Roger That

It's undoubtedly some kind of Murphy's law.

If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.

Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.

Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.

And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.

The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.

Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.

Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.

Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.

First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."

It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.

That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.

I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.

Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.

Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.

My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.

Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.

I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.

Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."

Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.

On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.

Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.

When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."

She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.

And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.

"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."

Don't worry. I didn't last time.

I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.

Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.

She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.

At least in drink form.

I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.

But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.

That sand gets everywhere.

Summer Solstice Celebration

Best way to begin a girls' night out: at the champagne table (next to the restrooms) followed by dark pink Bieler Pere et Fils Rose at the bar.

Best bites after oysters on the half shell: deconstructed softshell crab with asparagus, pickled ramps, bibb lettuce, shaved radish, watercress, green goddess dressing and white bone marrow. Perfection.

Best random server comment: "I love your dress, but I wish I had those," pointing at my breasts. I wish I had her curly hair.

Best story from a father: climbing a fire escape, seeing someone cooking breakfast in the nude and going home to ask his mother why someone would do that.

Best reason for a delay in hitting the road: her cutest shoes were in the last box she looked. I occupied myself eating peanut M & Ms while she strapped them on.

Best price for tequila: $6 for 1800, albeit in the far west end. Do I want to close out that tab? Um, no.

Best way to break the ice: grabbing the girlfriend and dancing to "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Love is alike a bomb, baby.

Best t-shirt on a bass player: "It's all shits and giggles until someone giggles and shits," which is not quite as good as the last t-shirt I saw him in, "Nice story, babe. Now go make me a sandwich."

Best way to stop a come-on: "I'll dance with you, yes, but no, I'm not giving you my number. Ever." And then dancing.

Best way to do something that reminds you of who you are at your core: go to a club with a girlfriend and stay until last call. How long has it been?

Best end-of-night comment leaving the club: "You are a dancing fool!" And this is a bad thing why?

Welcome, summer.

Rocky Mountain Hi!

You look like summer personified.

If I'm going to walk into a restaurant and immediately be complimented, it bodes extremely well for the rest of the evening.

The fact that the person holding open the door and commenting on my orange top and floral skirt was a woman mattered not at all.

It's a good week for me and womankind; yesterday, a woman told me accusingly that I looked seductive.

It was one of those things that sounds like it should be a compliment, but really isn't.

She who uttered the kind words ushered me to my visiting friend, the mixologist, here for a few days from Boulder and awaiting me at the bar.

It was an auspicious start to the evening, the weekend, and my upcoming vacation.

After a hug and an order of Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence Rose, we proceeded to catch up on all that had transpired since he moved to Colorado.

New tequilas (he's sending me a bottle), a busy week in his love life (with France on the horizon) and the pains of being devoted to a high-end clientele all spoke to his new life in the middle of the country.

So far away that when the Anderson's Neck oysters arrived, he admitted sheepishly that they were the first oysters he'd had since he'd left.

Well, except for Rocky Mountain oysters, and, as he acknowledged ruefully, "They're not the same."

Yea, bivalves and balls, not even close.

It was great to see him after so long and, as was our habit before we left, we wasted no time in talking and eating.

We started with the squash blossoms stuffed with braised lamb, a dish as sublimely beautiful as it tasted.

And don't even get me started on the $5 price tag.

Next came andouille-stuffed dates in tomato sauce, arriving in a little cast-iron skillet, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.

All around us, the place never slowed down, with people coming and going non-stop.

It didn't matter to us because we were busy discussing rye with a nearby customer, the benefits of Japanese shaker glasses and the doughnut craze hitting RVA.

I was intrigued by the guy who sat down at the bar and proceeded to read his "Washington Post," an act that would have gotten me talking to him if not for my friend's lively conversation.

Since my friend is the beverage director at a swanky restaurant, we soon found ourselves perusing the wine list for hidden gems.

Eureka!

Friend was intrigued to see the little-seen 2010 Massimiliano Calabretta Etna Rosso on the list.

After explaining to me about its unique site - the terroir volcanic ash and sand - he insisted that this was the wine we needed to drink tonight to celebrate seeing each other after nearly a year.

Boy, was he right. It was a long-aged, easy drinking summer red, somewhat reminiscent of a Barolo and with the most exquisite lingering finish.

A wine I'd likely never have tasted if he hadn't come to town, spotted it and insisted we needed it.

Did I mention what a dear friend this guy is?

Around 9:00, we looked outside to admire the rich, blue sky that refused to give up the last light of sunset.

These endless days are almost magical.

We moved on to the cheese plate, a misnomer if ever there was one.

Cabot cloth-bound cheddar, herb spetzle,smoked duck lardons, apple slices, sunflower shoots, date puree, and a hard cider cheese sauce made for a dish so deep in flavor (that spetzle! those lardons!) that all we could do was eat and sip and smile at each other in satisfaction.

Since it was his first visit to Dutch & Co, the place having opened since he moved away, he was thrilled to discover it was everything he'd heard it was (through Facebook, of course, not the grapevine).

Like the last first-timer I went with, he was surprised at the restaurant's low-key charm, but not at its stellar food since we'd been to Aziza's back when Chef Caleb had been cooking there.

As the restaurant emptied out, we realized it was time to go.

When I came back from the bathroom, it was to discover that his next date was texting him to find out why he wasn't yet at Balliceaux.

By the time I got home, it was to find he had already tagged me on FB with a picture of Dutch & Co's wine list. How appropriate.

I finally made it! Had a wonderful meal with a dear friend, Karen.

Also known as the personification of summer.

Wet and Wild

It was a night of unbridled enthusiasm.

I'd spent the week finishing several big assignments, so by the time 5:00 rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to get out and about.

I was barely six blocks from home and I saw a familiar face, Myron, a sculptor I know and whom I'd written about in this week's Style Weekly.

I called to him and we enjoyed a raucous conversation in the parking lot about the article.

He was especially tickled that I'd included his intended wording for his tombstone ("He was a fucking asshole"), saying he'd already heard from an out of town friend, bemused by it.

The night was off to a great start.

Driving down Main Street toward Carytown, it looked like everyone on the street was happy.

Once in Secco, one of the bartenders said as much. "You can practically feel people's energy on a Friday like this," he observed.

Let's just say it was so nice that I decided to turn the page to rose, kicking off the season with Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence rose, a pale salmon charmer with my name all over it.

I'd heard that they had a new menu and took suggestions from my server on what to eat.

He spoke highly of the roasted beets, dill creme fraiche, trout roe and rye crisps, so I said yes.

The guy two stools down was already eating the same dish and we compared raves about the complementary and satisfying flavors.

He went on to recommend the grilled octopus, roasted marbled potatoes, jalapeno and mint, a dish that knocked my socks off with its unexpected heat and toothsome seafood.

As my meal was winding down, I encountered a friend looking for a partner in crime, so I succumbed to her siren song and we enjoyed a springtime walk down to Acacia for a glass and some girltalk.

Both of us must have needed it because one would tell a story (often about our mother or sibling), which would remind the other of a story she needed to tell and then an anecdote from childhood (or worse, our teen years) followed ad nauseum.

While she tried cocktails, I stayed pink with Stolpman Rose, mainly because it was a Sangiovese and Grenache blend and I'm a sucker for both.

Our girl date came to an end when I needed to get to Strange Matter for a show and she needed to go crash after a long day.

Walking into Strange Matter was like walking into a sauna.

The place was packed and Warren Hixson, a local surf rock outfit, had the crowd in their thrall.

Front and center was Nelly Kate, a favorite of mine for her lovely voice and looping abilities, but I hadn't known she was in this band, so a bonus.

I found a friend and a big cup of water to ward off fainting in a room that felt dangerously bereft of air.

But, hey, that's rock and roll, right?

Given the size and sweatiness of the crowd, I wasted no time in finding a place on the wooden  banquette where I could stand and see over the crowd.

I gestured for a sweaty-looking friend to join me and he climbed up, too, maybe eager Io escape the crowd, many of whom had a large X on their hand.

Beach Fossils began their set with a jolt, taking no prisoners and inciting the crowd into a dancing frenzy in no time.

My friend observed that he liked how they combined chillwave and new wave, but the emphasis was more on new than chill.

Bandleader (and formerly the only one in the band) Dustin said tonight was the kick-off of their tour, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one thrilled to be catching them both at a small venue and early on in the tour.

"We haven't slept much, so we might be kind of out of it," he said preemptively.

The insane heat in the room ensured that his guitar never stayed tuned for long, a fact which he kept apologizing for ("Sorry to have to tune in between every song"), though he was no doubt as hot as we were.

"I gotta apologize when I hit a sour note," he grinned. "AKA, the whole set."

If his guitar was occasionally out of tune, his aching and appealing voice more than made up for it.

They did songs from their new album, "Clash the Truth" and their older albums, so everybody was happy.

As they got geared up to fever pitch, the knot of people dancing in the center of the room (where the temperature had to be even hotter than it was against the concrete walls) grew larger with people unable to resist the lo-fi garage pop onslaught of Beach Fossils.

Guitars jangled, the bass was melodic and the drums pounded away so that we couldn't lose the beat.

It was Friday night fun with a capital "F."

Dustin suggested we could expend even more energy, but it was all I could do to maintain my place on the banquette while my clothes became soggier and soggier.

And yet the girl next to me said she'd gone outside and been cold. Cold sounded awfully appealing by then.

"This is our fake last song," Dustin said. "Instead of pretending  this is our last and we're doing an encore, we're just going to do a few more."

That was the license for the audience to start crowd-surfing and before long, Dustin threw himself on top of eager fans.

Within moments, they dropped him, but he managed to scramble back on stage where they did "Daydream," a crowd favorite.

I didn't want the show to end, but I felt like I was melting against the people around me, so when Dustin climbed up on the bass drum to play his guitar, I knew the end was near.

I'd guess that the band's energy had to be near its end too, after an energetic set that left even my hair damp and all I'd done was dance in place.

The only logical thing to do was head out and hope to find some of that cold air I'd been hearing about.

Like my rose earlier, it had been a fine spring kick-off. AKA the whole set.