When it's your thing, you get to do what you want to do.
That meant my Sunday began with a rarity - hosting lunch at my house, complete with a bouquet of black-eyed Susans in the middle of the dining room table - and a nerdy indulgence: seeing the documentary "Yves Saint Laurent: His Life and Times" at the air conditioned VMFA.
That the near capacity crowd leaned 90% female mattered not to my non-alpha male companion, who, like me, is a documentary dork and was also eager to learn more about the man behind the designer.
Because YSL himself had been interviewed extensively, there were all kinds of intimate revelations, from his longing to be a beatnik (don't we all?) to the fact that his father never acknowledged his son was gay (in the interview with his mother, she says she knew, but her husband traveled a lot for business, so there didn't seem to be any point in telling him).
But the piece-de-resistance had to be the 3-year old Yves telling his great aunt to go change her dress before they went out...and she did. When he was hired as Christian Dior's assistant and his mother was coming to meet Dior, he also had final say on her ensemble.
That's talent the boy was born with.
Unlike a more typical American film, the pace was slow and measured (like YSL himself) with full admissions about his depression and addictions, with plenty of self doubt thrown in.
And always, those fabulous couture collections that he managed to design during two 2-week periods every year. In one outdoor scene, a series of models walk by, each dressed like the epitome of the swingin' modern '60s woman and so very different from the more constrained gender roles of the '50s.
It was a fascinating film that should have sent anyone in the audience who hadn't already seen the YSL exhibit (don't look at me) directly to it.
How is it this person arrived on earth so fully formed in his fashion sense? I was 40 before I had a clue what worked for me fashion-wise - and a lot of bad choices before that - and I'm still playing catch-up in some respects (jeans, scarves, jewelry) even now.
It wasn't hard to wile away the late afternoon or choose a place for an early dinner and when we pulled up to Metzger, who should we see heading in for dinner but one of the couples we'd recently shared a beach house with. Now it was a party.
Despite the shades being down, the sun had positioned itself so that all of the restaurant's windows were taking the brunt of the heat and things heated up as we sipped Anton Bauer Rose and chatted. They'd just come from Sub Rosa and seeing Miramar, which was exactly what we'd done last Sunday.
Small world.
But it was my date's first Metzger outing, so I had to introduce him to the myriad pleasures of it, beginning with Mr. Fine Wine providing the killer vintage soul soundtrack. Looking around to take it all in, he was impressed with a cleaver on the wall and intrigued by the bandoleer of Underberg singles.
The menu had been updated only the day before and maybe that's why the corn soup with crab and speck tasted like the corn had been in the field yesterday. The milky broth was sublime by itself, but in my world, everything's better with with crab and the speck provided a beautiful salty note to contrast with the sweetness of the corn and crab.
Mr. First Timer felt the siren song of a special of pork loin and I encouraged him since Metzger is magic with meat, while I had an heirloom tomato salad (the tops of the slices bruleed for a sweet note) with peaches, tarragon and seeded granola in buttermilk dressing.
In other words, a plate of summer.
Plenty of other familiar faces showed up - the IT whiz and his wife in a cute ticking jump suit, the dancer, the musician, the Italian I hadn't seen in ages - and then our beach friends moved on just as our black forest bombe (cherry ice cream over chocolate cake covered in hard chocolate with brandy cream) arrived.
A dessert so rich we couldn't finish it provided a splendid introduction for the Metzger virgin to the digestif Underberg, so we ordered two of the little single-serve bottles labeled with the promise: "To feel bright and alert" and took our dose of herbal bitters clocking in at 44%.
Those little empty bottles used to be found scattered on the floor during Mr. Fine Wine dance parties, but now that those have stopped, Underberg can be appreciated for its true purpose: settling an overly-full belly after a protracted and indulgent meal.
And while we briefly toyed with the idea of going to a show, it sounded just as appealing to sit on the balcony, listen to Brazil '66 followed by Isaac Hayes and watch heat lightening until the rain arrived.
Because bright and alert is in the eye of the beholders.
Showing posts with label anton bauer rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anton bauer rose. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Monday, September 7, 2015
Cuckoo Clocks Aren't Swiss
Richmond, you did right by the cinema gods again.
Who knew there were enough people left in town over Labor Day weekend to fill up the Byrd Theater and far too many still to fit into New York Deli for the afterparty?
It didn't hurt that the Bijou crew - the folks on a mission to build a small arthouse theater here - had chosen a brilliant movie, "The Third Man," to lure people away from grills and backyard drinking for a good cause.
As my friends can attest, I'm notorious for not having seen enough classic films (partly because I don't watch films on TV), but I was far from the only one. An awful lot of hands shot up when the question was asked, "Who hasn't seen this film?" and from behind me, I hard a man react, "Wow!"
Obviously, I'm not the only one lacking in vintage film viewing.
My excitement about the screening had me inviting lots of friends to the event and then spotting even more at the theater, on the streets, in line. Clearly Bijou people are my people.
The evening began with friends Pru and Beau at Metzger for dinner, chosen for its non-proximity to the Byrd Theater. I understand the appeal of park once, party twice, I really do, but I'm also sage enough to anticipate every Carytown restaurant being mobbed as a result of that thinking.
Not for us the crowds. In fact, we were the first customers in Metzger, soon plowing through a bottle of Anton Bauer Rose (because Austrian wine before a movie set in Vienna, duh), a cheese and charcuterie board (let's have a moment of reverence for the orgasmic triple-cream Brillat Savarin), smoked tomato soup, pastrami smorrebrod (the horseradish quark a highlight), Arctic char and the heirloom tomato tart, all set to a soundtrack of my favorite vintage soul (the reliably fabulous Mr. Fine Wine).
But once in Carytown, the mellow vibe vanished and I soon heard my name called from a passing car. It was the scooter queen and her beloved in search of a bite before the Psychic TV show at Strange Matter. In fact, I knew several friends who'd chosen music over movie tonight.
That's a first world problem, choosing between a classic Brit film and an experimental Brit band. We've got it so tough in Richmond.
Once in the line to get in that snaked along Cary Street and around the corner down Colonial Avenue, the parade of friends began in earnest: the movie club mastermind, the theater critic, the conga player with his violinist wife, lots of WRIR volunteers, a favorite guitarist and doughnut lover, the former neighbor, the bass player, the A/V expert. All the cool kids.
Inside the theater, it was all energy and excitement as people found seats, spotted friends and settled in for a classic film. After raffle drawings (I didn't win), info from manager Todd about the Byrd's fancy new projector and an introduction about the film, we finally got to the beautifully restored version of "The Third Man."
From the opening frames - with the completely unique credit "Zither music by Anton Karas" - the film was a thing of beauty with atmospheric shots of post-war Vienna making it look like alternately the most romantic place on earth and the most seedy. Harsh lighting and dramatic shadows reigned supreme.
An unabashed fan, I've read plenty of Graham Greene's works -"Brighton Beach," "The Heart of the Matter," "The End of the Affair," "The Quiet American, "Travels with My Aunt" to name just a few - yet I'd never read this one, making it all the more appealing for not having a clue where the story was going.
The beauty of it was how well executed the script and performances were, sucking in the audience completely. No one plays the alcoholic American quite like Petersburg boy Joseph Cotten.
It's for exactly that reason that I love going to the movies and experiencing a film with strangers. The shared experience of watching a story unfold, getting to know and like (or abruptly dislike) characters, the moments of tension and surprise shared with others around me is, in my opinion, the whole point of watching a movie.
For that matter, tonight's screening perfectly demonstrated why the Bijou Film Center is precisely what Richmond needs. There are far too many of us who haven't seen important movies like "The Third Man" or for those who have, only on small screens at home. No, thank you.
That's not a movie experience and it's nothing like what director Carol Reed was striving to accomplish with this film.
It's about the shared experience of hearing someone behind me react, like when the cat snuggles up to a shadowed man's feet and the guy behind me whispers, "Oh, my god, it's Harry!" or when the affable Sergeant Paine is killed in the sewers and a woman nearby couldn't help exclaiming, "Oh, no, not him!"
Won't it be cool when the Bijou has a regular location where we can have these kind of shared film events week in and week out?
It's going to take all of us to make it happen and hopefully sooner rather than later. Given last night's sizable and enthusiastic crowd, I don't see any reason to think it won't.
In the meantime, it was a hell of an offering to the cinema gods.
Who knew there were enough people left in town over Labor Day weekend to fill up the Byrd Theater and far too many still to fit into New York Deli for the afterparty?
It didn't hurt that the Bijou crew - the folks on a mission to build a small arthouse theater here - had chosen a brilliant movie, "The Third Man," to lure people away from grills and backyard drinking for a good cause.
As my friends can attest, I'm notorious for not having seen enough classic films (partly because I don't watch films on TV), but I was far from the only one. An awful lot of hands shot up when the question was asked, "Who hasn't seen this film?" and from behind me, I hard a man react, "Wow!"
Obviously, I'm not the only one lacking in vintage film viewing.
My excitement about the screening had me inviting lots of friends to the event and then spotting even more at the theater, on the streets, in line. Clearly Bijou people are my people.
The evening began with friends Pru and Beau at Metzger for dinner, chosen for its non-proximity to the Byrd Theater. I understand the appeal of park once, party twice, I really do, but I'm also sage enough to anticipate every Carytown restaurant being mobbed as a result of that thinking.
Not for us the crowds. In fact, we were the first customers in Metzger, soon plowing through a bottle of Anton Bauer Rose (because Austrian wine before a movie set in Vienna, duh), a cheese and charcuterie board (let's have a moment of reverence for the orgasmic triple-cream Brillat Savarin), smoked tomato soup, pastrami smorrebrod (the horseradish quark a highlight), Arctic char and the heirloom tomato tart, all set to a soundtrack of my favorite vintage soul (the reliably fabulous Mr. Fine Wine).
But once in Carytown, the mellow vibe vanished and I soon heard my name called from a passing car. It was the scooter queen and her beloved in search of a bite before the Psychic TV show at Strange Matter. In fact, I knew several friends who'd chosen music over movie tonight.
That's a first world problem, choosing between a classic Brit film and an experimental Brit band. We've got it so tough in Richmond.
Once in the line to get in that snaked along Cary Street and around the corner down Colonial Avenue, the parade of friends began in earnest: the movie club mastermind, the theater critic, the conga player with his violinist wife, lots of WRIR volunteers, a favorite guitarist and doughnut lover, the former neighbor, the bass player, the A/V expert. All the cool kids.
Inside the theater, it was all energy and excitement as people found seats, spotted friends and settled in for a classic film. After raffle drawings (I didn't win), info from manager Todd about the Byrd's fancy new projector and an introduction about the film, we finally got to the beautifully restored version of "The Third Man."
From the opening frames - with the completely unique credit "Zither music by Anton Karas" - the film was a thing of beauty with atmospheric shots of post-war Vienna making it look like alternately the most romantic place on earth and the most seedy. Harsh lighting and dramatic shadows reigned supreme.
An unabashed fan, I've read plenty of Graham Greene's works -"Brighton Beach," "The Heart of the Matter," "The End of the Affair," "The Quiet American, "Travels with My Aunt" to name just a few - yet I'd never read this one, making it all the more appealing for not having a clue where the story was going.
The beauty of it was how well executed the script and performances were, sucking in the audience completely. No one plays the alcoholic American quite like Petersburg boy Joseph Cotten.
It's for exactly that reason that I love going to the movies and experiencing a film with strangers. The shared experience of watching a story unfold, getting to know and like (or abruptly dislike) characters, the moments of tension and surprise shared with others around me is, in my opinion, the whole point of watching a movie.
For that matter, tonight's screening perfectly demonstrated why the Bijou Film Center is precisely what Richmond needs. There are far too many of us who haven't seen important movies like "The Third Man" or for those who have, only on small screens at home. No, thank you.
That's not a movie experience and it's nothing like what director Carol Reed was striving to accomplish with this film.
It's about the shared experience of hearing someone behind me react, like when the cat snuggles up to a shadowed man's feet and the guy behind me whispers, "Oh, my god, it's Harry!" or when the affable Sergeant Paine is killed in the sewers and a woman nearby couldn't help exclaiming, "Oh, no, not him!"
Won't it be cool when the Bijou has a regular location where we can have these kind of shared film events week in and week out?
It's going to take all of us to make it happen and hopefully sooner rather than later. Given last night's sizable and enthusiastic crowd, I don't see any reason to think it won't.
In the meantime, it was a hell of an offering to the cinema gods.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Freak-a-Zoid
Tonight, there was no parking on the dance floor. And the good news is, I can still dance for three hours straight without a break.
The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.
Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.
I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.
I sure did.
Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.
When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.
Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.
Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.
"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"
We sure as hell did.
That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.
Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.
"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.
Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.
Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.
They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.
But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.
Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.
The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.
With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.
The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.
While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.
Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.
One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.
I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.
By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.
But I had other music in mind.
A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.
They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.
First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.
You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.
Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.
A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.
To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.
Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.
Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.
The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.
Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.
When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.
"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.
Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.
A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?
At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.
After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.
How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?
Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.
The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.
Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.
I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.
I sure did.
Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.
When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.
Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.
Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.
"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"
We sure as hell did.
That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.
Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.
"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.
Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.
Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.
They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.
But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.
Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.
The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.
With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.
The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.
While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.
Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.
One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.
I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.
By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.
But I had other music in mind.
A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.
They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.
First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.
You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.
Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.
A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.
To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.
Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.
Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.
The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.
Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.
When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.
"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.
Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.
A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?
At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.
After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.
How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?
Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Downtown Soulville Cobbler
The cheese let us down, so we had to punt.
Pru had been dying to join me for not so classic movie night, so we made plans that tonight would finally be the night that she'd get to join me for some classic cheesy film.
So you can imagine her disappointment when I checked on the film only to discover that tonight's installment wasn't happening.
We were too late to catch an early movie and Pru gets up too early to attend a late one, so we found ourselves without plans.
That's where the punting came in. When all else fails, there's always the fallback: eat, drink and be merry.
Off we went for our second foray to Metzger, where unlike last time, we found a civilized room not so full we felt guilty for lingering.
When I chose the light and crisp Anton Bauer Rose, Pru followed suit, trusting me on this one.
As we sipped our pink and looked over the menu, we both noticed the stellar music playing, vintage soul worthy of doing the pony or the frug to, but not a single recognizable song in the bunch. Outstanding.
It's rare I'm so taken with the music in a restaurant when I don't recognize it, but this was classic '60s obscurities that made us both want to dance Hullabaloo-style on our bar stools.
We were told it was dollar oyster night, something I would ordinarily jump on, but that dozen I'd had after breakfast had done me for the day.
A girl doesn't need an oyster overdose.
After hearing the specials, we chose squash blossoms stuffed with housemade herbed quark with tomato puree and a divine side salad of baby sliced zucchini in dill creme fraiche.
The dish was absolutely killer and that zucchini salad was so incredibly delicious it could have stood on its own.
Meanwhile, I heard about and saw pictures from Pru's annual river retreat, a long, debauched weekend of food, drink and laughter.
If only she'd remembered to bring underwear.
Next came a summer bean salad of green beans, kidney beans, rye berries, cured duck breast and quark, a unique combination not seen just anywhere.
And if it sounds like we were being overrun with quark, remember this began as a night devoted to cheese, so we had no problem with it.
The sausage board brought all kinds of Sausagecraft deliciousness to enjoy with grainy mustard: earthy Amerikrainer with sharp cheddar cheese and pickled cherry peppers, grilled franks and rough-hewn Nuremberg.
By the time the board was down to the last piece of frank, I deferred to Pru who refused on the grounds that she'd reached an elegant sufficiency.
Never one to give up on eating when dessert can still be had, I inquired about the sweet possibilities.
But it was when the bartender came over to suggest that we have more Rose and wait for the blueberry cobbler to come out of the oven (a mere ten minutes more, we were promised) that I pulled rank and said yes to the wait.
Unbeknownst to Pru - who assumed my devotion to chocolate precluded all other desserts - I am devoted to cooked blueberries, whether in pie, cobbler or crisp form
When the steaming hot dish of lusciously-colored cobbler arrived, we were warned to wait lest we burn our tongues.
It wasn't easy and the minute scoop of ice cream barely held its own against the heat before we dug in.
Well worth the wait, my only quibble would be that it was more crisp than cobbler, although, truth be told, I prefer crisp to cobbler, so it was a score for me.
Ditto the music, which was delighting me with every new-to-me song that played. Thanks, Mr. Fine Wine.
Some cheesy movie nights just weren't meant to be and sometimes that's a good thing.
Pru had been dying to join me for not so classic movie night, so we made plans that tonight would finally be the night that she'd get to join me for some classic cheesy film.
So you can imagine her disappointment when I checked on the film only to discover that tonight's installment wasn't happening.
We were too late to catch an early movie and Pru gets up too early to attend a late one, so we found ourselves without plans.
That's where the punting came in. When all else fails, there's always the fallback: eat, drink and be merry.
Off we went for our second foray to Metzger, where unlike last time, we found a civilized room not so full we felt guilty for lingering.
When I chose the light and crisp Anton Bauer Rose, Pru followed suit, trusting me on this one.
As we sipped our pink and looked over the menu, we both noticed the stellar music playing, vintage soul worthy of doing the pony or the frug to, but not a single recognizable song in the bunch. Outstanding.
It's rare I'm so taken with the music in a restaurant when I don't recognize it, but this was classic '60s obscurities that made us both want to dance Hullabaloo-style on our bar stools.
We were told it was dollar oyster night, something I would ordinarily jump on, but that dozen I'd had after breakfast had done me for the day.
A girl doesn't need an oyster overdose.
After hearing the specials, we chose squash blossoms stuffed with housemade herbed quark with tomato puree and a divine side salad of baby sliced zucchini in dill creme fraiche.
The dish was absolutely killer and that zucchini salad was so incredibly delicious it could have stood on its own.
Meanwhile, I heard about and saw pictures from Pru's annual river retreat, a long, debauched weekend of food, drink and laughter.
If only she'd remembered to bring underwear.
Next came a summer bean salad of green beans, kidney beans, rye berries, cured duck breast and quark, a unique combination not seen just anywhere.
And if it sounds like we were being overrun with quark, remember this began as a night devoted to cheese, so we had no problem with it.
The sausage board brought all kinds of Sausagecraft deliciousness to enjoy with grainy mustard: earthy Amerikrainer with sharp cheddar cheese and pickled cherry peppers, grilled franks and rough-hewn Nuremberg.
By the time the board was down to the last piece of frank, I deferred to Pru who refused on the grounds that she'd reached an elegant sufficiency.
Never one to give up on eating when dessert can still be had, I inquired about the sweet possibilities.
But it was when the bartender came over to suggest that we have more Rose and wait for the blueberry cobbler to come out of the oven (a mere ten minutes more, we were promised) that I pulled rank and said yes to the wait.
Unbeknownst to Pru - who assumed my devotion to chocolate precluded all other desserts - I am devoted to cooked blueberries, whether in pie, cobbler or crisp form
When the steaming hot dish of lusciously-colored cobbler arrived, we were warned to wait lest we burn our tongues.
It wasn't easy and the minute scoop of ice cream barely held its own against the heat before we dug in.
Well worth the wait, my only quibble would be that it was more crisp than cobbler, although, truth be told, I prefer crisp to cobbler, so it was a score for me.
Ditto the music, which was delighting me with every new-to-me song that played. Thanks, Mr. Fine Wine.
Some cheesy movie nights just weren't meant to be and sometimes that's a good thing.
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