As a DC native, I will never think of National Airport as Reagan Airport. For my friend, it's Bombay that will never be Mumbai to him. And both of us are having a tough time making the transition from Bouchon to Bistro Bobette.
But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.
Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.
I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.
Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.
If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).
I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).
Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.
When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.
Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.
The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.
When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.
I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.
"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.
To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.
We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.
A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.
Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.
Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.
Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.
A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.
But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.
Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.
The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.
Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.
Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.
Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.
Showing posts with label Bouchon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bouchon. Show all posts
Friday, January 14, 2011
Friday, December 10, 2010
Lingering over a Long Lunch
I was supposed to have one kind of lunch with one friend and ended up with a completely different kind of lunch with another.
In between, I had to turn down the birthday boy, who had also suggested lunch today. Please note, I had no lunch plans any other day this week. Murphy's law of lunch invitations, perhaps?
Work threw me a monkey wrench, so by the time that was resolved, it was 1:30 and my original plans had been rescheduled. I didn't want to insult the birthday boy with a last minute invitation, so I let Door #3 know that I was free after all. Pick me up and pick the place, he said. Can do, I said.
Never having been to Bouchon for lunch, it seemed like the logical place when he said he wanted someplace we could enjoy a multi-course lunch. We were so late arriving that there was only one other couple lunching so we soon had the place to ourselves.
And then we did what the French espouse: ate our way through multiple courses as the afternoon progressed, until we were satisfied and ready for the weekend. Or a nap. Or whatever.
Friend is a baguette snob, so when he pronounced the warm crusty bread the best baguette he's had in Richmond (it was his first visit to Bouchon), I knew I'd made the right choice. We began with glasses of Muscadet and today's soup special, lobster bisque.
As orange as lobster claws and with a depth of flavor that spoke of time and talent, the bisque was the perfect way to take the chill off. It's been a cold week and while it may have warmed up from 25 to 43 degrees, it's still way too chilly for me.
So in the interest of being seasonal, our next course was bacon-wrapped venison pate with cranberry compote (kind of a sick nod to Rudolph and the whole holiday season), cornichons and hot mustard. My, my but this was outstanding, the kind of thing that requires wine and an unhurried attitude. We had plenty of both.
Friend had the beef tenders with potato gratin next and I opted for one of the specials. It was the Crozet Grayson cassoulet, consisting of crozet (tiny buckwheat pasta squares brought back from Francis' trip to France), onions, speck and Grayson cheese from Meadow Creek Dairy. I may have been a very French lunch, but a little touch of Virginia is always appreciated in these parts.
Rich, satisfying and the kind of homey, comforting dish that everyday people eat, just the pungent aroma of that rich and nutty Grayson melted on top was enough to tell me that I'd made the right choice. Maybe I should have been a French peasant instead of a...what? Whatever it is I am.
Friend's beef was exquisite, perfectly cooked and sauced, and the gratin so well done that he said it'll be his new standard for making a potato gratin at home, but I still liked mine better, even after multiple bites of his deliciousness.
You'd think that by this point, so much food and wine would have had us sprawled on the banquette groaning. Instead, we were having a terrific time being the welcoming committee for the restaurant staff as they came in to work dinner or returned from lunch.
Sipping and greeting, we chatted with Chef Francis (who applauded our course selections), bartender Olivier (doing the heavy lifting, but charming as always) and owner Wendy, recently returned from NYC and quick to note that it was my first lunch at Bouchon (when she asked what I'd eaten, she said to my friend, "She always gets the good stuff").
Despite the weather, this particular friend is constitutionally unable to resist homemade ice cream and Bouchon was offering bourbon ice cream with toasted pumpkin seed on top, so his choice was a given.
I had the chocolate cloustillant, a multi-layered dessert, part crispy bottom and part dense mousse on top; all chocolate all the time, and the last bite savored with the last sip of wine. Two and a half hours gone, but not soon forgotten.
Best of all, I still have the lunch with Door #1 to look forward to next week. And lunch with the birthday boy is always certain to be a good time.
But as epic French Friday lunches go, today's really couldn't have been any more pleasurable. Considering it was a last-minute substitute for what I really wanted to do, I'm feeling pretty fortunate right about now.
Or maybe that's just fullness. Either way, well satisfied.
In between, I had to turn down the birthday boy, who had also suggested lunch today. Please note, I had no lunch plans any other day this week. Murphy's law of lunch invitations, perhaps?
Work threw me a monkey wrench, so by the time that was resolved, it was 1:30 and my original plans had been rescheduled. I didn't want to insult the birthday boy with a last minute invitation, so I let Door #3 know that I was free after all. Pick me up and pick the place, he said. Can do, I said.
Never having been to Bouchon for lunch, it seemed like the logical place when he said he wanted someplace we could enjoy a multi-course lunch. We were so late arriving that there was only one other couple lunching so we soon had the place to ourselves.
And then we did what the French espouse: ate our way through multiple courses as the afternoon progressed, until we were satisfied and ready for the weekend. Or a nap. Or whatever.
Friend is a baguette snob, so when he pronounced the warm crusty bread the best baguette he's had in Richmond (it was his first visit to Bouchon), I knew I'd made the right choice. We began with glasses of Muscadet and today's soup special, lobster bisque.
As orange as lobster claws and with a depth of flavor that spoke of time and talent, the bisque was the perfect way to take the chill off. It's been a cold week and while it may have warmed up from 25 to 43 degrees, it's still way too chilly for me.
So in the interest of being seasonal, our next course was bacon-wrapped venison pate with cranberry compote (kind of a sick nod to Rudolph and the whole holiday season), cornichons and hot mustard. My, my but this was outstanding, the kind of thing that requires wine and an unhurried attitude. We had plenty of both.
Friend had the beef tenders with potato gratin next and I opted for one of the specials. It was the Crozet Grayson cassoulet, consisting of crozet (tiny buckwheat pasta squares brought back from Francis' trip to France), onions, speck and Grayson cheese from Meadow Creek Dairy. I may have been a very French lunch, but a little touch of Virginia is always appreciated in these parts.
Rich, satisfying and the kind of homey, comforting dish that everyday people eat, just the pungent aroma of that rich and nutty Grayson melted on top was enough to tell me that I'd made the right choice. Maybe I should have been a French peasant instead of a...what? Whatever it is I am.
Friend's beef was exquisite, perfectly cooked and sauced, and the gratin so well done that he said it'll be his new standard for making a potato gratin at home, but I still liked mine better, even after multiple bites of his deliciousness.
You'd think that by this point, so much food and wine would have had us sprawled on the banquette groaning. Instead, we were having a terrific time being the welcoming committee for the restaurant staff as they came in to work dinner or returned from lunch.
Sipping and greeting, we chatted with Chef Francis (who applauded our course selections), bartender Olivier (doing the heavy lifting, but charming as always) and owner Wendy, recently returned from NYC and quick to note that it was my first lunch at Bouchon (when she asked what I'd eaten, she said to my friend, "She always gets the good stuff").
Despite the weather, this particular friend is constitutionally unable to resist homemade ice cream and Bouchon was offering bourbon ice cream with toasted pumpkin seed on top, so his choice was a given.
I had the chocolate cloustillant, a multi-layered dessert, part crispy bottom and part dense mousse on top; all chocolate all the time, and the last bite savored with the last sip of wine. Two and a half hours gone, but not soon forgotten.
Best of all, I still have the lunch with Door #1 to look forward to next week. And lunch with the birthday boy is always certain to be a good time.
But as epic French Friday lunches go, today's really couldn't have been any more pleasurable. Considering it was a last-minute substitute for what I really wanted to do, I'm feeling pretty fortunate right about now.
Or maybe that's just fullness. Either way, well satisfied.
Friday, November 12, 2010
"The Banquette is on Fire"
When you have a picky eater for a friend, sadly it severely limits your restaurant choices. Knowing this, it's just easier to choose a place I know she likes and avoid the dozens of others she doesn't. That's how we ended up at Bouchon yet again.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
From the Fan to the Bottom to the Slip Version 2.0
What if there was a party and nobody but women came? What if nobody but women were invited? That would be a friend's annual Thesmophoria extravaganza, celebrating the ancient Greek festival for women only (men were supposed to be working, although frequently they came to ogle).
I'm always flattered to be asked since she gathers such an interesting group together for the evening. Julia from River City Cellars brings three great wines (I was unashamedly back to her favorite breakfast bubbles, the Tete a Claques I'd been drinking just two nights before) and all the best cheeses and the women bring the rest of the food (which always means an obscene amount of desserts).
The first thing I overheard when I walked in late to the already in-progress party was, " So do you take Nyquil?" It doesn't have the same ring as other self-medicating questions I have heard at parties.
But that was just one of many conversations I joined and then exited as I made my way through the house to meet and greet all these women.
I finally had to say my goodbyes since I'd promised to pick up a friend for an evening of light. We parked in the Bottom and began at Julep, which is always fun when Bobby's mixing.
I knew he'd been busy lately making new concoctions and listening to David Bowie, and was curious about the results. If Bowie's not old-school inspirational, I don't know who is (actually I do: Bryan Ferry).
It wasn't long before he got out his torch and presented each of us with a big roasted coconut marshmallow he'd made. I'm a coconut fan anyway, but Bobby had used coconut water instead of plain water in his recipe.
The result was scrumptious, the most sublime over-sized marshmallow I've ever put into my mouth. He created it to sit atop the Jack Skellington, but I had it as a side for my (surprise!) Corozon tequila.
Friend enjoyed a couple of cocktails (including two off Bobby's list) before we decided that it was time to join the throngs and start exploring InLight. The first piece that really grabbed me was the covered wagon with its projections of new frontier travel. Sitting in the middle of Cary Street, it was like a ghost from another era.
Sacer-totem, made of plasric nativity scene figures stacked up totem pole-like brought a smile to many viewers' faces. The Virgin Mary perched on top of assorted Wise Men made for a particularly arresting lighted visual.
All of Cary Street was transformed simply by having the street lights off. It gave the area a much different vibe (which I liked) and allowed people to drop into the shadows when they wanted to. Kind of cool.
At Bouchon, we were greeted by a madhouse. The last time I saw the place that crazy was the Bastille Day party. But the kissing bartender and chef promised us a table or bar stools and we only had to stand to sip our drinks for a bit.
The bar menu of which I'm so fond had some new listings for the evening, so we tried the onion tart, the pork and beans (so popular it had been changed from a full serving to a half) and the mushroom soup.
Friend had been unsure what to expect out of the standard-sounding pork and beans, so the sausage and white bean combo was a pleasant surprise to him. I knew Francis would do it up right, so I wasn't the least bit surprised.
The guy on the other side of me joined in our conversation about Caddyshack and music after a while and I didn't hold it against him that he liked Vampire Weekend, although I did share my opinion of the copycat little prepsters (even so, it couldn't have been too off-putting because when he got up to leave later, apropos of nothing, he said, "Come on, leave with me").
It was while he was sampling around the bar offerings (Port, pear-infused brandy, red wine) that bartender Olivier asked me if I liked apple pie and set a glass down in front of me. Very apple-like and I didn't even bother to ask what it might be. Next time.
The conversation was varied and, at times downright revealing, and before I knew it we were nearing the bewitching hour when InLight would go dark. Before that happened, Olivier grabbed me and led me downstairs and out the back way to see all the installations on the block behind Bouchon. Chef Francis joined me for the art.
There were two pop-up galleries back there, so a lot to see. Probably my favorite was Unwilling Nervous Courage, consisting of both a male nude and a reclining female nude, both magnificently carved in wood with video projections across them. We were both fascinated by the implications.
Another piece that fed the viewer's ego used a camera in one little room to project our image onto another wall. "If we stand here, the camera records whatever we do." Risky business for some.
Francis and I were both impressed by Horizon in the Fold; the columns of light behind the curtain gave a blowing, billowing effect that mirrored a balmy day with the window open, except with light as the moving force. For me, it was like seeing a sunset through the curtain of a beach cottage window, all gentle movement and subtle colors.
By the time I'd finished seeing everything I could, artists and friends had began pulling up extension cords and untaping power strips, so I headed back upstairs. We enjoyed more conversation as the bar finally began to thin out and eventually close down.
Walking back to the Bottom to retrieve my car, a passing girl said to me, "I love your purple tights!" And they don't compare to the new burgundy lace ones. Still, there is nothing quite like a random compliment at 1:45 a.m.
Actually, there's nothing like random compliment anytime. It won't give me a big head, I promise.
I'm always flattered to be asked since she gathers such an interesting group together for the evening. Julia from River City Cellars brings three great wines (I was unashamedly back to her favorite breakfast bubbles, the Tete a Claques I'd been drinking just two nights before) and all the best cheeses and the women bring the rest of the food (which always means an obscene amount of desserts).
The first thing I overheard when I walked in late to the already in-progress party was, " So do you take Nyquil?" It doesn't have the same ring as other self-medicating questions I have heard at parties.
But that was just one of many conversations I joined and then exited as I made my way through the house to meet and greet all these women.
I finally had to say my goodbyes since I'd promised to pick up a friend for an evening of light. We parked in the Bottom and began at Julep, which is always fun when Bobby's mixing.
I knew he'd been busy lately making new concoctions and listening to David Bowie, and was curious about the results. If Bowie's not old-school inspirational, I don't know who is (actually I do: Bryan Ferry).
It wasn't long before he got out his torch and presented each of us with a big roasted coconut marshmallow he'd made. I'm a coconut fan anyway, but Bobby had used coconut water instead of plain water in his recipe.
The result was scrumptious, the most sublime over-sized marshmallow I've ever put into my mouth. He created it to sit atop the Jack Skellington, but I had it as a side for my (surprise!) Corozon tequila.
Friend enjoyed a couple of cocktails (including two off Bobby's list) before we decided that it was time to join the throngs and start exploring InLight. The first piece that really grabbed me was the covered wagon with its projections of new frontier travel. Sitting in the middle of Cary Street, it was like a ghost from another era.
Sacer-totem, made of plasric nativity scene figures stacked up totem pole-like brought a smile to many viewers' faces. The Virgin Mary perched on top of assorted Wise Men made for a particularly arresting lighted visual.
All of Cary Street was transformed simply by having the street lights off. It gave the area a much different vibe (which I liked) and allowed people to drop into the shadows when they wanted to. Kind of cool.
At Bouchon, we were greeted by a madhouse. The last time I saw the place that crazy was the Bastille Day party. But the kissing bartender and chef promised us a table or bar stools and we only had to stand to sip our drinks for a bit.
The bar menu of which I'm so fond had some new listings for the evening, so we tried the onion tart, the pork and beans (so popular it had been changed from a full serving to a half) and the mushroom soup.
Friend had been unsure what to expect out of the standard-sounding pork and beans, so the sausage and white bean combo was a pleasant surprise to him. I knew Francis would do it up right, so I wasn't the least bit surprised.
The guy on the other side of me joined in our conversation about Caddyshack and music after a while and I didn't hold it against him that he liked Vampire Weekend, although I did share my opinion of the copycat little prepsters (even so, it couldn't have been too off-putting because when he got up to leave later, apropos of nothing, he said, "Come on, leave with me").
It was while he was sampling around the bar offerings (Port, pear-infused brandy, red wine) that bartender Olivier asked me if I liked apple pie and set a glass down in front of me. Very apple-like and I didn't even bother to ask what it might be. Next time.
The conversation was varied and, at times downright revealing, and before I knew it we were nearing the bewitching hour when InLight would go dark. Before that happened, Olivier grabbed me and led me downstairs and out the back way to see all the installations on the block behind Bouchon. Chef Francis joined me for the art.
There were two pop-up galleries back there, so a lot to see. Probably my favorite was Unwilling Nervous Courage, consisting of both a male nude and a reclining female nude, both magnificently carved in wood with video projections across them. We were both fascinated by the implications.
Another piece that fed the viewer's ego used a camera in one little room to project our image onto another wall. "If we stand here, the camera records whatever we do." Risky business for some.
Francis and I were both impressed by Horizon in the Fold; the columns of light behind the curtain gave a blowing, billowing effect that mirrored a balmy day with the window open, except with light as the moving force. For me, it was like seeing a sunset through the curtain of a beach cottage window, all gentle movement and subtle colors.
By the time I'd finished seeing everything I could, artists and friends had began pulling up extension cords and untaping power strips, so I headed back upstairs. We enjoyed more conversation as the bar finally began to thin out and eventually close down.
Walking back to the Bottom to retrieve my car, a passing girl said to me, "I love your purple tights!" And they don't compare to the new burgundy lace ones. Still, there is nothing quite like a random compliment at 1:45 a.m.
Actually, there's nothing like random compliment anytime. It won't give me a big head, I promise.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Trout and Bossa Nova
Every restaurant visit should begin with a hug and kiss from both the bartender and chef, don't you think? It sets such an inviting mood for guests. Kudos to Bouchon for already adopting this custom. Now if I can just get them to take bar reservations.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Lectures, Lyrics and Duck Pate
Prabir, one of the patron saints of Richmond's music scene and a self-proclaimed nerd, created the quintessential music event tonight as part of the new Gallery 5 After 5 series. It wasn't just music and it wasn't just a lecture. It was music, followed by a lecture about music, followed by more music. Be still my heart.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Bastille Day at Bouchon
I really had no intention of celebrating Bastille Day but how could I resist a party invitation from a Frenchman? Francis and Wendy at Bouchon were throwing a soiree as a thank you for those they referred to as loyal supporters, as well as to celebrate French independence. All of a sudden I was on the Bastille Day bandwagon.
When I arrived, it was business as usual up front in the restaurant but the bar area in the back was jam-packed with other loyals in full party swing. The charming Olivier was pouring as fast as two French hands can pour and both Francis and Wendy were passing trays of delectables (tiny pea-stuffed tomatoes, pork rillete crostini, tuna-stuffed mushrooms, fish mousse on bread crisps) to the noisy crowd.
I found my spot at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall, the perfect vantage point for both crowd observation and servicing by Olivier. At one point, he brought over a tray of goodies, saying that Francis had told him to bring them to me. "He's trying to fatten me up," I told Olivier, taking two. "We like our women with curves," Olivier said, leaning on the bar and speaking for Frenchmen everywhere.
I had plenty of visitors to my corner, many of them lawyers due to Bouchon's popularity as the legal lunchtime hot spot. I met a French Canadian, a New Yorker and a Puerto Rican, all of them enthusiastic transplants with nothing but good things to say about their adopted city. And when asked for recommendations both cultural and dining, I volunteered my humble opinion. Transplants love to get the skinny from another transplant, or so it would seem.
Following so much French fun, I met a friend and we walked over to Balliceaux to hear Ombak play. I'd only heard them once before and that was at Lance Koehler's Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill when they were recording their CD, so the experience had been a bit disjointed. I was looking forward to hearing them in total.
Tonight I was able to sit back and enjoy their intriguing sound, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between. The combination of acoustic bass, guitar, drums and trombone soars because of the sheer musical talent of the band: Cameron Ralston. Trey Pollard, Brian Jones and Brian Hooten, all major players on the local jazz scene.
If I'd thought of it, I could have recommended to the lawyer set that they stop by Balliceaux for music after the party, like I did. As it was, one couple had invited me to go to dinner with them after the party, but I'd declined because of my musical plans (although they took my card, and I feel certain I'll hear from them again).
Even on Bastille Day, music trumps all else. Well, that and Francis had fed me enough food for three curvy Frenchwomen. Who needed dinner?
When I arrived, it was business as usual up front in the restaurant but the bar area in the back was jam-packed with other loyals in full party swing. The charming Olivier was pouring as fast as two French hands can pour and both Francis and Wendy were passing trays of delectables (tiny pea-stuffed tomatoes, pork rillete crostini, tuna-stuffed mushrooms, fish mousse on bread crisps) to the noisy crowd.
I found my spot at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall, the perfect vantage point for both crowd observation and servicing by Olivier. At one point, he brought over a tray of goodies, saying that Francis had told him to bring them to me. "He's trying to fatten me up," I told Olivier, taking two. "We like our women with curves," Olivier said, leaning on the bar and speaking for Frenchmen everywhere.
I had plenty of visitors to my corner, many of them lawyers due to Bouchon's popularity as the legal lunchtime hot spot. I met a French Canadian, a New Yorker and a Puerto Rican, all of them enthusiastic transplants with nothing but good things to say about their adopted city. And when asked for recommendations both cultural and dining, I volunteered my humble opinion. Transplants love to get the skinny from another transplant, or so it would seem.
Following so much French fun, I met a friend and we walked over to Balliceaux to hear Ombak play. I'd only heard them once before and that was at Lance Koehler's Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill when they were recording their CD, so the experience had been a bit disjointed. I was looking forward to hearing them in total.
Tonight I was able to sit back and enjoy their intriguing sound, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between. The combination of acoustic bass, guitar, drums and trombone soars because of the sheer musical talent of the band: Cameron Ralston. Trey Pollard, Brian Jones and Brian Hooten, all major players on the local jazz scene.
If I'd thought of it, I could have recommended to the lawyer set that they stop by Balliceaux for music after the party, like I did. As it was, one couple had invited me to go to dinner with them after the party, but I'd declined because of my musical plans (although they took my card, and I feel certain I'll hear from them again).
Even on Bastille Day, music trumps all else. Well, that and Francis had fed me enough food for three curvy Frenchwomen. Who needed dinner?
Monday, June 21, 2010
Bouchon: Seeking Talk. Finding Brains.
The beauty of Bouchon is that every time I go there, I meet a bumper crop of entertaining people.
The clientele draws from people in the neighborhood (Vistas on the James, Riverside on the James, Monroe Ward) as well as travelers (Boston, Cincinnati, Williamsburg) and tonight was no different, so I had no shortage of engrossing conversational partners.
And that wasn't even counting Chef Francis and wife Wendy, who wanted my opinion on a dozen different rva restaurants.
Maybe Antonia was right about my restaurant referral service, although I always qualify these conversations by reminding people that all I can offer is my opinion and that I'm not any sort of expert.
The discussion got off to a synergistic start, though, when we discovered that we shared the same opinion of the holy grail of RVA dining and rolled on from there.
I debated over the menu while sipping a Loire Muscadet and had just about decided when I heard the specials, changing everything.
"Calf brain with capers, croutons, lemon and brown butter," my server said. Done.
I turned to Francis and asked why I would order off the regular menu and pass up such an infrequently-seen delicacy, to which he answered, "Only if you have no brains do you pass up brains."
That's me, always providing the humorous set-up. Then he excused himself to prepare my brains.
Just as I was chatting up a nearby bar-sitter about music (there are few people with whom I can discus Nick Zinner and he was one) and he was sharing his wine geekiness (telling me about a can't- miss upcoming tasting), a plate arrived from the kitchen bearing Caillettes, a specialty from Provence, made of veal, pork and Swiss chard.
These fat little sausage-like bundles were incredibly rich, so the accompanying frisse helped offset the indulgence.
Well, that and the wine. The meal was off to a superb start.
Then came my brains and they were a sensory delight. I was inhaling the heady scent of the butter-sauteed brains, I was looking at a plate of brown butter with tiny little croutons and capers and the texture could only be described as creamy.
Good god, they were wonderful and I ate every bite. I told Francis he was ruining my figure and he just laughed. Apparently he's okay with that.
I enjoyed conversation and Rose with a Petersburg-born local with a bowtie and an affinity for history and the symphony; he seemed to be as big a Richmond booster as I am.
It's always fun to talk to someone who doesn't blanch when they learn I don't have a TV, although he did have to explain a Sex and the City reference to me as a result.
When the subject of the Virginia State Capital came up, I shared that I was undoubtedly one of the few people who has ever stood on its roof and marveled at the magnificent 360-degree view of the city.
We talked about touring the renovated Capital together since I haven't been since it reopened and he had nothing but raves for its new look. History geeks unite!
The local next to me started to chat up the visitor from Cincinnati about restaurants, offering recommendations.
I mostly stayed out of it (although I didn't always agree with his picks) until he started raving about the Tobacco Company. I prefer to show our best rather than our most cliched side to out-of-towners, so I interjected. I had to.
If a person is only in town for three nights, I prefer not to underwhelm them, especially with all we have to offer now. The visitor thanked me for my input with a wink and a smile.
From an empty bar on my arrival through all kinds of conversational tangents with a full bar, I left a half-filled bar to carry on without me.
I have no doubt that my next trip to Bouchon will again yield an array of good talkers and an excellent meal.
It always does.
The clientele draws from people in the neighborhood (Vistas on the James, Riverside on the James, Monroe Ward) as well as travelers (Boston, Cincinnati, Williamsburg) and tonight was no different, so I had no shortage of engrossing conversational partners.
And that wasn't even counting Chef Francis and wife Wendy, who wanted my opinion on a dozen different rva restaurants.
Maybe Antonia was right about my restaurant referral service, although I always qualify these conversations by reminding people that all I can offer is my opinion and that I'm not any sort of expert.
The discussion got off to a synergistic start, though, when we discovered that we shared the same opinion of the holy grail of RVA dining and rolled on from there.
I debated over the menu while sipping a Loire Muscadet and had just about decided when I heard the specials, changing everything.
"Calf brain with capers, croutons, lemon and brown butter," my server said. Done.
I turned to Francis and asked why I would order off the regular menu and pass up such an infrequently-seen delicacy, to which he answered, "Only if you have no brains do you pass up brains."
That's me, always providing the humorous set-up. Then he excused himself to prepare my brains.
Just as I was chatting up a nearby bar-sitter about music (there are few people with whom I can discus Nick Zinner and he was one) and he was sharing his wine geekiness (telling me about a can't- miss upcoming tasting), a plate arrived from the kitchen bearing Caillettes, a specialty from Provence, made of veal, pork and Swiss chard.
These fat little sausage-like bundles were incredibly rich, so the accompanying frisse helped offset the indulgence.
Well, that and the wine. The meal was off to a superb start.
Then came my brains and they were a sensory delight. I was inhaling the heady scent of the butter-sauteed brains, I was looking at a plate of brown butter with tiny little croutons and capers and the texture could only be described as creamy.
Good god, they were wonderful and I ate every bite. I told Francis he was ruining my figure and he just laughed. Apparently he's okay with that.
I enjoyed conversation and Rose with a Petersburg-born local with a bowtie and an affinity for history and the symphony; he seemed to be as big a Richmond booster as I am.
It's always fun to talk to someone who doesn't blanch when they learn I don't have a TV, although he did have to explain a Sex and the City reference to me as a result.
When the subject of the Virginia State Capital came up, I shared that I was undoubtedly one of the few people who has ever stood on its roof and marveled at the magnificent 360-degree view of the city.
We talked about touring the renovated Capital together since I haven't been since it reopened and he had nothing but raves for its new look. History geeks unite!
The local next to me started to chat up the visitor from Cincinnati about restaurants, offering recommendations.
I mostly stayed out of it (although I didn't always agree with his picks) until he started raving about the Tobacco Company. I prefer to show our best rather than our most cliched side to out-of-towners, so I interjected. I had to.
If a person is only in town for three nights, I prefer not to underwhelm them, especially with all we have to offer now. The visitor thanked me for my input with a wink and a smile.
From an empty bar on my arrival through all kinds of conversational tangents with a full bar, I left a half-filled bar to carry on without me.
I have no doubt that my next trip to Bouchon will again yield an array of good talkers and an excellent meal.
It always does.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It Only Looked Like a Date
I sold out Bicycle Dreams for Bouchon.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Buying Me at Bouchon
Allow me to acknowledge that I can be bought.
Granted, bought by a friend, but bought. A friend who hasn't seen me in several weeks, but bought.
Me: Where do you want to eat?
Friend: How about Bouchon? We always meet interesting people there.
Me: No, I just ate there less than a week ago.
Friend: How about if I buy the wine, then can we go?
Me: (Sigh)
Friend: Oh, come on.
Me: Okay.
It's not that I don't enjoy Bouchon; I do.
And last week's visit had been to experience the early prix fixe menu and tonight's plan was to sit at the bar and enjoy the frugal bar menu.
At least that's the rationalization I was working off of. I had to justify revisiting a restaurant so soon after having been there in a town rife with excellent and varied choices.
Bouchon was crawling with Gen Ass types when we arrived around 7:45; I mean suits as far as the eye could see.
We even had to wait for three of them to vacate their bar stools to even sit down ("I kept it warm for you," one of them told me, patting his stool).
So that you know, the wine for which I sold my preference down the river was a Lauverjat Sancerre Moulin des Vrilleres and I only had one glass.
As soon as the bartender saw me, he placed the framed bar menu in front of me, saying, "I know you like the bar menu."
It's true, the prices are the draw but the food always delivers.
Splurging on three $4 choices, I got the Bouchon salad, the quiche du jour (sun dried tomatoes, Swiss cheese and mushrooms) and the Croque Monsieur.
I've had the salad before and knew it was well done and found the quiche to be the deep-dish variety and full of flavor.
The Croque Monsieur was the highlight, thick with French ham and melted Gruyere on brioche. That was three very different tastes, more than enough food and all for a mere $12.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
For the same $12, my friend got a personal favorite there, the Coq au Vin, but then also splurged on pommes frittes (an itch I had scratched at lunch) and the speck tart (easily my favorite thing on the regular menu and one I've ordered far too often).
I think she was just jealous of my multi-tasting and couldn't settle for just one dish after all.
A nearby bar sitter was celebrating his birthday with some wine tasting with the chef once things settled down.
We toasted him and I asked if he wanted to tell me his age; he wound up as if to deliver the magic number in a big way and then said, "No."
His pregnant pause was so beautifully done that we both laughed out loud; I even felt it worthy of compliment.
The couple next to him, port drinkers, consisted of a guy raised in South Boston ("That's tobacco country, you know!") and his gal pal ("I was not a home wrecker. I am not the other woman.") who talked loudly and to anyone who would listen.
My friend, who travels constantly for work, gravitates to Bouchon because "it doesn't feel like it's in Richmond."
I don't know, with Gen Ass suits and tobacco country refugees, it certainly doesn't feel far off to me.
Not that it matters, what with the gift of wine and a $4 menu.
Some of us are just so easy to please.
Granted, bought by a friend, but bought. A friend who hasn't seen me in several weeks, but bought.
Me: Where do you want to eat?
Friend: How about Bouchon? We always meet interesting people there.
Me: No, I just ate there less than a week ago.
Friend: How about if I buy the wine, then can we go?
Me: (Sigh)
Friend: Oh, come on.
Me: Okay.
It's not that I don't enjoy Bouchon; I do.
And last week's visit had been to experience the early prix fixe menu and tonight's plan was to sit at the bar and enjoy the frugal bar menu.
At least that's the rationalization I was working off of. I had to justify revisiting a restaurant so soon after having been there in a town rife with excellent and varied choices.
Bouchon was crawling with Gen Ass types when we arrived around 7:45; I mean suits as far as the eye could see.
We even had to wait for three of them to vacate their bar stools to even sit down ("I kept it warm for you," one of them told me, patting his stool).
So that you know, the wine for which I sold my preference down the river was a Lauverjat Sancerre Moulin des Vrilleres and I only had one glass.
As soon as the bartender saw me, he placed the framed bar menu in front of me, saying, "I know you like the bar menu."
It's true, the prices are the draw but the food always delivers.
Splurging on three $4 choices, I got the Bouchon salad, the quiche du jour (sun dried tomatoes, Swiss cheese and mushrooms) and the Croque Monsieur.
I've had the salad before and knew it was well done and found the quiche to be the deep-dish variety and full of flavor.
The Croque Monsieur was the highlight, thick with French ham and melted Gruyere on brioche. That was three very different tastes, more than enough food and all for a mere $12.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
For the same $12, my friend got a personal favorite there, the Coq au Vin, but then also splurged on pommes frittes (an itch I had scratched at lunch) and the speck tart (easily my favorite thing on the regular menu and one I've ordered far too often).
I think she was just jealous of my multi-tasting and couldn't settle for just one dish after all.
A nearby bar sitter was celebrating his birthday with some wine tasting with the chef once things settled down.
We toasted him and I asked if he wanted to tell me his age; he wound up as if to deliver the magic number in a big way and then said, "No."
His pregnant pause was so beautifully done that we both laughed out loud; I even felt it worthy of compliment.
The couple next to him, port drinkers, consisted of a guy raised in South Boston ("That's tobacco country, you know!") and his gal pal ("I was not a home wrecker. I am not the other woman.") who talked loudly and to anyone who would listen.
My friend, who travels constantly for work, gravitates to Bouchon because "it doesn't feel like it's in Richmond."
I don't know, with Gen Ass suits and tobacco country refugees, it certainly doesn't feel far off to me.
Not that it matters, what with the gift of wine and a $4 menu.
Some of us are just so easy to please.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Bouchon and Bargain Art
After playing recessionista at the thrift store this afternoon, it seemed only natural to follow up with a bargain of a dinner. And if there's one good thing about us mucking about in this recession for so long, it's the proliferation of prix fixe menus around town. Tonight my friend and I decided to check out what Bouchon had to offer.
They're strict about the rules, though; you have from 5:00 to 6:00 to get your order in to qualify for the three-course $20 meal. The choices were simple and pre-determined: soup or salad, meat or fish and two dessert choices (neither chocolate).
Tonight's soup was lentil and bacon and there's no way I'd pass up on either of those ingredients; the salad was mixed greens with tomato and cucumber in a house dressing. The soup was heavenly, rich and flavorful and ideal for sopping with the excellent crusty bread once the bacon and lentils were eaten.
For entrees we could choose either shepherd's pie or flounder in a lemon/butter sauce over sauteed spinach, which was what I got. The fish was perfectly cooked and both it and the spinach were sitting in a delicate pool of lemon butter.
Dessert choices were creme brulee or vanilla ice cream and while I ordered the creme brulee tonight, I've had their vanilla ice cream before and it's decadently worth it, even if it isn't chocolate.
The couple nearest us provided amusement during our meal; she arrived first and told her server she was waiting for her boyfriend. He may as well have been a stranger, though, because when they weren't actually eating, they were on their devices and almost no real interaction between them occurred the entire time they dined together. Not my definition of romance...or even a shared meal. What's the point really?
Afterwards I went to the opening at Eric Schindler Gallery of J. Pocklington's "Thrift Junk Scrap Dollar Store Sculpture." Are you seeing a recurring them throughout my day? The pieces were mixed media, a combination of found and cheaply bought items put together and then painted, some uniformly in one color and others painted in great detail. Two had already sold before I even arrived. which wasn't too surprising given their uniqueness.
I ran into my favorite Jackson Ward art collector (his is undoubtedly the best collection in the 'hood), who introduced me to Kirsten Gray, the owner and director of the gallery. We got to talking about buying local art and I told her that my biggest sacrifice these days is not being able to buy anything. She told me about her grandmother who had the same regret during the Great Depression.
Her solution was threefold according to Kirsten; she frequently visited galleries, she played rummy and she danced. And by the time the economy finally improved, she'd honed her artistic sense to the point that she knew what she liked and what she wanted to own.
Now I realize that that's what I've been doing this past year. Well, not the rummy and the dancing because I'm terrible at both, but the admiring and absorbing and imagining what I'd add to my collection.
So I'll continue to shop at thrift stores and put my money towards supporting local artists. And maybe when all is said and done, I could work toward having the second best local art collection in J-Ward.
I think Kirsten's grandma would approve.
They're strict about the rules, though; you have from 5:00 to 6:00 to get your order in to qualify for the three-course $20 meal. The choices were simple and pre-determined: soup or salad, meat or fish and two dessert choices (neither chocolate).
Tonight's soup was lentil and bacon and there's no way I'd pass up on either of those ingredients; the salad was mixed greens with tomato and cucumber in a house dressing. The soup was heavenly, rich and flavorful and ideal for sopping with the excellent crusty bread once the bacon and lentils were eaten.
For entrees we could choose either shepherd's pie or flounder in a lemon/butter sauce over sauteed spinach, which was what I got. The fish was perfectly cooked and both it and the spinach were sitting in a delicate pool of lemon butter.
Dessert choices were creme brulee or vanilla ice cream and while I ordered the creme brulee tonight, I've had their vanilla ice cream before and it's decadently worth it, even if it isn't chocolate.
The couple nearest us provided amusement during our meal; she arrived first and told her server she was waiting for her boyfriend. He may as well have been a stranger, though, because when they weren't actually eating, they were on their devices and almost no real interaction between them occurred the entire time they dined together. Not my definition of romance...or even a shared meal. What's the point really?
Afterwards I went to the opening at Eric Schindler Gallery of J. Pocklington's "Thrift Junk Scrap Dollar Store Sculpture." Are you seeing a recurring them throughout my day? The pieces were mixed media, a combination of found and cheaply bought items put together and then painted, some uniformly in one color and others painted in great detail. Two had already sold before I even arrived. which wasn't too surprising given their uniqueness.
I ran into my favorite Jackson Ward art collector (his is undoubtedly the best collection in the 'hood), who introduced me to Kirsten Gray, the owner and director of the gallery. We got to talking about buying local art and I told her that my biggest sacrifice these days is not being able to buy anything. She told me about her grandmother who had the same regret during the Great Depression.
Her solution was threefold according to Kirsten; she frequently visited galleries, she played rummy and she danced. And by the time the economy finally improved, she'd honed her artistic sense to the point that she knew what she liked and what she wanted to own.
Now I realize that that's what I've been doing this past year. Well, not the rummy and the dancing because I'm terrible at both, but the admiring and absorbing and imagining what I'd add to my collection.
So I'll continue to shop at thrift stores and put my money towards supporting local artists. And maybe when all is said and done, I could work toward having the second best local art collection in J-Ward.
I think Kirsten's grandma would approve.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
True Love and Bouchon
If it's Thursday, I must be at my Modern Romance class and tonight's topic was true love.
Last week was about that giddy first kiss stage, but tonight we moved on to something more substantial, namely true love.
That stage where reality sets in, compromises are made and love deepens. You know.
Of course, this modern love class is all about architecture and tonight we covered 1930-1960.
After the exuberance of movements, manifestos and the shock of the new in the first 30 years of the last century, the next 30 were all about the socially-driven architecture of Europe rebuilding after the war versus the capitally-driven need for commerce in the U.S. (now there's a surprise).
Luckily for us, many European architects came here to share their talent on our soil.
From the first exhibit of modern architecture at the MOMA in 1932 to the flying exuberance of the TWA Terminal at JFK, this was the period when compromises were made to the realities of economics and site, while still creating landmark buildings.
You know, the Seagram's Building and the Empire State Building and although the Guggenheim Museum was built at the tail end of this period, it clearly represents no compromises with reality whatsoever, but such is its charm.
Tonight's after-school snack was at Bouchon, where I was joined by my extremely hungover friend.
She was slow to order, but I dove right into their bar menu, a steal at only $4 per item.
I had the pork rillettes with toasted baguette slices and gherkins, along with the Portabello stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and Gruyere.
The rillettes, made with pork shoulder, was everything it should be: rich, fatty, salty and addictive.
The mushroom, which came with a side salad, was a perfect combination of veggies and cheese.
I definitely wasn't scoring any points with my arteries tonight, but, oh, was it good.
The owner surprised us with dessert, apparently thinking my friend could use some rich ice cream to coat her stomach and ease her malaise.
I don't expect she'll drink that many cosmos again in this lifetime.
Topics on the table tonight were stalking exes, overly late nights and Valentine's Day plans and even a hungover friend has strong thoughts on all three.
What we didn't get around to discussing tonight was true love, despite my new-found knowledge on the subject.
No need to jump the gun; I'm still processing what I learned last week about the first kiss stage and all the ensuing giddiness.
Twitterpation, if you will.
That's more than enough to process for the time being.
Last week was about that giddy first kiss stage, but tonight we moved on to something more substantial, namely true love.
That stage where reality sets in, compromises are made and love deepens. You know.
Of course, this modern love class is all about architecture and tonight we covered 1930-1960.
After the exuberance of movements, manifestos and the shock of the new in the first 30 years of the last century, the next 30 were all about the socially-driven architecture of Europe rebuilding after the war versus the capitally-driven need for commerce in the U.S. (now there's a surprise).
Luckily for us, many European architects came here to share their talent on our soil.
From the first exhibit of modern architecture at the MOMA in 1932 to the flying exuberance of the TWA Terminal at JFK, this was the period when compromises were made to the realities of economics and site, while still creating landmark buildings.
You know, the Seagram's Building and the Empire State Building and although the Guggenheim Museum was built at the tail end of this period, it clearly represents no compromises with reality whatsoever, but such is its charm.
Tonight's after-school snack was at Bouchon, where I was joined by my extremely hungover friend.
She was slow to order, but I dove right into their bar menu, a steal at only $4 per item.
I had the pork rillettes with toasted baguette slices and gherkins, along with the Portabello stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and Gruyere.
The rillettes, made with pork shoulder, was everything it should be: rich, fatty, salty and addictive.
The mushroom, which came with a side salad, was a perfect combination of veggies and cheese.
I definitely wasn't scoring any points with my arteries tonight, but, oh, was it good.
The owner surprised us with dessert, apparently thinking my friend could use some rich ice cream to coat her stomach and ease her malaise.
I don't expect she'll drink that many cosmos again in this lifetime.
Topics on the table tonight were stalking exes, overly late nights and Valentine's Day plans and even a hungover friend has strong thoughts on all three.
What we didn't get around to discussing tonight was true love, despite my new-found knowledge on the subject.
No need to jump the gun; I'm still processing what I learned last week about the first kiss stage and all the ensuing giddiness.
Twitterpation, if you will.
That's more than enough to process for the time being.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Partying in the Ward. Carbing Up at Bouchon
'Tis the holiday season when more and more nights involve multiple events, which has been the case for me the last two nights. I'm not complaining; staying busy distracts me from over-thinking my life 24/7.
The Jackson Ward Neighborhood Association was having their annual Christmas soiree and no less than four neighbors had asked if I'd be attending. In three-plus years, I'd never been, which made for an excellent reason to finally check it out. Last year they had a band, but this year it was going to be DJ Cox and who wouldn't enjoy seeing their neighbors shake their groove things?
The party was at Club 533 on the far side of J-Ward from me and the food was provided by neighborhood caterers Sweetie Pie and Hidden Treasure. I'm guessing the association bought the booze (our association dues at work; I like that!). It was fun to see neighbors dressed for a holiday party; for some that meant fancy clothes and for others, a Santa hat did the job.
I sat down to eat with the staff of the Black History Museum (my geekdom knows no holidays)and my favorite neighbor Larry. I will be able to say that it was tonight that I discovered firsthand what a party animal my mild-mannered neighbor really is. And I can now personally attest to his superior dancing skills, something I would have never suspected despite three years of knowing him. The music was classic R & B, for the most part, and a real crowd-pleaser; nothing says happy holidays like a crowded dance floor by 6:30.
Next I headed east to Bouchon in the Slip. I've eaten there a couple of times previously, but tonight's meet-up was for the bar experience. Working my way through a full house, I met my friend at the bar in the back and was immediately impressed with the bar menu. There were plenty of interesting choices, most costing a mere $4 and the more substantial ones $12. My friend is a carb-lover and Bouchon is a carb-lover's paradise.
We each started with a bowl of the Sausage and Bean Stew, from a traditional 700-year old recipe. Three thick diagonals of sausage floated across the stew; it was the kind of dish that warms you from within. She then got the truffle mac and cheese (which comes with an anything- but-boring mixed green salad, probably intended to slightly slow the hardening of our arteries as we ate the mac) and I got the Spec Tart (from the regular menu), which I knew from a previous visit was divine. French pig, caramelized onion and creme fraiche = chewy, flavorful and satisfying.
We were sorely tempted by the sight of the slider, but refrained. But I'm not sure you should eat at a French bistro without investigating their pommes frites and they did not disappoint, being twice-fried and salted to perfection. And that kind of salty calls for sweet, so lastly, I ordered the Profiteroles with ice cream and chocolate sauce.
We met another bar-sitter, a newbie to rva after only six months, who was lamenting not knowing what goes on in this town. Did he ever run into the right person to help him with that! He requested some recommendations for the weekend and I supplied them. There I go, boosting again; somebody should just tamp me down.
I'm not sure if the word has gotten out about what a great deal Bouchon's bar menu is, but as another regular pointed out, it's an economical and incredibly tasty way to enjoy a white-tablecloth meal for a fraction of the cost. Being at the bar, which is located at the back of the restaurant, allowed us to enjoy the energy of the room while feeling like we were in a cozy out-of-the-way nook...the ideal place to carb up.
The Jackson Ward Neighborhood Association was having their annual Christmas soiree and no less than four neighbors had asked if I'd be attending. In three-plus years, I'd never been, which made for an excellent reason to finally check it out. Last year they had a band, but this year it was going to be DJ Cox and who wouldn't enjoy seeing their neighbors shake their groove things?
The party was at Club 533 on the far side of J-Ward from me and the food was provided by neighborhood caterers Sweetie Pie and Hidden Treasure. I'm guessing the association bought the booze (our association dues at work; I like that!). It was fun to see neighbors dressed for a holiday party; for some that meant fancy clothes and for others, a Santa hat did the job.
I sat down to eat with the staff of the Black History Museum (my geekdom knows no holidays)and my favorite neighbor Larry. I will be able to say that it was tonight that I discovered firsthand what a party animal my mild-mannered neighbor really is. And I can now personally attest to his superior dancing skills, something I would have never suspected despite three years of knowing him. The music was classic R & B, for the most part, and a real crowd-pleaser; nothing says happy holidays like a crowded dance floor by 6:30.
Next I headed east to Bouchon in the Slip. I've eaten there a couple of times previously, but tonight's meet-up was for the bar experience. Working my way through a full house, I met my friend at the bar in the back and was immediately impressed with the bar menu. There were plenty of interesting choices, most costing a mere $4 and the more substantial ones $12. My friend is a carb-lover and Bouchon is a carb-lover's paradise.
We each started with a bowl of the Sausage and Bean Stew, from a traditional 700-year old recipe. Three thick diagonals of sausage floated across the stew; it was the kind of dish that warms you from within. She then got the truffle mac and cheese (which comes with an anything- but-boring mixed green salad, probably intended to slightly slow the hardening of our arteries as we ate the mac) and I got the Spec Tart (from the regular menu), which I knew from a previous visit was divine. French pig, caramelized onion and creme fraiche = chewy, flavorful and satisfying.
We were sorely tempted by the sight of the slider, but refrained. But I'm not sure you should eat at a French bistro without investigating their pommes frites and they did not disappoint, being twice-fried and salted to perfection. And that kind of salty calls for sweet, so lastly, I ordered the Profiteroles with ice cream and chocolate sauce.
We met another bar-sitter, a newbie to rva after only six months, who was lamenting not knowing what goes on in this town. Did he ever run into the right person to help him with that! He requested some recommendations for the weekend and I supplied them. There I go, boosting again; somebody should just tamp me down.
I'm not sure if the word has gotten out about what a great deal Bouchon's bar menu is, but as another regular pointed out, it's an economical and incredibly tasty way to enjoy a white-tablecloth meal for a fraction of the cost. Being at the bar, which is located at the back of the restaurant, allowed us to enjoy the energy of the room while feeling like we were in a cozy out-of-the-way nook...the ideal place to carb up.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Bouchon Delivers. 27 Finishes.
The weekend before Restaurant Hell Week is such a great time to go out; everyone is staying home in anticipation of next week's budget offerings. Not me and Holmes, though; we refuse to be part of the crowd that is laying low before amateur week begins. So when we made plans to rendezvous tonight, it was for the express purpose of introducing Holmes to a place new to him, namely Bouchon.
We began at my place with a bottle of the Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc Reserve 2006, the gold medal winner at this year's Virginia Governor's Cup and a worthy start to our evening. The music was chosen to please Holmes and his distinctive old-school taste, namely Graham Parker's "The Mona Lisa's Sister" and Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl, " and they succeeded beautifully.
We proceeded to Bouchon to introduce Holmes to the new French spot in the Slip. We were greeted warmly by the owner upon arrival and settled into the best banquette in the place, with a view of everyone in the restaurant and, especially, the parade of street theater.When Holmes deferred to me, I chose the Cahors Clos de la Coutale 2007, a a malbec/merlot blend that continued the robust wine theme for the evening.
The meal began with the arugula, goat cheese rostido and extra virgin olive oil vinaigrette and was followed by the speck, creme fraiche and onion tart. It wasn't exactly a tart, more pizza-like, but damn close and the Parisian ham was to die for. Next up was a special of the evening, a beef daub with braised carrots and onions in a wine stock reduction with mac and cheese with truffle oil on top. Oh my god, what a wonderful combination of tastes this was! The meat and veggies were braised to perfection and the mac and cheese and truffle oil were the richest possible topping for this simple peasant dish. We ate and sopped and scraped and loved each bite and the wine accompanied us every step of the way.
Seeing as how there was still wine left, we felt obligated to order the chocolate marquise with meringue and candied orange peel to satisfy our sweet tooths. Fortuitously, the dessert concluded about the same time as the wine did, signaling that it was time to move on. We departed under a light mist of rain and headed back towards the Ward, where Holmes was parked and I live.
As it happened, Bistro 27 was still open as we cruised home, so we stopped in for a final brown drink and glass of wine whilst we chatted up the always-interesting staff. In other words, I got music recommendations from Dave, concert talk from Ken, Restaurant Hell menu week discussion with Carlos and banter and a hunk of dark, dark chocolate from Pedro. I'm not sure I could have asked for a more satisfying end to the evening, although once again, I seemed to find myself the last customer (albeit with Holmes) in the place. What's up with that?
We began at my place with a bottle of the Cardinal Point Cabernet Franc Reserve 2006, the gold medal winner at this year's Virginia Governor's Cup and a worthy start to our evening. The music was chosen to please Holmes and his distinctive old-school taste, namely Graham Parker's "The Mona Lisa's Sister" and Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl, " and they succeeded beautifully.
We proceeded to Bouchon to introduce Holmes to the new French spot in the Slip. We were greeted warmly by the owner upon arrival and settled into the best banquette in the place, with a view of everyone in the restaurant and, especially, the parade of street theater.When Holmes deferred to me, I chose the Cahors Clos de la Coutale 2007, a a malbec/merlot blend that continued the robust wine theme for the evening.
The meal began with the arugula, goat cheese rostido and extra virgin olive oil vinaigrette and was followed by the speck, creme fraiche and onion tart. It wasn't exactly a tart, more pizza-like, but damn close and the Parisian ham was to die for. Next up was a special of the evening, a beef daub with braised carrots and onions in a wine stock reduction with mac and cheese with truffle oil on top. Oh my god, what a wonderful combination of tastes this was! The meat and veggies were braised to perfection and the mac and cheese and truffle oil were the richest possible topping for this simple peasant dish. We ate and sopped and scraped and loved each bite and the wine accompanied us every step of the way.
Seeing as how there was still wine left, we felt obligated to order the chocolate marquise with meringue and candied orange peel to satisfy our sweet tooths. Fortuitously, the dessert concluded about the same time as the wine did, signaling that it was time to move on. We departed under a light mist of rain and headed back towards the Ward, where Holmes was parked and I live.
As it happened, Bistro 27 was still open as we cruised home, so we stopped in for a final brown drink and glass of wine whilst we chatted up the always-interesting staff. In other words, I got music recommendations from Dave, concert talk from Ken, Restaurant Hell menu week discussion with Carlos and banter and a hunk of dark, dark chocolate from Pedro. I'm not sure I could have asked for a more satisfying end to the evening, although once again, I seemed to find myself the last customer (albeit with Holmes) in the place. What's up with that?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
So Sorry, But the Motorcade'll Have to Go Around Me
On ageism:
I ride my bike up to the National to buy some tickets for upcoming shows.
There's no one in the box office, but a guy sticks his head out of the theater door and assures me that she'll be right with me.
He then makes a quantum leap assumption and asks if I'm there for Hornsby tickets.
Excuse me?
Uh, no (not that there's anything wrong with Bruce, but I've seen him. Twice.)
When I tell him which shows I am there to buy for, it's like the scales fall from his eyes.
"Wow, those are going to be amazing shows," he tells me, shaking my hand, introducing himself, asking my name, telling me he's production director and insisting I look him up next time I'm at a show.
Which I just might do, if only to give him crap about jumping to conclusions about ticket buyers and their musical taste. Yeesh.
On two compliments in ten minutes:
"You look beautiful tonight, not that you don't look great all the time."
Always nice to hear, even if the speaker is just blowing smoke, as he is known to do.
"You look amazing.. I usually see you in shorts and a t-shirt working out." (a neighbor)
Boy, this thrift store dress is really working for me tonight. Three bucks well spent.
On trying a new restaurant:
Beer Geek Friend and I checked out Bouchon in the Slip tonight and found lots to love about it.
The owner's wife was welcoming and chatty and the place had a nice crowd for a Thursday evening.
We were a bit bummed that they were out of their signature mussels (a lunch rush) and that they had no by-the-glass wine listing, but had to smile when we were on our second course before the food runner, not even our server, finally asked if we wanted more bread.
More? We hadn't had any yet.Yes, thanks, we'd love some.
My friend was highly amused when the server leaned clear across him to scoop up my plate on the far side of the table (maybe it was her proximity, but I think he liked it).
He also noted that after finishing his first glass of wine, he asked to taste the rose (which he declined after tasting it and requested another glass of the same), she went off on a reverie about how the rose was her absolute favorite and how she expected to like Spanish roses better, but this French one was so tasty that she just loved it.
It was completely random and unexpected, so Beer Geek felt he had to remind her that he still wanted another glass of the same, not the rose.
But at least now we knew her preferences.
As for the food, I was delighted with all my selections.
The veal sweetbreads were delicious, my tomato and avocado salad was exquisitely ripe and perfectly seasoned and the chocolate marquise was surrounded by a top and bottom layer of meringue, a sweet, crunchy treat I love but rarely see on dessert menus.
I'm already planning to bring other friends to Bouchon to taste even more French goodness.
On to the weekend!
I ride my bike up to the National to buy some tickets for upcoming shows.
There's no one in the box office, but a guy sticks his head out of the theater door and assures me that she'll be right with me.
He then makes a quantum leap assumption and asks if I'm there for Hornsby tickets.
Excuse me?
Uh, no (not that there's anything wrong with Bruce, but I've seen him. Twice.)
When I tell him which shows I am there to buy for, it's like the scales fall from his eyes.
"Wow, those are going to be amazing shows," he tells me, shaking my hand, introducing himself, asking my name, telling me he's production director and insisting I look him up next time I'm at a show.
Which I just might do, if only to give him crap about jumping to conclusions about ticket buyers and their musical taste. Yeesh.
On two compliments in ten minutes:
"You look beautiful tonight, not that you don't look great all the time."
Always nice to hear, even if the speaker is just blowing smoke, as he is known to do.
"You look amazing.. I usually see you in shorts and a t-shirt working out." (a neighbor)
Boy, this thrift store dress is really working for me tonight. Three bucks well spent.
On trying a new restaurant:
Beer Geek Friend and I checked out Bouchon in the Slip tonight and found lots to love about it.
The owner's wife was welcoming and chatty and the place had a nice crowd for a Thursday evening.
We were a bit bummed that they were out of their signature mussels (a lunch rush) and that they had no by-the-glass wine listing, but had to smile when we were on our second course before the food runner, not even our server, finally asked if we wanted more bread.
More? We hadn't had any yet.Yes, thanks, we'd love some.
My friend was highly amused when the server leaned clear across him to scoop up my plate on the far side of the table (maybe it was her proximity, but I think he liked it).
He also noted that after finishing his first glass of wine, he asked to taste the rose (which he declined after tasting it and requested another glass of the same), she went off on a reverie about how the rose was her absolute favorite and how she expected to like Spanish roses better, but this French one was so tasty that she just loved it.
It was completely random and unexpected, so Beer Geek felt he had to remind her that he still wanted another glass of the same, not the rose.
But at least now we knew her preferences.
As for the food, I was delighted with all my selections.
The veal sweetbreads were delicious, my tomato and avocado salad was exquisitely ripe and perfectly seasoned and the chocolate marquise was surrounded by a top and bottom layer of meringue, a sweet, crunchy treat I love but rarely see on dessert menus.
I'm already planning to bring other friends to Bouchon to taste even more French goodness.
On to the weekend!
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