I'm Gonna Be an Optimist about This

I don't often make the rounds on Saturday night.

But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.

I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.

The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.

Not much I can do about my girl parts.

We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine

The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.

We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.

Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.

Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.

A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.

After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.

If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.

One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.

Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.

We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.

Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.

We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.

Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.

All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.

Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.

We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.

The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.

When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.

With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.

But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.

Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.

With Baited Hook

We lost an hour over the weekend, but it felt like a whole lot more.

Between finishing up several assignments Saturday, I made it over to the Blue Bee Cidery tasting briefly, along with scads of people, including a favorite Museum District couple, clutching bottles of Aragon 1904 and Mill Race Bramble, listening to the sounds of Poisoned Dwarf (great band name, right?) and eating lamb (my choice) or pork sandwiches in the sunshine facing the downtown skyline.

It was to laugh when a guy led some friends across the parking lot and pointed to the buildings on the other side of the river, extending his arm in a "ta-da!" moment as if they'd had to wind through a forest to come to the view when it's in plain sight no matter where you are there.

Hours later, dinner ended up being in almost the exact same spot when Holmes and his beloved suggested I join them at Camden's for a United Nations-worthy evening of pink bubbles- Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, Graham Beck Brut Rose and a hearty bright pink Cava with a name too long to remember by the time I got home - along with succulent pork belly festooned with the Christmas colors of cranberries and sauteed spinach.

Knowing we were destined to lose an hour, we probably shouldn't have stayed up so late chatting and sipping but it had been ages since I'd seen them and there was so much to talk about.

When Sunday dawned clear and warm, it seemed a shame not to walk somewhere for brunch and the Rogue Gentleman got the nod for its proximity.

We were the first to arrive even though they'd been open for two hours at that point, but given my last visit on a mobbed opening night, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.

Well, that's a stretch because between the kitchen staff and wait staff, there were easily four times as many of them as us, but with the sun on our backs in bar stools up front, who was counting?

Punkt sparkling Gruner Veltliner gave way to eggs and bacon and a dish of polenta and eggs, a stellar layering of flavors with preserved lemon under polenta topped by harissa tomato sauce, two fried eggs and pickled thyme.

Since some of us require something sweet for breakfast, I also got brioche doughnut holes rolled in pistachio dust, my only complaint being that they weren't hot.

Not that I said that out loud.

After a stroll through the Hebrew Cemetery and Shockoe Hill cemetery to check on Henrietta Guggenheim and Dr. Norton's grave sites (my pebbles still in place), we headed for the November theater to see Virginia Rep's final production of Moliere's "Tartuffe."

As to be expected, the audience was a seasoned one, but the older couple who sat next to us and immediately began chatting were delightful.

When I told her it was my first time seeing this play (although I've seen "School for Wives"), she recalled that the last time she'd seen "Tartuffe" had been at the Old Vic in London.

The closest I could come was having once seen "Batboy" in London, but no Moliere.

I was expecting fabulous and funny language but was just as taken with the commentary on relationship foibles ("When we're forgotten by a woman's heart our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; or, if we cannot, must at least pretend to"), not to mention the glorious sight of (Ryan Bechard as) Tartuffe's bare bottom. Twice.

There really aren't enough naked male parts on view in Richmond theater.

Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.

Since it was the last performance, the cast was spot on, completely comfortable in their roles and playing them to the hilt. Add to that a gloriously French interior set, lavish costumes and it made for a slapstick, witty and sharp commentary on hypocrisy and religion.

The heathen in me ate it up.

Spilling out of the theater a couple of hours later, it took a few minutes to realize why it was still so sunny and bright out. That lost hour was repaying us now with some bonus time to enjoy a promenade on a beautiful day and talk about the play.

Happily, my date suggested exactly that.

Public scandal is what makes the offense; sinning in private is not sinning at all.

Don't I know it. And, incidentally, not because I went to the school for wives.

Bonne Anniversaire!

An anniversary party made for the ideal sendoff for my vacation.

Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating three years with bubbles and lots of desserts.

If I ever have an anniversary worth celebrating, I'd do it exactly the same way.

Being the eager beaver, I was there right when things were supposed to get started, but an unusually busy dinner hour was delaying things.

Come to think of it, on the drive over, I'd driven past crowds and lines at most restaurants.

While most people seem to be out of town already (my neighborhood is a ghost town), apparently those still around were all out tonight.

It turned out to be a lively night, with pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, the inevitable glass of wine spilled nearby and an errant spoon that went flying.

I took a seat at the bar and began with a glass of Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose.

The two girls next to me were deep into man talk ("George is the only one I want to marry!") but the guy at the far end perked up when he saw he had someone to talk to.

Once he found out my interests, we had a most interesting discussion of a very old painting of a bishop he'd gotten from his grandfather.

He was eager to find out who'd painted it and asked for suggestions.

Using old letters between his grandparents, he'd found a reference to a Peter Paul Rubens painting his grandfather had bought 100 years ago.

Holy cow, Rubens?

I told him he needed a much higher source than me to start that process.

Like me, he's a regular at Amour, as were all of the crowd who came in tonight to raise a glass to Amour making it three years in a business that's known to chew up and spit out even experienced entrepreneurs.

I saw the cute couple I always see at Amour, the ones who seem to take so much pleasure in each other's company.

Three women came in after seeing "The Comedy of Errors" at Agecroft and we made room for them at the bar.

Turns out they were Carytown merchants as well as regulars, although it was somehow our first time meeting.

Like me, they were tickled to see tonight's dessert menu offering 3 for $3 or 5 for $5.

Now that's a dessert menu I can get behind.

And the choices!

Bourbon maple creme caramel. Key lime tartlette. Plantain cake with avocado buttercream. Chocolate mousse in orange lace cookie. Profiteroles with ganache.

The three of them debated whether they need to order 5 for $5 or 10 for $10, while I kept my order to 3 for $3.

One of the women argued that sharing five small desserts between three women was insufficient.

While they debated, I started on my cake with its delicate flavors and exquisite buttercream.

Next I did profiteroles filled with Chantilly cream, but mine arrived sans ganache.

Then a friend came in (with a friend) and all of a sudden I was moving my bar stool to their bar table to join them for dessert.

They were two, so they chose five desserts.

My friend regaled us with stories of her "crazy" Dad who cuts out the obituaries of his former wife's ex-boyfriends and sends them to my friend, instructing, "Send this to your Mother."

With the cute couple behind us, we discussed playing online Scrabble (she does, I don't), leading her friend to observe that people who play Scrabble on a Kindle can cheat.

I wouldn't know.

You see, I just packed my wooden Scrabble board to take to the beach and there's no cheating with wood.

My last dessert was chocolate mousse in an orange lace cookie with a raspberry, a sublime combination of flavors.

While it seemed fitting to have three desserts to celebrate a third anniversary, I was led astray when suddenly profiteroles with ganache arrived.

I couldn't think of a single reason to resist the dark chocolate-covered delicacies.

You see, it's the contrast of the dark chocolate with the delicately sweet cream that makes a profiterole sing.

As I suspected, all these wonderful desserts were for tonight only and will not be showing up on the regular menu.

You either came and benefited or missed out entirely.

I met a guy who'd read my post about a disco party we'd both attended and we laughed when we heard that the upcoming Bastille day picnic may include another appearance by Amour's smoke machine.

Maybe that's the deep, dark secret of a restaurant making it to the three year point.

Keep things fresh and blow a little smoke every once in a while.

I'll have to remember that if I ever get to a third anniversary again.

A Foggy Night in R-Town

On second thought, I guess I didn't seem so bad.

A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.

No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.

A minute later the phone rang.

"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.

Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?

Apparently not.

I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.

Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.

Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."

And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.

Or the bubbles.

But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.

I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).

It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.

Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.

Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.

We actually made a hell of a team.

As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.

For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.

The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.

You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.

My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.

"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.

Will work for wine.

Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.

So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.

The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.

We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.

Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.

Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.

Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.

I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.

A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.

"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.

We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.

Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.

One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."

It was an unexpectedly charming moment.

By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.

If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.

People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.

You! Out of the Gene Pool!

'Tis the season for out-of-town friends to call.

So when one did today at nearly 5:00, all my plans went out the window.

The "where" was easy because there would be five of us and we wanted a cozy spot to catch up.

Voila Amour.

While there were several tables with happy-looking diners up front when we arrived, the bar was wide open and inviting so incrementally we began taking it over.

Our starting point was a given; we were celebrating old friends getting together and there's only one way I choose to begin drinking at Amour.

Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace works for me every time.

Once our quintet was fully assembled, the real fun began.

These friends are funny and anything but shy.

Before long we were discussing the kind of people who should not be parents when Holmes bragged, "That's why I took myself out of the gene pool."

I'm quite sure our laughter was heard in Cary  Court when we reacted to that statement about his efforts to save mankind.

Tonight's soup was a scallop and pumpkin bisque, an exquisitely rich combination with the brine of the scallops reminding us of the sea.

The visitor was telling us about her recent trip to Aspen and the $2,000 suite with butler in which she and her paramour had stayed.

She went on to describe her upcoming New Year's Eve dinner a deux, a meatfest consisting of prime rib and ham for two.

She revealed that she'd heard of a $1200 Spanish ham that she was curious about.

Holmes, ever the bean counter, lost it at that point.

Grabbing her cheeks, he warned her, "Don't make me bitch slap you on both cheeks! You are not buying a $1200 ham."

Since she'd just bought three pairs of $500 glasses she didn't need, his exhortations were probably in vain.

Our next course was veal sweetbreads in a sherried cream sauce in puff pastry.

One bite and I felt quite certain that this is what heaven tastes like.

A tiny glass of Madeira only elevated the dish to sublime territory.

You can be repulsed at eating thymus glands all day long, but the way I see it, that just leaves more for me.

Because sherried glands weren't rich enough, we moved on to meat cooked in its own fat, namely pork and duck rilletes.

The ramekins of shredded duck/pig were outstanding with the hot mustard to cut the richness.

Meanwhile, the conversation just got funnier and more over the top.

When Holmes mentioned a spring vacation, our visitor stepped in as his travel adviser, telling him what he did and didn't want to do and where he wanted to do it.

Holmes was not particularly interested in an action-packed trip, preferring sloth and gluttony to sports and rigorous activity, but the planner planned on.

It was a little like a comedy routine with each oblivious to what the other was saying.

In the meantime, I tasted my friend's poulet Bourguignon, with savory Polyface chicken cooked in a red wine sauce.

The thigh I had was the essence of a cool-weather French dish, all herbs and belly-filling warmth.

She's the pickiest eater on earth (a fact she'll readily admit) but even she seemed to be enjoying the lovely Virginia meets Burgundy combination.

Appropriately, the music was its usual French self, all accordions and breathy female vocalists and just what you'd want to hear while eating and drinking this way.

It was a marked contrast from my annual trip to Can Can last weekend, where the Rolling Stones blasted as I sipped my hot chocolate and I wondered if I was in a chain restaurant.

Throughout all of this, owner Paul maintained his best game face, refilling glasses, making suggestions and adding to the absurd conversation when it suited him.

At one point, a couple came in and because they are Amour regulars, Holmes and I recognized them.

They were just coming in to say hello to Paul, but soon were sucked into the verbal mayhem swirling around.

Luckily for us, they ordered wine and joined the conversation.

Before long the husband was telling us a Pope joke with accented Italian and we were all rolling in laughter at the corny punchline.

Honestly, it felt a lot like an intimate holiday party, just in a restaurant instead of someone's home.

When dessert time came, it was twofold: the irresistible chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and housemade clementine sorbet.

Despite how many times I've had that creme brulee, I'd be the first to admit I don't want to live without it, but after tasting the beautiful flavors of the sorbet, I wouldn't want to miss out on that, either.

A discussion of clementines ensued, and as one who eats two or three every day when they're in season (like now), I couldn't help but appreciate that unique flavor in a new form.

We were having so much fun that all at once the visitor realized that the last thing she wanted to do was drive three hours home, so Holmes invited her to stay over and plans were adjusted accordingly.

A couch three blocks away is infinitely more appealing than a nice bed in another state, especially when you're dreaming of a $1200 ham.

I only hope Holmes didn't have to bitch slap her before the night was over.

But even if he does, it'll make a great story for the next time we all get together.

Where the Path May Lead

Sometimes you need someplace civilized to map out your journey.

Amour Wine Bistro seemed more than up up the task.

I ran into a photographer friend outside on the sidewalk, shooting away.

After a discussion of Perry Ellis shirts and much laughter on my part about grown men discussing fashion, we moved on.

I feel constitutionally unable to start any evening at Amour with anything but Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose, so why fight it?

"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake.The great affair is to move" ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

The new Wine Spectator magazine immediately claimed my attention with its focus on Italy, so it took a few minutes to even look at the menu.

A vegetable terrine was irresistible with layers of yellow pepper, arugula, cauliflower, red pepper, zucchini and a cool, smooth mouth feel.

Tarte flambee served up bread with white cheese, caramelized onions and bacon, the quintessential sweet and salty.

"One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things." ~ Henry Miller

For the next course, we changed grapes, going for two different ones: a Touraine sauvignon blanc and Des Gras Moutons muscadet sevre.

Both shone beautifully with frog legs wrapped in bacon, and our second bacon of the evening.

This led to a discussion with the Frenchman about how bacon preferences are rooted in childhood.

I trace mine back to my mother keeping a can in the kitchen cabinet filled with used bacon grease which was delightfully emplyed to flavor almost everything from eggs to vegetables.

You never really outgrow a taste for that.

If it sounds like all we did was eat and drink, let me assure you that we were busily working on journeying as well.

How many hours in a day? How many must-sees to be seen? How much walking to be enjoyed?

"Travel and place impart new vigor to the mind." ~ Seneca

The Frenchman offered his wisdom, suggesting no plan is best and I assured him any plans were minimal and subject to change.

A cheese and charcuterie plate followed, the Olli salame and prosciutto sublime.

I was reminded of the Italian chef Fabio Trabocchi at Fiola in D.C. once telling me and my dinner companion that it was the best American-made cured meats he'd ever put in his mouth.

Goochland, you done us proud.

For dessert, we each got a different red wine to go with our chocolate creme brulee with sea salt.

There was the Chateua Puy Sarvain Bergerac (Merlot and Cab Franc yummy) and Chateau de Gaudou Cahors 2009 (a juicy Malbec).

Not satisfied with mere chocolate, my companion then tucked into an apple tart tatin with Calvados for pouring over and sipping with, truly a classic French dessert.

Despite the food and wine coma we were in, much had been accomplished during our prolonged stay and bidding adieu to the Frenchman, we gathered up our books and notebooks and wandered out, one step closer to the journey.

It was all terribly civilized.

"The journey not the arrival matters." ~ T.S. Elliott

Stay on the Streets of This Town

So it's Labor Day weekend and the city is all but dead.

Parking spaces abound, businesses are closed and if you're one of the few left in town, good luck finding action.

With that in mind, I invited Holmes and his favorite gal to meet at Lunch for dinner.

No surprise, we were the only ones in the restaurant when we arrived.

A familiar and pretty server greeted us and brought our favorite Wolf Trap blend to ease us into happy hour.

Music was absent, so I asked our server to correct that.

Within seconds, the '70s and '80s arrived, courtesy of Pandora.

You know what I'm talking about: MJ's "Rock with You," Robbie Dupree's"Steal Away,"  Ambrosia's "Baby Come Back," " Ace's "How Long?" and more Hall and Oates than you could shake a stick at.

Songs I've heard too many times and know every word to.

Still, it made for terrific conversation, especially once Holmes and partner arrived and joined us at our window table.

They followed our Wolf Trap lead and everyone perused the menu eagerly.

Having had 80% of the menu, I couldn't help but go with one of the specials, fish tacos.

Three grilled tilapia, pineapple-mango salsa and shredded cabbage tacos were more than I needed to satisfy my hunger.

All around me, my companions, ordered pig: griddle cakes with pork, chicken with pork, a pork sampler.

The music provided lots of discussion, as did the black and white photographs of old Richmond.

Our server was quick to refill wine glasses and profess her love of Hall and Oates.

It was adorable.

The abundance of pig meant that no one at our table had enough room for dessert, so once again, I didn't taste the brownie with bacon.

Someday, my love.

I lost my date to northern Virginia while Holmes and his beloved agreed to meet me at Carytown Bistro for music.

Somehow, I arrived first, scoring a table far too near the wafting odor of sewer gas.

After a move closer to Chilled Mint, we settled in to enjoy music al fresco.

The restaurant was low on inventory, so we settled for a Close Robert chardonnay, the only white wine available.

Holmes advised the owner to change wine reps if that was the case.

When his love saw the bottle, she noted, "It's 13%. Good, we're not f**king around with a vinho verde.. That's a single serving in a bottle."

I found that a succinct and hilarious observation.

I'd seen Chilled Mint before and had much enjoyed their Latin take on jazz.

With a good friend on sax, jazz guitar, a drummer who only occasionally used anything but his hands to make sound and a bass player on an acoustic bass guitar, they created a smooth and eminently danceable sound.

Sadly, I had no one to dance with.

Even so, they delivered standards and originals, like "Delta Casbah," Dizzy Gillespie's "Night in Tunisia," and the standards, "Autumn Leaves" and "Song for My Father," both of which required the drummer to stand.

One song required the drummer to blow his whistle, conveniently located around his neck.

"I thought it was a crucifix," Holmes admitted once he began blowing.

"It's not just bling," his nearby girlfriend laughingly told us.

Scent of sewer gas and limited wine selection aside, we were more than happy to sit back and enjoy bossa novas and sambas in the warm August night.

When we left there, it was to go to Amour Wine Bistro for a nightcap.

What the hell?

It was a block away, we knew their wine selection would not be limited and there was always the opportunity for dessert.

While Holmes had no preference, his lady love and I immediately went for the Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut rose, a lovely pink sparkler that puts the rose in our cheeks.

As we enjoyed the soundtrack of gypsy jazz (mostly Django Reinhardt), the chalkboard listing the evening's sorbets caught our eye.

"They have fig sorbet," Holmes' beloved noted.

Given the all-too-brief fig season, how could we resist?

Both fig sorbet and a lovely plum sorbet arrived at our request and we savored the delicacy of the flavors.

Eventually, the other couple at the bar joined our conversation, unable to resist Holmes' comment, "Olli soprasetta smells like semen."

Seems they'd done a taste comparison between Boar's Head and Olli soprasetta and Olli had been disqualified for its distinctive scent.

It was a tough thing to even respond to.

Instead, we looked at art, namely that of Vicki Foster Miller, which hung on one wall of the dining room.

Recalling late 19th century post-impressionists, I immediately saw one I coveted.

But at $450 (a steal of a deal, no doubt), it was way beyond my budget.

Still, I can admire.

By the time we left,even the fro-yo customers had vacated the overly bright premises and it was just us on Cary Street.

Approaching my car parked in front of Babe's, I saw a line out the door and considered going in.

The bass was booming and several women gave me inviting looks.

Should I or shouldn't I?

Truth is, even on a holiday weekend, the city is only as dead as you want it to be.