Can you believe it took this long for me to see my first Ozploitation film?
To warm up for the momentous occasion, I began the evening at Amour for dinner.
There were people eating in the dining room, including a couple who appeared to be on a date night, but I was the sole occupant of the bar.
Edith Piaf was on the stereo, I had a flight of Roses in front of me and I had no idea what was in store. Already it was my kind of evening.
I chatted with one of the servers, a native of Louisiana (with the accent to prove it) who'd moved to Texas (and chortled over the differences in how the same words were pronounced differently in each state) and spent summers in D.C.
There was even a compliment on my joie de vivre and it's common knowledge how I appreciate a good compliment.
But the kitchen deserved more compliments than me.
Beginning with a sublime chilled vichyssoise, I moved on to vol au vent filled with creamed corn, pork belly and crawfish, a French take on southern ingredients so good I intend to go back and have it again.
And while I should have stopped there, I didn't, enjoying first an escargot and leek tart and then the tomato tart, as brilliantly colored as it was flavored. All hail tomato and corn season. I know I do.
When my server asked if I wanted dessert, I laughed. As if.
On this balmy evening, I did manage to find room for a perfectly lovely summer red, the luxurious and full-bodied 2012 Domaine Brusset, savoring every sip of my half glass and reveling in its depth of flavor.
While I usually eschew reds during the summer, this one was too beautiful to resist (yea, that's what he said).
Stuffed and happy, I said my farewells to go to the River City Not So Classic Movie Night, no doubt leaving behind a trail of envy at my plans.
Or derisive laughter.
Moments after arriving at River City Classic Bar & Grill, two sisters I'd met before asked if they could join me at my booth and I welcomed the company.
As usual, we got to see some pretty hilarious shorts before the main feature.
The first was about explaining sexuality to "the retarded" (yes, they used that word) and had a scene where a woman sits down on the bed where a teen is under the covers and asks him, "Do you know what a wet dream is?" and goes on to warn him that he'll have many more.
In another, Mom opens Johnny's bedroom door to discover him masturbating, so she a) explains the concept of responsibility for his behavior to him and b) promises never to open his door without knocking again.
Thanks, Mom!
It wasn't long after that a woman sitting at the bar moaned, "This just goes on way too long!" just as the scene where one guy at a urinal starts rubbing the back of the guy at the next urinal and we heard about inappropriate touching.
It was hard to top the hilarity and shock value of that gem, but the animated "Cautious Twins" about bad strangers preying on children had its moments, as did "Shake Hands with Danger," a film about workplace safety.
"Be careless for a moment, spend a lifetime with the blues," was the stated theme as machine parts went flying, body parts were bloodied and tractor treads rolled over innocent bystanders.
Finally, the room was darkened and "Gang Wars" began, starring, I kid you not, War Hawk Tanzania.
Only problem was that wasn't tonight's feature. Seems the planned film had been forgotten and belatedly collected, so five minutes into the gang wars, that movie was stopped and the real one put in.
"The Man from Hong Kong," billed as a co-production between Australia and Hong Kong, was a classic '70s martial arts film modeled on a James Bond flick.
It began with two bad guys exchanging briefcases (drugs and cash, no doubt) before the Hong Kong hood is captured and says to the Aussie cop, "Stick your head up your arse and close it around you."
I ask you, do we even have insults that good in this country? I think not.
The movie's theme song was instantly familiar, Jigsaw's "Sky High," a catchy Top 40 ditty that made me wonder how (why?) an Australian/Hong Kong production had chosen a British band to introduce the action.
Sadly, some things will forever remain a mystery.
One of the sisters sitting with me, the one with whom I'd shared my onion rings a few weeks back, offered me some of her chicken wings, so I had one before eating my hot fudge sundae, better than it had to be with real whipped cream courtesy of the kitchen and Ghiradelli hot fudge.
As you might guess with a cheesy 1975 "B" movie, cliches were rampant, such as when the woman who lands via hang glider asks the Chinese cop hero, "What's so special about the Special Branch?" and they cut to the two of them having sex.
"You're my first Chinese!" she squeals and the crowd let out a politically incorrect groan.
And because it was 1975, everyone -cops, drug dealers, old ladies on the street - had on bellbottoms and all the men had long hair and porn 'staches.
There was an inordinate amount of fight scenes, the kind where the added sound effects never quite match up with who was being hit at any given moment.
In car chase sequences, cars rolled and somehow immediately burst into flames. After the third time it happened, a guy near me said, "Never saw that coming!"
With a movie like this, nothing much happens that you don't see coming from a mile away.
When we finally see the big crime boss, Wilton, the same guy commented, "Oooh, pinky ring, bad sign." True that. Good guys don't wear pinky rings.
Mr. Big was played by George Lazenby, he of one James Bond movie fame and here sporting a Tom Selleck-worthy mustache.
He was the kind of evil man who entertains party guests by shooting an apple off his blond girlfriend's head with a crossbow.
The political incorrectness extended to the dialog with lines like "Never met a Chinese yet who didn't have a yellow streak." Ouch.
And don't even get me started on the special effects. As a guy in the booth beside me put it, "Is that blood on his track suit? Cause it looks like strawberry jelly."
After our Hong Kong hero gets injured, he is rescued and whisked away to the country by a nubile young student whose father happens to be a vet and can sew him back up, good as new.
Once he's up and able, they go horseback riding and next thing we know, some singer who sounds suspiciously like Olivia Newton-John is singing, "Baby, baby, I think I love you," followed by sunny, dappled scenes of fields and lakes and the two of them looking intently at each other.
"On golden pond?" a guy joked. "Where's the barf bag?" asked a woman near me.
But while our hero may allow a temporary frolic, he needs to get back to business hunting down the bad guy. When the girl asks why, he says it's because he's Chinese.
She's already in love, so now she wants to be Chinese too, so she stretches her eyes sideways with her fingers and asks, "Will plastic surgery do?"
Wrong on so many levels.
"Do you think you've recovered enough for me to make love to you?" she asks our hero. "I think I can stand the pain," he deadpans.
Score!
As we're given a sunlit, lingering shot of her pre-orgasmic face, a girl at the bar called out, "I think he went down under!"
That, my friends, is what Ozploitation films are all about.
Of course there was a prolonged car chase that devolved into demolition derby style antics - hood flying off, doors snapped off, spontaneous combustion - but that was probably true of all '70s movies, not just martial arts films.
Or maybe that was the Australian contribution to the film (besides accents so thick they almost needed subtitles).
The whole movie was one unfortunate memory of bad fashion choices, best put by one of the sisters who said, "A lot of bad '70s brown outfits." Head to toe brown in many cases.
During the big climax scene, our hero stuffed a grenade in the bad guy's mouth and began wrapping tape around his head to hold it in.
"Oh, getting kinky now, huh?" someone teased from the bar.
Once the grenade went off, the secret cache of explosives detonated and the top of bad guy's penthouse was blown off, the cheesy familiar strains of "Sky High" came up as one of the truly epic Australian/Hong Kong, James Bond rip-off, martial arts movies ever made ended.
"That was amazing," a stranger said to me as I paid for my hot fudge sundae.
Never saw that coming.
Showing posts with label Chateau de Valcombe Rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chateau de Valcombe Rose. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Do the Hustle
All work and no play makes Karen a very dull girl.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
You Say It's Your Birthday
Can't say which was better, the first part of the evening or the last.
I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.
Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.
Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.
With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.
Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.
Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.
After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.
She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.
The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.
Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.
Someone had to do it.
Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.
The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.
"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.
Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?
To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.
I started at Amour Wine Bistro with a crowded dining room and Holmes and his lady love and a bottle of Chateau de Valcombe Rose.
Over tales of their weekend away, we plotted our way through the happy hour menu. Candied beets and braised turnips in wine bechamel and puff pastry thrilled the beet lovers (that would be me) while beef/bleu cheese with caramelized onions and Fourme d'Ambert gougere was rich and flavorful, a crowd pleaser.
Grilled asparagus with soy orange vinaigrette sealed the deal with its layers of flavor before moving on from the happy hour menu to the regular offerings.
With a second bottle of Valcombe, we tried the salade d'ete (strawberries, watercress, toasted pine nuts, Comte and honey balsamic vinaigrette...yum), the always classic onion tart with Smithfield bacon and the half and half, a platter of meat and cheese that was perfect for nibbling while we sipped our Valcombe and discussed bigger issues.
Chicken liver mousse, Morbiere, Forme d'Ambert and Comte with Sausagecraft sausage of pork, beef and Gruyere, cured meats, dried fruit and gherkins rounded out the platter.
Dessert consisted of various housemade sorbets: the creamiest chocolate, plus vibrant blueberry, pineapple and grapefruit.
After Holmes and his honey bid me farewell, I stopped by the Viceroy to see what was happening with a friend's birthday celebration where DJ Michael Murphy was spinning vintage music.
She had originally planned to celebrate at Balliceaux until I'd heard Micheal would be spinning and suggested something different.
The party was in full swing when I arrived with lots of familiar faces: the shoegazer, the pop singer, the pianist, the handsome restaurateur. I hadn't expected to know so many of the celebrants.
Espolon in hand, I listened to the Commodores, Depeche Mode and Talking Heads before grabbing the birthday girl by the hand and establishing a dance floor with the birthday girl's very handsome date.
Someone had to do it.
Two guys at a nearby table were requisitioned and before long, they were our willing dance partners, nubile and eager to accommodate.
The birthday girl was ecstatic, finally able to cut loose on her celebratory night. Me, I was just the willing accomplice.
"You like to dance!" one of the guys observed, stating the obvious, as we tore it up to every song the DJ played, refusing to concede the floor.
Why not if the music's good (it was stellar) and I have a birthday girl eager to shake her groove thing with me?
To quote Sir Paul (because today also happens to be his birthday): We're gonna have a good time. I'm glad it's your birthday.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Farewell and Congrats
Sunday was party day and I'm not talking birthday.
The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.
Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.
A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.
Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.
That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.
Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.
I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.
It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.
The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.
Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.
I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.
A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.
I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.
The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.
It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.
The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.
One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?
Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.
As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.
Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.
The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.
Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.
A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.
Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.
That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.
Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.
I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.
It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.
The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.
Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.
I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.
Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.
A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.
I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.
The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.
It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.
The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.
One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?
Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.
As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.
Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Ain't Nothin' But a Good Time
I had no plans for my birthday. Nada, zip, nothing.
No lunch plans, no dinner plans, no plans at all. It's one of those unfortunate years when my birthday gets rolled into the Memorial Day weekend and most everyone who cares about me is out of town.
Luckily, there was one exception and she graciously agreed to be my date for an evening of birthday revelry. Or, as she put it, "I'm in for the duration, of course. It's your birthday! I will need a catnap beforehand."
While she was napping, I was thrifting, scoring a dress worthy of Laugh In's JoAnne Worley with its vibrant colors and decolletage and talking to my parents, who are now semi-homeless after a massive sycamore tree crashed into their house during yesterday's storm.
But then I put myself together so I looked appropriately birthday-like and collected the sleepy-eyed one.
We began at Secco for traditional reasons. Growing up, birthdays meant you got to choose the dinner for the whole family and my choice was always cheeseburgers, much to the chagrin of my five sisters.
So, honoring that long standing tradition, I wanted my evening to begin with a cheeseburger.
As it turned out, it began with my friend gifting me with two Roses: Miraval and Beau Vignac, along with a box of sea salt caramel chocolate truffles from For the Love of Chocolate, as perfect a gift as could be had.
Once we got to Secco, I started with Muri Gries Lagrien Rose, recommended to me as a hearty enough Rose for a burger.
Then we dove into the menu, choosing delicately textured chicken liver mousse followed by Billy bread under a perfectly soft-cooked egg with white anchovies, not that either detracted from our ability to enjoy the grass-fed beef burger with cheddar, bacon and housemade pickles that comprised our final plate.
Some people will never understand a burger for your birthday dinner, but it's always worked for me. To hell with my sisters.
A couple of the servers asked about my birthday plans and when they heard we intended to finish in the east end to hear an '80s cover band, were obviously in awe.
In my family, birthdays meant you got to decide everything about the day and I wanted an experience.
Our next stop was Amour, almost completely full when we arrived, where we kept to the pink theme with a bottle of Chateua de Valcombe Rose that had my name on it while New Orleans music kept things lively.
When our server asked what our plans were for the evening, I explained we were headed eastward ho for the sake of the '80s, with shock and amazement ensuing on his part. My friend expressed reservations for the first time.
"We're not gonna do a 'Thelma and Louise,' are we?" my friend wondered aloud. That certainly wasn't the plan, but it was far too early to rule anything out.
The eating at Amour was terrific as always, with the onion and bacon tart (owner paul's Asaltian mother's recipe) and a stellar cold vegetable terrine, both fine pairings for the Valcombe.
I was trying to keep my eye on the time because I wanted to get to the east end and catch most of the band's first set, but we were having such fun talking and eating, all of a sudden it was time for dessert.
My friend had arranged for my sea salt caramel chocolate creme brulee to arrive with a candle in it and I was happy to be serenaded with "Joyeux Anniversaire" after an offer to have "Happy Bithday" sung to me in the style of Marilyn Monroe was rescinded.
From there, I let out a slow breath and made a wish. Now if only it will come true.
My creme brulee came with a divine grapefruit sorbet that provided a pithy complement to the richness of the chocolate while my friend got a trio of sorbets and ended up deep in discussion with some nearby young women about vinegar and how to clean stains off couch cushions.
Not to be judgmental, but who wants to spend their birthday dinner listening to how to get god-knows-what kind of stain out of a cushion? Besides, we had places to go, cover bands to hear.
I instructed her to finish up her wine and dessert because this train was pulling out and she, like the good friend she is, swallowed accordingly.
Then it was off to what Style Weekly's reader poll dubbed the best bar in the east end, Cullen's Cove, on Mechanicsville Turnpike.
On arrival, we sashayed past the bikers and smoking contingent out front into the bar, making a pit stop at the ladies' room, where I overheard a woman say, "This is the only bar I've ever come to that has hot water." Tragic and yet so telling.
The band was on break when we walked in, so the dance floor was full of line dancers moving in synchronicity to bad music. I marveled at one woman doing it in pumps with 5" heels, but then she fell off the shoes and ended up splayed on the floor while the dancing went on around her.
Who wears 5" heels to a bar in Mechanicsville?
We found bar stools and ordered drinks, in my case 1800. It was the kind of place where, despite asking for it on the rocks, I was handed a lime and shaker of salt as if I was going to do a body shot with it.
A group of girls - feathered hair, studded belts, acid washed jeans- next to us decided to pose for a group picture and every time they did, the bartender photo-bombed the shot, standing behind the group and pulling up his shirt to expose his fish belly white stomach for the camera.
As if that wasn't enough to set the tone for the evening, Sweet Justice soon took the stage and their first song was Journey's "Don't Stop Believin."
Holy crap, this was going to be a good night.
Now, understand, this was not my first time seeing a Sweet Justice show. Oh, no, I'd stumbled into them last September at the Sportsman's restaurant and lounge (also in the east end) and been mesmerized by the note for note replication of vintage '80s rock and hair metal songs by musicians who had actually played in bands back in the '80s.
What I'd promised my girlfriend tonight was not only that music but fans onstage blowing the band members' hair back as if they were in a perpetual cheesy '80s video.
Oh, she was impressed. More than once, we were asked what city girls like us were doing at the Cove.
The bass player was wearing a shirt that read, "White Trash," his thinning blond hair cascading over the shoulders of the shirt. It was even better than I had told her it would be.
The guy next to us at the bar wore a "Take Me Home" t-shirt, but he had an honest face, the bluest eyes and was soon chatting up my friend.
As it turned out, the erudite Calvin became our protector for the evening, warding off guys we didn't want talking to us (see: Neal and Javier). Like us, he was enraptured with how good the people watching was here.
Interesting as he was, he had a tough time distracting her once the band started playing Guns 'n Roses' "Sweet Child o' Mine" and she reminded me that while the '80s wasn't her favorite decade of music, she had been there and did know every word to the decade.
It wasn't long after that I felt a hand on my elbow and a guy was asking me to dance. He looked a little too interested for my comfort, so I declined despite wanting to dance.
And in the "you think you know somebody" category, when Sweet Justice began singing "Pour Some Sugar On Me," my friend began singing along, in fine voice, telling me how many times she'd danced to this sexy song. "What, you didn't know I was a Def Leopard fan?" she asked nonsensically.
I won't lie, much as I enjoy a cheesy '80s cover band, I never need to hear ZZ Top's "La Grange" or "Hotel California" or any Styx ever again despite still being able to get behind a female singer covering Boston's "Peace of Mind."
It was all so much fun and I knew my friend was having just as good a time by the twinkle in her eye when she'd look at me after a particularly reminiscent song or comment from one of the guys talking to us.
Let's be real, though, not one woman in the room spoke to us all night, it was only men who bothered with the two women who stuck out like sore thumbs in the room full of east end boys and a couple of west end girls.
At one point we were deep in conversation with Calvin about alpha males and how he was assuming a stance that would discourage unwanted men from approaching us when I looked up and Sweet Justice's lead singer, Beth, was standing next to me, mic in hand, singing every word into my eyes.
It was a birthday present for the ages. I considered blowing on her to replicate her onstage fan but was too star struck to do anything but grin like an idiot and stare into her heavily-made up eyes.
The evening moved so quickly, one minute we were hearing Whitesnake and next thing I knew it was Pat Benatar's "Promises in the Dark" while Neal, the electrician, told me about his science fiction library.
But the crowning glory of it all was Poison to close out the evening before the lights came up and we were sent out into the night.
Don't need nothin' but a good time
How can I resist?
Ain't lookin' for nothin' but a good time
and it don't get better than this
No, it don't. Happy birthday to me. I'll never stop believin.
No lunch plans, no dinner plans, no plans at all. It's one of those unfortunate years when my birthday gets rolled into the Memorial Day weekend and most everyone who cares about me is out of town.
Luckily, there was one exception and she graciously agreed to be my date for an evening of birthday revelry. Or, as she put it, "I'm in for the duration, of course. It's your birthday! I will need a catnap beforehand."
While she was napping, I was thrifting, scoring a dress worthy of Laugh In's JoAnne Worley with its vibrant colors and decolletage and talking to my parents, who are now semi-homeless after a massive sycamore tree crashed into their house during yesterday's storm.
But then I put myself together so I looked appropriately birthday-like and collected the sleepy-eyed one.
We began at Secco for traditional reasons. Growing up, birthdays meant you got to choose the dinner for the whole family and my choice was always cheeseburgers, much to the chagrin of my five sisters.
So, honoring that long standing tradition, I wanted my evening to begin with a cheeseburger.
As it turned out, it began with my friend gifting me with two Roses: Miraval and Beau Vignac, along with a box of sea salt caramel chocolate truffles from For the Love of Chocolate, as perfect a gift as could be had.
Once we got to Secco, I started with Muri Gries Lagrien Rose, recommended to me as a hearty enough Rose for a burger.
Then we dove into the menu, choosing delicately textured chicken liver mousse followed by Billy bread under a perfectly soft-cooked egg with white anchovies, not that either detracted from our ability to enjoy the grass-fed beef burger with cheddar, bacon and housemade pickles that comprised our final plate.
Some people will never understand a burger for your birthday dinner, but it's always worked for me. To hell with my sisters.
A couple of the servers asked about my birthday plans and when they heard we intended to finish in the east end to hear an '80s cover band, were obviously in awe.
In my family, birthdays meant you got to decide everything about the day and I wanted an experience.
Our next stop was Amour, almost completely full when we arrived, where we kept to the pink theme with a bottle of Chateua de Valcombe Rose that had my name on it while New Orleans music kept things lively.
When our server asked what our plans were for the evening, I explained we were headed eastward ho for the sake of the '80s, with shock and amazement ensuing on his part. My friend expressed reservations for the first time.
"We're not gonna do a 'Thelma and Louise,' are we?" my friend wondered aloud. That certainly wasn't the plan, but it was far too early to rule anything out.
The eating at Amour was terrific as always, with the onion and bacon tart (owner paul's Asaltian mother's recipe) and a stellar cold vegetable terrine, both fine pairings for the Valcombe.
I was trying to keep my eye on the time because I wanted to get to the east end and catch most of the band's first set, but we were having such fun talking and eating, all of a sudden it was time for dessert.
My friend had arranged for my sea salt caramel chocolate creme brulee to arrive with a candle in it and I was happy to be serenaded with "Joyeux Anniversaire" after an offer to have "Happy Bithday" sung to me in the style of Marilyn Monroe was rescinded.
From there, I let out a slow breath and made a wish. Now if only it will come true.
My creme brulee came with a divine grapefruit sorbet that provided a pithy complement to the richness of the chocolate while my friend got a trio of sorbets and ended up deep in discussion with some nearby young women about vinegar and how to clean stains off couch cushions.
Not to be judgmental, but who wants to spend their birthday dinner listening to how to get god-knows-what kind of stain out of a cushion? Besides, we had places to go, cover bands to hear.
I instructed her to finish up her wine and dessert because this train was pulling out and she, like the good friend she is, swallowed accordingly.
Then it was off to what Style Weekly's reader poll dubbed the best bar in the east end, Cullen's Cove, on Mechanicsville Turnpike.
On arrival, we sashayed past the bikers and smoking contingent out front into the bar, making a pit stop at the ladies' room, where I overheard a woman say, "This is the only bar I've ever come to that has hot water." Tragic and yet so telling.
The band was on break when we walked in, so the dance floor was full of line dancers moving in synchronicity to bad music. I marveled at one woman doing it in pumps with 5" heels, but then she fell off the shoes and ended up splayed on the floor while the dancing went on around her.
Who wears 5" heels to a bar in Mechanicsville?
We found bar stools and ordered drinks, in my case 1800. It was the kind of place where, despite asking for it on the rocks, I was handed a lime and shaker of salt as if I was going to do a body shot with it.
A group of girls - feathered hair, studded belts, acid washed jeans- next to us decided to pose for a group picture and every time they did, the bartender photo-bombed the shot, standing behind the group and pulling up his shirt to expose his fish belly white stomach for the camera.
As if that wasn't enough to set the tone for the evening, Sweet Justice soon took the stage and their first song was Journey's "Don't Stop Believin."
Holy crap, this was going to be a good night.
Now, understand, this was not my first time seeing a Sweet Justice show. Oh, no, I'd stumbled into them last September at the Sportsman's restaurant and lounge (also in the east end) and been mesmerized by the note for note replication of vintage '80s rock and hair metal songs by musicians who had actually played in bands back in the '80s.
What I'd promised my girlfriend tonight was not only that music but fans onstage blowing the band members' hair back as if they were in a perpetual cheesy '80s video.
Oh, she was impressed. More than once, we were asked what city girls like us were doing at the Cove.
The bass player was wearing a shirt that read, "White Trash," his thinning blond hair cascading over the shoulders of the shirt. It was even better than I had told her it would be.
The guy next to us at the bar wore a "Take Me Home" t-shirt, but he had an honest face, the bluest eyes and was soon chatting up my friend.
As it turned out, the erudite Calvin became our protector for the evening, warding off guys we didn't want talking to us (see: Neal and Javier). Like us, he was enraptured with how good the people watching was here.
Interesting as he was, he had a tough time distracting her once the band started playing Guns 'n Roses' "Sweet Child o' Mine" and she reminded me that while the '80s wasn't her favorite decade of music, she had been there and did know every word to the decade.
It wasn't long after that I felt a hand on my elbow and a guy was asking me to dance. He looked a little too interested for my comfort, so I declined despite wanting to dance.
And in the "you think you know somebody" category, when Sweet Justice began singing "Pour Some Sugar On Me," my friend began singing along, in fine voice, telling me how many times she'd danced to this sexy song. "What, you didn't know I was a Def Leopard fan?" she asked nonsensically.
I won't lie, much as I enjoy a cheesy '80s cover band, I never need to hear ZZ Top's "La Grange" or "Hotel California" or any Styx ever again despite still being able to get behind a female singer covering Boston's "Peace of Mind."
It was all so much fun and I knew my friend was having just as good a time by the twinkle in her eye when she'd look at me after a particularly reminiscent song or comment from one of the guys talking to us.
Let's be real, though, not one woman in the room spoke to us all night, it was only men who bothered with the two women who stuck out like sore thumbs in the room full of east end boys and a couple of west end girls.
At one point we were deep in conversation with Calvin about alpha males and how he was assuming a stance that would discourage unwanted men from approaching us when I looked up and Sweet Justice's lead singer, Beth, was standing next to me, mic in hand, singing every word into my eyes.
It was a birthday present for the ages. I considered blowing on her to replicate her onstage fan but was too star struck to do anything but grin like an idiot and stare into her heavily-made up eyes.
The evening moved so quickly, one minute we were hearing Whitesnake and next thing I knew it was Pat Benatar's "Promises in the Dark" while Neal, the electrician, told me about his science fiction library.
But the crowning glory of it all was Poison to close out the evening before the lights came up and we were sent out into the night.
Don't need nothin' but a good time
How can I resist?
Ain't lookin' for nothin' but a good time
and it don't get better than this
No, it don't. Happy birthday to me. I'll never stop believin.
Friday, May 9, 2014
What We Will
Oh, sure, I can plan, but I can also go along with someone else's agenda.
But when a friend puts the ball in my court with, "What shall we do with ourselves?" I feel it's my duty to concoct an evening worth doing.
Her response? "I just knew I could count on your poetical planning."
I had suggested we begin at Chop Suey for John Sealy's reading from his debut novel, "The Whiskey Baron," which conveniently allowed me to make a pit stop at Mongrel to buy a Mother's Day card for the impending holiday.
Two birds with one stone and all that rot.
Once at Chop Suey, we found seats for a pre-reading catch-up session about possible changes for her at work, how her dogs had chosen to wake her up at 5 a.m. (unbeknownst to her as she started her day assuming it was 6 a.m.) and the difference in cultured and country.
For the record, she's the former, not the latter.
Sealy took the podium looking young, which is fine, but being somewhat of a timid reader, which was less so. Just because you can write well doesn't mean you can read aloud well.
Beginning with page 3 in his novel, he treated us to a few pages of his story about a bootlegger's South Carolina crumbling whiskey empire.
Despite his less than ideal reading aloud skills, he had a way with a phrase, such as, "Time had at least given him the blessing of patience," a phrase that could apply to yours truly.
After reading enough to set up the story for us he drawled, "I think I'm gonna stop there," and opened up the room to questions.
A reader curious about whether he "heard" the characters' voices in his head as he wrote had him explaining, "What I love about fiction is writing in the third person, the ability to hear sounds and slide in and out of the people I create. I love the responsibility of going into someone's head."
I was intrigued when he compared the slow creation of a character to watercolor painting where you begin with vague shadows and gradually build up images as you keep adding to it. Nice metaphor.
He'd set his novel in a fictional South Carolina county based on Chester County, a place he knew well from summers visiting his family's home there.
We learned that part of his motivation for writing came from a concern that experienced history was fading into recorded history as the people who lived it are dying off. "I wanted to capture a period that'll soon be gone as the people who lived it die."
Idiomatic phrases particularly captivated him as he listened to people's stories about life in a mill town and "musical" terms like "bobbin dodger" and "lint head" captured his imagination, being evocative and unusual enough to make it into the book.
When someone commented that they saw elements of literary naturalism in his novel - elements referring back to writers like Theodore Dreiser, Jack London and Stephen Crane- he was impressed because exactly that sort of writing had been his interest in college.
That youthful focus had given way to a more contemporary fear that we have lost the ability to choose our paths. "I'm paranoid we're living in a computer simulation and no longer have free will," he said, sounding quite serious or at the very least, highly concerned.
Now there's a depressing thought.
Well, if tonight was a computer simulation, we were at least going to simulate good eating and drinking, so we strolled up Cary Street, where I came across a musician friend busking, playing mouth harp enthusiastically for anyone who would listen.
Naturally I stopped to chat, having missed his band's show last night, and garnering an invitation to his recently established compound on the east end of town.
I have no doubt it's all very groovy and look forward to going out for a visit.
We continued on to Amour Wine Bistro, my first visit since they reopened after the January fire, and found the bar full of a birthday party waiting for the guest of honor to arrive and be surprised.
While my poetical planning had chosen Amour, I can take no credit for the superb Rose that awaited us, Chateau de Valcombe Rose, the color of a pink diamond and so sippable my friend wished for a case for herself.
Perhaps my needs are simpler, but I'd have settled for a case for the two of us.
Since we were well into dinner time, we ordered housemade country pork and scallion pate (so fabulous it required extra bread and the grilled leeks a delightful bonus), asparagus with a poached egg, Parmesan and shaved radish (tasting as spring-like as the Rose) and warm potato salad with mustard, bacon and red onions (a deeply flavorful take that had my friend in raptures), a solid trio that came off the happy hour menu.
We had a great time with our server, hearing about his impending cohabitation in a 630 square foot apartment (so brave) and trying to discuss our own lives without him overhearing us.
Claiming to hear nothing, he made a reference to our chatter being the equivalent of Charlie Brown's teacher. Wahh, wahh.
I asked my friend about going to see "The Taming of the Shrew" with me, which you'd think was a pretty simple request to make of a theater lover, but which led to a deeply philosophical discussion of her objections to the play on the grounds that offends her '80s-era feminist sensibilities by belittling the Katerina character.
Funny, I don't see it that way, which means it was a lively discussion where we both learned a little about each other's views on the male/female dynamic. And wound up discussing "Much Ado About Nothing" instead.
As it happened, we also got into the art of haikus, but she shut that down by insisting that she preferred limericks. Not so me.
Since this was a girls' night out, we used our free will to go with two desserts, a chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee paired with grapefruit sorbet and chocolate sorbet so creamy it coated the spoon and didn't want to let go.
The creme brulee and grapefruit pairing was inspired, the refreshing and tart sorbet cutting the richness of the dark chocolate.
With the chocolate sorbet we switched from Rose to Saint Dominique Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, a lightly sweet wine that must have been created to be savored with just such a dessert.
We used the accompanying orange slices to swipe the last of the sorbet from the bowl, enjoying the sweetness of the oranges under chocolate for our last rapturous bites.
Sorry, no computer simulation could recreate that kind of mouthfeel, those beautiful flavors to close out our evening.
Turns out it wasn't only the planning that was poetical.
But when a friend puts the ball in my court with, "What shall we do with ourselves?" I feel it's my duty to concoct an evening worth doing.
Her response? "I just knew I could count on your poetical planning."
I had suggested we begin at Chop Suey for John Sealy's reading from his debut novel, "The Whiskey Baron," which conveniently allowed me to make a pit stop at Mongrel to buy a Mother's Day card for the impending holiday.
Two birds with one stone and all that rot.
Once at Chop Suey, we found seats for a pre-reading catch-up session about possible changes for her at work, how her dogs had chosen to wake her up at 5 a.m. (unbeknownst to her as she started her day assuming it was 6 a.m.) and the difference in cultured and country.
For the record, she's the former, not the latter.
Sealy took the podium looking young, which is fine, but being somewhat of a timid reader, which was less so. Just because you can write well doesn't mean you can read aloud well.
Beginning with page 3 in his novel, he treated us to a few pages of his story about a bootlegger's South Carolina crumbling whiskey empire.
Despite his less than ideal reading aloud skills, he had a way with a phrase, such as, "Time had at least given him the blessing of patience," a phrase that could apply to yours truly.
After reading enough to set up the story for us he drawled, "I think I'm gonna stop there," and opened up the room to questions.
A reader curious about whether he "heard" the characters' voices in his head as he wrote had him explaining, "What I love about fiction is writing in the third person, the ability to hear sounds and slide in and out of the people I create. I love the responsibility of going into someone's head."
I was intrigued when he compared the slow creation of a character to watercolor painting where you begin with vague shadows and gradually build up images as you keep adding to it. Nice metaphor.
He'd set his novel in a fictional South Carolina county based on Chester County, a place he knew well from summers visiting his family's home there.
We learned that part of his motivation for writing came from a concern that experienced history was fading into recorded history as the people who lived it are dying off. "I wanted to capture a period that'll soon be gone as the people who lived it die."
Idiomatic phrases particularly captivated him as he listened to people's stories about life in a mill town and "musical" terms like "bobbin dodger" and "lint head" captured his imagination, being evocative and unusual enough to make it into the book.
When someone commented that they saw elements of literary naturalism in his novel - elements referring back to writers like Theodore Dreiser, Jack London and Stephen Crane- he was impressed because exactly that sort of writing had been his interest in college.
That youthful focus had given way to a more contemporary fear that we have lost the ability to choose our paths. "I'm paranoid we're living in a computer simulation and no longer have free will," he said, sounding quite serious or at the very least, highly concerned.
Now there's a depressing thought.
Well, if tonight was a computer simulation, we were at least going to simulate good eating and drinking, so we strolled up Cary Street, where I came across a musician friend busking, playing mouth harp enthusiastically for anyone who would listen.
Naturally I stopped to chat, having missed his band's show last night, and garnering an invitation to his recently established compound on the east end of town.
I have no doubt it's all very groovy and look forward to going out for a visit.
We continued on to Amour Wine Bistro, my first visit since they reopened after the January fire, and found the bar full of a birthday party waiting for the guest of honor to arrive and be surprised.
While my poetical planning had chosen Amour, I can take no credit for the superb Rose that awaited us, Chateau de Valcombe Rose, the color of a pink diamond and so sippable my friend wished for a case for herself.
Perhaps my needs are simpler, but I'd have settled for a case for the two of us.
Since we were well into dinner time, we ordered housemade country pork and scallion pate (so fabulous it required extra bread and the grilled leeks a delightful bonus), asparagus with a poached egg, Parmesan and shaved radish (tasting as spring-like as the Rose) and warm potato salad with mustard, bacon and red onions (a deeply flavorful take that had my friend in raptures), a solid trio that came off the happy hour menu.
We had a great time with our server, hearing about his impending cohabitation in a 630 square foot apartment (so brave) and trying to discuss our own lives without him overhearing us.
Claiming to hear nothing, he made a reference to our chatter being the equivalent of Charlie Brown's teacher. Wahh, wahh.
I asked my friend about going to see "The Taming of the Shrew" with me, which you'd think was a pretty simple request to make of a theater lover, but which led to a deeply philosophical discussion of her objections to the play on the grounds that offends her '80s-era feminist sensibilities by belittling the Katerina character.
Funny, I don't see it that way, which means it was a lively discussion where we both learned a little about each other's views on the male/female dynamic. And wound up discussing "Much Ado About Nothing" instead.
As it happened, we also got into the art of haikus, but she shut that down by insisting that she preferred limericks. Not so me.
Since this was a girls' night out, we used our free will to go with two desserts, a chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee paired with grapefruit sorbet and chocolate sorbet so creamy it coated the spoon and didn't want to let go.
The creme brulee and grapefruit pairing was inspired, the refreshing and tart sorbet cutting the richness of the dark chocolate.
With the chocolate sorbet we switched from Rose to Saint Dominique Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, a lightly sweet wine that must have been created to be savored with just such a dessert.
We used the accompanying orange slices to swipe the last of the sorbet from the bowl, enjoying the sweetness of the oranges under chocolate for our last rapturous bites.
Sorry, no computer simulation could recreate that kind of mouthfeel, those beautiful flavors to close out our evening.
Turns out it wasn't only the planning that was poetical.
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