Busy as I can be, it's amazing how much I can enjoy doing nothing.
With the entire day ahead and no real plans, I suggested the Lilly Pad to my lunch date as a way to be outside eating, drinking and enjoying a river view on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
As we pulled up to the big parking lot filled with monster trucks and boat trailers, I spotted an empty glider table but by the time we got over there, a quintet of bikers had staked it out as theirs.
You snooze, you lose.
Fortunately we had hours to wait them out and nothing better to do so our first stop was inside to order a bottle of Douglass Hill Chardonnay, their only white wine offering besides bubbles from the same place, along with a couple of pounds of spiced shrimp.
Right behind us were the fine folks from Anderson's Neck Oyster company ordering the same wine.
The Lilly Pad tends to be more of a beer and mixed drink crowd, so I got the feeling that the Lilly Pad wasn't used to so many people ordering bottles of wine.
Back outside with our pink sand bucket full of ice and wine, we were greeted by a crackly boombox playing Boston and chose a table and umbrella near the glider.
Not to meddle in other people's affairs, but I soon told my date that it was only a matter of time before I'd have to go work on the tuning of that boombox.
A server came out to let us know our shrimp would be up soon and to ask if we wanted melted butter or cocktail sauce. When we both chose the latter, she made a crack about how one of us was skinny so that's why she didn't want butter.
I called out to her to bring me melted butter then. Don't challenge my eating habits, sweetie.
With some nice honeysuckle notes, the wine wasn't half bad and watching the jet skiers, spotting herons and a crane perched at the river's edge and the coming and going of boats of every kind made for easy entertainment while we peeled shrimp and listened to cheesy rock music.
You know I hate my classic rock, but there couldn't have been a more appropriate soundtrack for where we were,so I was happy with it.
It was during a Stevie Nicks' song that I finally got fed up with the snap, crackle and pop of the boombox and put myself in charge to go do some fine tuning. Much better.
Just after my companion went inside for more wine, the bikers decided to head out and I moved in on their glider like a pro. One of the bikers stopped to admire the contraption, noting to his girlfriend, "I could build one of these." I told him my date had uttered the same words an hour earlier.
By the time he returned with a full bucket, I was already rocking back and forth as more bikers arrived.
The Lilly Pad is a casual place and our server had let it be known to everyone outside that she would be off duty soon and once she was, she brought her Coors Light and cigarette over to join us on our glider to chat for a while.
She was a hoot, a blond Highland Springs girl who'd been mostly happily married for 27 years ("Well, it can't be good all the time") but her husband was away working in Kentucky and she was working Sunday at the Pad to help out her sister, one of the regular waitresses, a flaming redhead.
When the occupants of the other glider table got up to leave, she insisted we move to that one because it was right on the river and therefore even more desirable. She'd been unhappy with that table anyway because they'd camped out for hours and spent very little money.
Understandable. She was the boss, so we moved.
While we were closer to the water, that also meant closer to the gas fumes when the boats started up but the breeze was much better and no denying it was a great view. Besides, we'd earned it at that point, having been in residence longer than anyone except the staff.
We watched an interesting looking boat arrive, my date noting its tug-like bow and party boat-like stern, so I dubbed it a mullet boat - business up front and party in back.
It was a colorful crew that got off it, taking the table next to us and getting a bucket of Bud Heavies while engaging us in conversation so we soon knew the boat's story (a steal of a deal) and theirs (raising a granddaughter).
When one in their group put her head down on the table for a wee nap, they had to get going. They were planning to grill hot dogs on the boat and people were getting hungry.
Sit at the Lilly Pad long enough - I think we clocked in at just over four hours -and you're bound to hear some interesting stories.
You may deplete their limited wine inventory, you may be unexpectedly joined by strangers, hell, you may have a guy lick his chops as you pass by on your way to the bathroom, but so what?
From what I know of the Lilly Pad, it can be a good time all the time. Okay, maybe not for 27 years.
Showing posts with label anderson's neck oyster company. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anderson's neck oyster company. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2014
Monday, October 14, 2013
Anti-Social Behavior
It's not often two people insist on taking my picture.
A day that began with breakfast at Joe's Inn ended at Camden's for an "oyster informal," an evening of bubbles and bivalves.
With a reservation for three, we entered to find lots of people already indulging, so we claimed three bar stools and a bottle of champagne.
Over the course of the next few hours, I enjoyed Anderson's Neck oysters on the half shell and roasted with spinach, cheese and bacon.
There's really no way I won't eat these things.
No surprise, I talked to everyone I could find - the guy who'd just been down to New Orleans for his anniversary, the new Mom who had to leave before she finished eating, the tunic-wearer who'd matched her outfit to her lipstick.
I met a Saints fan, talked to a guy who thought fried chicken and champagne were the perfect pairing (agreed) and a woman who hated oysters but came anyway.
Meanwhile the Anderson's Neck people shucked non-stop and we ate pretty much at the same rate.
A friend had wanted to join me this evening until a nest of wasps had attacked her yesterday, but I'd promised to eat oysters and drink bubbly in her honor since she couldn't.
"Thank you for falling on that sword for me. XXXOXX," she'd written from her swollen bedside.
The music had begun with the Replacements and stayed in that era for the most part (R.E.M., Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, the Cure), keeping things lively if a tad old-school and eventually working its way around, appropriately, to solo Paul Westerburg.
Do you remember me long ago
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve
I guess it still shows
My little group switched to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut not long before the focus of the evening changed from bivalves to football.
Since the Redskins were playing the Cowboys, the plan was for those so inclined to stick around after the oyster informal and eat wings and watch large men crash into each other.
As an extra incentive, anyone who wore a Redskins jersey got their first half dozen wings for free.
Well, you didn't think I was going to pass up an opportunity for free food, did you?
Negative. I'd made sure to borrow a Mark Rypien jersey (Redskins quarterback 1986-93), putting it on post-oysters and pre-game.
The friend on my right immediately exclaimed, "I need to take a picture!" followed by another woman at the end of the bar saying the same thing. Say cheese.
You'd think it was a big deal for me to wear a football jersey or something.
My wings arrived shortly thereafter with what my friend called the best blue cheese dressing she'd ever inhaled.
And she should know because she ate all of ours and most of what belonged to the guy next to me as well (he offered it up, having eaten two celery sticks, his quota he said).
The wings were every bit as good as the killer dressing and we polished them off in short order, only to watch the Skins fall to the Cowboys.
Not my fault, I did my part. I wore the jersey and unfortunately, now there's a picture of me to prove it.
That's the last time I'll wear myheart team on my sleeve jersey.
A day that began with breakfast at Joe's Inn ended at Camden's for an "oyster informal," an evening of bubbles and bivalves.
With a reservation for three, we entered to find lots of people already indulging, so we claimed three bar stools and a bottle of champagne.
Over the course of the next few hours, I enjoyed Anderson's Neck oysters on the half shell and roasted with spinach, cheese and bacon.
There's really no way I won't eat these things.
No surprise, I talked to everyone I could find - the guy who'd just been down to New Orleans for his anniversary, the new Mom who had to leave before she finished eating, the tunic-wearer who'd matched her outfit to her lipstick.
I met a Saints fan, talked to a guy who thought fried chicken and champagne were the perfect pairing (agreed) and a woman who hated oysters but came anyway.
Meanwhile the Anderson's Neck people shucked non-stop and we ate pretty much at the same rate.
A friend had wanted to join me this evening until a nest of wasps had attacked her yesterday, but I'd promised to eat oysters and drink bubbly in her honor since she couldn't.
"Thank you for falling on that sword for me. XXXOXX," she'd written from her swollen bedside.
The music had begun with the Replacements and stayed in that era for the most part (R.E.M., Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, the Cure), keeping things lively if a tad old-school and eventually working its way around, appropriately, to solo Paul Westerburg.
Do you remember me long ago
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve
I guess it still shows
My little group switched to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut not long before the focus of the evening changed from bivalves to football.
Since the Redskins were playing the Cowboys, the plan was for those so inclined to stick around after the oyster informal and eat wings and watch large men crash into each other.
As an extra incentive, anyone who wore a Redskins jersey got their first half dozen wings for free.
Well, you didn't think I was going to pass up an opportunity for free food, did you?
Negative. I'd made sure to borrow a Mark Rypien jersey (Redskins quarterback 1986-93), putting it on post-oysters and pre-game.
The friend on my right immediately exclaimed, "I need to take a picture!" followed by another woman at the end of the bar saying the same thing. Say cheese.
You'd think it was a big deal for me to wear a football jersey or something.
My wings arrived shortly thereafter with what my friend called the best blue cheese dressing she'd ever inhaled.
And she should know because she ate all of ours and most of what belonged to the guy next to me as well (he offered it up, having eaten two celery sticks, his quota he said).
The wings were every bit as good as the killer dressing and we polished them off in short order, only to watch the Skins fall to the Cowboys.
Not my fault, I did my part. I wore the jersey and unfortunately, now there's a picture of me to prove it.
That's the last time I'll wear my
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Make Mine a Chartreuse Rinse
It is obscene the amount of food I have consumed this evening.
The plan was for a simple, early dinner with Pru at Magpie. We met, we established a beach head at the bar and that was all it was to be.
In a nod to the changing weather, I started with a glass of Emerson Pinot Noir tasting earthy with hints of cherry.
It was odd, the music was of this decade, a rarity for Magpie, but I didn't complain.
The place was hopping with customers and the staff was trying to catch up.
We started with root vegetable salad, a medley of sweet potato chips, sliced beets and radishes with house ranch dressing and goat cheese.
Bravo Fall, if this is what it tastes like.
I'm not sure if it was an iron deficiency or just a craving (we'd both had a lot of fish on recent dates), but our entree orders screamed blood.
Medium-rare smoked rib-eye came with crisp Yukon gold wedges, sauerkraut, toothsome kale and Gruyere custard.
Seared venison sat atop granola and polenta, braised Asian pear and chicory and led to a discussion of why we love game.
I referenced a recent Post article about how hot game restaurants and food carts are right now in London, making me wish I was headed back over the pond.
Mid-red meat feast, the music shifted from the past five years back to the '80s, the usual provenance of Magpie.
This is the soundtrack I am used to whilst eating game mere blocks from home. In fact, in Carver, game = '80s.
Hello, David Bowie.
During a discussion of our love lives, Pru had me doubled over with an observation about a recent date.
"He's great because he likes to try all kinds of food, but he has no sideburns." You can only imagine how this would concern a woman.
We eschewed dessert, too full to consider more, about the time Pru got a text from an admirer, necessitating an amendment to our evening.
Our company was being requested, so we paid the bill and headed to Church Hill to Dutch & Co.
I was amazed to find a close parking space, at least until I realized it was because a huge wire had come down from a pole during the earlier monsoon and was draped across the space.
Ignoring obvious safety issues, I parked the car and gingerly walked around the wire, hoping it would not spontaneously combust while I was in the restaurant.
Dutch & Co. was relatively sedate (they chalked it up to football) and I took a seat at the bar awaiting Pru and company, who soon arrived.
I recognized all the staff- former Aziza's, Black Sheep and Acacia servers- making for a comfy evening with on-point service and chatter about the Folk Fest, the Silent Music Revival and Charlottesville dining.
We started our conversational potpourri with a bottle of Puzelat Bonhomme "Le Telquel," a lovely Gamay with nice acidity, dark fruit and a wiener dog on the label.
I'm partial to beagles myself.
Despite the abundance of red meat Pru and I had already consumed, we joined our starving friend in tasting through Dutch's menu.
You can't go wrong with Anderson's Neck oysters or with salmon ceviche, a revelation with Marcona almonds and persimmon.
You'd expect two women stuffed on red meat to stop there, but we rose to every culinary challenge our friend ordered.
Maple duck ham with Parisienne gnocchi, kale and sweet potato puree with walnuts knocked our socks off.
Chilled shrimp with avocado, sweet peppers and ginger vinaigrette was killer because of the distinctive turnip greens.
And speaking of killer, the music naturally caught my ear.
For a while, it was vintage Neil Young straight out of the '70s, necessitating me asking the source of the music.
Turns out some talented music lover at Acacia programs their playlist.
Our bartender told us a funny story about how one night while a Michael Jackson song was playing, a customer called her over and reminded her that MJ was dead.
Apparently, that meant that they were offended to hear him playing. They switched to Four Tops and she was no better with that.
You just can't please some people.
Tonight Neil Young's "Harvest" eventually gave way to Dionne Warwick's "Say a Little Prayer" and then full-on Aretha, so we had no complaints.
With the perfect eating music in place, we moved on to an earthy mushroom soup with roasted beech and chantarelles, crispy barley and lemon curd, every spoonful of which tasted like a sip of the woods.
We finished off with floral-cured pork belly rillette with (oh.my.god) pig skin cornbread with padron pepper romesco and honey.
I feel certain that in heaven they must serve pig skin cornbread, but that may be my half-southern roots talking.
It was about that time that the chef walked by, a large pig part resting on a tray carried over his head, and we acknowledged his mastery with meat.
One in our group had been to the Carytown food and wine festival this weekend so we heard about the crowd who'd attended.
He'd overheard a kid tell his Mom he wanted a crepe but Mom had told him they were looking for "real food."
Overhearing that bon mot, our bartender shared a story, beginning with, "I know this will surprise you, but don't get crepes at the Atlanta airport."
It was 7 a.m., she and her boyfriend were starving and rather than settle for Popeye's chicken, she insisted on crepes.
Bad, bad idea, at least the way we heard it.
By this time, we were getting down to the wire because Dutch & Co, closes fairly early, so we ordered dessert, something we surely had no room for.
A chocolate parfait was made of chocolate panna cotta, chocolate mousse, malted barley almond horchatta, shaved chocolate and mint pearls with, wait for it, a chartreuse rinse.
A sturdy glass of all things chocolate was set down before us with three spoons.
The beauty of this sweet, besides the obvious allure of multiple chocolate flavors, was the hint of herbs from the Chartruese, evident only as a delicate finish to every bite.
To accompany it, we had Pineau des Charones Vieux, a lovely gold-colored apperitif, part fresh grape juice and part Cognac, and a sturdy 17%.
It was a glorious complement to our chocolate ending, something I would know better than my companions who took only a couple of bites and left the heavy lifting up to me.
I'm happy to report I was more than up to the task.
Midway through dessert, another server asked ours about what to recommend to her table to accompany their honey pot.
My friend was quick to suggest exactly what we were drinking, the Pineau des Charones, and once their glasses arrived, we found ourselves toasting them with identical beverages.
Sante and all that jazz.
As long as they were sipping, we decided to have another and sip along as we wound down our conversation and the unexpected evening together.
The funny part is, we have plans to get together this weekend, too. "Maybe we should all just move in together," my friend suggested.
Say a little prayer for me.
I don't think I have a stomach big enough to handle many evenings like this, pleasurable as it was.
And if I do, I probably don't need to find that out.
The plan was for a simple, early dinner with Pru at Magpie. We met, we established a beach head at the bar and that was all it was to be.
In a nod to the changing weather, I started with a glass of Emerson Pinot Noir tasting earthy with hints of cherry.
It was odd, the music was of this decade, a rarity for Magpie, but I didn't complain.
The place was hopping with customers and the staff was trying to catch up.
We started with root vegetable salad, a medley of sweet potato chips, sliced beets and radishes with house ranch dressing and goat cheese.
Bravo Fall, if this is what it tastes like.
I'm not sure if it was an iron deficiency or just a craving (we'd both had a lot of fish on recent dates), but our entree orders screamed blood.
Medium-rare smoked rib-eye came with crisp Yukon gold wedges, sauerkraut, toothsome kale and Gruyere custard.
Seared venison sat atop granola and polenta, braised Asian pear and chicory and led to a discussion of why we love game.
I referenced a recent Post article about how hot game restaurants and food carts are right now in London, making me wish I was headed back over the pond.
Mid-red meat feast, the music shifted from the past five years back to the '80s, the usual provenance of Magpie.
This is the soundtrack I am used to whilst eating game mere blocks from home. In fact, in Carver, game = '80s.
Hello, David Bowie.
During a discussion of our love lives, Pru had me doubled over with an observation about a recent date.
"He's great because he likes to try all kinds of food, but he has no sideburns." You can only imagine how this would concern a woman.
We eschewed dessert, too full to consider more, about the time Pru got a text from an admirer, necessitating an amendment to our evening.
Our company was being requested, so we paid the bill and headed to Church Hill to Dutch & Co.
I was amazed to find a close parking space, at least until I realized it was because a huge wire had come down from a pole during the earlier monsoon and was draped across the space.
Ignoring obvious safety issues, I parked the car and gingerly walked around the wire, hoping it would not spontaneously combust while I was in the restaurant.
Dutch & Co. was relatively sedate (they chalked it up to football) and I took a seat at the bar awaiting Pru and company, who soon arrived.
I recognized all the staff- former Aziza's, Black Sheep and Acacia servers- making for a comfy evening with on-point service and chatter about the Folk Fest, the Silent Music Revival and Charlottesville dining.
We started our conversational potpourri with a bottle of Puzelat Bonhomme "Le Telquel," a lovely Gamay with nice acidity, dark fruit and a wiener dog on the label.
I'm partial to beagles myself.
Despite the abundance of red meat Pru and I had already consumed, we joined our starving friend in tasting through Dutch's menu.
You can't go wrong with Anderson's Neck oysters or with salmon ceviche, a revelation with Marcona almonds and persimmon.
You'd expect two women stuffed on red meat to stop there, but we rose to every culinary challenge our friend ordered.
Maple duck ham with Parisienne gnocchi, kale and sweet potato puree with walnuts knocked our socks off.
Chilled shrimp with avocado, sweet peppers and ginger vinaigrette was killer because of the distinctive turnip greens.
And speaking of killer, the music naturally caught my ear.
For a while, it was vintage Neil Young straight out of the '70s, necessitating me asking the source of the music.
Turns out some talented music lover at Acacia programs their playlist.
Our bartender told us a funny story about how one night while a Michael Jackson song was playing, a customer called her over and reminded her that MJ was dead.
Apparently, that meant that they were offended to hear him playing. They switched to Four Tops and she was no better with that.
You just can't please some people.
Tonight Neil Young's "Harvest" eventually gave way to Dionne Warwick's "Say a Little Prayer" and then full-on Aretha, so we had no complaints.
With the perfect eating music in place, we moved on to an earthy mushroom soup with roasted beech and chantarelles, crispy barley and lemon curd, every spoonful of which tasted like a sip of the woods.
We finished off with floral-cured pork belly rillette with (oh.my.god) pig skin cornbread with padron pepper romesco and honey.
I feel certain that in heaven they must serve pig skin cornbread, but that may be my half-southern roots talking.
It was about that time that the chef walked by, a large pig part resting on a tray carried over his head, and we acknowledged his mastery with meat.
One in our group had been to the Carytown food and wine festival this weekend so we heard about the crowd who'd attended.
He'd overheard a kid tell his Mom he wanted a crepe but Mom had told him they were looking for "real food."
Overhearing that bon mot, our bartender shared a story, beginning with, "I know this will surprise you, but don't get crepes at the Atlanta airport."
It was 7 a.m., she and her boyfriend were starving and rather than settle for Popeye's chicken, she insisted on crepes.
Bad, bad idea, at least the way we heard it.
By this time, we were getting down to the wire because Dutch & Co, closes fairly early, so we ordered dessert, something we surely had no room for.
A chocolate parfait was made of chocolate panna cotta, chocolate mousse, malted barley almond horchatta, shaved chocolate and mint pearls with, wait for it, a chartreuse rinse.
A sturdy glass of all things chocolate was set down before us with three spoons.
The beauty of this sweet, besides the obvious allure of multiple chocolate flavors, was the hint of herbs from the Chartruese, evident only as a delicate finish to every bite.
To accompany it, we had Pineau des Charones Vieux, a lovely gold-colored apperitif, part fresh grape juice and part Cognac, and a sturdy 17%.
It was a glorious complement to our chocolate ending, something I would know better than my companions who took only a couple of bites and left the heavy lifting up to me.
I'm happy to report I was more than up to the task.
Midway through dessert, another server asked ours about what to recommend to her table to accompany their honey pot.
My friend was quick to suggest exactly what we were drinking, the Pineau des Charones, and once their glasses arrived, we found ourselves toasting them with identical beverages.
Sante and all that jazz.
As long as they were sipping, we decided to have another and sip along as we wound down our conversation and the unexpected evening together.
The funny part is, we have plans to get together this weekend, too. "Maybe we should all just move in together," my friend suggested.
Say a little prayer for me.
I don't think I have a stomach big enough to handle many evenings like this, pleasurable as it was.
And if I do, I probably don't need to find that out.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Rocky Mountain Hi!
You look like summer personified.
If I'm going to walk into a restaurant and immediately be complimented, it bodes extremely well for the rest of the evening.
The fact that the person holding open the door and commenting on my orange top and floral skirt was a woman mattered not at all.
It's a good week for me and womankind; yesterday, a woman told me accusingly that I looked seductive.
It was one of those things that sounds like it should be a compliment, but really isn't.
She who uttered the kind words ushered me to my visiting friend, the mixologist, here for a few days from Boulder and awaiting me at the bar.
It was an auspicious start to the evening, the weekend, and my upcoming vacation.
After a hug and an order of Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence Rose, we proceeded to catch up on all that had transpired since he moved to Colorado.
New tequilas (he's sending me a bottle), a busy week in his love life (with France on the horizon) and the pains of being devoted to a high-end clientele all spoke to his new life in the middle of the country.
So far away that when the Anderson's Neck oysters arrived, he admitted sheepishly that they were the first oysters he'd had since he'd left.
Well, except for Rocky Mountain oysters, and, as he acknowledged ruefully, "They're not the same."
Yea, bivalves and balls, not even close.
It was great to see him after so long and, as was our habit before we left, we wasted no time in talking and eating.
We started with the squash blossoms stuffed with braised lamb, a dish as sublimely beautiful as it tasted.
And don't even get me started on the $5 price tag.
Next came andouille-stuffed dates in tomato sauce, arriving in a little cast-iron skillet, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
All around us, the place never slowed down, with people coming and going non-stop.
It didn't matter to us because we were busy discussing rye with a nearby customer, the benefits of Japanese shaker glasses and the doughnut craze hitting RVA.
I was intrigued by the guy who sat down at the bar and proceeded to read his "Washington Post," an act that would have gotten me talking to him if not for my friend's lively conversation.
Since my friend is the beverage director at a swanky restaurant, we soon found ourselves perusing the wine list for hidden gems.
Eureka!
Friend was intrigued to see the little-seen 2010 Massimiliano Calabretta Etna Rosso on the list.
After explaining to me about its unique site - the terroir volcanic ash and sand - he insisted that this was the wine we needed to drink tonight to celebrate seeing each other after nearly a year.
Boy, was he right. It was a long-aged, easy drinking summer red, somewhat reminiscent of a Barolo and with the most exquisite lingering finish.
A wine I'd likely never have tasted if he hadn't come to town, spotted it and insisted we needed it.
Did I mention what a dear friend this guy is?
Around 9:00, we looked outside to admire the rich, blue sky that refused to give up the last light of sunset.
These endless days are almost magical.
We moved on to the cheese plate, a misnomer if ever there was one.
Cabot cloth-bound cheddar, herb spetzle,smoked duck lardons, apple slices, sunflower shoots, date puree, and a hard cider cheese sauce made for a dish so deep in flavor (that spetzle! those lardons!) that all we could do was eat and sip and smile at each other in satisfaction.
Since it was his first visit to Dutch & Co, the place having opened since he moved away, he was thrilled to discover it was everything he'd heard it was (through Facebook, of course, not the grapevine).
Like the last first-timer I went with, he was surprised at the restaurant's low-key charm, but not at its stellar food since we'd been to Aziza's back when Chef Caleb had been cooking there.
As the restaurant emptied out, we realized it was time to go.
When I came back from the bathroom, it was to discover that his next date was texting him to find out why he wasn't yet at Balliceaux.
By the time I got home, it was to find he had already tagged me on FB with a picture of Dutch & Co's wine list. How appropriate.
I finally made it! Had a wonderful meal with a dear friend, Karen.
Also known as the personification of summer.
If I'm going to walk into a restaurant and immediately be complimented, it bodes extremely well for the rest of the evening.
The fact that the person holding open the door and commenting on my orange top and floral skirt was a woman mattered not at all.
It's a good week for me and womankind; yesterday, a woman told me accusingly that I looked seductive.
It was one of those things that sounds like it should be a compliment, but really isn't.
She who uttered the kind words ushered me to my visiting friend, the mixologist, here for a few days from Boulder and awaiting me at the bar.
It was an auspicious start to the evening, the weekend, and my upcoming vacation.
After a hug and an order of Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence Rose, we proceeded to catch up on all that had transpired since he moved to Colorado.
New tequilas (he's sending me a bottle), a busy week in his love life (with France on the horizon) and the pains of being devoted to a high-end clientele all spoke to his new life in the middle of the country.
So far away that when the Anderson's Neck oysters arrived, he admitted sheepishly that they were the first oysters he'd had since he'd left.
Well, except for Rocky Mountain oysters, and, as he acknowledged ruefully, "They're not the same."
Yea, bivalves and balls, not even close.
It was great to see him after so long and, as was our habit before we left, we wasted no time in talking and eating.
We started with the squash blossoms stuffed with braised lamb, a dish as sublimely beautiful as it tasted.
And don't even get me started on the $5 price tag.
Next came andouille-stuffed dates in tomato sauce, arriving in a little cast-iron skillet, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
All around us, the place never slowed down, with people coming and going non-stop.
It didn't matter to us because we were busy discussing rye with a nearby customer, the benefits of Japanese shaker glasses and the doughnut craze hitting RVA.
I was intrigued by the guy who sat down at the bar and proceeded to read his "Washington Post," an act that would have gotten me talking to him if not for my friend's lively conversation.
Since my friend is the beverage director at a swanky restaurant, we soon found ourselves perusing the wine list for hidden gems.
Eureka!
Friend was intrigued to see the little-seen 2010 Massimiliano Calabretta Etna Rosso on the list.
After explaining to me about its unique site - the terroir volcanic ash and sand - he insisted that this was the wine we needed to drink tonight to celebrate seeing each other after nearly a year.
Boy, was he right. It was a long-aged, easy drinking summer red, somewhat reminiscent of a Barolo and with the most exquisite lingering finish.
A wine I'd likely never have tasted if he hadn't come to town, spotted it and insisted we needed it.
Did I mention what a dear friend this guy is?
Around 9:00, we looked outside to admire the rich, blue sky that refused to give up the last light of sunset.
These endless days are almost magical.
We moved on to the cheese plate, a misnomer if ever there was one.
Cabot cloth-bound cheddar, herb spetzle,smoked duck lardons, apple slices, sunflower shoots, date puree, and a hard cider cheese sauce made for a dish so deep in flavor (that spetzle! those lardons!) that all we could do was eat and sip and smile at each other in satisfaction.
Since it was his first visit to Dutch & Co, the place having opened since he moved away, he was thrilled to discover it was everything he'd heard it was (through Facebook, of course, not the grapevine).
Like the last first-timer I went with, he was surprised at the restaurant's low-key charm, but not at its stellar food since we'd been to Aziza's back when Chef Caleb had been cooking there.
As the restaurant emptied out, we realized it was time to go.
When I came back from the bathroom, it was to discover that his next date was texting him to find out why he wasn't yet at Balliceaux.
By the time I got home, it was to find he had already tagged me on FB with a picture of Dutch & Co's wine list. How appropriate.
I finally made it! Had a wonderful meal with a dear friend, Karen.
Also known as the personification of summer.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
A Woman of Many Parts
Wait, there was a 008?
That just goes to prove why it's about time I'm getting around to seeing the James Bond series, courtesy of Movieland's Movies and Mimosas.
Two weeks ago it was Dr. No and today, after walking to the theater on an exquisite morning, it was "Goldfinger."
Or, as Shirley Bassey sings it, "Goldfingahhhh."
The movie got my attention (and no doubt that of women for the past 50 years) in the opening scene where James is wearing a bathing suit and getting a massage.
When he stands up wearing those fitted '60s-style swim trunks, that's an impressive hunk of man.
I was especially tickled when he then put on a romper, zipping it up to his hairy chest and belting it.
When's the last time you saw a guy in a romper?
Of course, he was still full of 007 technical information, like, "My dear girl, there are some things that just aren't done, like drinking Dom Perignon '53 above the temperature of 38 degrees Fahrenheit. That's just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs!"
His advice still holds on the first, although never on the second.
When the location moved to Goldfinger's stud farm in Kentucky, things got all southern.
There was a huge Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in the background ("Colonel Sanders' secret recipe") and James refers to "bourbon and branch water."
When all was said and done, I didn't like it quite as much as "Dr. No" because it seemed like James spent less time romancing women.
That said, I was terribly impressed that the actress who played Pussy Galore was 37 at the time, especially since back in 1964, 37 was not the new 27 like now.
Once Bond had saved Fort Knox, parachuted from a failing plane and was rolling around making out with Pussy under a parachute, the credits told us that it was the end of "Goldfinger" but that Bond would be back in "Thunderball."
Which probably means I'll be back at Movieland, hoping for a few less dead bodies and a lot more drinking advice and action on the sheets.
Walking back home beside the endless throng of workers always at Redskin Park, I got in the car to go to Manchester.
Blue Bee Cider (Virginia's only urban cidery) and Anderson's Neck Oyster Company (which I'd had at Dutch & Co.) were doing a tasting all afternoon and having recently tasted (and enjoyed) some Blue Bee Cider, I wanted more.
The tasting room had a lively crowd when I arrived, mostly guys but a few of my people.
There were two cider choices, Charred Ordinary, a more traditional cider, and Aragon 1904, an off-dry cider more reminiscent of champagne.
With a glass of the light and crisp (and not at all cloying) latter, I wandered over to the shucking table where I had a dozen Eagle Flats awaiting me.
"How's your day going so far?" one of the shuckers asked.
I told him I'd just seen "Goldfinger" for the first time at the theater.
"Wow, "Goldfinger" then oysters and cider? That's a really awesome Saturday!" he enthused.
Don't I know it.
That just goes to prove why it's about time I'm getting around to seeing the James Bond series, courtesy of Movieland's Movies and Mimosas.
Two weeks ago it was Dr. No and today, after walking to the theater on an exquisite morning, it was "Goldfinger."
Or, as Shirley Bassey sings it, "Goldfingahhhh."
The movie got my attention (and no doubt that of women for the past 50 years) in the opening scene where James is wearing a bathing suit and getting a massage.
When he stands up wearing those fitted '60s-style swim trunks, that's an impressive hunk of man.
I was especially tickled when he then put on a romper, zipping it up to his hairy chest and belting it.
When's the last time you saw a guy in a romper?
Of course, he was still full of 007 technical information, like, "My dear girl, there are some things that just aren't done, like drinking Dom Perignon '53 above the temperature of 38 degrees Fahrenheit. That's just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs!"
His advice still holds on the first, although never on the second.
When the location moved to Goldfinger's stud farm in Kentucky, things got all southern.
There was a huge Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in the background ("Colonel Sanders' secret recipe") and James refers to "bourbon and branch water."
When all was said and done, I didn't like it quite as much as "Dr. No" because it seemed like James spent less time romancing women.
That said, I was terribly impressed that the actress who played Pussy Galore was 37 at the time, especially since back in 1964, 37 was not the new 27 like now.
Once Bond had saved Fort Knox, parachuted from a failing plane and was rolling around making out with Pussy under a parachute, the credits told us that it was the end of "Goldfinger" but that Bond would be back in "Thunderball."
Which probably means I'll be back at Movieland, hoping for a few less dead bodies and a lot more drinking advice and action on the sheets.
Walking back home beside the endless throng of workers always at Redskin Park, I got in the car to go to Manchester.
Blue Bee Cider (Virginia's only urban cidery) and Anderson's Neck Oyster Company (which I'd had at Dutch & Co.) were doing a tasting all afternoon and having recently tasted (and enjoyed) some Blue Bee Cider, I wanted more.
The tasting room had a lively crowd when I arrived, mostly guys but a few of my people.
There were two cider choices, Charred Ordinary, a more traditional cider, and Aragon 1904, an off-dry cider more reminiscent of champagne.
With a glass of the light and crisp (and not at all cloying) latter, I wandered over to the shucking table where I had a dozen Eagle Flats awaiting me.
"How's your day going so far?" one of the shuckers asked.
I told him I'd just seen "Goldfinger" for the first time at the theater.
"Wow, "Goldfinger" then oysters and cider? That's a really awesome Saturday!" he enthused.
Don't I know it.
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