Paris is always a good idea.
~Audrey Hepburn
After what felt like the longest day in memory, I am back from Paris.
And lest you think that's hyperbole, I'm talking rising at 6:30 a.m. French time and finally sliding between my own sweet sheets at the equivalent of 4 a.m. French time, a feat I'd never attempt at home.
But for Paris, anything.
I'm not saying it was a perfect place - too many smokers, tourists and selfie sticks - but I could definitely see what Audrey was talking about.
It's satisfying to be in a place where even older women always have on stylish shoes. Never in my life have I seen so many pairs of vividly colored shoes (the robin's egg blues! the petal pinks!) or the array of non-sensible cute shoes on the street...and don't even get me started on the abundance of sassy heels on women riding bikes.
Just as agreeable is a culture built around cafe society. No matter what meal time or in between it is, neighborhoods are lively with people sipping coffee or wine, talking or people-watching, for all I know, just passing time with a view.
And rare is the place that doesn't have a patio or, at the very least, a few tables strategically placed along the sidewalk, alley or street.
Best of all, table turnover is neither the expectation nor the norm. No one is going to rush over to greet you with menus and water when you sit down nor are they going to bring you your second course (or third or fourth) while you're still lingering over the prior one.
Especially near and dear to my heart were the open windows on every building, shutters flung wide whether it was gray and 63 or sunny and 75. These Parisians are no weather wimps and, like me, seem to appreciate the beauty of fresh air over that which is conditioned.
Translation: I would not be nearly the oddball there that I am here for my desire to bring the outdoors in all summer long.
Everywhere, a glance turned up architecture worth noting, street signs with mini-history lessons on them and public sculpture of important figures I did or should have known. You can't swing a dead chat without hitting a coiffure salon or patisserie. Boats parallel park along the Seine like houses arranged on a watery street. Colorful flower shops crop up on practically every block, a testament to the importance of a little beauty in daily life. Every third person walks by with baguette in hand, some already munching the heel.
Your city is a wonderland, Paris. Thanks for the memories.
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Monday, July 11, 2016
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Worlds Collide
It was a Monday night for celebrating.
Holmes had met his deadline and Paul was reopening Amour, having just returned from two weeks in France.
Ergo, we planned to meet up at Amour for dinner and wine to blow off some steam.
It is, after all, Carytown restaurant week.
Arriving at the bar, I was surprised to find Pru already in residence.
What are you doing here, I asked of her. What are you doing here, she asked of me.
You just never know who's going to turn up on a Monday night.
I got a glass of Mas de la Rouviere Bandol Rose, a nod to owner Paul, who'd just come back from Provence.
When Holmes and his lovely girlfriend arrived, we rearranged ourselves at his request so I could sit next to him.
He came out of the gate strong, telling me a story he'd heard with me in it and following that with, "I want to to know who this Pru is you mention in your blog."
Holmes, meet Pru. Pru, Holmes. Well, that was easy.
He took issue with her credo that wine at lunch is civilized, taking her to task for suggesting drinking during the workday.
She defended her thesis adamantly. I stayed out of it.
Speaking of drinking, it didn't take much more than a sip out of my glass to convince my dinner dates to follow my lead with the Bandol, its hints of raspberry and citrusy finish sealing the deal.
Once everyone had ordered wonderful things like coq au vin and shrimp with scallops off the restaurant week menu, we got down to admiring vacation pictures.
There were so many to see, each a testament to the pleasures of visiting Paris and Provence with a native.
Delectable food porn from Parisian bistros, incredibly colorful market shots of fruits and vegetables, the Eiffel Tower at night.
One thing was clear: the French are as artful with food presentation at markets as an artist arranging a still life.
No mere pile of fresh fish for them; instead they were laid out in a sunburst pattern, almost as if they were jumping into the sea in a series of arcs.
The shots of Provence- Cyprus trees, outdoor meals spread on colorful blue and yellow tablecloths, distant mountains- and Monaco- casinos, bright blue waters, boats that looked as expensive as houses- were breathtaking.
In one of those oddly coincidental moments, a woman at a nearby table spotted a picture of a five-masted boat and told us it was named the Maltese Falcon.
Like the movie I just saw for the first time? Yup.
Someone told Paul he should have blogged about his trip instead of just documenting it photographically and he responded saying next year he'd take someone along to write it all down for him.
Ooh, ooh, pick me! Pick me!
I could have gotten lost in eating my mixed mushroom medley in puffed pastry while watching scenes of France go by, but Holmes was in far too raucous a mood for that.
I was accused of being a hedonist.
He chided me for not watching TV, for holding out to see movies in theaters rather than at home, even my looks, saying that my bangs needed a trim.
About the kindest he got was telling me that he'd really liked all my recent posts about dating, finding them fascinating and wanting more information about the men I've been seeing.
I filled in details where I chose to, but he preferred to jump to conclusions rather than accept vague answers.
Over shared desserts of dark chocolate creme brulee and today's special, a mouth-watering combination of fall apples and brioche with chantilly cream and vanilla bean ice cream, we got off on a tangent about old theaters.
Like the Biograph on Grace Street, leading to the revelation that not one of us besides Pru had ever seen "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
As Pru is wont to say, horrors!
A nearby two-top chimed in for this conversation, the woman saying she always went dressed as Columbia.
Pru's costume of choice, it seems, was Magenta.
I am completely out of the loop on this one.
Someone brought up the former Regal Cinemas Regency Square and everyone had a story to tell about the theaters.
My favorite came from a server who worked a summer there.
Apparently Joe Morrissey used to come in on busy weekend nights, always with some youthful arm candy, and slip him a $20 bill to be let in the theater early to claim a good seat.
"I was making five bucks an hour, so sure, I took the money and let him in," he shrugged, grinning. Duh.
Imagine if a man took me out and slipped the usher a bill so we could be the first in.
Now that could lead to a good dating story to post.
Actually, the most romantic moment of the evening came when Holmes' beloved told him to kiss her.
Grabbing her head, he swiveled her neck around and planted a kiss on her that had the rest of us watching slack-jawed.
Twice.
If that ever happens to me, Holmes, you can be sure my post won't leave out a single detail.
Holmes had met his deadline and Paul was reopening Amour, having just returned from two weeks in France.
Ergo, we planned to meet up at Amour for dinner and wine to blow off some steam.
It is, after all, Carytown restaurant week.
Arriving at the bar, I was surprised to find Pru already in residence.
What are you doing here, I asked of her. What are you doing here, she asked of me.
You just never know who's going to turn up on a Monday night.
I got a glass of Mas de la Rouviere Bandol Rose, a nod to owner Paul, who'd just come back from Provence.
When Holmes and his lovely girlfriend arrived, we rearranged ourselves at his request so I could sit next to him.
He came out of the gate strong, telling me a story he'd heard with me in it and following that with, "I want to to know who this Pru is you mention in your blog."
Holmes, meet Pru. Pru, Holmes. Well, that was easy.
He took issue with her credo that wine at lunch is civilized, taking her to task for suggesting drinking during the workday.
She defended her thesis adamantly. I stayed out of it.
Speaking of drinking, it didn't take much more than a sip out of my glass to convince my dinner dates to follow my lead with the Bandol, its hints of raspberry and citrusy finish sealing the deal.
Once everyone had ordered wonderful things like coq au vin and shrimp with scallops off the restaurant week menu, we got down to admiring vacation pictures.
There were so many to see, each a testament to the pleasures of visiting Paris and Provence with a native.
Delectable food porn from Parisian bistros, incredibly colorful market shots of fruits and vegetables, the Eiffel Tower at night.
One thing was clear: the French are as artful with food presentation at markets as an artist arranging a still life.
No mere pile of fresh fish for them; instead they were laid out in a sunburst pattern, almost as if they were jumping into the sea in a series of arcs.
The shots of Provence- Cyprus trees, outdoor meals spread on colorful blue and yellow tablecloths, distant mountains- and Monaco- casinos, bright blue waters, boats that looked as expensive as houses- were breathtaking.
In one of those oddly coincidental moments, a woman at a nearby table spotted a picture of a five-masted boat and told us it was named the Maltese Falcon.
Like the movie I just saw for the first time? Yup.
Someone told Paul he should have blogged about his trip instead of just documenting it photographically and he responded saying next year he'd take someone along to write it all down for him.
Ooh, ooh, pick me! Pick me!
I could have gotten lost in eating my mixed mushroom medley in puffed pastry while watching scenes of France go by, but Holmes was in far too raucous a mood for that.
I was accused of being a hedonist.
He chided me for not watching TV, for holding out to see movies in theaters rather than at home, even my looks, saying that my bangs needed a trim.
About the kindest he got was telling me that he'd really liked all my recent posts about dating, finding them fascinating and wanting more information about the men I've been seeing.
I filled in details where I chose to, but he preferred to jump to conclusions rather than accept vague answers.
Over shared desserts of dark chocolate creme brulee and today's special, a mouth-watering combination of fall apples and brioche with chantilly cream and vanilla bean ice cream, we got off on a tangent about old theaters.
Like the Biograph on Grace Street, leading to the revelation that not one of us besides Pru had ever seen "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
As Pru is wont to say, horrors!
A nearby two-top chimed in for this conversation, the woman saying she always went dressed as Columbia.
Pru's costume of choice, it seems, was Magenta.
I am completely out of the loop on this one.
Someone brought up the former Regal Cinemas Regency Square and everyone had a story to tell about the theaters.
My favorite came from a server who worked a summer there.
Apparently Joe Morrissey used to come in on busy weekend nights, always with some youthful arm candy, and slip him a $20 bill to be let in the theater early to claim a good seat.
"I was making five bucks an hour, so sure, I took the money and let him in," he shrugged, grinning. Duh.
Imagine if a man took me out and slipped the usher a bill so we could be the first in.
Now that could lead to a good dating story to post.
Actually, the most romantic moment of the evening came when Holmes' beloved told him to kiss her.
Grabbing her head, he swiveled her neck around and planted a kiss on her that had the rest of us watching slack-jawed.
Twice.
If that ever happens to me, Holmes, you can be sure my post won't leave out a single detail.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
We'll Always Have Scuffletown
Some people have Paris, some have cicadas.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
Can I!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
It was hard to imagine there was anywhere more pleasant to be at that moment than in this little pocket park hearing live music.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Merci for the Eye Catchers
The postcard from the National Museum of Modern Art had arrived last week, which meant my friend was back from Paris.
That also meant a welcome back lunch so he could present me with the foreign tights he'd secured for me (as well as Bourdain's Medium Raw because he wants someone to discuss it with), always part of his souvenir-gathering when he's abroad.
He works on Monument Avenue, so he invited me to stop by his office to collect my gifts and we'd walk from there. The tights, called "Leo," are labeled in five languages as "an extravagant eye catcher" and "a walk on the wild side," and will undoubtedly be lots of fun to wear in a place far removed from Parisian streets (I think I'm up for the job).
This beautiful weather made for a glorious walk the short distance to the Cellar Door; the leaves were deep on the sidewalk but the temperature was 77. That's my kind of autumn.
We started with the spicy zucchini fritters after my friend asked if I was interested (I told him I've never in my life turned down a fritter. Fact.). They were not what I expected, but that wasn't a bad thing. Slices of zucchini had been coated in a crunchy crust and fried up crisp and hot. Eaten immediately at their peak, they were sliced fried goodness.
My friend had to get the quarter Peruvian chicken since I'd recommended it so highly to him, but I did a slight variation by getting the Mansion, a salad of lettuces, cukes, tomatoes, red onions and olives with that same chicken on top of it. The Peruvian ranch dressing, made with the same spices used on the rotisserie chicken, was a big hit with him and great on the salad, too.
I heard all about his trip: the transit strike that prevented his trip to Versailles, the offal he ate at a no-star bistro, his all-day walks (he knows what I like) and lots of wine anecdotes. His stories about the beer-swilling costumed student demonstrators sounded (and, according to him, looked) like something out of Mad Max.
We lingered, talking to the owner about their plans for a brick oven for their rotisserie ("The problem is the ten-story chimney." Indeed, that would be a problem.), the appeal of using their jalapeno sauce on practically everything ("I may be addicted. I'm considering putting it in my coffee," he admitted) and Thursday's Halloween throwdown there.
Walking back down Monument Avenue, friend asked when I expected I'd be wearing the wild Leo tights. Who knows, they might be perfect for the Night of the Living Dead Bands show when I go to see Led Zepplica.
It won't be Paris, but somehow I don't think they'll seem quite so outrageous in that crowd.
That also meant a welcome back lunch so he could present me with the foreign tights he'd secured for me (as well as Bourdain's Medium Raw because he wants someone to discuss it with), always part of his souvenir-gathering when he's abroad.
He works on Monument Avenue, so he invited me to stop by his office to collect my gifts and we'd walk from there. The tights, called "Leo," are labeled in five languages as "an extravagant eye catcher" and "a walk on the wild side," and will undoubtedly be lots of fun to wear in a place far removed from Parisian streets (I think I'm up for the job).
This beautiful weather made for a glorious walk the short distance to the Cellar Door; the leaves were deep on the sidewalk but the temperature was 77. That's my kind of autumn.
We started with the spicy zucchini fritters after my friend asked if I was interested (I told him I've never in my life turned down a fritter. Fact.). They were not what I expected, but that wasn't a bad thing. Slices of zucchini had been coated in a crunchy crust and fried up crisp and hot. Eaten immediately at their peak, they were sliced fried goodness.
My friend had to get the quarter Peruvian chicken since I'd recommended it so highly to him, but I did a slight variation by getting the Mansion, a salad of lettuces, cukes, tomatoes, red onions and olives with that same chicken on top of it. The Peruvian ranch dressing, made with the same spices used on the rotisserie chicken, was a big hit with him and great on the salad, too.
I heard all about his trip: the transit strike that prevented his trip to Versailles, the offal he ate at a no-star bistro, his all-day walks (he knows what I like) and lots of wine anecdotes. His stories about the beer-swilling costumed student demonstrators sounded (and, according to him, looked) like something out of Mad Max.
We lingered, talking to the owner about their plans for a brick oven for their rotisserie ("The problem is the ten-story chimney." Indeed, that would be a problem.), the appeal of using their jalapeno sauce on practically everything ("I may be addicted. I'm considering putting it in my coffee," he admitted) and Thursday's Halloween throwdown there.
Walking back down Monument Avenue, friend asked when I expected I'd be wearing the wild Leo tights. Who knows, they might be perfect for the Night of the Living Dead Bands show when I go to see Led Zepplica.
It won't be Paris, but somehow I don't think they'll seem quite so outrageous in that crowd.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Pre-Parisian Soul Food
A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
Monday, May 10, 2010
And Who Doesn't Like Cake?
I didn't go to Avalon for romance; I went to meet a good friend for a glass of wine and some nerdy conversation (I got both).
The romance part came when a casual friend, one whom I've known for ten years but haven't seen in the past turbulent year showed up.
It was great to see her and while my wine friend stepped outside for a smoke break, she and I played catch-up.
As it turns out, she was meeting friends to celebrate; her divorce was final today.
The fact that she was celebrating represented progress because she wasn't the catalyst for the divorce.
It was one of those unfortunate instances when a wife arrives home unexpectedly only to discover her husband in flagrante delicto; the kicker was that he was with merely one of a string of chippies.
So snap!
Just like that, more than a decade of marriage out the window.
And just to be clear here, my friend is a very talented artist and photographer, not to mention smart, funny and gorgeous.
I say this as a friend, but I only wish I had a fraction of the allure she does.
Here's where the romantic part comes in.
After months of fearing dating and disrobing, reality and relationships, she heard from an old friend via, what else, Facebook.
We're talking about someone she knew twenty years ago who still lives in Great Britain, just as he did when she first met him.
They started communicating and found enough of interest to schedule a first date, despite the pond that separates their continents.
They met in Paris two decades after they last saw each other.
Things went so well that they've now planned a second date.
He'll be arriving in Virginia in a few weeks and they're taking a two-week road trip.
It will begin with a drive down Skyline Drive to Ashville, meander through Nashville and Memphis and makes stops in Savannah and Charleston.
You read right, date #2 will last a fortnight.
Granted, the mere idea of a Parisian first date and a two-week second date are enough to satisfy the romantic in anyone, but for me, that's not even the most romantic part.
I'm blown away by the optimism of them both, their open willingness to just throw themselves into this possibility and see what develops.
In an attempt to make me understand why she's following her passion, she pointed out that, "If you're attracted to someone at one point in your life, chances are you'll be attracted to them at a later date, too. People don't change that much."
That story made my night, possibly my month.
Imagine having your life totally torn apart only to have something wonderful rise out of the debris.
And as has been said by many a wise man, being able to travel well together is not only the ultimate test of a relationship, but absolutely necessary for its success.
This second date of theirs already sounds like the most romantic date ever, if only because they're both willing to do it.
The romance that happens along the way will just be icing on the cake.
Could someone cut me a really big slice, please?
The romance part came when a casual friend, one whom I've known for ten years but haven't seen in the past turbulent year showed up.
It was great to see her and while my wine friend stepped outside for a smoke break, she and I played catch-up.
As it turns out, she was meeting friends to celebrate; her divorce was final today.
The fact that she was celebrating represented progress because she wasn't the catalyst for the divorce.
It was one of those unfortunate instances when a wife arrives home unexpectedly only to discover her husband in flagrante delicto; the kicker was that he was with merely one of a string of chippies.
So snap!
Just like that, more than a decade of marriage out the window.
And just to be clear here, my friend is a very talented artist and photographer, not to mention smart, funny and gorgeous.
I say this as a friend, but I only wish I had a fraction of the allure she does.
Here's where the romantic part comes in.
After months of fearing dating and disrobing, reality and relationships, she heard from an old friend via, what else, Facebook.
We're talking about someone she knew twenty years ago who still lives in Great Britain, just as he did when she first met him.
They started communicating and found enough of interest to schedule a first date, despite the pond that separates their continents.
They met in Paris two decades after they last saw each other.
Things went so well that they've now planned a second date.
He'll be arriving in Virginia in a few weeks and they're taking a two-week road trip.
It will begin with a drive down Skyline Drive to Ashville, meander through Nashville and Memphis and makes stops in Savannah and Charleston.
You read right, date #2 will last a fortnight.
Granted, the mere idea of a Parisian first date and a two-week second date are enough to satisfy the romantic in anyone, but for me, that's not even the most romantic part.
I'm blown away by the optimism of them both, their open willingness to just throw themselves into this possibility and see what develops.
In an attempt to make me understand why she's following her passion, she pointed out that, "If you're attracted to someone at one point in your life, chances are you'll be attracted to them at a later date, too. People don't change that much."
That story made my night, possibly my month.
Imagine having your life totally torn apart only to have something wonderful rise out of the debris.
And as has been said by many a wise man, being able to travel well together is not only the ultimate test of a relationship, but absolutely necessary for its success.
This second date of theirs already sounds like the most romantic date ever, if only because they're both willing to do it.
The romance that happens along the way will just be icing on the cake.
Could someone cut me a really big slice, please?
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