The musical arc of my evening hit the spot.
There was that delicious moment when I was sitting in my car, parked on Cary Street near Acacia (where I wasn't due for another ten minutes), watching headlights reflecting off the rain on the windshield, while discovering the first single in two decades for a 27-year old shoegaze band I've never even heard of.
And shoegaze, as we all know, is just a fancy term for music-from-a-cave and we all know how much I love my cave music.
Even better, it's a hall of mirrors. Specifically, it's an aural pastiche, clearly rooted in first wave shoegaze, yet showing decades of additional influences - as if it were a bunch of millennials worshipfully aping their dream pop elders - except being executed by original practitioners. Brilliant.
How great is it when you start the evening being given the gift of a band unknown to you when you left home? Little pleasures.
At Acacia, where I'm greeted by a wine rep eating dinner to support his childhood buddy, another wine rep who's actually doing a mini-wine dinner there tonight, the sound is funkier with the likes of Brothers Johnson's "Strawberry Letter 23" and Al Green. It's just the right vibe for the mild, damp evening.
A bottle of Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose arrives shortly after Holmes does.
Over Ruby Salt oysters, fried oysters over southern slaw and white anchovies topping marinated radicchio, forume d'ambert, pine nuts and romaine, Holmes solicits drink-making advice and I dig for back story. Turns out the Philly-born bartender went to college where I was born (GWU) and lived four blocks from where I did in Dupont Circle.
Small world. Where we differ are in his stints in Portugal, NYC, Berlin and New Orleans, information that inexplicably caused Holmes to ask if he'd moved out of NOLA in the middle of the night.
"I did many things in the middle of the night," the barkeep said with a twinkle in his eye. When I expressed surprise on learning about his Big Easy residency, he assured me he came from Bounce City.
"Oh, I met my husband at a bounce," he assures me. The hostess, standing nearby, asked me, "Didn't you see him on the dance floor at the Elbys?"
Obviously not or I'd recall his bouncing, I feel certain.
The bar menu netted me a lobster burger on brioche roll and let's just pause for a moment - shall we? - and appreciate a restaurant with a bar menu where something that sublime - chunks of lobster lightly spiced and bound (crabcake-style), smeared with lemon herb aioli - is served up with celery root slaw and a fresh-tasting green salad like it's no big deal.
Let me assure you, it is.
Meanwhile Holmes took advantage of the bar menu's fried chicken along with a side of panko-crusted mac and cheese and the artist had pasta with little neck clams. Dark chocolate flan with coffee caramel and sea salt inflicted the final damage.
Although he'd threatened to end the evening after dessert, we all knew we were going back to his man cave to listen to records until somebody pulled the work-in-the-morning card.
Tonight's treat was listening to 45s. Hell, just looking at the sleeves - Prince, Pretenders from a Bond movie, Phil Collins - was a fascinating look at his eclectic taste.
We began with Bowie's "Blue Jeans" on blue vinyl and when I inquired if it had cost more because of its color, he shrugged. "It didn't matter 'cause I wanted it." Playing "Ashes to Ashes," he reminisced about a Bowie show at the Scope in '75. "There were people in pastel suits everywhere," he says.
Imagine having seen Bowie in '75. I can't even.
Since he's been in Richmond his whole life, I always learn historical tidbits from him and tonight's was about Back Alley Discs, a record store on Strawberry Street where now a real estate company occupies the building by the alley.
I spot a list of restaurants and inquire its purpose, only to hear that he was playing cruise director and it was possible places to entertain 30 family members after his Mom died. Rowland. Peter Chang. Amici. Mekong. Can Can.
"We were drunk when we made that list," I'm told. Sometimes it's better not to ask.
It's hilarious when he puts on the Tornados' "Telstar," that's right, a sci-fi-themed Top 40 song, for crying out loud. Holmes loves his sci-fi. Every time I say I need to leave, he puts on another song to suck me in.
Temptation follows temptation, but I stay only through Jackson Browne's "Doctor My Eyes," not because I'm a long-time Jackson Browne fan but because I came very late to him and after a lifetime of avoiding his music, I can now appreciate it.
Not to mention that it's later than it seems.
Showing posts with label Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose. Show all posts
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Friday, February 7, 2014
Much to Chew On
You have to appreciate a man who requests your company for a meal that goes down easy and a play that doesn't.
We met at Rappahannock where the bar was full of suits, the tables full of diners and I was greeted by a guy I'd met at Patrick Henry's several summers ago.
Funny the people who remember you with full body hugs.
Seated at a table next to a rambunctious eight-top, we were greeted by our server who squints and remembers me from a recent lunch where my date had been an hour-plus late and he'd suggested I retaliate by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon (ignoring his advice, I'd chosen Domaine Rolet cremant de Juca rose instead).
Tonight, I repeat myself by ordering a dozen Olde Salts but reconsider when he says, "You want all the same?" and split my order into half Stingrays and half Olde Salts, even though he is not the boss of me.
Without asking if my companion wants an appetizer, he leaves. When I'm finally able to get his attention so my date can order, he apologizes, saying he assumed we were sharing the oysters.
Do I look like I can't down a dozen by myself?
My companion goes with a special of scallop ceviche, finding it unexpectedly spicy near the center, while sharing the restaurant gossip he's heard.
For a person who works in the corporate world, he is amazingly adept at knowing what's going on behind kitchen doors.
With the clock ticking down toward curtain time, we order entrees which arrive surprisingly quickly.
He's more than happy with his pan-seared mahi, but I think my bowl of Olde Salt clams with merguez sausage-stuffed squid, braised shell beans and grilled Tuscan kale in an amontillado sherry and smoked tomato sugo kicks his mahi's butt.
But then, I'm a sausage and beans kind of gal.
Dinner conversations runs the gamut from how the temperature affects my walking/his running, recent movies we've seen and Valentine's day plans.
By the time we finish, we have barely enough time for dessert but we order chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake anyway.
If we have to stuff it in our mouths as we put our coats on, we need some sweet to put the period at the end of our savory.
Which we get before scurrying the two blocks to CenterStage to see Henley Street Theater and Richmond Shakespeare's production of "Death and the Maiden," for which we have front row seats for tonight's preview performance.
Arriving at the very last minute, the usher teases us, saying, "There you are!" The shaming is justified and funny.
For a change, having heard what a powerful play this is, I have purposely done no research so that it can unfold for me with no foreknowledge.
Even so, reading the program prepares me for a story about the aftermath of unspeakable acts committed on an innocent woman. It seems likely that the play will be short given the intensity of the topic.
The award-winning, three-actor play has dramatic set design, with blood-stained work clothes making up the enormous back wall and bodybag-looking black plastic curtains on the side.
Set in Chile during Pinochet's brutal 1973 takeover, a story unfolds wherein a woman enlists her husband's assistance to get revenge on one of the men responsible for the tortures inflicted on her.
By the end of the brief first act, her captor is bound and gagged with a black hood on his head and there he stays during the entire intermission.
It's a plot device that has all of us feeling uncomfortable as the lights come up and he is still confined onstage.
In the ladies' room, I discuss the first act with several strangers, all of whom are experiencing knotted stomachs, tension and discomfort with the woman's plight and the depiction of it.
It's unanimous that being made to feel this way is not only superb theater but a unique opportunity to feel something so unlike what theater usually gives us.
The second act is, if possible, even stronger as acts too horrible to be forgiven are attempted to be put in the past.
Katrinah Carol Lewis all but spits out her lines and anguish as the one-time victim in a role that almost has to outshine the two men no matter how well-played theirs are.
Any way you look at it, the play was difficult, challenging, uncomfortable and mesmerizing.
Walking out, I asked my friend what he thought.
"I'm going to come back and see it again," he said, clearly having already made up his mind on that.
Right on. You want your meals easy to digest, but sometimes you need your theater to be just the opposite.
We met at Rappahannock where the bar was full of suits, the tables full of diners and I was greeted by a guy I'd met at Patrick Henry's several summers ago.
Funny the people who remember you with full body hugs.
Seated at a table next to a rambunctious eight-top, we were greeted by our server who squints and remembers me from a recent lunch where my date had been an hour-plus late and he'd suggested I retaliate by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon (ignoring his advice, I'd chosen Domaine Rolet cremant de Juca rose instead).
Tonight, I repeat myself by ordering a dozen Olde Salts but reconsider when he says, "You want all the same?" and split my order into half Stingrays and half Olde Salts, even though he is not the boss of me.
Without asking if my companion wants an appetizer, he leaves. When I'm finally able to get his attention so my date can order, he apologizes, saying he assumed we were sharing the oysters.
Do I look like I can't down a dozen by myself?
My companion goes with a special of scallop ceviche, finding it unexpectedly spicy near the center, while sharing the restaurant gossip he's heard.
For a person who works in the corporate world, he is amazingly adept at knowing what's going on behind kitchen doors.
With the clock ticking down toward curtain time, we order entrees which arrive surprisingly quickly.
He's more than happy with his pan-seared mahi, but I think my bowl of Olde Salt clams with merguez sausage-stuffed squid, braised shell beans and grilled Tuscan kale in an amontillado sherry and smoked tomato sugo kicks his mahi's butt.
But then, I'm a sausage and beans kind of gal.
Dinner conversations runs the gamut from how the temperature affects my walking/his running, recent movies we've seen and Valentine's day plans.
By the time we finish, we have barely enough time for dessert but we order chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake anyway.
If we have to stuff it in our mouths as we put our coats on, we need some sweet to put the period at the end of our savory.
Which we get before scurrying the two blocks to CenterStage to see Henley Street Theater and Richmond Shakespeare's production of "Death and the Maiden," for which we have front row seats for tonight's preview performance.
Arriving at the very last minute, the usher teases us, saying, "There you are!" The shaming is justified and funny.
For a change, having heard what a powerful play this is, I have purposely done no research so that it can unfold for me with no foreknowledge.
Even so, reading the program prepares me for a story about the aftermath of unspeakable acts committed on an innocent woman. It seems likely that the play will be short given the intensity of the topic.
The award-winning, three-actor play has dramatic set design, with blood-stained work clothes making up the enormous back wall and bodybag-looking black plastic curtains on the side.
Set in Chile during Pinochet's brutal 1973 takeover, a story unfolds wherein a woman enlists her husband's assistance to get revenge on one of the men responsible for the tortures inflicted on her.
By the end of the brief first act, her captor is bound and gagged with a black hood on his head and there he stays during the entire intermission.
It's a plot device that has all of us feeling uncomfortable as the lights come up and he is still confined onstage.
In the ladies' room, I discuss the first act with several strangers, all of whom are experiencing knotted stomachs, tension and discomfort with the woman's plight and the depiction of it.
It's unanimous that being made to feel this way is not only superb theater but a unique opportunity to feel something so unlike what theater usually gives us.
The second act is, if possible, even stronger as acts too horrible to be forgiven are attempted to be put in the past.
Katrinah Carol Lewis all but spits out her lines and anguish as the one-time victim in a role that almost has to outshine the two men no matter how well-played theirs are.
Any way you look at it, the play was difficult, challenging, uncomfortable and mesmerizing.
Walking out, I asked my friend what he thought.
"I'm going to come back and see it again," he said, clearly having already made up his mind on that.
Right on. You want your meals easy to digest, but sometimes you need your theater to be just the opposite.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Sunny with Empty Bottles
It's the best possible thing to come home to after my walk: a lunch invitation.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
