Awe and Panic

A heathen sits down next to a devoted church-goer who sings in the choir. What could possibly go wrong?

Before decamping to another play in the Acts of Faith Festival, Pru, Beau and I bellied up to a table at Belmont Food Shop for dinner. Beau's original choice for wine came from the Willamette, a reliable source for pinot noirs that please them both. This one didn't.

Our second try came from even more scared ground - the Loire valley - and everybody was happy with Domaine de Chevilly "Quincy," a Sauvignon Blanc with notes of peach and good acidity. The Pinot Noir, meanwhile, was recorked to go home with Beau.

An amuse bouche of gougeres came out first, followed by three spears, each holding two tiny confit duck hearts, causing Beau to reverse his prior announcement that he eats everything. He did try one, commented on the texture, and admitted that organ meats just aren't his thing.

Except for the organ meats he likes, he clarified.

Pru and I savored cups of mushroom soup redolent of tamarind, which is seducing me a lot lately (see: Rust and Stardust cocktail at Perch). The consomme-like soup was ideal for piquing our appetites for what was to come.

For me, it was monkfish with leeks and fingerlings in a brown butter sauce, further cementing monkfish's claim to fame as the poor man's lobster. Beau's vegetable potpie was the undisputed star of the table, a hearty gravy studded with vegetables under a flaky crust, while Pru's seared tuna delivered a lighter taste.

Despite being full to the gills, Beau insisted on his own butterscotch custard even after I offered to share mine. Like the butterscotch mousse I'd had last week in Annapolis, this was another subtle butterscotch dessert when I was really hoping for the oomph of a darker, more intense butterscotch finish.

At least Beau liked it, even if he was looking a tad over-full by that point.

We got to Richmond Triangle Players with plenty of time to spare, which allowed the man seated next to me to initiate a conversation. Seems he and his wife were there from Maryland because their daughter was in this production. When Pru and I asked if she'd gotten her talent from her parents, he insisted she hadn't. Their only talent, he claimed, was singing in the choir at church every Sunday.

Luckily, he didn't seem to sense that he was elbow to elbow with a card-carrying heathen.

The premise of "An Act of Gd" was simple: god comes down and takes the body of a somewhat successful regional actress with an Artsie award to explain that the ten commandments Moses brought down weren't the final version.

She's here to provide an update.

Knowing that talented comic actress Maggie Bavolack was playing god only made the irreverent play more appealing. She joked that Richmond has almost as many houses of worship as it does Confederate monuments. She claimed that when creating the land masses and shaping Florida, she knew even then that it was going to be shaped like a penis.

It was while she was explaining the commandment, "Thou shalt not tell others who to fornicate" that she said, "I mean the gays" that I first realized that the church-going man next to me wasn't looking at the stage. On purpose. Instead, he was staring off into the back of the chair in front of him, as if to avoid absorbing the sacrilegious things being said onstage. Occasionally, he'd look up for a minute and then avert his eyes when things got profane.

Maggie as god went on to explain creation and the pains she went to to make it look like evolution had created the world. We heard the story of Adam and Steve and why Steve was changed to Eve and what that meant for mankind (less master gardening, for one).

And sometimes, she'd drop a line so clever that most people didn't even catch it, like when she said, "I did Cosby his nectar," and Pru and I about lost it laughing. Any word nerd can't help but react to a new verb like that.

"Please stop calling my name during sex," Mags instructed us. "I'm not that interested." I can understand, with all the naked bodies she'd have to look at.

We heard about Noah and his wife Nameless and how there was no sea-worthy boat capable of carrying two of every animal. Period.

Particularly satisfying to me was the commandment, "Thou shalt separate me and state," followed by a demonstration of her on one side of the stage and state on the far side. There was exuberant clapping for this commandment.

"Thou shalt not seek a personal relationship with me," god instructed. "I like distance." Pru related heavily to this one or at least I assumed she did after I poked her in the ribs when god said it.

The church-goer next to me, not so much. He looked directly at his shoes while god made her case for not getting too close.

But the somewhat successful regional actress was honest, too, explaining that god is a brand, but that she has wrath management issues at times. "Faith and sausage, two things best not seen being made," she advised. Amen to that.

"Thou shalt not believe in me, just like thou shalt not believe in the Richmond Flying Squirrels," Maggie told the room to much laughter.

By the end, the audience had been apprised of the official ten commandments as devised by a more modern deity. Only the man next to me looked unhappy about the updates.

But then, he wasn't invited back to the manse, where the absinthe drip was filled with water and ice and Beau poured ridiculous amounts of absinthe into our glasses. Then we settled into Pru's comfy couch and chairs to dish. It had been nearly a month since we'd last convened to talk trash, judge others and dissect the play we'd just seen and everyone had come with stories and opinions to share with the group.

What I found out what that Pru finds me exhausting to be around because of her introverted tendencies. She freely admits she'd always rather stay at home in her pajamas than have to get dressed and go out, a sentiment I don't share. Although she can play vivacious and talkative when we're together, it's not who she really is.

Then Beau piled on, too, saying that while he has the ability to crank up his energy levels to accommodate me, he needs recovery time afterward. And here I'd always thought I was a cinch to be around.

Eating confit duck hearts and time with me, two things best left to the highly energetic, it turns out.

A nap ahead of time doesn't hurt, either.

Everything is Beautiful

A dancer.

That had been the answer given years ago when a former boyfriend had been asked the question, "If Karen wasn't an editor, what would she have been instead?" I remember being surprised at the response while also knowing there was a kind of truth to it.

Granted, my dance training had amounted to three years at Miss Rita's School of Dance, but assuming that this was a bigger picture question, his answer wasn't far off. If I could have been exposed to real dance training, I think I'd have loved being a dancer, even given the relatively short span of a dance career.

So what better play to see to remind me of what never was than Richmond Triangle Players' production of "A Chorus Line" with my posse? The hardest part of seeing it was acknowledging that I remember when it debuted back in the dark ages of 1975.

After a stellar meal at Belmont Food Shop - the crab-topped Spring pea sformato over pea shoots was positively swoon-worthy - that began with amuse bouches of housemade pate, as well as gougeres, plus a hug from a long-time favorite chef now part of the kitchen there, we joined the throngs of theater-goers eager for one singular sensation.

I have little doubt that I saw "A Chorus Line" at the Kennedy Center back in the '70s, but the intervening four decades all but ensured that I had limited memories of it. Besides, if you lived through the '70s, you're not supposed to remember them, right?

Needless to say, I was surprised at how many of the Marvin Hamlish-penned songs besides "One" and "What I Did for Love" I knew (I Hope I Get It, I Can Do That, At the Ballet), a fact no doubt reinforced by all those Ghostlight After parties I attended at RTP where local actors got up and sang show tunes. Of course, to them "A Chorus Line" had been an "old" Broadway show, whereas to some of us, it represented the new breed of musicals that began taking over in the '70s.

But last night, it felt as rooted in the here and now as in that long-ago decade. In a nod to the 21st century, rather than cookie-cutter bodies, these dancers looked like real people of various shapes and sizes, similar only in that they could all dance and sing so well.

And while the entire cast was strong, I found my eye kept returning to Alexa Cepeda as Diana because her energy was so strong and her smile so beautiful, never more evident than when she brought down the house singing "What I Did for Love." Of course Alexander Sapp nailed the role of the imperious director, although it was hard not to miss watching him act since most of his lines were delivered from the back row.

The buzz among local theater geeks had been about how RTP was going to manage to stage this 17 actor-play on its petite stage, but I'm here to tell you they not only did, they made the audience forget its size when that chorus line was stretched out across the stage. It can't just be us wanna-be dancers who marvel at a well-executed kickline.

I may have missed out by choosing writing over dancing, but one thing I won't miss out on is seeing "A Chorus Line" a second time.

A girl can still dream of what could have been...

Pate and Pearls

The queen had a migraine, but the court carried on.

The moment I saw that Richmond Triangle Players was remounting "I Am My Own Wife" with Scott Wichmann playing 35 roles - a play I was awestruck by in its original run in 2006 - I alerted the posse.

Taking my word for it, Pru, Beau and Queen B signed on without hesitation.

Fast forward to Saturday night and Pru is down for the count with a migraine, so the quartet is now a trio as we headed to Belmont Food Shop for a pre-theater supper at Queen B's favorite restaurant in all of Richmond.

Between the unique vibe and the killer food, I've long been a fan of Belmont and although it had been too long, the meal was a start to finish reminder of why I won't stop going until Mike closes the place or I die and they have to pry his pate with hot mustard, pickled mushrooms and lotus root out of my cold, dead hands.

And the pate was after I'd swooned over a plate of winter vegetables and scored some of Beau's bleu cheese custard. Queen B never let me near her mushroom soup, so I'll never know how good it was, although if her moans were any indication, I should have begged.

The only fly in the ointment of the entire experience was an annoying late arrival to the private party in the Belmont space next door, a young woman who arrived in the tiny and very full dining room with a dozen balloons (including the numbers 3 and 0). Despite the bartender telling her to go back out and enter through the next door, she proceeded to navigate the balloon bouquet through crowded tables, all the while saying loudly, "Oh, I'm so sorry about this," over and over as if it were a performance and she was the star.

There was a collective sigh of relief when she finally exited the restaurant.

For dinner, I chose the matelote, a wine and onion fish stew with rockfish, monkfish, scallop mousse and tiny purple potatoes, a heavenly combination of sea and earth that I washed down with Grillo. Both my companions went with beef cheeks with sirloin and, as Beau put it, "I pulled a Pru," meaning he dove into it with laser focus, only looking up long enough to pretend that he wished he'd shared it.

Two desserts - chocolate silk pie, easily the richest chocolate dessert in the city, and maple semi-freddo with cranberries - were shared by all three of us in a vain attempt to feel better about having polished off so much food. That said, if someone had suggested more pate, I've no doubt we'd have devoured that, too. Belmont does that to a person.

Or, as Beau so eloquently put it, "This group travels on its stomach." If that was supposed to be an insult, I ignored it as we drove to Richmond Triangle Players for a different kind of indulgence.

Seeing "I Am My Own Wife" with the same actor and director twelve years after seeing it the first time was a revelation, as much for the changes in Scott's performance as an actor with an additional dozen years of experience under his belt as for seeing it in a completely different cultural and political climate.

One of the biggest surprises for me was how much more often the audience laughed. As we discovered at intermission, a startlingly large number of people were there solely because they're huge Scott Wichmann fans and hadn't had much idea what the play was about.

Especially in the first act, every time he'd change characters (which he did solely with posture, accent and demeanor), people in the audience would titter. It wasn't that the line was funny, but that they were giggling at his chameleon-like ability to turn character on a dime. As someone more caught up in the words being said, it was an unnecessary distraction.

On the other hand, there's no comparison between how much more comfortable the public is with transgender issues now than it was in 2006. When I saw it back then, the play had a far more exotic undertone - how had this trans woman managed to live in plain sight throughout the Nazi and communist regimes? - because there was so little open discussion of trans issues.

It also resonated quite differently because of the country's unfortunate present leadership, which seems to be leading us backward in time rather than forward when it comes to gender issues. In that way, the play has a new urgency that it didn't last time I saw it.

Driving home, Beau and Queen B searched for words (tour de force was being tossed around) to describe how impressed they'd been with Scott's performance, all the more so because neither had ever seen him before.

Meanwhile, I marveled at how a masterful performance that had so wowed me that I still remembered it 12 years later had affected me every bit as strongly tonight, albeit with slightly different nuances.

That's entertainment.

It Always Comes Back to Star Trek

Anyone close to me has, in all likelihood, alluded to my sunny side up affliction.

The go-to is derision. Pru calls it "unicorn land," another prefers "Karen's world" (art nerds, can't you just see me from the back on that grassy hill like Christina?), several family members call it "the bubble," and, sure, they're mocking me, but the reality is lovely things happen there all the time.

Like an evening during the absolute dregs of October - today's the 29th, for crying out loud - spent on a screened porch in Church Hill, a porch lit by strings of tiny lights and a small lamp or two, with the night air as soft and comfortable as if we were about to tear September off the calendar rather than October.

An evening accompanied by the business of life going on around us - dogs being walked, sirens in the distance, headlights in the alley - as the five of us converse across the table in the golden glow of that porch, where everywhere you look, something pleasurable or interesting catches your eye.

A master class of a porch.

The kind of space ideal for Pru to share a memory. "That reminds me of 10th grade when I said 'semen' instead of 'stamen." Pause. "It was the male part of the plant, so at least I got that part right."

That prch can become a cozy game room when the visitor from Arizona, Burger, admits he's never played Cards Against Humanity during dinner at Belmont Food Shop (where an autumn terrine of squashes, celery root and carrot rocks my world and chocolate truffles are referred to by FabCon as "tip manipulators" because they work).

It's once the game's underway, after we explain that you choose your answer from the ten cards in your hand that we learn Burger has 12...and a stack splayed out under his chair for easy accessing. Political commentary follows.
Q: In today's newscast, Donald Trump made headlines when he denounced what?
My A: The Dewey Decimal system
Peanut Gallery: He would.

With big, comfortable wicker chairs with cushions, it's a most suitable place for long-winded ruminations on language.

When Beau tries to explain the appeal of Hannah Montana, it's by saying she was wholesome and had hi-jinks. Hi-jinks, a word that dotted the Eisenhower-era series we read as kids. Nancy Drew had hi-jinks, the Hardy Boys had hi-jinks.

This crowd could do a minimum of 10 minutes just on a word like that.

As proof, earlier on the porch, we'd gotten on the topic of unlikely building materials, a rabbit hole that began with bales of hay, moved on to used car tires and crashed and burned with 2-litre soda bottles.

Why, you ask, did such a fascinating environmental and architectural topic die that premature death? Because some people brought only the veneer of information to the table and once others of us began digging, they admitted to no further knowledge on the subject than the shred they'd already hurled into the fray.

Don't come to a conversational pit unless you can hold your own.

The porch is just dim enough on a Saturday night for indelicate admissions.
Q: In the new Disney Channel original movie, "Hannah Montana Struggles with what?
My A: A really nasty yeast infection
Beau: I'd watch that.
Pru: Who ARE you?

It's the first time on this practically perfect porch for the dry wit from Philly now languishing in the southwest, who after observing the bossy and bossed dynamic between the usual cast of characters, thinks he's got it all figured.

"Ooooh, I see, it's a dominatrix party!" He only wishes (fervently, too).

Tonight, Bootleg Shakespeare (cue "There's something happening here, What it is ain't exactly clear") was performance art (none of it as riveting or hilarious as a pants-less BC Maupin as Brutus and a kneeling Sara Heifetz as Portia having a, shall we say, intimate moment) allowing an impromptu party to kick off early.

If memory serves, I lectured a man on italics (they are to be read aloud more emphatically), Pru got poetic with Burger ("We can't make plans with your "ifs") and Beau used the third person to feed me verbiage for this post ("Who knew that Beau was a mouth dispenser virgin?" about never having squirted whipped cream or E-Z Cheese in his mouth).

Middle-aged hi-jinks, as fine a way as any to spend an October evening on a screened porch with a great aura. Kind of makes me want to sing a song about Nebraska.

Enthusiasm is the Electricity of Life

The dichotomy of Richmond, that's what all those national publications fail to mention when they're singing our praises.

It's living in a town where a terrific and historic photography show such as "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" results in a mini-Gordon Parks film festival, for which I immediately buy tickets.

But it's also arriving at the VMFA to find the misguided Sons of the Confederacy with their enormous Confederate flags standing on the corner in front of the museum as part of their endless protesting about the lost cause.

My first thought is what an unpleasant welcome they'll make for any black museum or film-goers, but it turns out they're just as unpleasant for me. Walking by three flag bearing, redneck-looking men to get to the steps, one looks me up and down, gives me a smarmy grin and says, "Hey, there, hot stuff" as if I might actually respond to him.

Negative.

It occurs to me that if all those national articles praising Richmond as a rising star and a shining example of the hip "new south" were to also mention this sort of nonsense, it might make for a far more realistic sense of this town.

Because, truthfully, it is all part of the flavor and color of who we are.

Inside the Cheek auditorium, I overhear some women behind me talking. One regrets not having read Parks' book "The Learning Tree" before seeing the film tonight. Another explains a friend's absence, saying she'll probably just watch the movie on Netflix.

The woman next to me shares that she's here because she'd read the book back in middle school and had just recently learned there was a film based on it. I'm amazed, but also older than she is, because I was certainly never assigned a black-penned book at that age.

The film is introduced as being the work of Renaissance man Parks, who not only wrote the screenplay, but directed, produced and wrote the music for it. Turns out it was also exceedingly difficult to locate, meaning that not seeing it tonight likely means not seeing it at all.

Shot on location in Fort Scott, the movie was the first by a black director in Hollywood, which makes me suddenly aware of how much was riding on what Parks did and how he did it with this film.

From the opening frame, the film was as gloriously Technicolor as you'd expect a major film to be in 1969. What I had a harder time reconciling was that although the film was set in the 1920s - straw boaters on the men's heads, candlestick phones - the women's clothing was pure late '60s with mini-dresses, low slung belts and knee socks.

Just as of the era was the young love montage, complete with teens feeding ducks and running hand in hand through sun-dappled fields in slow motion. Shades of Love's Baby Soft product commercials, for those who recall such things.

Judging by the fact that some people left during the screening, I'm guessing that they couldn't appreciate the particular nature of 1969 pacing, not to mention the overt sentimentality of how the story was told. To them I would say, consider what was at stake for the first black director's film.

Rather than join the curator-led gallery walk of the Parks exhibit afterward - in my own defense, I have seen it twice so far - I met my date in the atrium so we could scuttle upstairs for a glass of J. Mourat Rose before Amuse closed.

From there, we wandered over to Belmont Food Shop, running into my favorite mayoral candidate as we navigated a traffic circle on foot. "Stop writing nice things about me!" he joked.

Stop sharing my opinion? Never!

Although we were late arrivals, we were welcomed in to the fold of lingering diners and staff for dinner at the end of the bar while the usual '20s-era music played.

Continuing the evening's wine theme with a bottle of J. Mourat Rose, we began with gougeres and gizzard confit, followed by the bounty of the sea: crab and avocado, rare slices of tuna over frisee and seared scallops over squash and sausage.

When the chef finished up, he came out and joined us, providing an opportunity for me thank him for the surprise confit.

"My biggest stress in life is not enough duck fat," he explains semi-seriously.

It was while we were enjoying a fabulous butterscotch custard that a gentleman at the end of the bar brought out a 1989 bottle of wine for decanting, which the barkeep's research showed was one of only 13 left around.

Turning to those around him as the wine was poured into glasses for everyone in the room, the chef observed with a grin, "This is how we roll at Belmont Food Shop."

A deep garnet color, the nose on the Chateau Prieure-Lichine was earthy and full of dark fruit flavors, but its real beauty was with time, as the longer we sat, swirled and sipped, the more impressive the wine became.

That we'd accidentally happened into the generosity of a stranger only added to the pleasure of the wine. That such things happen as often as they do only adds to the running list of what's so wonderful about Richmond.

If I were writing those articles about our city, I'd mention such intimate attractions right along with the flamboyant flag wavers.

Because for better or for worse, all of it represents how we roll in Richmond.

Bumpersticker: No Music, No Life

It was pure poetry.

I'd worn my 2006 Pete Yorn "Nightcrawler" t-shirt - the one with holes under the arms from so many sweaty walks, so admittedly worse for the wear after a decade of use, but still the lightest and most breathable shirt I own - walking this morning and when I got in the car to go meet my dinner date, Yorn's "Life on a Chain" came blaring out of the radio.

There are no musical accidents, so I took it as a good sign that after a day tied to my desk writing on deadline, the night would be a fine one.

Because Pete Yorn never lets me down.

The plan was to meet in the atrium of the VMFA, which I always approach by cutting through the Early 20th century European art galleries -  home to French Modern and German Expressionism - an impossibility when I found them closed, the walls bare of art.

Since I'd been under the impression that they were permanent galleries, I made a beeline for the members' desk to get the scoop. "Off-view until September 28th," the knowledgeable staffer informs me, with no further explanation. Hmm...

Pondering what could be going on with the art between now and Wednesday, I almost ran into my evening's companion, only to hear that he'd been killing time waiting for me playing Frisbee outside with a stranger, at least until museum security told them the obvious: to knock it off.

We weren't hurting anything, he protested. Boys will be boys, I suggested.

Since he hadn't been to the VMFA since his Grandmother used to take him (we're talking decades), he put me in charge and I promptly led him to the outstanding "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" photography exhibit for a shared interest in that era.

Make no mistake, I know how to show a newbie our museum.

From there, I led him to see the glorious American works that make up the new McGlothlin wing and while he had no existing knowledge of the brilliance of John Singer Sargent - or why some of those smaller genre scenes are so atypically Sargent - he strode across the gallery intent on contemplating what I consider a prime jewel of the collection: Julius Leblanc Stewart's "Yachting the Mediterranean."

Part of his attraction was the precariously heeling and enormous sailboat, but he was polite enough to listen to the reasons for my affection for the piece, which had little to do with the boat itself.

Since we still had daylight left, a walkabout seemed in order, and we took off through the sculpture garden, only to hear my name called out repeatedly from the balcony of Amuse.

A friend waved enthusiastically from above as we headed out to stroll around the Museum District where I lived for 13 years and he harbored happy memories of long-ago visits to his great grandparents house on Floyd Avenue.

One story he shared involved his great grandfather, a railroad engineer, and the multi-acre farm he owned a couple miles away, and how once he'd run into cows on the railroad tracks, only to realize they were his own.

Funny, not funny, if you know what I mean.

Ever the devoted tour guide (and, perhaps, over-sharer), I took him to see my hands-down favorite screened porch/side yard combination, explaining that while I'm very much a compact, city townhouse type, I have for 23 years found that this particular yard gives me a zen-like sense of porch perfection.

The house that porch is attached to, though, is large and appeals to me not at all. "What if you didn't have to take care of it?" he asked. I still don't want to occupy that much space on earth, I explained, a philosophy he shares despite living on three acres (but in a renovated house that maintained its original footprint, a fact I find impressive).

Further up Floyd, I randomly glanced at a couple with a baby sitting on their front porch and realized it was the people who'd lived across the street from me for 13 years. Calling out their names, they came over to greet us carrying their first grandchild and bringing me up to date on their six kids offspring.

Of course the youngest has just moved back home while he goes back for his master's degree.  Millennial children: gone but never for good.

A block or two up, I spotted a basket tied to a white picket fence with a sign offering up sage and bay leaves. "Take some, PLEASE!" the sign entreated. Grabbing a glossy branch of bay, I thanked the couple on the wide front porch.

"Take more!" she called with a grin, although a woman known for infrequent dinners at home only needs so many fresh bay leaves, you know?

Can Can was mobbed and noisy, so we moved on, opting for Belmont Food Shop and two stools at the very end of the bar, which was lively with Friday night revelers.

It wasn't long before we met the two next to us and dug into their story.

Together 20 years, used to live in Lynchburg, now live in (formerly groovy) Mount Pleasant (parkside condo purchased in 2001 before the real estate bubble priced such things out of their range) and in town for a wedding, staying at an Air BnB on Colonial. Last time they were here, they'd stayed at an Air BnB directly across from Belmont Food Shop but not eaten here, a faux pas they were correcting tonight.

Delightful dinner companions, in other words.

Our food was out just a few beats ahead of theirs, allowing us to eat and continue the conversation about what a dead town Lynchburg had been when they'd both worked at Randolph Macon Women's College and how wildly improved it had been when they'd gone back a couple of years ago.

Part of that, we all agreed, came about solely because crazy Christian Jerry Falwell finally kicked the bucket, leading to spirited conversation about how his son may be even scarier.

Then the unlikeliest and most amusing of sentences came out of my friend's mouth - "I have several Jerry Falwell stories if you care to hear them" - and we were off and running with his hilarious anecdotes.

Turns out he had a close friend who used to live next door to Falwell, resulting in a couple of engaging stories, one involving stealth painting of pot leaves on the evangelical's car (no repercussions) and another with a pie directed at his face (jail time).

Then food arrived and talk ceased.

Warm gougeres got us started, followed by an amuse bouche of cured salmon with trout row, then I had crab and avocado over an insanely flavorful smoked tomato coulis, followed by wrapped, smoked bluefish with frisee.

Dinner was followed with another walk, this one in darkness, as we chatted about the weekend and his plans to hike to a waterfall and get together with fellow musicians to jam. Me, I'll be trying to make a few more deadlines, so not nearly so enjoyable as his.

"Are you going to write a book?" he'd asked me, early in the evening and apropos of nothing.

Fair question, but who doesn't have a book in them by this age? Unless, of course, you prefer your life to be off-view.

For the Love of Mockery

Talk all you want about the "black" card or the "woman" card, but let's get serious about the "city" card.

As in, don't tell me you can't park your compact little car in a space that would accommodate both my Altima and Pru's Mini because I will expect you to park and adjust until you are less than 18 inches from the curb anyway.

Otherwise, I will make a citizen's arrest to confiscate your "city" card. Beau was so hesitant about taking on the parking gauntlet I threw down that a bicyclist riding by piled on, calling out, "Tell him he can park up here," gesturing at an open-ended space that could have accommodated an 18-wheeler.

That kind of condescension while biking is a treat to behold. Luckily, Beau kept his card.

The barkeep at Belmont Food Shop greeted me discreetly, as if we had not just seen each other 18 hours ago, and set up the four of us in the front window, where the confluence of today's 90-something temperatures, a western exposure and the setting sun ensured that perspiration ensued.

"Chef says it's too hot for confit," our server pronounced, setting down plates of amuse bouches (gougeres and three kinds of dressed diced beets, all swoon-worthy) to replace confit. Pickled shrimp and pate took us right into a conversation about the relationship across the table.

"You mean I'm still on trial?" he asks, mock incredulously. No, you're in training, we clarify.

"Training?" Pru challenges. "I prefer 'probation.'" It was immediately clarified that the end game was not a pre-determined outcome, but whatever worked best for both because the term "relationship" is a malleable one, god knows.

Everything we ordered was dead tasty (as my Scottish friend would phrase it) and that extended from the killer skate over sauteed pea shoots to clam chowder to crabmeat over avocado to a sunny asparagus salad with baked Ricotta and lemon to smoked bluefish dip.

When it came time to consider dessert, Pru admonished, "You can have whatever you want," only to get the cheeky response, "I want a 120-pound body and a tall, dark and handsome 35-year old."

Yes, don't we all?

When the subject returned to Beau's lack of parallel parking confidence, the tragic result of too many years living in suburbia, Pru interjected with an idea that she and I would sit in my apartment sipping wine while he practiced parking down on my street between two orange cones outfitted with eggs on top of them, a ploy gleaned from an episode of "The Brady BUnch."

For the record, Marcia did a far better job parallel parking than Greg Brady did, but who's really surprised at that?

In any case, Pru's thought was that we'd watch from above, judging his parking moves and tossing out small rewards when he succeeded. I thought Tootsie Rolls would make a fine reward.

"I'd parallel park for Tootsie Rolls!" she announces, proving yet again why we're soul mates. I'd do a lot for Tootsie Rolls.

After French silk pie and chocolate bread pudding was an acknowledgement that Pru and Beau "will always have coffee" (as opposed to Paris, I suppose), a reference to their shared caffeine addiction which, despite the heat, had them drinking a French press.

We left Belmont to take the scenic route past horse paddocks and nouveau riche houses to Agecroft for Quill's production of "Twelfth Night" on a hot eleventh night of June.

Fortunately, Pru had brought a dramatic black fan with purple flowers for self-cooling, while many in the crowd pressed their programs into service.

My job was to snag the tickets at the box office, where a man walked in and announced, "I hate dealing with old people," a statement that stopped me in my tracks. What exactly do you mean by old?

"Older than you," he assured me. "Besides, you're beautiful." Thanks, stranger.

Tucked to the side of the stage in front of a garden of delphiniums, zinnias, snapdragons and coneflowers and behind a man in a seersucker shirt, our seats afforded a fine view of the two actors laying down the ground rules about not leaving feet in the aisles or walking where the actors would be.

"It sounds silly, but it's happened before and we will cut you," Luke Schares as Feste deadpanned under light blue skies with a pale wedge of a moon overhead. Before the play was over, I'd marvel at a heron flying overhead, spot multiple planes, both large and small crafts, and see stars begin to appear.

Shall we set about some revels?

Goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" more than my fair share of times. I've seen it done as a gender-reversed play, as a staged reading, outdoors in Petersburg, by a high school cast, with Scott Wichmann as Malvolio and actually on Twelfth Night and that's just what I can remember.

But it's an easy play to love, unlike others, as evidenced by the Bermudian explaining why she'd opted out of Quill's outdoor productions last summer. "I just couldn't do "Lear." Talk about depressing!"

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage

Tonight's cast was strong, the energy never lagged and the entire production felt like a non-stop rollicking good time, the perfect summertime entertainment. There was dancing, singing and headstands.

I smell a device.

For language nerds, part of the satisfaction of Shakespeare is word choice and more than once - jot, dissemble, excellent ignorance - Pru and I bemoaned the loss of certain colorful words that have fallen out of use, at least in the circles we frequent.

Daylight and Champagne discovers not more.

Thomas Cunningham as the hapless Malvolio blustered, begged and was sweating bullets as the play's action moved around him, but we felt sorry for all the men in three piece suits onstage.

I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.

The lights being on during intermission put out a call to nature, resulting in a swarm of night bugs joining the audience for the second act, flying about into our chairs, noses and mouths (so undoubtedly the actors' as well) and swirling around the stage.

Pru referred to it as "The Pestilence," but I prefer Shakespeare's words.

Why, this is very mid-summer madness.

Which perhaps is what sitting in the courtyard of a 500-year old Tudor house watching a 500-year old play about love and mockery absent Tootsie Rolls amounts to.

If so, give me excess of it.

Body Language

Body awareness is a life skill. If you'd told me a year ago I'd be out in public in bell bottoms, I'd have mocked you.

But why shouldn't I wear the grooviest of pants to dinner and a play with friends? No good reason, although if that's the case, why am I just now doing it after years of avoiding pants? And why did I put off having someone tell me that my hips looked good in pants?

Words: the intelligent woman's aphrodisiac.

You know what, somebody probably did tell me and I didn't believe them because body awareness takes time. Years of self-delusion. At dinner at Belmont Food Shop tonight, three women discussed how as young women, we'd followed the fickle thread of fashion rather than our particular body contours.

Big mistake.

I'm quite aware of my body's shortcomings at this stage and it's easy enough to dress to accentuate strengths rather than genetic shortcomings. Fashion, we finally learn, is what looks best on each of us, which is why I keep a needle and thread handy so I can hem every skirt and dress that crosses my path. empire waist dresses hide myriad body shortcomings.

Body awareness means sipping Gamay and tucking into a fabulous meal that begins with duck hearts confit ("The kitchen knows you like confit," I'm told. Who doesn't like meat cooked in its own fat? is what I want to know) and warm gougeres right out of the oven without a moment's thought to should I or shouldn't I?

It means feeling like I've hit the jackpot when my virtuous asparagus salad shows up with three rounds of baked Ricotta singing with lemon, a dish boasting splendid spring colors, sublimely complementary flavors and a textural bonanza (Beau is immediately as impressed as I am).

That awareness, though, extends to fullness, so I finish only most of my flounder with pea shoots and Surry sausage because I know I have the most obscene dessert possible - dark chocolate silk pie - en route.

Sure, I'm a little full by the time we depart for the theater, but I also hoofed it seven miles today with Phoenix, so I'm not worried about it.

Watching 5th Wall and Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Body Awareness" tonight, I am reminded that with age comes acceptance.

The middle-aged character Joyce decides to have a nude photograph of herself taken by a noted artist against the wishes of her partner. Would she have done the same at 25? Doubtful, because she would have fixated on what was wrong with her body, rather than celebrating what was right about it.

A few years ago, I interviewed a woman who was painting a series of nudes of middle-aged women for a show of nothing but them. Intrigued by the concept, I told her to please call me if she ever ran out of models. She hasn't, but I'd love to think that someday she might. A photographer friend offered to capture my well-seasoned frame any time I was ready.

I'm about there. I know my body doesn't look like it once did. To be fair, though, it didn't used to walk as fast or as far, nor was it as strong.

And wearing bell bottoms tonight, much to the shock and delight of friends, yet netting compliments from strangers?

One small step in espadrilles and one giant step for hip acceptance.

Always Second Choice

It's like I'm living at the beach.

Because all my windows are open, the warm, humid air outside keeps rolling into my apartment, the result being that every floor, every wall, every mirror and window is glistening. A wacky breeze periodically rattles the shades.

Everything looks and feels damp, not that there's anything wrong with that. My hair has given up.

Walking back through Carver yesterday, I encountered two guys standing under an open garage door, arms crossed, enjoying the warmth of a gray, rainy day. But when I said it felt beachy, one guy disagreed. "It's a few months too late for the beach," he says. I'm not that picky.

Anytime is a good beach time to me.

I'm pickier about movies, so while the rest of the world is busy seeing "Star Wars," I saw "Spotlight," a well-acted film based on true events that showed the actual work of tracking a news story and not just a Hollywood scratch-at-the-surface take on the often-grueling work.

Says the woman who's never been any sort of investigative journalist.

This week is already feeling like a blur, let's see, there was Richmond Ballet's "Nutcracker," resplendent with fresh costumes I didn't recognize, a glamorous new sleigh and at least a couple of sets I don't recall ever seeing. The overall effect was lovely and succinct, touching down at two hours including intermission.

Out on the sidewalk at 4:00, we navigated treacherous puddles to set our sights on Castanea for a nosh to accompany a little holiday Cava. With the staff a bit less than punctual, the chef ably filled in as bar man, pouring our bubbles and being amusing before returning to kitchen duty to make our bacon-wrapped dates and bruschetta with chicken liver mousse.

For the record, my first time at Castanea without eating gelato.

Holmes calls to say, "I wanted you to know you weren't my first choice," and explains that someone has dropped out of his birthday dinner, so he'd like to invite me to the all-family gathering at Belmont Food Shop.

Walking into his house, immediately it's a party. His nephew, affectionately known as L.A. Ken (for his post-RVA adopted home), joins us to pre-game and for the walk over under ominous skies thundering and lightening like it's August.

"I don't think it's ever thundered on my birthday," Holmes observes to himself as he helps Beloved maneuver around a puddle.

As many times as I've been to Belmont, I'd never eaten on the special event side, so I couldn't resist looking around. "Being nosy?" our server Andy asks upon discovering me in the pantry. "This is where I hide."

Explaining that I'm the only non-family member at this shindig, Andy's there for me. "You just tell me if you need anything stronger." Rose was plenty because the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree and with Holmes as colorful as he is, well, so goes the fam.

Aunt Martha told me she saw Frank Sinatra in Pittsburgh in 1943 when she was 16, before she knew what the big deal about Frankie was. She confirmed for me that girls did indeed scream through the show. Erica and I found that we were kindred souls when it comes to photography: take a zillion shots and cull the herd. Simple. Brother Jerry told me that I should have been Holmes' first choice to invite to the party. L.A. Ken posed the question: Kurt Cobain or Jim Morrison?

Belmont never disappoints with food and tonight's shrimp with poached endive and avocado, short ribs with barley and root vegetables and chocolate silk pie did nothing to change my mind on that matter. Bonus points were awarded because instead of the usual 20s and 30s music, they had on the Beatles, the birthday boy's musical bedrock.

And while I'm taking a tally, let's not forget about all the holiday goings-on.

Dozens of cookies have been made, presents have been wrapped, nog has been repeatedly sipped. Despite the oddness of the weather, I'm ready now to join the Whos down in Who-Ville in singing, "Welcome Christmas." And Spring, apparently.

It's all good. I don't think I've ever worn a sundress on Christmas Eve. And shiny walls are festive, no?

94 and Rising

We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave
The temperature's rising, it isn't surprising
She certainly can can-can

With a forecast of temperatures close to 100 degrees for Monday and Tuesday, I declined an invitation to the country. It was going to be too hot to head inland. Instead, I got up yesterday and started for the river.

A mile in and sweat was running down my back. Two miles in and all I could think about was a drink of water, but with cemeteries to my left and houses to my right, there was no water in sight.

I crossed my fingers that there would be a water fountain at Texas Beach, although I knew it was unlikely.

Walking through the neighborhood a different route, I came across all kinds of charming things to take my mind off my unrelenting thirst. A tidy white church tucked onto a corner, with rows of blooming roses surrounding it. A front yard garden labeled "potager" with a rainbow-colored gate behind it. A yard so full of kitsch that it was difficult to take in the hundreds of items that adorned every inch of space.

And when I got to the parking lot at Texas Beach, I was thrilled to see not one but three water fountains, one for adults, one for kids and one for dogs. Drinking greedily, I yielded the fountain to two overheated runners and headed to a bench to sit down.

On it was a large, unopened bottle of water, condensation indicating it was still somewhat cold water. I picked it up and put it back down. Looking around, I saw no one looking for their water. In that instant, it became mine.

Once hydrated, I walked down the stairs to Texas Beach to get in the river and was completely surprised to see ten Japanese rock pile statues dotting the water. I'd been down there just last Wednesday and noticed that all the pilings from last year were gone. Somebody had been busy in the past few days reconstructing them.

Let the summer begin.

Heading back up to the parking lot to start the hot walk home, I got behind two men on the staircase discussing the Koran and how "they" are just as afraid of us as we are of them. When they paused on a landing to get their breath, one guy waved me by. "I can see you're in tip top shape and we're not, so go ahead," said the one in the VCU shirt.

I don't know about all that, but I passed them anyway, refilled "my" water bottle at the fountain and slogged toward home, grateful that the water gods had looked out for me when I hadn't had the sense to bring my own.

Half a mile from home, I heard my name called and there was a friend offering me a brief home in air conditioned comfort. With over five miles of walking under my sweaty belt, I happily hopped in. Maybe my Mom's right and some days are just too hot to walk.

Awaiting me at home was an invitation to spend the day in air conditioned places of my choosing, an offer too good to refuse.

We began at Saison Market for a cold beverage before moving on to Criterion to see "Love and Mercy," the biopic about Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan, but I'm on record as loving a good true story and this one is hard to beat given its sordid elements: abusive father, controlling doctor, mental illness.

Probably most fascinating was the glimpse of Wilson's creative process as he tries to recreate the voices and sounds in his head into a record in the studio. Hearing those familiar songs broken down into the abstract components of his complicated vision was mesmerizing and all but a music lesson for the less musically savvy (read: me).

From there, we headed to the air conditioned comfort of Can Can for happy hour deals, enjoying three kinds of P.E.I. oysters (my favorite for the name alone: Salutation Cove) and a charcuterie plate with Morbier, pork pate and prosciutto-wrapped ripe cantaloupe, washed down with Muscadet.

In the bathroom, a woman was making a face at herself in the mirror, holding up a lock of hair. "Why did I spend half an hour straightening it if it's already curly again?" she asked me. Meanwhile my straight hair was losing what little body I'd forced in with a blow dryer to the heat, I pointed out.

"Your hair looks great," she claimed, but only a curly haired girl would say that. We all want what we don't have and my hair was suffering in the heat as much as hers.

From there, we braved the oven-like heat of Cary Street to walk down a few blocks to Chop Suey Books where the Music Circus was in full swing. I don't even know how many years now I've attended the annual tribute to John Cage, but at least since it was held at the old Chop Suey eight years ago.

Moving from room to room, looking at books along the way, I heard the Man About Town reading from his unfinished novel, saw a sax duo that included JC Kuhl upstairs near cookbooks and lingered to watch drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones playing percussion and song flutes. It was a far smaller Music Circus than any I'd seen before but just as cacophonous, which is exactly the point.

Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at Belmont Food Shop for appetizers of crab and avocado (one of my very favorite warm weather combos), lobster salad and, wait for it, lamb belly (obscenely delicious and one of my go-tos at Belmont).

As the crowd dwindled, the bartender got tired of the usual soundtrack ("I've been listening to it for two and a half years") and offered up his phone so I could choose some different music. Everyone knows I love playing DJ.

Hmm, so many options. I choose Strand of Oaks because I'd just seen them and Father John Misty because I'm currently infatuated with that album, eventually going with Ryan Adams because who doesn't like Ryan Adams? My date did and that's all I care about.

I couldn't leave without ordering silk pie, a crumb-encrusted dark chocolate mousse-like round that never disappoints, or a few minutes' conversation with the low key chef about his upcoming beach and fishing trip.

Sure, it would have been so easy to just go home at that point, but how could we when it was heavy metal Monday at GWARbar?

A DJ was set up just behind the stools we sat in and while I didn't recognize a single song as a series of appropriately dressed DJs took turns spinning, it's always great people watching there, whether it's poseurs or metalheads.

Not to mention that their air conditioning was working just fine and spending time in it had been our one and only goal of the day and night. We're simple people, although he was going home to sleep in air conditioned comfort while my overnight involved a ceiling fan and two auxiliary fans pointed directly at me. Bliss.

This morning, I considered routes for my walk, taking into account that it's supposed to be 99 degrees today, so desperately seeking some shade along the way.

Heading downtown, I was immediately struck by how few people were out and about. The Jehovah's Witnesses who usually set up shop near city hall were M.I.A. The lunchtime crowd appeared to have stayed inside. Even the guys who usually hang out in front of the barber shops were absent.

But a few brave souls were out. Walking down Marshall Street, from the apartment house stairs above me, I hear a man say, "There she is! There's summer!"

Looking up at him, I remark that it's not summer till next week. "It's summer today, darlin' and so are you!" he calls with a big smile. I have to assume he's referring to my wide-brimmed hat and limbs glistening with sunscreen.

"Nice sunblock!" a man with a backpack and tall walking stick calls to me from across the street, obviously not referring to my pink shorts.

We're having a heat wave, a tropical heatwave
The way that she moves, that thermometer proves
She certainly can can-can

Oh, and, for the record, under that hat that gets me so much complimentary attention, my hair most definitely does not look great. It's summer.

Is That So Difficult?

Life is too short to sit still.

The Library of Virginia was hosting Calvin Schermerhorn discussing "Solomon Northup and the Tragic Voyage of the Orleans." Yes, the same Solomon Northup as depicted in "12 Years A Slave."

After parking in the garage, I rode upstairs in the elevator with an attractive man who looked at me quizzically and asked, "There is a lecture here tonight, right?" Reassuring him, I shared that I'd asked the parking lot attendant the same question.

The proof was upstairs where the room was just about full for a Friday night lecture.

Using maps, vintage pictures of Richmond and plenty of photos from the movie, Schermerhorn took us from Spring 1841 in Richmond through Northup's boat ride to New Orleans.

His point was showing that human trafficking then was not so different than now, except prices have risen (Solomon was sold for a mere $650).

Showing bills of lading with slaves listed as chattel, noting their aliases (because free men were being sold as slaves), height and color (Northup was listed as "yellow" because of his European and African ancestry), he wove a tale of how men were systematically broken down and resigned to being enslaved.

But it was during the Q & A that things got good. Several black audience members made the point that enslavement was kidnapping, a point that Schermerhorn agreed with. He admitted that he'd been contacted by Northup's relatives but hadn't been in touch.

And, lo and behold, the next woman who stands up says she's a third generation descendant of Solomon Northup and part of the effort to establish a foundation to honor his legacy.

You can imagine how surprised our lecturer was at this surprise guest. Several black audience members challenged her on whether she felt herself to be black or white given how white she looked.

Admirably, she acknowledged being raised with a strong sense of Solomon's legacy but self-identified as white.

So that was a totally unexpected part of tonight's history lesson. Having seen "12 Years a Slave" and been moved by its tragic story, it was equally as moving to hear from a descendant of the man depicted.

Pays to go to history lectures, kids. Keep that in mind.

But it's Friday night and we can't be serious all the time, so my next stop was UR for their International Film series, tonight showing "Land Ho!"

A man I'd never seen before stood in front of the audience and said, "Paul's not here, so this is a comedy and it actually has some funny stuff in it. Enjoy!"

With people calling out, "Speech, speech!" sarcastically, he started the film.

An Icelandic-American film that premiered at Sundance, the charming story was nothing more than two 60-something men on an extended vacation in Iceland. As a bonus for me, there were plenty of scenes in Reykjavik restaurants featuring beautiful food and winking at the top tier food scene that exists there.

Oddly enough, the film had subtitles despite all the characters speaking in English.

The extrovert was divorced, recently retired as a doctor and bored for company and the introvert widowed, then divorced and retired from banking with no money. Strange bedfellows, indeed.

The former doctor, with his thick southern accent, penchant for pot (when he offers it to his friend, he declines, saying, "I haven't smoked pot since the '70s." Incredulously doc responds, "The 1970s?") and lusty nature was hilarious ("This is so good it's like angels pissing on your tongue"). His ex-brother-in-law was more cautious and tentative about everything.

As they make their way around Iceland, enjoying a disco ("We're the oldest people here. By a lot!"), being drenched by a double cascade waterfall (truly beautiful), seeing a geyser explode twice (I jumped the first time) and talking about life's letdowns (hey, shit happens), they both find themselves happier.

When they pop Jiffy Pop together over an open fire while camping, it got a big laugh from the mostly older audience.

The former banker would like another relationship and defines it as wanting someone "to talk about the news with, have a cup of tea with, eat breakfast with and sleep with. Is that so difficult?"

You want my opinion on that? Harder than you'd think, my friend.

But it's the pot-smoking ex-doctor who continually pushes the limits of his friend's patience, suggesting walks at night (they wind up lost in the darkness), driving through ponds (because they can), quizzing a honeymooning couple ("How many times have you hit the mat so far?") and generally being goofy ("I think I need a doobie-nator right now"). His friend finally loses his patience with him, asking why he always has to be doing something.

Because life is too short, he insists, to sit still.

After the movie, I met Holmes and Lovey for a short walk to Belmont Food Shop to quell our grumbling stomachs. I'd been craving the late night cook's plate and they'd never even heard of it.

Sometimes it's my duty to educate.

We began with a bottle of Sainte Eulalie 2013 Rose while Satchmo played overhead. The other tables were mostly winding down, so one by one they wandered out into the night while our evening was just beginning.

After hearing my order, Holmes took my advice and got a cook's plate for the two of them as well, none of us knowing what might be on it. In the meantime, he ordered Espolon, which arrived looking sophisticated in a champagne coupe.

Have one, he suggested. While I admired the presentation, I required food before tequila. Like magic, our cook's plates arrived.

The pieces of slate held lamb belly confit, fresh tuna poached in olive oil and duck gizzards, along with frisee salad, pickled veggies, crusty bread, buttered radishes and celery salad, the makings of a rich and wonderful meal.

I have been devoted to this cook's plate since Belmont Food Shop first opened. You never know what's going to be on it and you're never disappointed with what shows up. Lovey swore she'd never eat gizzards and ate several. Such is the power of the cook's plate.

Next came a cheese course: Pecorino, Maytag Bleu and triple cream Delice de Bourgogne with Marcona almonds and dried fruit, honey, bread and crackers, accompanied by J. Mourat Collection Rose in a unique bottle that resembled an old-time medicine bottle.

Meanwhile, I heard about a wake the couple had recently attended at a home with a fabulous art collection. Besides a Picasso and Dali, they had a painting of Pat and Julie Nixon, their faces expertly depicted and both with their naked breasts showing. It sounded like the highlight of a home filled with art.

Everyone talked at once. We heard about Belmont finally getting the permits to start hosting events, such as a recent Petersburg restaurant clan party, in their other room. Discussion ensued about how to get people to try things like heart, cheeks and tail. It sounds like their patio opening is just around the corner.

Ah, patio season, I await your arrival.

Despite Lovey's purported disdain for butterscotch, I insisted we try butterscotch pot de creme along with the expected chocolate silk pie and darned if she didn't become a convert right in front of our eyes. First gizzards, now butterscotch. It was a big night for our girl.

Holmes couldn't resist a chuckle when he asked where I'd been before dinner. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd begun with a slavery lecture before moving on to an Icelandic aging comedy. That I'd wound up sipping pink and eating belly surprised him not at all.

Stop moving and you die. It's not just me. Look at sharks.

Under My Umbrella

Thank god a pragmatist invited me to dinner. You know the type - don't get your hopes up and you won't be disappointed.

Blah, blah, blah.

What I mean is, thank god on a 98-degree day that I was picked up in an air-conditioned car to be taken to an air conditioned restaurant for the evening. Not that I would have turned on the stove had I stayed at home, but you get my point.

The only problem was that we walked into Belmont Food Shop (home of the handsomest wooden walk-in in all of Richmond) five minutes after every seat except one in the entire (and tiny) place was occupied.

My conclusion? Weather wimps who'd all dashed out of their houses the same moment the earlier rainstorm had ended.

My date graciously allowed me to commandeer the lone empty bar stool while he stood (obediently? respectfully? graciously?) next to me, but saddled with a gaggle of tattooed, monosyllabic stylists from a nearby salon just over his shoulder.

As it turned out, they weren't much of a problem because they spent just as much time outside on the bench smoking and talking on their phones as they did at the bar saying "like" every third word.

Pulled fresh from the oven, two piping hot gougeres arrived like a greeting from the kitchen, an amuse bouche to tease us of what was to come.

With a full house, a recent rain and the stylists' inability to close the door on their frequent trips in and out (raised in a barn, as my grandmother used to say), the restaurant was a tad warm and the tinny '20s music a little tough to hear sometimes, but with a dry, white Bordeaux, we were in no hurry so we settled back to wait out the first wave.

But patience deserves reward, so we asked for the bluefish spread with frisee to tide us over, which, to my date's credit, he gallantly ate standing up while people around us discussed golf courses and child-rearing ad nauseum.

At long last, the stylists gathered up their cigarettes, phones and wallets to leave for greener pastures, leaving a row of empty stools behind. My date placed his backside in the one closest to me and our evening began in earnest.

After placing our dinner orders, we took some conversational tangents - the appeal of vacationing in Argentina wine country, the location of Indiana Avenue in D.C., Anne Bancroft's age when she made "The Graduate" - until our tuna tartare and roasted chicken arrived.

I was swooning over my tartare's caviar and lemon vinaigrette but even so, couldn't help but be wowed by the simplicity and beauty of perfectly roasted chicken, both light and dark meat, crispy-skinned and satisfyingly seasoned ("Salt and pepper and leave it alone," the chef later confided) when my date offered me a bite.

For amusement, the big front window provided a view to the street theater of Belmont Avenue, a ceaseless parade of people coming and going from Carytown, some with bags or kids in hand, others moving slowly as if in a food coma.

Once all but one table had cleared out, the chef came out to speak to each of the remaining groups of diners at the bar, saying how unexpectedly popular tonight's squash blossoms and short ribs had been. All I know is both had been 86'd before we got there.

But that's okay. When you go out with a pragmatist, you don't expect much, so every delicious bite, every silken sip, every witty bon mot is a nice surprise.

At least until I get hit by a bus...and won't that be heartbreaking?

Cuttin' a Loop

When the weather gods are forecasting another round of city-stopping snow, you hit the road.

And when you're fortunate enough to have a 75 degree day, you spend as much of it outside as possible.

The drive was like we were going to the Outer Banks, meaning 460, a route that all but requires a stop at Adams Country store.

A bucket of salted fish still in water sat in front of a palette of country hams. Over in the case were dandoodles, the small cloth bags of mixed pig parts for seasoning greens and soup.

But when you're out cruising on a warm day, you don't need pig parts festering in the warmth of the car.

So we picked up a bag of Adams peanuts, a couple of glass bottles of RC Cola and took them to the counter, chatting with the owner about the bodacious weather.

"You folks just cuttin' a loop today?" Mr. Adams inquired. He'd have been doing the same if not stuck behind the counter, I just know it.

Further down 460, we stopped in Ivor for a stroll on the other side of the railroad tracks. I looked past the "Keep your eyes on Jesus" sign on the door into Mabel's Hair Palace, painted Pepto Bismol pink and looking like time had stopped in 1955.

Passing the Masonic Lodge, my eye was caught not by Jesus, but by the sign touting, "Annual sausage sale coming soon." If it's a good area for pig, it ought to be a good one for sausage.

Sitting in a dirt driveway, a truck's license plate proclaimed "HTC RDNK." And damn proud of it.

Then it was on to true pig town, Smithfield, for lunch. After touring around streets lined with enormous and quaint gingerbread-trimmed Victorian houses, we made our way to Smithfield Station for lunch on the deck overlooking the marina and marshes.

Boats bobbed in the water, most of them labeled by owners from Smithfield or nearby Rescue.

Once our puppy-like server Dante managed to open the bottle of Honig Sauvignon Blanc, we enjoyed it with crab soup and seafood salads to the sound of boat masts clanging together with the sun on our backs.

With a few hours of daylight remaining, we drove on to Newport News' Huntington Park to join others who couldn't resist spending an unexpectedly warm day by the water.

We strolled the park's little beach by the pier and bridge, watching as the fair weather clouds began to give way to the clouds of doom that will bring snow tomorrow.

Buzz kill.

By the time we got back to Richmond, the sun was long gone and it was time to eat again, so we set our sights on Belmont Food Shop, which we found mostly full, not surprising given the tiny space and the fact that so few restaurants are open on Sunday.

With '20s and '30s music playing too softly, we began with a substitute Rose (the one on the list having sold out) and a trio of amuse bouches: a gougeres, one perfect bite of smoked blue fish dip and a thimble-sized ramekin of celery root soup.

Next came braised rabbit with gnocchi and truffle, setting the tone for a meal of obscene richness. Although technically a salad, my duck confit over frisse with leeks was more about the fatty duck than the greens beneath.

That is not a complaint.

The decadence of my oxtail with spaetzle and carrots was matched only by my companion's melt-in-your-mouth lamb two ways. Our server had told us that Chef Mike had just broken down the lamb the day before.

Now we were in a food coma, but determined to hang on so we could go hear live music later. So we sat there sipping wine until I mustered the wherewithal to order dessert.

Cause nothing helps settle a full stomach like more food.

My first choice was butterscotch custard - a throwback to childhood and, besides, you never see it on dessert menus - but it had been 86'd moments before.

Our server was certain I'd had the silk pie many times, but I hadn't, so I went with the round of dark chocolate pate over caramel in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.

Call me a chocolate purist, but the caramel made it just a tad too sweet for me, not that I didn't manage to finish 80% of it with a glass of Lambrusco Rose.

The things I do for chocolate.

Dragging our stuffed selves to Ipanema to see the Dimmer Twins as part of Live at Ipanema, we got the last two bar stools and ordered Fenuaghty Vineyard Edmunds St. John Syrah.

Tonight's crowd was small, maybe due to the Oscars, but I was still greeted by the poetry-lover, the shoegazer and the band photographer, even if his cute wife was home live blogging.

Playing tonight were the Dimmer Twins, two members of the band Horsehead ("the pretty ones," they've been known to call themselves), and these guys are pros, setting up and starting on time, a rarity for Live at Ipanema.

It had been a couple of years since I'd heard them play, but I immediately recognized "Hard Hand to Hold" with its metaphors about the challenges of a relationship.

Simply put, it's American rock and roll, the lyrics straight forward and plain spoken, like in "It's a Whiskey Night."

There's no place I'd rather stumble home to
Than a bed that's made for me and you

When they asked if there were any requests, wisecracking audience members shouted out suggestions of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Afternoon Delight."

They played neither, lead singer John saying, "Sometimes you don't know how much a song sounds like someone else's until you record it."

Closing with a song on which John played an electric mandolin with four strings (don't ask me, I had it explained to me twice and I still don't get it), he warned us that they hadn't played it out and they might mess it up.

If they did, I couldn't tell and if I had noticed, it wouldn't have mattered.

After a sunny road trip and a day spent outside, a fabulous meal and lots of good conversation, I was thrilled to be able to wrap up my day with some live music instead of in front of a TV.

There's no place better to stumble back to 
Than a basement with men singing to you

If that makes me Oscar the Grouch, so be it. Personally, I think it just makes for a mighty fine loop.

Frankly, My Dear

It's not that I'm a weather wimp.

But with the next two days to go to the Folk Festival, I made plans to stay inside tonight.

I started at the VMFA for a highlights tour with a "Gone With the Wind" theme and tied into the upcoming "Hollywood Costume" exhibit.

Who'd have thought a museum tour would attract such a large group on a Friday night?

We strolled between galleries, looking at paintings of wealthy children and their slave nurses, slave women suffocating white men (Kara Walker's work a highlight) and a painting of utter devastation, much like Atlanta after Sherman marched through.

Finishing on such a downer, our docent suggested we get a drink afterwards to recover our Friday night high.

You don't have to tell me twice.

I immediately headed to Amuse where I ran into the predatory lawyer I'd seen just two nights ago.

Lawyers, be gone, I am over you.

The unexpected pleasure at Amuse was that they had Trinity absinthe, the new spirit being featured all over town today (this afternoon at Can Can and tonight at Heritage, neither of which I'd consider frequenting even for absinthe) but which I hadn't expected.

Soon the bartender was setting up my drip and regaling me with stories of ex sex and why it's so hard to give up on someone whom you're comfortable with.

All I could do was listen.

I was eager to taste the organic Trinity, described as more feminine absinthe, and see if energy-renewable practices made any difference in the taste.

Not that I'm an absinthe expert, but I found its flavor a tad more subtle than most absinthe while maintaining the distinctive appeal of the "green fairy."

Sipping, I got the scoop on the museum's "60 Films in 60 Days," an upcoming series of films representing the costumes in the "Hollywood" exhibit.

It looks like I'll have all kinds of chances to see movies on the big screen I've never seen before.

Hello "Casino Royale," kiss me "Out of Africa."

How wonderful it will be to have a film every day to amuse me that's conveniently followed by happy hour at Amuse.

There's the real trinity: me, film and absinthe.

By the time conversation and absinthe ended, the guards were only too happy to see me go.

I was starving, but not willing to go too far. Just last week, I'd missed out on the cook's plate at Belmont Butchery because I'd already eaten.

Tonight, after Sonoma wine and absinthe, I was ready to right that wrong.

The only others at the bar were part of a bachelor's party, dawdling and hoping to avoid the unpleasant places on the groom's schedule.

And by unpleasant, I mean places like Havana 59 and Tobacco Company.

I did what I could to discourage them.

To accompany my cook's plate, I drank 2011 "Tami" Nero d'Avola, made by my favorite Sicilian winemaker, Arianna Occhipinti. It was simple, it was well-made and I was happy.

The cook's plate made me just as happy.

Brandade in potato halves, duck leg confit, frisee, two thick slices of pate, warm gougeres, duck hearts and gizzards, pickled mushrooms, red peppers and jalapenos, grilled bread and squash.

Absolutely to die for, every bite.

With '20s music playing (the bartender offered me R. Kelly and I politely and vehemently declined), I tucked into what I consider the best deal in town and some of the tastiest parts ever served on a piece of slate after 11 p.m.

Eventually the chef came out to have a beer and chat and we talked about Chicago, Petersburg, wine foil art and attracting the specific customers you want.

That means not attracting the SUV-driving set challenged by parallel parking and not worrying about people who don't get it.

Personally, I gave up on people who don't get it long ago...weather wimps included.

I'm Only Me

It wasn't your typical First Friday.

For starters, I left the arts district to meet a friend for dinner and never made it back in time for art.

We'd both gotten the memo to wear black and talk about love and violins.

Our meal was abbreviated by the need to be at a mutual friend's show at 7:30 at the Michaux House, where the Listening Room used to be held.

That alone was noteworthy and person after person mentioned how excited they were to be back where it all began.

The first person I saw inside was the reason for the evening, new Dad Jonathan Vassar, particularly striking tonight because his hair was showing.

When I asked about this rarity, he explained that he'd stopped wearing his summer baseball cap ("And once I stop, I never go back") but at 86 degrees today, it had been just too warm for one of his knit caps.

Hence, a fine-looking but rarely seen head of hair showing.

Elizabeth Whitmire opened with her friend Karen singing backup, announcing, "I'm going to play some whiny folk songs."

It put me in mind of an old boyfriend who used to say his favorite music was made by whiny white women.

Accompanied by guitar and mandolin, they played depressing songs ("Depressing songs always have the worst rhymes"), a spiteful song, the first song Elizabeth ever wrote, and a fine cover choice ("This is a Magnetic Fields' song we can't play").

If I was the Grand Canyon 
I'd echo everything you say 
but I'm just me, I'm only me 
and you used to love me that way 
so you know how to love me that way

The closing song hilariously came from personal experience. "This song is about the girl my boyfriend dated after me. She had long hair and a private jet."

Whoa, it's hard to compete with those two things.

Philly's Chris Kasper, a last minute addition to the show, played second accompanied by violinist Kiley.

He did a short set, singing songs about Carolina, about when you first move in with a lover and have no furniture and about seeing an ex on the street after you've broken up and pretending not to.

Tonight's main event was Jonathan Vassar's CD release, "Mercy for the Undeserving," a two-disc set, one of unreleased songs from ten years ago and another of new material.

Sixteen songs, two sister albums ten years apart. Kind of like twin sons of different mothers, a reference that dates me for sure.

Before he began singing, the lovely Anousheh turned around from her front row seat and warned us all that she always cries at Jonathan's shows.

Sad lyrics, spare arrangements, it's really a recipe for emotion.

An artist in the audience called out that Jonathan had on a cardigan, saying he'd gotten one, too, when he'd become a Dad.

It was immediately dubbed a "dadigan."

"I just learned tonight what hash tags are," Jonathan said by way of introduction. "I don't understand it, though, because that's a pound sign. Shouldn't it be a pound tag?"

The man raises a good point.

He dedicated "Houston Gone Again" to Elizabeth and commented that tonight felt like a Listening Room reunion being back in the old space "for all you Listening Room regulars and there's a lot of you here tonight."

I was sitting between two of them, one with his hands full of cookies and the other lost in thought about why men do the things they do.

After singing "Long Drive Home," Jonathan cracked wise, saying, "Hash tag thanks."

He called friend and fellow former Ophelia member Grant onstage to join him for a few songs and Grant's voice and mandolin add immeasurably to the evocative songs new and old.

Getting his harmonica into its holder, Jonathan shared, "I saw Kris Kristofferson this summer and he didn't become a full-fledged singer/songwriter until he was 34. And by full-fledged, I mean famous. So I figure I've got about two days."

Grant established his old man bragging rights by sharing that he hadn't known what hash tags were either, assuming that the pound sign meant that the writer felt strongly enough to pound on the table to make his point.

Who said musicians don't have a sense of humor?

After a touching "My Life is Not My Own," Jonathan asked for requests and Will, seated next to the teary Anousheh, asked for "Last Chance."

You can always count on Jonathan for beautifully heartfelt music done right and tonight it was even better given the nostalgic setting.

Church basement, low ceiling, twinkly lights, lots of familiar faces.

Toto, it's wonderful to be back at the Michaux house hearing music for the undeserving.

When I got home, I found a message from an out-of-town friend saying she was at Belmont Food Shop and to hurry over.

There I found three friends, the artist I'd seen twice already this week, and the bartender who greeted me by asking if I wanted the cook's plate.

Sadly, no, I'd already eaten. But it's nice to know that's my standing order.

But I joined in tasting some desserts - mint chocolate chip mousse and apple walnut crisp- and sipping Prosecco while '20s music played in the background.

Eventually the chef came out and when I refused the offer of a chocolate jalapeno, he told me to follow him.

Through the kitchen, past my favorite wooden walk-in to the backyard garden he took me, the better to show off his herbs and veggies.

Last time I'd been in his backyard, Belmont was only open for lunch and it was crowded with piles of stuff, some junk, some worthwhile.

Since then, inlaid terraces had been put down, a stone-encircled compost pile put in and an array of spot gardens added.

We talked about espaliered fig trees, aromatic lemon balm and the abundance of lettuces he'd grown and used this summer.

Talking about our recent stellar weather of warm days and cool nights ("Like desert weather," according to him), we eventually made our way back into the dining room and my waiting friend.

Some might think me rude to abandon them at the bar, but she knows me well enough to know that I am a sucker for a walk in a good garden, especially on a balmy October evening.

Hash tag good life.

World of Strange Arrangements

On the longest day of the year, I've got nothing but time.

So when a friend calls to suggest happy hour, something she never does, I am on board immediately.

We agree on Bistro 27 and are the first customers at the bar.

Despite the nearly perfect weather, we do not sit on the patio, a choice which later pays off when a keg explodes, dousing the bartender and manager with beer.

It's pretty funny to see the manager's shirt and short hair wet but even better to see the barkeep's longer hair and bangs dripping with suds.

Hazard of the business, I suppose, but highly hilarious.

We dive into the happy hour menu with mussels in red sauce, two kinds of fries and a caprese salad.

There's a lot to be said for dirt cheap food this good.

A large party arrives and mills about but we ignore them to talk to a just-arrived bartending friend about honeysuckle syrup, $2 baguettes and the foibles of ABC agents.

Restaurant people always have the best stories.

When we part, it is half an hour till sunset, so I spend the next hour at home on my balcony, watching the longest day of the year fade into dusky then inky blue.

Once it is fully night and the sky is dark, I head off to Belmont Food Shop to meet a friend in from out of town.

The bar has only one seat free but there's a sweater on the bar stool, so I have to ask.

It belongs to neither the man on my left nor the woman on my right.

Score! We have a winner and I have a seat, close enough to hear the '20s music playing behind the bar.

Eventually people nearby leave and I move to a space with two adjacent stools.

Of all things, I see Virginia's indigenous grape on the wine list, and order a glass of Horton Norton in honor of my friend, the Norton enthusiast.

It's a tad on the foxy side, but it'll pair just fine with the cook's plate I've ordered.

My friend soon arrives from Washington, as does my cook's plate, and I'm good to go with both.

On the slate are sliced lamb belly, crab and avocado, smoked salmon with roe on cukes, chicken rilletes with a duck heart, duck confit, chicken gizzards, pig's feet, buttered radishes, grilled bread, frisse and pickled fennel.

It's both a heart attack and heaven on a plate and I dive in immediately.

The bartender has already told me that the lamb belly is his favorite thing in the restaurant right now and given its meaty goodness (it's better than a steak), I can understand why.

I slather the fatty rilletes on bread, revel in how the gizzards were cooked in fat and in between every fatty, salty bite, have a piece of tart pickled fennel.

My out-of-town friend tries a bite, then another and is soon raving over the quality and the price of the plate, guessing that it would cost more than twice the price in D.C.

Yet another reason why I live here and not there now.

We pick away at the delectables on the slate while he fills me in on his latest project, an homage to his father, and I regale him with some tid-bits from my trip to Italy last Fall.

A couple comes in looking for food only to be told that at that hour, only the cook's plate is being served.

Without batting an eyelash, I become the salesman to convince them to stay for this array of body parts - hearts, feet, gizzards - and they do.

I am not, however, able to talk them into Virginia's indigenous grape.

The chef comes out to have a well-earned beer and we all get into a discussion of farmers' markets.

When I allow as how I only go to the Byrd Market, I am asked what I buy since it does not appear to them that I ever cook at home.

Hello, I do eat meals besides dinner at home.

I sense that my traveling friend is fading fast, no surprise since it took him four and a half hours to get here from Washington.

When he asks about coffee, I insist he wait until our next stop to caffeinate.

Balliceaux not only provides the cup of joe he needs but also great energy with two DJs because tonight is No Richmond, a night of post-punk.

I run into three friends, including the unlikeliest of shoegazers, before I even make it halfway back.

After my visitor sucks back his liquid energy, I order a glass of wine and lead him to the back where a dance party is in full swing.

We find a good spot just outside the glut of dancers where we have room to move in place as well as observe the dance floor action.

My friend comments (and perhaps judges) that none of the guys move their upper bodies when they dance.

The crowd floods the dance floor for "Dancing with Myself" but I get the biggest kick out of ABC's "Look of Love," another song that thrills the crowd.

Before long, my friend comments that it smells like a boys' locker room in there, but for me it's all about sound, so the smell is irrelevant.

I am having a ball dancing in situ, so much so that one friend presumes I'm drunk (not even close) and another tells me how girlish I look (even less likely).

Must be all this beautiful daylight today. Happy summer solstice to me.

Talk About the Passion

You'd be surprised how nicely the restaurant crowd cleans up.

This year's Elbys were wisely held at the VMFA after last year's inaugural event all but exploded out of the Virginia Historical Society.

Richmond Magazine's award ceremony honors the local restaurant scene with food, bevvies and awards for the nine best and the top culinary student of the year.

Walking in to the ceremony past a white stretch limo, I saw familiar faces from my favorite and less favorite restaurants.

That's one great thing about this event, seeing so many restaurant people all in the same place.

It would take me weeks to see so many of these people if I had to go restaurant to restaurant to do it, which I usually do.

Once in the Cheek Theater, there were even more people I knew, but before mingling, I grabbed a seat in the front of the middle section so I'd have a good view.

Roosevelt bartender T. strolled by on the way to sitting with his posse, observed my outstretched legs and noted drolly, "Center stage. Of course."

Fact is, a single can always find a good seat even when things are getting full.

I was pleased to run into some food-loving friends whose relationship with me began over pork belly back in June 2010, before pork belly was as ubiquitous on local menus as facial hair at a Gallery 5 show.

Our hosts for the evening were Richmond Magazine's food editor (saying she'd just had skate for teh first time the other night!) and the Modern Gentleman, Jason Tesauro.

Jason began with mock self-deprecation, noting, "I'm Jason Tesauro. If you don't know me, you can Google me. Go ahead, I'll wait."

He immediately quoted Comfort/Pasture's Jason Alley, whose pronouncement, "Just being here is really f*cking cool," was a sentiment I heard repeated throughout the evening.

After recognizing the culinary student of the year, we moved on to the meat of the matter.

Fine dining was first and Lemaire took the award.

After thanking the staff, Chef Walter Bundy said, "We won last year, so we didn't expect to win again. And we're trying not to be so fine dining," to much laughter.

For  upscale casual, defined as great food where you can wear jeans, Stella's took the prize, with the diminutive Stella herself saying a few words about being supported so well over the years.

Kuba Kuba won for neighborhood restaurant, notable because the always casual Manny wore a suit to accept and say, "I'd like to thank Kevin Walter, the best dishwasher anyone could have."

By now it was apparent that every time a winner was announced, a classic '80s song was played.

Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime," Blondie "Rapture."

If you won, you walked to the stage to music from the decade whose music is more loved now than then.

Deco won for new restaurant and owner Giuseppe was on and gone, thanking everyone who supported the restaurant and his family before hurrying off.

When the Roosevelt's bartender T. won for best cocktail program, cheers and applause abounded for the genial gentleman with the twinkle in his eye.

Onstage, his voice quavered a bit at first, but I knew he was ready.

I'd seen him on the way in and asked if he had a speech ready just in case and he'd replied in the affirmative.

Better not to risk it, just in case you get lucky.

The excellence in service award went to Wendy at Bistro Bobette, about whom Jason said, "She's got the polish in place and the edge. She's got a New York accent and a French husband."

She looked beautifully polished in her fitted dress and even remembered to thank that husband.

Reading the nominees for rising culinary star, Jason read the Berkely's Carly's name and said, "Julia said Carly is easily the most potty-mouthed chef in Richmond. And that's coming from Julia Battaligni!"

It was funny because the owner of Secco can be a very literate potty mouth herself.

When they called Belmont Food Shop's Mike as the rising winner, a woman clearly not Mike rose and made her way to the stage.

Explaining that, "Mike isn't here, he's cooking at the restaurant and if you know him it won't surprise you that he called me an hour ago to ask me to go for him," she was back in her seat in a flash.

To be fair, the man's got a restaurant that seats, what, 20? There's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to making his weekly numbers.

Chef of the year went to Dale of Acacia who seemed surprised. "I didn't think this would happen again. I just want to be a rising culinary star. I'm an old fashioned guy. I don't tweet or Facebook, but I do care about what I do."

When restaurateur of the year was announced as Kendra of Ipanema/Garnett's/Roosevelt and "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" began playing, Jason observed, "We should be playing her punk rock tracks."

Wouldn't that have been fitting?

The former punk rocker waitress' speech was heartfelt and humorous.

Saying, "When I started Ipanema in 1998, I thought as long as I didn't snort cocaine or sleep with my wait staff, I'd do okay."

Much knowing laughter.

She mentioned how supportive Johnny Giavos and Manny Mendez had been in answering her questions in the beginning, imploring the industry audience to "cut the new kids some slack."

Generously, she did shout-outs to her longtime friend and Ipanema manager, her crack Garnett's staff and Chef Lee at the Roosevelt for agreeing to be her partner.

More laughter followed when she said she'd been told that she'd succeed in the business because of her nice breasts and great attitude.

"And thanks to my husband John. For those of you who know me, my life has gotten 100% better since I met him."

Who knows, maybe he married her for the same reasons her restaurants were going to succeed (see above).

After the white-knuckling part of the evening was past, we moved upstairs to the marble hall to eat, drink and be merry.

It's always a blast to see so many people I usually see spread out, but as I made my way around the room, certain feelings kept being repeated.

Everyone is stoked to be part of the wave of Richmond restaurants as it builds.

Many people raved about the sense of community in the room.

The consensus is that our food scene is exploding and that's good for everyone.

The marble hall was packed with 400 guests (so I was told by a VMFA staffer), making the normally-chilly room perfectly comfortable for me and, by default, quite warm for most.

It wasn't long before many of the women in the impossibly high heels removed them and carried them rather than suffer any longer.

As I walked around, searching out wine (Mulderbosch Rose), food (rabbit meatball over mashed parsnips, black bean cake with salsa verde, pork over collards) made by the culinary students and familiar faces, there was a real sense of camaraderie in the room.

Rapphannock River Oyster company was there with Olde Salts and Rapphannocks for the taking  (I took many).

I saw Merroir's chef, Pete, and we chatted about my devotion to his riverside tasting room.

Olli was there with charcuterie and, after tasting all eight varieties, I'd have to say my favorite was the Napoli.

Maybe it was the Sangiovese in it.

As I made another pass around the room, a guy called me over to compliment my tights, not the first time tonight that I'd heard something along those lines, before introducing me to his blogger girlfriend.

First wine ran out, then beer and people were reduced to working off their existing buzz.

Music came courtesy of my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, and DJ Marty eventually got restaurant people dancing up a storm over by the 20th century galleries.

Likely Andy Warhol would have approved.

And probably agreed that just being there was f*cking cool.

Indian Weed and Buttered Radishes

Bring on the fried chicken gizzards, the Southern Film Festival has begun.

For opening night, the VMFA was screening "Jamestown," a 1923 silent movie with the St. Charles String Quartet providing the score.

The theme for this years festival is "Screening Southern Freedom," ostensibly because it's the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation.

But when is freedom ever an inappropriate theme?

To put the film in context, we heard from Channel 8 film critic Morgan Dean, who gave us prices for items in 1923 (a car was $285, a house $7,500) and tidbits like that 1923 was the year that the Attorney General ruled that it was okay for women to wear trousers anywhere.

And while I appreciate the effort, I'd still rather wear a dress or skirt any day.

"Jamestown" was part of a series on America done by Yale University to educate the public.

For this festival, they got a copy of this rarely-seen film from the Library of Congress, meaning we are among the few who have seen it.

So now I've got bragging rights, although finding someone to brag to may be the challenge.

The film was directed by Edwin Hollywood, a fact notable in and of itself.

It was also a very '20s movie, with Pocahontas looking like every "it" girl of the time, with dramatically lined eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth.

So much for historical accuracy.

The film completely eschewed Captain John Smith to focus on John Rolfe, who, we learned, was "interested in the Indian weed called tobacco."

Yea, him and the queen of England.

Naturally, the film looked at 1607 Jamestown through the lens of the 1920s, so it played loose with details.

Mercifully, the native Americans were not shown living in teepees, but the houses of the settlers had far too many finished elements to seem real.

Did the colonists really have such elaborate windows, such smooth-hewn wood plank floors and such delicate furniture?

Maybe they did and maybe it just seemed unlikely to me.

At one point, a colonist is seen scaling a pointed stockade fence and someone behind me said, "Ow!" in empathy.

For some reason, the film showed the marriage between Pocahontas and John Rolfe as one arranged to secure peace with the natives, causing Rolfe to revolt.

"I refuse to be rushed into an unconsidered marriage," he whines, all but stamping his foot.

Ye gods, get over yourself and do it for posterity, man.

The film was nominally based on a 1918 book by Mary Johnston called, "Pioneers of the Old South," so I have to assume the director chose to portray the marriage like that since we were told the book made no mention of him fighting it.

As we learned at the panel discussion afterwards, it was a 250-page book and only about ten pages of it were used.

Then again, it was only a 40-minute movie.

While VCU had gotten the film from the Library of Congress, they'd had no score or information about the score, but maybe that's because only 16% of movies from 1923 survive.

Fortunately, the St. Charles string quartet did a fine job using Mozart string quartet pieces to soundtrack the film.

Several on the panel said the movie had been far less compelling when viewed silently, hardly a surprise since it was never meant to be seen without music.

Because, really, what is life without music?

But I digress.

Food was the next order of business, or maybe I should say the ongoing order of business, so I made the three-block trek to Belmont Food Shop.

I try to time it so I arrive right around the time they start offering their cook's plate because I am obsessed with it.

Tonight, I arrived to a full dining room, necessitating enjoying a glass of Negroamaro 2009 Cantele Salice Salentino to keep me occupied until things died down enough to feel justified in ordering what I wanted.

The couple next to me was waiting for French silk pie to come out and when it did, they handed the bartender their credit card, pounced on it and the pie was gone in about 90 seconds.

My kind of dessert enthusiasts.

Luckily the servers were gregarious, so with one I continued our discussion of Green Chartreuse from my last visit and with the other, discussed bourbon sampling and days closed.

As in, Belmont is now closed on Wednesdays, a perfect day, if you ask me, because it means they're open on Sunday and Monday, the most difficult days to find places open in this town.

We agreed that the best days off are the ones spent eating and drinking.

Gradually, tables began to pay and clear out, so I put my order in and waited patiently, watching people walk down Belmont and peer in the big front window.

When the piece of slate arrived, it was all but groaning with the feast on it.

A slice of cucumber with citrus-cured smoked salmon atop it.

Two freshly cooked chicken gizzards.

A warm arancini.

Two slices of head cheese, which my barkeep tried to tell me were "fromage de tete" until I stopped him and insisted we call a spade a spade.

Buttered radishes.

A square of pork belly.

Two brandade balls, each with a house-made potato chip.

Pork rilletes with grilled bread.

Pickled Brussels sprouts hearts. When I was told what they were, I exclaimed that I didn't know sprouts had hearts.

"They do and we rip 'em out," he said enthusiastically. "And pickle 'em."

So, basically, it was a heart attack on a plate and I did my best to eat every bite.

Several nicely dressed couples came in as I was chowing down and the one who chose the bar immediately asked for two of what I was eating.

Moments later, the kitchen sent out warm cheese puffs for them and me.

Personally, I think we were being rewarded for having the sense to order what we did.

I know some people might be put off by things like gizzards and head parts (last time it was blood sausage and lamb hearts), but for those of us who aren't, it's hard to find a more reliable place to get them six nights a week.

You only have to be willing to come in just as most people are leaving.

Of course, that also makes it easier to hear the vintage '20s music that goes unheard when it's busy.

Because, really, what are chicken gizzards without music?

Unacceptable in the dirty South, that's what.