They Heart Us,They Really Heart Us

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I'm part of the ladies of RVA Dine.

Toast's owner Jessica had organized a benefit dinner at the now defunct 525 at the Berry Burke for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, staffed by an all female crew- chefs, hosts, servers and busers and even pulling from the food writing community. That's where I came in.

Of course I wanted to do my part, but with limited restaurant experience, I felt like my best contribution would be clearing dishes and pouring water, two things I long since mastered growing up in a large family.

And while plenty of the women serving had restaurant experience, many of them hadn't waited tables since the '80s. We were all inexpertly in this together.

We had to be there a half hour in advance of the dinner to have our picture taken en masse, the best female chefs in RVA in their chef coats along with the ragtag service staff, all of us in "I (heart) the ladies of RVA Dine" t-shirts.

Waiting for the 120 people who'd reserved seats to arrive, we stood around discussing what was to come, not sure how much of a clusterf*ck it might be, but convinced that to some degree, it would be a shit show.

As the first course was being plated and all of us convened in the kitchen to start grabbing plates, someone announced, "Would you look at all this pussy power in the kitchen?" I might not have phrased it quite that way, but okay.

The evening unfolded as a continuous stream of delivering plates and clearing them with filling water glasses and chatting with guests in between.

A former food critic complimented my writing, saying, "I always enjoy reading your reviews." When I thanked her with a raised eyebrow, she insisted, "No, I'm not just saying that. I like the way you write."

I took a quick moment to go to the bathroom between the third and fourth courses, finding the ladies' room occupied (of course) but a woman guest headed into the men's room and invited me along, assuring me that she was just going to change her shirt.

"When I got here, I looked in the mirror and realized you could see right through my shirt and with the size of my boobs, that's not good," she explained, trading her sheer blouse for an RVA Ladies dine shirt while I took care of business.

For the rest of the evening, whenever I was near her table, she called me "bathroom girl" and giggled.

At another table, a guy with a superb mustache looked at me and said, "So you really like the Daily, I guess," an odd thing to say since I've never been to the Daily. "You're in there like three times a week," he insisted. "Okay, maybe 17 times in the past month."

Explaining that that was impossible, he was stunned. "Well, then, you've got a doppelganger and she comes into the Daily all the time. She's really pretty. You should come in, too."

I said I'd take it under advisement.

Things were hot and raucous in the kitchen, with a bottle of bourbon being passed around and servers delivering drinks to the chefs who wanted them, but the plates coming out of there were picture perfect, clearly the work of pros.

Food-wise, I was most surprised that the dish prepared by Chef Carly of C'est le Vin and Chef Lilly of Pasture seemed to be the most challenging for diners.

Very few plates of the divine combination of smoked wild mushrooms, balsamic braised collards, quinoa and arugula almond pesto with a poached egg sailing atop it all came back licked clean.

Either they'd left the quinoa (although how, I can't imagine), pushed the greens to the side, or left part or all of the egg.

I had it on good authority from two foodies that it was a fabulous dish, so perhaps the crowd just didn't get it. I know when I finally got a couple tastes, I had to question people leaving even one bite.

And speaking of Chef Carly, she teased me that part of her kitchen routine is to drop something on the floor and ask a cute waitress to pick it up."If I did that tonight, I'd drop it in front of you," she said coyly.

It may have been because I was the only person on staff wearing a skirt.

At one point, I was clearing dishes and I clumsily picked up a plate, apologizing that it was my first time being a buser.

The plate's owner grabbed my wrist and asked what I did in real life so I told her. "That's so cool! We have to go out together. Soon. Here's my card." I stuck it in my bra.

Another table, another unexpected attention. A man said he could get used to being waited on by movie stars.

We're not movie stars, I assured him, laughing at the notion. "But you're RVA stars!" he said. I gotta say, that's a new way of looking at the life of a freelance writer.

While we weren't technically up to speed on service - there was much going in the out door - the camaraderie was terrific and it was great fun for someone like me who hasn't spent time in a kitchen to become part of the rhythm of the night.

By the fourth course (spring lamb loin and shank, barley, English peas, maitake and ramp gremolata, yum) of seven, I was feeling pretty comfortable with what I needed to do to serve, clear and water as many tables as I could get to.

I was particularly proud because I seemed to be the only one who hadn't pulled out a phone during her shift, long one of my pet peeves for real servers.

Over a few courses, I developed a special relationship with the two guys sitting at a bar table away from the main dining room, teasing them almost as much as they teased me.

It was in between the fifth and sixth course that Emilia of Heritage taught me and another serving neophyte how to balance a third plate. We looked at each other in wonder, sorry that no one had schooled us three hours earlier.

By the time we got to the double dessert course (and praise heaven because the staff had worried that we'd have to serve two dessert courses), I got some lovely validation.

At a table of all men, one looked at me and asked if he could get a coffee. His buddy nudged him and said, "Don't ask her. Karri's our server."

"I don't want Karri, " he said, ignoring his buddy and grinning at me from six inches away. "I want her instead." Coffee was never served with more care or a bigger smile.

So it only took me seven courses to get the hang of it.

If this freelance writing thing goes up in smoke, looks like I'll always have busing to fall back on.

Let It Bleed

Call me a killer queen.

I drank my Moet et Chandon in front of a pretty cabinet.

Actually, it was a giant safe made over into a wine cabinet, but you get the point.

I was at the new 525, the restaurant in the old Berry Burke space catty-cornered from Center Stage.

Turns out it was their first night of official business and it's where I was meeting a dapper couple for dinner.

I arrived to find the bar in complete disarray since their first liquor order had just come in so they were busy stocking the back bar.

No matter, we took a bar table in the window that faces Grace Street.

Friend suggested the Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut Reservet to keep us occupied until his beloved arrived and who am I to argue with dry, French bubbles I can't afford?

We sipped while checking out the new restaurant, him noticing the absence of art on the walls and me commenting on the music being played (Maroon 5, Norah Jones).

The space is packed tight with tables and banquettes, so it looks to be noisy when full. Menswear accents aside, the design is spare.

Once we moved to a table, we were fronting 6th Street, with a picture perfect view of CenterStage's impressive facade.

A bottle of Rooiberg Sauvignon Blanc was a thoughtful concession to my fondness for South African wines.

The menu made it clear that it was an opening night menu only, so we chose from what was available.

A shrimp cocktail sauteed in butter and garlic came with tartar sauce and was a generous six pieces.

Asparagus with crawfish and shrimp salad followed and then an obscenely rich cream cheese/red pepper shrimp dip with crostini.

Beef medallions ordered medium rare came out well done and just as we finished them, our server arrived with another round of them, these medium rare.

Clearly someone had caught the error, 'cause we hadn't said a thing.

Scallops with pea and lobster risotto got mixed reviews; one hated the green color (and peas) and the other thought it lovely.

Fried green tomato Napoleons with a layer of crabmeat had a corn and pepper relish that was my favorite flavor combination of the evening.

We finished with an array of desserts: chocolate molten lava cake (I know), caramel ice cream and apple crisp a la mode.

The dense, buttery caramel ice cream got the biggest thumbs up from me.

We were on the dessert course before anyone else sat down in the dining room and the absence of humans had made the air conditioning feel excessive, but when I mentioned how cold I was, our affable server made it stop.

By the time we left it was going on 8:00 and the dining room was still filled with light but not yet people.

But it was almost curtain time for the three of us.

Over at Richmond Triangle Players, we got the last three seats together for "8," a play about the suit filed against the state of California for banning marriage for gay and lesbian couples.

The performance, a staged reading, was a benefit for the American Foundation for Equal Rights, so we were also doing good.

The story centered on the closing arguments of the trial, particularly poignant when it dealt with the two women who'd brought suit and had their two sons at the proceedings.

There's really no way to prepare kids to see their parents in a courtroom arguing for the right to be legally married.

Some moments of the script were basic truths, like "Marriage is hard work" and others were laugh out loud funny.

Wait, that one was both.

The reading was short, the actors were strong and the audience receptive to the message, making for a satisfying evening of theater.

After I left the boys, I beat feet to the Camel for the sold-out Jonathan Richman show.

How RVA ended up with the godfather of punk and founder of the Modern Lovers on a Thursday night, I have no idea, but I wasn't missing it, either.

The Camel was packed to the rafters and the room was incredibly hot without air-conditioning.

I'd begun the night shivering and ended it with my dress stuck to my sweaty body.

Even so, I wedged my way up to the second row center, the better to experience this man.

Richman was performing, as he has since 1993, with drummer/percussionist Tommy Larkins and the two were like an old married couple they were so in sync.

After a brief intermission so Richman could go outside and cool off, he did "I Was Dancing in the Lesbian Bar."

Well, in the first bar things were controlled
But in this bar, things were rock and roll.

And they were most definitely rock and roll at the Camel tonight.

The people there were fans: dancing fans, singing fans, cheering fans, all thrilled to have Jonathan Richman so up close and personal.

When there were issues with his guitar mic, he came down off the stage and into the worshipful crowd, strumming his guitar and singing "Santa Lucia."

Allow me to state the obvious. It was frickin' awesome.

I was one person away from him then and could make eye contact as he sang.

What female doesn't want a man to strum his guitar and sing in Italian in her direction?

When he began an extended "Bohemia," he insisted we join in for the chorus and the adoring audience obliged.

"They showed me the door to Bohemia," we sang again and again.

And isn't that a door many of us want to be shown?

Between songs, someone near me lost control of his glass and it crashed to the floor at my feet.

"You okay?" Butterfingers asked.

Looking down at the glass surrounding my sandals, I saw blood on my ankle.

I raised my leg to show him and a nearby artist friend took note.

"It's so Jonathan Richman of you to bleed," he said with admiration in his voice.

When the show ended with a children's song comprised of foreign words of multiple languages sung a capella, the crowd moved outside, gasping for cooler air like fish in a scummy pool.

Outside in the light, I got a few more comments on my blood-stained leg before saying my goodnights.

Sometimes a little blood is the price you pay for having walked through the door to Bohemia.

Fine. I'm completely okay with that.