If I say I'm going to be at your house at 3:30, I'm going to be at your house at 3:30. Ahem.
And if it changes the rest of my life, so be it.
The problem with starting a blog when you're recovering from illness, unemployed and not in a relationship is that you hope that all those things will change. And while I can be healthy and employed while still finding the time to blog, it's a different story now that I'm in a real relationship.
Whatever that means, it's not anything I've done before.
So after a three day weekend celebrating love and luck, rituals and romance, I'm looking back at all the things I could blog about except that work is preventing me from going on and on long enough to cover even half of that.
Do I begin with the Prosecco kick-off to a six-hour meal at Dinamo, complete with drop-in guest for the much anticipated 3:30 toast with Gabriella Pinot Gris? How about the chocolate espresso torte taken home to enjoy rather than amongst the V-Day celebrants?
And don't get me started on the Year in Review, a photo album documenting 80 moments I may recall with clarity now but probably won't forever.
As for the cozy interlude at Lift to sip whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, well, that was just to take advantage of walking in the snowy/rain mix under a big umbrella together.
Or do I go directly to seeing "Once" at Virginia Rep and reveling in a 13-person cast, all of whom played their own instruments - mandolin, guitar, banjo, violin, drums - and a charming, if unresolved, love story? I first saw "Once" at an arthouse theater in Philly in August 2007, only to leave the theater in tears to drive back down I-95 south alone.
Let's just say it was far preferable to watch the musical love story unfold live with Mr. Wright and stroll home talking about it instead. Best line used 3 times: "I'm always serious. I'm Czech!"
For that matter, I definitely don't have time to go into details about going to see "From Here to Eternity" (a film I'd never seen before) at the Byrd Theatre. And because it was one of our themed movie dates, we followed up a classic film set in Hawaii with dinner at the Hawaiian-influenced Perch. Except that rather than tiki drinks, we went Spanish with Poema Cava to toast the future.
Favorite things about the movie? Burt Lancaster in fitted, '50s-style swimming trunks. Montgomery Clift in a pre-car accident role before his face got messed up. Outdoor Hawaiian Tiki bars circa 1953. Deborah Kerr in stylish high-waisted shorts. Raven-haired Donna Reed as a bad girl who wants to go "proper."
What I did have time for was wallowing in a long weekend with the most hilarious man I know without writing a single word for profit or for the online curious.
I can't promise that will be the case once the Year of Upheaval begins. But for now, I'm doing my best.
Showing posts with label anniversary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anniversary. Show all posts
Monday, February 18, 2019
Sunday, September 16, 2018
A Cellar Full of Noise
Where was I ten years ago? Celebrating Ipanema's tenth anniversary.
Where was I tonight? Celebrating Ipanema's 20th anniversary. Are you seeing a pattern?
When I went to the tenth anniversary party, I had no real connection to the place. But that night, I met the owner and the first words out of her mouth were about how much she loved my blog and its positivity. I was, of course, smitten with her immediately and we became friends soon after. I called her my girl crush right up until she found the man of her dreams.
If you want to get personal about it, it's where I learned how to drink without getting trashed over the course of an evening, a skill set taught to me by my new friend, often on Ipanema's patio (the same patio where she threw me a birthday celebration).
Reasons enough to say that Ipanema is central to my history over the past decade. But every bit as important, Ipanema's anniversary coincides with our friend-iversary, so we were celebrating tonight, too.
Over the years, I've become an Ipanema semi-regular. I attended nearly every Live at Ipanema to hear new and familiar bands enliven a Sunday evening. Many a night I went for the DJ, especially if it was the Blood Brothers playing '60s and '70s music. I went for dessert after seeing movies at the Grace Street Cinema and sneaked over from Strange Matter during band breaks to get a decent glass of wine. I spent hours on conversation while sharing a bottle of wine off the Secret Stash wine list. I celebrated New Year's Eve at parties there and had a second Thannksgiving dinner after my own at home.
How could I not be part of the celebration of their longevity?
Mac and I walked over and found seats at the two-top against the dividing wall, out of the fray but with stellar views of the crowd back and front. It was bound to be an interesting view given how many people have sentimental attachment to Ipanema. Within no time, I spotted the urban planer whose weekly series of charettes I'd attended to give input about J-Ward. In the back was the bookseller and author who'd lived in my apartment before I did. The record collector and scene stalwart.
Our server turned out to be a familiar face from Balliceaux and from Gallery 5 and he was happy to bring me a glass of Garciarevalo Casamaro Verdejo and a tequila-laced La Casa Pacifica for Mac.
With the place getting more crowded by the minute, we scanned the anniversary menu dedicated to picnic food that was tacked to the usual menu chalkboard. For me, that meant a chicken of the wood "lobster roll," meaning fungi dressed with mayo and full of celery, along with sides of seeded cornbread (a combination I'd never had and adored) and killer baked beans, while Mac went with the mushroom and onion fajitas with broccoli salad, vegan mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
They may have all been vegan, but there wasn't a stinker in the bunch.
By the time we'd cleaned our plates, every seat and bar stool was taken and there was a waiting list for a seat. Our timing had been impeccable and completely accidental.
And while I don't know if the hordes were there for the anniversary, I tend to think they were. As the woman nearest me said to her friends, "Can we just stop and appreciate how long this place has been here?" When you're 23 or 24, it must be truly impressive to think of a favorite restaurant as having been around since you were a toddler, just waiting for you to be legal to indulge in its pleasures.
In no hurry to vacate, Mac and I ordered another round of drinks (her poison of choice this time was the Sweet Revenge, a yummy but not cloying coconut-based cocktail) and shared a slice of blueberry pie a la mode while the owner pulled up a chair to our table and sat down to dish. Or, more accurately get the scoop on my life since we'd last talked, the news of which made her very happy.
Eventually, Mac had to go (early morning travel plans) so I walked her back to my place to claim her car and returned to the anniversary party. The thing is, Ipanema won't have another 20th anniversary celebration. Hell, any day now a developer is going to swoop in and buy that building to erect a tower of student apartments. After that, it's only going to be the former regulars and barflies who even recall the subterranean spot that attracted generations of VCU students and neighbors like me.
It wasn't long after I returned that the manager grabbed me for the cutting of the birthday cake in the back of the restaurant. When I asked what flavor the cake was, he told me it was "cake flavor," although the flavor of the cake didn't matter because the icing was so good. Requesting a corner piece didn't hurt, either.
Music arrived shortly after in the form of DJ Bad Daughter and DJ Sad Boi, both carrying by the handles the same kind of colorful boxes of 45s I had in my youth.
When I asked a blond next to me if she'd come for the anniversary, she looked confused. She'd come for a beer to forget the stalker boyfriend she'd left behind in another city, but she was open-minded enough to jump on board with the occasion.
Ensconced at the bar with my girl crush and another glass of Verdejo, we talked about some of the good times we'd had there over the years. About whether or not a counter-culture even exists anymore (seems unlikely) like it did when she opened Ipanema. About how possessive people feel about Ipanema because of spending their formative years there discussing life and love over a grilled Gouda sandwich.
When we finally left, she walked me home before calling Lyft to get her home to Southside. Along the way, we talked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi a few years back, reminiscing about how much we'd seen, eaten and experienced that week. How neither of us had any interest in seeing Graceland. How much we'd laughed.
But mostly what I was thinking about was how fortunate I was to have ended up at Ipanema in 2008 to celebrate a decade in business. It not only introduced me to one of my favorite people, but taught me how lucky I was to have such a charming spot a half mile walk from home and open every night. Cue Petula Clark.
I know a place where the music is fine
And the lights are always low
I know a place where we can go
At the door there's a man who will greet you
Then you go downstairs to some tables and chairs
Soon, I'm sure, you'll be tapping your feet
Cause the beat is the greatest there
Congrats to the woman not only capable of creating such a place, but of keeping it going for 20 years. It's got an atmosphere of its own somehow because of the countless people whose lives have been lived partly in the low light of Ipanema.
I'm thrilled to have been one of them...and hoping for 20 more.
Where was I tonight? Celebrating Ipanema's 20th anniversary. Are you seeing a pattern?
When I went to the tenth anniversary party, I had no real connection to the place. But that night, I met the owner and the first words out of her mouth were about how much she loved my blog and its positivity. I was, of course, smitten with her immediately and we became friends soon after. I called her my girl crush right up until she found the man of her dreams.
If you want to get personal about it, it's where I learned how to drink without getting trashed over the course of an evening, a skill set taught to me by my new friend, often on Ipanema's patio (the same patio where she threw me a birthday celebration).
Reasons enough to say that Ipanema is central to my history over the past decade. But every bit as important, Ipanema's anniversary coincides with our friend-iversary, so we were celebrating tonight, too.
Over the years, I've become an Ipanema semi-regular. I attended nearly every Live at Ipanema to hear new and familiar bands enliven a Sunday evening. Many a night I went for the DJ, especially if it was the Blood Brothers playing '60s and '70s music. I went for dessert after seeing movies at the Grace Street Cinema and sneaked over from Strange Matter during band breaks to get a decent glass of wine. I spent hours on conversation while sharing a bottle of wine off the Secret Stash wine list. I celebrated New Year's Eve at parties there and had a second Thannksgiving dinner after my own at home.
How could I not be part of the celebration of their longevity?
Mac and I walked over and found seats at the two-top against the dividing wall, out of the fray but with stellar views of the crowd back and front. It was bound to be an interesting view given how many people have sentimental attachment to Ipanema. Within no time, I spotted the urban planer whose weekly series of charettes I'd attended to give input about J-Ward. In the back was the bookseller and author who'd lived in my apartment before I did. The record collector and scene stalwart.
Our server turned out to be a familiar face from Balliceaux and from Gallery 5 and he was happy to bring me a glass of Garciarevalo Casamaro Verdejo and a tequila-laced La Casa Pacifica for Mac.
With the place getting more crowded by the minute, we scanned the anniversary menu dedicated to picnic food that was tacked to the usual menu chalkboard. For me, that meant a chicken of the wood "lobster roll," meaning fungi dressed with mayo and full of celery, along with sides of seeded cornbread (a combination I'd never had and adored) and killer baked beans, while Mac went with the mushroom and onion fajitas with broccoli salad, vegan mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
They may have all been vegan, but there wasn't a stinker in the bunch.
By the time we'd cleaned our plates, every seat and bar stool was taken and there was a waiting list for a seat. Our timing had been impeccable and completely accidental.
And while I don't know if the hordes were there for the anniversary, I tend to think they were. As the woman nearest me said to her friends, "Can we just stop and appreciate how long this place has been here?" When you're 23 or 24, it must be truly impressive to think of a favorite restaurant as having been around since you were a toddler, just waiting for you to be legal to indulge in its pleasures.
In no hurry to vacate, Mac and I ordered another round of drinks (her poison of choice this time was the Sweet Revenge, a yummy but not cloying coconut-based cocktail) and shared a slice of blueberry pie a la mode while the owner pulled up a chair to our table and sat down to dish. Or, more accurately get the scoop on my life since we'd last talked, the news of which made her very happy.
Eventually, Mac had to go (early morning travel plans) so I walked her back to my place to claim her car and returned to the anniversary party. The thing is, Ipanema won't have another 20th anniversary celebration. Hell, any day now a developer is going to swoop in and buy that building to erect a tower of student apartments. After that, it's only going to be the former regulars and barflies who even recall the subterranean spot that attracted generations of VCU students and neighbors like me.
It wasn't long after I returned that the manager grabbed me for the cutting of the birthday cake in the back of the restaurant. When I asked what flavor the cake was, he told me it was "cake flavor," although the flavor of the cake didn't matter because the icing was so good. Requesting a corner piece didn't hurt, either.
Music arrived shortly after in the form of DJ Bad Daughter and DJ Sad Boi, both carrying by the handles the same kind of colorful boxes of 45s I had in my youth.
When I asked a blond next to me if she'd come for the anniversary, she looked confused. She'd come for a beer to forget the stalker boyfriend she'd left behind in another city, but she was open-minded enough to jump on board with the occasion.
Ensconced at the bar with my girl crush and another glass of Verdejo, we talked about some of the good times we'd had there over the years. About whether or not a counter-culture even exists anymore (seems unlikely) like it did when she opened Ipanema. About how possessive people feel about Ipanema because of spending their formative years there discussing life and love over a grilled Gouda sandwich.
When we finally left, she walked me home before calling Lyft to get her home to Southside. Along the way, we talked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi a few years back, reminiscing about how much we'd seen, eaten and experienced that week. How neither of us had any interest in seeing Graceland. How much we'd laughed.
But mostly what I was thinking about was how fortunate I was to have ended up at Ipanema in 2008 to celebrate a decade in business. It not only introduced me to one of my favorite people, but taught me how lucky I was to have such a charming spot a half mile walk from home and open every night. Cue Petula Clark.
I know a place where the music is fine
And the lights are always low
I know a place where we can go
At the door there's a man who will greet you
Then you go downstairs to some tables and chairs
Soon, I'm sure, you'll be tapping your feet
Cause the beat is the greatest there
Congrats to the woman not only capable of creating such a place, but of keeping it going for 20 years. It's got an atmosphere of its own somehow because of the countless people whose lives have been lived partly in the low light of Ipanema.
I'm thrilled to have been one of them...and hoping for 20 more.
Monday, September 11, 2017
At Least It Took
Don't lure me to a cemetery with wine and then try to get me to say god. Not happening.
This afternoon was the official unveiling and dedication of the new Daniel Norton grave monument at Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Those not up on their Virginia wine might not recognize the name of the man who discovered Virginia's native grape, but let me assure you, he's a pretty big deal.
As today's speaker acknowledged, other than Chief Justice John Marshall, Dr. Norton is the most important person buried in that cemetery and that's saying something.
None of that was news to me since years ago I'd read Todd Kliman's "The Wild Vine" and learned the story of the doctor-turned-viticulturist and his life-long devotion to the grape that has since carried his name: the Norton.
For that matter, for years now I've made a regular pilgrimage to Shockoe Hill Cemetery for the sole purpose of maintaining the five stones I placed on Norton's original grave marker.
I'd even trekked to Chrysalis Vineyard because it has more acres planted with Norton than any place in the world and an array of wines made with the Norton grape. I know a lot of people find the grape's taste too foxy, but I like what our speaker described as "an American kind of wildness taste" that Norton has.
That's just a long-winded way of saying that I was happy to walk over to the cemetery to witness any and all festivities dedicated to Dr. N.
Walking toward the gravestone, I noticed two things simultaneously: two rifles casually propped against a nearby tree and a swooping trail of large white mushrooms, no doubt the result of those rainy days last week.
Things got started when a four-piece color guard from the General Society of the War of 1812 marched out from behind a tree in lockstep, all carrying flags. That's when they wanted us all to say the pledge of allegiance and while I'm willing to do that, I have never accepted Dwight Eisenhower's decision to insert the words "under god" into the pledge.
Which made me the sole person at the cemetery today with her hand over her heart who also went seamlessly from "one nation" directly to "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Sorry, but I fail to see how a country founded on the principles of separation of church and state should require its citizens to acknowledge some crazy Christian's notion of a higher being. Nope.
Shockoe Hill had brought in the big gun to sing the praises of the Norton grape (and the 30-some varieties that grow in Virginia today): Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis.
She talked about how all the Norton grapes in Virginia died out during Prohibition and how Horton Vineyards had been the first to plant it again. How Norton had been trained as a surgeon but followed his passion to become a farmer and viticulturist instead. She even humble bragged that her Norton Locksley Reserve had been rated #2 in the world by an important European wine magazine.
The marker, complete with a bas relief image of the good doctor, was unveiled to oohs and ahs. But the real treat was watching the color guard's rifle salute afterward, marred only when one of the two riflemen found his gun jamming and unable to fire.
To lighten the moment, the head of the color guard observed, "Can you imagine everyone coming at you in battle and you have trouble loading your gun?" Rhetorical question.
Naturally, "Taps" followed, taking me back to summer camp, except then it had been played on a bugle and not a cell phone. But don't get me started.
Tonight's fun was Laura Lee's one year anniversary party for friends and neighbors and held in their about-to-open back garden, which was in full blooming splendor tonight.
As far back as late May, I'd celebrated my birthday and that of a fellow Gemini in Laura Lee's garden, but none of the plantings were nearly as mature then, the strings of lights hadn't been added nor the comfortable furniture brought in. All the pieces were in place tonight to wow.
People had broken up into small groups, so simply moving between groups meant a change in conversations. A woman eating only a bite of spanikopita said that spanikopita was the only food she knew how to make. Another lamented her decision to wear high-heeled pumps. A man blanched at the mention of a $42 steak.
A favorite couple was there and they were just back from eating at Oriole in Chicago, although they'd run out of time to do the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio. That led to a conversation about Richmond's restaurant scene back in the days when Millie's, Mama Zu and Helen's were as good as it got.
Those who didn't live here then found it tough to fathom that Helen's had ever been a big deal, but I know that it was the first place I was ever served gold leaf on top of a bisque, something that was most definitely not happening anywhere else in Richmond back then.
There was speculation about what's going into the former Kinfolk spot (and who signs a ten-year lease on a restaurant anyhow?), opinion swapping about the swank Brenner Pass, an in-depth analysis of the Roosevelt's burger versus Laura Lee's and a fair amount of trash talk about the Richmond Times Dispatch.
Wine and whiskey punch were laid out for guests to help themselves while appetizers of Mexican street corn, spanikopita, sausages and egg rolls were scooped up to keep pace with the booze.
Being surrounded by so many of Laura Lee's neighbors, I was bound to hear the restaurant's praises sung all night long. Everyone was so grateful that they now have this wonderful place to eat, drink and hang out right in their neighborhood.
I get it. People like to be able to walk to their neighborhood joint and stumble home when necessary.
And while it's not that for me - it's a tad too far to J-Ward - it has turned out to be a terrific place not only to meet up with friends but to meet new people. Repeatedly, in some cases.
You know what they say, as many times as it takes. The rest is easy.
This afternoon was the official unveiling and dedication of the new Daniel Norton grave monument at Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Those not up on their Virginia wine might not recognize the name of the man who discovered Virginia's native grape, but let me assure you, he's a pretty big deal.
As today's speaker acknowledged, other than Chief Justice John Marshall, Dr. Norton is the most important person buried in that cemetery and that's saying something.
None of that was news to me since years ago I'd read Todd Kliman's "The Wild Vine" and learned the story of the doctor-turned-viticulturist and his life-long devotion to the grape that has since carried his name: the Norton.
For that matter, for years now I've made a regular pilgrimage to Shockoe Hill Cemetery for the sole purpose of maintaining the five stones I placed on Norton's original grave marker.
I'd even trekked to Chrysalis Vineyard because it has more acres planted with Norton than any place in the world and an array of wines made with the Norton grape. I know a lot of people find the grape's taste too foxy, but I like what our speaker described as "an American kind of wildness taste" that Norton has.
That's just a long-winded way of saying that I was happy to walk over to the cemetery to witness any and all festivities dedicated to Dr. N.
Walking toward the gravestone, I noticed two things simultaneously: two rifles casually propped against a nearby tree and a swooping trail of large white mushrooms, no doubt the result of those rainy days last week.
Things got started when a four-piece color guard from the General Society of the War of 1812 marched out from behind a tree in lockstep, all carrying flags. That's when they wanted us all to say the pledge of allegiance and while I'm willing to do that, I have never accepted Dwight Eisenhower's decision to insert the words "under god" into the pledge.
Which made me the sole person at the cemetery today with her hand over her heart who also went seamlessly from "one nation" directly to "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Sorry, but I fail to see how a country founded on the principles of separation of church and state should require its citizens to acknowledge some crazy Christian's notion of a higher being. Nope.
Shockoe Hill had brought in the big gun to sing the praises of the Norton grape (and the 30-some varieties that grow in Virginia today): Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis.
She talked about how all the Norton grapes in Virginia died out during Prohibition and how Horton Vineyards had been the first to plant it again. How Norton had been trained as a surgeon but followed his passion to become a farmer and viticulturist instead. She even humble bragged that her Norton Locksley Reserve had been rated #2 in the world by an important European wine magazine.
The marker, complete with a bas relief image of the good doctor, was unveiled to oohs and ahs. But the real treat was watching the color guard's rifle salute afterward, marred only when one of the two riflemen found his gun jamming and unable to fire.
To lighten the moment, the head of the color guard observed, "Can you imagine everyone coming at you in battle and you have trouble loading your gun?" Rhetorical question.
Naturally, "Taps" followed, taking me back to summer camp, except then it had been played on a bugle and not a cell phone. But don't get me started.
Tonight's fun was Laura Lee's one year anniversary party for friends and neighbors and held in their about-to-open back garden, which was in full blooming splendor tonight.
As far back as late May, I'd celebrated my birthday and that of a fellow Gemini in Laura Lee's garden, but none of the plantings were nearly as mature then, the strings of lights hadn't been added nor the comfortable furniture brought in. All the pieces were in place tonight to wow.
People had broken up into small groups, so simply moving between groups meant a change in conversations. A woman eating only a bite of spanikopita said that spanikopita was the only food she knew how to make. Another lamented her decision to wear high-heeled pumps. A man blanched at the mention of a $42 steak.
A favorite couple was there and they were just back from eating at Oriole in Chicago, although they'd run out of time to do the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio. That led to a conversation about Richmond's restaurant scene back in the days when Millie's, Mama Zu and Helen's were as good as it got.
Those who didn't live here then found it tough to fathom that Helen's had ever been a big deal, but I know that it was the first place I was ever served gold leaf on top of a bisque, something that was most definitely not happening anywhere else in Richmond back then.
There was speculation about what's going into the former Kinfolk spot (and who signs a ten-year lease on a restaurant anyhow?), opinion swapping about the swank Brenner Pass, an in-depth analysis of the Roosevelt's burger versus Laura Lee's and a fair amount of trash talk about the Richmond Times Dispatch.
Wine and whiskey punch were laid out for guests to help themselves while appetizers of Mexican street corn, spanikopita, sausages and egg rolls were scooped up to keep pace with the booze.
Being surrounded by so many of Laura Lee's neighbors, I was bound to hear the restaurant's praises sung all night long. Everyone was so grateful that they now have this wonderful place to eat, drink and hang out right in their neighborhood.
I get it. People like to be able to walk to their neighborhood joint and stumble home when necessary.
And while it's not that for me - it's a tad too far to J-Ward - it has turned out to be a terrific place not only to meet up with friends but to meet new people. Repeatedly, in some cases.
You know what they say, as many times as it takes. The rest is easy.
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