.
And the choices!
Bourbon maple creme caramel. Key lime tartlette. Plantain cake with avocado buttercream. Chocolate mousse in orange lace cookie. Profiteroles with ganache.
The three of them debated whether they need to order 5 for $5 or 10 for $10, while I kept my order to 3 for $3.
One of the women argued that sharing five small desserts between three women was insufficient.
While they debated, I started on my cake with its delicate flavors and exquisite buttercream.
Next I did profiteroles filled with Chantilly cream, but mine arrived sans ganache.
Then a friend came in (with a friend) and all of a sudden I was moving my bar stool to their bar table to join them for dessert.
They were two, so they chose five desserts.
My friend regaled us with stories of her "crazy" Dad who cuts out the obituaries of his former wife's ex-boyfriends and sends them to my friend, instructing, "Send this to your Mother."
With the cute couple behind us, we discussed playing online Scrabble (she does, I don't), leading her friend to observe that people who play Scrabble on a Kindle can cheat.
I wouldn't know.
You see, I just packed my wooden Scrabble board to take to the beach and there's no cheating with wood.
My last dessert was chocolate mousse in an orange lace cookie with a raspberry, a sublime combination of flavors.
While it seemed fitting to have three desserts to celebrate a third anniversary, I was led astray when suddenly profiteroles with ganache arrived.
I couldn't think of a single reason to resist the dark chocolate-covered delicacies.
You see, it's the contrast of the dark chocolate with the delicately sweet cream that makes a profiterole sing.
As I suspected, all these wonderful desserts were for tonight only and will not be showing up on the regular menu.
You either came and benefited or missed out entirely.
I met a guy who'd read my post about a disco party we'd both attended and we laughed when we heard that the upcoming Bastille day picnic may include another appearance by Amour's smoke machine.
Maybe that's the deep, dark secret of a restaurant making it to the three year point.
Keep things fresh and blow a little smoke every once in a while.
I'll have to remember that if I ever get to a third anniversary again.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Rocky Mountain Hi!
You look like summer personified.
If I'm going to walk into a restaurant and immediately be complimented, it bodes extremely well for the rest of the evening.
The fact that the person holding open the door and commenting on my orange top and floral skirt was a woman mattered not at all.
It's a good week for me and womankind; yesterday, a woman told me accusingly that I looked seductive.
It was one of those things that sounds like it should be a compliment, but really isn't.
She who uttered the kind words ushered me to my visiting friend, the mixologist, here for a few days from Boulder and awaiting me at the bar.
It was an auspicious start to the evening, the weekend, and my upcoming vacation.
After a hug and an order of Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence Rose, we proceeded to catch up on all that had transpired since he moved to Colorado.
New tequilas (he's sending me a bottle), a busy week in his love life (with France on the horizon) and the pains of being devoted to a high-end clientele all spoke to his new life in the middle of the country.
So far away that when the Anderson's Neck oysters arrived, he admitted sheepishly that they were the first oysters he'd had since he'd left.
Well, except for Rocky Mountain oysters, and, as he acknowledged ruefully, "They're not the same."
Yea, bivalves and balls, not even close.
It was great to see him after so long and, as was our habit before we left, we wasted no time in talking and eating.
We started with the squash blossoms stuffed with braised lamb, a dish as sublimely beautiful as it tasted.
And don't even get me started on the $5 price tag.
Next came andouille-stuffed dates in tomato sauce, arriving in a little cast-iron skillet, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
All around us, the place never slowed down, with people coming and going non-stop.
It didn't matter to us because we were busy discussing rye with a nearby customer, the benefits of Japanese shaker glasses and the doughnut craze hitting RVA.
I was intrigued by the guy who sat down at the bar and proceeded to read his "Washington Post," an act that would have gotten me talking to him if not for my friend's lively conversation.
Since my friend is the beverage director at a swanky restaurant, we soon found ourselves perusing the wine list for hidden gems.
Eureka!
Friend was intrigued to see the little-seen 2010 Massimiliano Calabretta Etna Rosso on the list.
After explaining to me about its unique site - the terroir volcanic ash and sand - he insisted that this was the wine we needed to drink tonight to celebrate seeing each other after nearly a year.
Boy, was he right. It was a long-aged, easy drinking summer red, somewhat reminiscent of a Barolo and with the most exquisite lingering finish.
A wine I'd likely never have tasted if he hadn't come to town, spotted it and insisted we needed it.
Did I mention what a dear friend this guy is?
Around 9:00, we looked outside to admire the rich, blue sky that refused to give up the last light of sunset.
These endless days are almost magical.
We moved on to the cheese plate, a misnomer if ever there was one.
Cabot cloth-bound cheddar, herb spetzle,smoked duck lardons, apple slices, sunflower shoots, date puree, and a hard cider cheese sauce made for a dish so deep in flavor (that spetzle! those lardons!) that all we could do was eat and sip and smile at each other in satisfaction.
Since it was his first visit to Dutch & Co, the place having opened since he moved away, he was thrilled to discover it was everything he'd heard it was (through Facebook, of course, not the grapevine).
Like the last first-timer I went with, he was surprised at the restaurant's low-key charm, but not at its stellar food since we'd been to Aziza's back when Chef Caleb had been cooking there.
As the restaurant emptied out, we realized it was time to go.
When I came back from the bathroom, it was to discover that his next date was texting him to find out why he wasn't yet at Balliceaux.
By the time I got home, it was to find he had already tagged me on FB with a picture of Dutch & Co's wine list. How appropriate.
I finally made it! Had a wonderful meal with a dear friend, Karen.
Also known as the personification of summer.
If I'm going to walk into a restaurant and immediately be complimented, it bodes extremely well for the rest of the evening.
The fact that the person holding open the door and commenting on my orange top and floral skirt was a woman mattered not at all.
It's a good week for me and womankind; yesterday, a woman told me accusingly that I looked seductive.
It was one of those things that sounds like it should be a compliment, but really isn't.
She who uttered the kind words ushered me to my visiting friend, the mixologist, here for a few days from Boulder and awaiting me at the bar.
It was an auspicious start to the evening, the weekend, and my upcoming vacation.
After a hug and an order of Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence Rose, we proceeded to catch up on all that had transpired since he moved to Colorado.
New tequilas (he's sending me a bottle), a busy week in his love life (with France on the horizon) and the pains of being devoted to a high-end clientele all spoke to his new life in the middle of the country.
So far away that when the Anderson's Neck oysters arrived, he admitted sheepishly that they were the first oysters he'd had since he'd left.
Well, except for Rocky Mountain oysters, and, as he acknowledged ruefully, "They're not the same."
Yea, bivalves and balls, not even close.
It was great to see him after so long and, as was our habit before we left, we wasted no time in talking and eating.
We started with the squash blossoms stuffed with braised lamb, a dish as sublimely beautiful as it tasted.
And don't even get me started on the $5 price tag.
Next came andouille-stuffed dates in tomato sauce, arriving in a little cast-iron skillet, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
All around us, the place never slowed down, with people coming and going non-stop.
It didn't matter to us because we were busy discussing rye with a nearby customer, the benefits of Japanese shaker glasses and the doughnut craze hitting RVA.
I was intrigued by the guy who sat down at the bar and proceeded to read his "Washington Post," an act that would have gotten me talking to him if not for my friend's lively conversation.
Since my friend is the beverage director at a swanky restaurant, we soon found ourselves perusing the wine list for hidden gems.
Eureka!
Friend was intrigued to see the little-seen 2010 Massimiliano Calabretta Etna Rosso on the list.
After explaining to me about its unique site - the terroir volcanic ash and sand - he insisted that this was the wine we needed to drink tonight to celebrate seeing each other after nearly a year.
Boy, was he right. It was a long-aged, easy drinking summer red, somewhat reminiscent of a Barolo and with the most exquisite lingering finish.
A wine I'd likely never have tasted if he hadn't come to town, spotted it and insisted we needed it.
Did I mention what a dear friend this guy is?
Around 9:00, we looked outside to admire the rich, blue sky that refused to give up the last light of sunset.
These endless days are almost magical.
We moved on to the cheese plate, a misnomer if ever there was one.
Cabot cloth-bound cheddar, herb spetzle,smoked duck lardons, apple slices, sunflower shoots, date puree, and a hard cider cheese sauce made for a dish so deep in flavor (that spetzle! those lardons!) that all we could do was eat and sip and smile at each other in satisfaction.
Since it was his first visit to Dutch & Co, the place having opened since he moved away, he was thrilled to discover it was everything he'd heard it was (through Facebook, of course, not the grapevine).
Like the last first-timer I went with, he was surprised at the restaurant's low-key charm, but not at its stellar food since we'd been to Aziza's back when Chef Caleb had been cooking there.
As the restaurant emptied out, we realized it was time to go.
When I came back from the bathroom, it was to discover that his next date was texting him to find out why he wasn't yet at Balliceaux.
By the time I got home, it was to find he had already tagged me on FB with a picture of Dutch & Co's wine list. How appropriate.
I finally made it! Had a wonderful meal with a dear friend, Karen.
Also known as the personification of summer.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
With an Energized Affection
Thunder and Shakespeare, it's a match made in heaven.
On my to-do list this week was seeing "Much Ado About Nothing," further confirmed when a loyal blog reader informed me that if I loved life, I needed to see this.
I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
With a fellow Shakespeare lover in tow, we found seats in the theater, the one with the giant windows on the side of the building.
Moments before the previews began, the red shades lowered and all was dark.
It was an ideal start to the new black and white version of "MAAN,"
I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face.
As the bickering Beatrice and Benedick proclaimed their distaste for each other, moments of silence allowed the thunder outside to be plainly heard inside.
It was fitting, given the tempestuous nature of their relationship.
And to be merry best becomes you.
The film was exquisitely filmed in black and white, in that way that makes you forget about color entirely.
And for anyone who'd scoff at Shakespeare on film, I have news for you. It was laugh-out-loud funny.
She mocks all her wooers out of suit.
The party scene, especially, was mesmerizing, with "Hey, Nonnie, Nonnie" music and graceful trapeze artists suspended overhead.
It was the kind of party I'd love to attend.
The glory shall be ours, for we are the only love gods.
The beauty of this adaptation was how contemporary it was, not in language, but in setting and dress.
Since we usually see Shakespeare done live, getting to see it up close - facial gestures, whispered phrases, intimate gestures - was much more of a treat than I'd anticipated.
But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
The cast was excellent, tossing off the Bard's English in a way that any moron could understand.
Even the four girls sitting next to us who texted through the pre-film on-screen admonishment not to text or e-mail during the film, laughed occasionally.
For which of my bad parts did thou first fall in love with me?
The whole movie had the feel of a long weekend party with friends, one where something was always happening, but you had to be around to be privy to it.
In other words, the very best kind of screwball comedy.
Every detail was brilliantly conceived, whether bottles on a window ledge, a bouquet tossed on the ground or a nosy Beatrice bumping into everything in the room in her haste to hear what is being said about her.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
I was enchanted from beginning to end, caught up in a black and white Woody Allen-world where people say the cleverest things and inevitably fall for the ones who give them the best wordplay.
I will stop your mouth.
The subplot about the hilarious and inane constable Dogberry trying to track down bad guys is beyond hysterical with his mispronounced words and misplaced bravado.
Man is a giddy thing.
It's not just man; this woman was giddy with delight by the time Hero and Claudio and Beatrice and Benedick wed.
The funniest part?
The dumb girls next to me never saw it coming.
"Oh, it's her!" one exclaimed when Claudio's bride was revealed to be his love.
You were right, CW, this is a movie for people who love life.
Besides, I've heard being merry becomes me. Bad parts and all.
On my to-do list this week was seeing "Much Ado About Nothing," further confirmed when a loyal blog reader informed me that if I loved life, I needed to see this.
I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
With a fellow Shakespeare lover in tow, we found seats in the theater, the one with the giant windows on the side of the building.
Moments before the previews began, the red shades lowered and all was dark.
It was an ideal start to the new black and white version of "MAAN,"
I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face.
As the bickering Beatrice and Benedick proclaimed their distaste for each other, moments of silence allowed the thunder outside to be plainly heard inside.
It was fitting, given the tempestuous nature of their relationship.
And to be merry best becomes you.
The film was exquisitely filmed in black and white, in that way that makes you forget about color entirely.
And for anyone who'd scoff at Shakespeare on film, I have news for you. It was laugh-out-loud funny.
She mocks all her wooers out of suit.
The party scene, especially, was mesmerizing, with "Hey, Nonnie, Nonnie" music and graceful trapeze artists suspended overhead.
It was the kind of party I'd love to attend.
The glory shall be ours, for we are the only love gods.
The beauty of this adaptation was how contemporary it was, not in language, but in setting and dress.
Since we usually see Shakespeare done live, getting to see it up close - facial gestures, whispered phrases, intimate gestures - was much more of a treat than I'd anticipated.
But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
The cast was excellent, tossing off the Bard's English in a way that any moron could understand.
Even the four girls sitting next to us who texted through the pre-film on-screen admonishment not to text or e-mail during the film, laughed occasionally.
For which of my bad parts did thou first fall in love with me?
The whole movie had the feel of a long weekend party with friends, one where something was always happening, but you had to be around to be privy to it.
In other words, the very best kind of screwball comedy.
Every detail was brilliantly conceived, whether bottles on a window ledge, a bouquet tossed on the ground or a nosy Beatrice bumping into everything in the room in her haste to hear what is being said about her.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
I was enchanted from beginning to end, caught up in a black and white Woody Allen-world where people say the cleverest things and inevitably fall for the ones who give them the best wordplay.
I will stop your mouth.
The subplot about the hilarious and inane constable Dogberry trying to track down bad guys is beyond hysterical with his mispronounced words and misplaced bravado.
Man is a giddy thing.
It's not just man; this woman was giddy with delight by the time Hero and Claudio and Beatrice and Benedick wed.
The funniest part?
The dumb girls next to me never saw it coming.
"Oh, it's her!" one exclaimed when Claudio's bride was revealed to be his love.
You were right, CW, this is a movie for people who love life.
Besides, I've heard being merry becomes me. Bad parts and all.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Fitting Entertainment for Pints
Turns out people were crying out for theater on the southside.
O'Theater at O'Toole's welcomed in more people than they had chairs for to see a staged reading of "The Playboy of the Western World.'
Touted as "plays and pints," tonight was the first in a series of summer readings.
The organizers must be Irish because they brilliantly got Murphy's Irish Stout to sponsor the series and, even better, 100% of the proceeds from the sale of that stout went to the actors.
There's the way to get actors to work -pay them in beer.
And while I don't drink beer, I'm plenty Irish (hello, O'Donnell) and a theater lover of the highest order.
With only one rehearsal under their belts, the cast did a terrific job with a 1907 play about a man who stumbles into a pub, claiming to have killed his father.
You're a fine, hearty girl who'd knock the heads together of any men in the room.
The Irish accents took a bit of getting used to, just like they do in a movie.
Two fine women fighting for the likes of me. I'm thinking this night, wasn't I a foolish fellow not to kill my father in the years gone by?
DeeJay Gray played Christy, the supposed murderer, to perfection, marveling at his new identity as a sought-after man for the first time in his life.
Billy Christopher Maupin played Shawn with a big voice and a timid demeanor, the cowering suitor of the pub owner's daughter, Pegeen, and was hysterical, worried about everything possible.
We'd been warned in advance that the play had two intermissions, the better to relieve ourselves of all that stout we were drinking.
I like a theater group that thinks ahead.
It's the likes of me she's only fit for.
In the second act, David Bridgewater showed up as the father who'd been maimed but not killed and immediately made the audience laugh with his ad-libbing.
Revealing his bandaged head where his son had clobbered him, he was asked who'd hit him.
Momentarily losing his place but eyes twinkling, he looked at the audience and paused. "Wait for it...my own son!" and the crowd cracked up.
The father wastes no time in telling the pub crowd what his son was really like, which was nothing like the brave murderer they'd assumed.
He wasn't even the smooth womanizer they'd taken him for.
If he saw a red petticoat coming over the hill, he'd be running away.
As more women clamored for Christy, he reveled in all the attention.
She'll knock the head off you, I'm thinking.
The pints of stout continued to arrive from the bar during the second intermission, a sure sign everybody was having a good time.
I know I was.
I'm taking a fancy to you.
By Act 3, the other pub denizens were getting a bit tired of Christy's boasting.
He's not able to say ten words without bragging about killing his father.
It was in the final act that we also got a limerick, courtesy of Gordon Bass, who played the drunken pub owner, Pegeen's father.
There was a young man from Kent
Whose tool was exceedingly bent
He put it in double
To save himself trouble
Instead of coming, he went
You can imagine the raucous laughter heard from a roomful of stout-swilling people after that delivery.
What is it to make a woman like me fitting entertainment for the likes of you?
When Pegeen scorns Shawn for Christy, she explains to her father why.
There's no savagery or fine words in him at all.
Savagery aside, what woman doesn't want fine words from her beloved?
By the end, Christy is gone and she woefully laments, "I've lost the only playboy of the western world."
Others, however, saw the positive side of his absence.
For the love of god, we'll have peace now for our drinks.
Maybe it's the Irish in me talking, but frankly, peace for drinking is over-rated.
"Plays and Pints," however, is not. Drink on, theater lovers.
O'Theater at O'Toole's welcomed in more people than they had chairs for to see a staged reading of "The Playboy of the Western World.'
Touted as "plays and pints," tonight was the first in a series of summer readings.
The organizers must be Irish because they brilliantly got Murphy's Irish Stout to sponsor the series and, even better, 100% of the proceeds from the sale of that stout went to the actors.
There's the way to get actors to work -pay them in beer.
And while I don't drink beer, I'm plenty Irish (hello, O'Donnell) and a theater lover of the highest order.
With only one rehearsal under their belts, the cast did a terrific job with a 1907 play about a man who stumbles into a pub, claiming to have killed his father.
You're a fine, hearty girl who'd knock the heads together of any men in the room.
The Irish accents took a bit of getting used to, just like they do in a movie.
Two fine women fighting for the likes of me. I'm thinking this night, wasn't I a foolish fellow not to kill my father in the years gone by?
DeeJay Gray played Christy, the supposed murderer, to perfection, marveling at his new identity as a sought-after man for the first time in his life.
Billy Christopher Maupin played Shawn with a big voice and a timid demeanor, the cowering suitor of the pub owner's daughter, Pegeen, and was hysterical, worried about everything possible.
We'd been warned in advance that the play had two intermissions, the better to relieve ourselves of all that stout we were drinking.
I like a theater group that thinks ahead.
It's the likes of me she's only fit for.
In the second act, David Bridgewater showed up as the father who'd been maimed but not killed and immediately made the audience laugh with his ad-libbing.
Revealing his bandaged head where his son had clobbered him, he was asked who'd hit him.
Momentarily losing his place but eyes twinkling, he looked at the audience and paused. "Wait for it...my own son!" and the crowd cracked up.
The father wastes no time in telling the pub crowd what his son was really like, which was nothing like the brave murderer they'd assumed.
He wasn't even the smooth womanizer they'd taken him for.
If he saw a red petticoat coming over the hill, he'd be running away.
As more women clamored for Christy, he reveled in all the attention.
She'll knock the head off you, I'm thinking.
The pints of stout continued to arrive from the bar during the second intermission, a sure sign everybody was having a good time.
I know I was.
I'm taking a fancy to you.
By Act 3, the other pub denizens were getting a bit tired of Christy's boasting.
He's not able to say ten words without bragging about killing his father.
It was in the final act that we also got a limerick, courtesy of Gordon Bass, who played the drunken pub owner, Pegeen's father.
There was a young man from Kent
Whose tool was exceedingly bent
He put it in double
To save himself trouble
Instead of coming, he went
You can imagine the raucous laughter heard from a roomful of stout-swilling people after that delivery.
What is it to make a woman like me fitting entertainment for the likes of you?
When Pegeen scorns Shawn for Christy, she explains to her father why.
There's no savagery or fine words in him at all.
Savagery aside, what woman doesn't want fine words from her beloved?
By the end, Christy is gone and she woefully laments, "I've lost the only playboy of the western world."
Others, however, saw the positive side of his absence.
For the love of god, we'll have peace now for our drinks.
Maybe it's the Irish in me talking, but frankly, peace for drinking is over-rated.
"Plays and Pints," however, is not. Drink on, theater lovers.
Hits, No Runs
Every now and then I get sporty.
For the second time in just over a month, I was at the Diamond to see a Squirrels game.
Last time I got rained out, but tonight the weather held.
A friend was in a sporting mood and invited me to share the nosebleed seats for an evening of entertainment.
I was expecting it to be a dry night since I don't drink beer, the official beverage of baseball, but we found a vendor selling James River Cellars wine and I much preferred a cup of Vidal Blanc over anything else to be had.
Once up the stairs and in the cheap seats, we settled in to see what the game could deliver, finding a lovely breeze at our new altitude.
It wasn't long before a ball went soaring into the stands and hit a guy sitting nearby squarely in the chest.
By that time, I'd already expressed concern that given my pathetically slow reflexes, if a ball came my way, I'd be powerless to do anything but take the direct hit.
Being sporty is hard.
Since it had been years since I'd been to a game, I was unprepared for all the hoopla that happens between innings.
Musical chairs, t-shirts shot out of guns, dressing contests, pigs in wheelbarrows set to the tune of John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," the wacky shenanigans didn't let up.
You didn't even have to like baseball to have a good time.
It didn't hurt that the roving vendors accommodate the crowd's every wish, which for me meant water and peanuts (Virginia Diner, mind you) and the occasional wisecrack to go with my wine.
My slow reflexes failed me again when a Squirrels water bottle landed practically at my feet, but the little boy who scrambled up to collect it no doubt deserved it more than me.
Sitting up so high afforded a stellar view of the city skyline and spectacular blue and pink sky as the sun moved lower in it.
I decided my favorite player was #23, not just because 23 is my favorite number, but because every time he came up to bat, the music played was Frank Sinatra.
We watched as the Squirrels surged ahead 5-0 and prevented the Baysox from scoring again and again.
When we finally left, it was only because the Squirrels had the game firmly in hand and we were hungry.
We ended up at Gus' where the tables and bar were full of people in team shirts (all teams sponsored by Gus'), many with eyes glued to the hockey finals.
It was easy to do given that there was a TV at every booth (don't get me started), not to mention all the screens on the walls and over the bar.
Given Gus' Greek roots, the Greek house wine seemed the logical choice and our harried server agreed.
Keeping to the theme, I had a lamb burger with tzatziki and feta and a side of onion rings while the baseball fan had Gus' spaghetti with everything but the kitchen sink.
Despite being no fan of sports, the game capturing everyone's attention was for the championship so I ended up paying far more attention than I might have.
At the every least, we cheered the fact that both hockey teams at least came from ice-prone areas.
Friend had been hoping Boston would win and send the series into another game, but alas (I guess), Chicago wanted it badly enough to win in Boston and end it all right in front of us.
I was far more into my lamb burger than the game but once things got tense, it was impossible not to watch the last two minutes until Chicago clinched it.
Driving home under the remnants of the super moon centered over Broad Street, I had to admit that for a night centered on sports, it had been an especially enjoyable one.
Where is Karen and what have you done with her?
For the second time in just over a month, I was at the Diamond to see a Squirrels game.
Last time I got rained out, but tonight the weather held.
A friend was in a sporting mood and invited me to share the nosebleed seats for an evening of entertainment.
I was expecting it to be a dry night since I don't drink beer, the official beverage of baseball, but we found a vendor selling James River Cellars wine and I much preferred a cup of Vidal Blanc over anything else to be had.
Once up the stairs and in the cheap seats, we settled in to see what the game could deliver, finding a lovely breeze at our new altitude.
It wasn't long before a ball went soaring into the stands and hit a guy sitting nearby squarely in the chest.
By that time, I'd already expressed concern that given my pathetically slow reflexes, if a ball came my way, I'd be powerless to do anything but take the direct hit.
Being sporty is hard.
Since it had been years since I'd been to a game, I was unprepared for all the hoopla that happens between innings.
Musical chairs, t-shirts shot out of guns, dressing contests, pigs in wheelbarrows set to the tune of John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," the wacky shenanigans didn't let up.
You didn't even have to like baseball to have a good time.
It didn't hurt that the roving vendors accommodate the crowd's every wish, which for me meant water and peanuts (Virginia Diner, mind you) and the occasional wisecrack to go with my wine.
My slow reflexes failed me again when a Squirrels water bottle landed practically at my feet, but the little boy who scrambled up to collect it no doubt deserved it more than me.
Sitting up so high afforded a stellar view of the city skyline and spectacular blue and pink sky as the sun moved lower in it.
I decided my favorite player was #23, not just because 23 is my favorite number, but because every time he came up to bat, the music played was Frank Sinatra.
We watched as the Squirrels surged ahead 5-0 and prevented the Baysox from scoring again and again.
When we finally left, it was only because the Squirrels had the game firmly in hand and we were hungry.
We ended up at Gus' where the tables and bar were full of people in team shirts (all teams sponsored by Gus'), many with eyes glued to the hockey finals.
It was easy to do given that there was a TV at every booth (don't get me started), not to mention all the screens on the walls and over the bar.
Given Gus' Greek roots, the Greek house wine seemed the logical choice and our harried server agreed.
Keeping to the theme, I had a lamb burger with tzatziki and feta and a side of onion rings while the baseball fan had Gus' spaghetti with everything but the kitchen sink.
Despite being no fan of sports, the game capturing everyone's attention was for the championship so I ended up paying far more attention than I might have.
At the every least, we cheered the fact that both hockey teams at least came from ice-prone areas.
Friend had been hoping Boston would win and send the series into another game, but alas (I guess), Chicago wanted it badly enough to win in Boston and end it all right in front of us.
I was far more into my lamb burger than the game but once things got tense, it was impossible not to watch the last two minutes until Chicago clinched it.
Driving home under the remnants of the super moon centered over Broad Street, I had to admit that for a night centered on sports, it had been an especially enjoyable one.
Where is Karen and what have you done with her?
Monday, June 24, 2013
Strong Tea, No Metaphor
I couldn't decide if it was more about the southern charm or the splendor of location.
A friend invited me to lunch at Homemades by Suzanne in the John Marshall Hotel and since I hadn't been in since the bazillion-dollar renovation, hell, yes.
Walking in off of 5th Street, I loved how they'd kept the stately, old feel of the interior while updating it subtly with contemporary furniture and limited technology tastefully placed.
Lunch is served in the smaller of the two ballrooms and we got a table next to one of the enormous windows looking down on the streetscape.
The room was neutral to the max -beiges, taupes- no doubt so as to be an unobtrusive backdrop for the scores of weddings held here.
The servers wore black catering-type uniforms and were all exceptionally friendly and on point with service.
One very old-school element was the all-inclusive lunch price, providing a main, a side and a drink.
Friend was aghast that they didn't yet have their ABC, but adjusted, while I asked for unsweetened tea, knowing that it would be a well-made one.
It was, strong and fresh-tasting, just the way my Mom still makes it.
Amongst some family members, it's referred to as "black gold" for its pure, unadulterated tea flavor, but it's my standard.
The rolls on all the sandwiches are housemade, which I needed to taste, so I got the club for its country ham, turkey and thick-sliced bacon.
Friend got a sampler plate of cold salads and ate two of those rolls lavishly buttered.
Good rolls, just like my Richmond grandmother used to make.
For a side, I had the housemade potato chips with dip, eschewing cheddar bacon for cucumber/dill dip for no real reason.
All in all, the thick sandwich was a standout, mostly because of that country ham and bacon.
It was an outstanding way to have pig two ways.
Friend found his shrimp, chicken and tuna salads a tad on the wet side, but we both acknowledged that extra mayo is the southern salad way and a standard for many people.
With at least half a dozen dessert choices, we chose carrot cake, which did not have an overly thick layer of frosting, to my friend's delight.
I'll always eat more frosting.
After bringing each other up to date on our lives, we strolled across the lobby to look at the larger ballroom.
While it had a stunning vaulted ceiling it had no windows, although I was almost willing to let the permanent wooden dance floor make up for that.
There was even a balcony around the upper area of the room, a place to get away from the party or take some picaresque shots.
Still, I missed the windows.
Not that there's any chance I'll need a room for a wedding reception anyway.
A friend invited me to lunch at Homemades by Suzanne in the John Marshall Hotel and since I hadn't been in since the bazillion-dollar renovation, hell, yes.
Walking in off of 5th Street, I loved how they'd kept the stately, old feel of the interior while updating it subtly with contemporary furniture and limited technology tastefully placed.
Lunch is served in the smaller of the two ballrooms and we got a table next to one of the enormous windows looking down on the streetscape.
The room was neutral to the max -beiges, taupes- no doubt so as to be an unobtrusive backdrop for the scores of weddings held here.
The servers wore black catering-type uniforms and were all exceptionally friendly and on point with service.
One very old-school element was the all-inclusive lunch price, providing a main, a side and a drink.
Friend was aghast that they didn't yet have their ABC, but adjusted, while I asked for unsweetened tea, knowing that it would be a well-made one.
It was, strong and fresh-tasting, just the way my Mom still makes it.
Amongst some family members, it's referred to as "black gold" for its pure, unadulterated tea flavor, but it's my standard.
The rolls on all the sandwiches are housemade, which I needed to taste, so I got the club for its country ham, turkey and thick-sliced bacon.
Friend got a sampler plate of cold salads and ate two of those rolls lavishly buttered.
Good rolls, just like my Richmond grandmother used to make.
For a side, I had the housemade potato chips with dip, eschewing cheddar bacon for cucumber/dill dip for no real reason.
All in all, the thick sandwich was a standout, mostly because of that country ham and bacon.
It was an outstanding way to have pig two ways.
Friend found his shrimp, chicken and tuna salads a tad on the wet side, but we both acknowledged that extra mayo is the southern salad way and a standard for many people.
With at least half a dozen dessert choices, we chose carrot cake, which did not have an overly thick layer of frosting, to my friend's delight.
I'll always eat more frosting.
After bringing each other up to date on our lives, we strolled across the lobby to look at the larger ballroom.
While it had a stunning vaulted ceiling it had no windows, although I was almost willing to let the permanent wooden dance floor make up for that.
There was even a balcony around the upper area of the room, a place to get away from the party or take some picaresque shots.
Still, I missed the windows.
Not that there's any chance I'll need a room for a wedding reception anyway.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Degenerate Art and Tin Can Men
You start some things and before you know it, you lose interest.
Other things are so pleasurable, you keep doing them until you look up one day and realize years have gone by and you're still doing them.
That's the Silent Music Revival, for me at least.
I went to my first SMR back in 2007 and somehow six years have passed and I still never miss an opportunity to hear local music improvised to a vintage silent film.
Walking over to Gallery 5 tonight, I found SMR organizer Jameson sitting outside enjoying the beautiful evening.
As we talked about all the SMRs he's done over the years, he mentioned that he needs to add more silent films to his collection or he'll have to start repeating films from the early days.
"Of course, nobody but you would know that I've shown them before," he laughed.
And honestly, I wouldn't mind seeing a silent film I haven't seen in five or six years again.
When last he showed "The Mechanical Man" back in 2007, DJ Mike Murphy provided the soundtrack.
Tonight he'd carried that tradition forward, asking DJ Ohbliv to do the honors.
The evening kicked off with a 1928 Dadaist film called "Ghosts Before Breakfast" and Ohbliv getting warmed up doing music for it.
The nine-minute film, destroyed by the Nazis as "degenerate art" according to the opening credits, was full of the kind of ghosts that would have amazed 1920s audiences.
Flying hats, water going back into a hose, branches sprouting leaves, ties untying themselves.
In other words, stop motion and reverse film, but who knew that back then?
Introducing "The Mechanical Man," Jameson praised Ohbliv, saying, "No one's really holding down hiphop in Richmond like Ohbliv."
Then he explained that we were about to see a 1921 science fiction film that had been lost until a Portuguese print had been discovered in Brazil, albeit only part of the original 80-minute film.
To make up for what we weren't going to see, Jameson offered a "trailer version" to bring us up to speed on the plot.
Basically it amounted to the only way to stop an evil mechanical man was with another mechanical man.
Duh.
The first thing that struck me about MM was what mincing steps he took; you'd think a big scary robot-looking creature would take big, hulking steps, but he walked like a girl in a tight skirt and overly high heels.
In one scene, two women are taking off their jewelry after a party, putting it in a chest and storing it in a wall safe.
Then a title card tells us, "We were tranquil when suddenly Mechanical Man enters."
Ahhhhh!
Let's just say their tranquility was shattered when MM rips the safe out of the wall as the cowering women watch.
So much for tranquility.
In another scene, MM appears at a party, only this MM is supposedly a costumed guest and he's nice to everyone, even calling for champagne for those at his table.
Not surprisingly, he opened it by snapping off the top of the bottle, upsetting the men at the table, while the woman happily drank the glass he poured her.
Not long after, there was an epic battle between the two mechanical men which got the entire audience tittering over the clumsy effects, but no doubt impressed audiences in 1921 no end.
And through it all, the hospital scenes, the fire, the marauding MM, DJ Ohbliv kept the music apace with the action, whether fast or slow, scary or comical.
You have to appreciate a man who can think on his feet, since, like the audience, he was seeing the film for the first time.
And when our hero, Saltarello, manages to ride a stolen motorbike to the laboratory of the evil criminal Mado and flip a switch to short circuit the MM, Ohbliv's music was right there with the last minute save.
It was so good a climax, I almost needed a cigarette.
Now I just have to wait until October for the next installment of SMR.
I already know it'll be worth the wait.
Other things are so pleasurable, you keep doing them until you look up one day and realize years have gone by and you're still doing them.
That's the Silent Music Revival, for me at least.
I went to my first SMR back in 2007 and somehow six years have passed and I still never miss an opportunity to hear local music improvised to a vintage silent film.
Walking over to Gallery 5 tonight, I found SMR organizer Jameson sitting outside enjoying the beautiful evening.
As we talked about all the SMRs he's done over the years, he mentioned that he needs to add more silent films to his collection or he'll have to start repeating films from the early days.
"Of course, nobody but you would know that I've shown them before," he laughed.
And honestly, I wouldn't mind seeing a silent film I haven't seen in five or six years again.
When last he showed "The Mechanical Man" back in 2007, DJ Mike Murphy provided the soundtrack.
Tonight he'd carried that tradition forward, asking DJ Ohbliv to do the honors.
The evening kicked off with a 1928 Dadaist film called "Ghosts Before Breakfast" and Ohbliv getting warmed up doing music for it.
The nine-minute film, destroyed by the Nazis as "degenerate art" according to the opening credits, was full of the kind of ghosts that would have amazed 1920s audiences.
Flying hats, water going back into a hose, branches sprouting leaves, ties untying themselves.
In other words, stop motion and reverse film, but who knew that back then?
Introducing "The Mechanical Man," Jameson praised Ohbliv, saying, "No one's really holding down hiphop in Richmond like Ohbliv."
Then he explained that we were about to see a 1921 science fiction film that had been lost until a Portuguese print had been discovered in Brazil, albeit only part of the original 80-minute film.
To make up for what we weren't going to see, Jameson offered a "trailer version" to bring us up to speed on the plot.
Basically it amounted to the only way to stop an evil mechanical man was with another mechanical man.
Duh.
The first thing that struck me about MM was what mincing steps he took; you'd think a big scary robot-looking creature would take big, hulking steps, but he walked like a girl in a tight skirt and overly high heels.
In one scene, two women are taking off their jewelry after a party, putting it in a chest and storing it in a wall safe.
Then a title card tells us, "We were tranquil when suddenly Mechanical Man enters."
Ahhhhh!
Let's just say their tranquility was shattered when MM rips the safe out of the wall as the cowering women watch.
So much for tranquility.
In another scene, MM appears at a party, only this MM is supposedly a costumed guest and he's nice to everyone, even calling for champagne for those at his table.
Not surprisingly, he opened it by snapping off the top of the bottle, upsetting the men at the table, while the woman happily drank the glass he poured her.
Not long after, there was an epic battle between the two mechanical men which got the entire audience tittering over the clumsy effects, but no doubt impressed audiences in 1921 no end.
And through it all, the hospital scenes, the fire, the marauding MM, DJ Ohbliv kept the music apace with the action, whether fast or slow, scary or comical.
You have to appreciate a man who can think on his feet, since, like the audience, he was seeing the film for the first time.
And when our hero, Saltarello, manages to ride a stolen motorbike to the laboratory of the evil criminal Mado and flip a switch to short circuit the MM, Ohbliv's music was right there with the last minute save.
It was so good a climax, I almost needed a cigarette.
Now I just have to wait until October for the next installment of SMR.
I already know it'll be worth the wait.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Mid-Summer Madness
Nothing worked out as expected and everything worked out great.
The plan was to go to Petersburg to have a picnic on the lawn and see Sycamore Rouge's free production of "Twelfth Night."
Free Shakespeare outdoors, hell, yes.
I mean, yes, please.
On the drive down 95, it began to rain.
By the time we got downtown it was more like a monsoon.
We pulled up right in front of the Petersburg Art League and sat there in the car, hoping to wait out the rain and hope that the play would still begin in just over an hour.
I suppose we were a little obvious, sitting there idling and staring, so when a woman stuck her head out the door, I rolled down my window and asked if the play was still happening.
It was, only inside now and, yes, we could bring our dinner in with us.
Being straight-haired women, we opted to wait out the worst of the rain before making a mad dash for the door.
All at once, my friend had a flash of clarity.
"Wine!" she exclaimed, pulling a bottle of Rose d'Anjou from the back seat.
She's brilliant, that one.
So that was us, the two happy theater lovers sitting in the Mini sipping Rose as the rain fell harder and car tires disappeared into the enormous puddle across the street.
Once we'd gotten into the wine, we couldn't help but get into the food we'd brought from Garnett's and next thing you know, I'm eating a farmer's salad and she's downing a black forest ham sandwich and potato chips which had morphed from extra crispy to slightly soggy in the humid air.
About 7:15, a woman came out of the building, indicating we should roll down the window and said, "If you want to come in, we're going to start in about fifteen minutes."
Food and wine consumed, we soon joined the small crowd inside.
No doubt many people had assumed the outdoor show had been called off by the bad weather, but they'd have been wrong.
You know what they say about assumptions.
We had our pick of seats and choose two in the front row, the better to see the mistaken identities and cross-gartered stockings up close.
The cast, full of fine voices, began the show by singing "Walk Like a Man" before they were off and running.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
"Twelfth Night" is a play I've seen many times (Scott Wichmann was my first Mavolio, what, over a decade ago?) and one I still enjoy with the right cast.
This was the right cast and the right chaise, the only prop.
O, time, thou must untangle this, not I.
This production included a lot of popular music - "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," "Get Off of My Cloud"- played to a guitar strummed by the especially well-acted Feste, the fool (whose voice sent both Friend and I into palpitations).
As I am, all lovers are.
Having the Art League as the backdrop for the play instead of the great outdoors meant that behind the actors hung a show by Adam Juresko, an artist with whom I'm well familiar since two of his pieces hang in my living room.
All I'm saying is, you could do a whole lot worse for set decoration.
Let thy love be younger than thyself.
That's always been my M.O.
When intermission arrived, we stretched our legs by going outside during a momentary break in the rain and admired the little park and stage next door where the play is usually performed.
Seeing it made us both want to come back and try the picnic/play thing again.
But indeed, words are very rascals.
During the second act, I got the payoff for being in the front row when the actor playing Sebastian leered at me mid-dialog and inquired, "So, I'm Sebastian. What are you doing after the show?"
It's always nice to be singled out.
When after a discussion with his servant, Antonio, he finds he has an hour and some cash to kill, he leered again, as if to check if an hour would be enough.
I could work with an hour.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Despite the small crowd and move to the indoors, the cast was energetic, delivering their lines as if to a lawn full of people.
Which is, I bet, what they will have for all their other performances considering how well-executed and hilarious this production is.
I recognized a couple of people since I was practically up in their faces.
Matt as Sir Andrew was laugh-out-loud funny with his big eyes and effortless broad physical comedy, once even knocking the curtain off the opening to the backstage area in his exuberance.
Despite having seen Nick wow me with show tunes at Ghost Light Afterparty so many times, his turn as Malvolio was a treat, as he played alternately egotistical and angry and oh-so dapperly yellow.
McLean's Olivia was funny, self-involved but enthusiastically devoted to the man/woman she thought she loved.
Besides, by the end of the play, everyone had been found out, marriages made and Malvolio clear that he'd be revenged on the lot of them.
By the end of my night, I'd had wine and dinner in a car during a rainstorm and seen a rollicking good play inside instead of out.
Not what I expected, but what you will.
The plan was to go to Petersburg to have a picnic on the lawn and see Sycamore Rouge's free production of "Twelfth Night."
Free Shakespeare outdoors, hell, yes.
I mean, yes, please.
On the drive down 95, it began to rain.
By the time we got downtown it was more like a monsoon.
We pulled up right in front of the Petersburg Art League and sat there in the car, hoping to wait out the rain and hope that the play would still begin in just over an hour.
I suppose we were a little obvious, sitting there idling and staring, so when a woman stuck her head out the door, I rolled down my window and asked if the play was still happening.
It was, only inside now and, yes, we could bring our dinner in with us.
Being straight-haired women, we opted to wait out the worst of the rain before making a mad dash for the door.
All at once, my friend had a flash of clarity.
"Wine!" she exclaimed, pulling a bottle of Rose d'Anjou from the back seat.
She's brilliant, that one.
So that was us, the two happy theater lovers sitting in the Mini sipping Rose as the rain fell harder and car tires disappeared into the enormous puddle across the street.
Once we'd gotten into the wine, we couldn't help but get into the food we'd brought from Garnett's and next thing you know, I'm eating a farmer's salad and she's downing a black forest ham sandwich and potato chips which had morphed from extra crispy to slightly soggy in the humid air.
About 7:15, a woman came out of the building, indicating we should roll down the window and said, "If you want to come in, we're going to start in about fifteen minutes."
Food and wine consumed, we soon joined the small crowd inside.
No doubt many people had assumed the outdoor show had been called off by the bad weather, but they'd have been wrong.
You know what they say about assumptions.
We had our pick of seats and choose two in the front row, the better to see the mistaken identities and cross-gartered stockings up close.
The cast, full of fine voices, began the show by singing "Walk Like a Man" before they were off and running.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
"Twelfth Night" is a play I've seen many times (Scott Wichmann was my first Mavolio, what, over a decade ago?) and one I still enjoy with the right cast.
This was the right cast and the right chaise, the only prop.
O, time, thou must untangle this, not I.
This production included a lot of popular music - "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," "Get Off of My Cloud"- played to a guitar strummed by the especially well-acted Feste, the fool (whose voice sent both Friend and I into palpitations).
As I am, all lovers are.
Having the Art League as the backdrop for the play instead of the great outdoors meant that behind the actors hung a show by Adam Juresko, an artist with whom I'm well familiar since two of his pieces hang in my living room.
All I'm saying is, you could do a whole lot worse for set decoration.
Let thy love be younger than thyself.
That's always been my M.O.
When intermission arrived, we stretched our legs by going outside during a momentary break in the rain and admired the little park and stage next door where the play is usually performed.
Seeing it made us both want to come back and try the picnic/play thing again.
But indeed, words are very rascals.
During the second act, I got the payoff for being in the front row when the actor playing Sebastian leered at me mid-dialog and inquired, "So, I'm Sebastian. What are you doing after the show?"
It's always nice to be singled out.
When after a discussion with his servant, Antonio, he finds he has an hour and some cash to kill, he leered again, as if to check if an hour would be enough.
I could work with an hour.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Despite the small crowd and move to the indoors, the cast was energetic, delivering their lines as if to a lawn full of people.
Which is, I bet, what they will have for all their other performances considering how well-executed and hilarious this production is.
I recognized a couple of people since I was practically up in their faces.
Matt as Sir Andrew was laugh-out-loud funny with his big eyes and effortless broad physical comedy, once even knocking the curtain off the opening to the backstage area in his exuberance.
Despite having seen Nick wow me with show tunes at Ghost Light Afterparty so many times, his turn as Malvolio was a treat, as he played alternately egotistical and angry and oh-so dapperly yellow.
McLean's Olivia was funny, self-involved but enthusiastically devoted to the man/woman she thought she loved.
Besides, by the end of the play, everyone had been found out, marriages made and Malvolio clear that he'd be revenged on the lot of them.
By the end of my night, I'd had wine and dinner in a car during a rainstorm and seen a rollicking good play inside instead of out.
Not what I expected, but what you will.
World of Strange Arrangements
On the longest day of the year, I've got nothing but time.
So when a friend calls to suggest happy hour, something she never does, I am on board immediately.
We agree on Bistro 27 and are the first customers at the bar.
Despite the nearly perfect weather, we do not sit on the patio, a choice which later pays off when a keg explodes, dousing the bartender and manager with beer.
It's pretty funny to see the manager's shirt and short hair wet but even better to see the barkeep's longer hair and bangs dripping with suds.
Hazard of the business, I suppose, but highly hilarious.
We dive into the happy hour menu with mussels in red sauce, two kinds of fries and a caprese salad.
There's a lot to be said for dirt cheap food this good.
A large party arrives and mills about but we ignore them to talk to a just-arrived bartending friend about honeysuckle syrup, $2 baguettes and the foibles of ABC agents.
Restaurant people always have the best stories.
When we part, it is half an hour till sunset, so I spend the next hour at home on my balcony, watching the longest day of the year fade into dusky then inky blue.
Once it is fully night and the sky is dark, I head off to Belmont Food Shop to meet a friend in from out of town.
The bar has only one seat free but there's a sweater on the bar stool, so I have to ask.
It belongs to neither the man on my left nor the woman on my right.
Score! We have a winner and I have a seat, close enough to hear the '20s music playing behind the bar.
Eventually people nearby leave and I move to a space with two adjacent stools.
Of all things, I see Virginia's indigenous grape on the wine list, and order a glass of Horton Norton in honor of my friend, the Norton enthusiast.
It's a tad on the foxy side, but it'll pair just fine with the cook's plate I've ordered.
My friend soon arrives from Washington, as does my cook's plate, and I'm good to go with both.
On the slate are sliced lamb belly, crab and avocado, smoked salmon with roe on cukes, chicken rilletes with a duck heart, duck confit, chicken gizzards, pig's feet, buttered radishes, grilled bread, frisse and pickled fennel.
It's both a heart attack and heaven on a plate and I dive in immediately.
The bartender has already told me that the lamb belly is his favorite thing in the restaurant right now and given its meaty goodness (it's better than a steak), I can understand why.
I slather the fatty rilletes on bread, revel in how the gizzards were cooked in fat and in between every fatty, salty bite, have a piece of tart pickled fennel.
My out-of-town friend tries a bite, then another and is soon raving over the quality and the price of the plate, guessing that it would cost more than twice the price in D.C.
Yet another reason why I live here and not there now.
We pick away at the delectables on the slate while he fills me in on his latest project, an homage to his father, and I regale him with some tid-bits from my trip to Italy last Fall.
A couple comes in looking for food only to be told that at that hour, only the cook's plate is being served.
Without batting an eyelash, I become the salesman to convince them to stay for this array of body parts - hearts, feet, gizzards - and they do.
I am not, however, able to talk them into Virginia's indigenous grape.
The chef comes out to have a well-earned beer and we all get into a discussion of farmers' markets.
When I allow as how I only go to the Byrd Market, I am asked what I buy since it does not appear to them that I ever cook at home.
Hello, I do eat meals besides dinner at home.
I sense that my traveling friend is fading fast, no surprise since it took him four and a half hours to get here from Washington.
When he asks about coffee, I insist he wait until our next stop to caffeinate.
Balliceaux not only provides the cup of joe he needs but also great energy with two DJs because tonight is No Richmond, a night of post-punk.
I run into three friends, including the unlikeliest of shoegazers, before I even make it halfway back.
After my visitor sucks back his liquid energy, I order a glass of wine and lead him to the back where a dance party is in full swing.
We find a good spot just outside the glut of dancers where we have room to move in place as well as observe the dance floor action.
My friend comments (and perhaps judges) that none of the guys move their upper bodies when they dance.
The crowd floods the dance floor for "Dancing with Myself" but I get the biggest kick out of ABC's "Look of Love," another song that thrills the crowd.
Before long, my friend comments that it smells like a boys' locker room in there, but for me it's all about sound, so the smell is irrelevant.
I am having a ball dancing in situ, so much so that one friend presumes I'm drunk (not even close) and another tells me how girlish I look (even less likely).
Must be all this beautiful daylight today. Happy summer solstice to me.
So when a friend calls to suggest happy hour, something she never does, I am on board immediately.
We agree on Bistro 27 and are the first customers at the bar.
Despite the nearly perfect weather, we do not sit on the patio, a choice which later pays off when a keg explodes, dousing the bartender and manager with beer.
It's pretty funny to see the manager's shirt and short hair wet but even better to see the barkeep's longer hair and bangs dripping with suds.
Hazard of the business, I suppose, but highly hilarious.
We dive into the happy hour menu with mussels in red sauce, two kinds of fries and a caprese salad.
There's a lot to be said for dirt cheap food this good.
A large party arrives and mills about but we ignore them to talk to a just-arrived bartending friend about honeysuckle syrup, $2 baguettes and the foibles of ABC agents.
Restaurant people always have the best stories.
When we part, it is half an hour till sunset, so I spend the next hour at home on my balcony, watching the longest day of the year fade into dusky then inky blue.
Once it is fully night and the sky is dark, I head off to Belmont Food Shop to meet a friend in from out of town.
The bar has only one seat free but there's a sweater on the bar stool, so I have to ask.
It belongs to neither the man on my left nor the woman on my right.
Score! We have a winner and I have a seat, close enough to hear the '20s music playing behind the bar.
Eventually people nearby leave and I move to a space with two adjacent stools.
Of all things, I see Virginia's indigenous grape on the wine list, and order a glass of Horton Norton in honor of my friend, the Norton enthusiast.
It's a tad on the foxy side, but it'll pair just fine with the cook's plate I've ordered.
My friend soon arrives from Washington, as does my cook's plate, and I'm good to go with both.
On the slate are sliced lamb belly, crab and avocado, smoked salmon with roe on cukes, chicken rilletes with a duck heart, duck confit, chicken gizzards, pig's feet, buttered radishes, grilled bread, frisse and pickled fennel.
It's both a heart attack and heaven on a plate and I dive in immediately.
The bartender has already told me that the lamb belly is his favorite thing in the restaurant right now and given its meaty goodness (it's better than a steak), I can understand why.
I slather the fatty rilletes on bread, revel in how the gizzards were cooked in fat and in between every fatty, salty bite, have a piece of tart pickled fennel.
My out-of-town friend tries a bite, then another and is soon raving over the quality and the price of the plate, guessing that it would cost more than twice the price in D.C.
Yet another reason why I live here and not there now.
We pick away at the delectables on the slate while he fills me in on his latest project, an homage to his father, and I regale him with some tid-bits from my trip to Italy last Fall.
A couple comes in looking for food only to be told that at that hour, only the cook's plate is being served.
Without batting an eyelash, I become the salesman to convince them to stay for this array of body parts - hearts, feet, gizzards - and they do.
I am not, however, able to talk them into Virginia's indigenous grape.
The chef comes out to have a well-earned beer and we all get into a discussion of farmers' markets.
When I allow as how I only go to the Byrd Market, I am asked what I buy since it does not appear to them that I ever cook at home.
Hello, I do eat meals besides dinner at home.
I sense that my traveling friend is fading fast, no surprise since it took him four and a half hours to get here from Washington.
When he asks about coffee, I insist he wait until our next stop to caffeinate.
Balliceaux not only provides the cup of joe he needs but also great energy with two DJs because tonight is No Richmond, a night of post-punk.
I run into three friends, including the unlikeliest of shoegazers, before I even make it halfway back.
After my visitor sucks back his liquid energy, I order a glass of wine and lead him to the back where a dance party is in full swing.
We find a good spot just outside the glut of dancers where we have room to move in place as well as observe the dance floor action.
My friend comments (and perhaps judges) that none of the guys move their upper bodies when they dance.
The crowd floods the dance floor for "Dancing with Myself" but I get the biggest kick out of ABC's "Look of Love," another song that thrills the crowd.
Before long, my friend comments that it smells like a boys' locker room in there, but for me it's all about sound, so the smell is irrelevant.
I am having a ball dancing in situ, so much so that one friend presumes I'm drunk (not even close) and another tells me how girlish I look (even less likely).
Must be all this beautiful daylight today. Happy summer solstice to me.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Answer Me, Rescue Me
A day that runs the gamut from art to balcony is a memorable one. Romantic, even.
When I woke up this morning, I found an e-mail from a painter friend reminding me that he owed me a painting and had one ready for me.
Modestly, he referred to it as a good "summary."
Even better, he let me know as soon as he got home from work and I walked the block and a half to his house to procure my newest acquisition, "South Beach."
He described it as "South Beach, Miami. Caught in the rain, 4am walks on the beach, not a care in the world. Mojitos. Grace. 1606. sushi samba. Lincoln Rd. Art. A great time. Airline hostesses giving free wine. a surreal list of events. Timeless.....that painting has a lot if meaning to me."
I teetered home with this large format (3' x 4') "painted diary" of a fondly recalled part of his life and hung it on one of my 1876 walls, where it looks magnificent and joins an apartment full of other friends' artwork.
The energy it adds to the room is palpable.
When I left to meet a friend to go out tonight, it was only after one last, long glance at "South Beach" before I departed.
I am so fortunate to have such talented friends.
The one picking me up in front of my house is a terribly talented conversationalist, who never fails to stimulate my intellect while making me laugh hysterically.
From a very local artist to six more of the same I went.
We drove directly to the VMFA to hear a panel discussion with six local artists, "Virginia Artists Live."
All six artists have work hanging in the VMFA (much of which I'd blogged about after a recent trip through the 21st Century gallery) and worked in various disciplines: photography, sculpture, painting, ceramics, drawing and printmaking.
Modern and Contemporary Art curator John Ravenal got things rolling humorously, saying, "We're calling this program "Virginia Artists Live" because here they are."
After each introduced himself and spoke a little about their work, Ravenal asked what was good about working in Richmond.
Former New Yorker and painter Richard Roth said, "I was interested to find such an intellectual community in a place like Richmond."
Relative newcomer Ben Durham said, "It's a great satellite of D.C. and NYC, providing great opportunities you can't find in New York. Here, you have spare time because money goes further here for people to put time into studio practice."
Ceramicist Michelle Erickson explained that living in Virginia had been integral to her learning about centuries-old ceramic processes that had informed her work.
Behind me, I heard an old guy gently snoring.
Trying a different tack, Ravenal asked photographer Gordon Stettinius about how RVA was difficult for an artist.
"I'm gonna go all Jiminy Cricket on you," Gordon laughed. "I have a gallery and I love how the community has congealed around the gallery There are lots of people to bump up against and learn from."
Grinning and emboldened, he went on to suggest that the museum needed to hold a biennial like some other museums do. "It would be a way for artists to have their work seen and probably swatted down."
Speaking in his delightfully South African-accented voice, collector and printmaker Siemon Allen took it down to basics. "In D.C. I could go to a news agent and they'd have the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Chicago papers. When I came to Richmond, I couldn't find those newspapers here."
Sculptor Elizabeth King was more blunt. "What an odd political city this is. It's odd how many people I don't talk to. It's strange and surreal."
Nervous titters all around as she referenced hot-button topics and certain audience members got uncomfortable.
Asked about advice for young people, Roth told them to have high ambitions and low overhead.
That's always been my motto.
Durham freely admitted, "I have no idea how I could function in New York. My studio on southside is a very happy place."
I understand his sentiment; my apartment/office in Jackson Ward is also a very happy place (with, did I mention, a fabulous new painting?).
Stettinius said, "I don't tell people they have to leave to succeed but I do advocate for people to come here because it's a very fertile scene."
There was a short period for audience questions, but they mostly were of the love-fest variety, one praising Stettinius' photography series of himself dressed as various characters, another noting King's resemblance to the museum's bust of her mother.
Ravenal is notorious for keeping his talks to an hour or so ("I like to leave you wanting more") so he quickly wrapped things up and turned us out into the still-lit night.
My fellow art lover and I made a bee-line for Dinamo where a server kindly made space for us at the end of the bar near a man and his Dad trying to finish a hefty and rich looking lasagna.
In a place as Italian as Dinamo, there was nowhere to go but with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano, so we unashamedly did.
Meanwhile, the men next to us threw up the white flag on the pasta and ordered espressos and the chocolate espresso torte all the way, as in with berries and whipped cream.
We looked on enviously, but knew enough to eat in the order an Italian mother would approve of.
That meant starting with the tortellini in brodo, which we'd had on our last visit and couldn't bear not to have again.
It's not just the pasta, it's not just the filling, it's not just the flavorful broth, it's the whole package.
Over a discussion of mixed signals and delayed gratification, we tore into a white pizza with artichoke hearts, so good and so generously portioned.
"Garlic!" my friend enthused, but then nobody was going to be kissing us tonight, so why not?
When the lasagna bolognese arrived, it was the size of a baby's head and so hot the sauce was still bubbling.
"You got the last one," our sever said with satisfaction.
We let it cool just long enough not to burn our tongues and then pulled big, gooey bites off of the platter to cool momentarily.
Mmm, meat and cheese, just what hungry women want after an evening of intellectual stimulation.
Despite working down all of the wine, we both ended up with Chinese take-out boxes of pizza and lasagna, not a bad thing come lunch time tomorrow.
Friend looked at me when our server inquired about dessert.
Although the last time we'd been in we'd gotten the torte naked, the two gents who'd been enjoying theirs earlier had insisted that "all the way" was the only acceptable option for this dessert.
Our arms easily twisted once our server concurred, we were soon facing a mountain of chocolate and cream while Friend also sipped an espresso.
"Wasn't that a great meal?" she asked rhetorically as I slid into a food coma.
I would say so, even if I feel like I'm about to explode as we make our way out to a deserted Cary Street.
When she drops me off, I am surprised to see how early it still is, so I decide to enjoy the summer solstice eve outside on the balcony.
I light a few candles, put on Bryan Ferry's "Taxi" and relax back into a deep and comfy chair to digest.
The air deliciously cool, the candlelight soft and low and Ferry's crooning exquisite, it is everything a summer night should be.
Starting with "I Put a Spell on You," meandering through "Answer Me" and ending with "Because You're Mine," it's an album for romantics.
And after this day, this amazing new painting I was gifted with, this stimulating talk by local artists who all clearly see the wonder of this city much the way I do, this fabulous meal eaten in the shadow of an enormous, shiny espresso machine with a good friend, and this music-filled hour under a not quite full moon, I am feeling all kinds of romantic.
Surely I must be under a spell.
When I woke up this morning, I found an e-mail from a painter friend reminding me that he owed me a painting and had one ready for me.
Modestly, he referred to it as a good "summary."
Even better, he let me know as soon as he got home from work and I walked the block and a half to his house to procure my newest acquisition, "South Beach."
He described it as "South Beach, Miami. Caught in the rain, 4am walks on the beach, not a care in the world. Mojitos. Grace. 1606. sushi samba. Lincoln Rd. Art. A great time. Airline hostesses giving free wine. a surreal list of events. Timeless.....that painting has a lot if meaning to me."
I teetered home with this large format (3' x 4') "painted diary" of a fondly recalled part of his life and hung it on one of my 1876 walls, where it looks magnificent and joins an apartment full of other friends' artwork.
The energy it adds to the room is palpable.
When I left to meet a friend to go out tonight, it was only after one last, long glance at "South Beach" before I departed.
I am so fortunate to have such talented friends.
The one picking me up in front of my house is a terribly talented conversationalist, who never fails to stimulate my intellect while making me laugh hysterically.
From a very local artist to six more of the same I went.
We drove directly to the VMFA to hear a panel discussion with six local artists, "Virginia Artists Live."
All six artists have work hanging in the VMFA (much of which I'd blogged about after a recent trip through the 21st Century gallery) and worked in various disciplines: photography, sculpture, painting, ceramics, drawing and printmaking.
Modern and Contemporary Art curator John Ravenal got things rolling humorously, saying, "We're calling this program "Virginia Artists Live" because here they are."
After each introduced himself and spoke a little about their work, Ravenal asked what was good about working in Richmond.
Former New Yorker and painter Richard Roth said, "I was interested to find such an intellectual community in a place like Richmond."
Relative newcomer Ben Durham said, "It's a great satellite of D.C. and NYC, providing great opportunities you can't find in New York. Here, you have spare time because money goes further here for people to put time into studio practice."
Ceramicist Michelle Erickson explained that living in Virginia had been integral to her learning about centuries-old ceramic processes that had informed her work.
Behind me, I heard an old guy gently snoring.
Trying a different tack, Ravenal asked photographer Gordon Stettinius about how RVA was difficult for an artist.
"I'm gonna go all Jiminy Cricket on you," Gordon laughed. "I have a gallery and I love how the community has congealed around the gallery There are lots of people to bump up against and learn from."
Grinning and emboldened, he went on to suggest that the museum needed to hold a biennial like some other museums do. "It would be a way for artists to have their work seen and probably swatted down."
Speaking in his delightfully South African-accented voice, collector and printmaker Siemon Allen took it down to basics. "In D.C. I could go to a news agent and they'd have the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Chicago papers. When I came to Richmond, I couldn't find those newspapers here."
Sculptor Elizabeth King was more blunt. "What an odd political city this is. It's odd how many people I don't talk to. It's strange and surreal."
Nervous titters all around as she referenced hot-button topics and certain audience members got uncomfortable.
Asked about advice for young people, Roth told them to have high ambitions and low overhead.
That's always been my motto.
Durham freely admitted, "I have no idea how I could function in New York. My studio on southside is a very happy place."
I understand his sentiment; my apartment/office in Jackson Ward is also a very happy place (with, did I mention, a fabulous new painting?).
Stettinius said, "I don't tell people they have to leave to succeed but I do advocate for people to come here because it's a very fertile scene."
There was a short period for audience questions, but they mostly were of the love-fest variety, one praising Stettinius' photography series of himself dressed as various characters, another noting King's resemblance to the museum's bust of her mother.
Ravenal is notorious for keeping his talks to an hour or so ("I like to leave you wanting more") so he quickly wrapped things up and turned us out into the still-lit night.
My fellow art lover and I made a bee-line for Dinamo where a server kindly made space for us at the end of the bar near a man and his Dad trying to finish a hefty and rich looking lasagna.
In a place as Italian as Dinamo, there was nowhere to go but with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano, so we unashamedly did.
Meanwhile, the men next to us threw up the white flag on the pasta and ordered espressos and the chocolate espresso torte all the way, as in with berries and whipped cream.
We looked on enviously, but knew enough to eat in the order an Italian mother would approve of.
That meant starting with the tortellini in brodo, which we'd had on our last visit and couldn't bear not to have again.
It's not just the pasta, it's not just the filling, it's not just the flavorful broth, it's the whole package.
Over a discussion of mixed signals and delayed gratification, we tore into a white pizza with artichoke hearts, so good and so generously portioned.
"Garlic!" my friend enthused, but then nobody was going to be kissing us tonight, so why not?
When the lasagna bolognese arrived, it was the size of a baby's head and so hot the sauce was still bubbling.
"You got the last one," our sever said with satisfaction.
We let it cool just long enough not to burn our tongues and then pulled big, gooey bites off of the platter to cool momentarily.
Mmm, meat and cheese, just what hungry women want after an evening of intellectual stimulation.
Despite working down all of the wine, we both ended up with Chinese take-out boxes of pizza and lasagna, not a bad thing come lunch time tomorrow.
Friend looked at me when our server inquired about dessert.
Although the last time we'd been in we'd gotten the torte naked, the two gents who'd been enjoying theirs earlier had insisted that "all the way" was the only acceptable option for this dessert.
Our arms easily twisted once our server concurred, we were soon facing a mountain of chocolate and cream while Friend also sipped an espresso.
"Wasn't that a great meal?" she asked rhetorically as I slid into a food coma.
I would say so, even if I feel like I'm about to explode as we make our way out to a deserted Cary Street.
When she drops me off, I am surprised to see how early it still is, so I decide to enjoy the summer solstice eve outside on the balcony.
I light a few candles, put on Bryan Ferry's "Taxi" and relax back into a deep and comfy chair to digest.
The air deliciously cool, the candlelight soft and low and Ferry's crooning exquisite, it is everything a summer night should be.
Starting with "I Put a Spell on You," meandering through "Answer Me" and ending with "Because You're Mine," it's an album for romantics.
And after this day, this amazing new painting I was gifted with, this stimulating talk by local artists who all clearly see the wonder of this city much the way I do, this fabulous meal eaten in the shadow of an enormous, shiny espresso machine with a good friend, and this music-filled hour under a not quite full moon, I am feeling all kinds of romantic.
Surely I must be under a spell.
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