I'll just be blunt about it: without the food angle, there'd have been no art.
My weekend away was set in motion two days after returning from France, when an email arrived July 12th notifying me of another in the Smithsonian's culinary lecture series (so far the series had rewarded me with evenings listening to Anthony Bordain and Ruth Reichl), this one called "Mid-Atlantic Cuisine on the Rise."
As a life-long resident of the mid-Atlantic (where every grade school child had to study the history and bounty of the Chesapeake Bay), my interest was piqued not only by the topic but by the chefs discussing it: Spike Gjerde of Woodberry Kitchen (where I'd enjoyed a lovely meal a year and a half ago) and Jeremiah Langhorne of the Dabney (where I haven't eaten, but will).
So, with a primary stated purpose of learning - regional focus! culinary history! chef humor! - I could then concoct a well-rounded couple of days in support of my food curiosity and slide in a little art as long as I was in the neighborhood.
Or so I told myself as I set out to fill up 48 hours with all tomorrow's fun.
Stop #1 for lunch was brasserie Le Diplomat, because an outside table on a sunny afternoon is the best kind of welcome back to my hometown, even when spoiled kids and incompetent parents are just on the other side of an open window.
That the meal involved an exquisite warm shrimp salad with lemon buerre blanc and mesclun that I will surely dream about in days to come only added to the welcome back vibe.
Dinner was a dream, set at Kinship, which was clearly styled by a designer with an eye for subtlety and style and lit with hanging pendant lights and recessed lights so as to be completely flattering to my fair sex, no matter her age.
But I'd have eaten a torchon of white mushrooms in the dark, so fabulously conceived was this dish, but then I'd have missed the gorgeous purple tones of huckleberry gastrique on which it sat next to baby beet and wild mushroom salad.
Never - at least in my experience - have mushrooms tasted so much like duck liver.
Green and white striped tzatziki terrine of grilled octopus with dill-lemon vinaigrette was far lighter in flavor and rosy yellowfin tuna tataki felt very regional with spring onion and butter pickle salad with shiso tempura for crunch over a chilled bowl of dashi - a kind of Japanese stock - gelee to tie all the flavors together.
Agreeing with the woman at the table next door who had raved about it, I only managed to score a bite of pan-seared lamb ribeye with crispy eggplant, patty pan squash and green tomato chutney, but it was a mighty fine bite.
Our server scored high points for his relaxed attitude, patience and humor (when asked if he had a spiel about the menu, he said yes, "But I'll give you the colloquial version") as he came and went throughout the night, appearing out of nowhere with exactly what we needed before we even asked for it.
Full or not, I wasn't leaving Kinship without dessert, savoring whipped chocolate nougat with every bite, but probably most impressed with the one-two punch of whipped creme fraiche under a drizzle of espresso caramel, although the incredible smoothness of chocolate sorbet didn't hurt, either.
After a meal like that, there's not much more you can do beyond sleep for ten and a half hours and get up and go see some art in the pouring rain.
At the National Portrait Gallery,"In the Groove: Jazz Portraits by Herman Leonard" delivered stunning black and white photographs from the '40s through the '60s of iconic musicians.
A young Quincy Jones in a sporty striped shirt, pencil in hand, sheet music spread out in front of him, appears to have been caught mid-studio session. A still life of Lester Young includes all the sax player's essentials - his instrument case, his porkpie hat, sheet music and his lit cigarette atop an empty Coke bottle - suggesting that he's just momentarily stepped away.
At the Smithsonian American Art Museum, "Harlem Heroes: Photographs by Carl van Vechten" provided a sepia-toned history lesson of handmade gravure prints from a series of significant black figures of the Harlem Renaissance such as James Baldwin, Langston Hughes and Richmond's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, strikingly shot shirtless.
It's not that art is exhausting or anything, but lunch necessarily followed at breezy, blue and fish-focused Drift on 7th, with a voluble server who admitted that on this soggy afternoon, he wanted nothing more than to be home, curled up with his dog.
Instead, he went out of his way to ensure that we enjoyed our lunch of tuna tartare with avocado and crispy shallots, fish tacos and fish and chips along with the palest of pink Provence Roses to wash it all down, but he was still probably glad when we finally moved on so he and the pup could be reunited for a rainy day nap.
Bar Pillar had barely opened its doors when we stopped by for a pre-lecture glass of bubbly before high-tailing it to the main event, the mid-Atlantic cuisine lecture.
Washington Post food section editor Joe Yonan moderated Spike and Jeremiah's discussion of what mid-Atlantic cuisine is - a combination of what grows here, how the local people have used those ingredients for centuries and, duh, the Chesapeake Bay - so we're talking oysters, crabs, rockfish, country ham, apple butter, sorghum, lima beans and peanuts.
And corn, of course, since we made full use of what the Native Americans taught us about growing and cooking corn after stealing their land.
Both chefs were wildly enthusiastic about their insistence on only using ingredients from the collection of eco-systems located within 150-200 miles of their restaurants.
Unfortunately, that local sourcing didn't extend to the wine glass and both admitted to a huge carbon footprint when it came to their wine lists.
For shame, gentlemen, although Spike did allow as how Virginia wine has made huge strides since his first 1991 restaurant.
On the food front, he laughed about how "older people love their shad roe" but how few today would embrace terrapin or canvasback duck on a menu.
Talking about the over-abundance of eel and snakefish and trying to find uses for it, he said that even commercial fishermen are reluctant. "They'll say, I don't know why you'd want to eat that!" he laughed before Jeremiah called salmon "the bane of my existence. I hate having to have salmon on my menu!"
It's a sentiment I share.
Both showed their testosterone by rhapsodizing about working with fire - Spike uses a wood-fired oven, Jeremiah a wood-fired grill to cook everything - which inevitably brought us back around to the evening's theme: "It all comes back to pizza."
What man doesn't agree with that?
As for the female vote, my favorite quote of the evening came from Spike and was heavily seconded by Jeremiah. "Chefs learn by failing." Can I get an amen on that?
Since we were already on the Mall, we headed up to Barrack's Row and EatBar for dinner, a place where an entire wall is covered with thousands of cassette tapes in boxes and represent the gamut when it comes to music. As in Oingo Boingo to White Snake, with a list of juke box album offerings on the back of the menu.
Music and food, my kind of place.
Argyle Brut paired perfectly with Trinidadian chicken wings, batter-coated and pulling off spicy and sweet at the same time, while the most obscene award went to ham fries, which combined potatoes, ham, chili paste and balsamic-glazed pearl onions for a rib-sticking indulgence that sent me straight to the tomato, corn and winter savory salad with buttermilk dressing in penance.
A fair amount of my attention went to the juke box (why not, it required no cash outlay?) where I played everything from the Velvet Underground's "All Tomorrow's Parties" to Paul Westerburg's "Dyslexic Heart," with a somewhat protracted tangent about who produced Bowie's "Modern Love" (Nile Rodgers) after I played that song.
And why? Because my food curiosity is matched only by my music curiosity, which is roughly matched by my art curiosity.
Wait, did I mention the Spanish singer/guitarist and drummer/percussionist we randomly caught at Rumba Cafe? It wasn't planned, but there's always time for for some things. I can sleep in Richmond.
Consider that the colloquial version of the story and I'm sticking to it.
Showing posts with label bar pilar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bar pilar. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Rabbit Potpie Face
Tonight was what you call delayed gratification with a tinge of regret.
Right after Labor Day, I'd gotten a ticket to a show at the Black Cat, anticipating seeing one of my favorite Portland bands.
Wouldn't you just know that all kinds of amazing shows had since been scheduled for tonight in Richmond?
But I gathered two fellow Helio Sequence lovers and we embarked for the nation's capital anyway.
Luck was with us when we found a parking space barely two blocks from the club.
It followed us into Bar Pilar where we were told we could be seated immediately in the last table available.
The hardest part of the evening was deciding what to eat off a menu with all kinds of appetizing offerings.
Lard-fried buttermilk chicken? Grilled sweetbreads? Duck pho?
It was a pleasure to have to work so hard at choosing.
We started with the house roasted mixed nuts, enjoying our oily fingers as much as the salt/spice blend that satisfied on so many levels.
In the interest of our arteries and the night ahead, we had roasted beets with mixed greens, walnuts, citrus and goat cheese.
Mid-bite I learned that it was one of our party's first beets.
Horrors!
That's the second time in less than a year that I've been party to someone's first beets.
Our next course was stellar: braised oxtail with mashed sweet potato, a housemade half-smoke with onions and spicy mustard and rabbit potpie.
I got the lion's share of the potpie, mainly because the potpie fanatic claimed she tasted her childhood pet rabbit in it.
She did, however, manage to abscond with a healthy share of the peas, potatoes, carrots and flaky pie crust.
Being a native Washingtonian, I am a huge fan of the half smoke, with its coarse meat and large size, and this one especially because it was housemade.
It is such a pleasure to enjoy the meat-making revival going on in my lifetime.
I was drinking a delightful Negroamaro with the meal and a corner view to a floor of a Washington eatery at 8 on a Friday night.
We certainly weren't in Richmond anymore.
Desserts were only $6 so we got three, all with housemade gelato: buttermilk pie with raspberry , chocolate torte with pumpkin and an apple turnover the size of a doll's head (really a whole apple baked en croute) with vanilla.
Good thing the rest of the night involved standing.
Ramona Falls, another from Portlandia, was opening for Helio Sequence.
"Welcome, people of D.C. We know you're here to see Helio Sequence so we're going to pork barrel on them."
Pork barrel away, guys. I thoroughly enjoyed their mix of effects-laden violin (she looked like a young Pat Benetar and had such a violin game face) , drums, bass, guitar, keyboards and mandolin.
After the first few songs, the drummer (and, a bit surprisingly, the spokesperson for the band) shrugged and said to the crowd, "You're messing with our set list. We love your punctuality but we're caught off guard. We didn't think you'd be here yet," explaining that the list would have been different knowing people came to hear them.
It was endearing.
Songs were introduced as "a pop number" or "a tender song" and always delivered as promised.
I saw a few people singing along to every word, but most seemed, like me, to be won over tonight.
"We have two more songs before the Helio Sequence rock concert begins," the magnificently-Afro'd drummer joked. "Like most good songs, it starts with a tambourine."
I was sorry to see them go.
It was my third time seeing Helio Sequence and the last time in Charlottesville had its issues.
The sound had been terrible and guitarist/singer Brandon had not been happy about it.
But he was in fine voice and mood tonight as they played through most of "Keep Your Eyes Ahead" and some of the new "Negotiations."
"This is our second to last night of this three-month tour," Brandon said by way of hello. "It's great to see you guys."
Despite the room being much bigger and the crowd several times what it's been the last couple of times I saw them, we were near enough to the front to have great views.
Drummer Benjamin is a force of nature on the drums. Because they're a duo, there's a lot of space to fill musically, and his frenetic drumming is like watching an octopus doing it.
And he makes the most amazing drummer faces while doing it.
His synth parts came courtesy of a laptop while Brandon gave us guitars, harmonica and vocals.
As the pea-eater observed, "It's a lot of sound for two people."
But beautiful, poppy sound with a Dylan-esque bend to the vocals, psychedelic guitars and percussion to die for.
The exquisite "Lately" had people singing along when really, I would have preferred to hear the band.
But everyone's lived that lyric.
Lately, I don't think of you at all
Or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on
I noticed the drummer from Ramona Falls standing to the side of the stage smiling and studying, apparently mesmerized by Benjamin in some parts.
Damn skippy.
Even on my third time seeing them, it's still an audio and visual treat to watch that small guy sweat out his body weight providing accents and endless cymbal crashing for an hour and a half to such an evocative voice.
By the time we rolled out onto 14th Street, I was fully gratified, but still had a tinge of regret.
I'd missed a great show in Richmond, I've no doubt.
Right after Labor Day, I'd gotten a ticket to a show at the Black Cat, anticipating seeing one of my favorite Portland bands.
Wouldn't you just know that all kinds of amazing shows had since been scheduled for tonight in Richmond?
But I gathered two fellow Helio Sequence lovers and we embarked for the nation's capital anyway.
Luck was with us when we found a parking space barely two blocks from the club.
It followed us into Bar Pilar where we were told we could be seated immediately in the last table available.
The hardest part of the evening was deciding what to eat off a menu with all kinds of appetizing offerings.
Lard-fried buttermilk chicken? Grilled sweetbreads? Duck pho?
It was a pleasure to have to work so hard at choosing.
We started with the house roasted mixed nuts, enjoying our oily fingers as much as the salt/spice blend that satisfied on so many levels.
In the interest of our arteries and the night ahead, we had roasted beets with mixed greens, walnuts, citrus and goat cheese.
Mid-bite I learned that it was one of our party's first beets.
Horrors!
That's the second time in less than a year that I've been party to someone's first beets.
Our next course was stellar: braised oxtail with mashed sweet potato, a housemade half-smoke with onions and spicy mustard and rabbit potpie.
I got the lion's share of the potpie, mainly because the potpie fanatic claimed she tasted her childhood pet rabbit in it.
She did, however, manage to abscond with a healthy share of the peas, potatoes, carrots and flaky pie crust.
Being a native Washingtonian, I am a huge fan of the half smoke, with its coarse meat and large size, and this one especially because it was housemade.
It is such a pleasure to enjoy the meat-making revival going on in my lifetime.
I was drinking a delightful Negroamaro with the meal and a corner view to a floor of a Washington eatery at 8 on a Friday night.
We certainly weren't in Richmond anymore.
Desserts were only $6 so we got three, all with housemade gelato: buttermilk pie with raspberry , chocolate torte with pumpkin and an apple turnover the size of a doll's head (really a whole apple baked en croute) with vanilla.
Good thing the rest of the night involved standing.
Ramona Falls, another from Portlandia, was opening for Helio Sequence.
"Welcome, people of D.C. We know you're here to see Helio Sequence so we're going to pork barrel on them."
Pork barrel away, guys. I thoroughly enjoyed their mix of effects-laden violin (she looked like a young Pat Benetar and had such a violin game face) , drums, bass, guitar, keyboards and mandolin.
After the first few songs, the drummer (and, a bit surprisingly, the spokesperson for the band) shrugged and said to the crowd, "You're messing with our set list. We love your punctuality but we're caught off guard. We didn't think you'd be here yet," explaining that the list would have been different knowing people came to hear them.
It was endearing.
Songs were introduced as "a pop number" or "a tender song" and always delivered as promised.
I saw a few people singing along to every word, but most seemed, like me, to be won over tonight.
"We have two more songs before the Helio Sequence rock concert begins," the magnificently-Afro'd drummer joked. "Like most good songs, it starts with a tambourine."
I was sorry to see them go.
It was my third time seeing Helio Sequence and the last time in Charlottesville had its issues.
The sound had been terrible and guitarist/singer Brandon had not been happy about it.
But he was in fine voice and mood tonight as they played through most of "Keep Your Eyes Ahead" and some of the new "Negotiations."
"This is our second to last night of this three-month tour," Brandon said by way of hello. "It's great to see you guys."
Despite the room being much bigger and the crowd several times what it's been the last couple of times I saw them, we were near enough to the front to have great views.
Drummer Benjamin is a force of nature on the drums. Because they're a duo, there's a lot of space to fill musically, and his frenetic drumming is like watching an octopus doing it.
And he makes the most amazing drummer faces while doing it.
His synth parts came courtesy of a laptop while Brandon gave us guitars, harmonica and vocals.
As the pea-eater observed, "It's a lot of sound for two people."
But beautiful, poppy sound with a Dylan-esque bend to the vocals, psychedelic guitars and percussion to die for.
The exquisite "Lately" had people singing along when really, I would have preferred to hear the band.
But everyone's lived that lyric.
Lately, I don't think of you at all
Or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on
I noticed the drummer from Ramona Falls standing to the side of the stage smiling and studying, apparently mesmerized by Benjamin in some parts.
Damn skippy.
Even on my third time seeing them, it's still an audio and visual treat to watch that small guy sweat out his body weight providing accents and endless cymbal crashing for an hour and a half to such an evocative voice.
By the time we rolled out onto 14th Street, I was fully gratified, but still had a tinge of regret.
I'd missed a great show in Richmond, I've no doubt.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
A Balloon Called Moaning
When I checked into the B & B, the desk clerk told me breakfast was served from 7-10:00; when I laughed, she asked why. "I don't think I'll make it," I explained.
An hour later when I left the B & B for Bar Pilar, recommended to me by my D.C. food critic friend, I was debating whether to move my car or not before beginning my evening. Not sure how strict the parking enforcement was, I turned to the guy walking behind me and asked.
He turned out to be a neighborhood resident, full of information and absolutely charming. He was surprised to hear that I was a D.C. native since he was not.
When I mentioned I was going to a show, he asked which one because he was, too (his was Harlem Dance Theater at the Lincoln). Then he asked where I was headed to eat and I told him Bar Pilar, he said he'd walk me there.
I told him I'd seen the Gauguin show this afternoon and he had a quick response. "Yes, but did you see the Canaletto show?" he challenged me, asking about the National Gallery's "Venice: Canaletto and his Rivals."
Of course I'd made a point to see the exhibit of 18th-century Venetian view painters; the enormous canvasses with the minutest of details were breathtaking in their scope and revelatory in the depiction of daily live, both of upper and lower classes (and dogs were in so many scenes it surprised me).
I mentioned the Picasso show at home but it was the mention of the Ife art of ancient Nigeria that made his eyes light up. Confirming to him that it is a must-see show, I tried to convey the sculptural beauty with which he'd be rewarded for the soul-sucking drive down I-95.
"I just need to find someone to go down with me and do it," he said. I assured him that if he couldn't find someone, he could come down anyway and that I'd happily see the show again. There's nothing like a fellow art geek with which to enjoy something like that.
Then we reached Bar Pilar and he extended his hand, so I introduced myself. Then it was his turn, "I'm Tom and it's been delightful walking and talking with you."
My evening was off to a great start and I wasn't ten minutes in. Inside, BP was filling up, just as I'd been warned it would early. Taking the only free stool, the bartender put a menu in front of me; it was the Bar Pilar "Offal" happy hour menu, which I already knew I had every intention of sampling.
Holding it up, I said, "I drove two hours for this!" and the guy sitting next to me responded, "On the house then!" to the bartender. To get the ball rolling, I ordered the Aria Cava and grilled beef heart with salsa verde off the offal menu, each a steal at $4.
My seatmate Mark was curious about where I'd come from and why, but he was delighted to learn I'd grown up in the same county he had ("P.G. County represent!" he exclaimed), even going to the same high school as my first (that would be first everything), DeMatha. We'd found our first common bond.
The Hemingway-themed restaurant had an old Underwood typewriter at the end of the bar and photographs of Papa with fish on a dock. Everywhere around me, people were ordering Dark and Stormies, which arrived in a glass half full of dark rum with an accompanying small bottle of Fentiman's ginger beer.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was being rewarded for my drive; when my glass of Cava reached half-mast, the bartender said, "Let me top that off for you," and filled it to the brim. What a lovely thing.
My three pieces of beef heart were delivered and I couldn't help myself, so I dug right in while Mark and I continued to chat each other up. It was wonderful, crispy-grilled but rare on the inside and the salsa verde gave it a nice spice. Mark was on his way to a dinner date, but with a twist: he planned to tell his date that he just wanted to be friends.
He lives in the Atlas neighborhood, which I haven't visited but am eager to, so he gave me the skinny on where I need to go. We laughed about our childhood memories of H Street, so different from now.
I ordered another wine off the offal menu, this time a Ruffino Orvieto, but paired it with a regular menu item, the salad of warm frisse, bacon, sunny egg and bleu cheese. I figured it best to put some sort of plant in my belly before returning to offal. And do I even need to wax poetic about warm greens with bacon, egg and cheese on top? I think not.
Mark asked about my plans for the night, which led us to music and we never looked back. He was envious that I'd seen the Mountain Goats last night ("Do you go to a show every night?" he wondered) because they are a huge favorite of his. Turned out we had loads of music favorites in common.
My next course was veal sweetbreads with polenta and caper sauce paired with Casa de Campo Malbec. I'd now had five of the six offal menu items, but at $4 a pop, who was counting?
All of a sudden, it was time for Mark to leave for his date, but not before telling me how much he'd enjoyed our conversation. "At the very least, we need to be friends on Facebook," he said. By the time I got back here from the Black Cat, the friend request was waiting for me.
I finished out my BP time with an enormous red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing and a chat with an Indian attorney who extolled the virtues of life in Mississippi, of all places. We hit it off when we discovered he eats out every night of the week and more restaurant recommendations rolled my way.
It was great, I barely had to walk half a block to get to the Black Cat and I arrived in time to snag a stool at the bar for the first two bands.
My bartender was older, smart-assed, tattooed and accommodating ("Would you like another Hornitos?" and when I said he'd have to twist my arm, he actually took hold of it...and grinned before bringing it to me).
Washington state-based Lonely Forest had a poppy indie sound and the singer's voice had lots of character. I really enjoyed them.
The next band was from Nashville, but less to my taste. It worked out well, though, because a guy sat down next to me and we began chatting. He asked what I thought of the band, I shared and he clutched his heart. "Ooh, that was harsh. I can't listen to them the same after that.."
A graduate student in philosophy at American University, Philip was ashamed to admit that it was his first Black Cat show after almost five years living in D.C.
I didn't judge (okay, maybe a tad) but I also didn't hesitate to tease him unmercifully about his musical laziness, which he readily acknowledged. "You just met me and you've already figured me out," he laughed. Years of practice, my friend. He'd only discovered the Joy Formidable this morning while searching for something to do tonight.
We left our stools and made our way to the stage, maybe three people back, for an excellent vantage point to hear the Joy Formidable play. I'd seen them up close all evening because they were sitting two bar stools away, just around the corner of the bar from me.
This was epic, primal, shoegaze-sounding rock full of reverb from a Welsh trio who looked like they were thrilled with how into them the crowd was. Lead singer Ritzy was adorable, her eyes wide when she sang and her pale blond bob swinging in time as she shredded.
Fact: I wouldn't have been anywhere else but front and center for that aural assault on my eardrums tonight. I've been waiting almost a year to hear the songs on their EP "Balloon" live and I finally got that pleasure.
Color me blissed out. Walking back to the B & B afterwards, my ears were ringing, which I expect will continue well into tomorrow.
Which is just fine, because tomorrow involves only brunch and more art, so all I'll need are my mouth and eyes, both of which got a workout tonight, but are still fully functional.
I should only be so lucky as to have such great random conversation from strangers again. Fingers crossed...
And, if not, there's always art and food.
An hour later when I left the B & B for Bar Pilar, recommended to me by my D.C. food critic friend, I was debating whether to move my car or not before beginning my evening. Not sure how strict the parking enforcement was, I turned to the guy walking behind me and asked.
He turned out to be a neighborhood resident, full of information and absolutely charming. He was surprised to hear that I was a D.C. native since he was not.
When I mentioned I was going to a show, he asked which one because he was, too (his was Harlem Dance Theater at the Lincoln). Then he asked where I was headed to eat and I told him Bar Pilar, he said he'd walk me there.
I told him I'd seen the Gauguin show this afternoon and he had a quick response. "Yes, but did you see the Canaletto show?" he challenged me, asking about the National Gallery's "Venice: Canaletto and his Rivals."
Of course I'd made a point to see the exhibit of 18th-century Venetian view painters; the enormous canvasses with the minutest of details were breathtaking in their scope and revelatory in the depiction of daily live, both of upper and lower classes (and dogs were in so many scenes it surprised me).
I mentioned the Picasso show at home but it was the mention of the Ife art of ancient Nigeria that made his eyes light up. Confirming to him that it is a must-see show, I tried to convey the sculptural beauty with which he'd be rewarded for the soul-sucking drive down I-95.
"I just need to find someone to go down with me and do it," he said. I assured him that if he couldn't find someone, he could come down anyway and that I'd happily see the show again. There's nothing like a fellow art geek with which to enjoy something like that.
Then we reached Bar Pilar and he extended his hand, so I introduced myself. Then it was his turn, "I'm Tom and it's been delightful walking and talking with you."
My evening was off to a great start and I wasn't ten minutes in. Inside, BP was filling up, just as I'd been warned it would early. Taking the only free stool, the bartender put a menu in front of me; it was the Bar Pilar "Offal" happy hour menu, which I already knew I had every intention of sampling.
Holding it up, I said, "I drove two hours for this!" and the guy sitting next to me responded, "On the house then!" to the bartender. To get the ball rolling, I ordered the Aria Cava and grilled beef heart with salsa verde off the offal menu, each a steal at $4.
My seatmate Mark was curious about where I'd come from and why, but he was delighted to learn I'd grown up in the same county he had ("P.G. County represent!" he exclaimed), even going to the same high school as my first (that would be first everything), DeMatha. We'd found our first common bond.
The Hemingway-themed restaurant had an old Underwood typewriter at the end of the bar and photographs of Papa with fish on a dock. Everywhere around me, people were ordering Dark and Stormies, which arrived in a glass half full of dark rum with an accompanying small bottle of Fentiman's ginger beer.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was being rewarded for my drive; when my glass of Cava reached half-mast, the bartender said, "Let me top that off for you," and filled it to the brim. What a lovely thing.
My three pieces of beef heart were delivered and I couldn't help myself, so I dug right in while Mark and I continued to chat each other up. It was wonderful, crispy-grilled but rare on the inside and the salsa verde gave it a nice spice. Mark was on his way to a dinner date, but with a twist: he planned to tell his date that he just wanted to be friends.
He lives in the Atlas neighborhood, which I haven't visited but am eager to, so he gave me the skinny on where I need to go. We laughed about our childhood memories of H Street, so different from now.
I ordered another wine off the offal menu, this time a Ruffino Orvieto, but paired it with a regular menu item, the salad of warm frisse, bacon, sunny egg and bleu cheese. I figured it best to put some sort of plant in my belly before returning to offal. And do I even need to wax poetic about warm greens with bacon, egg and cheese on top? I think not.
Mark asked about my plans for the night, which led us to music and we never looked back. He was envious that I'd seen the Mountain Goats last night ("Do you go to a show every night?" he wondered) because they are a huge favorite of his. Turned out we had loads of music favorites in common.
My next course was veal sweetbreads with polenta and caper sauce paired with Casa de Campo Malbec. I'd now had five of the six offal menu items, but at $4 a pop, who was counting?
All of a sudden, it was time for Mark to leave for his date, but not before telling me how much he'd enjoyed our conversation. "At the very least, we need to be friends on Facebook," he said. By the time I got back here from the Black Cat, the friend request was waiting for me.
I finished out my BP time with an enormous red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing and a chat with an Indian attorney who extolled the virtues of life in Mississippi, of all places. We hit it off when we discovered he eats out every night of the week and more restaurant recommendations rolled my way.
It was great, I barely had to walk half a block to get to the Black Cat and I arrived in time to snag a stool at the bar for the first two bands.
My bartender was older, smart-assed, tattooed and accommodating ("Would you like another Hornitos?" and when I said he'd have to twist my arm, he actually took hold of it...and grinned before bringing it to me).
Washington state-based Lonely Forest had a poppy indie sound and the singer's voice had lots of character. I really enjoyed them.
The next band was from Nashville, but less to my taste. It worked out well, though, because a guy sat down next to me and we began chatting. He asked what I thought of the band, I shared and he clutched his heart. "Ooh, that was harsh. I can't listen to them the same after that.."
A graduate student in philosophy at American University, Philip was ashamed to admit that it was his first Black Cat show after almost five years living in D.C.
I didn't judge (okay, maybe a tad) but I also didn't hesitate to tease him unmercifully about his musical laziness, which he readily acknowledged. "You just met me and you've already figured me out," he laughed. Years of practice, my friend. He'd only discovered the Joy Formidable this morning while searching for something to do tonight.
We left our stools and made our way to the stage, maybe three people back, for an excellent vantage point to hear the Joy Formidable play. I'd seen them up close all evening because they were sitting two bar stools away, just around the corner of the bar from me.
This was epic, primal, shoegaze-sounding rock full of reverb from a Welsh trio who looked like they were thrilled with how into them the crowd was. Lead singer Ritzy was adorable, her eyes wide when she sang and her pale blond bob swinging in time as she shredded.
Fact: I wouldn't have been anywhere else but front and center for that aural assault on my eardrums tonight. I've been waiting almost a year to hear the songs on their EP "Balloon" live and I finally got that pleasure.
Color me blissed out. Walking back to the B & B afterwards, my ears were ringing, which I expect will continue well into tomorrow.
Which is just fine, because tomorrow involves only brunch and more art, so all I'll need are my mouth and eyes, both of which got a workout tonight, but are still fully functional.
I should only be so lucky as to have such great random conversation from strangers again. Fingers crossed...
And, if not, there's always art and food.
Friday, March 25, 2011
How To Be Happy by Paul Gauguin
Amongst the pleasurable lessons I learned at the crowded National Gallery's "Gauguin: Maker of Myths" exhibition was this: Be in love and you will be happy.
It was the name of a woodcut print. It was the name of a carved and painted linden wood piece. It was one of two things inscribed on the wooden panels Gauguin made for the entrance to his house (which he called the house of sensual pleasure) in Tahiti.
To enter his studio, you had to walk under the inscription and through his bedroom. There was really no missing his point.
The exhibition explored how Gauguin used myths throughout his career, blending fact and fiction to blur the lines between reality and his fertile imagination.
And given his artistic gift (when he was 28, his landlord taught him marble-carving and a bust of his wife showed his immediate mastery of the medium), he could blur that line using any number of methods.
This was beautifully illustrated in one of my favorites in the show, "Clovis Asleep," an especially Impressionistic piece for Gauguin, with a lovely blue wall covered in planets and stars over the slumbering child's head, surely signifying his dreams.
Another piece I couldn't resist was a pair of wooden Dutch shoes from which Gauguin had removed the bright paint, adding two decorative motifs (Breton women and a goose); he took to wearing them frequently to show his identification with the Breton peasantry, as well as his rejection of Parisian excesses.
I found it fascinating how Gauguin used questions for titles of paintings. It is supposed that many of the questions came from overheard conversations in Tahiti, but it gave an intimacy to the figures in the works, as you literally saw them and figuratively heard them.
"Ondine in the Waves" was the simplest of compositions and yet spectacular: a nude woman's back with an S-curve of red hair stood against an entire background of green waves. A study in color and form, it was mesmerizing.
Making my way through the exhibition and around the masses of humankind, it was hard not to get caught up in the beauty of the tropics. Even through the primitive paradise Gauguin sought turned out to be a thing of the past, I'm thinking he may have been right about the secret to happiness.
I was all kinds of happy looking at the fruits of his labors of love this afternoon, even without being in love. Yet. Give me time.
It was the name of a woodcut print. It was the name of a carved and painted linden wood piece. It was one of two things inscribed on the wooden panels Gauguin made for the entrance to his house (which he called the house of sensual pleasure) in Tahiti.
To enter his studio, you had to walk under the inscription and through his bedroom. There was really no missing his point.
The exhibition explored how Gauguin used myths throughout his career, blending fact and fiction to blur the lines between reality and his fertile imagination.
And given his artistic gift (when he was 28, his landlord taught him marble-carving and a bust of his wife showed his immediate mastery of the medium), he could blur that line using any number of methods.
This was beautifully illustrated in one of my favorites in the show, "Clovis Asleep," an especially Impressionistic piece for Gauguin, with a lovely blue wall covered in planets and stars over the slumbering child's head, surely signifying his dreams.
Another piece I couldn't resist was a pair of wooden Dutch shoes from which Gauguin had removed the bright paint, adding two decorative motifs (Breton women and a goose); he took to wearing them frequently to show his identification with the Breton peasantry, as well as his rejection of Parisian excesses.
I found it fascinating how Gauguin used questions for titles of paintings. It is supposed that many of the questions came from overheard conversations in Tahiti, but it gave an intimacy to the figures in the works, as you literally saw them and figuratively heard them.
"Ondine in the Waves" was the simplest of compositions and yet spectacular: a nude woman's back with an S-curve of red hair stood against an entire background of green waves. A study in color and form, it was mesmerizing.
Making my way through the exhibition and around the masses of humankind, it was hard not to get caught up in the beauty of the tropics. Even through the primitive paradise Gauguin sought turned out to be a thing of the past, I'm thinking he may have been right about the secret to happiness.
I was all kinds of happy looking at the fruits of his labors of love this afternoon, even without being in love. Yet. Give me time.
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