No Four Tops for One, Please

Monday night turned out to be for seeing old friends.

That meant starting at Avalon to see a friend of seventeen years whom I hadn't seen all summer.

"I figured your dance card was completely full," he said as explanation for why we hadn't gotten together in months.

And while it has been awfully full, that's still no excuse.

Avalon was all but dead until the arrival of several people he knew, all operatives for the Republican party.

Since my friend is the same kind of screaming liberal I am, I was surprised to meet his Gilmore-loving friends.

They weren't complete idiots, though; she was the first to say, "George Allen is a redneck and an idiot."

So at least we were in agreement on some things.

After listening to far too much blather from the right, I excused myself for my dinner date (a friend for twenty years).

We headed to Secco, only to walk in and find the familiar face of a friend having dinner with her parents.

A talented photographer, she'd moved to C-ville a while back so it was a complete surprise to find her back here.

Hearing how frequently we trek to Charlottesville, she suggested we call her next time we're out there for a show.

She'd even checked out our recommendation about Star Hill Park, our go-to spot every time we're there.

Leaving her to her charming Italian parents, we found seats at the end of the bar.

Since it was Monday (also known as flight night), I asked for the dealer's choice, which in this case was owner Julia's Spanish flight.

A vinho verse-like sparkling petillant, a cuvee rioja rosado and a tempranillo from Ribera del Duero had me set for the night.

It was a no-brainer to choose the orcchiette with swiss chard and oyster mushrooms with botargo (made with shad roe, making for a nice local touch) grated on the top.

"It's the only way I'd have shad roe in my restaurant," Julia cracked. No doubt.

The rich saltiness imparted by the dried and cured roe made the dish unforgettable, as good as the sea urchin gnocchi that was our menu favorite last spring.

When we heard the selection on the charcuterie plate, we ordered that, too.

Rabbit offal pate was decadently rich and creamy on the tongue.

It was the result of saving up rabbit kidneys and hearts and whatever else came with the whole rabbits for months to have enough to show off in this savory manner.

Five-spice duck terrine with prunes and scallions boasted the perfect balance of sweet and salty.

Pork pate with bacon and olives was the most rustic, but also a mouth-watering combination of pig and pig.

The meats were so rich and well executed that we couldn't even finish them all or we would have exploded.

We took our time eating while enjoying a varied soundtrack that swung from Death Cab to 40s-era jazz.

A guy came in with his laptop, expecting to take over a four-top and "do some work" at a time when nearly every table was taken.

It seemed a bit nervy to me and he was informed that he'd have to sit at the bar instead. He got huffy and left.

Imagine a restaurant not wasting a four-top on a guy who was only there to be on his computer.

Meanwhile the couple next to us, obviously enjoying their wine and conversation, inquired of the staff if they could come to their house and pour wine for them there.

Sadly, the answer was no.

We finished the tempranillo with a dessert of mini cream puffs stuffed with vanilla cream and covered in a caramel sauce with toffee bits.

I could feel the food coma settling in over me.

Truth be told, I shouldn't be allowed to eat again for a few days after a meal as splendidly rich as that.

But just you watch. I will.

Spice Up Your Life

I passed up the Spice Girls for Nirvana, with a stop at Fort Knox along the way.

And by Fort Knox, I mean the pop-up called "And Now for the Last Course" held at Avalon by Chef Knox Vaughan and Mattias Haglund of Comfort.

It may not have been a true pop-up since Avalon used to be Knox's kitchen, but the one-night only event was a send -off for Knox, who's leaving RVA.

Naturally, he broke all the rules, meaning no set time for the dinner and no set menu.

Instead he'd created a  one-night only menu to tempt the faithful and from which to order.

So many choices - cumin lamb lollipops, skirt steak Oscar, ants on a log- made it hard to pick just a few.

An amuse bouche of heirloom cherry tomatoes, red and yellow, with EVOO and fresh basil merely whetted our appetites for more.

We began with the Misto to Share, a plate of peppery arugula with a creamy arugula, leek and Manchego pesto atop it, along with Spanish olives, sliced Manchego and saffron crackers.

It was the perfect starter.

Corn-husk wrapped  escolar came with cilantro corn and tequila lime reduction.

As promised by our server, the escolar melted in our mouths while the sweet corn was as summery as an August day.

I could have eaten an entire bowl of that corn.

We finished with melon panna cotta, the melon puree a vivid orange and tasting like the melon was barely hours old.

Usually panna cotta is not my thing, but this was too fresh-tasting not to savor.

The chef worked the dining room, saying goodbye to diners as they scarfed his delicious work.

Thus fortified, it was time for us to get in the way-back machine and revisit the '90s.

We did that at the Ghost Light Afterparty at Richmond Triangle Players.

This month's theme, "Saved By The GLAP" was a shoe-in for a Sunday funday kind of evening.

Host Matt was late, although we got a report from the stage that he'd be there the moment he finished eating McDonald's in his apartment.

Apparently, rehearsals for "All Fall Down" ran late.

But The GLAP audience is a patient one and we had plenty of alcohol and company to amuse us.

I was disappointed to hear that a talented friend is pulling up stakes for San Diego, but absolutely charmed when she described how she felt about RVA.

"We've been stupidly happy here," she said, smiling widely.

When Matt did arrive wearing a "This is Hardcore" t-shirt (hardcore never looked so adorable), the party swung into full gear.

Even his mother had come down from Jersey to join the fun.

Co-host Maggie kicked things off by saying, "This is what the '90s is to me," before singing "Groove is in the Heart."

Her Mom and Dad and assorted kin had also come down to be part of the GLAP festivities.

It was a family affair.

As usual, lots of people got into the act, dancing or playing instruments.

"Marquise is starting to turn into our resident bongo player," Matt observed after he'd added some nice percussion to a song.

We took a turn from Top 40 to punk when Matt did Green Day's "Long View," albeit in a slightly more Broadway style than Billie Joe had likely intended.

Or maybe not. The man did go on to write a musical, after all.

Afterwards at the mic, Maggie chatted up the crowd.

"First," she said dramatically, "Marvin Hamlisch."

There was a collective "Ohhhh," as only a theater crowd can do and not surprisingly, several Hamlisch songs were sung tonight.

The talented Robyn O'Neill (looking fabulous in green pants, green sandals with green toenail polish) did a stunning version of Hamlisch's "I Still Believe in Love."

Liz, in undone overalls and with a hat on, returned us to Top 40 with Four Non Blondes' "What's Going On."

We heard a mad-lib sung to which I'd contributed (tangoing, swimming and kissed) to REM's "Losing My Religion," and Matt rapped.

Seriously, sometimes you have to be there to believe some of this stuff you see.

We got an audience lesson in how to beatbox from  Annie, who told us afterwards, "That's on my resume."

Sadly, I was slow on the uptake so I don't think beat boxing will ever be on my resume.

"In a minute, the acoustic guitar is going to come out an then it'll get real '90s," Matt solemnly informed the crowd.

With a little tuning and very little previous practice they said, we heard the Goo Goo Dolls "Name" and Third Eye Blind's "Jumper" and we were suddenly knee-deep in the '90s.

It was awesome.

Maggie took the microphone looking uncharacteristically serious.

"My mother has harbored some bad feelings all these years about Kurt Cobain because of the pain he caused me," she mugged.

Which could only mean that it was time for some Nirvana worship in the form of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

It could be the anthem for Ghost Light Afterparty audience: "Here we are now, entertain us."

And month after month, they do. Hilariously. With an array of talent. With corny jokes and raffle prizes. With songs we'd like to forget and ones we're thrilled to hear live.

"Now Nirvana has been done at GLAP," Matt said mock-seriously, as if looking for meaning. "Never saw that one coming!"

Of course, as a loyal butt in the audience, I never see any of it coming.

I just show up prepared to be unprepared for whatever happens.

And I inevitably leave with my face sore from smiling and laughing.

Maybe like my friend, I'm aspiring to be stupidly happy from here on out.

Into the Groove

Fig and Pig.

I've decided that'll be the name of my autobiography. Pretty catchy, huh?

Don't be impressed. It's not original.

Nor did I know when I asked a friend to meet me at the food truck court at the Historical Society what a lot of food three people could consume.

After walking the parking lot to scope out our choices, I decided on Pizza Tonight, as did my friend's friend.

I augmented the white pizza (white sauce and Irish cheddar, which added a certain tang) with sausage while she insisted on the fig and pig, a special of Gorgonzola, prosciutto and fig preserves.

Sweet and salty: absolutely divine.

About to place my order, the girl said to me, "Hey, Karen! I always see you at shows. I've never actually seen you in daylight."

I hope I didn't disappoint.

Meanwhile, my friend scored a softshell sandwich and we got three Asian tacos from the Boka truck: beef, pork and chicken.

We took our feast to the furthermost picnic table spot under the shade of magnolia trees dropping petals and near a clump of four-foot orange lilies.

Then we dove in.

"I forgot what a hearty appetite you have," friend observed as I inhaled.

Just as we were finishing, we noticed the Mr. Softee truck had arrived, but were too full to attempt it.

Instead I shared with my friends some of the chocolate cookies with caramel topping I'd baked for the Listening Room and said my goodbyes.

"Tap your foot a couple of times for me," I was instructed as my friends left for a meeting.

Glad to.

At the Firehouse, I added my cookies to the dessert table where they didn't have a chance of being the star.

Front and center was a plate of pre-release Dixie Donuts.

Hot damn!

These were cake doughnuts (my favorite kind) of the German chocolate variety with a dark chocolate icing and a coconut and nut mixture atop each one.

A discussion ensued about the desirability of a doughnut over a cookie; for me, that's no contest. I'll take doughnuts every time.

All the guys said that cookies rated higher, so maybe it's a gender thing.

I chatted with the Man About Town who refused to believe I had been spotted at RVA Beer Fest in shorts because there was no photographic documentation.

I brought in a Beer Betty as a witness to corroborate.

Tonight's Listening Room was curated by Antonia and was all jazz, making for a change from the usual folkier sounding bands.

The stage benefited from the set for "Dessa Rose," currently playing at Firehouse.

Loosely-woven burlap draped the stairs, hung from the ceiling and gave a rustic vibe to everything.

When long-absent/recently married emcee Chris got up to do the introduction of Near Earth Objects, he mentioned that the drummer was also in a band he's in.

"I don't know how I feel about that," he observed wryly. "I'm not going to say they're better than us."

The three-piece (bass, drums, keyboard) added in a guitarist and flutist (the only female) for several songs, including some from their album "Manual for Self Hypnosis."

I especially liked one furious flute solo, all bent legs and arched back, where she channeled Ian Anderson.

After the break, we were treated to a drum-off with Scotts.

Near Earth Object's drummer Scott began by winding up a music box, leading into trading licks with Scott #2 of the Scott Clark 4-Tet, the next band up.

They challenged each other, they teased each other and afterwards, Scott Clark said, "Thanks for bearing with us on that. It's not often you get two drum sets up on stage."

It was the ideal lead-in for the Scott Clark 4-Tet, although I'm biased because Scott is my favorite local jazz drummer.

They played old (Fred Anderson's "Little Fox Run") as well as new.

"Clockwise," was introduced as "The hit. The radio-friendly version. For any of you who watch early morning TV, this is the song we sang on Channel 6 Tuesday."

They closed with three short pieces, part of a work-in-progress, a suite based on "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee."

Both the drums and bass had a definite Native American sound to them and the piece swelled with horns.

When they finished, a friend noted, "In the parlance, that was epic."

Agreed.

Gathering up my plate, now completely devoid of cookies (no doubt due to those with Y chromosomes), I left to meet a friend for a drink.

I found him waiting in the warm rain at a closed Fanhouse, so we walked over to Avalon.

He told me that during a recent discussion of why people drink tequila he'd brought my name up as an example of someone who sips it.

Gasp! I was told that amazement ensured on the part of his friends.

Wisely, I refrained from telling him that I'd even been known to sip it in daylight.

The bartender, who likes to refer to himself as my longest running stalker, greeted us, supplied the Hornitos and kept the music going.

Delightfully, all the music came from cassette tapes tonight because he was tired of the bar's CDs.

What that means is that we had the distinct pleasure of hearing "Like a Virgin" and "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" on cassette tonight.

Not to mention the pleasure of watching him have to turn the tape over halfway through.

As my charming friend noted, "Music used to be so much more interactive with tapes and records."

He schooled me on gramophones, his new passion for '20s-era singers and why his breakfast cereal has to be kept in "the hidden cabinet."

We talked a lot about making the expected choices versus doing what feeds your soul. About Led Zeppelin and pop music. About knowing what you want.

During a discussion of indulging yourself, he pointed out, "You eat whatever you want, though."

I do. And what I frequently want is pig (what my third sister calls "the magical beast").

Hence the title-to-be.

Look for it at your local bookstore.

I promise there'll be bacon at the in-store readings.

Sing Single Girl

It doesn't take much to find a simple way to savor the end of the weekend.

When you walk into Avalon twenty minutes after it opens on a Sunday, it's a safe bet that there will already be some regulars in place.

And the bartender who's been there forever will greet me like a regular even though my frequency there is slight compared to an actual regular.

It helps that I am meeting a true regular, someone whose default after-work bar is Avalon.

Because he has already chosen a brown drink, I do the same, sidestepping wine to order Hornitos and we proceed to cover as much conversational territory as possible in the short time we have.

We talk about my Scottish friend wanting me to come visit and the charm/inevitability of livestock on the roads when you drive in Scotland.

I know it's true because it's happened to me.

Because I know it will crack him up, I tell him my recent oyster story and he tells me that only I could take a walk on a shell bar in the river and have a guy approach me.

I'm quite sure I'm not the only one.

After our limited time together, I head out to collect a willing music lover and spend the evening at Commercial Taphouse listening to a couple of my favorite local performers.

Songbird Allison Self has Grant Hunnicutt of River City Band playing with her tonight and his mandolin and voice are a terrific addition to her big voice.

With a Ploughman's platter of cheeses, pickles,bread, tomato and lettuce to sustain us, we sit in the back most booth because it's the only one free when we walk in.

There's something quite civilized about listening to old bluegrass and Americana, stuff like Carter Family tunes, a favorite of Allison's, and "Single Girl, Married Girl" on a Sunday night.

The crowd was even mostly paying attention, which was appreciated given how good the two sounded in the small restaurant.

It wasn't an earth-shattering kind of evening, but everyone at my table seemed to be having a great time.

But then, we're regulars at having a good time wherever we end up.

The Most Brisk and Giddy-Paced Times

Standing on a corner in Jackson Ward and the familiar faces just keep coming.

The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.

Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.

"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.

In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.

A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..

At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."

The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.

And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.

"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better." 

It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."

Daylight and champagne discovers not more."

Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.

Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.

I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.

Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.

Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.

Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.

Laughter is the Drug

We're getting down to just the stay-heres.

As the city continues to empty out for the holiday, it's an easy time to meet up with friends because no place is especially crowded.

I started at Avalon to meet a friend for a drink and we were two of five people at the mostly empty bar.

As the friend who'd recently given me tights from Vienna, he was disappointed I hadn't worn them.

Next time, I promised.

He told me what was wrong with a restaurant we'd recently visited and we plotted about where our next dinner out would be while an '80s soundtrack played.

I'm telling you, neither the Smiths nor the Cure could have guessed their staying power back then.

After a couple hours' worth of chatting, I stopped by to pick up a girlfriend for company the rest of the evening.

She plied me with turtles while she finished dressing (cute! cute! cute!) and we were off (like a dirty shirt, as she likes to say) to Six Burner

Actually, it was for a bite to eat.

The place was livelier than I expected, with several large groups and lots of conversation in the air. The soundtrack was vintage (Cat Stevens, Scott McKenzie) and muted.

The bartender is also an actor.

He immediately told me that he'd seen me at the Richmond Shakespeare reading last week when he'd been part of the cast.

I'd seen him, he'd seen me. It was a match made in heaven.

I began with the South African "Left Bank," a red blend accompanied by a satisfying bowl of bucatini a la carbonara with a 63.5-degree duck egg, bacon and Parmesan-Reggiano.

The perfectly cooked al dente pasta became a decadent delight once I broke the egg over it. Bacon and eggs with pasta, what's not to love?

We joined in conversation with the group of guys who sat down next to us. They shared stories of gas siphoning, shotguns and wedding valets.

The bartender started a new tap, the Flying Dog Oyster Stout, and asked if it appealed to any of them.

"Oyster stout, it kind of creeps me out," one guy said. My friend, however, found its slightly briny finish nicely done.

That led to talk of Chetti's Cow and Clam and its infamous oyster shooters. I was surprised to find my friend knew the place even better than I had.

Walking outside into mid-sixties temperatures and rain-slicked streets, she commented on how New York the moment felt (except cleaner).

I won't lie; I'm reveling in this unseasonable weather and if I can have my windows wide open tomorrow like I did today, I'll be thrilled.

As it is, my windows will be open when I go to sleep tonight.

We finally left Six Burner behind for Balliceaux and the Mondo Italia Dance party.

My friend had never been but I'm a huge fan of Glows in the Dark playing music from Italian cinema while a '60s Italian movie plays on the wall behind them.

There are always lots of breasts, shoot-outs and car chases, not to mention porn mustaches, and it's great fun.

We got there, got a comfy couch to sit on and the music began. The only thing was, there was no visual.

So the band played and the music was awesome with the addition of Bob Miller on trumpet and Lauren Serpa on flute, but still no film.

I found our during the break that the DVD player was broken and thus we were without moving pictures tonight.

Pity.

It was a little disappointing but understandable, so we instead focused on the music, especially when Eddie Pendergrass came up and joined the band to do vocals for a few songs.

My friend and I agreed that we love a) men with soulful voices, b) guys who remind us of Elvis Costello and c) men who move rhythmically and unselfconsciously.

In other words, we had a visual after all.

We used the break to people-watch (impossible to resist at Balliceaux) when we weren't giving each other advice (who is the student and who is the master?) and sharing stories about our firsts, resulting in an awful  lot of laugh attacks.

My name is Karen and I am becoming addicted to all this laughter.

Surprise Me

Never count on things to unfold the way you think they're going to on a Saturday night.

Drinks with a friend at Avalon
Wine: Fuzelo Vino verdhe, new to me, but just as refreshing as the standards
The surprise: A gift  of Raphael Saadiq"s new CD "The Way I See It" and Patrick O'Brian's book "Master and Commander." Soul and the sea chosen especially for me. Let's see how ell they suit.

Dinner with a girlfriend at Bistro Bobette
Wine: A gift of a glass of the divine Boizel Brut (so beyond my pocketbook) followed by Mas la Dame Rose.
The food: Poached calamari with roasted red peppers, red onion and chick peas in olive oil. Tastes of rabbit stew, the mixed grill (pork, beef, quail) and mussels and lamb sausage were forced down my throat.
The surprise: A favorite couple sitting down on the other side of me, adding conversation, food and comic asides to the evening. Oh, and they insisted this non-ber drinker try a most unusual beer, La Mouska, made with muscat. And taste three desserts. I only did it for the friendship.

Music at Sprout
Wine: Are you kidding?
The show: NYC's Miwa Gemini played an odd kind of lounge swing but mostly her songs told stories in her Japanese-accented voice. She was followed by the Colloquial Orchestra playing tonight as a quintet (and for a brief period, a sextet) and featuring some of RVA's most talented musicians.
The surprise: How beautifully those guys improvised an entire set with mind-blowing soundscapes while periodically grinning at each other in acknowledgement. I grinned too seeing them enjoying themselves so much.

I am not getting up early tomorrow morning.

Spending a Day's Worth of Talk

It must have been the Rapture or maybe the Rapture not happening, but what an odd day.

In the seven hours between when I got up and when I went to meet a friend for drinks, I did very little. Okay, next to nothing. No culture, no conversation, no interesting adventures.

By the time we sat down at Avalon to catch up, I must have been like a faucet you can't turn off.

The music was especially good tonight; a Pandora station with Death Cab for Cutie as the starting point provided non-stop indie pop as the background for my chatter, much to my satisfaction.

Luckily he's a long-time friend and enjoys my stream-of-consciousness ramblings, so rather then trying to escape. he suggested we walk over to Acacia for an impromptu birthday dinner once my Seven of Hearts viognier was gone.

A quick phone call yielded the information that they didn't have a reservation open until 9:45 (graduation weekend), but we felt fairly confident there'd be room for us at the bar. As always, the techno music was pumping.

They did. Apparently graduates' families aren't bar eaters, so we had our pick of stools. Settling in with a bottle of Horton Viognier, I convinced my friend that it was time for him to experience sugar toads.

Fried up crispy and served with a salsa verde aioli, the little fish were as big a hit with him as they are with me. They were the chef's choice to serve at Broad Appetit a couple of years ago and that's when I became  a fan.

And speaking of the chef, he was not in house tonight, having escaped to Atlanta for the food show, which wasn't surprising considering I knew of several others who were away in Chicago at the restaurant show.

But a good kitchen carries on in the chef's absence and Acacia's did that tonight.

Next up we had rabbit pate on brioche, a decadent delight with the earthy pate smeared on the soft, buttery bread. Peruvian style tuna ceviche with avocados, onions and cucumbers finished off our assortment of  first courses.

"I love how much you love to eat," my friend noted. Nothing like being praised for my consumption.

For dinner, we split a ridiculously big pan-roasted rib-eye with a spicy potato pancake, warm market vegetable salad (fresh peas, green beans and white beans), all in a roasted garlic sauce.

Such luscious red meat was savored with a perfectly lovely Efeste Final-Final Cabernet/Syrah blend from Washington. The rest of the viognier would have to wait until the red meat was devoured.

After that course, we took a break from eating, discussing the Atlantic Monthly versus the New Republic, walking tours of Ireland and how visual men are.  That last topic could have lasted the entire evening, but eventually dessert called (okay, we called for it).

Our server recommended the chocolate French macaroon ice cream sandwich with little dots of marshmallow fluff. It was fairly light as desserts go, but satisfied our mutual sweet tooths and allowed us to finish up our Virginia wine.

By the time we walked back over to  Avalon to retrieve our cars, I was extremely full and feeling much better for having gotten all my unspent conversation for the day out of me and into a willing ear.

Every now and then, it's enough to do nothing more than share a meal and talk a friend's ear off and call it a day.

Hell, we're not even supposed to still be here. And if the rapture's just late arriving, it was a fine way to wrap things up, eating and talking to a friend.

I could have done a whole lot worse.

Le Jazz Hot

How to cheer up a photographer friend who's down in the dumps about a recent break-up (in three easy steps):

1. Admire a print of a Picasso nude of a woman's backside on the wall of Avalon during dinner.
2. Mention that since it may be your best angle, you wish you had such an image of yourself.
3. Watch his face break into all smiles as he enthusiastically says, "We could get started on that right now! Forget about JazzFest!"

Voila! Dumps momentarily forgotten. We'd just finished eating and were admiring all the Picasso reproductions covering the restaurant's walls.

I'd had the baby bok choy salad with braised squid, grilled onion, pine nuts, apples and horseradish vinaigrette, easily one of the most unusual salad combos I've ever had. But I like unusual and I liked this salad. My friend had enjoyed the grilled Cesar with white anchovies and roasted garlic (although not roasted quite enough, he said).

We followed that with pure heaven: grilled Sausagecraft lamb sausage with fennel, apple and red onion compote. My devotion to Sausagecraft's mastery of ground meat only grew stronger with the lamb version, enhanced by the compote, but mouth-watering on its own, too.

Given my friend's state, I let him choose dessert and although he almost went with the apple fritters with vanilla ice cream, we ended up with the boca negro, a flourless chocolate torte. The three slices were almost more than we could finish. Almost.

I invited him to join me at RVA JazzFest, but he declined and I warned him that he'd be sorry. I can't wait to rub it in next time I see him that he made the wrong call.

Arriving in time to get the seat of my choice (second row center), I was immediately befriended by a music-lover (and budding guitarist; at middle age, he's taking lessons from Trey Pollard) named John who, in the course of conversation about our dated names (when's the last time you met a 20-year old Karen or John?), under guessed my age by a decade, making me his devoted servant..

He wasn't perfect, though, because he also said he doesn't make the effort to get out often enough to hear music. He asked if I'd heard any of tonight's bands and I raved about the Scott Clark 4-tet, the only one of the three I'd seen before.

Scott Clark's 4-tet (drums, sax, trumpet and bass) took off burning down the house and never stopped. Scott himself was on fire and the crowd was immediately engaged. Scott's original material, like the amazing "Saucy Pink," bracketed a piece by Fred Anderson and a tribute Scott had written about Anderson after his death last year.

With a fierce set list, the group could do no wrong tonight as they all played ferociously and beautifully. Scott's arms were a blur most of the show, as I discovered when I tried to take some pictures of him with his parents' camera (they were sitting in the row behind me with a blocked view of him).

But their performance was perhaps best summed up in the moment when a drop of sweat ran down bassist Cameron Ralston's nose, hung there for a moment shining from the street light behind him and then dropped onto his instrument. The Scott Clark 4-tet melted everything and everyone in the room.

Old New Things was a sextet of guitar/pedal steel, banjo,drums,sax/bass clarinet, trumpet and bass. They began with a Trey Pollard piece called "Americana" and it was an apt description of a lot of their sound. Banjo player Adam Larabee's piece "Dead Times" was a big crowd favorite for its exotic scales and  intricate composition.

A 16th century chamber music piece once arranged by Bach had been re-arranged last summer for this group; surely it was the first time anyone in the room had heard a Bach piece with banjo and pedal steel. But then they also did one by free jazz saxophonist Albert Ayler, also not a likely candidate for the banjo.

My only complaint with their set was the audience's inability to hear the banjo and, frequently, the guitar or lap steel. The horns dominated and the strings were lost in the mix, a shame since they were the unique part of the group's sound. Hopefully that will be corrected in future performances.

Headlining was NYC's Harris Eisenstadt and Canada Day and they had a rough start when feedback would not go away, showing itself during the first part of a four-part work called "Ombudsman," much to the vibes player's obvious consternation.

Finally after one gigantic squawk that stopped the music for a split second and made all the musicians visibly jump in reaction, they opted out of monitor usage and the show sounded much better from then on.

Two different people told me that they thought it was the best RVA Jazzfest ever and I'd be inclined to agree (and that's certainly what I'll tell my friend). My music-loving seatmate turned to me at the end and gave me his assessment. "You were right about the first band. They should have headlined!"

We can always brag that we saw them when they were just the opener at JazzFest 2011. Too bad my friend didn't join me. In addition to awesome music, he'd have gotten some amazing photographs.

But at least now I know how to cheer him up.

Wet Judges and Raw Oysters

Me: Any interest in meeting for a drink?
Friend: Interest.
Me: Where/when?
Friend: 6 at non-smoky Avalon.

The Avalon descriptor is a holdover reminder because I used to limit our get-togethers there because of the noxious amounts of smoke that hung at bar level back before the smoking ban made it a tolerable place to go.

My friend is a lawyer, so when I inquire about his day, I get a detailed account of the case in which he's recently been immersed; words like sanction and discovery are thrown around and once again I find myself admiring his ability to sort through so much crap and make a convincing case.

When he tosses off the name of the U.S. District Court Judge who ruled so favorably for his client, I realize that I have sipped tequila and had some fascinating conversation with that judge in the shallow end of a pool at a get-together in Lexington, Virginia.

Not surprisingly, my friend was quick to acknowledge that the judge probably made for excellent company outside the courtroom, wet or dry.

I recall a man who was willing to drive to the nearest ABC for good tequila when he learned that that was what I drank and returned to tell me some wildly amusing courtroom anecdotes. Enough said.

From the legal to the delectable, my friend and I got off on the topic of raw oysters. The best we'd shared came with little balls of Meyer lemon sorbet as the only accompaniment and they were sublime, but we also made a case for hot sauce, mignonette and fresh squeezed lemon.

At issue was that not enough places in Richmond reliably have raw oysters. I told him about Rappahannock River Oysters, a place my Northern Neck-residing parents continue to keep in business.

The reasons are my Dad's voracious oyster appetite (not to mention when his favorite daughter visits) as well as for gifting. One day you're craving and the next day they're arriving. It's nearly instant oyster gratification.

Audio talk followed and while much of it comes across sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher to my ears (wah, wah, wah), one line did jump out at me.

And I quote," You know, back before transistors, there were transformers and they were the cat's ass." And he said it with such sincerity.

I understood the premise but not the specifics of that statement but I still thought it was funny as hell. I stopped him and repeated it, thinking he'd hear how ridiculous it sounded, but he looked at me bewildered. That's an audio geek for you.

After such a stimulating evening of conversation and libations I was pretty hungry, so I stopped at 821 Cafe on my way home. And, boy, did I surprise them.

Despite it being $2 burger night, my server looked at me and presumed that I'd want my usual black bean nachos. And I did, but I just couldn't allow myself to continue being that predictable.

So I ordered a big salad with protein on top, shocking her as much as me. The ironic part is that for years all I ever ate at 821 was a big salad, but it's been easily a couple of years since I'd gone that route. But she didn't know that.

She just thought I'd lost my mind or been supplanted by an alien (who are you and what have you done with Karen?).

I probably should have just told her, "You know, back before nachos there were big salads and they were the cat's ass."

Wah, wah, wah.

A Sucker for the Right Words

I told three different friends I was going to see True Grit tonight and all three expressed amazement. "You? Why?"

I knew why they reacted that way; I'm not the type for mainstream movies, Westerns, adventure movies or remakes. But I was invited to step outside my movie comfort zone and I decided to accept and see what happened.

The delightful surprise? The language. Not a contraction to be heard. Phrasing that required the listener to pay attention. A vocabulary that presumed a certain literacy level. All together, that combination made the dialog some of the very best I've heard in a recent movie, much less a Western.

Post-Grit, we were seeking a place that wouldn't close early on us (it being Sunday night and all ) leading us directly to Avalon and a guaranteed four hours of uninterrupted conversation, overly loud music and a lively crowd.

We took a table so we oculd talk uninterruped, ate a veggie flatbread pizza (pesto, goat cheese, Mozzarella, onions, mushrooms and asparagus) which we both liked a lot, and drank Spanish and Washington state wine while discussing, well, nothing I'm sharing.

And we were interruped by Jason, the bartender, who kept coming over to chat and try to tempt me to try his latest acquisition, 1800 Silver because it was new to the bar.

After much pleading on his part from close range, I agreed to one, not because I wanted it, but because he wasn't going to leave us alone until I said yes.

It didn't rock my world, but it was pleasant enough tequila and I sipped it down. But there are far too many really good ones out there now to settle for the merely pleasant.

My, my, couldn't that statement apply to a host of subjects?

Friend Gone (Slightly) Mad

Question: Is it wrong to expect a long-time friend to act like a friend? Better question: Is it unrealistic?

Case in point: I recently heard from an old friend, someone I hadn't seen in years, but whom I've known for over a decade. We were never close, but periodically we'd run into each other and hang out, nothing more.

His phone call was to invite me to dinner to catch up and see where each other's life was these days. He suggested Avalon at 5:00 and although it seemed ungodly early to meet for dinner, I promised to be there.

Not surprisingly, we were the first people in the door, with our pick of tables. My friend even inadvertently influenced the music by asking me loudly, "What the hell is this music?' which immediately caused it to be changed to Miles Davis and jazz. I guess the staff had no one else to listen to but him.

Looking to me to decide what wine to drink (a questionable decision at best), I chose the Seven of Hearts Viognier-Rousanne, a refreshing blend with nice acidity. My friend was pleased with my choice and even made a note of it, intending to pick up a few bottles. I'd done good, he said.

Unfortunately, we got started on the topic of politics, never a good thing because of the gulf that exists between our beliefs. The funny part was that he kept hearing my opinions as variations of his, saying time and again that we weren't that far off in our politics. He believes Bush was brilliant and Obama is a socialist and I don't. Enough said.

As the bottle was nearing an end, we decided to order, no quick task for a man who had to ask what pork belly and veal sweetbreads were.

I started with the autumn pear and apple salad with frisee, roasted local peanuts and blackberries with rosemary vinaigrette followed by the rack of lamb with braised Swiss chard and turnip/parsnip puree.

My dear old friend, desperately seeking meat and potatoes, asked for the beef teres major with a date and sweet potato mash, but only after questioning the mash and requesting his meat well done. I'm guessing he thought we were very compatible on food as well.

While I was enjoying my salad, he was saying, "Boy that looks like some dull rabbit food." I suggested he enjoy some bread with blueberry butter and keep his thoughts to himself. Meanwhile I was trying to remember our last meal together and if it had been this much of a pain.

Fortunately he loved his entree and my lamb was exquisite, medium-rare and rich enough to contrast with the bite of the chard.

We talked about less controversial topics like the VA ABC (who doesn't hate the government being in the alcohol business?) and our parents' failed attempts at the rhythm method (from big families, both of us).

When none of the desserts appealed to me, he suggested I come back to his place for a glass of wine, saying he'd bought a bottle he thought I'd like.

Although I had made plans to meet a girlfriend later (ensuring myself an out), I still had an hour to kill, so I agreed. Besides, he wanted me to meet his new hound and how could I resist that?

Things got off to a fine start with him lighting the gas fireplace to take the chill off of the night air, the hound enthusiastically sniffing and jumping on me and two glasses of an excellent St. Francis Cabernet Sauvignon being poured.

I complimented him on his wine choice, saying that I liked its long finish and appreciated his thoughtfulness in choosing it with me in mind.

He told me about his match.com adventures, brought me up to date on his relationships of the past few years and shared some of his recent dating attempts. He asked for mine, but of course I had none to share and said so. That may have been my mistake.

"How about I get us a hotel room at the beach and we'll see what happens in bed with a view of the ocean?" he asked without a trace of humor.

I gave him the friend look of death, to which he responded, "What, too bold?" Yes, I told him, too bold and completely inappropriate.

"But we've been friends all these years and I've never really pressured you to sleep with me, so maybe it's time I did," he said as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world.

"You never know what might happen if we gave it a try." I don't know what driving off a cliff might be like, either, but I'm not trying it.

I declined another glass of wine and said my goodnights to the hound and the clueless, heading to Lemaire to meet my girlfriend. Before she arrived, I had some company in the form of a local who chatted me up after we bonded over both having been laid off a couple of years ago.

He told me about the 16" of snow they'd recently gotten in Virginia Beach, his hometown. He said that he eats at Lemaire once a week for the pork chop because it's so good. And he complained about the expense of having to buy a top hat and cane for a friend's upcoming wedding. What do you do with them afterwards?

I so wanted to get his opinion on what my friend had just said to me, mainly for the male point of view, but couldn't bring myself to share.

Then my girlfriend arrived and for the next couple of hours I listened to her talk about her love life while sipping wine and eating Humbolt Fog, but never mentioning what had happened.

Maybe I was trying to block out the shock of his out-of-the-blue offer. Maybe I was just happy she was acting like a normal friend.

Maybe the whole thing was just too ridiculous to take seriously. Especially from a long-time friend.

Seduce Away

Walking into Avalon, Jason the bartender looked at me and in his usual smarmy tone said, "Well, well, well." I was looking for a group of birthday party celebrants but they were nowhere in sight, not that I told him that.

Taking a seat, I spotted a good friend already at the bar. "Meeting someone?" he asked and then answered his own question, "Of course you are." I explained the celebratory nature of my visit to him and he expressed insincere-sounding concern for me being stood up.

With no sign of the birthday girl in sight and somewhere to be at 7:30, it seemed wisest to order a glass of wine and find my own entertainment.

They pickings were slim, though; Jason shared his latest melodrama (dropouts! rich aunts! wood chopping!) and the couple next to me vacillated over whether the family bed situation is good for youngsters...and they were talking about their poodle. I ordered a sandwich and prayed for strength.

Fortunately, about that time my friend decided to move himself and his cocktail down next to me and save me from eavesdropping for entertainment. My grilled cheese was a nice combination of Mozzarella, pesto, onion and tomato on focaccia and as I munched, friend began talking about building me the stereo system of a lifetime.

It began with an innocent enough question: what did I listen to CDs on? I told him, but apparently my answer was inadequate, which surely meant that my system was inadequate. He began explaining, yet again, the elaborate but sonically perfect system he has been dying to build for me.

Frankly, I think he's just looking for an excuse to start digging around on e-Bay for the obscure parts he needs to piece together a system he knows full well he doesn't need, but wants to build anyway.

I tried begging off (I don't really need it, after all), but finally caved to his enthusiasm. Yes, I need this, I really do, was what he wanted to hear and as a good friend, I gave it to him.

And then had to leave without ever having celebrated anyone's birthday. Hey, I tried.

Firehouse Theater was doing Scott Organ's "Phoenix" as part of its Readers' Theater series and I didn't want to miss it. Organ is a former Chester resident turned Brooklynite and this two-person play was featuring one of my very favorite Richmond actors, Scott Wichmann.

The deceptively simple story was about a couple who'd had one date and then met up four weeks later to discuss it. The dialog was quick, witty and realistic. Wichmann and Laine Satterfield totally sold themselves as insecure, complex and very real people who made the audience care about them.

No surprise, Wichmann had the audience howling within about fifteen seconds of the lights coming up; both his delivery and facial expressions are comedic expression at their finest. But Organ's dialog gets a lot of the credit, too.

"As far as drinks with strangers go, that was my most enjoyable yet," perfectly exemplified the understated post-modern humor throughout the staged reading. The characters, with their commitment issues battling the innate desire to be together, seemed taken from anyone's life.

There was an interesting part of the dialog about the future (hint: batteries will be so much better and there will still be no proof of god), but most noteworthy was that men of the future will be much better at relationships and seduction ("If you see it, it ain't seduction"), surely good news to the female portion of the audience.

Afterwards, at the talk-back with the playwright, the audience expressed much interest in seeing the play produced. Issues of language (the f bomb) and topic (abortion) were much talked about, but the consensus seemed to be that it was a perfect future Firehouse project.

As for hearing more about men becoming better at seduction, I'm all ears. Show me, do.

Avalon Advice

Nothing says happy hour quite like death (you can quote me on that). At least that must have been what the Gallery 5 folks were thinking when they planned tonight's Gallery 5 After 5 event, "Viva La Muerte."

My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."

Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.

More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.

After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.

Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.

My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.

He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.

Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?

Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.

We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.

Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.

Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.

Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.

The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.

My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.

"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.

Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.

I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.

Let the Creepy Season Begin

Halloween season officially kicked off tonight with the Silent Music Revival's showing of short films by Slavko Vorkapich at Gallery 5. I made sure Andrew and I had front row seats for the kick-off.

These were creepy and disturbing short films, made all the more unsettling by the band Silver Top Beauty, featuring the operatic voice of Antonia Vassar.

The guitar, keyboards and that haunting voice began with an improvisation to a 1920s student-made film Day of the Dead and followed with two avant-garde shorts of Vorkapich's, including the classic The Life and Death of 9413: A Hollywood Extra.

Vorkapich was a special effects whiz and a master of the montage, talents he utilized in 1930s-era Hollywood to great notoriety. His mad skills in both areas were in evidence in the films we saw tonight, complemented by Antonia's voice, the only one I can imagine being able to do justice to these films.

Afterwards, I spoke to a couple of newcomers to the event and they were blown away by the synchronicity of the film and music, which is exactly what moves me month after month at SMR. That and the admission cost: zero.

It really has to be experienced to be fully appreciated and tonight's near-capacity crowd would have gladly sat through a much longer show, but organizer Jameson likes to keep it fresh by mixing up the screening lengths. Tonight's ended all too soon for Andrew and me, and probably most of the audience.

Jameson always invites conversation after the screening and I love to geek out with him about silent films; he knows so much more than I do that it's almost like a silent film school lesson. I ask, he answers and we both get all worked up. Andrew says he loves to just stand back and watch us go at it.

Once I got that out of my system, Andrew and I headed to Avalon for drinks and basket o' fries ("You know me so well," he said when I showed him the menu) while catching up. Somehow, despite me having to walk home and get my car, I arrived first and ordered my drink from long-time bartender Jason.

When Andrew arrived and ordered, Jason asked, "Same tab?" and I clarified, "No, he's in a relationship." I don't know who thought that line was funnier, Jason or Andrew, but it definitely resonated with both. Well, he is.

He had lots of good stories and gossip for me and we talked about music because that's what our friendship was originally based on and we'll never let that go. I gave him a hard time about a couple of things, he told me he hated me and I reminded him that he really doesn't.

He admitted as much and we went back to talking about other people, especially the ones we don't like. We're like an old married couple who just go through the motions of challenging each other, knowing that we really think the same deep down.

It's kinda creepy. Not like Slavko Vorkapich pre-Halloween creepy, but definitely not right.

Neither of us would have it any other way.

The Real Story, Part 2

Boy, what kind of a lame blogger purporting to "go on and on" writes such a vague and abbreviated post as I did last night? I've got no excuse other than how incredibly busy I was from the second I got up yesterday until I got home from Balliceaux at 1:30 and I was just ready to crash.

The fact is the evening had a little bit of everything I like, including great conversational partners both the expected and unexpected kinds. And then there was the poetry, the art, and the music.

Chop Suey was hosting poets Allison Titus and Julie Doxsee and it was as if the invitation to the reading only went out to a small group of poets and fiction writers...and me. It made for a very informal reading for an unusually low turnout, but I was just pleased, as always, to begin my evening with hearing poetry.

Allison began with some of her newer work, all office poems, each distinguished by their subtitle, including one about the Southside Unemployment office, a place she said she knew well. It was she who wrote the line mentioned in last night's post.

Julie said her book began as 56 letters to objects but turned into something more. She was on city four of a ten-city tour and beginning to experience mid-tour burnout. Favorite line: "Your body is a map of skin, more you than skin." By the way, I stole the title of last night's post from the title of one of her poems (it's a tribute, Julie).

Ghostprint Gallery's opening was in full swing when I arrived for Sterling Clinton Hundley's "Crew." The show is a combination of large scale paintings, in many cases paired with the much smaller black and white studies for those paintings. And while you can't compare apples and oranges, in some ways, I preferred the clean lines and monochromatic pallet of the studies, not that I wouldn't have happily taken home the painting "Winter Road" if it had been offered to me.

Several friends were already at the show, including one wearing the cutest little sweater dress she'd knitted herself. Honestly, it looked very much like something I wore in college, but inevitably in fashion what goes around comes around and she certainly didn't remember the style from last time around.

Waiting to meet my old Floyd Avenue neighbor for drinks, I overheard a couple of guys at the end of the bar discussing ordering White Russians. "You know my Kahlua is at my house," one offered. "And I even have organic milk." The other guy was having none of it and ordered his drink at the bar.

I ordered a glass of Domaine de Camplazens rose only to be told they were sold out of pink. In that case, I told the bartender, I'll have 1800. "Wow, that's quite a swing!" the bartender commented grinning hugely. It's pink or tequila lately, my friend.

The first thing my friend commented on was that I was wearing black, presumably because of my post the other night. I pointed out that I did have on a white skirt with a band of pink and red flowers, but he was right; I had reverted to black on top anyway. He said that thinking back to all those years we were neighbors all he remembered seeing me in was black...and I lived there 13 years. I really do need to work harder on this.

What we didn't realize back in those days was how similar our going-out outlooks were. Like me, he doesn't stay in when he could be out. He's working on a big new project and was soliciting my skewed viewpoint for it.

This naturally led to a dissection of the blogging community (he was a pioneer on the Richmond blogging scene) as well as the age-old issue of poorly written blogs. Our conversation was especially satisfying because, like me, he can discuss music and rave about Richmond endlessly.

At one point, a girl came over to say hello to him and he introduced us, using only my first name, which of course meant nothing to her. He then further qualified it by saying, "She's the I could go on and on blogger," and her face lit up with recognition. I continue to be amazed to discover strangers who know of me because of my blog.

He was funny, insisting on knowing what my first two stops had been and where my last stop would be. Maybe he couldn't wait for the post, probably a good thing since I was too tired to write it up last night.

And finally I ended up at Balliceaux for Fuzzy Baby, a band I had seen months ago at Live at Ipanema and really enjoyed. In fact, Guistino of FB was next to me at the bar and inquired as to why I was there. He was visibly impressed to hear that I was a return fan. It was his comment about his red polyester shirt that I quoted in the previous post. Molly, his musical partner, had on a red jumpsuit that, again, I think I may have worn in 1989.

I remember being impressed last time because they had played wine glasses. Tonight's instrumentation was limited to tuba, drum, clarinet, guitar, tambourine, bass and those beautiful voices, sometimes a Capella. Kicking off by saying, "We like to stimulate our audience," they played two excellent sets.

Once Giustino left my side to perform, he was replaced by one of my favorite local musicians, whom I am seeing everywhere lately. He'd told me his new goal was to "make the scene" more often and he must be succeeding because all of a sudden he's everywhere I am.

But he's a pleasure to talk to and I so enjoy his insightful musical perspective. I once had a boyfriend I could ask all my dumb non-musician questions of and lacking that now, it's nice to have someone who can explain musical things to me.

It's funny, though; he's the musician but he's been asking me for suggestions of can't-miss shows, so I suggested a couple to him last night. I may not always understand all the musical elements but I always know what I like and keep an ear open for what sounds interesting.

How else would I have anything worth posting about before I go to bed? When I can be bothered to go on and on, that is.

Invisible Sonnet

Among the highlights:

The reading: "This is how you might resume where you left off."

The art opening: Herd Study (cows reminiscent of an outdoor cafe) and Work Crew (oh, the scribble)

The former neighbor/blogger pioneer at Avalon: Blog talk, tequila and writing, the kind I do so well.

Music: "It's the polyester. My guitar is slipping and sliding. I practiced in cotton and it was fine."

Why bother you with the details?

Size Matters: Big is Too Big for Me

I am not a grand house person. If someone were to die and leave me their Windsor Farms house, I would sell it without ever living there. Oh, I'd walk through it and assuming it was pre-1940, probably find things I liked about it, but I'd never consider moving in. Large seems ostentatious to me and I've got better things to do than keep up with a big house. I do realize that I'm in the minority on this.

That said, I so enjoyed my evening spent at Rothesay on the James, the spectacular 1913 Tudor mansion that will be the Richmond Symphony's Designer House this year. A friend who is on the Richmond Symphony Orchestra League's board had suggested going to the Barebones party tonight, an opportunity to look at the house before the frou-frou obsessed designers get a hold of it. And it was truly something to behold.

Without a doubt, my favorite room was the brick-floored screened-in porch, which wrapped on two sides of the house and had a stellar view of a bend in the James River. I've always been partial to screened-in porches and this one was magnificent, surrounded by gardens (Charles Gillette-designed gardens at that) and still dripping after those epic thunderstorms that swept through. I went so far as to imagine how much I'd enjoy watching storms from that porch.

The library, small as it was, had a stunning tile floor, but I was dismayed when I heard that the room's redesigner will be covering all the books with color-coordinated paper for a better "look." Excuse me, but books are functional items, not decorative; that's the kind of thing that makes me use words like frou-frou. And also why I wanted to see the house for what it truly is and not how it can be tarted up.

The dressing rooms had built-in cedar drawers, cabinets and shelving, as did several of the bathrooms. There were closets everywhere (I peeked into one to find the mistress' eight fur coats) built into the hallways and many rooms. And the shower heads in the bathroom were the widest I'd ever seen, almost plate-size. I even made the trek up to the third floor to see the servants' quarters, evidence of a long-gone era. I loved the sense of history I got from the house.

Afterwards, the four of us went to Avalon for dinner. We hit it exactly right, after the happy hour regulars and before the late evening serious-drinking crowd. Abi was tending bar and I immediately guessed that it was her iPod when I heard Shout Out Louds followed by Yeasayer, so the music was definitely to my taste. Just as appealing to me was the volume.

I'm very fond of Avalon's small plate focus and after a lot of group discussion and starting two bottles of wine (Eola Hills Pinto Gris and Brandborg Pinot Noir), we finally got around to ordering. I was indecisive because of what they had already run out of : the octopus salami, the braised lamb canapes, the rabbit confit and the ham-wrapped figs, any one (or two) of which I would have ordered), It was just too bad for me.

Instead, I got the mussels with crispy fingerling potatoes (crispy thin potato sticks is what they were). cipollini onions and marjoram sherry butter sauce plus fava beans, fingerling potato and leek succotash with white corn butter. Fava beans with a nice Pinot Noir, yum.

My order soon prompted a discussion of everything being better with butter, which led to an inappropriate suggestion by my friend to his girlfriend. How quickly we went from high-end houses to low-brow banter. But it should be noted that once I finished my mussels, both of them were sopping my butter sauce and moaning. It was that good.

Other hits included the grilled beef teres major with fingerling potatoes, the seared scallops with Serrano ham and English pea salad and the Merguez sausage on Granny Smith slices with Manchego, ordered by my friend at my suggestion; he liked it as much as I had on my last visit.

By this time, the place had begun to fill up. I saw Prabir meeting a date ("I can't talk. I'm on the clock," he explained as he made his way to a dark corner) and owner Peter, also with a date, who sat down with us to chat. A guy leaned over me to order a "Daws Eek-wes" and it was everything Abi could do not to smile at his mispronunciation, instead politely saying, "We don't carry Dos Equis." It was clearly a teachable moment.

By the time the third bottle was emptied it was slammed at the bar, so we concluded our arguments about the Designer House's merits pre- and post-transformation. Personally, I'll probably enjoy what the array of landscape architects do to the eight acres more than what the over-zealous designers do to the interior. Aqua flocked wallpaper? Not my style.

When all is said and done, what will impress me is if there's a perfect storm-watching chair on that screened-in porch. It still wouldn't make me want to live there, but I'd feel like that magnificent space got the only possible thing that could make it better.

And you can be sure I'll sit in it when nobody's looking...but just for a momentary pleasure.

Gorging at Avalon

Earlier in the week, a dear friend had slipped me the new menu at Avalon which was set to debut this weekend.

Scanning it, I found loads of small plates full of creative-sounding combinations and extremely reasonable prices.

So when a friend and I made plans to attend Project Resolution tonight, I suggested we start there.

Her response was encouraging; she told me she thought Knox was one of the best chefs in the city, which landed us at Avalon's door at 5:02 (it was locked).

Luckily, the inimitable Jason heard us at the door and we headed in to see how this new menu was going to impress us.

Naturally the first thing Jason told us was not to ask too many questions about the menu because he wasn't familiar with it yet; if you know this popular and longtime Avalon bartender, that comment should not surprise you in the least.

We had a tough time narrowing down our choices because we wanted to taste as much as possible.

After much deliberation, we ordered grilled asparagus with Romesco sauce and Manchego; Fava bean, fingerling potato and leek succotash with white corn butter; Merguez sausage on Granny Smith apples and 6-month Manchego; Tempura-fried Serrano ham- wrapped figs with basil and Hooks 1-year bleu cheese; steamed mussels with crispy fingerling potatoes, cipollini onions and marjoram sherry butter; and escolar wrapped in marinated corn husk with white corn and tequila lime reduction.

Everything was $8 or less except the $10 fish.

There wasn't a disappointment in the bunch and if forced to pick a couple of favorites, I might go for the succotash and the sausage, but I could make a case for each of the other dishes as well.

Next time I will definitely try the wild boar chop.

Six small plates turned out to be way too much food for two mere females (where is Cy when you need him?) but our pleasure in taking in so many tastes overrode any good sense in ordering.

Project Resolution was leaner than usual with only three films shown tonight and two were essentially music videos (one a photo essay set to music) with the most disparate of bands for soundtracks: Muse and Tone Loc.

It's not often that those two show up in the same sentence, much less the same evening.

Because of the brevity of the film screenings, there was more time in between for discussion of each film although I'm not sure how pleasurable that was for the directors involved.

More time to over analyze your films, oh boy!

Since P-Res ended unexpectedly early, we could think of nothing better to do than go to Can-Can for dessert.

Why Can Can, you wonder?

Who else has an entire section of their dessert menu devoted to Chocolate?

No one.

Friend got the chocolate creme brulee with mint chocolate chip ice cream, and chocolate vanilla sauce, a chocolate honeycomb and chocolate brownie round.

I opted for the chocolate ice cream in chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and a chocolate biscotti.

Again, our eyes were bigger than our bellies and we both left chocolate on the plate, a real shame, but unavoidable.

The highlight for sure was the mint chocolate chip ice cream, which could not have tasted any more of fresh mint.

Don't quote me on this because I'll deny it, but I was actually chocolated out by the time I gave up and pushed my plate away.

Tonight's big topic was online dating, a route we're both shunned but which may need to be considered unless one of us is willing to have a sex change operation (neither is).

According to today's Washington Post, more than twice as many couples who married last year met through online dating services than at a bar or social event.

One out of every five new relationships owes its origins to the Internet.

Aww, do we really have to?

Needless to say, neither of us actually committed to giving it a try but we did talk about thinking about considering it maybe down the road.

We figure we'll make a good enough impression on the screen but once they discover how much we can eat, it may be a different story.

Until then we're just a couple of bottomless pits enjoying each other's sparkling companionship.

But if you know any interesting guys, by all means, send them our way.

Don't worry, we have no intention of mentioning that sex change business.

Anything Goes at Avalon

Tonight was the last night of my Modern Romance class, so I finally discovered what happens after the First Kiss, True Love, and Broken Hearts.

And the final stage of a modern romance is...drum roll...anything goes!

As I can attest, you can go through those first three stages and any number of outcomes are possible, good, painful and bad.

My plan going forward is to revel in the first two categories, skip the third and replace anything goes with a happy ending.

But, of course, we're talking about architecture here and tonight's class was about the years 1980-2000, the period representing the death of modernism's dogmatic point of view and the opening up of numerous viewpoints.

We'll call it post-modernism; it's the years when the focus was on how architects shifted from an emphasis on problem-solving to an attitude of opportunity finding.

Like in a relationship, it was all about how you look at these moments when they present themselves.

This week's after-school snack was at Avalon with a friend who wanted to discuss architecture, romance and fancy food, a category he thinks Avalon falls into because of the abundance of ingredients listed for each item on the menu.

Personally, I like any place that offers small plates and since he always defers to my choice of restaurants, he just has to sift through the menu for dishes that don't contain something on his "will not eat" list, like beets and Brussels Sprouts.

He did so as the bartender opened a bottle of the Fantail Pinotage for our quaffing pleasure.

Okay, so Avalon does use long-winded ingredient descriptions.

My salad read as: watercress with golden raisins, blackberries, crispy toasted pumpkin seeds and Hooks 1 year bleu cheese chunks with nutmeg vinaigrette.

I just asked for the blue cheese salad and let it go at that.

My friend ordered the deconstructed tuna sushi roll: ginger sticky rice wrapped in a wasabi pickle slice and ahi tuna with carrot coulis and a soy, rice wine gastrique.

Then he turned to me and asked, "Why they gotta deconstruct it and what does that even mean?"

I explained, knowing the man had a point about the overly descriptive names, but both dishes were excellent so what's a little extra reading?

Then we both moved on to the Chorizo course.

He followed seafood with seafood, namely the Littleneck clams with Spanish Chorizo and fennel in almond, pine nut and sherry broth with focaccia.

The broth was incredibly rich and creamy, and ideal for soaking the bread in; I know because he insisted I try it.

My plate of richness came in the form of Spanish Chorizo over saffron Israeli cous cous with Parmesan cheese.

Luckily I'd had the sense to order the small plate of this and not the entree because it was decadent.

Dessert was sharing the chocolate rum pate with berries while discussing other restaurants.

He and a date had been to a play I'd recommended with a pre-performance dinner at, of all places, Bill's BBQ behind CVS.

I made a limeade crack and he was quick to tell me about the new bar at Bill's, where you can now enjoy your limeade with the refreshing addition of gin, vodka or rum.

He questioned the owner about the origin of this brilliant stroke, only to be told, "People been doing it in their cars for years, so why not us?"

Don't you just love the corruption of a Richmond tradition?

Limeades all around!!