Glowing in the Southern Summer

A third anniversary may not sound like much, but it is.

I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.

Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?

So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?

I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.

Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.

Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.

I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.

Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.

Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.

I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.

And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.

One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.

It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.

I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.

Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.

The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.

The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.

People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.

It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.

The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.

I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.

When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"

And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.

Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.

By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.

You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.

I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.

Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?

Bonne Anniversaire!

An anniversary party made for the ideal sendoff for my vacation.

Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating three years with bubbles and lots of desserts.

If I ever have an anniversary worth celebrating, I'd do it exactly the same way.

Being the eager beaver, I was there right when things were supposed to get started, but an unusually busy dinner hour was delaying things.

Come to think of it, on the drive over, I'd driven past crowds and lines at most restaurants.

While most people seem to be out of town already (my neighborhood is a ghost town), apparently those still around were all out tonight.

It turned out to be a lively night, with pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, the inevitable glass of wine spilled nearby and an errant spoon that went flying.

I took a seat at the bar and began with a glass of Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose.

The two girls next to me were deep into man talk ("George is the only one I want to marry!") but the guy at the far end perked up when he saw he had someone to talk to.

Once he found out my interests, we had a most interesting discussion of a very old painting of a bishop he'd gotten from his grandfather.

He was eager to find out who'd painted it and asked for suggestions.

Using old letters between his grandparents, he'd found a reference to a Peter Paul Rubens painting his grandfather had bought 100 years ago.

Holy cow, Rubens?

I told him he needed a much higher source than me to start that process.

Like me, he's a regular at Amour, as were all of the crowd who came in tonight to raise a glass to Amour making it three years in a business that's known to chew up and spit out even experienced entrepreneurs.

I saw the cute couple I always see at Amour, the ones who seem to take so much pleasure in each other's company.

Three women came in after seeing "The Comedy of Errors" at Agecroft and we made room for them at the bar.

Turns out they were Carytown merchants as well as regulars, although it was somehow our first time meeting.

Like me, they were tickled to see tonight's dessert menu offering 3 for $3 or 5 for $5.

Now that's a dessert menu I can get behind.

And the choices!

Bourbon maple creme caramel. Key lime tartlette. Plantain cake with avocado buttercream. Chocolate mousse in orange lace cookie. Profiteroles with ganache.

The three of them debated whether they need to order 5 for $5 or 10 for $10, while I kept my order to 3 for $3.

One of the women argued that sharing five small desserts between three women was insufficient.

While they debated, I started on my cake with its delicate flavors and exquisite buttercream.

Next I did profiteroles filled with Chantilly cream, but mine arrived sans ganache.

Then a friend came in (with a friend) and all of a sudden I was moving my bar stool to their bar table to join them for dessert.

They were two, so they chose five desserts.

My friend regaled us with stories of her "crazy" Dad who cuts out the obituaries of his former wife's ex-boyfriends and sends them to my friend, instructing, "Send this to your Mother."

With the cute couple behind us, we discussed playing online Scrabble (she does, I don't), leading her friend to observe that people who play Scrabble on a Kindle can cheat.

I wouldn't know.

You see, I just packed my wooden Scrabble board to take to the beach and there's no cheating with wood.

My last dessert was chocolate mousse in an orange lace cookie with a raspberry, a sublime combination of flavors.

While it seemed fitting to have three desserts to celebrate a third anniversary, I was led astray when suddenly profiteroles with ganache arrived.

I couldn't think of a single reason to resist the dark chocolate-covered delicacies.

You see, it's the contrast of the dark chocolate with the delicately sweet cream that makes a profiterole sing.

As I suspected, all these wonderful desserts were for tonight only and will not be showing up on the regular menu.

You either came and benefited or missed out entirely.

I met a guy who'd read my post about a disco party we'd both attended and we laughed when we heard that the upcoming Bastille day picnic may include another appearance by Amour's smoke machine.

Maybe that's the deep, dark secret of a restaurant making it to the three year point.

Keep things fresh and blow a little smoke every once in a while.

I'll have to remember that if I ever get to a third anniversary again.

I Want Some Action

You just never know what talents people have.

So when I was invited to a party to celebrate the third anniversary of Amour in Carytown, the last thing I expected was a mirror ball.

But there it was, spinning and casting a moving pattern of light along the walls, while Freddy Mercury danced across the big screen on the bar and a smoke machine filled the room with hazy fog.

What alternate universe Amour was this?

Oh, you know, just celebrating another year of mercantile success in a diametrically opposed way to business as usual.

If you've ever been to Amour, you wouldn't have recognized it tonight.

Guests barely walked in before a glass of fruity and floral La Vielle Ferme Rose found its way into their hand.

Everybody recognized everybody, at least on some level, because everybody was a long-time customer.

The Queen concert on the big screen was merely a talking point as people mingled and sipped.

A favorite couple came over to marvel with me over owner Paul's inner disco DJ.

I heard a great story from the '70s about a new guy at work wearing his white bell-bottoms to work until his supervisor gently suggested he stop that.

Apparently, the white pants showed through what was underneath.

Ah, the '70s, when that was what we worried about.

Just about the time everyone was becoming lubricated, Queen gave way to karaoke.

Oh, yes, serious entertainment.

There were multiple microphones, a wide catalog of songs available and Paul mixing each song into the next seamlessly.

Very quickly, those with a desire to sing became masters of the mics, while the less bold sang nearby, slightly off-mic.

A-ha's "Take On Me."

Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

No Doubt's "Don't Speak."

While I was over at the bar with my orange-dressed associate, "Like a Virgin" began playing and the bartender looked wistful.

Addressing the two of us, she said, "This song always reminds me of "Moulin Rouge."

Pause while the woman next to me and I digested that.

She continues, "I picture a red-headed man with a mustache singing this."

We look at each other in wonder.

"Is it a generational thing?" she asks sincerely.

Yes, my dear, if you hear "Like a Virgin" and don't picture Madonna writhing on stage, it probably is a generational thing.

The never-shy owner of a nearby Mexican restaurant was the karaoke ringleader, encouraging others to sing along to the words on the screen.

And wouldn't you just know that we made our way back to more Queen?

Fact: in the case of many songs, the contingent singing along was everyone who had not yet been born when the song came out.

Funny how that works.

DJ Paul was a smiling multi-tasker, putting music on, running to the back to hit the smoke machine and singing along to all his personal favorites.

At one point, a restaurant owner tapped my knee, telling me to come dance with him (insisting "I know you're a dancer") but I preferred to hang in the back, where there were prime observation spots.

It also put me in the thick of the smoke when that got going, making for a fuller anniversary experience.

I love the nightlife
I've got to boogie
On the disco round, oh, yea

I have to appreciate a man willing to let his inner disco out, even just for one evening.

But who would have guessed?