A Good Talking To

It's the classic story of two single women huddled together for warmth under one shared coat. At the end of the evening, there are declarations of love  and they both dissolve in fits of giggles.

You know, that old chestnut.

Pru and I were overdue for a date, so I picked her up and whisked her off to Amour, where we found a restaurant full of French people and only one available stool at the bar. Given that it's the height of the French Film Festival, it was hardly surprising.

The owner was in rare form, no doubt a function of his pleasure at having so many French-speakers in the restaurant all week, and delighted us with his steady stream of witty patter, explaining that the handsome tie he was wearing made him look slimmer and he'd blow up like a balloon if he removed it and that white wine was for girls and red for boys.

We took him at his word on everything.

Pru was just coming off her birthday so it seemed only appropriate to celebrate with Veuve Clicquot as she opened presents not from me. Inside the gift bag was a veritable Byrd Theater survival kit: dark chocolate covered marshmallows, two kinds of biscotti, fancy gummies.

Few things are as lovely as beginning an evening with bubbles, but our busy days - hers packing, mine writing - also meant hungry bellies. Our cheese and charcuterie plate arrived to address those munchies with such temptations as fourme d'ambert, wild boar salami, Comte, speck, dried mango, grapes and cornichons. And that wasn't the half of it.

So many delightful things to eat meant plenty of time to take the temperature of each other's lives since we'd last had a girls' night out, far too long ago. Her recent night at the opera was up first.

We discussed the beach house she's rented and whether it should be a girls' only clubhouse or not given how much fun we had last time we did it sans men. We're thinking no boys allowed and possibly no red wine. White and pink only.

The subject of E-Z Bake ovens came up, necessitating we explain the concept to a Frenchman. I'd heard tell of a woman who'd demonstrated her mettle as a child by replacing the bulb in the oven with a higher wattage so she could cook bacon instead of miniature cakes.

Neither Pru nor I had had nor wanted an E-Z Bake oven, for what that's worth.

Delving into some personal matters of hers, I had to laugh long and hard when she told me, "I had a talk with myself because someone needed to do it and I knew if I didn't, you would." Right she was about that.

Since tonight counted toward her ongoing birthday festivities, naturally we had dessert and hers arrived with a lit candle. I can't sing, but the owner was gracious enough to wish her a "joyeux anniversaire" as she blew it out.

Even without it being my celebration, I was plenty keen on the mini duo of sea salt and caramel chocolate creme brulee and housemade raspberry sorbet. We agreed that all desserts should be sized that way to mitigate guilt and not make delicate flowers such as us feel stuffed. Unfortunately, no one was asking our opinion about dessert sizing.

Best Pru quip of the night: "Do I really want to die alone?" Do any of us really want to? Do we really have a choice?

After the last sips of Willm Cremant d'Alsace were savored, we made the frigid trek (was it really 77 degrees just two days ago?) to the Byrd only a few minutes late.

We had no problem finding good seats just as the films were being introduced. On the bill tonight were rare and restored films of the late 19th and early 20th century and tonight was the first time they were being shown in their restored state anywhere.

What was interesting about that was that once this cache of films from 1896-1905 had been discovered, in deplorable shape of course, they had to be transferred to digital to capture them and then put on 35 mm for posterity. Some were even hand-painted frame by frame.

And get this: they were being shown with musical accompaniment. Bob Gulledge was playing the mighty Wurlitzer with each film.

Because they were so old, they were incredibly brief, most about a minute long, but offered fascinating glimpses into the late 19th century world.

Several showed street locations such as the Place de la Concorde and Gare Saint Lazare, both alive with hansom cabs, carts, bicycles, pedestrians, horse-drawn street cars and the like. Dogs and children darted through it all.

Several films showed dancing - Russians with knives, ballet, a dramatic scene by the river - and one was a comical look at a marriage banquet (Bob Gulledge began by playing "Here Comes the Bride").

It was some time around then that Pru and I realized we were both shivering. If the air conditioning wasn't on, then there was certainly no heat on and we were reduced to huddling under her wool coat (I'd never even removed my jean jacket). Looking around, we saw several other women doing the same.

If it was intended to keep us awake, it seemed unnecessarily cruel.

The final short was George Melies' "Legend of Rip van Winkle," a treat since I've seen several of Melies' films thanks to my friend Jameson and the Silent Music Revival. This one was 15 minutes long and colorized, which was something new for the films of his I've seen.

As Bob Gulledge played and the film rolled, Todd, the affable manager of the Byrd, read the original text to the audience as we watched the film, much the way a bonimenteur would have done in 1905. In those days, there was no assumption that the audience could follow the story solely from silent pictures.

I found the language of the script wonderful. Rip was described as "a good and lazy bon vivant" and the gnomes "capered." When's the last time you heard "caper" used as a verb?

Tonight's piece de resistance was "The Byrd: A Love Affair," a documentary that's part of a series "Mythic Cinema Palaces" made by a French filmmaking team who discovered the theater a few years back when the director was asked to speak at the French Film festival.

Clearly the filmmaking gods work in mysterious ways.

It was a charming look at the landmark movie palace Richmonders know well, referred to as "a magical place to take us out of our daily world." We saw not only the vintage litter commercial, but an updated version that was a bit disconcerting simply because the original is so completely familiar.

What was most compelling about watching the documentary was the mirror effect. I could look at the screen as the Czechoslovakian chandelier was being shown and explained or I could look overhead and see it in real life.

When the camera follows the storyteller up four flights of stairs to see the instruments that make up the organ's works, I could recall going up those stairs myself years ago while shooting video with my co-worker. Since I'd been clueless about how organs worked, I'd been amazed to learn that each sound came from the actual instrument.

There was a scene of the annual Christmas Eve singalong, an event I've attended at the Byrd for the past 20 years. I didn't see myself, but I also can assure you I was there, although not singing given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket.

So while it was all very familiar, it was also surprisingly satisfying to see a documentary about a subject I know well made by people from another continent. Their reverence for and appreciation of the Byrd (and Richmond) came through in every frame.

When it ended, Pru and I reluctantly separated ourselves, giving up the shared body that that had made two hours in the theater tolerable. Walking up Cary Street with the FFF crowd, I heard my name called and spotted two friends hurrying against the wind.

We'd been so busy laughing and talking, I hadn't even noticed they'd been just ahead of us.

That lasted right up until I pulled up in front of her house to let her out, at which point I teased her one last time, setting off more giggles and a final, "I love you."

Just two bon vivants capering.

Freak-a-Zoid

Tonight, there was no parking on the dance floor. And the good news is, I can still dance for three hours straight without a break.

The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.

Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.

I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.

I sure did.

Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.

When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.

Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.

Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.

"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"

We sure as hell did.

That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.

Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.

"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.

Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.

Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.

They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.

But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.

Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.

The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.

With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.

The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.

While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.

Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.

One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.

I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.

By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.

But I had other music in mind.

A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.

They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.

First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.

You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.

Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.

A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.

To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.

Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.

Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.

The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.

Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.

When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.

"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.

Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.

A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?

At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.

After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.

How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?

Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.

An Auvergne Kind of Evening

So now I know I can sub out for a 92-year old woman.

Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.

Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.

The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.

Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.

Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.

Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.

The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.

Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.

Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.

To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.

A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.

He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.

For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.

And the R & B played on.

We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?

Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.

Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.

Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.

And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.

Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.

Booya and all that.

The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.

After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.

"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.

"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.

"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.

She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.

"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."

Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.

She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.

Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.

Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?

And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.

Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.

She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.

Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.

But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.

Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!

Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.

When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.

The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.

It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.

So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.

Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.

Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.

I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.

A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.

Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.

What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.