I had to reach back to the '80s for reference, but my hostess was orgasmic, so the results were worth it.
During the course of the weekend, my friend had come across a recipe she'd scored from BLT Steak, a restaurant with little appeal for me and loads for her. It was a recipe for Gruyere popovers, the kind BLT serves gratis to customers and she'd decided they were the most perfect food she'd ever put in her mouth.
So naturally, she'd gone right out and bought a popover pan and let is sit, unused, in her basement through at least three moves from house to house. Only finding that recipe today - mind you, printed on a tiny card about 4 inches across with microscopic print - motivated her to crave popovers suddenly.
And since she'd never made them and baking isn't her forte, I volunteered. Back in the '80s popovers (along with quiche and crepes) had had a moment and I'd bought my own popover pan and made them every now and then.
And sure, they were tasty, but basically because they were a vehicle for butter. I'm more of a crusty bread kind of a person honestly.
But I made the popovers, warming the milk and frothing the eggs, pouring the warm batter (it can't be cool or they won't "pop") in the preheated pans and topping them with grated Gruyere as stipulated. Then there's the 20 minutes of baking before you have to rotate the pan and bake them another 35 minutes.
So yea, popovers are work. What the hell is BLT thinking?
But my hostess had her Proust moment, flashing back to BLT and certain that they were as wondrous as those had been while my host slathered his with strawberry jam and then went back to binge-watching something.
Life continued with everyone happier and my popover-making skills refreshed.
The only catch is that popovers are filling and when we got to Preserve, a restaurant with a focus on pickling and fermentation, for dinner, none of us were particularly hungry. The place was charming enough with shelves of pickled fruits and vegetables on the wall. A series of four framed prints formed the sentence, "Lettuce Turnip the Beet." The servers were bearded and wearing skinny jeans, although not a one had any tattoos, so they seemed sort of alien to a Richmonder.
But since we'd braved the cold and rain and an Uber driver with a poor sense of direction, we decided to go ahead and eat what we could.
For starters, that meant no Restaurant Week menu because three courses sounded like too much food. If it's any indication, she and I didn't even finish the bottle of Reginato, a sparkling Rose of Malbec from Mendoza, although my host's glass of small batch Maryland bourbon was seemingly dispatched with ease.
Meanwhile, I did polish off a plate of smoked salmon over quark with onion mustard relish on thick fingers of pumpernickel toast and some fried Brussels sprouts, although I was beyond stuffed afterward.
My friend's Pennsylvania Dutrch chicken pot pie - which apparently means full of big, square egg noodles - also boasted chicken, saffron and potato and turned out to be the ideal dish on a cold, rainy night. New to him, roasted porgy with shrimp and grits in a bacon-piquillo sauce suited my host's attempt at a Cajun entree with a different kind of warmth.
Although no one was hungry for dessert, my love of butterscotch meant that there was no way I was passing up butterscotch mousse with a white chocolate cookie crust, even if the piece was big enough for all three of us. And still, we didn't finish it.
And not to sound unappreciative, but the mousse's flavor was a tad too subtle for me or maybe I just prefer a more robust butterscotch like Secco's butterscotch pudding, as perfect a butterscotch fix as I've ever had. The only tragedy is that it's no longer on the menu.
On the way home, our Uber driver regaled us with tales from the seedier parts of Annapolis, running on about places where he'd picked up passengers carrying guns, nearby convenience stores that had been held up at gunpoint and why you never want to collect riders from President Street.
If it hadn't been for the popover coma we were all in, I'm sure we'd have been way more interested.
Some things, like Richard Marx and popovers, may be best left to misty, water-colored memories.
Showing posts with label annapolis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label annapolis. Show all posts
Monday, March 4, 2019
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Just One Look
Conclusion: Uber drivers are the new Everyman.
Its easy to say this after a weekend in Eastport and multiple Uber ride conversations with voluble drivers. And why not? Each ride brings new conversational partners.
Driving us to Cantlers' Riverside Inn to eat extra-large crabs at 10 p.m., 80-year old Norman regaled us with his life story.
Interesting as it was that he began working at NASA in the '60s before becoming an engineer for the Department of Transportation, I was most fascinated to hear that he married for the first time at 44. That would be after he retired.
When I asked how his bride was doing, he gushed, "She's 18 years younger than me and she's doin' just great!"
By 1974, Norman had taken a job at the Department of Energy as part of the new solar energy program. When I asked if Jimmy Carter hadn't put solar panels on the White House, he was tickled to death. "Our program did that!" he told us proudly. I didn't bother mentioning how Reagan had ripped them out, though I'm sure he had an opinion on that, too.
Norman's funniest story was about his fellow engineer who'd driven his Jaguar XKE through Huntsville, Alabama in the '70s and gotten a ticket for changing lanes 57 times. Ah, the '70s.
Personally, I'm in awe of the cop who had patience enough to wait through that many lane changes before pulling the guy over.
Saib, the Pakistani who drove us from Cantlers to the Middleton Tavern was a poster child for immigration. A US citizen for 10 years now, he enthused about his wife and 3 kids, the wonderful life they've carved out in this country and his hopes for his children's futures.
When he heard I was from Richmond, he wanted to tell me about his very favorite kebab restaurant, which just happens to be in Richmond and how he'll finish his shift and hit 95 to get there because their kebabs are that good. When 2 1/2 hours is just too much, he'll grab his second favorite kebabs. They're conveniently located in Crystal City, which still seems like a fer piece to drive from Annapolis for a kebab.
Then again, who am I to tell a Pakistani where the best Virginia kebabs are? And why is Maryland so lacking?
When I left my friends at Middleton's listening to a blues band, it was for an Uber ride with a young man who, it turns out, not only grew up in nearby Midlothian but is doing his pre-med at VCU. Currently, he's working at G.W. University (coincidentally where I was born) on a research project. We talked about Richmond the entire four minute drive home and as I exited his car, he thanked me for the dose of home.
Now I ask you, what are the chances I'd climb in the car of a local guy while at the Annapolis waterfront? Apparently pretty good.
Besides absorbing the sagacity of assorted Uber drivers, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting my friend's new main squeeze, a decidedly funny man ("I'm just a pork-eating Jew boy," he cracked after admitting his new-found fondness for pancetta thanks to her) with a passion for music (our pancake breakfast began with Linda Ronstadt, moved through kd lang and settled on Gary Clark) and with the added benefit of being a wine rep.
Translation: he brought scores of Roses (heavy on the Loire Valley and Spain) for us to sip through.
But when it came time to get out the needle to taste Callejon de Crimen Gran Reserva, a pricey and stellar Mendoza Petit Verdot, it was just the two of us since my girlfriend insists on sticking solely to whites and Roses. Her loss, at least when it comes to wine. When it comes to him, I think she's got a keeper.
The funny part is, the last time I was up there was April when she was still smarting from the breakup of a long-time relationship, convinced she'd never find the right partner for the rest of her life.
Ah, my little petunia, you just never know what the Adjustment Bureau will lay lay at your doorstep.
It's like what Norman the Uber driver told us in parting: "Every new journey happens for a reason."
Allow me to be the first to say amen to that.
Its easy to say this after a weekend in Eastport and multiple Uber ride conversations with voluble drivers. And why not? Each ride brings new conversational partners.
Driving us to Cantlers' Riverside Inn to eat extra-large crabs at 10 p.m., 80-year old Norman regaled us with his life story.
Interesting as it was that he began working at NASA in the '60s before becoming an engineer for the Department of Transportation, I was most fascinated to hear that he married for the first time at 44. That would be after he retired.
When I asked how his bride was doing, he gushed, "She's 18 years younger than me and she's doin' just great!"
By 1974, Norman had taken a job at the Department of Energy as part of the new solar energy program. When I asked if Jimmy Carter hadn't put solar panels on the White House, he was tickled to death. "Our program did that!" he told us proudly. I didn't bother mentioning how Reagan had ripped them out, though I'm sure he had an opinion on that, too.
Norman's funniest story was about his fellow engineer who'd driven his Jaguar XKE through Huntsville, Alabama in the '70s and gotten a ticket for changing lanes 57 times. Ah, the '70s.
Personally, I'm in awe of the cop who had patience enough to wait through that many lane changes before pulling the guy over.
Saib, the Pakistani who drove us from Cantlers to the Middleton Tavern was a poster child for immigration. A US citizen for 10 years now, he enthused about his wife and 3 kids, the wonderful life they've carved out in this country and his hopes for his children's futures.
When he heard I was from Richmond, he wanted to tell me about his very favorite kebab restaurant, which just happens to be in Richmond and how he'll finish his shift and hit 95 to get there because their kebabs are that good. When 2 1/2 hours is just too much, he'll grab his second favorite kebabs. They're conveniently located in Crystal City, which still seems like a fer piece to drive from Annapolis for a kebab.
Then again, who am I to tell a Pakistani where the best Virginia kebabs are? And why is Maryland so lacking?
When I left my friends at Middleton's listening to a blues band, it was for an Uber ride with a young man who, it turns out, not only grew up in nearby Midlothian but is doing his pre-med at VCU. Currently, he's working at G.W. University (coincidentally where I was born) on a research project. We talked about Richmond the entire four minute drive home and as I exited his car, he thanked me for the dose of home.
Now I ask you, what are the chances I'd climb in the car of a local guy while at the Annapolis waterfront? Apparently pretty good.
Besides absorbing the sagacity of assorted Uber drivers, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting my friend's new main squeeze, a decidedly funny man ("I'm just a pork-eating Jew boy," he cracked after admitting his new-found fondness for pancetta thanks to her) with a passion for music (our pancake breakfast began with Linda Ronstadt, moved through kd lang and settled on Gary Clark) and with the added benefit of being a wine rep.
Translation: he brought scores of Roses (heavy on the Loire Valley and Spain) for us to sip through.
But when it came time to get out the needle to taste Callejon de Crimen Gran Reserva, a pricey and stellar Mendoza Petit Verdot, it was just the two of us since my girlfriend insists on sticking solely to whites and Roses. Her loss, at least when it comes to wine. When it comes to him, I think she's got a keeper.
The funny part is, the last time I was up there was April when she was still smarting from the breakup of a long-time relationship, convinced she'd never find the right partner for the rest of her life.
Ah, my little petunia, you just never know what the Adjustment Bureau will lay lay at your doorstep.
It's like what Norman the Uber driver told us in parting: "Every new journey happens for a reason."
Allow me to be the first to say amen to that.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Meet Troy and Bernard
If I hadn't gone to Annapolis. I wouldn't have seen my first Troy Donahue film.
One of the pleasures of going to visit my Annapolis friend is the train ride up. It's three hours of reading in the quiet car (where cellphone usage and talking above a whisper are forbidden), a most civilized way to go.
And what you don't want on the train are delays. My train was 35 minutes late arriving and it only got worse from there.
At one point, the train stopped entirely and we were told that we were waiting for a couple of trains to pass on either side so we could back up and get on a another track.
I don't know about you, but the idea of waiting like a sitting duck for other trains to whiz by and then hitting reverse seems a bit worrisome to me.
Later, crossing the Potomac, I got a lovely view of the cherry blossoms in bloom, no doubt enjoying a longer display than usual given all the rain lately.
I was surprised at how much colder it was in Maryland than Richmond, so much so that when it got to be time to head out for fun, I declined walking, a rarity. My hostess had decided on Davis's Pub for dinner, wanting someplace livelier than the wine bar on the next block.
And even though it was only my second visit to Davis's, even I know it's always packed and noisy. Arriving in a mist made worse by the place being just across the street from the river, a guy walking up the sidewalk greeted me, led us to the front door, walked us in and seated us.
What he was doing outside in the first place, I have no idea.
We started with a special of black bean, cabbage and pulled chicken tostadas while I eavesdropped on the four guys at the table right behind us. Late 30s, early 40s, they were discussing the hardships of dating in a most unappealing way ("Was she fat?" "Did she end up staying over?") and commiserating with each other about the vagaries of the middle-aged dating world.
Meanwhile my friend was bringing me up to date on her love life, thinking out loud and looking for input about finding the right relationship balance after five years together. Blowing off steam like girlfriends do sometimes.
I read somewhere that as our lives have accelerated, so has the seven year itch, which apparently now arrives somewhere around the fifth year. I thought it best not to share that finding with her.
Usually when I visit her, we go to Cantler's Riverside Inn to crack crabs, so in a nod to that tradition, I ordered a crab cake sandwich, appealingly served on Saltines (that's old school Maryland style to those of you who didn't grow up in the free state) with slaw and shoestring fries. Cazadores washed it all down.
After a while, our server would just walk by and cock an eyebrow to ascertain if more beverages, water or ice were required and we'd send out the signal in answer.
When we got home, we saw that her Newfoundland - whom she claims is fond of watching the boob tube -was watching "Rome Adventure," part of a Troy Donahue festival on TCM.
You know me, I've got no use for television even with her gigantic screen TV. Had the tequila softened me toward Troy on TV? No, what sucked me in was I thought we'd walked in on a travelogue on Italy.
Exquisitely shot scene after scene of churches, sculpture, piazzas sucked me in and planted my butt on her cushy couch and I didn't move until the whole corny thing ended. Best of all, before it did, there were scenes in Florence, Verona, Pisa and Orvieto, albeit with far fewer people than my memories of being in Italy.
And then there was Troy: tall, lean hipped, blond and pretty attractive if that's your type (it's not). I vacillated between adoring his campy woodenness and thinking he wasn't half bad in some scenes. Mostly I marveled that I'd never seen one of his movies and he'd apparently been in more than 50!
Set in 1962, the film dealt was set squarely in the pre-sexual revolution '60s. My friend, who'd been born that year, was aghast to learn that a young unmarried American librarian was considered behaving brazenly by taking a holiday with an architect she met in Rome (separate beds, natch).
All I can say is, I thank my lucky stars I wasn't born into that world. Women's roles were just too tightly prescribed for me.
Today dawned just as wet and gray as yesterday, although it made for a beautifully silvery landscape on the Severn River as we drove downtown to the docks. That's an area where I spent a lot of time in college with friends hanging out, but it's a pale shadow of its old quirky self.
Real estate's just too valuable so the ratty old stores have been replaced with visitor magnets and national chains and the requisite ye olde tourist shoppes (get your fudge and postcards right here!). But if I close my eyes, it still smells mostly the same.
Before I caught the train back, we stopped at one of her favorite bars, a place she warned me didn't open until 4:00. except that when we arrived at 3:50, we walked in to find a half dozen tables already occupied.
I guess 4:00 is just a suggestion.
We took seats at the bar, the first of the night, and within 10 minutes, a stool was being added to the bar and one guy was standing next to his date seatless.
Popular place. Luckily, the food was good, too, at least my tacos de cordero stuffed with roasted lamb, red onions, fresh grilled jalapenos and lime juice were. Everyone from the affable owner who greeted us to the lowliest dishwasher was Hispanic, always a good sign at a Spanish/Mexican place.
It was our last chance for a good blather, so we covered a lot of territory (and chili con queso and housemade chips) while the bartender ladled up glass after glass of Sangria with a smile.
By the time we left there, we just barely made it to the station in time for me to catch my train.
Standing on the platform as the train whooshed up, I high-tailed it toward the quiet car. A handsome conductor stepped off the train just as I reached my car and smiled at me.
He looked knowledgeable, so I asked if this was the quiet car.
"Are you Karen?" he asked. Er, yes. "Come on, we were looking for you!' he said enthusiastically.
Whoa, who, whoa, mister. I put my hand on his arm and explained that no one get to know my name unless I get to know theirs.
"Bernard. Don't freak out. I checked the passenger list and you were the only one getting on, so I wanted to greet you personally. " With that, he grabbed one of my bags and led me to a seat.
I could get used to this kind of train ride.
During our half an hour stopover in Washington to change from an electric to a diesel engine, I met some of the passengers who, like me, were traveling south. There was a tiny old woman who said she was going to Petersburg to visit her "church family." Didn't know a soul in Virginia.
Another was an Indian woman who said she prefers to travel earlier in the week and was going to visit her daughter in Alexandria.
Sweetest of all was a young Mexican woman who was taking her first trip on a train. She asked me a lot of questions about getting off the train, afraid she would miss her stop. She also noisily wrapped gifts in tissue paper and arranged them in a gift bag to present to the children she was visiting.
Nice women, all of them. We bonded over the peace of the quiet car.
But, you know, I'm not sure they had any more of an idea who Troy Donahue was than I did 24 hours ago.
Their time will come. Troy comes to those who wait.
One of the pleasures of going to visit my Annapolis friend is the train ride up. It's three hours of reading in the quiet car (where cellphone usage and talking above a whisper are forbidden), a most civilized way to go.
And what you don't want on the train are delays. My train was 35 minutes late arriving and it only got worse from there.
At one point, the train stopped entirely and we were told that we were waiting for a couple of trains to pass on either side so we could back up and get on a another track.
I don't know about you, but the idea of waiting like a sitting duck for other trains to whiz by and then hitting reverse seems a bit worrisome to me.
Later, crossing the Potomac, I got a lovely view of the cherry blossoms in bloom, no doubt enjoying a longer display than usual given all the rain lately.
I was surprised at how much colder it was in Maryland than Richmond, so much so that when it got to be time to head out for fun, I declined walking, a rarity. My hostess had decided on Davis's Pub for dinner, wanting someplace livelier than the wine bar on the next block.
And even though it was only my second visit to Davis's, even I know it's always packed and noisy. Arriving in a mist made worse by the place being just across the street from the river, a guy walking up the sidewalk greeted me, led us to the front door, walked us in and seated us.
What he was doing outside in the first place, I have no idea.
We started with a special of black bean, cabbage and pulled chicken tostadas while I eavesdropped on the four guys at the table right behind us. Late 30s, early 40s, they were discussing the hardships of dating in a most unappealing way ("Was she fat?" "Did she end up staying over?") and commiserating with each other about the vagaries of the middle-aged dating world.
Meanwhile my friend was bringing me up to date on her love life, thinking out loud and looking for input about finding the right relationship balance after five years together. Blowing off steam like girlfriends do sometimes.
I read somewhere that as our lives have accelerated, so has the seven year itch, which apparently now arrives somewhere around the fifth year. I thought it best not to share that finding with her.
Usually when I visit her, we go to Cantler's Riverside Inn to crack crabs, so in a nod to that tradition, I ordered a crab cake sandwich, appealingly served on Saltines (that's old school Maryland style to those of you who didn't grow up in the free state) with slaw and shoestring fries. Cazadores washed it all down.
After a while, our server would just walk by and cock an eyebrow to ascertain if more beverages, water or ice were required and we'd send out the signal in answer.
When we got home, we saw that her Newfoundland - whom she claims is fond of watching the boob tube -was watching "Rome Adventure," part of a Troy Donahue festival on TCM.
You know me, I've got no use for television even with her gigantic screen TV. Had the tequila softened me toward Troy on TV? No, what sucked me in was I thought we'd walked in on a travelogue on Italy.
Exquisitely shot scene after scene of churches, sculpture, piazzas sucked me in and planted my butt on her cushy couch and I didn't move until the whole corny thing ended. Best of all, before it did, there were scenes in Florence, Verona, Pisa and Orvieto, albeit with far fewer people than my memories of being in Italy.
And then there was Troy: tall, lean hipped, blond and pretty attractive if that's your type (it's not). I vacillated between adoring his campy woodenness and thinking he wasn't half bad in some scenes. Mostly I marveled that I'd never seen one of his movies and he'd apparently been in more than 50!
Set in 1962, the film dealt was set squarely in the pre-sexual revolution '60s. My friend, who'd been born that year, was aghast to learn that a young unmarried American librarian was considered behaving brazenly by taking a holiday with an architect she met in Rome (separate beds, natch).
All I can say is, I thank my lucky stars I wasn't born into that world. Women's roles were just too tightly prescribed for me.
Today dawned just as wet and gray as yesterday, although it made for a beautifully silvery landscape on the Severn River as we drove downtown to the docks. That's an area where I spent a lot of time in college with friends hanging out, but it's a pale shadow of its old quirky self.
Real estate's just too valuable so the ratty old stores have been replaced with visitor magnets and national chains and the requisite ye olde tourist shoppes (get your fudge and postcards right here!). But if I close my eyes, it still smells mostly the same.
Before I caught the train back, we stopped at one of her favorite bars, a place she warned me didn't open until 4:00. except that when we arrived at 3:50, we walked in to find a half dozen tables already occupied.
I guess 4:00 is just a suggestion.
We took seats at the bar, the first of the night, and within 10 minutes, a stool was being added to the bar and one guy was standing next to his date seatless.
Popular place. Luckily, the food was good, too, at least my tacos de cordero stuffed with roasted lamb, red onions, fresh grilled jalapenos and lime juice were. Everyone from the affable owner who greeted us to the lowliest dishwasher was Hispanic, always a good sign at a Spanish/Mexican place.
It was our last chance for a good blather, so we covered a lot of territory (and chili con queso and housemade chips) while the bartender ladled up glass after glass of Sangria with a smile.
By the time we left there, we just barely made it to the station in time for me to catch my train.
Standing on the platform as the train whooshed up, I high-tailed it toward the quiet car. A handsome conductor stepped off the train just as I reached my car and smiled at me.
He looked knowledgeable, so I asked if this was the quiet car.
"Are you Karen?" he asked. Er, yes. "Come on, we were looking for you!' he said enthusiastically.
Whoa, who, whoa, mister. I put my hand on his arm and explained that no one get to know my name unless I get to know theirs.
"Bernard. Don't freak out. I checked the passenger list and you were the only one getting on, so I wanted to greet you personally. " With that, he grabbed one of my bags and led me to a seat.
I could get used to this kind of train ride.
During our half an hour stopover in Washington to change from an electric to a diesel engine, I met some of the passengers who, like me, were traveling south. There was a tiny old woman who said she was going to Petersburg to visit her "church family." Didn't know a soul in Virginia.
Another was an Indian woman who said she prefers to travel earlier in the week and was going to visit her daughter in Alexandria.
Sweetest of all was a young Mexican woman who was taking her first trip on a train. She asked me a lot of questions about getting off the train, afraid she would miss her stop. She also noisily wrapped gifts in tissue paper and arranged them in a gift bag to present to the children she was visiting.
Nice women, all of them. We bonded over the peace of the quiet car.
But, you know, I'm not sure they had any more of an idea who Troy Donahue was than I did 24 hours ago.
Their time will come. Troy comes to those who wait.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Roger That
It's undoubtedly some kind of Murphy's law.
If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.
Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.
Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.
And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.
The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.
Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.
Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.
Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.
First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."
It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.
That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.
I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.
Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.
Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.
My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.
Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.
I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.
Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."
Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.
On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.
Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.
When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."
She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.
And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.
"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."
Don't worry. I didn't last time.
I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.
Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.
She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.
At least in drink form.
I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.
But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.
That sand gets everywhere.
If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.
Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.
Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.
And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.
The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.
Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.
Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.
Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.
First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."
It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.
That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.
I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.
Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.
Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.
My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.
Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.
I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.
Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."
Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.
On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.
Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.
When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."
She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.
And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.
"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."
Don't worry. I didn't last time.
I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.
Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.
She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.
At least in drink form.
I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.
But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.
That sand gets everywhere.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Bubble Wrapped
On the road again...
Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.
This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.
When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.
Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.
Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."
Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.
Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.
After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.
She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.
It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.
With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.
Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.
Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.
Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.
With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.
It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.
As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.
"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.
So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.
She said she had dozens of things that set her off.
Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.
Still thinking.
Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.
This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.
When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.
Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.
Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."
Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.
Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.
After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.
She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.
It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.
With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.
Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.
Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.
Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.
With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.
It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.
As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.
"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.
So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.
She said she had dozens of things that set her off.
Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.
Still thinking.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Getaway
I was only gone for 35 hours, but I like to think I spent my time wisely.
The six hours on the train up and back were put to indulgently satisfying use starting one of my birthday books, "The Goldfinch," talking me through just under 300 pages.
Beautifully written, immediately engrossing from the first few pages, I already know I'll be sorry when this book ends.
It's taken me no time at all to realize that train trips are second only to being at the beach when it comes to hours on end doing nothing more than turning pages. Heaven.
Much as I enjoy getting lost in the scenery passing by outside the train, it could have been snowing for all I knew.
Arriving in Annapolis just after a shower, it was sticky and muggy when my friend picked me up from the train station where she'd been incorrectly informed that my train had already come and gone (it hadn't). She was in a mild panic when I spotted her in the parking lot.
The afternoon flew by and by the time we got ready to get back in the car to go out for dinner, it was almost 8:30 and we spent the drive chatting on speaker phone with a mutual Richmond friend who'd called earlier, unbeknownst to us.
He'd been out for happy hour and it was happy he sounded as he tried to stir the pot and make us laugh, taking us right up to the restaurant parking lot with his nonsense.
My friend had been hoping to take me to a new restaurant, a place I hadn't yet been, but when pressed, I admitted that what I really wanted was crabs. Again.
That's how we've ended up at Cantler's, a riverside crab place three of the last four times I've gone up there. Only this was the first time the weather made sitting outside a possibility.
The earlier mugginess had given way to a beautifully breezy evening and there was a prime corner table on the patio overlooking the river. My friend warned me that the service outside tended toward the terrible, but even she had to admit it was a prefect night to do so.
As a dedicated summer-lover (you'll never hear me complain that it's too hot or humid), these long days are part of the siren song of the season. As I looked out over the river, I was struck by not just how light it still was at 8:45 (duh, ten days until summer solstice), but how there was still plenty of light for the boats and houses along the shore to throw reflections on the water.
It didn't hurt that the river was smooth as glass, allowing the reflections a mirror-like surface to join with the reality above.
A fading white shack, sailboat masts, boat hulls all joined their likeness at the water line. It was not only beautiful, but striking for how dusky the sky was...and yet still enough.
Okay, so my friend had been right and the service was lackadaisical at best, although I did get a kick out of seeing servers clearing tables pour any remaining water from cups onto the window boxes along the patio's railing. So eco-friendly, if nothing else.
As usual, we powered through hushpuppies and extra-large crabs, scratching our head when a server told us they were low on crab seasoning, as if it's tough to get Old Bay or kosher salt.
Gradually the patio began clearing out except for us and two women at a nearby table deep in wine and conversation after an earlier broken wineglass (it happens).
For that matter, my friend and I got pretty deep into it, trying to elucidate the difference in a relationship when young versus middle aged and how what you want that partnership ultimately to become changes (or doesn't).
A (male) friend once told me that middle aged people don't "fall" in love, they find a compatible person and agree to compromise, but my girlfriend and I begged to differ. Why shouldn't we be able to feel passion and romance like we did when we were 25?
Over multiple splits of bubbly (her) and Herradura (me), we ruminated on the things that matter to us in a partner before being distracted by a boat towing another, smaller one into the dock below, both with lights twinkling on the inky river.
When we'd stuffed ourselves silly and the place was close to closing, we got back in the car and she asked if I wanted to go to a neighborhood, down and dirty-style bar. Sure I did.
While meandering through Eastport trying to find said dive bar, she noticed our friend had left another message, pulled over in front of one of the charming (and no doubt costly) vintage houses and called him back again.
That's how we ended up parked on a residential side street for who knows how long, our tipsy friend providing hilarious phone entertainment that kept us both in stitches.
So much for the bar. She did drive home via downtown Annapolis, around the city dock area, a place I hadn't been since the '80s.
Back in college, my boyfriend Curt and I, along with my best friend and her beloved, spent many a Sunday right there, eating (I had my first Monte Cristo there and thought it was the best sandwich I'd ever had), drinking (it was legal then) and wiling away the afternoon (I began practicing that early).
And while it was mostly recognizable, all the dilapidated little storefronts (I particularly recalled a hardware store that even back then felt like it had been frozen in time) have long since been replaced with chains and boutiques.
Still, a trip down Memory Lane was a fine ending to our evening.
Today's greatest pleasure was finding a treasure trove of my girlfriend's family photos and memorabilia.
As a lover of photography, I am always entranced by old photos, but there were some truly amazing pieces she had, like a couple of tintypes - precursors to photographs- and pictures from when her grandfather had been in school, an announcement for her grandmother's wedding in 1901 and even family report cards from 1879 and 1890 (back when kids got grades for hygiene and penmanship).
There was a wide, panoramic photograph of a rocky beach in Massachusetts, not looking all that different than how it did when I first went to Cape Cod in college.
Over and over, my friend marveled at how tickled her Dad was going to be when he saw all these old pictures of his father. Honestly, it was pretty fascinating to see them and I'm no relation to anyone in them.
We got so caught up going through stuff that all of a sudden we looked up and realized I had 75 minutes before my train left.
Ever the resourceful one, Friend instructed me to grab my things and we'd head to the nearby steakhouse for a quick happy hour.
Admittedly, I'm not the steakhouse person she is, but I can happy hour with the best of them and with less than 60 minutes to departure, we were walking up a staircase with large-format black and white photographs of local scenes such as the distinctive Thomas Point Lighthouse, Maryland state capital, and watermen pulling in crabs.
At the bar, we set out to have quick glasses of Lamarca Prosecco (although it took three flat pours before we got glasses with sufficient bubbles) and a pre-train nibble.
My friend wanted the buffalo meatballs while I chose bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates and I'm proud to say she ended up liking my choice better than hers, an accomplishment in my eyes.
We were in and out in 20 minutes and at the train station in another 20. Mission accomplished.
My train ride home was cozier than its predecessors because of the rain beading up on the windows, but also more punctual for a change. Plus the fairly empty Quiet Car I was riding in afforded the opportunity to get further lost in this magnificent book I'm reading.
I'd call these two well-spent summer days.
The six hours on the train up and back were put to indulgently satisfying use starting one of my birthday books, "The Goldfinch," talking me through just under 300 pages.
Beautifully written, immediately engrossing from the first few pages, I already know I'll be sorry when this book ends.
It's taken me no time at all to realize that train trips are second only to being at the beach when it comes to hours on end doing nothing more than turning pages. Heaven.
Much as I enjoy getting lost in the scenery passing by outside the train, it could have been snowing for all I knew.
Arriving in Annapolis just after a shower, it was sticky and muggy when my friend picked me up from the train station where she'd been incorrectly informed that my train had already come and gone (it hadn't). She was in a mild panic when I spotted her in the parking lot.
The afternoon flew by and by the time we got ready to get back in the car to go out for dinner, it was almost 8:30 and we spent the drive chatting on speaker phone with a mutual Richmond friend who'd called earlier, unbeknownst to us.
He'd been out for happy hour and it was happy he sounded as he tried to stir the pot and make us laugh, taking us right up to the restaurant parking lot with his nonsense.
My friend had been hoping to take me to a new restaurant, a place I hadn't yet been, but when pressed, I admitted that what I really wanted was crabs. Again.
That's how we've ended up at Cantler's, a riverside crab place three of the last four times I've gone up there. Only this was the first time the weather made sitting outside a possibility.
The earlier mugginess had given way to a beautifully breezy evening and there was a prime corner table on the patio overlooking the river. My friend warned me that the service outside tended toward the terrible, but even she had to admit it was a prefect night to do so.
As a dedicated summer-lover (you'll never hear me complain that it's too hot or humid), these long days are part of the siren song of the season. As I looked out over the river, I was struck by not just how light it still was at 8:45 (duh, ten days until summer solstice), but how there was still plenty of light for the boats and houses along the shore to throw reflections on the water.
It didn't hurt that the river was smooth as glass, allowing the reflections a mirror-like surface to join with the reality above.
A fading white shack, sailboat masts, boat hulls all joined their likeness at the water line. It was not only beautiful, but striking for how dusky the sky was...and yet still enough.
Okay, so my friend had been right and the service was lackadaisical at best, although I did get a kick out of seeing servers clearing tables pour any remaining water from cups onto the window boxes along the patio's railing. So eco-friendly, if nothing else.
As usual, we powered through hushpuppies and extra-large crabs, scratching our head when a server told us they were low on crab seasoning, as if it's tough to get Old Bay or kosher salt.
Gradually the patio began clearing out except for us and two women at a nearby table deep in wine and conversation after an earlier broken wineglass (it happens).
For that matter, my friend and I got pretty deep into it, trying to elucidate the difference in a relationship when young versus middle aged and how what you want that partnership ultimately to become changes (or doesn't).
A (male) friend once told me that middle aged people don't "fall" in love, they find a compatible person and agree to compromise, but my girlfriend and I begged to differ. Why shouldn't we be able to feel passion and romance like we did when we were 25?
Over multiple splits of bubbly (her) and Herradura (me), we ruminated on the things that matter to us in a partner before being distracted by a boat towing another, smaller one into the dock below, both with lights twinkling on the inky river.
When we'd stuffed ourselves silly and the place was close to closing, we got back in the car and she asked if I wanted to go to a neighborhood, down and dirty-style bar. Sure I did.
While meandering through Eastport trying to find said dive bar, she noticed our friend had left another message, pulled over in front of one of the charming (and no doubt costly) vintage houses and called him back again.
That's how we ended up parked on a residential side street for who knows how long, our tipsy friend providing hilarious phone entertainment that kept us both in stitches.
So much for the bar. She did drive home via downtown Annapolis, around the city dock area, a place I hadn't been since the '80s.
Back in college, my boyfriend Curt and I, along with my best friend and her beloved, spent many a Sunday right there, eating (I had my first Monte Cristo there and thought it was the best sandwich I'd ever had), drinking (it was legal then) and wiling away the afternoon (I began practicing that early).
And while it was mostly recognizable, all the dilapidated little storefronts (I particularly recalled a hardware store that even back then felt like it had been frozen in time) have long since been replaced with chains and boutiques.
Still, a trip down Memory Lane was a fine ending to our evening.
Today's greatest pleasure was finding a treasure trove of my girlfriend's family photos and memorabilia.
As a lover of photography, I am always entranced by old photos, but there were some truly amazing pieces she had, like a couple of tintypes - precursors to photographs- and pictures from when her grandfather had been in school, an announcement for her grandmother's wedding in 1901 and even family report cards from 1879 and 1890 (back when kids got grades for hygiene and penmanship).
There was a wide, panoramic photograph of a rocky beach in Massachusetts, not looking all that different than how it did when I first went to Cape Cod in college.
Over and over, my friend marveled at how tickled her Dad was going to be when he saw all these old pictures of his father. Honestly, it was pretty fascinating to see them and I'm no relation to anyone in them.
We got so caught up going through stuff that all of a sudden we looked up and realized I had 75 minutes before my train left.
Ever the resourceful one, Friend instructed me to grab my things and we'd head to the nearby steakhouse for a quick happy hour.
Admittedly, I'm not the steakhouse person she is, but I can happy hour with the best of them and with less than 60 minutes to departure, we were walking up a staircase with large-format black and white photographs of local scenes such as the distinctive Thomas Point Lighthouse, Maryland state capital, and watermen pulling in crabs.
At the bar, we set out to have quick glasses of Lamarca Prosecco (although it took three flat pours before we got glasses with sufficient bubbles) and a pre-train nibble.
My friend wanted the buffalo meatballs while I chose bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates and I'm proud to say she ended up liking my choice better than hers, an accomplishment in my eyes.
We were in and out in 20 minutes and at the train station in another 20. Mission accomplished.
My train ride home was cozier than its predecessors because of the rain beading up on the windows, but also more punctual for a change. Plus the fairly empty Quiet Car I was riding in afforded the opportunity to get further lost in this magnificent book I'm reading.
I'd call these two well-spent summer days.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
When the World is Good
I've officially been away more this week than I've been here.
All the windows stay open while I'm gone and I water the inside plants while I'm here, but I'm feeling a bit like a house-sitter lately.
Yesterday's train ride to Annapolis wound up being 4 1/2 hours instead of 3, partially because the train was sold out at every stop (the conductor attributed that to it being Mother's Day weekend), meaning longer than usual times to load and unload at every stop.
But we also got stopped on a bridge over a choppy, brown river (being navigationally challenged as I am, I have no idea what body of water it was) because of a fallen tree on the tracks.
So we sat there for 45 minutes, waiting for a southbound train to pass us so that we could use that track since ours was, shall we say, incapacitated. And while I have no bridge issues, per se, it did occur to me that if that that other train ended up on our track by mistake, I was going to die a watery death.
But it didn't so I enjoyed the silence of the "quiet car" (seriously, I wouldn't sit anywhere else, including the business car with its higher price tag) to finish up my book, Oscar Hijuelos' 2002 "A Simple Habana Melody (from when the world was good)."
Granted, I hadn't read his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" since it came out in 1989, but this one struck me as undeniably more tragic with its detour into the tragedy of a man incorrectly sent to a concentration camp.
With still more time on my hands, I started another book, but soon realized that I'd better not go too far into it since I'd need it for the trip back.
Talk about a shame; no one should have to ration their reading.
But eventually I made it to my friend's house for a 24-hour visit that included a visit to the riverside crab shack Cantlers and a dozen extra large crabs enjoyed next to a couple on a date, a medic and a soldier, both of whom had recently served in Afghanistan and Iraq.
When they ordered the steamed sampler of clams, mussels and shrimp to start, they had no idea how to peel and eat shrimp, so the affable bartender gave them a shelling and de-veining lesson.
Needless to say, they didn't go anywhere near picking crabs like we were, a wise move given how arduous a task it can be if you don't know what you're doing.
My return train was far more timely with no unexpected arbor issues, and still leaving me a solid 3 hours to be absorbed in Jonathan Harr's "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece," an improbable NYT bestseller I'd picked up at the library giveaway last year.
While it didn't have the earthy, poetic fluidity of Hijuelos, who was influenced by another favorite of mine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the art detective story was enthralling for how fate and tenacity both had a hand in leading several art historians to an important and presumably lost work.
By the time the train pulled in to the station, I had only 60 pages left and I was dying to know how it ended but finding out wasn't an option at that point.
A favorite girlfriend and her cute husband were having a party tonight to celebrate her getting her master's, so I needed to hurry home, shower and get to the soiree.
Only problem was that I'd never been to their house, it's in a neighborhood I don't know and one that turned out to be black as pitch with no streetlights.
I was pretty sure I'd found the right house when I eased open the front door and heard someone ask, "Did you just say you were going to be picking at your skin?"
The party was in full swing and the graduate grabbed me and said she'd feared I was dead when I'd missed Live at Ipanema last Sunday, but I'd assured her that I'd just been otherwise occupied.
Since it was my first visit, she gave me a tour of the house which was full of her husband's photographs, one of hers at a doughnut shop in Pennsylvania with a sign saying, "We specialize in holes" and a bunch of found photos, acquired at thrift stores, online and at Etsy shops.
One particularly intriguing one was a sepia-toned view of the Richmond waterfront near Tredegar with holes drilled along the edges as if it had once hung on a museum wall.
Both she and her husband are avid record collectors and while I glanced through their vinyl, that's an afternoon's activity all by itself. And I'm not even talking about the seven inch discs and cassette tapes or CDs.
Even the framed posters were worth checking out - a Dali exhibit, a Hitchcock retrospective, the first 300 albums released on SubPop.
And don't get me started on the camera collection, the giant record player or the photograph of every kind of microphone imaginable.
Their house was a delight and as a party guest, I had full rein to wander around and check out its details, all under the guise of mingling.
So, sure, I engaged with a group discussing restaurants and chatted with some new-to-me people about what they did.
At least right up until the point where it was time for me to go home to my own charming abode, at least for a few hours before heading out again first thing in the morning.
On the road again.
All the windows stay open while I'm gone and I water the inside plants while I'm here, but I'm feeling a bit like a house-sitter lately.
Yesterday's train ride to Annapolis wound up being 4 1/2 hours instead of 3, partially because the train was sold out at every stop (the conductor attributed that to it being Mother's Day weekend), meaning longer than usual times to load and unload at every stop.
But we also got stopped on a bridge over a choppy, brown river (being navigationally challenged as I am, I have no idea what body of water it was) because of a fallen tree on the tracks.
So we sat there for 45 minutes, waiting for a southbound train to pass us so that we could use that track since ours was, shall we say, incapacitated. And while I have no bridge issues, per se, it did occur to me that if that that other train ended up on our track by mistake, I was going to die a watery death.
But it didn't so I enjoyed the silence of the "quiet car" (seriously, I wouldn't sit anywhere else, including the business car with its higher price tag) to finish up my book, Oscar Hijuelos' 2002 "A Simple Habana Melody (from when the world was good)."
Granted, I hadn't read his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" since it came out in 1989, but this one struck me as undeniably more tragic with its detour into the tragedy of a man incorrectly sent to a concentration camp.
With still more time on my hands, I started another book, but soon realized that I'd better not go too far into it since I'd need it for the trip back.
Talk about a shame; no one should have to ration their reading.
But eventually I made it to my friend's house for a 24-hour visit that included a visit to the riverside crab shack Cantlers and a dozen extra large crabs enjoyed next to a couple on a date, a medic and a soldier, both of whom had recently served in Afghanistan and Iraq.
When they ordered the steamed sampler of clams, mussels and shrimp to start, they had no idea how to peel and eat shrimp, so the affable bartender gave them a shelling and de-veining lesson.
Needless to say, they didn't go anywhere near picking crabs like we were, a wise move given how arduous a task it can be if you don't know what you're doing.
My return train was far more timely with no unexpected arbor issues, and still leaving me a solid 3 hours to be absorbed in Jonathan Harr's "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece," an improbable NYT bestseller I'd picked up at the library giveaway last year.
While it didn't have the earthy, poetic fluidity of Hijuelos, who was influenced by another favorite of mine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the art detective story was enthralling for how fate and tenacity both had a hand in leading several art historians to an important and presumably lost work.
By the time the train pulled in to the station, I had only 60 pages left and I was dying to know how it ended but finding out wasn't an option at that point.
A favorite girlfriend and her cute husband were having a party tonight to celebrate her getting her master's, so I needed to hurry home, shower and get to the soiree.
Only problem was that I'd never been to their house, it's in a neighborhood I don't know and one that turned out to be black as pitch with no streetlights.
I was pretty sure I'd found the right house when I eased open the front door and heard someone ask, "Did you just say you were going to be picking at your skin?"
The party was in full swing and the graduate grabbed me and said she'd feared I was dead when I'd missed Live at Ipanema last Sunday, but I'd assured her that I'd just been otherwise occupied.
Since it was my first visit, she gave me a tour of the house which was full of her husband's photographs, one of hers at a doughnut shop in Pennsylvania with a sign saying, "We specialize in holes" and a bunch of found photos, acquired at thrift stores, online and at Etsy shops.
One particularly intriguing one was a sepia-toned view of the Richmond waterfront near Tredegar with holes drilled along the edges as if it had once hung on a museum wall.
Both she and her husband are avid record collectors and while I glanced through their vinyl, that's an afternoon's activity all by itself. And I'm not even talking about the seven inch discs and cassette tapes or CDs.
Even the framed posters were worth checking out - a Dali exhibit, a Hitchcock retrospective, the first 300 albums released on SubPop.
And don't get me started on the camera collection, the giant record player or the photograph of every kind of microphone imaginable.
Their house was a delight and as a party guest, I had full rein to wander around and check out its details, all under the guise of mingling.
So, sure, I engaged with a group discussing restaurants and chatted with some new-to-me people about what they did.
At least right up until the point where it was time for me to go home to my own charming abode, at least for a few hours before heading out again first thing in the morning.
On the road again.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Riding the Rails
It had been too long since I'd ridden the train.
True, I'd ridden plenty of trains in Italy last year - trains to Florence, Sorrento and Rome - but I hadn't ridden good, old Amtrack since 2000.
A shame for one who enjoys train trips as much as I do.
You see, I despise I-95 north, that soul-sucking stretch of road that gets me to my hometown and beyond. Since I'm one of those people who rarely exceeds the speed limit, I have no place on such a road.
But on the train, I excel. I can delve into the Washington Post and get deeper into my book. I can waste all kinds of time staring out the window and observing the landscape. And I can chat with strangers, always a forte of mine.
Minutes before the train was due to arrive at the station, an announcement was made that it was running behind.
For those of us waiting outside on the platform in the morning sunshine, the news was irrelevant. If you're headed out of town at 11:04 on a Friday morning, it's probably not for business so it's probably not a big deal to be delayed 25 minutes.
Sitting closest to me was a man with thick, dark hair and mustache and after the announcement, he turned and said in a beautifully accented voice, "More time for us to get some sun."
That's the way I was looking at it. He turned out to be South African and on his way home to NYC, so we spent the remaining 24 minutes chatting.
Once the train began pulling in, I looked across the platform and spotted John, one of my Jackson Ward neighbors, up ahead. What are the chances?
It was my first time riding business class although I soon discovered that all the leg room and New York Times in the world can't compare to the quiet car, which will henceforth be my car of choice. Having to listen to the inane phone conversations of a mindless woman behind me soon wore thin.
Beyond that, my interest was divided. One part of me relished the hours to get lost in reading while the other part couldn't resist the changing scenery outside my window.
The initial boredom of suburbia meant I soon got lost in the Post but then I looked up to see fields and farms and we weren't even to Ashland yet.
Going through the center of the universe, I got a bird's eye view of the Caboose wine shop and Ashland Coffee and Tea from a different perspective than any of my visits to them.
I pulled out my book and was back in the 1950s with Elvis before glancing up to see a golden field all but covered in wild turkeys.
Continuing to lumber north toward Fredericksburg, I marveled at how many bodies of water we passed - marshes, ponds, streams, rivers, rarely more than a minute or two without a water view.
Pulling into Fredericksburg, I had a bird's eye view up Caroline Street catching sight of four church spires punctuating the bright blue sky.
It was easier to return to my book once our route got past the Marine base at Quantico and Occoquan marina because the train wound within sight of the dreaded 95 and who really wants to look at that?
Before I knew it, I was at the quaint station being picked up by a friend who had invited me up to help her get organized in her new place.
For her, organization is a challenge she can't master despite a razor sharp mind and a wildly successful six figure career and for me, bringing order from chaos is as natural and effortless as breathing.
So after breathing all over her new apartment in Annapolis, we got cleaned up and on our way to dinner.
She was hoping to introduce me to one of her favorite new restaurants, but I stopped her cold by saying I wanted to go to the riverside dive that served crabs. Off we went to Cantlers.
I don't even want to think about what that place must be like during tourist season because on a cool, Friday night at 9:00, it was 95% full, albeit with locals and regulars.
Our bartender was delightful, a savvy server with a great smile and, like us, a tequila drinker. My friend is a recent convert to tequila and wanted a primer on blanco, reposado and anejo, an easy topic for me expound upon.
"Whoa, this girl knows her stuff," the bartender said. You drink only one spirit for 21 years, you learn a little.
When the guy next to me also ordered Herradura, I commented that our side of the bar was the tequila side.
"This is where the cool kids sit," she said, bringing us a tray of extra large crabs and a basket of hushpuppies.
I have to admit, before my friend first brought me to this place, I'd never eaten hard shell crabs out of season. Yet here we were, eating extra large Louisiana crabs in March and it felt right as rain.
The tequila kept flowing, our hands kept getting messier and all of a sudden, we were out of crabs.
My friend, a regular at this place, had an inspiration. "Do you have any supers?" she inquired about the largest of crustaceans, a size I'd never even heard of.
Sure enough, they weren't listed on the board, but there they came, hot out of the pot and so enormous, so completely beyond any crabs I had ever laid eyes on despite being a crab eater since age five, that I understood when my friend handed me her phone and asked that I take a picture of them.
The claws were just slightly smaller than a lobster's and almost as meaty. They were easily the best and biggest crabs I'd ever eaten, with or without tequila.
By this time, the dining room had cleared out and it was just us and the regulars at the bar, a comfy vibe of people enjoying happy hour that lasted as long as the March madness game did.
The gang to my left was considering organizing a game of Flintstones "Jeopardy."
"Ann Margrock!" the guy next to me called out as a possible answer. Perry Masonry, I said to him. He smiled widely and nodded silently in approval, not a word being necessary to show his pleasure in my memory.
That's nothing. Leonard Bernstone, I could have said.
We left them to their game planning and returned to the town center and her apartment building, going up to the rooftop terraces with an Anna Nalick soundtrack playing to admire the twinkling views of Annapolis' state capital and the Bay bridge beyond it.
Sing if you understand
and breathe, just breathe
It's wonderful how effortlessly the train gets me to some place so different than my place.
You don't even have to be a cool kid to ride it.
True, I'd ridden plenty of trains in Italy last year - trains to Florence, Sorrento and Rome - but I hadn't ridden good, old Amtrack since 2000.
A shame for one who enjoys train trips as much as I do.
You see, I despise I-95 north, that soul-sucking stretch of road that gets me to my hometown and beyond. Since I'm one of those people who rarely exceeds the speed limit, I have no place on such a road.
But on the train, I excel. I can delve into the Washington Post and get deeper into my book. I can waste all kinds of time staring out the window and observing the landscape. And I can chat with strangers, always a forte of mine.
Minutes before the train was due to arrive at the station, an announcement was made that it was running behind.
For those of us waiting outside on the platform in the morning sunshine, the news was irrelevant. If you're headed out of town at 11:04 on a Friday morning, it's probably not for business so it's probably not a big deal to be delayed 25 minutes.
Sitting closest to me was a man with thick, dark hair and mustache and after the announcement, he turned and said in a beautifully accented voice, "More time for us to get some sun."
That's the way I was looking at it. He turned out to be South African and on his way home to NYC, so we spent the remaining 24 minutes chatting.
Once the train began pulling in, I looked across the platform and spotted John, one of my Jackson Ward neighbors, up ahead. What are the chances?
It was my first time riding business class although I soon discovered that all the leg room and New York Times in the world can't compare to the quiet car, which will henceforth be my car of choice. Having to listen to the inane phone conversations of a mindless woman behind me soon wore thin.
Beyond that, my interest was divided. One part of me relished the hours to get lost in reading while the other part couldn't resist the changing scenery outside my window.
The initial boredom of suburbia meant I soon got lost in the Post but then I looked up to see fields and farms and we weren't even to Ashland yet.
Going through the center of the universe, I got a bird's eye view of the Caboose wine shop and Ashland Coffee and Tea from a different perspective than any of my visits to them.
I pulled out my book and was back in the 1950s with Elvis before glancing up to see a golden field all but covered in wild turkeys.
Continuing to lumber north toward Fredericksburg, I marveled at how many bodies of water we passed - marshes, ponds, streams, rivers, rarely more than a minute or two without a water view.
Pulling into Fredericksburg, I had a bird's eye view up Caroline Street catching sight of four church spires punctuating the bright blue sky.
It was easier to return to my book once our route got past the Marine base at Quantico and Occoquan marina because the train wound within sight of the dreaded 95 and who really wants to look at that?
Before I knew it, I was at the quaint station being picked up by a friend who had invited me up to help her get organized in her new place.
For her, organization is a challenge she can't master despite a razor sharp mind and a wildly successful six figure career and for me, bringing order from chaos is as natural and effortless as breathing.
So after breathing all over her new apartment in Annapolis, we got cleaned up and on our way to dinner.
She was hoping to introduce me to one of her favorite new restaurants, but I stopped her cold by saying I wanted to go to the riverside dive that served crabs. Off we went to Cantlers.
I don't even want to think about what that place must be like during tourist season because on a cool, Friday night at 9:00, it was 95% full, albeit with locals and regulars.
Our bartender was delightful, a savvy server with a great smile and, like us, a tequila drinker. My friend is a recent convert to tequila and wanted a primer on blanco, reposado and anejo, an easy topic for me expound upon.
"Whoa, this girl knows her stuff," the bartender said. You drink only one spirit for 21 years, you learn a little.
When the guy next to me also ordered Herradura, I commented that our side of the bar was the tequila side.
"This is where the cool kids sit," she said, bringing us a tray of extra large crabs and a basket of hushpuppies.
I have to admit, before my friend first brought me to this place, I'd never eaten hard shell crabs out of season. Yet here we were, eating extra large Louisiana crabs in March and it felt right as rain.
The tequila kept flowing, our hands kept getting messier and all of a sudden, we were out of crabs.
My friend, a regular at this place, had an inspiration. "Do you have any supers?" she inquired about the largest of crustaceans, a size I'd never even heard of.
Sure enough, they weren't listed on the board, but there they came, hot out of the pot and so enormous, so completely beyond any crabs I had ever laid eyes on despite being a crab eater since age five, that I understood when my friend handed me her phone and asked that I take a picture of them.
The claws were just slightly smaller than a lobster's and almost as meaty. They were easily the best and biggest crabs I'd ever eaten, with or without tequila.
By this time, the dining room had cleared out and it was just us and the regulars at the bar, a comfy vibe of people enjoying happy hour that lasted as long as the March madness game did.
The gang to my left was considering organizing a game of Flintstones "Jeopardy."
"Ann Margrock!" the guy next to me called out as a possible answer. Perry Masonry, I said to him. He smiled widely and nodded silently in approval, not a word being necessary to show his pleasure in my memory.
That's nothing. Leonard Bernstone, I could have said.
We left them to their game planning and returned to the town center and her apartment building, going up to the rooftop terraces with an Anna Nalick soundtrack playing to admire the twinkling views of Annapolis' state capital and the Bay bridge beyond it.
Sing if you understand
and breathe, just breathe
It's wonderful how effortlessly the train gets me to some place so different than my place.
You don't even have to be a cool kid to ride it.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Slowing Down to Smell 95
The honeysuckle made all the difference.
Don't get me wrong; an invitation to a friend's new bay-front house for a couple of days is a treat.
With a view of the Bay Bridge and countless sailboats (37 at mid-morning and then the races began around 4:00) dotting the water, it's a captivating place to spend time.
She even took me out to dinner at her local wine bar, Grapes, where I met the neighborhood butcher, Mike and ate his veal (sliders, that is).
An onion tart and side salad reminded me of Bistro Bobette and the grouper (fresh caught hours before it hit my plate, according to the chef, Vickie) with buerre blanc and mango/black bean salsa was as fresh-tasting and flavorful as fish at Pescado's.
Friend's choice of shrimp and orcchiette in garlic cream sauce would never have been mine, but I had to agree with the chef that it's the perfect pasta for cupping sauce and absolutely lovely with Chateau de L'Aulee Cremant de Loire.
Dinner conversation revolved first around meat (an eating butcher is a happy butcher who wants to talk beef) and new developments in my friend's dating life.
What do you do when your boyfriend says exactly what you want to hear?
Besides freak out, which is what she'd done and what she wanted to discuss.
That kind of girl talk requires dessert and we went with chocolate gateaux with a thick layer of ganache on top to settle her down.
And, yes, we went back to her place for more bubbles and bay sounds.
But when it's time to leave Annapolis and make my way back to a place better suited to me, the sad fact is I have to get on soul-sucking I-95.
And that's after I have to get on soul-sucking Route 50, a road I used to know by heart from endless trips to the beach in my Maryland youth.
But that was before it was eight lanes and 70 mph and not a two-lane blacktop to sun and fun.
Even when there's no road construction, I find 95 soulless and depressing.
With endless delays, like today, it can be insufferable.
Except.
Early on in the northern Virginia back-up, as I sat in my barely-moving car with all the windows down and Pinback blaring, I smelled the unmistakable scent of something wonderful.
Honeysuckle was nearby.
I turned down the music to smell it better.
If the day ever comes where smelling honeysuckle doesn't make everything at least a little bit better, just shoot me.
Fact: I can't care about stopped traffic or rude drivers or even being late for my lunch date when I'm surrounded by the scent of hot, sweet summer.
It may be the first time that I-95 restored rather than stole from my soul.
And I'd never have experienced it without a construction delay.
Thank you, VDOT. You made my day.
Don't get me wrong; an invitation to a friend's new bay-front house for a couple of days is a treat.
With a view of the Bay Bridge and countless sailboats (37 at mid-morning and then the races began around 4:00) dotting the water, it's a captivating place to spend time.
She even took me out to dinner at her local wine bar, Grapes, where I met the neighborhood butcher, Mike and ate his veal (sliders, that is).
An onion tart and side salad reminded me of Bistro Bobette and the grouper (fresh caught hours before it hit my plate, according to the chef, Vickie) with buerre blanc and mango/black bean salsa was as fresh-tasting and flavorful as fish at Pescado's.
Friend's choice of shrimp and orcchiette in garlic cream sauce would never have been mine, but I had to agree with the chef that it's the perfect pasta for cupping sauce and absolutely lovely with Chateau de L'Aulee Cremant de Loire.
Dinner conversation revolved first around meat (an eating butcher is a happy butcher who wants to talk beef) and new developments in my friend's dating life.
What do you do when your boyfriend says exactly what you want to hear?
Besides freak out, which is what she'd done and what she wanted to discuss.
That kind of girl talk requires dessert and we went with chocolate gateaux with a thick layer of ganache on top to settle her down.
And, yes, we went back to her place for more bubbles and bay sounds.
But when it's time to leave Annapolis and make my way back to a place better suited to me, the sad fact is I have to get on soul-sucking I-95.
And that's after I have to get on soul-sucking Route 50, a road I used to know by heart from endless trips to the beach in my Maryland youth.
But that was before it was eight lanes and 70 mph and not a two-lane blacktop to sun and fun.
Even when there's no road construction, I find 95 soulless and depressing.
With endless delays, like today, it can be insufferable.
Except.
Early on in the northern Virginia back-up, as I sat in my barely-moving car with all the windows down and Pinback blaring, I smelled the unmistakable scent of something wonderful.
Honeysuckle was nearby.
I turned down the music to smell it better.
If the day ever comes where smelling honeysuckle doesn't make everything at least a little bit better, just shoot me.
Fact: I can't care about stopped traffic or rude drivers or even being late for my lunch date when I'm surrounded by the scent of hot, sweet summer.
It may be the first time that I-95 restored rather than stole from my soul.
And I'd never have experienced it without a construction delay.
Thank you, VDOT. You made my day.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Flaming Beards and Big Meat
Even without my eyes to admire the view or my mouth to enjoy the good eating, my ears would have been well satisfied.
A friend had suggested a weekend trip to Annapolis, a place I (mis)spent a fair amount of time in my youth, but hadn't revisited in years.
The lure was her new digs located right on the bay. with an all-glass view of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. With only a beach separating her and the sound of all that water.
And even with the gray day, it was a magnificent sight and sound.
And even with the occasional rain and lower temperature, boats were out.
Sailboats moving along at a brisk pace all afternoon. Cruise boats toward evening. Freighters in the distance.
I was helping her get organized in her new place and she was taking me out to one of her favorite restaurants.
But it isn't one of her favorites because of the food, although she's a huge steakhouse fan, but because of the colorful crowd (her words).
I'm always game for colorful.
She'd made reservations at the tiny bar, even choosing the specific stools she wanted to reserve.
Which was great for us, but got us some dirty looks when we sailed right into the waiting crowd and into our stools.
We toasted her new view with a bottle of Domaine Chandon Brut Classic.
Asking if I preferred crab or shrimp, we began with a crab cocktail that arrived on a small platter, looking to be about half a pound of lump crabmeat.
It was heavenly and could have been a meal by itself with the addition of a side or two.
Since we were at a steakhouse, I uncharacteristically chose red meat, opting for a filet mignon and roasted asparagus, while my friend inquired about the availability of prime rib.
The bartender returned from the kitchen solemnly, saying, "Zero prime rib, six baked potatoes."
How does a steak house get down to six baked potatoes by 9:00 on a Saturday night?
I thought his wording, "zero prime rib" pretty funny, but my friend was not amused, called dibs on one of the potatoes and settled for filet, too.
Waiting for our food, we amused ourselves with the bar crowd.
Looking down the bar, I saw an obscenely large steak and blurted out to its owner, "You've got a big piece of meat there."
While his brain fumbled for a reply, his buddy said, "You can't talk to my friend that way!"
They were the driving up from Wilmington, N.C., headed to New Jersey and then to Key West.
It seemed like an odd route at best.
The couple right next to us were waiting for a table and she was clearly eavesdropping on our conversation (not that there's anything wrong with that) and jumped in at an opportune moment.
A psychiatrist, she and her husband had lived in the area for ten years and wanted to talk restaurants with my friend once they heard she'd just moved there.
When they left for their table, another couple replaced them and they were feeling no pain.
They'd had dinner at the bar earlier, gone to a nearby pub and returned for a night cap.
Their story? From Scranton, on their way to catch the auto train to Florida and spending the weekend eating and drinking in Annapolis.
They were hysterical. Former stockbrokers who had met at a company softball game when he complimented her car (that old trick) back in the '80s, they'd extracted themselves from their marriages to marry each other.
She told a great story about working at Clyde's years ago when two members of the Jeff Beck group came in the bar.
They all started talking music and before they left, one of the musicians slid a big chunk of hash across the bar to her.
Not long afterwards, the bartender drank a flaming Galliano and inadvertently set his beard on fire.
After tamping it out and before he left for the hospital, she slid the hash over to him,, saying, "Have this. I think you'll need it more than I do."
That led to me asking them what their first shows had been (John Denver, who was a friend of hers, for her and Chicago for him) and music talk ensured.
The sous chef was at the end of the bar eavesdropping and jumped in then, pointing at me and asking what my first show had been.
His had been The Police on the "Synchronicity" tour. No wonder he'd been a music lover ever since.
By the time we left there satisfied with the colorful crowd, I was in a red meat coma and couldn't even think about ever wanting to eat again.
We went back to her place and drank more bubbles while listening to the bay.
Even better, I fell asleep to the sound of the water hitting the beach.
The bridge was lost in fog this morning, not that there weren't sailboats on the water anyway.
By the time we got ready to leave for points south, it was lunchtime.
Luckily this meal was more area-appropriate; Cantler's Riverside Inn was a crabhouse.
Originally a rough biker bar from the forties with lots of fights we were told, it had been bought by a guy named Cantler in '74 and turned into what it is today.
A casual place where people come via boat, bike and car to pick crabs.
And I can eat crabs like only someone raised in Maryland can.
They weren't local obviously, but from Louisiana, but they were supers (jumbos weren't to my friend's liking), well seasoned and hot out of the steamer.
So we settled in with a bartender named Karen (also one of six children) and ate Maryland crab soup and crabs.
My friend marveled at my picking speed and I inhaled crabs for the first time in my life in March.
The only thing that was missing was the sound of the water, but my friend was unwilling to sit outside because the plastic was up on the walls of the outside deck.
And as good as the crabs were, and they were meaty and flavorful, I already missed the sound of the water.
Looks like I'll have to go back to Annapolis again soon.
Sure, to eat, but mostly to hear.
A friend had suggested a weekend trip to Annapolis, a place I (mis)spent a fair amount of time in my youth, but hadn't revisited in years.
The lure was her new digs located right on the bay. with an all-glass view of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. With only a beach separating her and the sound of all that water.
And even with the gray day, it was a magnificent sight and sound.
And even with the occasional rain and lower temperature, boats were out.
Sailboats moving along at a brisk pace all afternoon. Cruise boats toward evening. Freighters in the distance.
I was helping her get organized in her new place and she was taking me out to one of her favorite restaurants.
But it isn't one of her favorites because of the food, although she's a huge steakhouse fan, but because of the colorful crowd (her words).
I'm always game for colorful.
She'd made reservations at the tiny bar, even choosing the specific stools she wanted to reserve.
Which was great for us, but got us some dirty looks when we sailed right into the waiting crowd and into our stools.
We toasted her new view with a bottle of Domaine Chandon Brut Classic.
Asking if I preferred crab or shrimp, we began with a crab cocktail that arrived on a small platter, looking to be about half a pound of lump crabmeat.
It was heavenly and could have been a meal by itself with the addition of a side or two.
Since we were at a steakhouse, I uncharacteristically chose red meat, opting for a filet mignon and roasted asparagus, while my friend inquired about the availability of prime rib.
The bartender returned from the kitchen solemnly, saying, "Zero prime rib, six baked potatoes."
How does a steak house get down to six baked potatoes by 9:00 on a Saturday night?
I thought his wording, "zero prime rib" pretty funny, but my friend was not amused, called dibs on one of the potatoes and settled for filet, too.
Waiting for our food, we amused ourselves with the bar crowd.
Looking down the bar, I saw an obscenely large steak and blurted out to its owner, "You've got a big piece of meat there."
While his brain fumbled for a reply, his buddy said, "You can't talk to my friend that way!"
They were the driving up from Wilmington, N.C., headed to New Jersey and then to Key West.
It seemed like an odd route at best.
The couple right next to us were waiting for a table and she was clearly eavesdropping on our conversation (not that there's anything wrong with that) and jumped in at an opportune moment.
A psychiatrist, she and her husband had lived in the area for ten years and wanted to talk restaurants with my friend once they heard she'd just moved there.
When they left for their table, another couple replaced them and they were feeling no pain.
They'd had dinner at the bar earlier, gone to a nearby pub and returned for a night cap.
Their story? From Scranton, on their way to catch the auto train to Florida and spending the weekend eating and drinking in Annapolis.
They were hysterical. Former stockbrokers who had met at a company softball game when he complimented her car (that old trick) back in the '80s, they'd extracted themselves from their marriages to marry each other.
She told a great story about working at Clyde's years ago when two members of the Jeff Beck group came in the bar.
They all started talking music and before they left, one of the musicians slid a big chunk of hash across the bar to her.
Not long afterwards, the bartender drank a flaming Galliano and inadvertently set his beard on fire.
After tamping it out and before he left for the hospital, she slid the hash over to him,, saying, "Have this. I think you'll need it more than I do."
That led to me asking them what their first shows had been (John Denver, who was a friend of hers, for her and Chicago for him) and music talk ensured.
The sous chef was at the end of the bar eavesdropping and jumped in then, pointing at me and asking what my first show had been.
His had been The Police on the "Synchronicity" tour. No wonder he'd been a music lover ever since.
By the time we left there satisfied with the colorful crowd, I was in a red meat coma and couldn't even think about ever wanting to eat again.
We went back to her place and drank more bubbles while listening to the bay.
Even better, I fell asleep to the sound of the water hitting the beach.
The bridge was lost in fog this morning, not that there weren't sailboats on the water anyway.
By the time we got ready to leave for points south, it was lunchtime.
Luckily this meal was more area-appropriate; Cantler's Riverside Inn was a crabhouse.
Originally a rough biker bar from the forties with lots of fights we were told, it had been bought by a guy named Cantler in '74 and turned into what it is today.
A casual place where people come via boat, bike and car to pick crabs.
And I can eat crabs like only someone raised in Maryland can.
They weren't local obviously, but from Louisiana, but they were supers (jumbos weren't to my friend's liking), well seasoned and hot out of the steamer.
So we settled in with a bartender named Karen (also one of six children) and ate Maryland crab soup and crabs.
My friend marveled at my picking speed and I inhaled crabs for the first time in my life in March.
The only thing that was missing was the sound of the water, but my friend was unwilling to sit outside because the plastic was up on the walls of the outside deck.
And as good as the crabs were, and they were meaty and flavorful, I already missed the sound of the water.
Looks like I'll have to go back to Annapolis again soon.
Sure, to eat, but mostly to hear.
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