Party, Pie and Pathos

No doubt about it, restaurant owners sure know how to throw a party, even when it's not at their restaurant. Or maybe especially when it's not at their restaurant.

Best of all, the party was right in the neighborhood, affording me an opportunity to see the inside of their 1846 J-Ward house. And while my house is old (1876), it couldn't compare to this stately three-story house with servants' rooms and separate staircase in the back.

The party was a great mix of people from the neighborhood, the restaurant and their work, so I saw plenty of familiar faces and met lots of new ones. A Fan restaurant owner recognized me from his restaurant, he said, and my days walking in the Museum District and that's been over four years now.

The food spread was notable for its abundance and the fact that it had not been prepared by the restaurant staff. Instead, our hostess had spent the day slaving in the kitchen, wowing her staff with the results and the fact that they didn't have to do anything.

Knowing I am a red wine lover, the hostess offered to open a bottle of Unco Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, saying that she wanted to offer it to someone who would savor it. I was more than happy to be that volunteer and was rewarded with a beautiful, full-bodied wine.

The house was full of local art and I did a full tour in order to see who they had collected since I do the same; we overlapped only on Adam Juresko.

There was a pool table in one of the front parlors, so there was always a game in progress, not that I can play anything that requires hand/eye coordination, but it was fun to watch as people got loopier and less concerned abut where their cues were going.

After a couple of most enjoyable hours taking to new people and eating myself silly, I had to leave to make a dinner double date (my role being that of unnecessary extra).

When I got to Ipanema, I told bartender Brandon that I was there for fifth wheel duty and he said, "They're waiting for you in the back." At least everyone's clear on my role here.

Because I had already eaten so much at the party, my dinner consisted of blueberry pie a la mode while they ate entrees. My mother would not have approved.

It was my first time seeing all the photos I had taken at the Thanksgiving party using someone else's camera and I have to agree with those I photographed that I did a damn fine job of capturing that party. I'm just not sure how I ended up in any of the pictures.

We were an odd group; four of the five of us are bloggers and another four of the five on Twitter, necessarily making for conversation about some of the other players in those fields. I just can't keep my thoughts to 140 characters.

Since we had a teacher in our midst, I brought up the Virginia textbook debacle to hear his opinion on it and share mine. I'm fascinated about how stuff like that happens.

We talked about the Live at Ipanema series, but they stayed put when I went to claim a bar stool so I could have a good view of the Itchy Hearts when they started playing. Best of all, once there I found several friends in the vicinity and ready to provide company until the music began.

A musician friend had given me a mix tape file for Christmas and his first question after I thanked him for it was whether or not I had rearranged the order of the songs (I hadn't). He's the only person I know of besides myself who actually rearranges CDs to achieve the perfect order and I guess he'd been worried I might.

Even more flattering, he said he wants me to listen to his own CD when recording is finished to give him my opinion of its order. I consider that request quite an honor and told him so. What do I know, besides what my ear likes?

Tonight the Itchy Hearts was just Andy Cobb because the other two band members couldn't make it. A friend told me that as often as not, Andy is the Itchy Hearts. While it would have been nice to have the full effect, his songs are so heartfelt that everything is conveyed with just his guitar and voice.

He commented on how odd it is that people are willing to come listen to him sing about his emotional anguish, downplaying how satisfying it is to hear a musician express what we non-musical types cannot. Sure, I've got heartbreak, but I can't make it sound nearly as soulful as Andy can.

It was a noisy crowd tonight with lots of high-pitched laughter mid-set, but it was worth it to be back in the little basement restaurant for an evening of folk music and friends, many of whom I hadn't seen since before the holidays.

And every time I was asked how my holidays were, I answered, "Great. Glad they're over."

Speak My Name in Whispers

I got called out for truancy again.

Last month I had missed the Listening Room because I'd gone to see music played for Tom & Jerry cartoons, here.

I had no idea that my absence had been noted until this past Saturday when it came up while talking to Antonia, part of the Listening Room Crew.

"Actually I was concerned when you weren't there," she told me. "If I'd gotten up the next morning and not seen a post from you, I'd have been seriously worried."

Like calling the police worried?

"Well, yea, you're always there."

And now I have besmirched my record with one absence.

So tonight's show was non-negotiable.

I had run into a friend on my walk this morning (or rather, he'd almost run into me with his car, yelling out the window, "Hey, nice legs!") and he'd suggested meeting up for dinner because he wanted to talk about something important.

I'd agreed, with the caveat that it had to be an early meal so I could make the Listening Room.

We met at Aziza right when it opened and we weren't even the first customers.

We'd come for the pizza because my friend hadn't had it yet, but we started with a salad of crispy egg, arugula and shaved Parmesan with roasted shallot vinaigrette.

If you have any idea what a crispy egg would be, you're smarter than we were.

It was a soft boiled egg that was then momentarily deep-fried, resulting in the lightest possible crispy shell on an egg that still had runny yolk.

Let's just say it made the salad, spreading its yolky richness over everything.

My friend is dating a rigorously healthy eater, so the first thing that caught his eye on the pizza menu was the nitrate-free pepperoni.

Oh, boy, processed meat and no witnesses, his face seemed to say.

But instead we got our pie topped with the Belmont Butchery hot sausage and caramelized onions (or carmalized, as the menu spelled it, omitting and transposing vowels).

The spicy/sweet combination was wonderful and we couldn't even finish it.

But when the server offered us a cream puff, we magically found room for dessert.

Once again, I was his partner in crime because the girlfriend doesn't eat refined sugar (I am clearly a bad influence).

Being a photographer, he took a picture of this monument to sugar, both untouched on the plate and another of me with my open mouth hovering just above it.

I'd worry about him posting it on Facebook, except that I doubt he'd be so foolish as to provide documentation of his errant eating habits.

And then it was time for roll call at the Listening Room.

I think there were just as many Tim Barry/Avail fans at the Michaux House tonight as there had been at Fine Foods Saturday, here. 

The man has a devoted following, that's for sure. It wasn't long before the room was at capacity.

The show began with Paw Paw, consisting of the brothers Parker.

Their set started with sibling sniping.

Jonathan: "This is a new song called Code Red." Pause. "Well, it's not really called that."

Brother Alan: "Well, it's not really new either."

As former members of local band Pendleton, the two played a mix of that band's material and their newer songs along with a whole lot of guitar.

It was good stuff.

Andy Cobb of the Itchy Hearts followed with his high energy soul/folk and often funny but observant lyrics.

Favorite: "People speak my name in whispers, What finer praise can there be?"

He was joined for one song by Alan Parker of Paw Paw and played a love song written by his best friend.

Tim Barry opened by commenting on the collective awkwardness he was feeling, asking if the audience was feeling the same.

He endeared himself to the audience right off the bat by saying, "So VCU is back in session. What a nightmare!"

I laughed because I had noticed the roving gangs of 18-year olds on the way over, seemingly oblivious to the city around them.

He then launched into a Richmond-centric set of songs he said meant nothing to tour crowds but clearly pleased him to play.

Josh Small joined in on guitar and vocals for the first couple of songs; the two play (all connotations of the word) together often it seems and their voices blended beautifully.

Sample lyric: "I come from Virginia, against the grain and with the wind."

Introducing a song, he said, "If you were ever in Oregon Hill in the early 90s, it was a completely different place than Oregon Hilliamburg is today."

That was just one of many musical references and opinions on everything from Scott's Addition to freight train riding to Fine Foods to 15th Street.

The man admits he's insane, proudly wears his anti-war stance on his sleeve and insists that the only way to stay vital is by taking on challenges that scare you.

He admitted to being scared to perform in front of a listening room- style audience tonight, but mid-set allowed that he was relaxing some.

When the last passionate song ended, the applause was room-filling.

I'd have been an idiot to have been absent tonight and missed so visceral a performance.

Besides, I wouldn't want to worry the people taking attendance.