Why is it always too little too late?
With local restaurants closing left and right, it's interesting to see how people respond when they learn a place is near the end.
It was time for me and one of my favorite married women to meet up and catch up, so without even checking with her, I messaged, "Six Burner 5:30?"
Her immediate response: "Our place...our time. See ya, babe."
I've been a regular at Six Burner for the past seven years, alone, on dates, with friends.
For this friend and I, it has become the most regular choice for our monthly get-togethers, especially on Tuesdays when we're suckers for half priced wine by the glass.
And now, with Six Burner set to close its doors on September 8th, I wanted one last throw-down with her there.
Appropriately given the circumstances (or perhaps not so appropriately), we began with glasses of the rich and nutty Dibon Cava and a clinking of glasses.
She was full of stories - strange smells, biting mosquitoes, spitting out blood and Parisian plans.
I had my own to share - accusations of idiocy, a tale of being painted blue for a party and an island getaway.
With soul music playing unnecessarily softly, Six Burner began to fill up as we dished.
At first, it was just a full bar, then all the booths were taken.
Soon, table after table had occupants.
Where were all these people all the other times she and I had been in on a Tuesday evening?
But ours was not to judge (merely to talk trash), so we decided to mitigate our buzzes with some food.
A look at the menu yielded mussels with bacon, Gruyere and caramelized onions.
A listen to the specials had me panting for grilled beef heart.
"You and your body parts!" my friend teased, but obligingly agreed to try.
When the bartender returned for our order, I asked for mussels and hearts.
"Just what we want from our men!" my friend quipped.
I'd also put in my bid for a brain, a stellar sense of humor and superb kissing skills.
But not for dinner.
The thin slices of grilled heart came with a muscadine grape sauce and an array of crispy sides - celery, pear, peppers and peanuts.
It was her first heart and she had to agree that its taste wasn't far off from any other beef.
But she did prefer the mussels, hardly surprising given the abundance of bacon and cheese,
Once the bi-valves were history, she proclaimed the remaining broth "fondue" and we used toasted bread to soak it up.
Meanwhile, the owner was playing food runner, filling in for extra staff who have left for new jobs.
And still people continued to come in.
Maybe they were regulars like us and maybe they'd finally made the time or effort to come down knowing soon it will be no more.
I'm sorry Six Burner is closing.
With any luck, its replacement, Heritage, will be the kind of place at which I can be a regular like I've been at 6B for so long.
But mostly I hope that people don't wait until they hear the rattle of death to get a restaurant hopping on a Tuesday night.
It's our time to make sure our places get supported before we lose them.
I don't know about you, but I'm eating as fast as I can.
Showing posts with label Six Burner Restaurant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Six Burner Restaurant. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Silk Degrees Smackdown
I make a great date of last resort.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
Meanwhile, I had bigger fish to fry.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
It didn't make it any better, but at least now I understood.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
No one told me about the age at which you have to either cook or sell your body.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Pardon me while I stick to my strong suits.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Grab My Alto Sax and I'm Back on the Road
First rule of Karen's storm plan: Always go out.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
Friday, June 22, 2012
When We Two Parted
"I did it. You know what I mean."
If ever there was a cryptic e-mail, or a clearer statement of fact, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
It was a friend's way of letting me know that we needed to talk.
My only plan for the evening was the opening of "Summer Solstice," a group show at Reynolds Gallery, so we agreed to meet up afterwards.
Like any Reynolds show, the galleries were full of Richmond's old guard art elite, both on the walls and milling about.
The array of artists on display was a who's who of known names: Heide Trepanier, Sally Bowring, Richard Carlyon.
The late, great Theresa Pollak was well represented with four pieces in three mediums, a mini-retrospective of sorts spanning 1960-1992.
I was immediately taken with Jennifer Lauren Smith's "Untitled," an archival black and white pigment print done in triptych form showing an upside down beach umbrella floating on the waves.
Wind happens.
With one glance, Janet DeCover's "Lola" struck me as having been created by a woman.
The lipstick-colored background, the white lace doily-looking object and the delicate and feminine robin's egg blue ovals all seemed to have come from the hand and heart of a female.
Much time was enjoyed in front of Bill Fisher's "Untitled," an abstract-looking piece that seemed to me to resemble a houseboat floating on a background of beautiful blue water.
I'm sure the artist had nothing like that in mind when he painted it and I'm equally as sure he'd have no problem with whatever I saw in his oil and wax on panel.
And speaking of, Jack Wax's "Tum-tree," an enormous 80 by 50" was done with ink and coffee on paper, surely the most unlikely medium used in this show.
The tentacle-like roots of the tree extended up and across the enormous work pulling the viewer closer to better understand the visual.
By the time I finished the upstairs gallery's "Almost Famous" show of VCU MFA students, it was time to meet up with Mr. I Did It at Six Burner.
You know, at the corner of Main and Wine.
The place was bursting at the seams when we arrived.
The participants of Plein Air Richmond were meeting nearby at Brazier Gallery and between that and the Reynolds opening, there were lots of thirsty people on Main Street.
The Ghostlight Afterparty's personable host was tending bar and practically knew to pour me some Stefano Massone Gavi before the words came out of my mouth.
My accomplished friend arrived and got the same before I insisted he spill the beans.
Technically, he'd been right; I knew what he meant when he said he'd done it, but I wanted to hear how he'd put on his big boy pants (his words, not mine) and taken care of business.
And while I wanted to hear how it had gone down, mostly I was just happy that he was finally out of a situation that has been highly unsatisfactory for him for many months.
Let's just say he no longer has to lock up the breakfast cereal or the booze and that's as it should be.
What made me rally happy, though, was hearing that that was only one of several good things happening in his life since we'd last met.
He's found a studio interested in putting his many talents to use. He's started online dating and has an out-of-town date this weekend. He's moving back into the city where he belongs.
But my favorite piece of news was that he's decided to be more adventurous in his eating.
A long-time vegetarian, he's decided that if he doesn't start widening his diet, he may never. And he doesn't want to be that person.
Wasting no time, I got a menu and looked for something new for him to try, deciding on the grilled quail with roasted marinated plums.
It did my heart good to see him stepping out of his usual comfort zone enjoying a bird he said he couldn't identify in real life.
Now that's eating.
I always enjoy our discussions because in many ways, we see the world through the same romantic glasses.
Who else I know would bring up Lord Byron as an example of how to live a passionate life?
Or have the patience to explain a Fairlight synthesizer to me and how it impacted 80s music (hello Peter Gabriel)?
Or be excited abut his first floor apartment because in it his piano won't disturb those below him?
Only someone with a romantic soul, that's who.
When he said that he admired me for the way I choose to live my life, I assured him that he has all the necessary parts to do the same thing.
As he put it, "When I read a book, I think to myself 'That could happen" but other people say "It's just a book."
Not so, I told him.
When you stop thinking "That could happen," it stops happening.
All it takes a romantic soul to know what I mean.
If ever there was a cryptic e-mail, or a clearer statement of fact, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
It was a friend's way of letting me know that we needed to talk.
My only plan for the evening was the opening of "Summer Solstice," a group show at Reynolds Gallery, so we agreed to meet up afterwards.
Like any Reynolds show, the galleries were full of Richmond's old guard art elite, both on the walls and milling about.
The array of artists on display was a who's who of known names: Heide Trepanier, Sally Bowring, Richard Carlyon.
The late, great Theresa Pollak was well represented with four pieces in three mediums, a mini-retrospective of sorts spanning 1960-1992.
I was immediately taken with Jennifer Lauren Smith's "Untitled," an archival black and white pigment print done in triptych form showing an upside down beach umbrella floating on the waves.
Wind happens.
With one glance, Janet DeCover's "Lola" struck me as having been created by a woman.
The lipstick-colored background, the white lace doily-looking object and the delicate and feminine robin's egg blue ovals all seemed to have come from the hand and heart of a female.
Much time was enjoyed in front of Bill Fisher's "Untitled," an abstract-looking piece that seemed to me to resemble a houseboat floating on a background of beautiful blue water.
I'm sure the artist had nothing like that in mind when he painted it and I'm equally as sure he'd have no problem with whatever I saw in his oil and wax on panel.
And speaking of, Jack Wax's "Tum-tree," an enormous 80 by 50" was done with ink and coffee on paper, surely the most unlikely medium used in this show.
The tentacle-like roots of the tree extended up and across the enormous work pulling the viewer closer to better understand the visual.
By the time I finished the upstairs gallery's "Almost Famous" show of VCU MFA students, it was time to meet up with Mr. I Did It at Six Burner.
You know, at the corner of Main and Wine.
The place was bursting at the seams when we arrived.
The participants of Plein Air Richmond were meeting nearby at Brazier Gallery and between that and the Reynolds opening, there were lots of thirsty people on Main Street.
The Ghostlight Afterparty's personable host was tending bar and practically knew to pour me some Stefano Massone Gavi before the words came out of my mouth.
My accomplished friend arrived and got the same before I insisted he spill the beans.
Technically, he'd been right; I knew what he meant when he said he'd done it, but I wanted to hear how he'd put on his big boy pants (his words, not mine) and taken care of business.
And while I wanted to hear how it had gone down, mostly I was just happy that he was finally out of a situation that has been highly unsatisfactory for him for many months.
Let's just say he no longer has to lock up the breakfast cereal or the booze and that's as it should be.
What made me rally happy, though, was hearing that that was only one of several good things happening in his life since we'd last met.
He's found a studio interested in putting his many talents to use. He's started online dating and has an out-of-town date this weekend. He's moving back into the city where he belongs.
But my favorite piece of news was that he's decided to be more adventurous in his eating.
A long-time vegetarian, he's decided that if he doesn't start widening his diet, he may never. And he doesn't want to be that person.
Wasting no time, I got a menu and looked for something new for him to try, deciding on the grilled quail with roasted marinated plums.
It did my heart good to see him stepping out of his usual comfort zone enjoying a bird he said he couldn't identify in real life.
Now that's eating.
I always enjoy our discussions because in many ways, we see the world through the same romantic glasses.
Who else I know would bring up Lord Byron as an example of how to live a passionate life?
Or have the patience to explain a Fairlight synthesizer to me and how it impacted 80s music (hello Peter Gabriel)?
Or be excited abut his first floor apartment because in it his piano won't disturb those below him?
Only someone with a romantic soul, that's who.
When he said that he admired me for the way I choose to live my life, I assured him that he has all the necessary parts to do the same thing.
As he put it, "When I read a book, I think to myself 'That could happen" but other people say "It's just a book."
Not so, I told him.
When you stop thinking "That could happen," it stops happening.
All it takes a romantic soul to know what I mean.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
He Wants, She Wants
Should I know what do I want to do with the next year, or even five years, of my life?
I got to thinking about that because it's been a day to listen to my friends' plans for the future.
Out of the blue, I heard how they have decided to make sharp turns and try something completely different with their lives.
Although the first had been a surprise, I knew there was news with the friend I met for happy hour. He'd said so when he asked me to meet him at Garnett's.
Although fairly low key on arrival, the joint was soon jumping with a butt in nearly every seat.
And I've been told that that's the goal of a restaurant owner.
I started with the Gabriele Rausse rose, which didn't displace King Family's Crose' as my favorite Virginia pink, but satisfied nonetheless.
While my friend told me about his upcoming career change, we took advantage of the $3 happy hour specials.
Devils on horseback (bacon wrapped dates), tea sandwiches of ham and garlic ailoi on crostini, and white bean spread with avocado on crostini made for a tasty little sampling of flavors.
As I listened to how my friend's commuting miles will go from hundreds of miles a week to barely 50 a week, I could tell he's been overdue for a change.
I don't have commuting issues, but maybe there's some other facet to my life that needs addressing.
For our discussion of winery work, classic French bubbles and over-hyped restaurants, I switched to Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
It's such a familiar and easy-drinking wine.
Which is sort of a description of Garnett's for me: familiar and easy.
In the few feet between our table and getting something from my car, I first ran into my organizer friend having dinner with her mom (Mom said, "I've heard about you!").
Stepping outside, I then ran into the beekeeper holding a vase of wilted flowers ("Love your hair!").
God knows if I'd walked to the end of the block who else I might have met.
We finished our rendezvous by walking across the street to Meadow Park to discuss Antero, hip-hop versus country (he plays in both kinds of bands) and the suitability of Civil War monuments in the capital of the Confederacy.
Only when the fireflies appeared did we break camp so he could start his long commute home.
With no cultural destination tonight, I decided to revisit Six Burner since the recent relaunching had been too mobbed to get a handle on the new vibe.
Luckily, a holdover from the old vibe is half off on wines by the glass on Tuesdays, so I tried the elegant Stefano Massone Gavi for four bucks.
Glass in hand, the next thing I noticed was how much louder the music was than it used to be.
Amen to that.
Tonight it was set on a Pandora station with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings as the starting point.
Okay, maybe not my first choice, but way better than the soft jazz that used to be standard play.
It must be a new direction because they're also going to do live music on Wednesday nights. And beer specials.
What? Toto, I don't think we're in Six Burner anymore. Except we were.
There was a lively trio at the bar and he was chiding her about lifestyle choices.
"You said you wanted to participate in my debauchery and reckless behavior. Did we not do that this weekend?" she inquired rhetorically. "Yes, we did!"
Brilliant. Always remind a man what he said he wanted.
I lost interest in them when my arugula salad with goat cheese and roasted beets arrived, notable for the warm, lightly salted beets (red and striped) contrasting with the peppery arugula.
The salad was a conscience salve for my other choice, crispy pork belly confit with a fried duck egg and jalapeno johnny cakes covered in Highland County maple syrup.
The pork belly may have been a tad too salty but the sweetness of the syrup made it less of an issue.
Meanwhile the giant duck egg coated everything in an obscene richness.
Dessert was a moot point because the syrup had more than satisfied my sweet tooth.
But even without dessert, I now had a much better read on the "new" Six Burner.
Louder, cheaper, more varied menu, better music.
Always give a woman what she wants and she'll keep coming back.
Even if she has no idea where she's going forward.
The question is, does she really need to?
I got to thinking about that because it's been a day to listen to my friends' plans for the future.
Out of the blue, I heard how they have decided to make sharp turns and try something completely different with their lives.
Although the first had been a surprise, I knew there was news with the friend I met for happy hour. He'd said so when he asked me to meet him at Garnett's.
Although fairly low key on arrival, the joint was soon jumping with a butt in nearly every seat.
And I've been told that that's the goal of a restaurant owner.
I started with the Gabriele Rausse rose, which didn't displace King Family's Crose' as my favorite Virginia pink, but satisfied nonetheless.
While my friend told me about his upcoming career change, we took advantage of the $3 happy hour specials.
Devils on horseback (bacon wrapped dates), tea sandwiches of ham and garlic ailoi on crostini, and white bean spread with avocado on crostini made for a tasty little sampling of flavors.
As I listened to how my friend's commuting miles will go from hundreds of miles a week to barely 50 a week, I could tell he's been overdue for a change.
I don't have commuting issues, but maybe there's some other facet to my life that needs addressing.
For our discussion of winery work, classic French bubbles and over-hyped restaurants, I switched to Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
It's such a familiar and easy-drinking wine.
Which is sort of a description of Garnett's for me: familiar and easy.
In the few feet between our table and getting something from my car, I first ran into my organizer friend having dinner with her mom (Mom said, "I've heard about you!").
Stepping outside, I then ran into the beekeeper holding a vase of wilted flowers ("Love your hair!").
God knows if I'd walked to the end of the block who else I might have met.
We finished our rendezvous by walking across the street to Meadow Park to discuss Antero, hip-hop versus country (he plays in both kinds of bands) and the suitability of Civil War monuments in the capital of the Confederacy.
Only when the fireflies appeared did we break camp so he could start his long commute home.
With no cultural destination tonight, I decided to revisit Six Burner since the recent relaunching had been too mobbed to get a handle on the new vibe.
Luckily, a holdover from the old vibe is half off on wines by the glass on Tuesdays, so I tried the elegant Stefano Massone Gavi for four bucks.
Glass in hand, the next thing I noticed was how much louder the music was than it used to be.
Amen to that.
Tonight it was set on a Pandora station with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings as the starting point.
Okay, maybe not my first choice, but way better than the soft jazz that used to be standard play.
It must be a new direction because they're also going to do live music on Wednesday nights. And beer specials.
What? Toto, I don't think we're in Six Burner anymore. Except we were.
There was a lively trio at the bar and he was chiding her about lifestyle choices.
"You said you wanted to participate in my debauchery and reckless behavior. Did we not do that this weekend?" she inquired rhetorically. "Yes, we did!"
Brilliant. Always remind a man what he said he wanted.
I lost interest in them when my arugula salad with goat cheese and roasted beets arrived, notable for the warm, lightly salted beets (red and striped) contrasting with the peppery arugula.
The salad was a conscience salve for my other choice, crispy pork belly confit with a fried duck egg and jalapeno johnny cakes covered in Highland County maple syrup.
The pork belly may have been a tad too salty but the sweetness of the syrup made it less of an issue.
Meanwhile the giant duck egg coated everything in an obscene richness.
Dessert was a moot point because the syrup had more than satisfied my sweet tooth.
But even without dessert, I now had a much better read on the "new" Six Burner.
Louder, cheaper, more varied menu, better music.
Always give a woman what she wants and she'll keep coming back.
Even if she has no idea where she's going forward.
The question is, does she really need to?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Zombie Appetites at 6B
Never underestimate the power of free.
Six Burner was doing their relaunch party and since I've been a regular there for, oh, I don't know, five years, I was curious.
I wanted to see the renovation (new linoleum! new light-filled back area! new menu and price point!) and see what a new menu meant.
Gotta admit, my first surprise was that my end of the bar (under the hydrangeas) was free.
We took it.
Getting glasses of Gavi from the bartender/cabaret singer allowed for discussion of the upcoming 80s extravaganza at RTP.
He was absolutely delighted to hear that I'm already listening to the "Immaculate Collection" just to prepare myself.
I will not, despite his expectation however, be wearing a banana clip or shoulder pads.
Done it, over it.
Six Burner was busy and getting busier by the minute, so we were very fortunate to have scored any bar space at all.
Enjoying our Gavi, we were thrilled when a server placed the remains of a plate of fried oysters with spicy tartar sauce at our elbows.
And while I'm happy to eat well-prepared oysters whenever they're offered, I've had them enough at Six Burner to know that the kitchen is quite good with bi-valves.
After numerous conversational tangents and a man named Thalhimer showing up, we learned that the secret to trying the new menu was hovering around the food tables.
It wouldn't have been our choice, but it was the only way to reliably taste the food since the menu was not being served tonight.
With enough time spent near the tables, we were able to score several dishes.
Bacon-wrapped dates with bleu cheese sauce, while ubiquitous these days, were succulent and flavorful.
Sugar snaps. English cucumber, watermelon radish and Jean Marc citron vinegar delivered the appropriate crunch and freshness to accompany richer dishes.
Rustic polenta, olive oil and Parmesan was properly toothsome and cheesy.
Red quinoa tabbouleh was hearty.
Potato gnocchi and seasonal mushrooms was to-die-for rich and earthy.
Tempura-fried shrimp with spicy guacamole was unexpected but satisfying.
48-hour sous vide short rib wrapped in dandelion greens was as wonderfully fatty and slow-cooked as expected.
The problem was that there was no way the kitchen could keep up with the hungry masses.
As a friend and experienced server observed, "People are reacting to us like zombies. It's insane."
The insanity was so many eager eaters and a kitchen that couldn't begin to supply the hordes with enough food. Although they tried valiantly.
The new space does look different. The linoleum gives a more casual feel to the entryway. So much light in the back (via the new glass door) makes the restaurant seem bigger.
The removal of the side booths makes for a more open feel, even when all the center tables return from the sidewalk, where they resided tonight.
Even the back-lighting of the booze bottles on the bar was a welcome change.
Did the music alter with the decor? I have no idea, since the conversation volume negated any possibility of hearing what the musical vibe was now.
The new menu is far more extensive and this eater is very happy with the small plate focus, assuming the small plates are a portion commensurate with the price.
I wouldn't know since tonight was a sampling and not divided into portions.
After a few hours, the volume of people was feeling fire marshall-worthy, so companion and I cut bait and went our separate ways.
My final destination was Bistro 27 for a recent addition, a Portuguese wine, and dessert (as long as I was there).
The luck was in running into a friend and his new squeeze, so I got plenty of good company.
In short order we covered Charlie Palmer's in Washington, the pleasures of the National Botanical Gardens and wild sex on weekends away.
We were pleasantly interrupted by a restaurant employee who stopped in for a drink and provided endless alternate viewpoints.
Besides building a sailboat in his backyard, he was adamant about restaurant bosses making time for themselves.
His drinking was a prelude to going to a nearby club to dance to rap music, not because he liked it but because he was comfortable doing it.
Sometimes I fear future generations are already lost.
Even so, I don't hesitate to suggest that he seek out music he truly wants to dance to and stop merely "making do."
Never underestimate the power of doing exactly what you want to do.
I've been told you can know the rules and still choose not to play the game.
I do...and I don't. It's actually pretty easy.
Not to mention wildly satisfying.
Six Burner was doing their relaunch party and since I've been a regular there for, oh, I don't know, five years, I was curious.
I wanted to see the renovation (new linoleum! new light-filled back area! new menu and price point!) and see what a new menu meant.
Gotta admit, my first surprise was that my end of the bar (under the hydrangeas) was free.
We took it.
Getting glasses of Gavi from the bartender/cabaret singer allowed for discussion of the upcoming 80s extravaganza at RTP.
He was absolutely delighted to hear that I'm already listening to the "Immaculate Collection" just to prepare myself.
I will not, despite his expectation however, be wearing a banana clip or shoulder pads.
Done it, over it.
Six Burner was busy and getting busier by the minute, so we were very fortunate to have scored any bar space at all.
Enjoying our Gavi, we were thrilled when a server placed the remains of a plate of fried oysters with spicy tartar sauce at our elbows.
And while I'm happy to eat well-prepared oysters whenever they're offered, I've had them enough at Six Burner to know that the kitchen is quite good with bi-valves.
After numerous conversational tangents and a man named Thalhimer showing up, we learned that the secret to trying the new menu was hovering around the food tables.
It wouldn't have been our choice, but it was the only way to reliably taste the food since the menu was not being served tonight.
With enough time spent near the tables, we were able to score several dishes.
Bacon-wrapped dates with bleu cheese sauce, while ubiquitous these days, were succulent and flavorful.
Sugar snaps. English cucumber, watermelon radish and Jean Marc citron vinegar delivered the appropriate crunch and freshness to accompany richer dishes.
Rustic polenta, olive oil and Parmesan was properly toothsome and cheesy.
Red quinoa tabbouleh was hearty.
Potato gnocchi and seasonal mushrooms was to-die-for rich and earthy.
Tempura-fried shrimp with spicy guacamole was unexpected but satisfying.
48-hour sous vide short rib wrapped in dandelion greens was as wonderfully fatty and slow-cooked as expected.
The problem was that there was no way the kitchen could keep up with the hungry masses.
As a friend and experienced server observed, "People are reacting to us like zombies. It's insane."
The insanity was so many eager eaters and a kitchen that couldn't begin to supply the hordes with enough food. Although they tried valiantly.
The new space does look different. The linoleum gives a more casual feel to the entryway. So much light in the back (via the new glass door) makes the restaurant seem bigger.
The removal of the side booths makes for a more open feel, even when all the center tables return from the sidewalk, where they resided tonight.
Even the back-lighting of the booze bottles on the bar was a welcome change.
Did the music alter with the decor? I have no idea, since the conversation volume negated any possibility of hearing what the musical vibe was now.
The new menu is far more extensive and this eater is very happy with the small plate focus, assuming the small plates are a portion commensurate with the price.
I wouldn't know since tonight was a sampling and not divided into portions.
After a few hours, the volume of people was feeling fire marshall-worthy, so companion and I cut bait and went our separate ways.
My final destination was Bistro 27 for a recent addition, a Portuguese wine, and dessert (as long as I was there).
The luck was in running into a friend and his new squeeze, so I got plenty of good company.
In short order we covered Charlie Palmer's in Washington, the pleasures of the National Botanical Gardens and wild sex on weekends away.
We were pleasantly interrupted by a restaurant employee who stopped in for a drink and provided endless alternate viewpoints.
Besides building a sailboat in his backyard, he was adamant about restaurant bosses making time for themselves.
His drinking was a prelude to going to a nearby club to dance to rap music, not because he liked it but because he was comfortable doing it.
Sometimes I fear future generations are already lost.
Even so, I don't hesitate to suggest that he seek out music he truly wants to dance to and stop merely "making do."
Never underestimate the power of doing exactly what you want to do.
I've been told you can know the rules and still choose not to play the game.
I do...and I don't. It's actually pretty easy.
Not to mention wildly satisfying.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
As I Like It
"Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak."
If I were looking for a statement of life philosophy, that might be it, although I'd have to give Shakespeare credit for the wording, if not the sentiment.
So with lots on my mind and the resulting lots to speak, I met a friend at Six Burner after she messaged me, "You have a lot to share!"
You talking to me?
And while we weren't exactly outside on this gorgeous day, all the front windows in the restaurant were wide open, allowing balmy, spring-like air to waft through the restaurant.
The only thing lacking by not being outside was the exhaust fumes of Main Street traffic.
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?"
Despite my friend's penchant for chewy red wine, even she had to acknowledge that today was not a day for it.
Instead, we went the sparkling route with Fita Azul Passion Rose because who couldn't use a little more passion in their life?
"I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."
Over talk of men with beards that need trimming, terribly attentive dates and homecomings, we slurped up a bowl of P.E.I. mussels with bacon, bleu cheese, white wine and garlic broth.
The creamy broth was so good we got extra bread for sopping. My friend wanted to drink it with a straw but thought better of it.
We ran into someone she knows who's doing a piano bar here Brooklyn-style that sounds like something I need to check out.
After all, it's important not to wait too long to do what you need to do.
It's not like anyone is getting any younger.
"Sell when you can, You are not for all markets."
Just when we were trying to make plans for another get-together, I noticed the time and had to beat feet.
Richmond Shakespeare waits for no man (or woman).
This month's staged reading was "As You Like It," or another play about true love (and masked identities).
My favorite kind.
Tonight's twist was that nine of their Young Company were doing the reading, meaning lots of skinny jeans and promising talent.
"That flattering tongue of yours won me."
Nathan Johnson was especially strong as the romantic lead Orlando, but also as the fool Touchstone in a madras blazer.
Could one infer that only fools would wear such a thing?
When Orlando wants to proclaim his love for Rosalind by posting poetry all over the Forest of Arden, the actor stuck pink Post-it notes to the front row's foreheads to simulate what he was doing.
Despite being in the front row, I wasn't one of the few, the proud, the stuck.
"And faster than his tongue did make offense, his eye did heal it up."
Even with a young cast occasionally tripping over the heady language of love, it was hard not to enjoy the story of a man who's willing to woo what he thinks is a guy but is really the object of his affection.
Because doesn't a smart man woo his object any way he can?
"Answer me in one word."
If I were looking for a statement of life philosophy, that might be it, although I'd have to give Shakespeare credit for the wording, if not the sentiment.
So with lots on my mind and the resulting lots to speak, I met a friend at Six Burner after she messaged me, "You have a lot to share!"
You talking to me?
And while we weren't exactly outside on this gorgeous day, all the front windows in the restaurant were wide open, allowing balmy, spring-like air to waft through the restaurant.
The only thing lacking by not being outside was the exhaust fumes of Main Street traffic.
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?"
Despite my friend's penchant for chewy red wine, even she had to acknowledge that today was not a day for it.
Instead, we went the sparkling route with Fita Azul Passion Rose because who couldn't use a little more passion in their life?
"I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."
Over talk of men with beards that need trimming, terribly attentive dates and homecomings, we slurped up a bowl of P.E.I. mussels with bacon, bleu cheese, white wine and garlic broth.
The creamy broth was so good we got extra bread for sopping. My friend wanted to drink it with a straw but thought better of it.
We ran into someone she knows who's doing a piano bar here Brooklyn-style that sounds like something I need to check out.
After all, it's important not to wait too long to do what you need to do.
It's not like anyone is getting any younger.
"Sell when you can, You are not for all markets."
Just when we were trying to make plans for another get-together, I noticed the time and had to beat feet.
Richmond Shakespeare waits for no man (or woman).
This month's staged reading was "As You Like It," or another play about true love (and masked identities).
My favorite kind.
Tonight's twist was that nine of their Young Company were doing the reading, meaning lots of skinny jeans and promising talent.
"That flattering tongue of yours won me."
Nathan Johnson was especially strong as the romantic lead Orlando, but also as the fool Touchstone in a madras blazer.
Could one infer that only fools would wear such a thing?
When Orlando wants to proclaim his love for Rosalind by posting poetry all over the Forest of Arden, the actor stuck pink Post-it notes to the front row's foreheads to simulate what he was doing.
Despite being in the front row, I wasn't one of the few, the proud, the stuck.
"And faster than his tongue did make offense, his eye did heal it up."
Even with a young cast occasionally tripping over the heady language of love, it was hard not to enjoy the story of a man who's willing to woo what he thinks is a guy but is really the object of his affection.
Because doesn't a smart man woo his object any way he can?
"Answer me in one word."
Friday, February 3, 2012
Smile Like You Mean It
I got it from all sides tonight.
The swine was on the wall and on my plate. The relationship advice came from a sculptor who no longer believes in art. The travel advice came from a Sicilian with whom I discussed South Africa.
Ghostprint Gallery was hosting a preview of "Chroma Shift: Leslie Herman and Neal Iwan," two VCU graduates with very different work.
Herman's prints and drawings spoke to the music lover in me. "The "Strokes" was all cigarettes, coffee cups and five young men looking in different directions.
"Ian Curtis" was a face and a hand holding a microphone, compelling for the engmatic nature of Curtis' expression.
A couple of the prints were for shows I'd seen. "Okkervil River: Richmond" was for the show they'd done with Wye Oak last Fall that I'd so enjoyed.
Probably my favorite was "Explosions in the Sky." an ink and gouache on paper that called to me (well, except for the $750 price tag), partly because I'd been at that show,but also because of its whimsical imagery.
It was of a woman's face with a hat and veil, but the hat morphed into something fantastical with twigs and explosions trailing off the top of the page.
It perfectly encapsulated visually what it feels like when you hear Explosions in the Sky playing their dynamic post-rock.
Meanwhile on the other side of the gallery, Neal Iwan's oil paintings showed a variety of domesticated animals.
"Swine," a painting the artist said took him five hours to finish, showed that tastiest of animals, pigs, clearly represented without any embellishment.
Next to it, "Crowded" showed more pigs, these with occasional drips of paint through them. Iwan is an artist who likes to let the paint do what it does.
By the time I arrived at the show, two of his paintings had already sold, including my favorite, "The Herd."
Dabs of brown paint emerge from a lime green canvas to describe a herd of horses running toward the viewer.
Here the brushwork was more loose and evocative than definitive; I found the immediacy of it captivating.
The artist indicated that it was indicative of the direction his work has been taking of late.
I ran into an old friend at the show, a sculptor and former long-time teacher at VCU.
We talked art for a while but his disgust with the direction art took several decades ago left him with little tolerance for the lack of questioning in contemporary art.
I only hope I never get so jaded that I can't appreciate the latest generation of artists coming up.
He did tell me a sweet story about him and his girlfriend ("We see each other three times a week. Not on Thursdays!" he clarified), whom he'd met in the 80s.
"We liked each other then," he said, "But both our egos were too big. We got back together a few years ago and now everything's wonderful."
His grin looked awfully satisfied.
That's the secret, I guess. Find someone, send them packing and then reconnect decades later for a happy ending.
With new-found knowledge and my stomach growling, I left J-Ward for Six Burner and some sustenance.
On the actor/bartender's effusive recommendation ("This is the smoothest wine in the world"), I had the Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de la Bouissiere," a Cotes du Rhone also described as "midnight in a glass."
And as long as we're talking about smooth and midnight, it should be noted that tonight's music at Six Burner was not the usual.
Vintage R & B (Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Lou Reed, Barry White) made for a livelier vibe than usual, delighting the bartender and giving me something I don't often listen to.
But tonight was not so much about music as food.
I love how Six Burner's menu changes every day, but it means that sometimes I just can't pick only one thing.
Accepting my gluttony, I started with roasted eel and sauteed sweetbreads with pickled watermelon radishes (so pretty!), turnip-braised cabbage, lardoons and XO sauce.
Besides being an exquisitely beautiful presentation (a food fashion spread on a rectangular plate, so to speak), it was a perfect balance of rich and tart, with the sweet/spicy XO sauce lending an extra kick to all of it.
Granted, I could have stopped there. Instead, I ordered the confit pork belly cassoulet with Spanish Chorizo, Olli prosciutto, apples and local speckled butter beans and crowder peas.
At its essence, it was pork and beans with apples and of course it was so much more than that.
The toothsome beans and peas were as impressive as the variety of swine products and the sweet cooked apples the ideal contrast to the salty meats.
Then the food coma set in.
Fortunately, a guy had sat down one stool away from me, so I figured now was the time to seek out some after-dinner conversation since I was unable to do anything more strenuous than talk.
He turned out to be a Manhattan transplant who lives near VCU and loves to eat out and travel. He justified both by explaining that he was Italian, Sicilian specifically.
"Where in Europe have you been?" he asked right of the bat.
My answer of England and Scotland didn't satisfy him.
"You need to go to Italy," he instructed. "You need to do Venice first, then Florence and Rome. I can already tell you'd love the food and wine."
He graciously said I needn't do Sicily until I'd seen the other three first.
I managed to stop him from lecturing me about my Italy omission by bringing up South Africa, a place we'd both been.
He told a story of a Londoner he'd met in South Africa who'd lectured him about seeing everything you could now because there was no guarantee any of it would be around for future generations.
Naturally he felt obligated to pass on that lecture to me.
When he asked how I'd ended up in Richmond, the conversation took a turn and I took charge.
Despite fifteen years here, he had almost no idea of what to do at night besides going out to eat.
Oh, my new Italian friend with the New York accent, let me tell you some of what there is to do in this town.
I'm happy to say that by the time I finished with him (and my wine), he was leaving for Balliceaux, a place he didn't even know existed (despite living six blocks from it) to hear No BS, a band he'd never heard of before I told him about them.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he said when he got up. "I hope I'll see you around someplace."
No problem, toots. It's just what I do. And if you do go out, you're bound to eventually see me.
I get it from all sides and I give it right back. With a smile, mind you.
Always with a smile.
The swine was on the wall and on my plate. The relationship advice came from a sculptor who no longer believes in art. The travel advice came from a Sicilian with whom I discussed South Africa.
Ghostprint Gallery was hosting a preview of "Chroma Shift: Leslie Herman and Neal Iwan," two VCU graduates with very different work.
Herman's prints and drawings spoke to the music lover in me. "The "Strokes" was all cigarettes, coffee cups and five young men looking in different directions.
"Ian Curtis" was a face and a hand holding a microphone, compelling for the engmatic nature of Curtis' expression.
A couple of the prints were for shows I'd seen. "Okkervil River: Richmond" was for the show they'd done with Wye Oak last Fall that I'd so enjoyed.
Probably my favorite was "Explosions in the Sky." an ink and gouache on paper that called to me (well, except for the $750 price tag), partly because I'd been at that show,but also because of its whimsical imagery.
It was of a woman's face with a hat and veil, but the hat morphed into something fantastical with twigs and explosions trailing off the top of the page.
It perfectly encapsulated visually what it feels like when you hear Explosions in the Sky playing their dynamic post-rock.
Meanwhile on the other side of the gallery, Neal Iwan's oil paintings showed a variety of domesticated animals.
"Swine," a painting the artist said took him five hours to finish, showed that tastiest of animals, pigs, clearly represented without any embellishment.
Next to it, "Crowded" showed more pigs, these with occasional drips of paint through them. Iwan is an artist who likes to let the paint do what it does.
By the time I arrived at the show, two of his paintings had already sold, including my favorite, "The Herd."
Dabs of brown paint emerge from a lime green canvas to describe a herd of horses running toward the viewer.
Here the brushwork was more loose and evocative than definitive; I found the immediacy of it captivating.
The artist indicated that it was indicative of the direction his work has been taking of late.
I ran into an old friend at the show, a sculptor and former long-time teacher at VCU.
We talked art for a while but his disgust with the direction art took several decades ago left him with little tolerance for the lack of questioning in contemporary art.
I only hope I never get so jaded that I can't appreciate the latest generation of artists coming up.
He did tell me a sweet story about him and his girlfriend ("We see each other three times a week. Not on Thursdays!" he clarified), whom he'd met in the 80s.
"We liked each other then," he said, "But both our egos were too big. We got back together a few years ago and now everything's wonderful."
His grin looked awfully satisfied.
That's the secret, I guess. Find someone, send them packing and then reconnect decades later for a happy ending.
With new-found knowledge and my stomach growling, I left J-Ward for Six Burner and some sustenance.
On the actor/bartender's effusive recommendation ("This is the smoothest wine in the world"), I had the Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de la Bouissiere," a Cotes du Rhone also described as "midnight in a glass."
And as long as we're talking about smooth and midnight, it should be noted that tonight's music at Six Burner was not the usual.
Vintage R & B (Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Lou Reed, Barry White) made for a livelier vibe than usual, delighting the bartender and giving me something I don't often listen to.
But tonight was not so much about music as food.
I love how Six Burner's menu changes every day, but it means that sometimes I just can't pick only one thing.
Accepting my gluttony, I started with roasted eel and sauteed sweetbreads with pickled watermelon radishes (so pretty!), turnip-braised cabbage, lardoons and XO sauce.
Besides being an exquisitely beautiful presentation (a food fashion spread on a rectangular plate, so to speak), it was a perfect balance of rich and tart, with the sweet/spicy XO sauce lending an extra kick to all of it.
Granted, I could have stopped there. Instead, I ordered the confit pork belly cassoulet with Spanish Chorizo, Olli prosciutto, apples and local speckled butter beans and crowder peas.
At its essence, it was pork and beans with apples and of course it was so much more than that.
The toothsome beans and peas were as impressive as the variety of swine products and the sweet cooked apples the ideal contrast to the salty meats.
Then the food coma set in.
Fortunately, a guy had sat down one stool away from me, so I figured now was the time to seek out some after-dinner conversation since I was unable to do anything more strenuous than talk.
He turned out to be a Manhattan transplant who lives near VCU and loves to eat out and travel. He justified both by explaining that he was Italian, Sicilian specifically.
"Where in Europe have you been?" he asked right of the bat.
My answer of England and Scotland didn't satisfy him.
"You need to go to Italy," he instructed. "You need to do Venice first, then Florence and Rome. I can already tell you'd love the food and wine."
He graciously said I needn't do Sicily until I'd seen the other three first.
I managed to stop him from lecturing me about my Italy omission by bringing up South Africa, a place we'd both been.
He told a story of a Londoner he'd met in South Africa who'd lectured him about seeing everything you could now because there was no guarantee any of it would be around for future generations.
Naturally he felt obligated to pass on that lecture to me.
When he asked how I'd ended up in Richmond, the conversation took a turn and I took charge.
Despite fifteen years here, he had almost no idea of what to do at night besides going out to eat.
Oh, my new Italian friend with the New York accent, let me tell you some of what there is to do in this town.
I'm happy to say that by the time I finished with him (and my wine), he was leaving for Balliceaux, a place he didn't even know existed (despite living six blocks from it) to hear No BS, a band he'd never heard of before I told him about them.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he said when he got up. "I hope I'll see you around someplace."
No problem, toots. It's just what I do. And if you do go out, you're bound to eventually see me.
I get it from all sides and I give it right back. With a smile, mind you.
Always with a smile.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Nobody Else Wants Them
Note to self: unbridled cheese consumption paired with an abundance of South African wine may result in ten-hour evenings.
Not that that's a bad thing.
My favorite illustrator picked me up and took me to Six Burner where we wiled away the early evening drinking the tannic and mouth-filling Left Bank and inhaling cheese.
The Brie was light, the Mimolette cheddar bright orange and from a cave (like I like my music), the Point Reyes Bleu a creamy stinker and our personal favorite, the Crottin, a gloriously barnyard-tasting goat cheese I must seek out again.
We finished with a chocolate terrine with marscapone, dried cherries, pistachio crumble and clementine syrup. Unbilled, but one of the best parts of this enormous dessert, was the pistachio brittle pieces arranged atop it.
From there, she left to go home and make her husband salmon and deposited me and my bottle of Obvio Malbec on the doorstep of my partner in crime.
It's beginning to seem like the longer you know somebody, the better the talk, the company and the laughter are.
A decade plus is a long time. And that's not the Obvio talking.
Not that that's a bad thing.
My favorite illustrator picked me up and took me to Six Burner where we wiled away the early evening drinking the tannic and mouth-filling Left Bank and inhaling cheese.
The Brie was light, the Mimolette cheddar bright orange and from a cave (like I like my music), the Point Reyes Bleu a creamy stinker and our personal favorite, the Crottin, a gloriously barnyard-tasting goat cheese I must seek out again.
We finished with a chocolate terrine with marscapone, dried cherries, pistachio crumble and clementine syrup. Unbilled, but one of the best parts of this enormous dessert, was the pistachio brittle pieces arranged atop it.
From there, she left to go home and make her husband salmon and deposited me and my bottle of Obvio Malbec on the doorstep of my partner in crime.
It's beginning to seem like the longer you know somebody, the better the talk, the company and the laughter are.
A decade plus is a long time. And that's not the Obvio talking.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Laughter is the Drug
We're getting down to just the stay-heres.
As the city continues to empty out for the holiday, it's an easy time to meet up with friends because no place is especially crowded.
I started at Avalon to meet a friend for a drink and we were two of five people at the mostly empty bar.
As the friend who'd recently given me tights from Vienna, he was disappointed I hadn't worn them.
Next time, I promised.
He told me what was wrong with a restaurant we'd recently visited and we plotted about where our next dinner out would be while an '80s soundtrack played.
I'm telling you, neither the Smiths nor the Cure could have guessed their staying power back then.
After a couple hours' worth of chatting, I stopped by to pick up a girlfriend for company the rest of the evening.
She plied me with turtles while she finished dressing (cute! cute! cute!) and we were off (like a dirty shirt, as she likes to say) to Six Burner
Actually, it was for a bite to eat.
The place was livelier than I expected, with several large groups and lots of conversation in the air. The soundtrack was vintage (Cat Stevens, Scott McKenzie) and muted.
The bartender is also an actor.
He immediately told me that he'd seen me at the Richmond Shakespeare reading last week when he'd been part of the cast.
I'd seen him, he'd seen me. It was a match made in heaven.
I began with the South African "Left Bank," a red blend accompanied by a satisfying bowl of bucatini a la carbonara with a 63.5-degree duck egg, bacon and Parmesan-Reggiano.
The perfectly cooked al dente pasta became a decadent delight once I broke the egg over it. Bacon and eggs with pasta, what's not to love?
We joined in conversation with the group of guys who sat down next to us. They shared stories of gas siphoning, shotguns and wedding valets.
The bartender started a new tap, the Flying Dog Oyster Stout, and asked if it appealed to any of them.
"Oyster stout, it kind of creeps me out," one guy said. My friend, however, found its slightly briny finish nicely done.
That led to talk of Chetti's Cow and Clam and its infamous oyster shooters. I was surprised to find my friend knew the place even better than I had.
Walking outside into mid-sixties temperatures and rain-slicked streets, she commented on how New York the moment felt (except cleaner).
I won't lie; I'm reveling in this unseasonable weather and if I can have my windows wide open tomorrow like I did today, I'll be thrilled.
As it is, my windows will be open when I go to sleep tonight.
We finally left Six Burner behind for Balliceaux and the Mondo Italia Dance party.
My friend had never been but I'm a huge fan of Glows in the Dark playing music from Italian cinema while a '60s Italian movie plays on the wall behind them.
There are always lots of breasts, shoot-outs and car chases, not to mention porn mustaches, and it's great fun.
We got there, got a comfy couch to sit on and the music began. The only thing was, there was no visual.
So the band played and the music was awesome with the addition of Bob Miller on trumpet and Lauren Serpa on flute, but still no film.
I found our during the break that the DVD player was broken and thus we were without moving pictures tonight.
Pity.
It was a little disappointing but understandable, so we instead focused on the music, especially when Eddie Pendergrass came up and joined the band to do vocals for a few songs.
My friend and I agreed that we love a) men with soulful voices, b) guys who remind us of Elvis Costello and c) men who move rhythmically and unselfconsciously.
In other words, we had a visual after all.
We used the break to people-watch (impossible to resist at Balliceaux) when we weren't giving each other advice (who is the student and who is the master?) and sharing stories about our firsts, resulting in an awful lot of laugh attacks.
My name is Karen and I am becoming addicted to all this laughter.
As the city continues to empty out for the holiday, it's an easy time to meet up with friends because no place is especially crowded.
I started at Avalon to meet a friend for a drink and we were two of five people at the mostly empty bar.
As the friend who'd recently given me tights from Vienna, he was disappointed I hadn't worn them.
Next time, I promised.
He told me what was wrong with a restaurant we'd recently visited and we plotted about where our next dinner out would be while an '80s soundtrack played.
I'm telling you, neither the Smiths nor the Cure could have guessed their staying power back then.
After a couple hours' worth of chatting, I stopped by to pick up a girlfriend for company the rest of the evening.
She plied me with turtles while she finished dressing (cute! cute! cute!) and we were off (like a dirty shirt, as she likes to say) to Six Burner
Actually, it was for a bite to eat.
The place was livelier than I expected, with several large groups and lots of conversation in the air. The soundtrack was vintage (Cat Stevens, Scott McKenzie) and muted.
The bartender is also an actor.
He immediately told me that he'd seen me at the Richmond Shakespeare reading last week when he'd been part of the cast.
I'd seen him, he'd seen me. It was a match made in heaven.
I began with the South African "Left Bank," a red blend accompanied by a satisfying bowl of bucatini a la carbonara with a 63.5-degree duck egg, bacon and Parmesan-Reggiano.
The perfectly cooked al dente pasta became a decadent delight once I broke the egg over it. Bacon and eggs with pasta, what's not to love?
We joined in conversation with the group of guys who sat down next to us. They shared stories of gas siphoning, shotguns and wedding valets.
The bartender started a new tap, the Flying Dog Oyster Stout, and asked if it appealed to any of them.
"Oyster stout, it kind of creeps me out," one guy said. My friend, however, found its slightly briny finish nicely done.
That led to talk of Chetti's Cow and Clam and its infamous oyster shooters. I was surprised to find my friend knew the place even better than I had.
Walking outside into mid-sixties temperatures and rain-slicked streets, she commented on how New York the moment felt (except cleaner).
I won't lie; I'm reveling in this unseasonable weather and if I can have my windows wide open tomorrow like I did today, I'll be thrilled.
As it is, my windows will be open when I go to sleep tonight.
We finally left Six Burner behind for Balliceaux and the Mondo Italia Dance party.
My friend had never been but I'm a huge fan of Glows in the Dark playing music from Italian cinema while a '60s Italian movie plays on the wall behind them.
There are always lots of breasts, shoot-outs and car chases, not to mention porn mustaches, and it's great fun.
We got there, got a comfy couch to sit on and the music began. The only thing was, there was no visual.
So the band played and the music was awesome with the addition of Bob Miller on trumpet and Lauren Serpa on flute, but still no film.
I found our during the break that the DVD player was broken and thus we were without moving pictures tonight.
Pity.
It was a little disappointing but understandable, so we instead focused on the music, especially when Eddie Pendergrass came up and joined the band to do vocals for a few songs.
My friend and I agreed that we love a) men with soulful voices, b) guys who remind us of Elvis Costello and c) men who move rhythmically and unselfconsciously.
In other words, we had a visual after all.
We used the break to people-watch (impossible to resist at Balliceaux) when we weren't giving each other advice (who is the student and who is the master?) and sharing stories about our firsts, resulting in an awful lot of laugh attacks.
My name is Karen and I am becoming addicted to all this laughter.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
I Will If You Will
My timing was impeccable tonight.
A friend had suggested we have dinner at Six Burner and since I had no definitive plans, I agreed.
Food? Yes, sir!
We're fairly well matched in terms of our food taste, so it's usually a good time when we dine together.
With the raucous Tech fans screaming across the street at Home Team Grill, I found an oasis of calm when I walked into Six Burner.
My friend soon arrived, commented on my parking job and suggested libations. I started with Broadbent Vinho Verde and he had a vodka martini (sorry, purists).
Chef Philip had several interesting offerings (hello braised honeycomb tripe) so we ordered deviled eggs with ham to tide us over while we perused the menu.
Friend is a deviled egg fanatic and I probably haven't had one in five years, so we came at these eggs from wildly different perspectives.
We both loved them with a capital "L"; their peppery sass with just the right amount of thin-sliced ham elevated them to so much more than a picnic side dish.
Next up was house smoked eel with local muscadine grape unagi-style sauce, wasabi peas and sesame powder over local lettuces.
Our libations long gone, we got a bottle of 2002 Domaine du Viking Vouvray Cuvee Aurelie, a rich and slightly sweet golden-colored wine with an incredibly long finish.
It met its match in the foie gras-stuffed pig's foot with roasted red pepper and roasted eggplant sauce that followed.
Sadly, I couldn't talk him into the tripe (but then he doesn't like lentils, either, so he's far from perfect) so we had the Rappahannock oysters.
The selection of Old Salts, Stingrays and Witch Ducks came with a blueberry mignonette but my friend insisted on also getting a more traditional tarragon mignonette, only to prefer the blueberry.
As an ex once told me, it's not just a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse although I was tempted by the house-made waffles with roasted peaches.
The problem was that I'd had a peach earlier today and my allergy probably wasn't going to allow for two in one day without my tongue blowing up like an eggplant.
I wasn't going to push it because I now had plans after dinner.
The girlfriend with the visiting boyfriend had called just before I left and invited me to join them for an after-dinner drink at Amour.
"Call first to make sure we're still there," she'd foolishly suggested. Call? As if.
How about I come by and if you guys are already gone, I'll just enjoy myself at Amour without you?
But there they were in the front window enjoying the last of their dessert and cheese plate, so I pulled up a chair.
Magically a glass of Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, a personal favorite, arrived and my friend offered me a bite of her dark chocolate creme brulee (to-die-for good).
They told me about their day exploring Richmond, stopping at the Jefferson and Maymont, as they biked around the city.
I heard tales from the VMFA Richard Branson party the night before and raves about their meal and pairings at Amour that night.
Next on their agenda was Stella's because it was on their way home and they tried to convince me to join them there.
Awkward.
All I could think of was that if my out-of-town boyfriend was finally visiting RVA, I wouldn't want to share him with my talkative friend all evening.
I begged off and they went on their way just as a girlfriend walked through the door of Amour.
This was turning into a seamless sort of an evening.
She was coming in for a glass of wine, so I decided to stay for some girl talk and perhaps more wine.
We moved to the bar in the back, out of the glare of the bustle of Carytown on a Saturday night.
Sometimes you want to see, sometimes to be seen and sometimes neither.
As if Brut Rose and an unexpected friend weren't treats enough, owner Paul brought over a plate of little multi-colored macarons for our sampling pleasure.
They were from Petites Bouchees, a local company that's giving Richmonders a taste of a classic French cookie one small bite at a time.
I tasted chocolate with espresso butter cream, hazelnut with slated butter caramel, pistachio with bittersweet chocolate, and almond with passion fruit milk chocolate as we chatted.
We moved on to Lucien Albrecht Blanc de Blancs Brut to accompany our macaron fest
Every now and then, I'd stop and ask myself if I really needed to eat another bite and usually the Brut convinced me that I did.
The later it got, the more we kept on talking, both of us savoring the unexpected pleasure of meeting up.
I knew my dinner companion was long asleep and hopefully the lovebirds were reveling in each other's company, so I'd totally lucked out in running into a friend with her late evening free.
Recently a friend complimented me on my busy-ness and I'd made the comment to her that "Anyone could do what I do." She'd insisted that most people didn't have my stamina.
Hell, I'm thinking stamina feeds on things like Alsatian bubbles, macarons and unexpected friends.
A friend had suggested we have dinner at Six Burner and since I had no definitive plans, I agreed.
Food? Yes, sir!
We're fairly well matched in terms of our food taste, so it's usually a good time when we dine together.
With the raucous Tech fans screaming across the street at Home Team Grill, I found an oasis of calm when I walked into Six Burner.
My friend soon arrived, commented on my parking job and suggested libations. I started with Broadbent Vinho Verde and he had a vodka martini (sorry, purists).
Chef Philip had several interesting offerings (hello braised honeycomb tripe) so we ordered deviled eggs with ham to tide us over while we perused the menu.
Friend is a deviled egg fanatic and I probably haven't had one in five years, so we came at these eggs from wildly different perspectives.
We both loved them with a capital "L"; their peppery sass with just the right amount of thin-sliced ham elevated them to so much more than a picnic side dish.
Next up was house smoked eel with local muscadine grape unagi-style sauce, wasabi peas and sesame powder over local lettuces.
Our libations long gone, we got a bottle of 2002 Domaine du Viking Vouvray Cuvee Aurelie, a rich and slightly sweet golden-colored wine with an incredibly long finish.
It met its match in the foie gras-stuffed pig's foot with roasted red pepper and roasted eggplant sauce that followed.
Sadly, I couldn't talk him into the tripe (but then he doesn't like lentils, either, so he's far from perfect) so we had the Rappahannock oysters.
The selection of Old Salts, Stingrays and Witch Ducks came with a blueberry mignonette but my friend insisted on also getting a more traditional tarragon mignonette, only to prefer the blueberry.
As an ex once told me, it's not just a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse although I was tempted by the house-made waffles with roasted peaches.
The problem was that I'd had a peach earlier today and my allergy probably wasn't going to allow for two in one day without my tongue blowing up like an eggplant.
I wasn't going to push it because I now had plans after dinner.
The girlfriend with the visiting boyfriend had called just before I left and invited me to join them for an after-dinner drink at Amour.
"Call first to make sure we're still there," she'd foolishly suggested. Call? As if.
How about I come by and if you guys are already gone, I'll just enjoy myself at Amour without you?
But there they were in the front window enjoying the last of their dessert and cheese plate, so I pulled up a chair.
Magically a glass of Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, a personal favorite, arrived and my friend offered me a bite of her dark chocolate creme brulee (to-die-for good).
They told me about their day exploring Richmond, stopping at the Jefferson and Maymont, as they biked around the city.
I heard tales from the VMFA Richard Branson party the night before and raves about their meal and pairings at Amour that night.
Next on their agenda was Stella's because it was on their way home and they tried to convince me to join them there.
Awkward.
All I could think of was that if my out-of-town boyfriend was finally visiting RVA, I wouldn't want to share him with my talkative friend all evening.
I begged off and they went on their way just as a girlfriend walked through the door of Amour.
This was turning into a seamless sort of an evening.
She was coming in for a glass of wine, so I decided to stay for some girl talk and perhaps more wine.
We moved to the bar in the back, out of the glare of the bustle of Carytown on a Saturday night.
Sometimes you want to see, sometimes to be seen and sometimes neither.
As if Brut Rose and an unexpected friend weren't treats enough, owner Paul brought over a plate of little multi-colored macarons for our sampling pleasure.
They were from Petites Bouchees, a local company that's giving Richmonders a taste of a classic French cookie one small bite at a time.
I tasted chocolate with espresso butter cream, hazelnut with slated butter caramel, pistachio with bittersweet chocolate, and almond with passion fruit milk chocolate as we chatted.
We moved on to Lucien Albrecht Blanc de Blancs Brut to accompany our macaron fest
Every now and then, I'd stop and ask myself if I really needed to eat another bite and usually the Brut convinced me that I did.
The later it got, the more we kept on talking, both of us savoring the unexpected pleasure of meeting up.
I knew my dinner companion was long asleep and hopefully the lovebirds were reveling in each other's company, so I'd totally lucked out in running into a friend with her late evening free.
Recently a friend complimented me on my busy-ness and I'd made the comment to her that "Anyone could do what I do." She'd insisted that most people didn't have my stamina.
Hell, I'm thinking stamina feeds on things like Alsatian bubbles, macarons and unexpected friends.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Come On!
You never know who's going to be on vacation any given week during the summer.
A friend and I were craving Garnett's today but arrived to find an "On vacation until 8/1" sign on the door. Time to regroup.
We decided to give Six Burner a try since they're now doing lunch and arrived to find business men types, small groups and two women at the back table with a small baby.
Considering the blanket of heat, it was amazing that anyone was venturing out at all.
Opting for the bar, we absorbed the menu quickly so we could order as soon as possible. We'd gotten a late start, we'd already made a detour and we were both hungry to start with.
My friend is the kind of guy who can eat a burger every day if presented with one. On the drive over, he'd mentioned getting a salad today because he'd had two Five Guys burgers yesterday. Two.
Luckily for him, there were four salads on the menu, in addition to things like an oyster po' boy, a monstrous grilled cheese with avocado and fried green tomato, and a BLT with avocado, which I ordered.
To no one's surprise, he got the 1/3-pound burger on a brioche bun with a mound of fries, essentially a slight variation of his lunch yesterday. And, for all I know, the day before.
But I don't judge such things, so we moved on to more compelling conversation.
Our bartender friend who'd given up his player ways, gotten married and moved north is now expecting his second child. Color us both impressed.
He surprised me by saying that every single day he still thinks about a mutual friend who died unexpectedly a few years back. I have a picture of her that he took and it always gives me a twinge when I look at it. She was so young.
Naturally he asked about the state of my love life, giving me a disgusted "Come on!" and a brief lecture about its lack of forward progress.
If he weren't right, I might have given him crap about the lack of forward progress in his diet, which is still heavily indebted to pizza and burgers at nearly 40.
In any case, forward progress varies from eater to lover.
A friend and I were craving Garnett's today but arrived to find an "On vacation until 8/1" sign on the door. Time to regroup.
We decided to give Six Burner a try since they're now doing lunch and arrived to find business men types, small groups and two women at the back table with a small baby.
Considering the blanket of heat, it was amazing that anyone was venturing out at all.
Opting for the bar, we absorbed the menu quickly so we could order as soon as possible. We'd gotten a late start, we'd already made a detour and we were both hungry to start with.
My friend is the kind of guy who can eat a burger every day if presented with one. On the drive over, he'd mentioned getting a salad today because he'd had two Five Guys burgers yesterday. Two.
Luckily for him, there were four salads on the menu, in addition to things like an oyster po' boy, a monstrous grilled cheese with avocado and fried green tomato, and a BLT with avocado, which I ordered.
To no one's surprise, he got the 1/3-pound burger on a brioche bun with a mound of fries, essentially a slight variation of his lunch yesterday. And, for all I know, the day before.
But I don't judge such things, so we moved on to more compelling conversation.
Our bartender friend who'd given up his player ways, gotten married and moved north is now expecting his second child. Color us both impressed.
He surprised me by saying that every single day he still thinks about a mutual friend who died unexpectedly a few years back. I have a picture of her that he took and it always gives me a twinge when I look at it. She was so young.
Naturally he asked about the state of my love life, giving me a disgusted "Come on!" and a brief lecture about its lack of forward progress.
If he weren't right, I might have given him crap about the lack of forward progress in his diet, which is still heavily indebted to pizza and burgers at nearly 40.
In any case, forward progress varies from eater to lover.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Come On, Get Happy
When I go out to meet a good friend and end up enjoying the company of a second friend as well, it makes me happy. When I expect the usual Tuesday bartender and my favorite weekend bartender is on duty instead, it gets even better. And when I can spend an evening watching old TV shows from the 60s at a theater, it is a treat of a night indeed.
The original game plan involved meeting a good friend at Six Burner for cheap wine, stellar food and lots of detail sharing. I'm still their devoted slave because of the featured red wine, Warwick Pinotage. It just took working through some Mars/Venus confusion to get it to me.
"So what's the featured red?" I asked Josh. "It's a white Pinot Noir," he said, pouring me a taste before being called away by a customer.
One of the female servers approached me in his absence. "Didn't you ask about a red?" she questioned with a smile. Admitting that I had, only to be poured a white, she told me what the featured red was and poured it for me. "I thought you said red," she laughed.
When Josh returned and saw my full glass, he asked if I'd requested a red. Told that I had, he admitted to hearing white instead of red come out of my mouth. Is it any wonder men and women struggle to communicate effectively?
Shortly thereafter my friend arrived and abdicated all power to me."Just give me what she's drinking," she said. "I love leaving everything up to you: the place, the wine, the food." Too bad she's not a guy.
She had dinner plans for venison chili, but we decided to take the edge off with the spicy tuna tartar with tuille crisps and the testa (headcheese) with grainy mustard, cornichons and toast.
When our plates showed up, I cracked wise. "Every time I see cornichon on a menu, it's gherkins that show up on my plate," I mock-complained. She laughed so hard she almost fell off her stool. "You have to put that in the blog," she insisted. "You can say I said it." I wouldn't embarrass her that way.
The headcheese, as Josh had informed us, was a terrine made from pig's head and was as savory a thing as I've put in my mouth in some time. Slathered with a coarse mustard and with a slice of cornichon (we weren't fooled again; that's just French for gherkin) on top, it was earthy, addicting and $4.
More delicately flavored but no less impressive was the spicy tuna tartare and avocado with the thinnest seed-studded tuille crisps as objects of conveyance. It was so good, in fact, that when we finished, my friend looked at me and asked, "Can we sop?" I think we can do whatever we want, I told her.
More Pinotage followed for the conversation about the developments in my personal life and it was just about then that another girlfriend unexpectedly showed up and joined us.
She ordered fried oysters and the fried sweetbreads in mole sauce and once again, we were eating up a storm. Something about discussing men seems to make us do this.
We discussed Style's "State of the Plate" and agreed that it's tough to argue with Amuse as the Restaurant of the Year. I've had so many excellent meals there that it almost seemed like a foregone, if deserved, conclusion to me anyway.
After both friends had left to go home to their men, I enjoyed some conversation with Chef Philip about RVA's scene, both eating and otherwise.
Josh had earlier mentioned that Chef had wanted to do a stuffed pig's head sliced and served in cross sections, but didn't think Richmond was ready for it. Josh and I laughed that a defibrillator would have to be put in to resuscitate certain guests once they found out what they were eating.
And now the chef was asking, "What will make Richmond more open to trying new foods?" Damned if I know, but it would be nice to see less of the same old, same old and more new and intriguing offerings, especially in small plate-sizes for trying.
"I'd love to do all small plates," Philip said. It's my preferred way of eating and I'd certainly be on board for more places going in that direction..
Pleasantly replete with food and conversation, I left for Richmond Triangle Players and their Tuesday Night at the Movies. Tonight's feature, "Judy! Judy! Judy," about the career of Judy Garland was being shown on the big screen.
There was scads of old footage (and free popcorn) but by far the most interesting was that of her old '60s TV show. All the big names of the day sang with her on that show, including Peggy Lee, Lena Horne, Ethel Merman, Mickey Rooney, Tony Bennett, Count Basie and Barbra Streisand.
Streisand and Garland doing of a medley of "Come On, Get Happy" and "Happy Days are Here Again" was one for the ages; those two voices overlapping in an almost competitive way was truly a thing of beauty, whether you're a fan of either woman or not.
Seeing a marquee in the film from 1954 that read "Judy Garland Dinner Show Only" seemed kind of tragic, but it didn't compare to watching her sing "The Man That Got Away" live at Carnegie Hall. Listening to her voice was like listening to a heart break.
I wonder if singing about men has the same effect as talking about them. If so, she must have spent all her time off-stage eating, drinking and gabbing with girlfriends.
It's been known to be quite effective in furthering the cause of love and lust. Or so I'm learning.
The original game plan involved meeting a good friend at Six Burner for cheap wine, stellar food and lots of detail sharing. I'm still their devoted slave because of the featured red wine, Warwick Pinotage. It just took working through some Mars/Venus confusion to get it to me.
"So what's the featured red?" I asked Josh. "It's a white Pinot Noir," he said, pouring me a taste before being called away by a customer.
One of the female servers approached me in his absence. "Didn't you ask about a red?" she questioned with a smile. Admitting that I had, only to be poured a white, she told me what the featured red was and poured it for me. "I thought you said red," she laughed.
When Josh returned and saw my full glass, he asked if I'd requested a red. Told that I had, he admitted to hearing white instead of red come out of my mouth. Is it any wonder men and women struggle to communicate effectively?
Shortly thereafter my friend arrived and abdicated all power to me."Just give me what she's drinking," she said. "I love leaving everything up to you: the place, the wine, the food." Too bad she's not a guy.
She had dinner plans for venison chili, but we decided to take the edge off with the spicy tuna tartar with tuille crisps and the testa (headcheese) with grainy mustard, cornichons and toast.
When our plates showed up, I cracked wise. "Every time I see cornichon on a menu, it's gherkins that show up on my plate," I mock-complained. She laughed so hard she almost fell off her stool. "You have to put that in the blog," she insisted. "You can say I said it." I wouldn't embarrass her that way.
The headcheese, as Josh had informed us, was a terrine made from pig's head and was as savory a thing as I've put in my mouth in some time. Slathered with a coarse mustard and with a slice of cornichon (we weren't fooled again; that's just French for gherkin) on top, it was earthy, addicting and $4.
More delicately flavored but no less impressive was the spicy tuna tartare and avocado with the thinnest seed-studded tuille crisps as objects of conveyance. It was so good, in fact, that when we finished, my friend looked at me and asked, "Can we sop?" I think we can do whatever we want, I told her.
More Pinotage followed for the conversation about the developments in my personal life and it was just about then that another girlfriend unexpectedly showed up and joined us.
She ordered fried oysters and the fried sweetbreads in mole sauce and once again, we were eating up a storm. Something about discussing men seems to make us do this.
We discussed Style's "State of the Plate" and agreed that it's tough to argue with Amuse as the Restaurant of the Year. I've had so many excellent meals there that it almost seemed like a foregone, if deserved, conclusion to me anyway.
After both friends had left to go home to their men, I enjoyed some conversation with Chef Philip about RVA's scene, both eating and otherwise.
Josh had earlier mentioned that Chef had wanted to do a stuffed pig's head sliced and served in cross sections, but didn't think Richmond was ready for it. Josh and I laughed that a defibrillator would have to be put in to resuscitate certain guests once they found out what they were eating.
And now the chef was asking, "What will make Richmond more open to trying new foods?" Damned if I know, but it would be nice to see less of the same old, same old and more new and intriguing offerings, especially in small plate-sizes for trying.
"I'd love to do all small plates," Philip said. It's my preferred way of eating and I'd certainly be on board for more places going in that direction..
Pleasantly replete with food and conversation, I left for Richmond Triangle Players and their Tuesday Night at the Movies. Tonight's feature, "Judy! Judy! Judy," about the career of Judy Garland was being shown on the big screen.
There was scads of old footage (and free popcorn) but by far the most interesting was that of her old '60s TV show. All the big names of the day sang with her on that show, including Peggy Lee, Lena Horne, Ethel Merman, Mickey Rooney, Tony Bennett, Count Basie and Barbra Streisand.
Streisand and Garland doing of a medley of "Come On, Get Happy" and "Happy Days are Here Again" was one for the ages; those two voices overlapping in an almost competitive way was truly a thing of beauty, whether you're a fan of either woman or not.
Seeing a marquee in the film from 1954 that read "Judy Garland Dinner Show Only" seemed kind of tragic, but it didn't compare to watching her sing "The Man That Got Away" live at Carnegie Hall. Listening to her voice was like listening to a heart break.
I wonder if singing about men has the same effect as talking about them. If so, she must have spent all her time off-stage eating, drinking and gabbing with girlfriends.
It's been known to be quite effective in furthering the cause of love and lust. Or so I'm learning.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Waylaid at the Wait Station
Attractive older Asian man: You have on very nice socks.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Show Me Something Good
Give me buildings, give me dresses, give me food and wine. I am so happy it's January and life as I know and need it has resumed.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Dizzy, but No Sardines
Here's the thing about the holiday season: the music dries up but the food and parties are endless.
Sunday, which wasn't that long ago, was the last time I heard live music, but there's no more on my horizon until at least this coming Sunday. I'll manage, with the help of get-togethers with friends and parties to fill the non-musical time, but I'll miss it. I may even go into withdrawal.
Tonight got started at Six Burner with a long-time friend and wine, plenty of wine. I had loads of news and she had some new developments in her relationship, so we had plenty to catch up on.
As we chatted, the restaurant did the December fill-up, including a couple of guys coming in for the Chef's tasting menu and lots of gift certificates going out the door. Lots.
After the abundant lunch I'd had at Amuse earlier, I had no right to eat again on December 21st, but managed to anyhow. We wanted to order the grilled sardines with gremalato, but they were out of them. Sad faces all around.
Instead we got the pork belly with fresh navy beans and spicy jerk sauce and, once again, the snail risotto with garlic, parsley and Parmesan (we both love that risotto).
As a proud eater, I'm ashamed to say that I could only eat a couple of bites of each before hitting the wall (but not before noticing how perfectly cooked the beans were and how decadent that risotto still is).
I rationalized my inability by thinking that at least I was leaving more for my friend, but I felt like a food failure. The Cotes de Ventoux Grenache/Syrah, however, was going down just fine.
Our server wanted to discuss the new Cinebistro with us despite neither of us having been there (nor had he), but she rarely goes to the movies and I rarely cross the river. He said he especially liked the idea of being able to lounge on a couch. I'm still not going to Stony Point.
We talked about going to big parties where there's such a din that the best you can do is smile when the speaker smiles and raise your eyebrows when they do because you can't hear a thing.
She did this recently at a party and her significant other stood on the other side of the speaker and mouthed the words, "Fuck you" to her in an attempt to inappropriately crack her up.
Or, as The National so eloquently put it (and stole my heart when they did):
I want to hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you
Crack you up
I'm inclined to think that trying to crack someone up makes for true love.
From there, I went to Sprout for a Winter Solstice holiday party, which was in full swing when I arrived. Long tables were covered in Virginia food I wanted to eat but was too full to try. It kind of broke my food-loving heart. Local ham, pumpkin, tofu and a whole lot more were being gobbled up as I went to the bar for a beverage.
Bordeaux in hand, I began making the rounds of the party, always an enjoyable way to meet new people. I met Suzi of Farm to Family, who said they'd sold their last Christmas tree today...to Laurie and Jamie, Sprout's owners. We talked about how intoxicating a fresh tree makes your house smell (I'm loving it every time I come home now).
I met a former Philly girl who had heard I was a writer/blogger and we had a great conversation about the WPA, public fruit trees, Southern food and the pleasures of Richmond.
We were joined by an occasional moonshiner (causing her to say, "I love the South!"), who told us about his 'shine exploits and closet storage of Mason jars.
At one point the volume of the music seemed to drop and I asked a stylish server why. His quick response, "It's just a low rent party. Low rent!" was hilarious and spoke to the fact that when he's not waiting tables, he's an excellent DJ, mainly of 60s and 70s music.
But tonight it was owner Jamie who played DJ and with plenty of volume and vintage cherry-picking of music. He's got such a great record collection and I always end up hearing something I haven't heard in eons ("Dizzy" by Tommy Roe?). I may have been too full for food, but when do I ever get my fill of music?
It may not have been live, but it certainly came close to scratching that itch. The musical itch, not the other one.
Sunday, which wasn't that long ago, was the last time I heard live music, but there's no more on my horizon until at least this coming Sunday. I'll manage, with the help of get-togethers with friends and parties to fill the non-musical time, but I'll miss it. I may even go into withdrawal.
Tonight got started at Six Burner with a long-time friend and wine, plenty of wine. I had loads of news and she had some new developments in her relationship, so we had plenty to catch up on.
As we chatted, the restaurant did the December fill-up, including a couple of guys coming in for the Chef's tasting menu and lots of gift certificates going out the door. Lots.
After the abundant lunch I'd had at Amuse earlier, I had no right to eat again on December 21st, but managed to anyhow. We wanted to order the grilled sardines with gremalato, but they were out of them. Sad faces all around.
Instead we got the pork belly with fresh navy beans and spicy jerk sauce and, once again, the snail risotto with garlic, parsley and Parmesan (we both love that risotto).
As a proud eater, I'm ashamed to say that I could only eat a couple of bites of each before hitting the wall (but not before noticing how perfectly cooked the beans were and how decadent that risotto still is).
I rationalized my inability by thinking that at least I was leaving more for my friend, but I felt like a food failure. The Cotes de Ventoux Grenache/Syrah, however, was going down just fine.
Our server wanted to discuss the new Cinebistro with us despite neither of us having been there (nor had he), but she rarely goes to the movies and I rarely cross the river. He said he especially liked the idea of being able to lounge on a couch. I'm still not going to Stony Point.
We talked about going to big parties where there's such a din that the best you can do is smile when the speaker smiles and raise your eyebrows when they do because you can't hear a thing.
She did this recently at a party and her significant other stood on the other side of the speaker and mouthed the words, "Fuck you" to her in an attempt to inappropriately crack her up.
Or, as The National so eloquently put it (and stole my heart when they did):
I want to hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you
Crack you up
I'm inclined to think that trying to crack someone up makes for true love.
From there, I went to Sprout for a Winter Solstice holiday party, which was in full swing when I arrived. Long tables were covered in Virginia food I wanted to eat but was too full to try. It kind of broke my food-loving heart. Local ham, pumpkin, tofu and a whole lot more were being gobbled up as I went to the bar for a beverage.
Bordeaux in hand, I began making the rounds of the party, always an enjoyable way to meet new people. I met Suzi of Farm to Family, who said they'd sold their last Christmas tree today...to Laurie and Jamie, Sprout's owners. We talked about how intoxicating a fresh tree makes your house smell (I'm loving it every time I come home now).
I met a former Philly girl who had heard I was a writer/blogger and we had a great conversation about the WPA, public fruit trees, Southern food and the pleasures of Richmond.
We were joined by an occasional moonshiner (causing her to say, "I love the South!"), who told us about his 'shine exploits and closet storage of Mason jars.
At one point the volume of the music seemed to drop and I asked a stylish server why. His quick response, "It's just a low rent party. Low rent!" was hilarious and spoke to the fact that when he's not waiting tables, he's an excellent DJ, mainly of 60s and 70s music.
But tonight it was owner Jamie who played DJ and with plenty of volume and vintage cherry-picking of music. He's got such a great record collection and I always end up hearing something I haven't heard in eons ("Dizzy" by Tommy Roe?). I may have been too full for food, but when do I ever get my fill of music?
It may not have been live, but it certainly came close to scratching that itch. The musical itch, not the other one.
Friday, December 17, 2010
J-Ward Represent
Jackson Ward knows how to throw a party, let me tell you.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Back and At It
After a couple of days in the peaceful environs of the Northern Neck, I have to admit that I couldn't get back to the urban landscape quickly enough.
Fortuitously, I had double-booked myself for tonight so I'd be able to catch up on multiple fronts upon my return.
My primary plans were with a girlfriend I hadn't seen (except for a brief lunch) in eons.
And while lunches are fine, too much time had passed and too much had occurred in both our personal lives to cover a fraction of it in a lunch hour, or even two.
Drawn-out drinks and dishing were in order.
So tonight ended up being the mother of all catch-ups, full of probing questions, anecdotes, surprises and tales of tears.
Man, I love my guy friends, but sometimes it's just got to be two X chromosomes to really give it all up.
All that over-sharing was made much easier by meeting at Six Burner for half-price wine by the glass night.
The pleasures of drinking around the wine list really cannot be overstated, especially at $4 a glass.
To keep up our strength for telling all, we had the arugula salad, roasted beets, goat cheese, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette because the arugula is so terrific lately.
Everyone I know who is growing it (and kale) right now is raving about the flavor.
Peppery and plentiful, it smelled as good as it tasted and looked.
For sheer decadence, we had to have the snail risotto with garlic (loads!), parsley and Parmesan.
The portion size was perfect for such an incredibly rich dish and, as my friend noted, the only sound we could make while savoring it was, "Mmmm," with eyes closed.
Positively heavenly.
During the chocolate mousse course, we finally deviated from men and the laws of attraction to a slightly broader subject matter, including WW II movies, her conversion to listening to new music (thanks to me, I might add proudly), and our varying sleep requirements (did I ever really go to bed at 10:00? Wow, what lifetime was that?).
It was a much-needed evening with a friend who doesn't hesitate to ask the hard questions ("Would you ever get married again?") and to whom I always answer honestly.
With her, there is no such thing as TMI (at least so far).
Hours later, stop #2 was to meet a trio of friends at Rowland Fine Dining, providing the perfect opportunity to share with Chef Virginia my recent assist in introducing some new fans to her establishment, here.
She was tickled to hear that her butterbean cakes and, in fact, the whole meal, had so impressed the interesting group of guys (and one guy's dad) I'd sent her way.
The occasion for meeting up with this threesome was to celebrate the 10-month anniversary of the couple portion of the group and to have some girl talk with Virginia and the other female of the three.
We're an interesting group because the couple has been an item for not quite a year now and my girlfriend has been dating "practice men" (her term) since June and has just in the past two months begun what looks to be a most promising relationship.
I've been back on the menu for less than a month, so we're all coming at this from varying, but still fairly recent, vantage points.
Corny as it sounds, you could say we're all being cheerleaders for each other's personal relationship successes of late, both large and small.
And who would have guessed that I'd even be part of that conversation?
Don't look at me. I'm as surprised as everyone else apparently is.
Fortuitously, I had double-booked myself for tonight so I'd be able to catch up on multiple fronts upon my return.
My primary plans were with a girlfriend I hadn't seen (except for a brief lunch) in eons.
And while lunches are fine, too much time had passed and too much had occurred in both our personal lives to cover a fraction of it in a lunch hour, or even two.
Drawn-out drinks and dishing were in order.
So tonight ended up being the mother of all catch-ups, full of probing questions, anecdotes, surprises and tales of tears.
Man, I love my guy friends, but sometimes it's just got to be two X chromosomes to really give it all up.
All that over-sharing was made much easier by meeting at Six Burner for half-price wine by the glass night.
The pleasures of drinking around the wine list really cannot be overstated, especially at $4 a glass.
To keep up our strength for telling all, we had the arugula salad, roasted beets, goat cheese, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette because the arugula is so terrific lately.
Everyone I know who is growing it (and kale) right now is raving about the flavor.
Peppery and plentiful, it smelled as good as it tasted and looked.
For sheer decadence, we had to have the snail risotto with garlic (loads!), parsley and Parmesan.
The portion size was perfect for such an incredibly rich dish and, as my friend noted, the only sound we could make while savoring it was, "Mmmm," with eyes closed.
Positively heavenly.
During the chocolate mousse course, we finally deviated from men and the laws of attraction to a slightly broader subject matter, including WW II movies, her conversion to listening to new music (thanks to me, I might add proudly), and our varying sleep requirements (did I ever really go to bed at 10:00? Wow, what lifetime was that?).
It was a much-needed evening with a friend who doesn't hesitate to ask the hard questions ("Would you ever get married again?") and to whom I always answer honestly.
With her, there is no such thing as TMI (at least so far).
Hours later, stop #2 was to meet a trio of friends at Rowland Fine Dining, providing the perfect opportunity to share with Chef Virginia my recent assist in introducing some new fans to her establishment, here.
She was tickled to hear that her butterbean cakes and, in fact, the whole meal, had so impressed the interesting group of guys (and one guy's dad) I'd sent her way.
The occasion for meeting up with this threesome was to celebrate the 10-month anniversary of the couple portion of the group and to have some girl talk with Virginia and the other female of the three.
We're an interesting group because the couple has been an item for not quite a year now and my girlfriend has been dating "practice men" (her term) since June and has just in the past two months begun what looks to be a most promising relationship.
I've been back on the menu for less than a month, so we're all coming at this from varying, but still fairly recent, vantage points.
Corny as it sounds, you could say we're all being cheerleaders for each other's personal relationship successes of late, both large and small.
And who would have guessed that I'd even be part of that conversation?
Don't look at me. I'm as surprised as everyone else apparently is.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A Lot of It is Luck*
I was out of town today, so I missed the opening of the Sally Mann exhibit at the VMFA.
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Music
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