The invitation promised wistful, haunting, hip, exotic and playful.
Aspiring to all those things, I invited a friend to meet me for dinner and the show. Perfect, she said.
Planning to park once and party twice, I chose Aziza's for dinner, knowing how fond she is of the pizza.
Come to think of it, who isn't?
We were the first people in and took the table in the front window, which lasted just as long as it took for the sun to make a greenhouse of the restaurant's glass.
Wine (procured after she was carded at 35) and menus in hand, we moved to a shadier table, and no longer limp from the heat, the music caught my ear - early McCartney, so early my friend didn't even recognize it.
But then it was "Beth" by Kiss and you better believe she loved that. I was all about the Spinners' "Rubberband Man." Then Fleetwood Mac's "Say You Love Me." The O'Jays' "For the Love of Money."
Boston. Earth, Wind and Fire. Elton John.
I'm embarrassed to say we couldn't imagine what the starting point had been for the station, so we had to ask.
Duh. It was as simple as, ta-da, the seventies! Hunger had clearly dulled our brains.
Pizza took care of that - hers a margherita and mine a white with pancetta - as we discussed discos, Dallas versus Chicago (no contest) and how much her Mom had liked Wham! in the '80s.
By the time we finished gabbing and munching (I had a pile of pizza bones stacked high on my plate), we needed to hurry down the block to Globehopper or risk not getting a seat.
We snuck in the back door so we could score wine and sweets,only to find a rapidly growing crowd filling the little coffee shop from the front and back.
I saw plenty of familiar faces, including the J-Ward neighbors who had been kind enough to save us seats at the front table, and after buying a Rice Krispie treat to put the sweet ending to our dinner, we joined them up front.
My neighbor told a funny story of offering to make any dessert for her daughter's date and his request surprised the heck out of her - Rice Krispies treats.
We all have our soft spots (or chewy spots, as the case may be)/
Playing first was Uc (which means 3 in Turkish, a reference to the number of members) doing traditional Turkish music with guitar, drums and lute.
Actually, I didn't know it was a lute but my dinner date took a picture and sent it to her husband who supplied the answer.
Technology, satisfying curiosity 24/7.
I found myself taken by the traditional dance songs they played from western Turkey and influenced by Bulgaria. Before long, a woman stood up and began dancing, her long, tiered skirt sailing around her legs as she twirled and shimmied.
My friend turned to me. "I would have to be so drunk to do that."
On the following song, another woman got up and danced fluidly, an incongruous sight when a pack of people on Segways breezed by the big windows behind the band.
Toward the end of her dance, she danced over to a man at the bar and kissed him, so we're assuming they knew each other.
Either that, or Turkey is a far friendlier country than I ever realized.
When the woman stopped dancing while the music was still being played, the band wound the song down immediately.
"Why play when they stop dancing?" the lute player asked rhetorically. He had already explained to us that most of the dance songs had no real names; they were just referred to as "dance song from XYZ."
For the last song, the lute player switched to drum and with two drums and guitar, finished their set with a percussive flourish.
During the break, two teachers (and members of the crew of the Lady Slipper batteau team) joined our table for a spirited discussion of public education and a new charter school in Chesterfield County for girls, where one of them will teach.
By then, Globehopper was so overflowing with humanity that I feel safe in saying the fire marshall would have shut it down.
After working on tech issues with the sound system, Yeni Nostalji, a band that plays vintage Turkish pop classics from the '60s and '70s, was ready.
Although I've seen them several times now, tonight was the first night as a quintet with the addition of Rei on drums and Marlysse on keys.
Announcing that they'd begin their set with a pop song from Istanbul, guitar player Evrim explained, "Everyone wants a piece of this song because it's so beautiful. Like our vocalist, Christina."
That would be corny except it's absolutely true and she looked perfectly lovely tonight in a green lace top and fitted black skirt, her long, dark hair framing her face.
"We are here for your listening pleasure," Evrim said as Marlysse put on sunglasses, upping her cool factor even more. Tim the bass player, ever the pro, just smiled widely.
The sound system was giving them feedback problems and Christina inched toward the front door, announcing she was taking her mic and moving as far from the band as possible.
"Because I forgot deodorant," Evrim joked. "Like most Turkish men."
Major laughter.
Giving us a hint at the lyrics, Christina said, "Turning, the whole world is turning, except you back to me," before singing it in Turkish, a song that had all the emotional drama of a Petula Clark classic like "Kiss Me Goodbye."
But so did all the songs, which Christina worked dramatically with hand gestures and such dynamics in her voice, so unlike her hushed, understated delivery in her other band, Low Branches.
For the three friends with me who'd never seen her in this band, it was a revelation to see her so animated and assertive in her singing.
Evrim joined her, trading vocals and dueting with her, while also providing the comic relief between songs.
"A man goes to get his palm read and the reader wants to see her line on his hand, but it's not there," he said explaining lyrics for the upcoming song and then paused. "Oh, no, I gave it away."
Christina dedicated a song to Evrim's baba (father), saying, "He played guitar on the recording of this song from the '60s. He's not here tonight, he's in Turkey."
"If he were here, he'd be weeping," Evrim said.
There was one song where Christina read the entire lyric in English before singing it, beginning with, "I wish I were drunk to forget you for a second," and then launching into the song.
Midway through, Evrim called out to the capacity crowd, "Raise your glass if you got 'em!" and practically all of us did.
The music was fabulous, the band's sound so much fuller with the two additional musicians and about the only thing I'd have changed about the evening would have been to dim the lights and put candles on all the tables, as if we were in some subterranean Turkish club circa 1966.
You know, some place haunting, hip and exotic. Everyone would want a piece of that, especially me.
Showing posts with label Aziza's on Main. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Aziza's on Main. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Blame It on the Bossa Nova
I'm on a brunch jag.
For the third time in a week, I accepted a brunch invitation, this time choosing Aziza's on Main because in the five plus years they've been open, I'd never eaten anything but lunch and dinner there.
Exiting the car in front of 2113 Bistro directly across the street, I noticed their sign advertising a bossa nova brunch, but stayed true to Aziza's anyway.
Don't get me wrong, I love me some bossa nova, but once committed, you have to follow through. As luck would have it, they had a theme of their own going, playing a solid '80s soundtrack.
It began with Mister Mister's "Broken Wings," a song my date guessed as '90s, but which I was certain was '80s ('85, to be exact). His problem was that he couldn't remember what he was doing when the song was big and that's always key when you try to recall a song's year.
The brunch menu was pretty straightforward with few flourishes, but I happily settled on the Lebanese scramble with bits of London broil and onion while my fellow eater decided to take the measure of a brunch spot by ordering the sausage gravy biscuit.
Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing" naturally brought up MTV and the ubiquitous video that even had toddlers singing, "chicks for free."
Not much better was Steve Perry's "Oh, Sherrie," another played to death video of the era, one that might as well have been a Journey song.
And we all know how I feel about Journey.
Our food arrived from two directions, his from the huge wood-burning oven in the back and mine from the kitchen, spurring me to ask our brightly-clad server what was up.
In an attempt to speed up brunch service, they have different stations, some front and some back and over easy eggs come from the oven in the back while my scrambled are handled up front.
Hey, you don't find out stuff unless you ask and I'm anything but shy about asking.
I liked my meat and onion studded eggs (could have used more butter on my toast, but when isn't that the case?) and my date's fried eggs were perfectly executed, runny yolks and all, so sopping ensued.
Difficult as it was for me to turn down dessert of Aziza's cream puff, I did, but only because I have dinner plans and a girl's got to stop eating at some point...if only so she can do it again later.
We detoured to Union Market afterwards, where I ran into a favorite sous chef and his honey picking up a few goodies in between moving in to a house on the Hill today.
They were all smiles about their move.
At the register, I was surprised to see the smiling and dimpled face of the hard-hitting drummer I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night, who admitted he'd had to ice his arm after that show.
He'd also noticed that I'd dipped out before the last song and called me on it, forcing me to admit that after an evening that had spanned eight hours and multiple destinations, I'd finally gotten tuckered out.
Honestly, I needed to go home and get some sleep so I could get up and go to brunch the next morning. All this morning eating is exhausting.
For the third time in a week, I accepted a brunch invitation, this time choosing Aziza's on Main because in the five plus years they've been open, I'd never eaten anything but lunch and dinner there.
Exiting the car in front of 2113 Bistro directly across the street, I noticed their sign advertising a bossa nova brunch, but stayed true to Aziza's anyway.
Don't get me wrong, I love me some bossa nova, but once committed, you have to follow through. As luck would have it, they had a theme of their own going, playing a solid '80s soundtrack.
It began with Mister Mister's "Broken Wings," a song my date guessed as '90s, but which I was certain was '80s ('85, to be exact). His problem was that he couldn't remember what he was doing when the song was big and that's always key when you try to recall a song's year.
The brunch menu was pretty straightforward with few flourishes, but I happily settled on the Lebanese scramble with bits of London broil and onion while my fellow eater decided to take the measure of a brunch spot by ordering the sausage gravy biscuit.
Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing" naturally brought up MTV and the ubiquitous video that even had toddlers singing, "chicks for free."
Not much better was Steve Perry's "Oh, Sherrie," another played to death video of the era, one that might as well have been a Journey song.
And we all know how I feel about Journey.
Our food arrived from two directions, his from the huge wood-burning oven in the back and mine from the kitchen, spurring me to ask our brightly-clad server what was up.
In an attempt to speed up brunch service, they have different stations, some front and some back and over easy eggs come from the oven in the back while my scrambled are handled up front.
Hey, you don't find out stuff unless you ask and I'm anything but shy about asking.
I liked my meat and onion studded eggs (could have used more butter on my toast, but when isn't that the case?) and my date's fried eggs were perfectly executed, runny yolks and all, so sopping ensued.
Difficult as it was for me to turn down dessert of Aziza's cream puff, I did, but only because I have dinner plans and a girl's got to stop eating at some point...if only so she can do it again later.
We detoured to Union Market afterwards, where I ran into a favorite sous chef and his honey picking up a few goodies in between moving in to a house on the Hill today.
They were all smiles about their move.
At the register, I was surprised to see the smiling and dimpled face of the hard-hitting drummer I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night, who admitted he'd had to ice his arm after that show.
He'd also noticed that I'd dipped out before the last song and called me on it, forcing me to admit that after an evening that had spanned eight hours and multiple destinations, I'd finally gotten tuckered out.
Honestly, I needed to go home and get some sleep so I could get up and go to brunch the next morning. All this morning eating is exhausting.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Honey, You Can Get Lost in the Music
Everything about the evening sang.
Part of it was the superb meal I had at Aziza's, alone at the bar for tapas Tuesday with two servers to talk to until the dining room began to fill up. One looked at the other, observing, "Well, I guess we got our wish."
Clearly that wish had been to for things to get bustling.
Starting with Chincoteague oysters on the half shell with cider vinegar mignonette, I moved on to a salad as colorful as a box of crayons: deep green arugula, bright red pomegranate, deep purple roasted beets and the delicately pastel orange of smoked salmon, all lightly dressed in a citrus vinaigrette.
The music was poking along with James Taylor and 10,000 Maniacs, when all of a sudden it rocketed into the here and now with Boy and Bear's wistful, California rock-wannabe "Southern Sun," not a complaint since I own the album.
But it was surprising to hear after the dated stuff that had preceded it so I asked what the station was.
"Coffeehouse," she replied. "You're the second person who just asked."
I'd been taking my time ordering courses and all of a sudden I realized the time and that I had plans shortly, so I kept up my maritime theme with panzanella fruit de mer, a succulent plate of scallops, shrimp, octopus, marinated bread, tomato, cucumber, lemon, olives and feta.
All I can say is, I have tasted no more beautifully cooked octopus in this town than Chef Philip Denny's and for all those people who think they don't like octopus, you need to taste how this man cooks it.
And if you want to taste it at Aziza's, you better get moving, since he told me tonight that he's leaving in two weeks, moving on to the Hotel John Marshall's pool hall restaurant coming in early May.
When I talked to him, he sounded as excited as a kid about finally getting the chance to open a restaurant, a first for him in his career. Since the HJM is even closer to my house, I think it's a fabulous move for both of us.
I hate to leave Aziza's without a cream puff, but Jonathan Russell of the Head and the Heart was playing a show at Black Iris Gallery and I didn't want to miss a minute of it.
With just enough time to greet a few familiar faces, I found a place along the wall only a couple of people back to watch a man in a somber-looking black hat, coat and pants play mournful songs interspersed by funny, running commentary.
There had been some mention of perhaps closing the bar while he played, but Jonathan was having none of that.
"Everyone knows bar service is not closed when I play," he joked. "Now let me take my phone out and turn it off or my Mom will text me all night long."
He began with the pragmatic "No One to Let You Down" ("When you got no one, there's no one one to let you down") and got sadder from there.
"All these songs are so f*cking heavy," he joked."I wish I knew some Jimmy Buffet songs." No, no, no, the crowd shouted. "I guarantee if I do one, you'll all be singing it in your head. I used to sit in my room and play congas to Buffet, but I also grew up in Florida. There's no taste in Florida."
After doing the sadly longing "Shake," he said, "Let's just 'cheers' and drink for a second. This is what's nice about playing alone. You can do whatever you want." Taking his beer in hand, he leaned back in his chair.
After a short break where I discussed with a stranger whose wife went outside to smoke how unpleasant it is to kiss smokers, chatted with a graphic designer about how it only takes two beers to get her trashed and said hello to The Hat, Jonathan was back and the lights were dimmed ("Could be dimmer," Russell said and they were).
Harry and I agreed we looked fantastic in the low light.
Saying he only knew one cover song, Jonathan began playing Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine," and giving everyone in the room goosebumps in the process. He'd been right, the room needed to be barely lit for that one.
Explaining that the Head and the Heart had been touring for three years and never once played his home state of Florida, it's now on the upcoming tour schedule, so he's planning to add another cover to the set list.
After going out to bars with a Florida cousin, "I wanna learn CCR's 'Cotton Fields' after I saw my cousin do his hick dance to that song in a bar."
It boggles the mind to imagine a whole venue full of Floridians doing a hick dance to that song.
After a drink break with a one minute warning, Jonathan did the title song from the new album, "Let's Be Still," a personal favorite.
You can get lost in the music for hours
Honey, you can get lost in a room
We can play music for hours and hours
But the sun will still be coming up soon
Unsure about the time, he crowd sourced how many more songs he should play and the answers ranged from one to many, so he concluded that that was a bad idea and did one called "Virginia."
Saying, "Okay Justin," he launched into the familiar "Down in the Valley" with its distinctive plea, "Lord, have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways."
"I'm gonna play one more because I'm starting to get drunk. That's very un-rock and roll, but I don't understand how people get shit faced and perform." He paused, clearly pondering the subject.
"Now you can get drunk and write songs all day. That works." I'm sure most poets would agree with him on that.
He concluded with a song about Texas ("Texas is better than you think") and sunsets, observing, "I'm too much of a romantic."
Jonathan, there's no such thing when it comes to men. Romanticize on.
Fact is, it had been romantic just to be in Black Iris' tiny bar with fifty or so people hearing this man's beautiful and emotive voice sing for a hushed crowd.
And speaking of romance, from there I went to Balliceaux to meet a date to see Imarhan Timbuktu, a trio from Mali who promised sinuous guitar lines, hand drumming and mesmerizing rhythms.
Walking in, I found the scientist, a surprise since I haven't seen him out in months, the sax player, lots of guitarists, several WRIR DJs and a crowd of unfamiliar faces drawn out on a cold, Tuesday for world music.
My date soon arrived, a bottle of Vino Verdhe was obtained and we took seats right up front for the spectacle.
Dressed in traditional Mali garb including head dresses but with the lead singer carrying a Fender Stratocaster, they had a different look than most bands you see in the back room.
In French, the singer explained that they were from the desert and that it was very cold here (the rhythm guitarist translated). He had to be freezing, he had on sandals. He also said they were very happy to be here.
The music was fascinating and the fact that it was being sung in a language we didn't understand mattered not at all.
Despite the language and garb, the singer made all the international guitar faces as he wailed on his instrument.
They had a fourth member whose job seemed to be to get the crowd clapping and induce them to dance, two jobs he handled ably.
The female drummer/traditional singer sat on the stage and was difficult to see once the trance-like music got the crowd up and dancing.
Before long it was a full on dance party, even if a lot of people had trouble finding the beat when clapping.
The singer looked to be having as good a time as the dancers, frequently asking, "Are you happy?"
From where I sat, hearing those guitar lines and watching backsides wriggle in front of me, I know I was.
It was a long way from where the evening had begun and all three parts had been especially terrific tonight.
The world's just spinning a little too fast
If things don't slow down soon, we might not last
So just for a moment, let's be still
But just for a moment.
Part of it was the superb meal I had at Aziza's, alone at the bar for tapas Tuesday with two servers to talk to until the dining room began to fill up. One looked at the other, observing, "Well, I guess we got our wish."
Clearly that wish had been to for things to get bustling.
Starting with Chincoteague oysters on the half shell with cider vinegar mignonette, I moved on to a salad as colorful as a box of crayons: deep green arugula, bright red pomegranate, deep purple roasted beets and the delicately pastel orange of smoked salmon, all lightly dressed in a citrus vinaigrette.
The music was poking along with James Taylor and 10,000 Maniacs, when all of a sudden it rocketed into the here and now with Boy and Bear's wistful, California rock-wannabe "Southern Sun," not a complaint since I own the album.
But it was surprising to hear after the dated stuff that had preceded it so I asked what the station was.
"Coffeehouse," she replied. "You're the second person who just asked."
I'd been taking my time ordering courses and all of a sudden I realized the time and that I had plans shortly, so I kept up my maritime theme with panzanella fruit de mer, a succulent plate of scallops, shrimp, octopus, marinated bread, tomato, cucumber, lemon, olives and feta.
All I can say is, I have tasted no more beautifully cooked octopus in this town than Chef Philip Denny's and for all those people who think they don't like octopus, you need to taste how this man cooks it.
And if you want to taste it at Aziza's, you better get moving, since he told me tonight that he's leaving in two weeks, moving on to the Hotel John Marshall's pool hall restaurant coming in early May.
When I talked to him, he sounded as excited as a kid about finally getting the chance to open a restaurant, a first for him in his career. Since the HJM is even closer to my house, I think it's a fabulous move for both of us.
I hate to leave Aziza's without a cream puff, but Jonathan Russell of the Head and the Heart was playing a show at Black Iris Gallery and I didn't want to miss a minute of it.
With just enough time to greet a few familiar faces, I found a place along the wall only a couple of people back to watch a man in a somber-looking black hat, coat and pants play mournful songs interspersed by funny, running commentary.
There had been some mention of perhaps closing the bar while he played, but Jonathan was having none of that.
"Everyone knows bar service is not closed when I play," he joked. "Now let me take my phone out and turn it off or my Mom will text me all night long."
He began with the pragmatic "No One to Let You Down" ("When you got no one, there's no one one to let you down") and got sadder from there.
"All these songs are so f*cking heavy," he joked."I wish I knew some Jimmy Buffet songs." No, no, no, the crowd shouted. "I guarantee if I do one, you'll all be singing it in your head. I used to sit in my room and play congas to Buffet, but I also grew up in Florida. There's no taste in Florida."
After doing the sadly longing "Shake," he said, "Let's just 'cheers' and drink for a second. This is what's nice about playing alone. You can do whatever you want." Taking his beer in hand, he leaned back in his chair.
After a short break where I discussed with a stranger whose wife went outside to smoke how unpleasant it is to kiss smokers, chatted with a graphic designer about how it only takes two beers to get her trashed and said hello to The Hat, Jonathan was back and the lights were dimmed ("Could be dimmer," Russell said and they were).
Harry and I agreed we looked fantastic in the low light.
Saying he only knew one cover song, Jonathan began playing Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine," and giving everyone in the room goosebumps in the process. He'd been right, the room needed to be barely lit for that one.
Explaining that the Head and the Heart had been touring for three years and never once played his home state of Florida, it's now on the upcoming tour schedule, so he's planning to add another cover to the set list.
After going out to bars with a Florida cousin, "I wanna learn CCR's 'Cotton Fields' after I saw my cousin do his hick dance to that song in a bar."
It boggles the mind to imagine a whole venue full of Floridians doing a hick dance to that song.
After a drink break with a one minute warning, Jonathan did the title song from the new album, "Let's Be Still," a personal favorite.
You can get lost in the music for hours
Honey, you can get lost in a room
We can play music for hours and hours
But the sun will still be coming up soon
Unsure about the time, he crowd sourced how many more songs he should play and the answers ranged from one to many, so he concluded that that was a bad idea and did one called "Virginia."
Saying, "Okay Justin," he launched into the familiar "Down in the Valley" with its distinctive plea, "Lord, have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways."
"I'm gonna play one more because I'm starting to get drunk. That's very un-rock and roll, but I don't understand how people get shit faced and perform." He paused, clearly pondering the subject.
"Now you can get drunk and write songs all day. That works." I'm sure most poets would agree with him on that.
He concluded with a song about Texas ("Texas is better than you think") and sunsets, observing, "I'm too much of a romantic."
Jonathan, there's no such thing when it comes to men. Romanticize on.
Fact is, it had been romantic just to be in Black Iris' tiny bar with fifty or so people hearing this man's beautiful and emotive voice sing for a hushed crowd.
And speaking of romance, from there I went to Balliceaux to meet a date to see Imarhan Timbuktu, a trio from Mali who promised sinuous guitar lines, hand drumming and mesmerizing rhythms.
Walking in, I found the scientist, a surprise since I haven't seen him out in months, the sax player, lots of guitarists, several WRIR DJs and a crowd of unfamiliar faces drawn out on a cold, Tuesday for world music.
My date soon arrived, a bottle of Vino Verdhe was obtained and we took seats right up front for the spectacle.
Dressed in traditional Mali garb including head dresses but with the lead singer carrying a Fender Stratocaster, they had a different look than most bands you see in the back room.
In French, the singer explained that they were from the desert and that it was very cold here (the rhythm guitarist translated). He had to be freezing, he had on sandals. He also said they were very happy to be here.
The music was fascinating and the fact that it was being sung in a language we didn't understand mattered not at all.
Despite the language and garb, the singer made all the international guitar faces as he wailed on his instrument.
They had a fourth member whose job seemed to be to get the crowd clapping and induce them to dance, two jobs he handled ably.
The female drummer/traditional singer sat on the stage and was difficult to see once the trance-like music got the crowd up and dancing.
Before long it was a full on dance party, even if a lot of people had trouble finding the beat when clapping.
The singer looked to be having as good a time as the dancers, frequently asking, "Are you happy?"
From where I sat, hearing those guitar lines and watching backsides wriggle in front of me, I know I was.
It was a long way from where the evening had begun and all three parts had been especially terrific tonight.
The world's just spinning a little too fast
If things don't slow down soon, we might not last
So just for a moment, let's be still
But just for a moment.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
An Auvergne Kind of Evening
So now I know I can sub out for a 92-year old woman.
Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.
Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.
The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.
Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.
Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.
Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.
The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.
Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.
Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.
To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.
A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.
He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.
For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.
And the R & B played on.
We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?
Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.
Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.
Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.
And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.
Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.
Booya and all that.
The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.
After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.
"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.
"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.
"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.
She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.
"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."
Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.
She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.
Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.
Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?
And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.
Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.
She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.
Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.
But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.
Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!
Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.
When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.
The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.
It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.
So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.
Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.
Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.
I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.
A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.
Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.
What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.
Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.
Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.
The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.
Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.
Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.
Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.
The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.
Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.
Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.
To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.
A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.
He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.
For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.
And the R & B played on.
We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?
Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.
Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.
Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.
And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.
Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.
Booya and all that.
The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.
After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.
"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.
"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.
"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.
She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.
"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."
Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.
She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.
Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.
Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?
And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.
Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.
She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.
Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.
But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.
Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!
Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.
When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.
The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.
It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.
So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.
Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.
Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.
I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.
A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.
Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.
What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Sublime and Surreal
Saturday is the new Monday.
Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.
For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.
I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.
Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.
Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.
On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.
Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.
Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.
Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.
Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.
From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.
The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.
Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.
"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."
She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.
I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.
For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.
Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.
Obscene. Sex on a plate.
Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.
The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.
"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."
All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.
The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.
After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.
She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.
Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.
"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."
Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.
She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.
Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.
Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?
By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.
It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.
Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."
The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.
We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.
Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.
It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.
At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.
"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.
A scene with two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.
Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.
One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.
There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.
When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.
One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.
"I'm afraid of dying alone."
"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."
"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."
Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.
Others were universal.
What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.
It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.
Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.
That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.
Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.
For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.
I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.
Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.
Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.
On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.
Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.
Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.
Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.
Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.
From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.
The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.
Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.
"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."
She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.
I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.
For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.
Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.
Obscene. Sex on a plate.
Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.
The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.
"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."
All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.
The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.
After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.
She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.
Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.
"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."
Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.
She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.
Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.
Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?
By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.
It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.
Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."
The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.
We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.
Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.
It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.
At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.
"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.
A scene with two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.
Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.
One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.
There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.
When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.
One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.
"I'm afraid of dying alone."
"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."
"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."
Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.
Others were universal.
What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.
It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.
Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.
That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Shutters and Mouths Open
Tonight's lesson: How to be a glutton after art and architecture.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
One of Those Days
It was a good day to go to Style's restaurant of the year.
A friend and I had made a date to walk and eat, which guaranteed us three hours of conversation.
The weather wasn't nearly as warm as yesterday but the sky was noteworthy or, as a friend posted, "There are days when I wake up to the most beautiful sky imaginable. Today's one of those days."
So we walked under that very blue sky, past men who asked if we were walking "for our figures," past a light blue house leaning precariously westward and ended up on playground swings headed for the sky.
A good walk, in other words.
When we set off for lunch, it was with no clear plan until it occurred to me that we hadn't lunched at Aziza's in far too long, despite it once being our go-to lunch rendezvous spot.
Surely the dining masses weren't going to be flooding it this quickly after the top award was announced yesterday. We hoped.
On arrival we were asked to take a two-top, which turned out to be a wise move given how quickly the remaining tables filled up.
We were so busy with our girl talk that it was a while before we even ordered from the restaurant of the year.
I hadn't been in since they'd added grilled sandwiches to the lunch menu so I was leaning that way while my friend couldn't resist the Lebanese case.
Over chicken and rice soup, tuna with white beans and arugula (her) and a grilled turkey and cheddar sandwich with a side salad (me), we dissected the local food scene, discussed some juicy restaurant anecdotes and talked about our futures.
After seeing a steady stream of cream puffs go by en route to other tables, we concluded that we had to have one of our own.
Because she's no flour fan, the way we work it is she eats the buttery cream out of the center and I hog the chocolate ganache-covered pastry.
We're a match made in heaven.
I don't know which of us needed it more, her with her relentless schedule or me with my recent non-stop deadlines, but at one point she looked at me, smiled and said, "Thank you so much for this. I feel like a new person."
Hopefully still the kind who will get on the swings with me on days with a bright, blue sky.
A friend and I had made a date to walk and eat, which guaranteed us three hours of conversation.
The weather wasn't nearly as warm as yesterday but the sky was noteworthy or, as a friend posted, "There are days when I wake up to the most beautiful sky imaginable. Today's one of those days."
So we walked under that very blue sky, past men who asked if we were walking "for our figures," past a light blue house leaning precariously westward and ended up on playground swings headed for the sky.
A good walk, in other words.
When we set off for lunch, it was with no clear plan until it occurred to me that we hadn't lunched at Aziza's in far too long, despite it once being our go-to lunch rendezvous spot.
Surely the dining masses weren't going to be flooding it this quickly after the top award was announced yesterday. We hoped.
On arrival we were asked to take a two-top, which turned out to be a wise move given how quickly the remaining tables filled up.
We were so busy with our girl talk that it was a while before we even ordered from the restaurant of the year.
I hadn't been in since they'd added grilled sandwiches to the lunch menu so I was leaning that way while my friend couldn't resist the Lebanese case.
Over chicken and rice soup, tuna with white beans and arugula (her) and a grilled turkey and cheddar sandwich with a side salad (me), we dissected the local food scene, discussed some juicy restaurant anecdotes and talked about our futures.
After seeing a steady stream of cream puffs go by en route to other tables, we concluded that we had to have one of our own.
Because she's no flour fan, the way we work it is she eats the buttery cream out of the center and I hog the chocolate ganache-covered pastry.
We're a match made in heaven.
I don't know which of us needed it more, her with her relentless schedule or me with my recent non-stop deadlines, but at one point she looked at me, smiled and said, "Thank you so much for this. I feel like a new person."
Hopefully still the kind who will get on the swings with me on days with a bright, blue sky.
Friday, February 15, 2013
All Quiet on the Friday Front
Sometimes, Friday nights are my quietest nights.
Admittedly it's rare, but if nothing catches my eye, I am happily content to have a meal and call it a night.
Maybe it's because I'm out all the other nights, but if nothing grabs me culture-wise, I feel no shame in having a low-key evening.
So when I hadn't found anything calling my name by 8:00, I contently headed out to eat.
Facebook postings by restaurant friends had informed me that they were anticipating a lot of residual Valentine's Day business tonight and tomorrow night, so that was a consideration.
Taking a chance, I went to Aziza, hoping to slide in after the initial Friday/holiday rush.
Whether I succeeded or not, I have no idea, but it was a good thing I wanted to sit at the bar (empty because what happy couple wants to eat at the bar?) because every table was taken.
But my server recognized me, making me feel at home and I settled in for a solo meal while the Pandora '60s station serenaded me.
Dave Clark Five's "Glad All Over," Judy Collins' "Both Sides Now," the Byrds' "Mr. Tambourine Man."
The truth is, I couldn't listen to it everyday, but tonight it made for a nicely mellow ambiance.
I was debating about having a glass of wine after the great faint of last night, but I risked it with a glass of Marques de Riscal Rioja, spicy and with a long finish.
To start, I went with a bowl of red turnip soup with duck confit and seared scallions.
The creamy soup had no actual cream (just an abundance of butter) and a generous sprinkling of rich and salty confit to make it truly decadent.
Mid-spoonful, a woman came out of the bathroom, stopped and said, "Karen?"
It was the former P.R. director for Maymont, with whom I'd worked back when I was in publishing a lifetime ago.
Honestly, I was amazed she even remembered me.
That's when she caught me by surprise.
She not only remembered our shared projects back then, but had seen me at the VMFA memorial service for a former boyfriend last month.
She even recalled all those years when my daily walk took me past her Grove Avenue house every morning and she'd be coming out for the paper and wave hello to me.
Even after two decades here, I never cease to be amazed at what a small town this is.
Once she left, I returned to my dinner, this time spicy garlic shrimp with herbs and Spanish olive oil.
When the server brought the dish, she said, "Chef Philip said you can eat the shells."
This might have surprised me at one time, but not since my Fall trip to Italy, where I'd had a fried prawn dish and been instructed to do the same thing.
If I can do it in Italian, I can do it in English.
These were even better candidates given the pool of flavorful and fragrant olive oil in which they rested.
Some of my bread also found its way into the oil, but before long, I had to admit defeat.
In fact, when my server came around to inquire about dessert, it was with a heavy heart that I had to decline.
Surprised because she's seen me enough to know my fondness for the house cream puff, I had to come clean.
I'd had a bowl of ice cream around 5:00, I admitted.
She was impressed, so impressed that she said so.
"I can't even keep ice cream in my apartment because it's my weakness," she said, clearly envious of my earlier treat.
I may be able to keep it around, but I found myself regretting my decision to have some now that it was potentially cream puff time.
So there I was with no dessert, no music plans and the rest of Friday night looming ahead.
But I was okay with that.
Just don't ask me to settle for such a low-key night any other night of the week.
I do have to be able to face myself in the morning, you know.
Admittedly it's rare, but if nothing catches my eye, I am happily content to have a meal and call it a night.
Maybe it's because I'm out all the other nights, but if nothing grabs me culture-wise, I feel no shame in having a low-key evening.
So when I hadn't found anything calling my name by 8:00, I contently headed out to eat.
Facebook postings by restaurant friends had informed me that they were anticipating a lot of residual Valentine's Day business tonight and tomorrow night, so that was a consideration.
Taking a chance, I went to Aziza, hoping to slide in after the initial Friday/holiday rush.
Whether I succeeded or not, I have no idea, but it was a good thing I wanted to sit at the bar (empty because what happy couple wants to eat at the bar?) because every table was taken.
But my server recognized me, making me feel at home and I settled in for a solo meal while the Pandora '60s station serenaded me.
Dave Clark Five's "Glad All Over," Judy Collins' "Both Sides Now," the Byrds' "Mr. Tambourine Man."
The truth is, I couldn't listen to it everyday, but tonight it made for a nicely mellow ambiance.
I was debating about having a glass of wine after the great faint of last night, but I risked it with a glass of Marques de Riscal Rioja, spicy and with a long finish.
To start, I went with a bowl of red turnip soup with duck confit and seared scallions.
The creamy soup had no actual cream (just an abundance of butter) and a generous sprinkling of rich and salty confit to make it truly decadent.
Mid-spoonful, a woman came out of the bathroom, stopped and said, "Karen?"
It was the former P.R. director for Maymont, with whom I'd worked back when I was in publishing a lifetime ago.
Honestly, I was amazed she even remembered me.
That's when she caught me by surprise.
She not only remembered our shared projects back then, but had seen me at the VMFA memorial service for a former boyfriend last month.
She even recalled all those years when my daily walk took me past her Grove Avenue house every morning and she'd be coming out for the paper and wave hello to me.
Even after two decades here, I never cease to be amazed at what a small town this is.
Once she left, I returned to my dinner, this time spicy garlic shrimp with herbs and Spanish olive oil.
When the server brought the dish, she said, "Chef Philip said you can eat the shells."
This might have surprised me at one time, but not since my Fall trip to Italy, where I'd had a fried prawn dish and been instructed to do the same thing.
If I can do it in Italian, I can do it in English.
These were even better candidates given the pool of flavorful and fragrant olive oil in which they rested.
Some of my bread also found its way into the oil, but before long, I had to admit defeat.
In fact, when my server came around to inquire about dessert, it was with a heavy heart that I had to decline.
Surprised because she's seen me enough to know my fondness for the house cream puff, I had to come clean.
I'd had a bowl of ice cream around 5:00, I admitted.
She was impressed, so impressed that she said so.
"I can't even keep ice cream in my apartment because it's my weakness," she said, clearly envious of my earlier treat.
I may be able to keep it around, but I found myself regretting my decision to have some now that it was potentially cream puff time.
So there I was with no dessert, no music plans and the rest of Friday night looming ahead.
But I was okay with that.
Just don't ask me to settle for such a low-key night any other night of the week.
I do have to be able to face myself in the morning, you know.
Friday, December 14, 2012
With or Without You
There were two places I definitely wasn't going tonight.
Rappahannock and Saison.
Not because I don't want to check out two new places within walking distance, but because it was almost certainly going to be a mob scene at both.
And who needs that?
Instead, my evening's companion and I chose Aziza for a lower key vibe and the promise of great food.
We walked in to an empty restaurant and I found Chef Philip and his able-bodied assistant chatting at a table near the kitchen.
We agreed that Aziza's customers were the same as the two new places opening, which helped explain the lack of warm bodies here.
To warm our bodies further, we got a bottle of Marques de Riscal Proximo Rioja 2009, not on the menu but an easy-drinking choice with its juiciness and silky finish.
Because we were the only customers, the music was plenty loud enough for us to hear, although the content wasn't always to our liking.
Just to be clear, there's cheesy '80s and then there's '80s.
Yes' "Owner of a Lonely Heart" is not something I ever need to hear again, much less Sly Fox.
But put on some Pet Shop Boys and we're good to go.
I can even hear some old U2 and reminisce fondly about Bono's messiah period.
The music became a moot point before long because tables began to fill up and the decibel level rose accordingly.
We went from being the sole occupants to being one of seven tables, with only two small ones open.
I'm sure that made the kitchen staff happy.
We began with bacon, potato and leek soup, a cream-based indulgence with enough leeks in every bite to qualify them as the primary ingredient to be chewed.
Actually, the soup was very similar to certain oyster stews I've had, just without the oysters.
Next came spinach and sheep's milk ricotta gnudi with Szechuan peppercorn and ginger.
It was my first gnudi sighting, so I asked our server what to expect.
Seems gnudi is a kind of gnocchi made from ricotta and a little bit of flour, described by our server as "nude ravioli."
All the filling and none of the pasta. Sign me up.
The little dumplings were wonderful, delicately seasoned and with a creamy mouthfeel that was more than cheese, less than pasta.
To go with it, we tried the sauteed garlic bok choy with almonds, the kind of dish you only eat on a date if the other person is eating it, too.
Very good, very garlicky.
Tonight's crowd turned out to be a lively one, although one of the two 20-something girls behind us had the kind of foghorn voice that meant we heard every party recap, every work anecdote and every cliche that came out of her mouth.
That's entertainment.
After so much savory, there was nowhere to go but directly to Aziza's trademark cream puff and we did.
I've little doubt that if Aziza's ever thought to remove the puff from the menu, their customers would rise up and put that thought right out of their heads.
As it turned out, we'd lingered over each course so long that we'd long missed our 9:00 plans.
Fortunately, they can be had another evening.
Instead, we drove by Rappahannock to see the room crowded to the rafters with first night business.
I'd read yesterday that they'd already had 80 reservations on the books (for opening night yet) and it looked entirely possible that all 80 were still there at almost 10 p.m.
Saison was no better, with people up against the windows and spilling out into the corner.
Since both new restaurants are within walking distance of my house, there's no chance I won't be joining the throngs soon.
But on opening night, no way.
Far better to go with a proven winner and learn gnudi.
Even when the '80s music is giving me whiplash.
Rappahannock and Saison.
Not because I don't want to check out two new places within walking distance, but because it was almost certainly going to be a mob scene at both.
And who needs that?
Instead, my evening's companion and I chose Aziza for a lower key vibe and the promise of great food.
We walked in to an empty restaurant and I found Chef Philip and his able-bodied assistant chatting at a table near the kitchen.
We agreed that Aziza's customers were the same as the two new places opening, which helped explain the lack of warm bodies here.
To warm our bodies further, we got a bottle of Marques de Riscal Proximo Rioja 2009, not on the menu but an easy-drinking choice with its juiciness and silky finish.
Because we were the only customers, the music was plenty loud enough for us to hear, although the content wasn't always to our liking.
Just to be clear, there's cheesy '80s and then there's '80s.
Yes' "Owner of a Lonely Heart" is not something I ever need to hear again, much less Sly Fox.
But put on some Pet Shop Boys and we're good to go.
I can even hear some old U2 and reminisce fondly about Bono's messiah period.
The music became a moot point before long because tables began to fill up and the decibel level rose accordingly.
We went from being the sole occupants to being one of seven tables, with only two small ones open.
I'm sure that made the kitchen staff happy.
We began with bacon, potato and leek soup, a cream-based indulgence with enough leeks in every bite to qualify them as the primary ingredient to be chewed.
Actually, the soup was very similar to certain oyster stews I've had, just without the oysters.
Next came spinach and sheep's milk ricotta gnudi with Szechuan peppercorn and ginger.
It was my first gnudi sighting, so I asked our server what to expect.
Seems gnudi is a kind of gnocchi made from ricotta and a little bit of flour, described by our server as "nude ravioli."
All the filling and none of the pasta. Sign me up.
The little dumplings were wonderful, delicately seasoned and with a creamy mouthfeel that was more than cheese, less than pasta.
To go with it, we tried the sauteed garlic bok choy with almonds, the kind of dish you only eat on a date if the other person is eating it, too.
Very good, very garlicky.
Tonight's crowd turned out to be a lively one, although one of the two 20-something girls behind us had the kind of foghorn voice that meant we heard every party recap, every work anecdote and every cliche that came out of her mouth.
That's entertainment.
After so much savory, there was nowhere to go but directly to Aziza's trademark cream puff and we did.
I've little doubt that if Aziza's ever thought to remove the puff from the menu, their customers would rise up and put that thought right out of their heads.
As it turned out, we'd lingered over each course so long that we'd long missed our 9:00 plans.
Fortunately, they can be had another evening.
Instead, we drove by Rappahannock to see the room crowded to the rafters with first night business.
I'd read yesterday that they'd already had 80 reservations on the books (for opening night yet) and it looked entirely possible that all 80 were still there at almost 10 p.m.
Saison was no better, with people up against the windows and spilling out into the corner.
Since both new restaurants are within walking distance of my house, there's no chance I won't be joining the throngs soon.
But on opening night, no way.
Far better to go with a proven winner and learn gnudi.
Even when the '80s music is giving me whiplash.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Coming from Reality
The game of musical kitchens has deposited one of my favorite chefs at one of my (and his) favorite restaurants.
Walking into Aziza's on Main, one of the servers hugged me and chided me at the same time for not having seen me in a while.
I'm okay with being rebuked as long as there's P.D.A. simultaneously.
Every table was full but the bar was wide open except foe one lone wolf, so we joined his party of one.
The one thing the wine list didn't have was any Italian bottles (they did have a half bottle of bubbles), so we steered slightly west to Spain.
A juicy and fruity Marques de Riscal Prximo Rioja set the tone for the conversation and the Saturday night in general.
And then it was on to Chef Philip Denny's menu.
The former Six Burner chef, in my opinion, always suffered the same fate as his predecessor, Lee Gregory.
During both their tenures at 6B, in my opinion, neither got the attention or accolades they deserved; maybe it was 6B's stuffy, older clientele, maybe it was their low key personalities.
For me, Six Burner never dropped out of my regular rotation because the kitchen was always talented even when the vibe was lacking.
So when 6B closed, I was eager to hear where Philip would land.
Nothing could have pleased me more than it being Aziza, especially since I'd run into him and his wife eating there years ago and agreed it was one of the best restaurants in town.
Looking at tonight's menu, I saw just the kind of creatively different dishes he delivers.
Our first choice was a ful mudammas of porchetta, crowder peas, butter beans, pink-eyed peas came with grilled pita to soak up the juices.
A stew-like mixture with flavors of olive oil, onion and garlic was chock full of perfectly cooked beans and a big curve of salty, fatty porchetta.
The richness of the pig was an ideal complement to the toothsome and savory beans.
For our next course, fortunately we'd reserved one of the two remaining shrimp with Chorizo raviolis left.
Any good diner knows that if you snooze, you lose, so we'd put our bid in early.
The dish featured wood-fired shrimp with finger lime, radishes and cilantro and onions along with plump ravioli stuffed with spicy Chorizo.
It was such a lovely interplay of flavors - bordering on spicy, some sweetness and the cilantro adding its distinctive note.
After devouring every bite, we used crusty bread to get the rest of that incredible sauce to our mouths.
The Chef was two for two.
Eschewing the new for the tried and true, we finished our bottle with one of Aziza's trademark cream puffs, causing my date to wax poetic on the subject of butter and sugar and the memories they conjure.
We all have our weaknesses.
By the time we finished, my only complaint was the music interruptus (a radio station with far too much talking), and I knew I'd be back soon for more.
We crossed east to west to go to the Westhampton Theater then to see the documentary "Searching for Sugarman."
After having seen previews for this Sundance winner at least four times (and maybe more), I was curious about this Dylan-esque singer from the late 60s-early 70 of whom I knew nothing.
The story is literally unbelievable.
Mexican-American from Detroit makes a couple of albums which are expected to do great things, but they go unnoticed.
Musician gives up music and goes on with non-descript life.
Meanwhile, records make it to apartheid-era South Africa, where his politically-charged songs of the life of the inner-city poor are adopted by the masses.
His records get airplay, everyone owns them, knows of him and meanwhile he's back in Detroit, poor and living an anonymous life.
It's only when two fans decide to try to track down the truth and learn if the urban legend of his onstage suicide is true that the film ends up getting made.
Once Rodriguez is rediscovered in the mid-90s, he plays sold-out concerts in South Africa and his career is resuscitated.
There are now people lobbying to get him a Kennedy Center honor. I'll sign that petition.
Had the movie been fiction, it would have seemed ludicrous.
As depiction of the facts, it was an hour and a half of stellar music,vintage photos and more recent shots of Rodriquez, a singer who put Dylan's voice to shame and sang songs of the poor.
Songs from his two albums "Cold Fact" and "Coming From Reality" were played throughout the film.
I now need to hear those two albums in their entirety.
Interestingly enough, when we left the theater I ran into a sextet that included two friends.
They'd just seen the movie, too, and were as enraptured as we were.
The difference was, they'd been listening to Rodriguez's music in the weeks before they saw the film.
For a minute, I envied them their brilliance at preparing themselves.
My partner in crime saw it differently and I had to agree he was right.
Our first encounter with Rodriguez's voice and songwriting was as part of the movie and it was as ideal an introduction as we could have hoped for.
Now is the time to go back and hear his back catalog, now that we know the story and have an appreciation for the man and his life.
The cold fact is, this is a guy any music lover should know.
And I will.
Walking into Aziza's on Main, one of the servers hugged me and chided me at the same time for not having seen me in a while.
I'm okay with being rebuked as long as there's P.D.A. simultaneously.
Every table was full but the bar was wide open except foe one lone wolf, so we joined his party of one.
The one thing the wine list didn't have was any Italian bottles (they did have a half bottle of bubbles), so we steered slightly west to Spain.
A juicy and fruity Marques de Riscal Prximo Rioja set the tone for the conversation and the Saturday night in general.
And then it was on to Chef Philip Denny's menu.
The former Six Burner chef, in my opinion, always suffered the same fate as his predecessor, Lee Gregory.
During both their tenures at 6B, in my opinion, neither got the attention or accolades they deserved; maybe it was 6B's stuffy, older clientele, maybe it was their low key personalities.
For me, Six Burner never dropped out of my regular rotation because the kitchen was always talented even when the vibe was lacking.
So when 6B closed, I was eager to hear where Philip would land.
Nothing could have pleased me more than it being Aziza, especially since I'd run into him and his wife eating there years ago and agreed it was one of the best restaurants in town.
Looking at tonight's menu, I saw just the kind of creatively different dishes he delivers.
Our first choice was a ful mudammas of porchetta, crowder peas, butter beans, pink-eyed peas came with grilled pita to soak up the juices.
A stew-like mixture with flavors of olive oil, onion and garlic was chock full of perfectly cooked beans and a big curve of salty, fatty porchetta.
The richness of the pig was an ideal complement to the toothsome and savory beans.
For our next course, fortunately we'd reserved one of the two remaining shrimp with Chorizo raviolis left.
Any good diner knows that if you snooze, you lose, so we'd put our bid in early.
The dish featured wood-fired shrimp with finger lime, radishes and cilantro and onions along with plump ravioli stuffed with spicy Chorizo.
It was such a lovely interplay of flavors - bordering on spicy, some sweetness and the cilantro adding its distinctive note.
After devouring every bite, we used crusty bread to get the rest of that incredible sauce to our mouths.
The Chef was two for two.
Eschewing the new for the tried and true, we finished our bottle with one of Aziza's trademark cream puffs, causing my date to wax poetic on the subject of butter and sugar and the memories they conjure.
We all have our weaknesses.
By the time we finished, my only complaint was the music interruptus (a radio station with far too much talking), and I knew I'd be back soon for more.
We crossed east to west to go to the Westhampton Theater then to see the documentary "Searching for Sugarman."
After having seen previews for this Sundance winner at least four times (and maybe more), I was curious about this Dylan-esque singer from the late 60s-early 70 of whom I knew nothing.
The story is literally unbelievable.
Mexican-American from Detroit makes a couple of albums which are expected to do great things, but they go unnoticed.
Musician gives up music and goes on with non-descript life.
Meanwhile, records make it to apartheid-era South Africa, where his politically-charged songs of the life of the inner-city poor are adopted by the masses.
His records get airplay, everyone owns them, knows of him and meanwhile he's back in Detroit, poor and living an anonymous life.
It's only when two fans decide to try to track down the truth and learn if the urban legend of his onstage suicide is true that the film ends up getting made.
Once Rodriguez is rediscovered in the mid-90s, he plays sold-out concerts in South Africa and his career is resuscitated.
There are now people lobbying to get him a Kennedy Center honor. I'll sign that petition.
Had the movie been fiction, it would have seemed ludicrous.
As depiction of the facts, it was an hour and a half of stellar music,vintage photos and more recent shots of Rodriquez, a singer who put Dylan's voice to shame and sang songs of the poor.
Songs from his two albums "Cold Fact" and "Coming From Reality" were played throughout the film.
I now need to hear those two albums in their entirety.
Interestingly enough, when we left the theater I ran into a sextet that included two friends.
They'd just seen the movie, too, and were as enraptured as we were.
The difference was, they'd been listening to Rodriguez's music in the weeks before they saw the film.
For a minute, I envied them their brilliance at preparing themselves.
My partner in crime saw it differently and I had to agree he was right.
Our first encounter with Rodriguez's voice and songwriting was as part of the movie and it was as ideal an introduction as we could have hoped for.
Now is the time to go back and hear his back catalog, now that we know the story and have an appreciation for the man and his life.
The cold fact is, this is a guy any music lover should know.
And I will.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Life Emits a Symphony
It may have been the ultimate compliment.
"I admire you for being true to who you are and living your life the way you want to. Lots of people talk about it, but not many actually live it."
So that was me being true to myself by going to a mid-afternoon poetry reading by Grant Cogswell.
The audience was especially small and, as one attendee noted, "Not many people go to poetry readings...even though poetry is meant to be read aloud."
Which was exactly why I was there.
Grant's perfectly cadenced voice made listening to poems from his new collection, "The Dream of the Cold War" (which he called "a long series of secret measures where no one had an original thought") a real pleasure.
"Time moves too fast for a thing to represent itself," he read from Luna Park.
His Seattle roots showed in Pacific Bell with "We're freer in places where clouds move like paper boats in a bay."
His humor shone when he explained that he'd he submitted a poem to the group Poets Against the Iraq War ("I wanted to call it Anti-war Poem but that would be like putting a label on an apple that said 'food") as well as his empathetic side (""And the dead are expressed in mathematics.")
And my favorite line?
Sunset emits a symphony.
Who wouldn't want to have a poet read that line to them?
Don't look at me.
I stayed true to myself by visiting my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, for their monthly "Summer Sounds Steady" show.
It's the second in the series but this time the crowds were bigger because of the Saturday artwalk going on.
The first band, Little Smoke, was a self-described lo-fi, bedroom pop quartet who looked too young to sound as good as they did.
Energetic drumming, two guitarists trading leads and songs like "Makeout Anthem" meant we were having as much fun listening as they appeared to be having playing.
Nashville's Ttotals were a garage duo with enough reverb and '90s-sounding energy to be the perfect balance to the sunny youth of the first band.
I laughed out loud when the drummer announced, "This one's new so it might be terrible. We'll have a panel discussion afterwards to decide."
No panel and not even close to awful.
After much consideration, I'm not sure my friend's compliment included my devotion to food, but if not, it should have.
This is the last week I had to meet him for dinner before he moves to Colorado.
We met at the bar at Aziza's to talk about everything: tequila menus, Stellenbosch, manual labor and meat glue.
Doing so required Man Sauvignon Blanc because we're like-minded in our devotion to South African wine
The first thing we decided was to eat so that we'd ensure hardening our arteries before the night was over.
Cashew-encrusted whipped prosciutto with thin slices of summer melon and honey/olive oil emulsion melted in my mouth.
Pan-seared foie gras with homemade granola and peaches was easily the most unique foie gras re-imagining I'd ever come across.
The chewy oats and fresh peaches gave it almost a breakfast-like feel to set off the richness of the foie gras.
My pig face and pickled mushroom terrine sandwich on sourdough rye bread with turnip creme fraiche arrived on its side, but our server explained that it should have been standing at attention.
Ah, terrine, how do I love thee? Besides, who doesn't love a good pig face sandwich?
As we devoured everything in front of us, my friend told me his theory of successful relationships.
According to him, you either find that special someone young and grow together (see: my parents and his) or you wait until you're fully formed and then find someone who suits that person you've become.
Well, that explains what I've been doing.
His wisdom belies his tender years.
By unspoken mutual agreement, we got a cream puff to share, my friend telling me that his family rule is that whomever cuts the food in half must allow the other person to choose which piece they want.
I guess we never had that rule in my family since there were six kids.
The evening lasted far later than we anticipated (we both had later plans), probably because the conversation was so enjoyable and we got more wine.
We finally said goodnight but only because we agreed to meet up one last time before he goes.
It would have been easy to have gone home then; it had been a full day and I'd already enjoyed poetry, music and dinner.
But in order to stay true to me, I couldn't resist just a little more music.
So I joined the throngs at the Camel for some Charm City talent.
I walked in to rowdy rock with a hint of '90s alt-rock in the form of Dope Body and their manic lead singer Andrew.
A guitarist friend immediately said, "I can't decide if I love them or hate them," but by the end of the set, he was acknowledging, "That's the best band I've seen in ages."
He said it was partly the interesting guitar work but for me, it was all about the pure energy of rock music, a sense of humor that shone through in their three-minute songs and Andrew spazzing out wildly as he sang.
The crowd, tentative at first, finally gave in and did their best vertical moshing to show their appreciation for the band's effort.
But what I'd really come for was Future Islands, another Baltimore band, but one that turned the room into a dance floor with their smoldering synth-pop.
A lot of that smolder comes from lead singer Sam's voice which roars and croons, depending on the song.
For "Lighthouse," he said, "Last time we were here, we played this song for the first time," and, judging by the crowd's reaction, a lot of them had been at that last show.
Sam was a gregarious performer, sharing tidbits about nearly every song ("This is 'Cotton Flame' about my girlfriend Kate") and sending the already-dancing crowd into a frenzy when he said, "This one's called 'Walking Through That Door.' It's a southern song."
I could point out that considering the band was originally from North Carolina, probably all the songs are southern songs, but that would be nit-picking.
And honestly, I was having way too much fun to nit-pick.
The Camel was essentially a dance party tonight and every song started the frenzy anew.
And I admit I wasn't immune to it. Come on, synths beg for dancing or is that just my '80s roots talking?
One girl trying to make her way past me said as much when she walked by saying, "It's very hot in there" and pointing to a clutch of dancing people.
Sam wasn't immune, either, saying, "I'm the rainmaker yet again. I leave puddles where ever I am."
It was true that he was soaking the stage with his sweat, somewhat of a problem since he almost slipped on it several times.
As they began playing a new song, Sam said, "Check out that fat bass line," which we did right up until the last song when the bass player broke a string.
"You can't play bass with three strings?" he asked, no doubt hoping to finish up the sweaty show and cool off somewhere.
After an appeal for Dope Body's bass, Sam killed time waiting for it to arrive by singing a capella.
The dancing crowd was having none of it and cheered when the bass arrived.
"Okay, so I learned a capella doesn't fly on a Saturday night," Sam laughed before launching into their last song.
It was "Little Dreamer," and he justified it by saying, "This song is about someone I still dream about. Maybe you have someone you dream about."
It was the ideal last song, showing off his crooning skills and allowing the dance party to end on a slow dance.
I held onto my dreams, like they could run from me
And to my departing friend I would say, that's how you stay true to yourself and live your life the way you want to.
For me, that's holding on to poetry, pig's faces and dance music.
You see, it's easier than you think if you really want to.
"I admire you for being true to who you are and living your life the way you want to. Lots of people talk about it, but not many actually live it."
So that was me being true to myself by going to a mid-afternoon poetry reading by Grant Cogswell.
The audience was especially small and, as one attendee noted, "Not many people go to poetry readings...even though poetry is meant to be read aloud."
Which was exactly why I was there.
Grant's perfectly cadenced voice made listening to poems from his new collection, "The Dream of the Cold War" (which he called "a long series of secret measures where no one had an original thought") a real pleasure.
"Time moves too fast for a thing to represent itself," he read from Luna Park.
His Seattle roots showed in Pacific Bell with "We're freer in places where clouds move like paper boats in a bay."
His humor shone when he explained that he'd he submitted a poem to the group Poets Against the Iraq War ("I wanted to call it Anti-war Poem but that would be like putting a label on an apple that said 'food") as well as his empathetic side (""And the dead are expressed in mathematics.")
And my favorite line?
Sunset emits a symphony.
Who wouldn't want to have a poet read that line to them?
Don't look at me.
I stayed true to myself by visiting my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, for their monthly "Summer Sounds Steady" show.
It's the second in the series but this time the crowds were bigger because of the Saturday artwalk going on.
The first band, Little Smoke, was a self-described lo-fi, bedroom pop quartet who looked too young to sound as good as they did.
Energetic drumming, two guitarists trading leads and songs like "Makeout Anthem" meant we were having as much fun listening as they appeared to be having playing.
Nashville's Ttotals were a garage duo with enough reverb and '90s-sounding energy to be the perfect balance to the sunny youth of the first band.
I laughed out loud when the drummer announced, "This one's new so it might be terrible. We'll have a panel discussion afterwards to decide."
No panel and not even close to awful.
After much consideration, I'm not sure my friend's compliment included my devotion to food, but if not, it should have.
This is the last week I had to meet him for dinner before he moves to Colorado.
We met at the bar at Aziza's to talk about everything: tequila menus, Stellenbosch, manual labor and meat glue.
Doing so required Man Sauvignon Blanc because we're like-minded in our devotion to South African wine
The first thing we decided was to eat so that we'd ensure hardening our arteries before the night was over.
Cashew-encrusted whipped prosciutto with thin slices of summer melon and honey/olive oil emulsion melted in my mouth.
Pan-seared foie gras with homemade granola and peaches was easily the most unique foie gras re-imagining I'd ever come across.
The chewy oats and fresh peaches gave it almost a breakfast-like feel to set off the richness of the foie gras.
My pig face and pickled mushroom terrine sandwich on sourdough rye bread with turnip creme fraiche arrived on its side, but our server explained that it should have been standing at attention.
Ah, terrine, how do I love thee? Besides, who doesn't love a good pig face sandwich?
As we devoured everything in front of us, my friend told me his theory of successful relationships.
According to him, you either find that special someone young and grow together (see: my parents and his) or you wait until you're fully formed and then find someone who suits that person you've become.
Well, that explains what I've been doing.
His wisdom belies his tender years.
By unspoken mutual agreement, we got a cream puff to share, my friend telling me that his family rule is that whomever cuts the food in half must allow the other person to choose which piece they want.
I guess we never had that rule in my family since there were six kids.
The evening lasted far later than we anticipated (we both had later plans), probably because the conversation was so enjoyable and we got more wine.
We finally said goodnight but only because we agreed to meet up one last time before he goes.
It would have been easy to have gone home then; it had been a full day and I'd already enjoyed poetry, music and dinner.
But in order to stay true to me, I couldn't resist just a little more music.
So I joined the throngs at the Camel for some Charm City talent.
I walked in to rowdy rock with a hint of '90s alt-rock in the form of Dope Body and their manic lead singer Andrew.
A guitarist friend immediately said, "I can't decide if I love them or hate them," but by the end of the set, he was acknowledging, "That's the best band I've seen in ages."
He said it was partly the interesting guitar work but for me, it was all about the pure energy of rock music, a sense of humor that shone through in their three-minute songs and Andrew spazzing out wildly as he sang.
The crowd, tentative at first, finally gave in and did their best vertical moshing to show their appreciation for the band's effort.
But what I'd really come for was Future Islands, another Baltimore band, but one that turned the room into a dance floor with their smoldering synth-pop.
A lot of that smolder comes from lead singer Sam's voice which roars and croons, depending on the song.
For "Lighthouse," he said, "Last time we were here, we played this song for the first time," and, judging by the crowd's reaction, a lot of them had been at that last show.
Sam was a gregarious performer, sharing tidbits about nearly every song ("This is 'Cotton Flame' about my girlfriend Kate") and sending the already-dancing crowd into a frenzy when he said, "This one's called 'Walking Through That Door.' It's a southern song."
I could point out that considering the band was originally from North Carolina, probably all the songs are southern songs, but that would be nit-picking.
And honestly, I was having way too much fun to nit-pick.
The Camel was essentially a dance party tonight and every song started the frenzy anew.
And I admit I wasn't immune to it. Come on, synths beg for dancing or is that just my '80s roots talking?
One girl trying to make her way past me said as much when she walked by saying, "It's very hot in there" and pointing to a clutch of dancing people.
Sam wasn't immune, either, saying, "I'm the rainmaker yet again. I leave puddles where ever I am."
It was true that he was soaking the stage with his sweat, somewhat of a problem since he almost slipped on it several times.
As they began playing a new song, Sam said, "Check out that fat bass line," which we did right up until the last song when the bass player broke a string.
"You can't play bass with three strings?" he asked, no doubt hoping to finish up the sweaty show and cool off somewhere.
After an appeal for Dope Body's bass, Sam killed time waiting for it to arrive by singing a capella.
The dancing crowd was having none of it and cheered when the bass arrived.
"Okay, so I learned a capella doesn't fly on a Saturday night," Sam laughed before launching into their last song.
It was "Little Dreamer," and he justified it by saying, "This song is about someone I still dream about. Maybe you have someone you dream about."
It was the ideal last song, showing off his crooning skills and allowing the dance party to end on a slow dance.
I held onto my dreams, like they could run from me
And to my departing friend I would say, that's how you stay true to yourself and live your life the way you want to.
For me, that's holding on to poetry, pig's faces and dance music.
You see, it's easier than you think if you really want to.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Fun and Fantasy Walk into a Bar...
It was my first penis straw. Green.
Also my first bridal shower since the last millennium.
The two intersected at Aziza's tonight where a very good friend was being celebrated for her upcoming nuptials to (and I quote her when she first met him), "A good looking hunk of man meat."
The surprised guest of honor was particularly tickled because it was the first time all her good female friends, half married, half single, had been gathered in one place.
Sort of a seven worlds collide situation, if you will. Like me, she has a tendency to keep her female friends compartmentalized.
Tonight, she put on the tiara provided and proceeded to hold court.
Over vodka limeades and endless bottles of vinho verde, we got to know each other while we listened to stories about the upcoming wedding, the groom not yet having purchased a suit to be married in and the bride's fondness for his cooking skills.
The theme for the shower had been risque nightwear, which sounded like the opposite of what I know my friend wears at night.
Nevertheless, I made my first foray today to Priscilla McCall's on Broad Street ("Where fun and fantasy meet!"), a place I'd passed many times but never so much as given a second glance.
Let's just say I've done it now and leave it at that.
My lingerie gift had not been particularly wild with the exception of the dental floss-like piece that passed for matching panties.
On the other hand, some of the gifts (nipple stimulants, glow-in-the-dark condoms) encouraged one guest to note, "Edible panties have a tacky feel, so you end up sticking to the sheets."
This was something I hadn't known until tonight.
The gift of a book, "Make Your Own Sex Toys" provided fascinating reading for one who had never made her own (yes, me).
There were basics like the strap-on salami (with a plant-based version for vegetarians), but also instructions on how to use your cell phone (in a condom, of course) as a vibrator.
I don't have a cell phone, so that's one I won't be using.
As a non-crafter, I also can't knit, so I won't be making the willy warmer, either.
Dinner was delightful, basically one long string of endless dishes arriving and being consumed.
Beet salad with mint, pickled onions and whipped mascarpone was positively decadent.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and sunny side up egg was as plate-licking good as when I'd had it last night.
I only got one bite of whole grilled quail with gnocchi, wild mushrooms, spinach and lemon butter, but it was a damn fine bite.
Smoked Arctic char with butter bean mash, citrus and cucumber was the most ordered dish and disappeared off of every plate in short order.
A pizza of shitake and crimini mushrooms, caramelized onion and cow mozzarella was so tasty that it won over even those who prefer white pizza (namely, me).
With all women at the table, the conversation got pretty lively, even before we got to the word-to-the-wise portion of the evening.
"What advice for a good marriage do I need?" the bride inquired innocently enough.
"Never go to bed mad!" one wife said.
"Make sure you have your own blankets," said another, providing anecdotal evidence why.
"Horny rules!" said our hostess, coincidentally also named Karen.
You can imagine the floodgates that opened up.
Before you can say "what's for dessert?" we were having a round table discussion about the Museum of Sex in NYC, morning sex and ben wa balls.
Fortunately, that was when the baked Alaska arrived.
The party planner had arranged for the chef to do individual baked Alaskas using peach ice cream and gluten-free cake.
Some at the table had never even had the vintage dessert before, but I wasn't among them.
Still, this version, and each was enormous, was especially delicate and the meringue perfectly browned, no doubt in that monster of a wood-burning oven in the back.
I admit, I couldn't finish mine. That was part fullness and part laughing so hard.
Once you start hearing a woman you just met saying that if her husband dies,"No more husbands. I'll just be happy with eighteen to twenty one year olds."
Another, younger and married a shorter time, differed. "I'll marry someone who's 60 and be done with it."
What about sex, we asked.
"Pool boy!" she said as if it were obvious.
"I'll check back with you in fifteen years and see if you still feel that way," laughed an older and wiser woman.
Check back with me then too, and let's see where I fall.
I'm guessing the older and wiser one would say it all depends on the quality of the man meat.
Also my first bridal shower since the last millennium.
The two intersected at Aziza's tonight where a very good friend was being celebrated for her upcoming nuptials to (and I quote her when she first met him), "A good looking hunk of man meat."
The surprised guest of honor was particularly tickled because it was the first time all her good female friends, half married, half single, had been gathered in one place.
Sort of a seven worlds collide situation, if you will. Like me, she has a tendency to keep her female friends compartmentalized.
Tonight, she put on the tiara provided and proceeded to hold court.
Over vodka limeades and endless bottles of vinho verde, we got to know each other while we listened to stories about the upcoming wedding, the groom not yet having purchased a suit to be married in and the bride's fondness for his cooking skills.
The theme for the shower had been risque nightwear, which sounded like the opposite of what I know my friend wears at night.
Nevertheless, I made my first foray today to Priscilla McCall's on Broad Street ("Where fun and fantasy meet!"), a place I'd passed many times but never so much as given a second glance.
Let's just say I've done it now and leave it at that.
My lingerie gift had not been particularly wild with the exception of the dental floss-like piece that passed for matching panties.
On the other hand, some of the gifts (nipple stimulants, glow-in-the-dark condoms) encouraged one guest to note, "Edible panties have a tacky feel, so you end up sticking to the sheets."
This was something I hadn't known until tonight.
The gift of a book, "Make Your Own Sex Toys" provided fascinating reading for one who had never made her own (yes, me).
There were basics like the strap-on salami (with a plant-based version for vegetarians), but also instructions on how to use your cell phone (in a condom, of course) as a vibrator.
I don't have a cell phone, so that's one I won't be using.
As a non-crafter, I also can't knit, so I won't be making the willy warmer, either.
Dinner was delightful, basically one long string of endless dishes arriving and being consumed.
Beet salad with mint, pickled onions and whipped mascarpone was positively decadent.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and sunny side up egg was as plate-licking good as when I'd had it last night.
I only got one bite of whole grilled quail with gnocchi, wild mushrooms, spinach and lemon butter, but it was a damn fine bite.
Smoked Arctic char with butter bean mash, citrus and cucumber was the most ordered dish and disappeared off of every plate in short order.
A pizza of shitake and crimini mushrooms, caramelized onion and cow mozzarella was so tasty that it won over even those who prefer white pizza (namely, me).
With all women at the table, the conversation got pretty lively, even before we got to the word-to-the-wise portion of the evening.
"What advice for a good marriage do I need?" the bride inquired innocently enough.
"Never go to bed mad!" one wife said.
"Make sure you have your own blankets," said another, providing anecdotal evidence why.
"Horny rules!" said our hostess, coincidentally also named Karen.
You can imagine the floodgates that opened up.
Before you can say "what's for dessert?" we were having a round table discussion about the Museum of Sex in NYC, morning sex and ben wa balls.
Fortunately, that was when the baked Alaska arrived.
The party planner had arranged for the chef to do individual baked Alaskas using peach ice cream and gluten-free cake.
Some at the table had never even had the vintage dessert before, but I wasn't among them.
Still, this version, and each was enormous, was especially delicate and the meringue perfectly browned, no doubt in that monster of a wood-burning oven in the back.
I admit, I couldn't finish mine. That was part fullness and part laughing so hard.
Once you start hearing a woman you just met saying that if her husband dies,"No more husbands. I'll just be happy with eighteen to twenty one year olds."
Another, younger and married a shorter time, differed. "I'll marry someone who's 60 and be done with it."
What about sex, we asked.
"Pool boy!" she said as if it were obvious.
"I'll check back with you in fifteen years and see if you still feel that way," laughed an older and wiser woman.
Check back with me then too, and let's see where I fall.
I'm guessing the older and wiser one would say it all depends on the quality of the man meat.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Mexicali Ghosts
The summer officially began for me tonight with the kickoff of Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour series.
I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.
Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.
They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.
When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.
A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.
I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.
Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.
"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.
Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."
Then they did just that.
I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.
When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.
To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).
I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.
Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.
After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."
The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.
Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.
They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.
Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.
Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.
That's my kind of cocktail hour.
Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"
Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.
Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.
When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.
The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.
Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.
Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?
Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.
When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.
"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"
I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.
And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."
I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song
The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."
Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.
When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.
After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."
In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.
Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson hours ago.
And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.
It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.
And reason 85297.
I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.
Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.
They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.
When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.
A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.
I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.
Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.
"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.
Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."
Then they did just that.
I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.
When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.
To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).
I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.
Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.
After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."
The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.
Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.
They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.
Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.
Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.
That's my kind of cocktail hour.
Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"
Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.
Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.
When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.
The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.
Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.
Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?
Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.
When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.
"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"
I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.
And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."
I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song
The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."
Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.
When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.
After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."
In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.
Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson hours ago.
And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.
It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.
And reason 85297.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Where Fate Begins
Arrive too late and you miss out. Leave too early and ditto. Stay in one place and they find you.
By the time I was in the mood to go out, it was 9ish and I had a hankering for Aziza's on Main.
Not for anything in particular because the menu always changes, but definitely in the mood for a small place, a low-key vibe and in all likelihood, a cream puff.
I walked into a bustling restaurant playing upbeat '50s music and when all was said and done, I was too full for dessert.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With a glass of South African wine in front of me (Man Vintner Sauvignon Blanc), I did something I almost never do.
I chose an entree.
And I had no problem deciding what I wanted: squab with wild mushrooms and gnocchi.
Before I could even order it, the bartender informed me that they were out of one item. Guess which one.
Seems one of the large graduation parties had all but wiped them out of squab.
Instead I opted for the seared John Dory with bacon, spring bean succotash and salsa verde, counting on bacon and beans to make me forget small birds and potato pasta.
The fish was flaky with crisp edges and the succotash of sauteed onions, fresh peas, fava beans and haricot vert offered sweet and salty and tasted like spring on a plate.
Wisely, I did my best to include a little cube of the thick-cut bacon in every bite.
All hope for a cream puff were lost after that.
Leaving Aziza's, I walked right into the shower of bubbles being generated from the roof across the street at 2113.
It sounds corny but it actually had a certain charm at that point in the evening (that point being pre-Bottom madness).
Next on my agenda was a show at the Camel and a very small crowd was there when I arrived.
I took a seat near the sound booth only to overhear two girls at the next table.
"It's amazing to me that someone who drinks every day of the week has never built up any tolerance," the blond said.
"Who are you talking about?" the brunette inquired.
"My Dad!" blond explained as Dad returned from the bathroom.
Moments later Richmond band From Fragile Seeds took the stage. I'd read that they were post rock so I was more than a little surprised that they had vocals.
Their dynamic sound (two guitars, bass and drum creating soundscapes) definitely fit the bill but the vocals came across as emo bordering on hardcore.
Since vocals are usually droning or gibberish (Sigur Ros) in post rock, they didn't quite work for me, at least as post-rock.
But the guitars as a means of building tension and evoking emotion was spot on.
Free CDs were available "unprotected" on a nearby table, we were told.
"We've got two more and that's 66% of that CD over there," the lead singer said. "That's two thirds!" he whispered to the math-challenged among us.
After their set, the nearby Dad turned to me, saying how glad he was to see someone nearer his own age.
Tony made his own introductions. A former business consultant from NOVA, he'd switched to owning a sailboat charter company in Annapolis.
Inquiring if I knew someone in the band, I explained that I'd come to hear D.C. band Vandaveer, whom I'd seen before and knew I liked.
At that moment, the duo got up on stage.
"She's in the band?" he asked about singer Rosie and I nodded. "I saw her sitting outside and I almost offered to pay her cover to get in. That would have been embarrassing."
With Dylan-like vocals and lyrics like "You've got a fistful of swoon," Vandaveer immediately captured the attention of the mere twenty people in the room.
Tony turned around and said, "You were right! They're great!"
Uh huh. Now hush.
The band went on to play some of their current project, an album of hundred-year old murder ballads.
One was about a North Carolina man who murdered his wife and then his six children.
With Rosie's beautiful harmonies complementing Mark's vocals, we heard several murder ballads including one they wrote themselves.
After a song about a ghost story, Tony turned around again, saying, "You should come up to Annapolis and let me take you sailing."
I'll keep that in mind only because I've been in Annapolis twice in the past month after fifteen years of not being there at all.
Now hush.
As Sunday drew near, singer Mark reminded everyone to call their mothers, but not at this hour.
"I was born on Mother's Day and I weighed ten pounds," he said. "That's about the worst present you can give a mother on Mother's Day."
It was too bad the crowd wasn't bigger for the beautiful music that Vandaveer played, but at least they were enthusiastic about our practically private show, clapping and cheering after each.
I was particularly enamored of the lyric, "Go swim in the deep end and find out where fate begins."
A word to the wise is sufficient.
As I was sinking into a song with the line, "Oh, honey, dreams are rarely what they seem," Tony turned around yet again and handed me his card.
"Let me take you sailing," he said, smiling and taking my hand.
Dad may not have had tolerance but he certainly had persistence.
Down to their last song, Mark said, "We have been and forever shall be Vandaveer," and the alt-folk duo left our ears with a song about "However many takes it takes."
Funny, that's exactly how many takes I was planning on to get this life of mine right.
Assisted by a fistful of swoon, of course.
By the time I was in the mood to go out, it was 9ish and I had a hankering for Aziza's on Main.
Not for anything in particular because the menu always changes, but definitely in the mood for a small place, a low-key vibe and in all likelihood, a cream puff.
I walked into a bustling restaurant playing upbeat '50s music and when all was said and done, I was too full for dessert.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With a glass of South African wine in front of me (Man Vintner Sauvignon Blanc), I did something I almost never do.
I chose an entree.
And I had no problem deciding what I wanted: squab with wild mushrooms and gnocchi.
Before I could even order it, the bartender informed me that they were out of one item. Guess which one.
Seems one of the large graduation parties had all but wiped them out of squab.
Instead I opted for the seared John Dory with bacon, spring bean succotash and salsa verde, counting on bacon and beans to make me forget small birds and potato pasta.
The fish was flaky with crisp edges and the succotash of sauteed onions, fresh peas, fava beans and haricot vert offered sweet and salty and tasted like spring on a plate.
Wisely, I did my best to include a little cube of the thick-cut bacon in every bite.
All hope for a cream puff were lost after that.
Leaving Aziza's, I walked right into the shower of bubbles being generated from the roof across the street at 2113.
It sounds corny but it actually had a certain charm at that point in the evening (that point being pre-Bottom madness).
Next on my agenda was a show at the Camel and a very small crowd was there when I arrived.
I took a seat near the sound booth only to overhear two girls at the next table.
"It's amazing to me that someone who drinks every day of the week has never built up any tolerance," the blond said.
"Who are you talking about?" the brunette inquired.
"My Dad!" blond explained as Dad returned from the bathroom.
Moments later Richmond band From Fragile Seeds took the stage. I'd read that they were post rock so I was more than a little surprised that they had vocals.
Their dynamic sound (two guitars, bass and drum creating soundscapes) definitely fit the bill but the vocals came across as emo bordering on hardcore.
Since vocals are usually droning or gibberish (Sigur Ros) in post rock, they didn't quite work for me, at least as post-rock.
But the guitars as a means of building tension and evoking emotion was spot on.
Free CDs were available "unprotected" on a nearby table, we were told.
"We've got two more and that's 66% of that CD over there," the lead singer said. "That's two thirds!" he whispered to the math-challenged among us.
After their set, the nearby Dad turned to me, saying how glad he was to see someone nearer his own age.
Tony made his own introductions. A former business consultant from NOVA, he'd switched to owning a sailboat charter company in Annapolis.
Inquiring if I knew someone in the band, I explained that I'd come to hear D.C. band Vandaveer, whom I'd seen before and knew I liked.
At that moment, the duo got up on stage.
"She's in the band?" he asked about singer Rosie and I nodded. "I saw her sitting outside and I almost offered to pay her cover to get in. That would have been embarrassing."
With Dylan-like vocals and lyrics like "You've got a fistful of swoon," Vandaveer immediately captured the attention of the mere twenty people in the room.
Tony turned around and said, "You were right! They're great!"
Uh huh. Now hush.
The band went on to play some of their current project, an album of hundred-year old murder ballads.
One was about a North Carolina man who murdered his wife and then his six children.
With Rosie's beautiful harmonies complementing Mark's vocals, we heard several murder ballads including one they wrote themselves.
After a song about a ghost story, Tony turned around again, saying, "You should come up to Annapolis and let me take you sailing."
I'll keep that in mind only because I've been in Annapolis twice in the past month after fifteen years of not being there at all.
Now hush.
As Sunday drew near, singer Mark reminded everyone to call their mothers, but not at this hour.
"I was born on Mother's Day and I weighed ten pounds," he said. "That's about the worst present you can give a mother on Mother's Day."
It was too bad the crowd wasn't bigger for the beautiful music that Vandaveer played, but at least they were enthusiastic about our practically private show, clapping and cheering after each.
I was particularly enamored of the lyric, "Go swim in the deep end and find out where fate begins."
A word to the wise is sufficient.
As I was sinking into a song with the line, "Oh, honey, dreams are rarely what they seem," Tony turned around yet again and handed me his card.
"Let me take you sailing," he said, smiling and taking my hand.
Dad may not have had tolerance but he certainly had persistence.
Down to their last song, Mark said, "We have been and forever shall be Vandaveer," and the alt-folk duo left our ears with a song about "However many takes it takes."
Funny, that's exactly how many takes I was planning on to get this life of mine right.
Assisted by a fistful of swoon, of course.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Eating Feet and Feeling Groovy
Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to send up the bat signal to find me.
That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.
They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.
But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.
Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.
It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.
You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.
So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.
Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.
Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.
The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.
We finished with a cream puff to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.
Clearly opposites attract.
A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.
On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.
"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."
Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.
So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.
Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.
Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.
He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.
"No, you won't," she clarified.
Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.
White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.
White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.
The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.
My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.
Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.
"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.
Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.
Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.
But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.
First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.
When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.
Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.
Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).
Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).
And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.
"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.
Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.
When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.
Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.
I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.
I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.
Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.
Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.
My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.
Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."
Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.
On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.
The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.
They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.
Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.
The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.
Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.
And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.
Because that's what girlfriends do.
That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.
They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.
But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.
Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.
It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.
You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.
So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.
Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.
Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.
The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.
We finished with a cream puff to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.
Clearly opposites attract.
A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.
On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.
"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."
Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.
So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.
Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.
Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.
He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.
"No, you won't," she clarified.
Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.
White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.
White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.
The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.
My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.
Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.
"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.
Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.
Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.
But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.
First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.
When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.
Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.
Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).
Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).
And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.
"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.
Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.
When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.
Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.
I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.
I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.
Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.
Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.
My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.
Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."
Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.
On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.
The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.
They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.
Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.
The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.
Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.
And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.
Because that's what girlfriends do.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
How Soon is Now?
If the Virginia Historical Society had spontaneously combusted tonight, half the restaurants in Richmond would have had to close and a lot of great tights would have gone up in a puff of smoke.
Fortunately that wasn't the case.
The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.
Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."
Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.
Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.
It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.
Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.
Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.
And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.
Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.
Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."
Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.
When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.
Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."
When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.
After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."
You're welcome, oh ginger one.
EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."
Call me proud of my membership in that group.
Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.
Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."
I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.
The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.
At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.
Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.
One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.
Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.
Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.
Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.
While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."
Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.
And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.
One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.
I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.
After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.
"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."
His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.
Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.
You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.
I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.
Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.
Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.
Do they give awards for finally getting it right?
Fortunately that wasn't the case.
The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.
Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."
Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.
Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.
It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.
Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.
Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.
And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.
Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.
Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."
Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.
When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.
Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."
When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.
After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."
You're welcome, oh ginger one.
EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."
Call me proud of my membership in that group.
Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.
Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."
I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.
The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.
At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.
Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.
One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.
Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.
Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.
Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.
While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."
Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.
And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.
One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.
I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.
After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.
"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."
His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.
Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.
You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.
I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.
Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.
Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.
Do they give awards for finally getting it right?
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Keeping Up is the Easy Part
The Friday evening exploration began on 17th Street and moved eastward with only one quick detour to the other side of the street.
New, old, old, new, old, new.
At C'est le Vin, there were a bevy of wines to be sampled and a familiar yet new consulting chef, Jannequin Bennett, debuting their new menu.
Chilled beet gazpacho with goat cheese mousse and celery made a non-beet eater swoon.Catalan chicken bruschetta, salt cod salad and pork belly over white beans hinted at what new taste delights await the wine drinker.
A third generation chocolatier, Kelly (as in Chocolates By) taught by her grandmother, a former chocolatier for Wanamaker's in Philly, seduced us with exquisite pieces of Petit Syrah in dark chocolate.
There were sixteen wines to be savored and after working our way through, we chose the Spanish bubbles of Eudaid Massana Noya "Familia" Brut Cava and the 2009 Pied de Perdrix (named for the 1,000-year old Partridge Foot vine, a distant cousin of Malbec) to leave with us.
Yum, yum.
A detour across the street took us to Main Street Station so the transplant could see its renovated magnificence.
The large-format photographs of the building flooded by Hurricane Camille or with the tables set in the dining cars couldn't compare to one of WWII soldiers kissing their girls goodbye, they inside the train and the girls outside.
Kisses were exchanged through the train windows and, for many girls, their feet left the ground, dangling above the edge of the track.
It was kissing as levitation method.
Leaving the train station, we set out up the hill to Globehopper for gypsy music by the Richmanian Ramblers, music both profound and hilarious.
The lovely Antonia Vassar and Nate Matthews on upright bass had an assemblage of talented musicians (including Clifton of Ilad and Moonbees and Jessica of the Jungle Beat) and a clarinetist who wrapped his woodwind around all those strings and hauntingly brought forth the gypsy spirit to the Bottom.
"Great is wine and tasteful as well
When you drink it with handsome people
But if you drink it with ugly people
The wine gets stuck in your throat."
Conversations with the accordion player on the topics of beauty, kindness and curating finished out the evening there
Continuing our eastward assault, we joined the throngs at Eric Schindler Gallery for "A Land of Strangers," Mary Chiaramonte's new show of acrylic works on birch panels,
The artist, herself a twin, used her paint to convey a sense of mystery, of other worldliness. It is a show of the surreal and the very real
"High Tide" showed a dark-haired girl floating in the water her hair fanning out around her, clutching a fish.
My favorite, "The Nameless" was entirely surreal: a woman in a dress stands in a field of blues and greens, her blond hair and the house on fire she holds providing a vibrant yellow cast against the cooler colors.
Discussing "The Sleepwalking," an image of a muscular-armed girl with a long torso and short, stocky legs in a bathroom, a French friend observed, "We call that a low rider."
Do we? Because I don't.
Schindler Gallery is busy. I run into the orchid guy, the cheese whiz, the woman who has poured me absinthe, the collector of old telephones.
Keeping with the neighborhood theme, and because we have been non-stop busy since the tapas at C'est le Vin, we end up at Aziza's on Main.
The bar is empty, waiting for our arrival, and glasses of Paololeo Promitivo di Manduria deliver a peppery nose and flavors of dark plum.
A favorite waitress shows off her "predator" look, sporting a leopard print top, a crouching tiger brooch on her shoulder and necklaces of various snarling beasts.
It's Friday night, so things should be a bit wild.
My time is spent sucking the marrow out of brick oven roasted bones (as I tend to do with my evenings, I am told) with grilled bread and pickled turnips.
My dining partner goes with seared fluke with wild mushrooms, gnocchi and basil lemon butter. The bites he shares with me are moist and buttery with an irresistibly crispy edge.
Because it is his first time at Aziza's, I stealthily order the cream puff so that he can experience it
He is properly bowled over, first by its size and then by its classic dark chocolate, cream and pastry one-two-three punch.
Sometimes you have let the pro do the ordering for you.
At our final stop, the wine was a 2002 Ravenswood Vintner's Blend Merlot, everything an insipid Merlot is not: full, soft and delectable.
Music comes in the form of "September" with a bossa nova beat. It's Ultra Funk time.
And the conversation? I say it's not a real question if you're just giving someone a hard time.
"World, world, sister world
World, world, sister world
When will I have enough of you?
When I give up bread for Lent
And the glass will give up on me
Maybe then I'll have enough of you."
Romanian gypsy music, truly profound and hilarious.
Just the way I want to live my life.
New, old, old, new, old, new.
At C'est le Vin, there were a bevy of wines to be sampled and a familiar yet new consulting chef, Jannequin Bennett, debuting their new menu.
Chilled beet gazpacho with goat cheese mousse and celery made a non-beet eater swoon.Catalan chicken bruschetta, salt cod salad and pork belly over white beans hinted at what new taste delights await the wine drinker.
A third generation chocolatier, Kelly (as in Chocolates By) taught by her grandmother, a former chocolatier for Wanamaker's in Philly, seduced us with exquisite pieces of Petit Syrah in dark chocolate.
There were sixteen wines to be savored and after working our way through, we chose the Spanish bubbles of Eudaid Massana Noya "Familia" Brut Cava and the 2009 Pied de Perdrix (named for the 1,000-year old Partridge Foot vine, a distant cousin of Malbec) to leave with us.
Yum, yum.
A detour across the street took us to Main Street Station so the transplant could see its renovated magnificence.
The large-format photographs of the building flooded by Hurricane Camille or with the tables set in the dining cars couldn't compare to one of WWII soldiers kissing their girls goodbye, they inside the train and the girls outside.
Kisses were exchanged through the train windows and, for many girls, their feet left the ground, dangling above the edge of the track.
It was kissing as levitation method.
Leaving the train station, we set out up the hill to Globehopper for gypsy music by the Richmanian Ramblers, music both profound and hilarious.
The lovely Antonia Vassar and Nate Matthews on upright bass had an assemblage of talented musicians (including Clifton of Ilad and Moonbees and Jessica of the Jungle Beat) and a clarinetist who wrapped his woodwind around all those strings and hauntingly brought forth the gypsy spirit to the Bottom.
"Great is wine and tasteful as well
When you drink it with handsome people
But if you drink it with ugly people
The wine gets stuck in your throat."
Conversations with the accordion player on the topics of beauty, kindness and curating finished out the evening there
Continuing our eastward assault, we joined the throngs at Eric Schindler Gallery for "A Land of Strangers," Mary Chiaramonte's new show of acrylic works on birch panels,
The artist, herself a twin, used her paint to convey a sense of mystery, of other worldliness. It is a show of the surreal and the very real
"High Tide" showed a dark-haired girl floating in the water her hair fanning out around her, clutching a fish.
My favorite, "The Nameless" was entirely surreal: a woman in a dress stands in a field of blues and greens, her blond hair and the house on fire she holds providing a vibrant yellow cast against the cooler colors.
Discussing "The Sleepwalking," an image of a muscular-armed girl with a long torso and short, stocky legs in a bathroom, a French friend observed, "We call that a low rider."
Do we? Because I don't.
Schindler Gallery is busy. I run into the orchid guy, the cheese whiz, the woman who has poured me absinthe, the collector of old telephones.
Keeping with the neighborhood theme, and because we have been non-stop busy since the tapas at C'est le Vin, we end up at Aziza's on Main.
The bar is empty, waiting for our arrival, and glasses of Paololeo Promitivo di Manduria deliver a peppery nose and flavors of dark plum.
A favorite waitress shows off her "predator" look, sporting a leopard print top, a crouching tiger brooch on her shoulder and necklaces of various snarling beasts.
It's Friday night, so things should be a bit wild.
My time is spent sucking the marrow out of brick oven roasted bones (as I tend to do with my evenings, I am told) with grilled bread and pickled turnips.
My dining partner goes with seared fluke with wild mushrooms, gnocchi and basil lemon butter. The bites he shares with me are moist and buttery with an irresistibly crispy edge.
Because it is his first time at Aziza's, I stealthily order the cream puff so that he can experience it
He is properly bowled over, first by its size and then by its classic dark chocolate, cream and pastry one-two-three punch.
Sometimes you have let the pro do the ordering for you.
At our final stop, the wine was a 2002 Ravenswood Vintner's Blend Merlot, everything an insipid Merlot is not: full, soft and delectable.
Music comes in the form of "September" with a bossa nova beat. It's Ultra Funk time.
And the conversation? I say it's not a real question if you're just giving someone a hard time.
"World, world, sister world
World, world, sister world
When will I have enough of you?
When I give up bread for Lent
And the glass will give up on me
Maybe then I'll have enough of you."
Romanian gypsy music, truly profound and hilarious.
Just the way I want to live my life.
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