Cuttin' a Loop

When the weather gods are forecasting another round of city-stopping snow, you hit the road.

And when you're fortunate enough to have a 75 degree day, you spend as much of it outside as possible.

The drive was like we were going to the Outer Banks, meaning 460, a route that all but requires a stop at Adams Country store.

A bucket of salted fish still in water sat in front of a palette of country hams. Over in the case were dandoodles, the small cloth bags of mixed pig parts for seasoning greens and soup.

But when you're out cruising on a warm day, you don't need pig parts festering in the warmth of the car.

So we picked up a bag of Adams peanuts, a couple of glass bottles of RC Cola and took them to the counter, chatting with the owner about the bodacious weather.

"You folks just cuttin' a loop today?" Mr. Adams inquired. He'd have been doing the same if not stuck behind the counter, I just know it.

Further down 460, we stopped in Ivor for a stroll on the other side of the railroad tracks. I looked past the "Keep your eyes on Jesus" sign on the door into Mabel's Hair Palace, painted Pepto Bismol pink and looking like time had stopped in 1955.

Passing the Masonic Lodge, my eye was caught not by Jesus, but by the sign touting, "Annual sausage sale coming soon." If it's a good area for pig, it ought to be a good one for sausage.

Sitting in a dirt driveway, a truck's license plate proclaimed "HTC RDNK." And damn proud of it.

Then it was on to true pig town, Smithfield, for lunch. After touring around streets lined with enormous and quaint gingerbread-trimmed Victorian houses, we made our way to Smithfield Station for lunch on the deck overlooking the marina and marshes.

Boats bobbed in the water, most of them labeled by owners from Smithfield or nearby Rescue.

Once our puppy-like server Dante managed to open the bottle of Honig Sauvignon Blanc, we enjoyed it with crab soup and seafood salads to the sound of boat masts clanging together with the sun on our backs.

With a few hours of daylight remaining, we drove on to Newport News' Huntington Park to join others who couldn't resist spending an unexpectedly warm day by the water.

We strolled the park's little beach by the pier and bridge, watching as the fair weather clouds began to give way to the clouds of doom that will bring snow tomorrow.

Buzz kill.

By the time we got back to Richmond, the sun was long gone and it was time to eat again, so we set our sights on Belmont Food Shop, which we found mostly full, not surprising given the tiny space and the fact that so few restaurants are open on Sunday.

With '20s and '30s music playing too softly, we began with a substitute Rose (the one on the list having sold out) and a trio of amuse bouches: a gougeres, one perfect bite of smoked blue fish dip and a thimble-sized ramekin of celery root soup.

Next came braised rabbit with gnocchi and truffle, setting the tone for a meal of obscene richness. Although technically a salad, my duck confit over frisse with leeks was more about the fatty duck than the greens beneath.

That is not a complaint.

The decadence of my oxtail with spaetzle and carrots was matched only by my companion's melt-in-your-mouth lamb two ways. Our server had told us that Chef Mike had just broken down the lamb the day before.

Now we were in a food coma, but determined to hang on so we could go hear live music later. So we sat there sipping wine until I mustered the wherewithal to order dessert.

Cause nothing helps settle a full stomach like more food.

My first choice was butterscotch custard - a throwback to childhood and, besides, you never see it on dessert menus - but it had been 86'd moments before.

Our server was certain I'd had the silk pie many times, but I hadn't, so I went with the round of dark chocolate pate over caramel in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.

Call me a chocolate purist, but the caramel made it just a tad too sweet for me, not that I didn't manage to finish 80% of it with a glass of Lambrusco Rose.

The things I do for chocolate.

Dragging our stuffed selves to Ipanema to see the Dimmer Twins as part of Live at Ipanema, we got the last two bar stools and ordered Fenuaghty Vineyard Edmunds St. John Syrah.

Tonight's crowd was small, maybe due to the Oscars, but I was still greeted by the poetry-lover, the shoegazer and the band photographer, even if his cute wife was home live blogging.

Playing tonight were the Dimmer Twins, two members of the band Horsehead ("the pretty ones," they've been known to call themselves), and these guys are pros, setting up and starting on time, a rarity for Live at Ipanema.

It had been a couple of years since I'd heard them play, but I immediately recognized "Hard Hand to Hold" with its metaphors about the challenges of a relationship.

Simply put, it's American rock and roll, the lyrics straight forward and plain spoken, like in "It's a Whiskey Night."

There's no place I'd rather stumble home to
Than a bed that's made for me and you

When they asked if there were any requests, wisecracking audience members shouted out suggestions of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Afternoon Delight."

They played neither, lead singer John saying, "Sometimes you don't know how much a song sounds like someone else's until you record it."

Closing with a song on which John played an electric mandolin with four strings (don't ask me, I had it explained to me twice and I still don't get it), he warned us that they hadn't played it out and they might mess it up.

If they did, I couldn't tell and if I had noticed, it wouldn't have mattered.

After a sunny road trip and a day spent outside, a fabulous meal and lots of good conversation, I was thrilled to be able to wrap up my day with some live music instead of in front of a TV.

There's no place better to stumble back to 
Than a basement with men singing to you

If that makes me Oscar the Grouch, so be it. Personally, I think it just makes for a mighty fine loop.

Rolling Down Highway 460

I have been ridiculed on more than one occasion for the circuitous routes I take in pursuit of a scenic journey.

Case in point, the route that I take to the Outer Banks is a combination of newer, fast roads and back roads.

For me, 64 is almost as soul-sucking a road as I-95, so I spend only a couple of miles on the former and none on the latter.

Part of the reason for my route is the scenery, of which Route 460-East has an abundance, like the Melody Inn Motel and further along, a hand-painted sign with a big arrow, spelling out REST-ARAUNT.

And then there's the small-town eating options.

A friend was driving down following me caravan-style and I'd warned him in advance that if he wanted to follow, I'd be stopping at Adams Country Store for lunch for a sandwich.

That was my fair warning that if he was one of those press-on type travelers, he'd be better off not trying to follow me, but he was game.

Walking into Adams, the owner (Son) asked how I was doing.

Hot, I told him, but a sandwich was going to make me feel so much better.

"Mayo or mustard?" he asked, moving behind the case of pig.

No other questions were necessary, because you're going to get a country ham sandwich on white bread, so condiments are the only variable.

As he was wrapping it up, I grabbed a bottle of RC Cola from the case.

Gotta have my sweet to balance all that salt.

Talking to the owner, Son (an older man), and his Daddy (a much older man) was a delightful prelude to lunch.

I asked how long they'd owned the store (1961) and Son pointed to where the floor changed from one wood pattern to another.

"Used to be a dance hall next door. Daddy took down that wall and made it one big space and they used to have a dance here every Saturday night. We sold beer. Boys from Waverly and Wakefield would have fights out back about different girls."

I looked over at the beautiful hardwood floor that so many locals had shaken a leg on.

"So I could dance over there on that dance floor?" I asked the two men sitting amongst wooden crates of pork jowls.

"What kind of band do you want?" Daddy asked me enthusiastically. "Swing, bebop?"

I feel fairly certain that he was willing to find the music to have a girl dance on that floor today.

It was pretty sweet.

My friend and I took our sandwiches and drinks outside to eat on a stone table and benches under a huge, old tree.

The cornfield was just beyond the out buildings, which were full of ancient-looking farm tools and signs.

That RC Cola went down like a long-forgotten childhood memory, which is exactly what it was.

And that salty ham with nothing but mustard and white bread around it was probably just what the Waverly and Wakefield boys would have eaten back in the day, to keep up their energy for dancing and fighting.

I'm so not a fighter and you'd be hard-pressed to find a man who could truthfully say I've danced with him, but for anyone having a tough time understanding why I drive back roads, the answer is simple.

Country ham sandwiches and RC Cola in the shade of a big old tree...because that's the way to start vacation.