It's like Matt said at Ghost Light afterparty last night, "With musical theater, you can do all the things."
The proof was in what I just witnessed: possibly the sweetest birthday tribute to a woman I've ever seen and lousy with musical theater. As one of the guests, I was sworn to complete secrecy - though because it's the theater panel that connects us, I only see her at plays and panel meetings, so I wasn't likely to be the one who blew it - and instructed when to arrive to stage the surprise.
The birthday girl had been fooled into thinking she was going to a cabaret for donors at Richmond Triangle Players, right down to the director reading a speech about the theater's accomplishments when she and her thoughtful husband arrived (intentionally) late. His speech ended with a nod to the real reason we were all there and that was our cue to roar, "Surprise!" and watch her face shift from attentive to shocked.
From there, it was part cabaret/part "This is Your Life," as Richmond luminary after Richmond talent after close friends regaled the celebrant with songs rewritten about her, along with poems, limericks and dramatic presentations written for her.
Scott Wichmann kicked things off doing "The Lady is Our Pat" to the tune of "The Lady is a Tramp," referencing her hatred for the Orange Dictator and her devotion to "the posse," her theater-going coterie, and setting the bar high for those who followed him.
Who else could sing about Pat as an Italian girl with serious cooking chops who found the love of her life in a "pasta-loving Jew" who didn't initially full respect her knives?
One of the men in the posse got up and praised her as thoughtful, considerate friend and fun to be with, before alluding to her dark side, deadpanning that, "Pat can get lost," and providing details of her lack of directional skills navigating the city, and the UR campus particularly.
It was awfully funny, but as someone who took years to come up to speed on that labyrinth of a campus, I empathized with the birthday girl.
Interspersed throughout the show were staged readings depicting everyday conversations between Pat and her husband, all of which demonstrated Pat's iron will, New York moxie and intolerance for fools. One involved Pat making an argument, starting the conversation with "A" and expounding from there. When her beloved asked what B was, she had nothing to say, to which he responded you couldn't have an "A" without a subsequent "B."
"Watch me," the actor playing Pat said, sounding exactly like the woman of the hour.
That beacon of sunshine, Georgia Rogers Farmer, sang both parts on Pat's favorite song from "Phantom of the Opera," whipping the white half-mask on and off depending on which part she was singing. Her vocal range was stunning and the song provided the opportunity for her to show off her operatic talent as well as do a headstand that caused her dress to fall, revealing shorts that said, "PAT" in pink block letters.
Leaving aside for a moment the sheer range of talent demonstrated during said number, afterward Georgia also noted, "Pat, I did that because I know you love that song from 'Phantom of the Opera' and that you wanted to see your name on my butt."
I mean, who wouldn't?
That's a birthday gift not soon forgotten. And that's not even counting the box of bacon she gift-wrapped and presented to Pat. Georgia is, after all, a domestic goddess in addition to her theater talents.
Party Organizer Jacquie O'Connor took a seat at a table onstage, pulled out a datebook and proceeded to sing a song about Pat's major preoccupation, "I Work on the List," a reference to the prodigious scheduling involved with all the posse's theater-going. Between her voice and the hilarious lyrics, the effect was like having a humorous window into Pat's daily life.
The emotional height of the evening took place when her adoring husband got onstage to read to us all the words he'd written and read to her when they married, a moving tribute to how lucky he felt to have found her.
Songbird Desiree Roots - wiping tears away from hearing his devoted words - called the happy couple up onstage and serenaded them, instructing after a moment, "You're supposed to dance!" which they proceeded to do.
After some quiet conversation between the birthday girl and the love of her life as they slow danced - the comment was, "They're discussing who's gonna lead!" - the lyrics became so powerful that Pat looked genuinely moved as they danced.
Singer Susan Greenbaum did a rousing take on "Oklahoma" that transmuted the "Ok" of "Ok-lahoma" to Pat's name and got the guests singing along to the chorus as she belted it out and did an arm jig between verses. The entertainment wound down with a group singalong about the birthday girl, set to the tune of "Mame," which anyone who knows Pat is required to know.
Once we broke for eats, I positioned myself in front of a screen showing photographs of Pat since she was a wee babe in her christening gown. I'm always fascinated to see snaps of people I know from before I knew them and sure enough, I loved seeing old pictures of her in the 70s and 80s when her curly hair was gorgeously wild (her words) and not straightened.
The kind of tresses we straight-haired girls covet. Lust after, even.
And since no birthday celebration, much less an important birthday like this one, would be complete without birthday cake, there were two: one fruit and one chocolate, both from Shyndigz. I can only speak to the latter, but let's just say the butter to salt ratio was swoon-worthy.
Birthdays come and go, so to see a heartfelt tribute by friends on such a festive occasion was like having a sugar buzz as the result of a top-notch show. Oh, wait...
There's a reason Pat always looks so happy. Proof positive that you're never too old to find the person who will dance with you onstage while everyone else toasts your happiness.
And from where I sat, A., it didn't look like either of them was looking to lead. Don't look for a B.
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Up on the Roof
Okay, so I dipped my toe back into the birthday pond.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Worldly Early Birds
Birthdays were never meant to be confined to a day.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
Friday, May 31, 2013
21st Century Birthday
The Gemini celebration train rolls on.
In honor of a friend's birthday a few days ago, we were meeting at the VMFA for gallery-walking and lunch.
Despite the fact that I'm at the museum almost every week, the birthday girl doesn't have that kind of free time. So we began in the 20th century galleries, allowing her time to take in the Wyeths, the Hoppers and Hartleys with which I'm so familiar.
The treat for me came when we got to the 21st century galleries because, despite having been in them several times, it had been a while and there were plenty of new additions since my last visit.
But the main wow factor came from who I was seeing on the walls of the VMFA. People I've met and people who live here in Richmond. A photograph by Georgianne Stinnett, with whom I'd shared cheese, salami and an afternoon of conversation during a thunderstorm.
Siemon Allen, whose exhibit at the Anderson Gallery, "Imagining South Africa: Collection Projects" had turned me on to this south African record collector. Gordon Stettinius, owner of Candela Gallery, whom I'd interviewed and heard about the very photographic series hanging on the walls in front of me. Heide Trepannier, the artist whose distinctive works continue to impress with new shows at Reynolds Gallery.
None of these were hanging in the 21st century galleries last time I'd been through. Which just goes to show, I can be there every week of my life and never keep up with the array of creativity on the walls.
Sated intellectually, we headed upstairs to Amuse where not one, but two, servers asked me within 90 seconds if they should get me some absinthe.
I may have a reputation there.
Instead, we stayed chaste with a lovely ladies' lunch of Manakintowne salads (dates, chickpeas, almonds, pea shoots, champagne vinaigrette) and a big bowl of mussels with Surry sausage. While I wasn't availing myself of the green fairy, the bartender was kind enough to pass on information about the Wormwood Society, a group for people like me, apparently.
We talked about what makes couples we know compatible and the proximity of Languedoc to Catalan. And ultimately, because this was a birthday celebration, we finished with chocolate pate, albeit without anything appropriate to drink with it.
Still, some birthdays are special because of what else is going on for the celebrant and this is one of those years for her. Me, I just take the celebrations wherever I can get them, absinthe or not.
And the art was out of this world.
In honor of a friend's birthday a few days ago, we were meeting at the VMFA for gallery-walking and lunch.
Despite the fact that I'm at the museum almost every week, the birthday girl doesn't have that kind of free time. So we began in the 20th century galleries, allowing her time to take in the Wyeths, the Hoppers and Hartleys with which I'm so familiar.
The treat for me came when we got to the 21st century galleries because, despite having been in them several times, it had been a while and there were plenty of new additions since my last visit.
But the main wow factor came from who I was seeing on the walls of the VMFA. People I've met and people who live here in Richmond. A photograph by Georgianne Stinnett, with whom I'd shared cheese, salami and an afternoon of conversation during a thunderstorm.
Siemon Allen, whose exhibit at the Anderson Gallery, "Imagining South Africa: Collection Projects" had turned me on to this south African record collector. Gordon Stettinius, owner of Candela Gallery, whom I'd interviewed and heard about the very photographic series hanging on the walls in front of me. Heide Trepannier, the artist whose distinctive works continue to impress with new shows at Reynolds Gallery.
None of these were hanging in the 21st century galleries last time I'd been through. Which just goes to show, I can be there every week of my life and never keep up with the array of creativity on the walls.
Sated intellectually, we headed upstairs to Amuse where not one, but two, servers asked me within 90 seconds if they should get me some absinthe.
I may have a reputation there.
Instead, we stayed chaste with a lovely ladies' lunch of Manakintowne salads (dates, chickpeas, almonds, pea shoots, champagne vinaigrette) and a big bowl of mussels with Surry sausage. While I wasn't availing myself of the green fairy, the bartender was kind enough to pass on information about the Wormwood Society, a group for people like me, apparently.
We talked about what makes couples we know compatible and the proximity of Languedoc to Catalan. And ultimately, because this was a birthday celebration, we finished with chocolate pate, albeit without anything appropriate to drink with it.
Still, some birthdays are special because of what else is going on for the celebrant and this is one of those years for her. Me, I just take the celebrations wherever I can get them, absinthe or not.
And the art was out of this world.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Smells Like Birthday Spirit
You can't start your birthday the same as every other day.
No, when it's your day, you have to make sure everything is exactly how you want it to be.
That meant eschewing my usual walk on city streets for something far more pleasurable.
Honeysuckle and rushing water.
Ideally, I would have woken up at the beach today, but absent the sound of crashing waves, I happily started my day with a walk on Belle Isle.
I have to admit, I was a tad surprised at the number of cars already at the parking lot on a Thursday morning.
Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I was passed by a jogging couple, him saying to her, "Are you making fun of my colloquialisms?"
Since all she did was laugh, I have to assume she was.
Further on, I got behind a group of high school students, likely truants since school's still in session, and one of the guys decided to show his prowess at the monkey bars.
Using the overhead scaffolding that protects pedestrians from debris falling from the real bridge overhead, he swung from bar to bar until his sweaty hands gave out.
He apologized for holding me up when he came down, but I was happy to watch such exuberance on a muggy morning.
Over on the island, there were already lots of bikini-clad girls trying to get skin cancer laying out on the rocks as well as a surprising number of guys fishing.
Walking along the rushing rapids made for a delightful breeze which brought the scent of the surrounding honeysuckle straight to my birthday nostrils.
Once around the bend and into the backside of the island, I felt like I'd stepped into a rain forest.
It was muggy, much more still and practically like walking through pea soup, so I wasted no time in getting back around to the cooler side of the island.
So while joggers and bicyclists continued making their loops, I did a couple of fragrant strolls up and down the river side, greeting some of the same people coming and going.
It's my birthday. I can do whatever I want.
No, when it's your day, you have to make sure everything is exactly how you want it to be.
That meant eschewing my usual walk on city streets for something far more pleasurable.
Honeysuckle and rushing water.
Ideally, I would have woken up at the beach today, but absent the sound of crashing waves, I happily started my day with a walk on Belle Isle.
I have to admit, I was a tad surprised at the number of cars already at the parking lot on a Thursday morning.
Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I was passed by a jogging couple, him saying to her, "Are you making fun of my colloquialisms?"
Since all she did was laugh, I have to assume she was.
Further on, I got behind a group of high school students, likely truants since school's still in session, and one of the guys decided to show his prowess at the monkey bars.
Using the overhead scaffolding that protects pedestrians from debris falling from the real bridge overhead, he swung from bar to bar until his sweaty hands gave out.
He apologized for holding me up when he came down, but I was happy to watch such exuberance on a muggy morning.
Over on the island, there were already lots of bikini-clad girls trying to get skin cancer laying out on the rocks as well as a surprising number of guys fishing.
Walking along the rushing rapids made for a delightful breeze which brought the scent of the surrounding honeysuckle straight to my birthday nostrils.
Once around the bend and into the backside of the island, I felt like I'd stepped into a rain forest.
It was muggy, much more still and practically like walking through pea soup, so I wasted no time in getting back around to the cooler side of the island.
So while joggers and bicyclists continued making their loops, I did a couple of fragrant strolls up and down the river side, greeting some of the same people coming and going.
It's my birthday. I can do whatever I want.
Not Dead Yet
Leave it to a fellow Gemini to give me the best birthday eve celebration ever.
Because, as we all know, the first rule of a birthday eve is to tease the imminent holiday, but not overshadow it with too much celebration, lest it eclipse the main event.
Only a fellow Gemini can walk that fine line.
First she picks me up, tells me how nice I look and then she takes me to Enoteca Sogno.
The restaurant is not too busy, the owner greets us at the door and we decide to sit at the bar when he says he will be our server.
Because we got a late start, we have already missed out on the soft-shelled crab appetizer, but not the other specials.
"We're going to eat until we die," my friend announces, apropos of nothing.
Can do.
There are two Roses on the menu and in appropriate birthday eve-fashion, we ask for one of each.
My favorite is the Argiolas Serra Lori, tasting of berries and herbs, although the other Rose (made from Nebbiolo) is a close second, especially once food arrives.
Friend engages the owner in talk of Italy and it is a discussion that continues unabated throughout the night.
I have made only one visit to Italy, my friend has made two and our host boasts of sixteen, a number we cannot begin to compete with.
He mentions friends about to embark on their first trip to Italy, planning to spend three days each in Florence, Rome and Venice.
I've only been to Italy once and even I know what a bad idea that is.
Three days in Florence? Three days?
I spent a week and it wasn't close to enough, so how could any human being be satisfied with a mere three days?
Our host seems to think they just want to be able to check off three Italian cities off their bucket list.
Tragic.
But it's not our problem, so we move on to more pressing issues, like food.
She starts with a beet and orange salad while I jump straight to meat with a plate of Olli salumeria, letting the kitchen choose my three varieties.
I end up with three Italians: Toscano (notes of fennel), Napoli (smoked) and Molisano (pepper and garlic), all with just enough fat to make the wine come alive.
As we eat the salami, we hear that Olli is planning to sell their products in B.J.'s and a little piece of our souls die when we hear this.
Really, Olli, the sublime meats to be found in high-end restaurants all over the country is now available in a discount store?
This is not good birthday eve news.
For distraction from this tragedy, the chef comes out and we discuss the Lebanese Food Festival, an event he attended that left him in a food coma.
Now we want our own.
For our next course, she chooses rockfish with a side of asparagus with butter and Parmesan and another of spaghetti while I ask for scallops with a balsamic reduction.
I switch to the other Rose while she continues to sip her first glass, good girl that she is.
My scallops are meaty and sweet, the ideal complement to my Rose.
Even though most of the dinner crowd is leaving, we are soon joined by a group of wine geeks spouting wine talk in that way that makes mere mortals wonder what they're talking about.
On the other hand, they are guys and we are women and they are ordering very nice wines and are soon offering to pour us some of what they're drinking.
My friend demurs while I happily avail myself of their generosity.
2006 Voliero Brunello is the first thing they offer me and the nose alone is worth whatever conversation they want in return.
It has a gorgeous, flowery nose and a long finish and when I am offered a second taste, I happily accept.
Generous wine geeks are the best.
Friend and I were feeling uncomfortably full (possibly near death, the stated goal for the evening) but I reminded her that there's a always a corner for dessert.
Especially on a person's birthday eve.
That came in the form of sea salt and caramel boudino with nut brittle.
As the soon-to-be birthday girl, I was expected to finish more than half, which turned out to be more challenging than you (or I) might think.
But, trooper that I am, I persevered, along with some help from a 2006 Casanova di Neri Brunello, which the wine geeks said would be even more stellar by 2018.
The thing is, birthday eves are all about the here and now, so I had no interest in waiting until 2018 for wine or anything else.
It's enough I have to wait till tomorrow to begin the serious celebration.
Okay, not so serious. I am, after all, a Gemini.
Because, as we all know, the first rule of a birthday eve is to tease the imminent holiday, but not overshadow it with too much celebration, lest it eclipse the main event.
Only a fellow Gemini can walk that fine line.
First she picks me up, tells me how nice I look and then she takes me to Enoteca Sogno.
The restaurant is not too busy, the owner greets us at the door and we decide to sit at the bar when he says he will be our server.
Because we got a late start, we have already missed out on the soft-shelled crab appetizer, but not the other specials.
"We're going to eat until we die," my friend announces, apropos of nothing.
Can do.
There are two Roses on the menu and in appropriate birthday eve-fashion, we ask for one of each.
My favorite is the Argiolas Serra Lori, tasting of berries and herbs, although the other Rose (made from Nebbiolo) is a close second, especially once food arrives.
Friend engages the owner in talk of Italy and it is a discussion that continues unabated throughout the night.
I have made only one visit to Italy, my friend has made two and our host boasts of sixteen, a number we cannot begin to compete with.
He mentions friends about to embark on their first trip to Italy, planning to spend three days each in Florence, Rome and Venice.
I've only been to Italy once and even I know what a bad idea that is.
Three days in Florence? Three days?
I spent a week and it wasn't close to enough, so how could any human being be satisfied with a mere three days?
Our host seems to think they just want to be able to check off three Italian cities off their bucket list.
Tragic.
But it's not our problem, so we move on to more pressing issues, like food.
She starts with a beet and orange salad while I jump straight to meat with a plate of Olli salumeria, letting the kitchen choose my three varieties.
I end up with three Italians: Toscano (notes of fennel), Napoli (smoked) and Molisano (pepper and garlic), all with just enough fat to make the wine come alive.
As we eat the salami, we hear that Olli is planning to sell their products in B.J.'s and a little piece of our souls die when we hear this.
Really, Olli, the sublime meats to be found in high-end restaurants all over the country is now available in a discount store?
This is not good birthday eve news.
For distraction from this tragedy, the chef comes out and we discuss the Lebanese Food Festival, an event he attended that left him in a food coma.
Now we want our own.
For our next course, she chooses rockfish with a side of asparagus with butter and Parmesan and another of spaghetti while I ask for scallops with a balsamic reduction.
I switch to the other Rose while she continues to sip her first glass, good girl that she is.
My scallops are meaty and sweet, the ideal complement to my Rose.
Even though most of the dinner crowd is leaving, we are soon joined by a group of wine geeks spouting wine talk in that way that makes mere mortals wonder what they're talking about.
On the other hand, they are guys and we are women and they are ordering very nice wines and are soon offering to pour us some of what they're drinking.
My friend demurs while I happily avail myself of their generosity.
2006 Voliero Brunello is the first thing they offer me and the nose alone is worth whatever conversation they want in return.
It has a gorgeous, flowery nose and a long finish and when I am offered a second taste, I happily accept.
Generous wine geeks are the best.
Friend and I were feeling uncomfortably full (possibly near death, the stated goal for the evening) but I reminded her that there's a always a corner for dessert.
Especially on a person's birthday eve.
That came in the form of sea salt and caramel boudino with nut brittle.
As the soon-to-be birthday girl, I was expected to finish more than half, which turned out to be more challenging than you (or I) might think.
But, trooper that I am, I persevered, along with some help from a 2006 Casanova di Neri Brunello, which the wine geeks said would be even more stellar by 2018.
The thing is, birthday eves are all about the here and now, so I had no interest in waiting until 2018 for wine or anything else.
It's enough I have to wait till tomorrow to begin the serious celebration.
Okay, not so serious. I am, after all, a Gemini.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Between Parentheses and Marcona Almonds
Not to be self-centered-sounding, but this week is all about me.
With my birthday falling sooner rather than later, I corralled a girlfriend to help me kick off the week's festivities.
We'd no sooner made our meet-up arrangements when another friend e-mailed with the directive, "If you are not doing anything this evening/afternoon (now, I guess), come meet up with me at Bistro 27 tonight."
Since the message arrived an hour and a half before I was due to pick up my girlfriend and celebrate myself, I was more than happy to go over to 27 and meet up with a friend.
It was early, it was Monday night and I was one of the few occupants of the restaurant beside my friend.
Vinho Verde in hand. I listened as he told me about his stressful day/week/month while I made empathetic noises.
You want to hear about stress? Don't get me started.
Mid-conversation, a guy at the end of the bar interrupted, already aware of my plans because he was a co-worker of the friend I was soon to meet.
He knew my name, where I was headed and who I was meeting.
Small world.
He was fortifying himself with cocktails before setting off for a four-hour session to have his massive back tattoo worked on.
Somebody's gotta keep us as the #3 most-tattooed city in the country and it's certainly not going to be me, so I appreciate die-hards like him.
By the time I finish my wine, it is time to go collect my friend.
Because she is so awesome, she will not allow herself to be collected until we kick off my birthday celebration chez her.
She is pouring Cristalino, a smoky and pungent Cava that went down easily, and she'd even laid out the most sublime take on one of childhood's most distinctive treats.
Growing up, a party standard was peanuts and M & Ms, that most accessible of all sweet/salty combinations, if a bit tired after decades of service.
Friend took this classic combo to another level by substituting exquisite Marcona almonds with sea salt for the standard goobers.
As we sat there sipping Spanish bubbles, she handed me a present, already taking the entire evening far beyond what I'd imagined (i.e., lots of wine and some good food).
It was a book, making for the best possible way to kick off a birthday week celebration.
Written by Roberto Bolano, a writer who's been described as the most controversial and commanding figure to have emerged since Gabriel Garcia Marquez (a personal favorite of the highest magnitude), "Between Parentheses," a collection of essays, articles and speeches 1998-2003, according to her, "just screamed Karen."
Now there is a compliment of the highest order.
After indulging in bubbles and literary talk, we set out for Italian pastures, namely Dinamo.
It was my second time and her first and we took bar stools rather than a table, the better to whisper in each other's ears about birthdays, being stood up and adjusting to silence.
After Vinho Verde and Cava, there was nowhere to go except red, so I chose Masciarelli Montepulciano, a dry but intensely perfumed Italian that perfectly suited my birthday needs.
We began with tortellini in brodo, a soup of gigantic noodles and the most flavorful broth, while discussing rising rent costs in the city.
Looking at the menu, she raised her eyebrows at me, "You're getting the tongue, aren't you?"
For my next course, I chose veal tongue with parsley sauce, which was more like a pesto, and offered a rich component to the tongue.
My girlfriend, less adventuresome about what she puts in her mouth, took the tiniest bite of tongue and sauce, but only so I wouldn't give her a hard time.
She'd ordered flat bread with hearts of palm and chickpeas, a huge serving of antipasto that, at least from my bites, was a beautiful marriage of flavors.
Sipping our Montepulciano, we admired the sheer size of the espresso machine (sometimes size does matter) and Friend informed our server that I'd had the audacity to spend two weeks in Italy and not once taste coffee of any kind.
Her horror was evident.
I tried to compensate by ordering chocolate espresso torte, a rich-tasting dessert that came with an option for whipped cream and berries.
My friend made an excellent point.
"I've had an elegant sufficiency," she stated for the record, using a phrase her beloved uncle apparently did, meaning nothing more than chocolate (and an espresso) was required at that point.
Luckily for me, the non-coffee drinker, I still had wine to accompany my chocolate as the discussion looked at what's ahead.
Honestly, I have no idea.
Friend was kind enough to say that, "You've an elegant sufficiency of culture, culinary morsels and conversations most hours."
This night or any, much less during my birthday weekend, what more could I hope for?
Well...
With my birthday falling sooner rather than later, I corralled a girlfriend to help me kick off the week's festivities.
We'd no sooner made our meet-up arrangements when another friend e-mailed with the directive, "If you are not doing anything this evening/afternoon (now, I guess), come meet up with me at Bistro 27 tonight."
Since the message arrived an hour and a half before I was due to pick up my girlfriend and celebrate myself, I was more than happy to go over to 27 and meet up with a friend.
It was early, it was Monday night and I was one of the few occupants of the restaurant beside my friend.
Vinho Verde in hand. I listened as he told me about his stressful day/week/month while I made empathetic noises.
You want to hear about stress? Don't get me started.
Mid-conversation, a guy at the end of the bar interrupted, already aware of my plans because he was a co-worker of the friend I was soon to meet.
He knew my name, where I was headed and who I was meeting.
Small world.
He was fortifying himself with cocktails before setting off for a four-hour session to have his massive back tattoo worked on.
Somebody's gotta keep us as the #3 most-tattooed city in the country and it's certainly not going to be me, so I appreciate die-hards like him.
By the time I finish my wine, it is time to go collect my friend.
Because she is so awesome, she will not allow herself to be collected until we kick off my birthday celebration chez her.
She is pouring Cristalino, a smoky and pungent Cava that went down easily, and she'd even laid out the most sublime take on one of childhood's most distinctive treats.
Growing up, a party standard was peanuts and M & Ms, that most accessible of all sweet/salty combinations, if a bit tired after decades of service.
Friend took this classic combo to another level by substituting exquisite Marcona almonds with sea salt for the standard goobers.
As we sat there sipping Spanish bubbles, she handed me a present, already taking the entire evening far beyond what I'd imagined (i.e., lots of wine and some good food).
It was a book, making for the best possible way to kick off a birthday week celebration.
Written by Roberto Bolano, a writer who's been described as the most controversial and commanding figure to have emerged since Gabriel Garcia Marquez (a personal favorite of the highest magnitude), "Between Parentheses," a collection of essays, articles and speeches 1998-2003, according to her, "just screamed Karen."
Now there is a compliment of the highest order.
After indulging in bubbles and literary talk, we set out for Italian pastures, namely Dinamo.
It was my second time and her first and we took bar stools rather than a table, the better to whisper in each other's ears about birthdays, being stood up and adjusting to silence.
After Vinho Verde and Cava, there was nowhere to go except red, so I chose Masciarelli Montepulciano, a dry but intensely perfumed Italian that perfectly suited my birthday needs.
We began with tortellini in brodo, a soup of gigantic noodles and the most flavorful broth, while discussing rising rent costs in the city.
Looking at the menu, she raised her eyebrows at me, "You're getting the tongue, aren't you?"
For my next course, I chose veal tongue with parsley sauce, which was more like a pesto, and offered a rich component to the tongue.
My girlfriend, less adventuresome about what she puts in her mouth, took the tiniest bite of tongue and sauce, but only so I wouldn't give her a hard time.
She'd ordered flat bread with hearts of palm and chickpeas, a huge serving of antipasto that, at least from my bites, was a beautiful marriage of flavors.
Sipping our Montepulciano, we admired the sheer size of the espresso machine (sometimes size does matter) and Friend informed our server that I'd had the audacity to spend two weeks in Italy and not once taste coffee of any kind.
Her horror was evident.
I tried to compensate by ordering chocolate espresso torte, a rich-tasting dessert that came with an option for whipped cream and berries.
My friend made an excellent point.
"I've had an elegant sufficiency," she stated for the record, using a phrase her beloved uncle apparently did, meaning nothing more than chocolate (and an espresso) was required at that point.
Luckily for me, the non-coffee drinker, I still had wine to accompany my chocolate as the discussion looked at what's ahead.
Honestly, I have no idea.
Friend was kind enough to say that, "You've an elegant sufficiency of culture, culinary morsels and conversations most hours."
This night or any, much less during my birthday weekend, what more could I hope for?
Well...
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Taste with the Heart
Tonight was all about birthdays and hearts.
And that doesn't even begin to cover it.
Bistro 27 had put its regulars on notice: chicken hearts were to be had for one night only.
Had I had chicken hearts before? No.
Did I want chicken hearts tonight? But of course.
So I found a willing heart-eater and we made our way to my favorite neighborhood joint, finding the place hopping at 5:30.
"The Producers" has a 7:00 curtain across the street, so eager theatergoers were getting their feedbag on beforehand.
As I tried to make a left toward my favorite bar stool, I saw Chef Carlos' wife and twin baby girls.
Turns out it was the girls' first birthday, too, having conveniently been born on their father's birthday.
So it was to be a three-way celebration with hearts. And cheese rolls.
Apparently in Brazil (Carlos' birthplace), cheese rolls are so popular that even McDonald's has them on the menu.
Tonight, they were part of the birthday celebration.
And what an array of celebrants there were!
Armed with only a glass of Sangiovese, I did my meeting and greeting from the comfort of my bar stool.
Soon, food arrived in the form of chicken hearts on a skewer, along with chicken hearts braised with potatoes.
If eating hearts has the ability to make me bigger hearted, I am most certainly a better person after the dozen hearts I wolfed down.
I got handed one of the twin babies, complete with cheese roll in her tiny hand, and soon discovered how much she liked being laid on my outstretched legs and lowered upside down.
No doubt I was introducing her to the gateway drug to more thrilling pastimes and her father will probably not thank me for it.
Plates of the cheese rolls arrived, airy and quickly consumed.
We did a group birthday sing for Carlos, with the baby in my lap applauding along with everyone else after the song.
A portabella mushroom "napoleon" followed and I found that babies born of a Brazilian father will eat pieces of vinaigrette-soaked Mozzarella like it was as bland as a Saltine.
It was pretty cute.
Lobster ravioli in shrimp bisque was next and one swipe of the bisque delivered the flavor of many shrimp long-cooked.
As is usual with Carlos' ravioli of the day, the filling was abundant and the pasta perfectly cooked.
Because of so many other guests, the conversation was all over the place.
The pleasures of sleeping in versus the paycheck of a 9 to 5 job. Women who lose their fathers and take years to recover. The new arthouse theater at Movieland. Starting a new restaurant job on a busy night.
Eventually the babies left, sent home with freshly cooked pasta courtesy of their talented Dad, and the party went back to being about birthdays and hearts.
Over another glass of Sangiovese, the Brazilian shared his thoughts on planning a trip to Spain and Portugal, based more on what he'd heard than what he'd experienced, since he hadn't been. Yet.
But the eating wasn't over and the next course was head cheese, a personal favorite, and the first time I'd had Carlos' version.
He said he'd been so tempted by a $17 pig's head that he bought it and began the process of turning it into what could be called high-end Scrapple.
With a good mustard and a swirl of a balsamic reduction, it was just beautiful.
By this time, I'd missed the Classical Revolution show at the Camel (musicians sight-reading classical music while getting drunk), so the only logical thing seemed to be to order dessert and more wine.
A chocolate hazelnut torte rounded out an evening of many distinctive flavors as the restaurant gradually emptied out and only the good people were left.
Or maybe that's just how I saw things given all the heart I'd taken in.
And that doesn't even begin to cover it.
Bistro 27 had put its regulars on notice: chicken hearts were to be had for one night only.
Had I had chicken hearts before? No.
Did I want chicken hearts tonight? But of course.
So I found a willing heart-eater and we made our way to my favorite neighborhood joint, finding the place hopping at 5:30.
"The Producers" has a 7:00 curtain across the street, so eager theatergoers were getting their feedbag on beforehand.
As I tried to make a left toward my favorite bar stool, I saw Chef Carlos' wife and twin baby girls.
Turns out it was the girls' first birthday, too, having conveniently been born on their father's birthday.
So it was to be a three-way celebration with hearts. And cheese rolls.
Apparently in Brazil (Carlos' birthplace), cheese rolls are so popular that even McDonald's has them on the menu.
Tonight, they were part of the birthday celebration.
And what an array of celebrants there were!
Armed with only a glass of Sangiovese, I did my meeting and greeting from the comfort of my bar stool.
Soon, food arrived in the form of chicken hearts on a skewer, along with chicken hearts braised with potatoes.
If eating hearts has the ability to make me bigger hearted, I am most certainly a better person after the dozen hearts I wolfed down.
I got handed one of the twin babies, complete with cheese roll in her tiny hand, and soon discovered how much she liked being laid on my outstretched legs and lowered upside down.
No doubt I was introducing her to the gateway drug to more thrilling pastimes and her father will probably not thank me for it.
Plates of the cheese rolls arrived, airy and quickly consumed.
We did a group birthday sing for Carlos, with the baby in my lap applauding along with everyone else after the song.
A portabella mushroom "napoleon" followed and I found that babies born of a Brazilian father will eat pieces of vinaigrette-soaked Mozzarella like it was as bland as a Saltine.
It was pretty cute.
Lobster ravioli in shrimp bisque was next and one swipe of the bisque delivered the flavor of many shrimp long-cooked.
As is usual with Carlos' ravioli of the day, the filling was abundant and the pasta perfectly cooked.
Because of so many other guests, the conversation was all over the place.
The pleasures of sleeping in versus the paycheck of a 9 to 5 job. Women who lose their fathers and take years to recover. The new arthouse theater at Movieland. Starting a new restaurant job on a busy night.
Eventually the babies left, sent home with freshly cooked pasta courtesy of their talented Dad, and the party went back to being about birthdays and hearts.
Over another glass of Sangiovese, the Brazilian shared his thoughts on planning a trip to Spain and Portugal, based more on what he'd heard than what he'd experienced, since he hadn't been. Yet.
But the eating wasn't over and the next course was head cheese, a personal favorite, and the first time I'd had Carlos' version.
He said he'd been so tempted by a $17 pig's head that he bought it and began the process of turning it into what could be called high-end Scrapple.
With a good mustard and a swirl of a balsamic reduction, it was just beautiful.
By this time, I'd missed the Classical Revolution show at the Camel (musicians sight-reading classical music while getting drunk), so the only logical thing seemed to be to order dessert and more wine.
A chocolate hazelnut torte rounded out an evening of many distinctive flavors as the restaurant gradually emptied out and only the good people were left.
Or maybe that's just how I saw things given all the heart I'd taken in.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
That's Me In the Window
What's past is prologue.
In other words, the back story prepares us for and increases appreciation of the present.
That's where I am, that was a topic of discussion tonight and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tonight's festivities began on the balcony of the apartment of yours truly where we downed a bottle of Gazela vinho verde while listening to Big Star and dicussing my musical illiteracy.
Additional company arrived and with them, a fruity and floral bottle of Laxas 2010 Albarino (or, as a wine geek friend says, "hay and honeysuckle," which I consider far more poetic) so we moved inside for more companionable chatting.
While listening to music from her youth (Mamas and Papas), they told us about their visit to the country for Memorial Day weekend (champagne glasses broken and much tequila consumed).
At long last we moved on to our true purpose: the first Friday art walk.
Wine is fine, but art makes you smart.
We began at Ghostprint Gallery for the Richmond Illustrators' Show, an annual juried event.
I'll be the first to admit that this is a favorite yearly exhibit of mine, mainly because it gives me a read on the state of the illustrative world.
Especially satisfying was seeing familiar Richmond names, despite the 400 international entries they got for this show.
Bizhan Khodabandeh (satisfyingly, I own one of his illustrations), Barry Bruner (former J-Ward resident), and Will Godwin (multi-talented in both visual art and music) all hung on the walls of the gallery.
Others I know but don't have a personal connection to were there as well: Leslie Herman (his Okkervil River/Wye Oak illustration reminded me of that awesome show at the National) and Holly Camp, whose "Welcome to Iceland" belied the fact that she'd never been.
My friends were bewitched with Wouter Tulp's music related illustrations (Charlie Parker, the Beatles and Madonna) for their authenticity and insight.
I will definitely need to go back and see this show a second time.
Next up was the new show at Candela Gallery, "Unbound," an ideal description of the off-the-wall photographs that defined this show.
Alex Artz's vaguely disturbing photo of a woman and a doe perched on a bed.
I didn't want to know what their relationship was.
The stark "Marine, Hotel near Airport, Richmond, VA" was positively painterly.
Joni Sternbach's three images of people and ocean looked like vintage Hawaiian postcards, right down to the bronzed hardbodies.
"Girl in the Backseat" showed a young thing in platform shoes, held together with duct tape, but still looking expectant about what the night held.
As was I.
I loved "In the Window," which resembled a vintage "naughty" postcard from the turn of the last century.
Joshua Hobson's "Schoolgirls at the Palace" was all young legs and hidden faces sprawling on the steps.
I was quite surprised to see a photograph by a familiar name, Alex Nyerges, called "Rome Streetscape- Villa Barberini," with taxi rooves from an upper window looking like hansom cabs of another era.
Two shows with multiple global talent gathered for us in Richmond, Virginia.
Damn, we have it good.
Dinner followed at Amour, all the more satisfying because it was my friends' first time there,
We began with Luceien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Blan de Blanc because nothing says Friday night post-birthday celebration like bubbles.
And because I can drink sparkling absolutely anytime.
Over discussion of exes, currents and gifts, we savored shitake mushrooms stuffed with chives and comte, a charcuterie plate loaded with Olli meats (the speck was my favorite), salad and crabcakes with remoulade.
My friends are soon off to Las Vegas, so we discussed with the owner where they needed to eat
Dessert was an exact repeat of my birthday dinner a week ago (and, after all, we were still celebrating me), namely the dark chocolate caramel creme brulee with sea salt and the assortment of sorbets (kiwi, grapefruit, orange, strawberry and espresso).
By this time, they were so enamored of Amour as to make a reservation for her upcoming birthday dinner on Bastille Day.
I have no idea where I'll be raising the French flag that day.
But I do hope my past will be a lesson for my future.
With or without bubbles, I know I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
There will be no photograph of me and a doe in bed.
In other words, the back story prepares us for and increases appreciation of the present.
That's where I am, that was a topic of discussion tonight and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tonight's festivities began on the balcony of the apartment of yours truly where we downed a bottle of Gazela vinho verde while listening to Big Star and dicussing my musical illiteracy.
Additional company arrived and with them, a fruity and floral bottle of Laxas 2010 Albarino (or, as a wine geek friend says, "hay and honeysuckle," which I consider far more poetic) so we moved inside for more companionable chatting.
While listening to music from her youth (Mamas and Papas), they told us about their visit to the country for Memorial Day weekend (champagne glasses broken and much tequila consumed).
At long last we moved on to our true purpose: the first Friday art walk.
Wine is fine, but art makes you smart.
We began at Ghostprint Gallery for the Richmond Illustrators' Show, an annual juried event.
I'll be the first to admit that this is a favorite yearly exhibit of mine, mainly because it gives me a read on the state of the illustrative world.
Especially satisfying was seeing familiar Richmond names, despite the 400 international entries they got for this show.
Bizhan Khodabandeh (satisfyingly, I own one of his illustrations), Barry Bruner (former J-Ward resident), and Will Godwin (multi-talented in both visual art and music) all hung on the walls of the gallery.
Others I know but don't have a personal connection to were there as well: Leslie Herman (his Okkervil River/Wye Oak illustration reminded me of that awesome show at the National) and Holly Camp, whose "Welcome to Iceland" belied the fact that she'd never been.
My friends were bewitched with Wouter Tulp's music related illustrations (Charlie Parker, the Beatles and Madonna) for their authenticity and insight.
I will definitely need to go back and see this show a second time.
Next up was the new show at Candela Gallery, "Unbound," an ideal description of the off-the-wall photographs that defined this show.
Alex Artz's vaguely disturbing photo of a woman and a doe perched on a bed.
I didn't want to know what their relationship was.
The stark "Marine, Hotel near Airport, Richmond, VA" was positively painterly.
Joni Sternbach's three images of people and ocean looked like vintage Hawaiian postcards, right down to the bronzed hardbodies.
"Girl in the Backseat" showed a young thing in platform shoes, held together with duct tape, but still looking expectant about what the night held.
As was I.
I loved "In the Window," which resembled a vintage "naughty" postcard from the turn of the last century.
Joshua Hobson's "Schoolgirls at the Palace" was all young legs and hidden faces sprawling on the steps.
I was quite surprised to see a photograph by a familiar name, Alex Nyerges, called "Rome Streetscape- Villa Barberini," with taxi rooves from an upper window looking like hansom cabs of another era.
Two shows with multiple global talent gathered for us in Richmond, Virginia.
Damn, we have it good.
Dinner followed at Amour, all the more satisfying because it was my friends' first time there,
We began with Luceien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Blan de Blanc because nothing says Friday night post-birthday celebration like bubbles.
And because I can drink sparkling absolutely anytime.
Over discussion of exes, currents and gifts, we savored shitake mushrooms stuffed with chives and comte, a charcuterie plate loaded with Olli meats (the speck was my favorite), salad and crabcakes with remoulade.
My friends are soon off to Las Vegas, so we discussed with the owner where they needed to eat
Dessert was an exact repeat of my birthday dinner a week ago (and, after all, we were still celebrating me), namely the dark chocolate caramel creme brulee with sea salt and the assortment of sorbets (kiwi, grapefruit, orange, strawberry and espresso).
By this time, they were so enamored of Amour as to make a reservation for her upcoming birthday dinner on Bastille Day.
I have no idea where I'll be raising the French flag that day.
But I do hope my past will be a lesson for my future.
With or without bubbles, I know I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
There will be no photograph of me and a doe in bed.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Female Bonding
Tonight was all about the girlfriends.
The first was a fellow Gemini who just this week celebrated a birthday, which we used as an excuse to meet up for happy hour.
She chose Bistro 27 and I happily agreed because they offer such a good deal on food and drink post-office hours.
Not that either of us keeps office hours.
And although we weren't planning to start with a red, much lees a Portuguese red, we began drinking with the dry and refreshing 100 Marias while we caught up.
Seems we'd missed last night's flight night featuring three Portuguese reds, so we did our best to compensate.
She had stellar stories to share, including one about spider bites and private parts. Fortunately, she didn't bring pictures, because who needs to see the intersection of the two?
Snacking on mussels in white pepper and garlic cream sauce, we switched to Briccodi-dei-Tati rose and chatted with the chef about outdoor oyster eating.
Conclusion: a group field trip is in the offing. And, yes, there will be bubbles.
When I presented her with my gift, musician Patti Smith's new book "Woolgathering," she was thrilled and the bartender was perplexed.
Hello, godmother of punk?
We had great fun chatting with some nearby bar sitters from the near west end who were outspoken about their friends and family's fear of coming into the city to eat.
She told a story of her sister taking her little boy to the Short Pump theaters and when he saw the neon of the multiplex, saying, "Look, it's the lights of the city, Mom!"
"They live in Wellsley, where they have everything they need for life," the man said. "Chain restaurants, Food Lion and, if they want to go to college, Strayer University."
It would have been tragic if it hadn't been so hilarious.
After the second glass of rose, my friend was picked up by her dinner date while I remained in my stool waiting for mine.
No sooner was one girlfriend gone than the next appeared.
Our Portuguese starter was Quinta de Cabriz Reserva, unique and tasting like nothing else I knew.
Damn, why did I miss flight night? Oh, yes, Shakespeare and birthday bands.
It had been close to a year since my friend and I had last met so naturally we had loads to discuss.
She's a year and a half into a new relationship so she had tales of buying a house together, dealing with former (and unhappy) girlfriends and trying to adjust everyone's sex drive to coincide.
Now there's a first world problem.
To sustain me, I chose the lamb kabob over Arabic antipasti (chickpeas, walnuts, red pepper and eggplant) while she dove into the shrimp bobo.
The mayor arrived and took a discreet table in a corner.
One of the city's premiere tattoo artists came in for a bite at the bar.
A bartending friend appeared and joined our conversation as he waited for his friends to arrive.
Unsurprisingly, we got off on a tangent about the craft cocktail trend in Richmond and, conversely, the vital role of simply slinging shots.
My friend, a former restaurant manager, mentioned how different the bar world was before the mixology movement.
"People used to just ask what color the drink would be." she laughed.
Gosh, Grandpa, when was that?
Sonny, that was back in the days when new couples didn't talk about how much sex each one wanted, much less share that information with a girlfriend they hadn't seen in months.
My goodness, what did they talk about then?
Oh, right. Well, we talked about that, too.
The first was a fellow Gemini who just this week celebrated a birthday, which we used as an excuse to meet up for happy hour.
She chose Bistro 27 and I happily agreed because they offer such a good deal on food and drink post-office hours.
Not that either of us keeps office hours.
And although we weren't planning to start with a red, much lees a Portuguese red, we began drinking with the dry and refreshing 100 Marias while we caught up.
Seems we'd missed last night's flight night featuring three Portuguese reds, so we did our best to compensate.
She had stellar stories to share, including one about spider bites and private parts. Fortunately, she didn't bring pictures, because who needs to see the intersection of the two?
Snacking on mussels in white pepper and garlic cream sauce, we switched to Briccodi-dei-Tati rose and chatted with the chef about outdoor oyster eating.
Conclusion: a group field trip is in the offing. And, yes, there will be bubbles.
When I presented her with my gift, musician Patti Smith's new book "Woolgathering," she was thrilled and the bartender was perplexed.
Hello, godmother of punk?
We had great fun chatting with some nearby bar sitters from the near west end who were outspoken about their friends and family's fear of coming into the city to eat.
She told a story of her sister taking her little boy to the Short Pump theaters and when he saw the neon of the multiplex, saying, "Look, it's the lights of the city, Mom!"
"They live in Wellsley, where they have everything they need for life," the man said. "Chain restaurants, Food Lion and, if they want to go to college, Strayer University."
It would have been tragic if it hadn't been so hilarious.
After the second glass of rose, my friend was picked up by her dinner date while I remained in my stool waiting for mine.
No sooner was one girlfriend gone than the next appeared.
Our Portuguese starter was Quinta de Cabriz Reserva, unique and tasting like nothing else I knew.
Damn, why did I miss flight night? Oh, yes, Shakespeare and birthday bands.
It had been close to a year since my friend and I had last met so naturally we had loads to discuss.
She's a year and a half into a new relationship so she had tales of buying a house together, dealing with former (and unhappy) girlfriends and trying to adjust everyone's sex drive to coincide.
Now there's a first world problem.
To sustain me, I chose the lamb kabob over Arabic antipasti (chickpeas, walnuts, red pepper and eggplant) while she dove into the shrimp bobo.
The mayor arrived and took a discreet table in a corner.
One of the city's premiere tattoo artists came in for a bite at the bar.
A bartending friend appeared and joined our conversation as he waited for his friends to arrive.
Unsurprisingly, we got off on a tangent about the craft cocktail trend in Richmond and, conversely, the vital role of simply slinging shots.
My friend, a former restaurant manager, mentioned how different the bar world was before the mixology movement.
"People used to just ask what color the drink would be." she laughed.
Gosh, Grandpa, when was that?
Sonny, that was back in the days when new couples didn't talk about how much sex each one wanted, much less share that information with a girlfriend they hadn't seen in months.
My goodness, what did they talk about then?
Oh, right. Well, we talked about that, too.
Merry and Tragical
Park once, party twice. Sadly, though, I paid the price.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Immune to the Stuff
How appropriate that today's birthday lunch had an eighties soundtrack.
Yes, I'm older and yes, the eighties are still all too familiar.
While enjoying a breezy wait on the bench in front of Black Sheep, I saved a woman from falling into the abyss by pointing out the warning painted on the silver grate where she stood.
That would be the one saying not to stand on it. Keep off!
She was a first-timer, so it was understandable that she hadn't known to read the ground where she was standing.
Studying the menu, she sought my advice so I also filled her in on battleships as long as I was mentoring her.
Friend and I were given a table against the wall and pounced on our server when she appeared, having decided on eats while sunning ourselves outside.
Despite Friend having gotten up earlier than I had today, he wanted breakfast.
That meant coffee and the South Anna scramble (eggs scrambled with smoked trout, mushrooms, roasted tomato and bacon with chive and horseradish hollandaise over toast) while I went the lunch route.
At Black Sheep, that always means starting with an Abita root beer (I'll lie and say it's 'cause it's made with pure Louisiana sugar cane) and a salad of strawberries, yellow cherry tomatoes, arugula, fresh mozzarella, pine nuts and basil in a honey balsamic vinaigrette.
As we ate and bobbed our heads to the past, we noticed all the battleships coming out of the kitchen.
Interestingly, they were all going to women not men (not that there's anything wrong with that), including the woman I'd schooled a short time before (patting the wrapped leftover 'ship later, she told me, "It's for my husband." Yea, sure).
Friend's mega-meal arrived on an enormous glass fish-shaped platter, no doubt a nod to the smoked trout buried in the rich concoction.
My salad was pretty in a colorful way, complete with edible purple pea shoot flowers adorning it, with the creamy mozzarella so fresh it melted in my mouth.
Hearing Robert Palmer got us talking about the show we'd seen together last week, why Creed cover bands cause people to leave shows and about the innate human need for companionship.
"Might as well face it," I told him, causing him to laugh out loud. He's known me long enough to know exactly what I meant.
It's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough.
Of birthday celebrations, that is. Yea, right.
Yes, I'm older and yes, the eighties are still all too familiar.
While enjoying a breezy wait on the bench in front of Black Sheep, I saved a woman from falling into the abyss by pointing out the warning painted on the silver grate where she stood.
That would be the one saying not to stand on it. Keep off!
She was a first-timer, so it was understandable that she hadn't known to read the ground where she was standing.
Studying the menu, she sought my advice so I also filled her in on battleships as long as I was mentoring her.
Friend and I were given a table against the wall and pounced on our server when she appeared, having decided on eats while sunning ourselves outside.
Despite Friend having gotten up earlier than I had today, he wanted breakfast.
That meant coffee and the South Anna scramble (eggs scrambled with smoked trout, mushrooms, roasted tomato and bacon with chive and horseradish hollandaise over toast) while I went the lunch route.
At Black Sheep, that always means starting with an Abita root beer (I'll lie and say it's 'cause it's made with pure Louisiana sugar cane) and a salad of strawberries, yellow cherry tomatoes, arugula, fresh mozzarella, pine nuts and basil in a honey balsamic vinaigrette.
As we ate and bobbed our heads to the past, we noticed all the battleships coming out of the kitchen.
Interestingly, they were all going to women not men (not that there's anything wrong with that), including the woman I'd schooled a short time before (patting the wrapped leftover 'ship later, she told me, "It's for my husband." Yea, sure).
Friend's mega-meal arrived on an enormous glass fish-shaped platter, no doubt a nod to the smoked trout buried in the rich concoction.
My salad was pretty in a colorful way, complete with edible purple pea shoot flowers adorning it, with the creamy mozzarella so fresh it melted in my mouth.
Hearing Robert Palmer got us talking about the show we'd seen together last week, why Creed cover bands cause people to leave shows and about the innate human need for companionship.
"Might as well face it," I told him, causing him to laugh out loud. He's known me long enough to know exactly what I meant.
It's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough.
Of birthday celebrations, that is. Yea, right.
Friday, May 25, 2012
You As You Were
Even during birthday week, a person has to do more than just open cards and presents.
Realistically, they have to go to shows, too.
Tonight's was an especially good one; Shearwater was opening for St. Vincent at the National.
In keeping with the theme, my ticket was a gift, too.
After a birthday laugh with the wristband guy, I walked in to take my place in front of the sound booth to find a friend already standing there.
Instant company.
Within two minutes, Shearwater took the stage and although I'd never seen them before, I already knew I loved the singer's voice.
He was a former member of Okkervil River, a band I've seen twice, and his beautiful voice is swoon-worthy if you ask me.
Saying, "This is the first time we've played Richmond. I don't know why it took so long," the band took off with a rollicking set that quieted the good-sized crowd.
Yes, the music's dense, but it's smart pop, full of hooks and then there's that voice (see: "You As You Were," with its positively driving rhythm and just the kind of intensity I can't resist).
"Who are you?" an audience member called out mid-set, apparently realizing that this band was very good.
"We're Shearwater from Austin," Jonathan clarified.
Hopefully by the time they got to "Breaking the Ice," the uninformed were converts and the band finished with "White Wave" to end their too-short set.
During the break I saw a few people I knew, all guys making their way to the front by the stage.
St. Vincent's set began with Annie's halo of curls back-lit before her screaming guitar reminded us that big eyes and curly hair aside, this is a musician to be reckoned with.
She referred to "Dilettante" as a "love letter to New York City with hate mail mixed in."
Because as we all know, it's a thin line between love and hate.
Annie was chatty, saying, "Ten years ago we played the Nancy Raygun. Be glad you weren't there. I'm glad it was the pre-Youtube, pre-cell phone camera days. Then we also played a gutter punk squat and you should be really glad you weren't there."
I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the latter show happened in Jackson Ward ten years ago. Ah, Annie, we hardly knew you then.
Whatever level to which they played way back when has long since been replaced by a tight foursome with Annie playing her guitar fiercely with the band supplying drums, keyboards and mini-Moog.
Oh, yes, and an audience of adoring men consuming her with their eyes.
Sensitive-looking guys, burly types, really just about all of the males in the crowd seemed awed by the woman singing "Cruel" and "Cheerleader" and destroying guitar strings during the last night of the band's North American tour.
Endearingly, she even mocked her own between-song banter, likening herself to a bad stand-up comedian.
Mentioning the post-punk band Pop Group because of having covered one of their songs, she said the lead singer had given her a pot scrubber designed to look like Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols.
Sadly, it was labeled "Sid Dishes."
"This is what's become of punk," the singer told her.
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
At least there are females out there still making lots of noise with their guitars while wearing shorts and tights.
And as if the crowd wasn't already in love with Annie and her shredding, for the band's last song she surely made strong men swoon when she threw herself off the lip of the stage, mic still in hand, to crowd surf a few times.
Wisely always offering herself back first, she was gently passed around and delicately returned to the stage not long after to say goodnight.
There was a long wait and much clapping for the band to return; it felt like a true encore and not just a formality.
When it began to take a while, the crowd began chanting, "Annie! Annie!" until the curly-headed one reappeared for "Your Lips are Red."
The male worshiping factor surely came to a head at that point and I wouldn't be surprised if some guys had to go smoke a cigarette afterwards.
Being a woman, I was able to take it a bit more in stride.
Come on, guys, it was just the superb show part of my birthday week.
So while they're cooling off, I'm back to opening birthday presents now.
Of note was the card that came with the well-chosen bottles of wine I was given.
"I figured since May, the entire month of May, is for you, you should enjoy it with some adult beverages! Have a happy month and play hard and love hard. Well, not too hard!"
No harder than Annie shreds. How's that for a worthy goal?
Realistically, they have to go to shows, too.
Tonight's was an especially good one; Shearwater was opening for St. Vincent at the National.
In keeping with the theme, my ticket was a gift, too.
After a birthday laugh with the wristband guy, I walked in to take my place in front of the sound booth to find a friend already standing there.
Instant company.
Within two minutes, Shearwater took the stage and although I'd never seen them before, I already knew I loved the singer's voice.
He was a former member of Okkervil River, a band I've seen twice, and his beautiful voice is swoon-worthy if you ask me.
Saying, "This is the first time we've played Richmond. I don't know why it took so long," the band took off with a rollicking set that quieted the good-sized crowd.
Yes, the music's dense, but it's smart pop, full of hooks and then there's that voice (see: "You As You Were," with its positively driving rhythm and just the kind of intensity I can't resist).
"Who are you?" an audience member called out mid-set, apparently realizing that this band was very good.
"We're Shearwater from Austin," Jonathan clarified.
Hopefully by the time they got to "Breaking the Ice," the uninformed were converts and the band finished with "White Wave" to end their too-short set.
During the break I saw a few people I knew, all guys making their way to the front by the stage.
St. Vincent's set began with Annie's halo of curls back-lit before her screaming guitar reminded us that big eyes and curly hair aside, this is a musician to be reckoned with.
She referred to "Dilettante" as a "love letter to New York City with hate mail mixed in."
Because as we all know, it's a thin line between love and hate.
Annie was chatty, saying, "Ten years ago we played the Nancy Raygun. Be glad you weren't there. I'm glad it was the pre-Youtube, pre-cell phone camera days. Then we also played a gutter punk squat and you should be really glad you weren't there."
I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the latter show happened in Jackson Ward ten years ago. Ah, Annie, we hardly knew you then.
Whatever level to which they played way back when has long since been replaced by a tight foursome with Annie playing her guitar fiercely with the band supplying drums, keyboards and mini-Moog.
Oh, yes, and an audience of adoring men consuming her with their eyes.
Sensitive-looking guys, burly types, really just about all of the males in the crowd seemed awed by the woman singing "Cruel" and "Cheerleader" and destroying guitar strings during the last night of the band's North American tour.
Endearingly, she even mocked her own between-song banter, likening herself to a bad stand-up comedian.
Mentioning the post-punk band Pop Group because of having covered one of their songs, she said the lead singer had given her a pot scrubber designed to look like Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols.
Sadly, it was labeled "Sid Dishes."
"This is what's become of punk," the singer told her.
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
At least there are females out there still making lots of noise with their guitars while wearing shorts and tights.
And as if the crowd wasn't already in love with Annie and her shredding, for the band's last song she surely made strong men swoon when she threw herself off the lip of the stage, mic still in hand, to crowd surf a few times.
Wisely always offering herself back first, she was gently passed around and delicately returned to the stage not long after to say goodnight.
There was a long wait and much clapping for the band to return; it felt like a true encore and not just a formality.
When it began to take a while, the crowd began chanting, "Annie! Annie!" until the curly-headed one reappeared for "Your Lips are Red."
The male worshiping factor surely came to a head at that point and I wouldn't be surprised if some guys had to go smoke a cigarette afterwards.
Being a woman, I was able to take it a bit more in stride.
Come on, guys, it was just the superb show part of my birthday week.
So while they're cooling off, I'm back to opening birthday presents now.
Of note was the card that came with the well-chosen bottles of wine I was given.
"I figured since May, the entire month of May, is for you, you should enjoy it with some adult beverages! Have a happy month and play hard and love hard. Well, not too hard!"
No harder than Annie shreds. How's that for a worthy goal?
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Future R.I.P. One Hell of a Woman
I'm going to brag and say I know how to enjoy a birthday.
This one began with a drive to the Outer Banks on a day when a hurricane was hanging about.
An hour and a half into the trip and listening to a mix tape (literally) from 1992 called "!Stood Up!" the weather gods descended on us.
A few droplets became driving rain, which segued into sleet and then pounded us with hail.
I hate to nitpick, but not only is it not hurricane season yet, but since when do we have hail in May?
We went from dry to terrifying in about two minutes, necessitating pulling over to eat bananas while enjoying Rockpile and Ned's Atomic Dustbin until the worst of it passed.
Once at the beach, a walk seemed in order, if for no other reason than to admire the magnificent cloudscapes we'd just recently escaped.
Yet again we were reminded of Alberto's presence when our beach stroll ended with rain, first light and then sufficiently driving to leave me with a soaked skirt and a head of wet hair.
A bottle of Prosecco ensured that we returned to birthday mode after being drenched.
Dinner was eaten on the balcony overlooking the ocean and involved eating with fingers while lightening shot across the horizon.
Not a bad view for my pre-birthday dinner, if I do say so myself.
After starting a second bottle, this one South African, we decided to take advantage of the rain having moved on and walked across the street for ice cream just before they closed.
Mine was a scoop of mint chocolate chip over a scoop of dark chocolate orange, which, when eaten on a blanket on the beach at night, seemed like the best idea I'd had in eons.
Crashing surf? Check. Changeable sky? Yep. No one around to disturb the dessert course? Perfect.
Shoes left on the beach until the next morning? Sure, but so what?
Sleeping with the door wide open to the sound of the waves, I woke up to being a year older with a smile on my face.
My birthday breakfast had been decided in advance; I wanted pancakes and bacon on the pier.
A short two mile beach walk put us at a corner table of the pier restaurant where our waitress Holly said, "Well, if it's your birthday, you need to have a Mimosa."
I ate myself stuffed, making the walk back down the beach a necessity as well as a real pleasure.
Alberto gave us no further trouble, although it was quite breezy for our afternoon under the new beach umbrella.
Cherry pits were spit out, watermelon sections dripped down chins and ripe pineapple was so sweet it felt like a guilty pleasure.
Standing in the surf watching as people walked up and down the beach, I spotted my favorite beachcomber.
He was a much older man with thinning, white hair and a cane, dressed impeccably in a button-down shirt, khakis and water shoes.
Despite the cane and his obvious slow pace, he was methodically walking just exactly along the water line, never quite getting wet, but never more than inches from the foam of the latest wave.
It was a thing of beauty watching him trace the water's edge.
I only hope that when I'm that old that I still want to walk along the edge of the ocean with a look of satisfaction on my face.
The drive home provided none of the weather drama of the earlier trip, but the music was just as good, if mostly a tad more current than Mighty Lemon Drops.
One of the more colorful sights was a home as tribute to the dead.
On an old salmon house, someone had painted in crooked letters, "R.I.P." and a man's name, birth and death dates.
Next to it, in slanted words was, "One hell of a guy."
For the record, I have no problem with someone wanting to memorialize me on my house once I kick the bucket.
Once back in RVA, without even washing the rain and saltwater out of my hair, my birthday dinner went down at Amour.
Starting at the bar with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose and tarte flambe, we soon followed with escargots ("dirt food" as my dinner companion noted) and Reisling d'Alsace Heimberger.
Even only two wines in, the snail tongs were used to great hilarity.
Despite some sparkling conversation at the bar, part accented and part throaty, we decided to move to a front table for a view of Carytown's street theater (mostly people with trough-sized Sweet Frog dishes) and the rest of the meal.
A charcuterie and cheese plate (Boucherondin goat and Comte) brought two wines, a Chateauneuf du Pape White Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique and Mount Ventoux Red.
A lump crabcake followed and at long last, dessert.
Six little dishes of sorbet - grapefruit, strawberry, kiwi, orange, espresso, and cocoa with candied orange peel- were an exercise in flavor bursts as each one exploded with fruit or caffeine.
Naturally only bubbles could do housemade sorbet justice, so we had Cremant d'Alsace Brut de Brut and saved the heavy lifting for last.
Chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee was paired with Muscat de Beaume de Venise Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique to put us firmly over the edge.
Did I need more chocolate after six tastes of sorbet? I did not.
Did I enjoy every bite anyway? You know it.
With not even a corner of room left in my belly, it was time to step away from the table.
Conveniently, the stars had aligned for the Blood Brothers (plus Greg Darden) to be playing the hits tonight.
So down to Ipanema we went, where clearly the birthday gods had given them a heads up.
The handsome bartender Gabe offered me dessert (sadly, not doable at that point) and two of my favorite music lovers had a bottle of wine waiting for me.
Bottle and glasses in hand, we commandeered the bench and sat back to hear what 60s and 70s vinyl the guys were going to play for this Gemini.
My birthday was getting more amazing by the minute.
Want to know what I mean? How about this set: "Steppin' Stone," "With a Girl Like You,"Summer in the City," and "Little Bit of Soul" for sheer mid-sixties pop perfection?
Various friends showed up, lots of stellar music was played and I felt like the day had been a birthday treat in every way.
Yea, I've still got sand in my hair. And, definitely, my body is still in sugar shock. I'm quite sure I haven't had enough sleep this week.
Is this any way to celebrate with a girl like me?
Hail, yes.
This one began with a drive to the Outer Banks on a day when a hurricane was hanging about.
An hour and a half into the trip and listening to a mix tape (literally) from 1992 called "!Stood Up!" the weather gods descended on us.
A few droplets became driving rain, which segued into sleet and then pounded us with hail.
I hate to nitpick, but not only is it not hurricane season yet, but since when do we have hail in May?
We went from dry to terrifying in about two minutes, necessitating pulling over to eat bananas while enjoying Rockpile and Ned's Atomic Dustbin until the worst of it passed.
Once at the beach, a walk seemed in order, if for no other reason than to admire the magnificent cloudscapes we'd just recently escaped.
Yet again we were reminded of Alberto's presence when our beach stroll ended with rain, first light and then sufficiently driving to leave me with a soaked skirt and a head of wet hair.
A bottle of Prosecco ensured that we returned to birthday mode after being drenched.
Dinner was eaten on the balcony overlooking the ocean and involved eating with fingers while lightening shot across the horizon.
Not a bad view for my pre-birthday dinner, if I do say so myself.
After starting a second bottle, this one South African, we decided to take advantage of the rain having moved on and walked across the street for ice cream just before they closed.
Mine was a scoop of mint chocolate chip over a scoop of dark chocolate orange, which, when eaten on a blanket on the beach at night, seemed like the best idea I'd had in eons.
Crashing surf? Check. Changeable sky? Yep. No one around to disturb the dessert course? Perfect.
Shoes left on the beach until the next morning? Sure, but so what?
Sleeping with the door wide open to the sound of the waves, I woke up to being a year older with a smile on my face.
My birthday breakfast had been decided in advance; I wanted pancakes and bacon on the pier.
A short two mile beach walk put us at a corner table of the pier restaurant where our waitress Holly said, "Well, if it's your birthday, you need to have a Mimosa."
I ate myself stuffed, making the walk back down the beach a necessity as well as a real pleasure.
Alberto gave us no further trouble, although it was quite breezy for our afternoon under the new beach umbrella.
Cherry pits were spit out, watermelon sections dripped down chins and ripe pineapple was so sweet it felt like a guilty pleasure.
Standing in the surf watching as people walked up and down the beach, I spotted my favorite beachcomber.
He was a much older man with thinning, white hair and a cane, dressed impeccably in a button-down shirt, khakis and water shoes.
Despite the cane and his obvious slow pace, he was methodically walking just exactly along the water line, never quite getting wet, but never more than inches from the foam of the latest wave.
It was a thing of beauty watching him trace the water's edge.
I only hope that when I'm that old that I still want to walk along the edge of the ocean with a look of satisfaction on my face.
The drive home provided none of the weather drama of the earlier trip, but the music was just as good, if mostly a tad more current than Mighty Lemon Drops.
One of the more colorful sights was a home as tribute to the dead.
On an old salmon house, someone had painted in crooked letters, "R.I.P." and a man's name, birth and death dates.
Next to it, in slanted words was, "One hell of a guy."
For the record, I have no problem with someone wanting to memorialize me on my house once I kick the bucket.
Once back in RVA, without even washing the rain and saltwater out of my hair, my birthday dinner went down at Amour.
Starting at the bar with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose and tarte flambe, we soon followed with escargots ("dirt food" as my dinner companion noted) and Reisling d'Alsace Heimberger.
Even only two wines in, the snail tongs were used to great hilarity.
Despite some sparkling conversation at the bar, part accented and part throaty, we decided to move to a front table for a view of Carytown's street theater (mostly people with trough-sized Sweet Frog dishes) and the rest of the meal.
A charcuterie and cheese plate (Boucherondin goat and Comte) brought two wines, a Chateauneuf du Pape White Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique and Mount Ventoux Red.
A lump crabcake followed and at long last, dessert.
Six little dishes of sorbet - grapefruit, strawberry, kiwi, orange, espresso, and cocoa with candied orange peel- were an exercise in flavor bursts as each one exploded with fruit or caffeine.
Naturally only bubbles could do housemade sorbet justice, so we had Cremant d'Alsace Brut de Brut and saved the heavy lifting for last.
Chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee was paired with Muscat de Beaume de Venise Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique to put us firmly over the edge.
Did I need more chocolate after six tastes of sorbet? I did not.
Did I enjoy every bite anyway? You know it.
With not even a corner of room left in my belly, it was time to step away from the table.
Conveniently, the stars had aligned for the Blood Brothers (plus Greg Darden) to be playing the hits tonight.
So down to Ipanema we went, where clearly the birthday gods had given them a heads up.
The handsome bartender Gabe offered me dessert (sadly, not doable at that point) and two of my favorite music lovers had a bottle of wine waiting for me.
Bottle and glasses in hand, we commandeered the bench and sat back to hear what 60s and 70s vinyl the guys were going to play for this Gemini.
My birthday was getting more amazing by the minute.
Want to know what I mean? How about this set: "Steppin' Stone," "With a Girl Like You,"Summer in the City," and "Little Bit of Soul" for sheer mid-sixties pop perfection?
Various friends showed up, lots of stellar music was played and I felt like the day had been a birthday treat in every way.
Yea, I've still got sand in my hair. And, definitely, my body is still in sugar shock. I'm quite sure I haven't had enough sleep this week.
Is this any way to celebrate with a girl like me?
Hail, yes.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
We Call That N.B.T.
It's good to know that when it comes to birthdays, I'm not the only one who thinks they should be a multi-day celebration.
So when I get invited to be part of such revelry, I welcome the opportunity to share in the fun.
And when the birthday celebrant wants to take the fun to the beach, all the better.
The overcast day is spent indulgently, sitting on a couch in front of an open balcony door, looking at the ocean.
And that's it.
There is wine on that couch, including one hilariously called "Sexy Wine Bomb," a big California blend of Zinfandel, Merlot, Syrah and Petit Sirah.
It claims that discovering this wine is like "going on a third date and realizing that the person you are with is not only good-looking, but also not the slightest bit creepy."
All involved appreciate a wine with a sense of humor and a luscious mouthfeel.
There is a cheese course, there is a dinner course and then there is a bottle of good 2004 Chianti.
And when the ocean-view, couch-sitting portion of the birthday celebration ends, it is duly noted that it took eight hours for that part of the celebration to run its course.
Don't come to these kinds of birthdays if you're in a hurry.
At the discretion of the birthday celebrant, the sunny day portion of the great birthday caper does not begin early.
And when it does, it is the antithesis of the day before.
An epic beach walk involves bare feet despite it being February, spying in the windows of empty beach cottages (only worthwhile contenders), specific shell gathering (I have been told I will stoop for anything and it was meant as a compliment) and breezy salt air that smells as briney as an oyster.
Hours later the walk concludes only because everyone is starving.
A NY-style deli provides enormous paninis (Italian for me naturally), five-layer chocolate cake and one the birthday boy can't resist: something called chocolate ecstasy.
By this point, it is late afternoon and time for another birthday outing, this one to a soundside beach for sunset viewing.
Yes, the sign said private property and yet there wasn't a soul around, so the birthday revelers take a chance and walk out to a gazebo over the water to watch the light show.
What begins as shades of browns and blues soon morphs into pinks and golds in the sky which then translate to the water's surface.
For the art geeks among us, what begins as a Constable painting becomes a Turner as the colors of the sky melt into the barely rippling water, suggesting impressionistic brushstrokes on its surface.
Standing at the edge of the gazebo for an hour, the peace is shattered when a guy and his wife approach, and he's talking a mile a minute on his cell phone.
He ends that call only to take a second one and he's still approaching.
Birthday or not, this qualifies as a buzz kill.
The birthday party is moved to an undisclosed location where music is an integral part of the festivities.
The first Paul Weller album is played as a tribute to the birthday boy who said in 1992 that it was an album he could play over and over.
Actually the word he had used was endlessly.
And on a momentous occasion such as a birthday, it's all about the endless.
Endless wine, endless food, endless sitting, endless walking, the endless sound of the ocean.
It's not just the birthday person who doesn't want birthday celebrations to end.
Fortunately, everyone involved has nothing but time.
So when I get invited to be part of such revelry, I welcome the opportunity to share in the fun.
And when the birthday celebrant wants to take the fun to the beach, all the better.
The overcast day is spent indulgently, sitting on a couch in front of an open balcony door, looking at the ocean.
And that's it.
There is wine on that couch, including one hilariously called "Sexy Wine Bomb," a big California blend of Zinfandel, Merlot, Syrah and Petit Sirah.
It claims that discovering this wine is like "going on a third date and realizing that the person you are with is not only good-looking, but also not the slightest bit creepy."
All involved appreciate a wine with a sense of humor and a luscious mouthfeel.
There is a cheese course, there is a dinner course and then there is a bottle of good 2004 Chianti.
And when the ocean-view, couch-sitting portion of the birthday celebration ends, it is duly noted that it took eight hours for that part of the celebration to run its course.
Don't come to these kinds of birthdays if you're in a hurry.
At the discretion of the birthday celebrant, the sunny day portion of the great birthday caper does not begin early.
And when it does, it is the antithesis of the day before.
An epic beach walk involves bare feet despite it being February, spying in the windows of empty beach cottages (only worthwhile contenders), specific shell gathering (I have been told I will stoop for anything and it was meant as a compliment) and breezy salt air that smells as briney as an oyster.
Hours later the walk concludes only because everyone is starving.
A NY-style deli provides enormous paninis (Italian for me naturally), five-layer chocolate cake and one the birthday boy can't resist: something called chocolate ecstasy.
By this point, it is late afternoon and time for another birthday outing, this one to a soundside beach for sunset viewing.
Yes, the sign said private property and yet there wasn't a soul around, so the birthday revelers take a chance and walk out to a gazebo over the water to watch the light show.
What begins as shades of browns and blues soon morphs into pinks and golds in the sky which then translate to the water's surface.
For the art geeks among us, what begins as a Constable painting becomes a Turner as the colors of the sky melt into the barely rippling water, suggesting impressionistic brushstrokes on its surface.
Standing at the edge of the gazebo for an hour, the peace is shattered when a guy and his wife approach, and he's talking a mile a minute on his cell phone.
He ends that call only to take a second one and he's still approaching.
Birthday or not, this qualifies as a buzz kill.
The birthday party is moved to an undisclosed location where music is an integral part of the festivities.
The first Paul Weller album is played as a tribute to the birthday boy who said in 1992 that it was an album he could play over and over.
Actually the word he had used was endlessly.
And on a momentous occasion such as a birthday, it's all about the endless.
Endless wine, endless food, endless sitting, endless walking, the endless sound of the ocean.
It's not just the birthday person who doesn't want birthday celebrations to end.
Fortunately, everyone involved has nothing but time.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
A Toast to the Mallet Master
No one wants to be informed that they're giving the toast as the bubbly is being poured.
But as the oldest daughter, that responsibility fell to me.
I'd driven up to suburban Maryland, a place I despise, solely because today was my Dad's birthday celebration and it's a big year for him, one that ends in a zero.
Because of that, pretty much my entire extended family was in attendance. All five sisters with husbands and children, aunts, uncles, the whole gang.
I honestly can't recall the last time we were all in the same place.
And while I have no need to do it again anytime soon, the chaos of so many people eating, drinking, looking at old photographs and just catching up was great fun.
I especially enjoyed an album of photos from my Dad's youth because he grew up here in Richmond.
There were shots in front of their house on Colonial Avenue, in front of the Richmond Dairy where my grandfather worked and even a newspaper clipping of my Dad as one of "five husky youngsters playing at Humphrey Calder Playground."
Even funnier, there were photographs of me and my sisters in nearly identical little girl dresses (why would you do something that corny with six girls?) as well as of us with bad 80s hair.
It's astounding how big our thick, straight hair got during those years.
My brother-in-law pulled out a long-forgotten picture of him and me and our respective main squeezes at the time sitting on the dock at Kerr Lake after water-skiing (more correctly for me, after attempting to water-ski).
Did I ever look that impossibly young? Yes, apparently I did.
Hours into all this strolling down memory lane and catching up, my bossiest sister (#5) decided it was toasting time, to be followed by (hazelnut/chocolate) birthday cake time.
As I'm helping her pour dozens of glasses of Blanc de Blanc, she leans in and says, "You're doing the toast."
When the competitive sister (#3) hears this, she hisses, "How come you're giving the toast?" as if I've usurped her job or something.
She does consider herself Dad's favorite.
To my defense comes the most introverted sister (#2) who says loudly enough so that even the non-family members can hear, "Because she's the OLDEST!"
I do not once in my entire life remember being introduced by one of my sisters that it wasn't with the clarification that I am the oldest.
Just in case there was any doubt.
So with no time to prepare something well-thought out, cameras were turned on and I stood up to toast a man who has shaped the woman I became.
"You talked to us. You listened to us. You taught us to play croquet. To the best Dad any six daughters could ever ask for."
Brother-in-law #3 waited a beat and then raised his glass to my Dad.
"And that was a lot of listening!" he said to great cheering.
But what smart man doesn't want to listen to the talkative females around him?
And my Dad has always been a very smart man. Which makes me a very lucky daughter.
But as the oldest daughter, that responsibility fell to me.
I'd driven up to suburban Maryland, a place I despise, solely because today was my Dad's birthday celebration and it's a big year for him, one that ends in a zero.
Because of that, pretty much my entire extended family was in attendance. All five sisters with husbands and children, aunts, uncles, the whole gang.
I honestly can't recall the last time we were all in the same place.
And while I have no need to do it again anytime soon, the chaos of so many people eating, drinking, looking at old photographs and just catching up was great fun.
I especially enjoyed an album of photos from my Dad's youth because he grew up here in Richmond.
There were shots in front of their house on Colonial Avenue, in front of the Richmond Dairy where my grandfather worked and even a newspaper clipping of my Dad as one of "five husky youngsters playing at Humphrey Calder Playground."
Even funnier, there were photographs of me and my sisters in nearly identical little girl dresses (why would you do something that corny with six girls?) as well as of us with bad 80s hair.
It's astounding how big our thick, straight hair got during those years.
My brother-in-law pulled out a long-forgotten picture of him and me and our respective main squeezes at the time sitting on the dock at Kerr Lake after water-skiing (more correctly for me, after attempting to water-ski).
Did I ever look that impossibly young? Yes, apparently I did.
Hours into all this strolling down memory lane and catching up, my bossiest sister (#5) decided it was toasting time, to be followed by (hazelnut/chocolate) birthday cake time.
As I'm helping her pour dozens of glasses of Blanc de Blanc, she leans in and says, "You're doing the toast."
When the competitive sister (#3) hears this, she hisses, "How come you're giving the toast?" as if I've usurped her job or something.
She does consider herself Dad's favorite.
To my defense comes the most introverted sister (#2) who says loudly enough so that even the non-family members can hear, "Because she's the OLDEST!"
I do not once in my entire life remember being introduced by one of my sisters that it wasn't with the clarification that I am the oldest.
Just in case there was any doubt.
So with no time to prepare something well-thought out, cameras were turned on and I stood up to toast a man who has shaped the woman I became.
"You talked to us. You listened to us. You taught us to play croquet. To the best Dad any six daughters could ever ask for."
Brother-in-law #3 waited a beat and then raised his glass to my Dad.
"And that was a lot of listening!" he said to great cheering.
But what smart man doesn't want to listen to the talkative females around him?
And my Dad has always been a very smart man. Which makes me a very lucky daughter.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Hold the Catsup and Mustard
It's so hot I couldn't eat a traditional burger on Memorial Day.
A group of us went to celebrate a friend's birthday (I'm beginning to think I only know Geminis) at Carytown Burger and Fries outdoors under the awning.
And, sadly, I couldn't bear the thought of a burger, despite my love of same. Hell, cheeseburgers were my birthday dinner of choice the entire time I was growing up when we got to choose our birthday dinners.
But I couldn't do it. I wimped out and got a salad, granted one with an abundance of bacon, avocado and blue cheese, but one that was mostly iceburg lettuce, tomatoes and baby spinach. Plant matter I could handle.
To make my self feel better about it, I had a bite of the birthday boy's cheeseburger, which merely confirmed what I already knew. It was too hot for eating flesh today, for me anyway.
Nearby, a certain local skull artist happily ate his. My friends ate theirs. The exotic looking family behind us ate theirs.
Note to self: adjust to summer's sudden arrival quickly. Life without cheeseburgers is not really living.
You can quote me on that.
A group of us went to celebrate a friend's birthday (I'm beginning to think I only know Geminis) at Carytown Burger and Fries outdoors under the awning.
And, sadly, I couldn't bear the thought of a burger, despite my love of same. Hell, cheeseburgers were my birthday dinner of choice the entire time I was growing up when we got to choose our birthday dinners.
But I couldn't do it. I wimped out and got a salad, granted one with an abundance of bacon, avocado and blue cheese, but one that was mostly iceburg lettuce, tomatoes and baby spinach. Plant matter I could handle.
To make my self feel better about it, I had a bite of the birthday boy's cheeseburger, which merely confirmed what I already knew. It was too hot for eating flesh today, for me anyway.
Nearby, a certain local skull artist happily ate his. My friends ate theirs. The exotic looking family behind us ate theirs.
Note to self: adjust to summer's sudden arrival quickly. Life without cheeseburgers is not really living.
You can quote me on that.
Pie-Eyed for a Kindred Soul
Every Gemini celebrates her birthday in her own way.
Tonight's birthday girl chose pie and drinks as the centerpiece of her party and I'd have to say, those pies gave birthday cakes a run for their money.
We met at Ipanema on a perfect patio night, but the party was inside because the Sunday night regulars had already taken over the outside.
Being served up were four kinds of birthday pie: lemon chess, chocolate pecan, strawberry-peach and the Pennsylvania Dutch classic, shoofly pie (molasses), a nod to the honoree.
I had a slice of the chocolate pecan pie naturally and the birthday girl had lemon chess, but most guests went the sampler route, taking small slices from multiple kinds.
How often does that opportunity present itself after all?
Likewise the guest list was also a sampler, but one of Richmond's scene, with foodies (discussing bacon ice cream), techies ("Tumblr is all about stealing"), poetry lovers (my lack of enthusiasm for certain poets having been noted), teachers (loopy and grateful that it was not a school night), musicians (best skirt and pants in the room) and restaurant types (they're everywhere).
We Geminis must attract similar friends since that list could apply to my party last week as well.
Different faces, same varieties.
Stellar indie pop music and Firefly/cassis cocktails were admirably supplied by barkeep Brandon, who knowingly smiled when he asked if I'd like something to drink.
"Yes," I responded.
"Vino verde?" he questioned, cocking an eyebrow.
I say if it's bare legs season, it's vino verde season, although a friend tonight said that she drinks it year round for its effervescence and low alcohol content.
To each her own, but when it's cold, I need blood-thickening red wines.
But until the leaves start falling, I'm firmly in the VV camp, birthdays and everyday.
The evening ended with an enthused discussion of local travel and day trips as the way to satisfy travel cravings during busy and economically tight times.
My recent excursion to the mountain vistas of Blenheim Vineyards and today's to the cliffs of the Northern Neck were both cited as perfect examples of getting away and coming back renewed from something wholly different.
If there's one thing we Geminis need, it's a little variety.
Put a candle in the birthday pie and light 'er up.
Tonight's birthday girl chose pie and drinks as the centerpiece of her party and I'd have to say, those pies gave birthday cakes a run for their money.
We met at Ipanema on a perfect patio night, but the party was inside because the Sunday night regulars had already taken over the outside.
Being served up were four kinds of birthday pie: lemon chess, chocolate pecan, strawberry-peach and the Pennsylvania Dutch classic, shoofly pie (molasses), a nod to the honoree.
I had a slice of the chocolate pecan pie naturally and the birthday girl had lemon chess, but most guests went the sampler route, taking small slices from multiple kinds.
How often does that opportunity present itself after all?
Likewise the guest list was also a sampler, but one of Richmond's scene, with foodies (discussing bacon ice cream), techies ("Tumblr is all about stealing"), poetry lovers (my lack of enthusiasm for certain poets having been noted), teachers (loopy and grateful that it was not a school night), musicians (best skirt and pants in the room) and restaurant types (they're everywhere).
We Geminis must attract similar friends since that list could apply to my party last week as well.
Different faces, same varieties.
Stellar indie pop music and Firefly/cassis cocktails were admirably supplied by barkeep Brandon, who knowingly smiled when he asked if I'd like something to drink.
"Yes," I responded.
"Vino verde?" he questioned, cocking an eyebrow.
I say if it's bare legs season, it's vino verde season, although a friend tonight said that she drinks it year round for its effervescence and low alcohol content.
To each her own, but when it's cold, I need blood-thickening red wines.
But until the leaves start falling, I'm firmly in the VV camp, birthdays and everyday.
The evening ended with an enthused discussion of local travel and day trips as the way to satisfy travel cravings during busy and economically tight times.
My recent excursion to the mountain vistas of Blenheim Vineyards and today's to the cliffs of the Northern Neck were both cited as perfect examples of getting away and coming back renewed from something wholly different.
If there's one thing we Geminis need, it's a little variety.
Put a candle in the birthday pie and light 'er up.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Mist Me Quick
There's something to be said for a birthday lunch looking at nearly naked men.
I went for a scenic drive up Route 301 to Fredricksburg to celebrate with my two favorite sisters (when you have five to choose from, some just rise to the top).
Standing on the street corner waiting for them, I knew they'd arrived when I heard, "Hey, honey, have much you charge?" yelled from the window of a passing car. My baby sister, the card.
They arrived bearing presents and we decided to begin at Bistro Bethem at a sunny table with a view of the street.
Rose and beer were poured and we got down to eating while talking a mile a minute since it had been six months since we'd gotten together.
After so much rich food lately, I couldn't resist the whole avocado stuffed with Dragon Creek lump crab meat and micro-greens and pine nuts scattered over it then drizzled with EVOO.
I can never get enough crab and avocado is one of the few worthy vehicles for it, in my humble opinion.
We also shared a dish of grilled asparagus spears, Serrano ham,a sunny side up local organic egg and roasted red peppers; it was a hearty side salad to my crab.
All of a sudden our eyes were caught by a trio of girls outside the restaurant. Their faces and legs were panted deep blue and they were dancing on the sidewalk.
With no identifying clues, we couldn't imagine why, but we watched as traffic slowed and people pointed. Dancing girls, whatever. Back to present unwrapping.
From there we walked a half block to Kybecca WIne Bar for another course. The outside tables were being kept temperate by a fine mist released from the edges of the awnings. It was the first time I'd seen such a thing at a restaurant.
The chef, we were surprised to see, had cut his hair and shaved his beard, making for a striking change in his appearance, but he was just as friendly as ever.
I love the way their seating is arranged against the banquette with two additional chairs, making for three-tops, something I've never seen in Richmond either.
The beer drinker was excited about something hoppy and the other two of us got the Bebe Prosecco Rose, a beautiful deep pink bubbly that suited the festive and female occasion (celebrating me and talking about the other sisters).
Despite there being no appetizers on the brunch menu, we convinced the chef to do a cheese plate for us with little effort. The Epoisses de Bourgogne, a rich and strong-smelling washed rind cheese, was my favorite, oozy and pungent.
The Fromager d'Affinois, a cousin to Brie, but a triple creme was downright decadent (at 60% fat, I guess so). With the fig compote, it was heavenly.
The Beehive Barely Buzzed cheddar, our only hard cheese, was nutty, full-bodied and unique with its lavender, oil and coffee rubbed rind. I'm not a coffee drinker, but this totally worked for me.
As we sat there sipping and nibbling on our bread and cheeses, we looked out the window to see a trio of girls leading a duo of guys on pink leashes. The guys were dressed only in black Speedos.
And before you recoil, the guys had the bodies for Speedos, so it was okay. Actually, it is awesome eye candy and about as unexpected on the streets of downtown historic Fredericksburg as I could have imagined.
Again, there was nothing to indicate who they were or why they were doing this, so we just watched and enjoyed. I was prepared to step out under the mist if overheating became an issue.
And it's only my birthday eve. No telling what I might happen on tomorrow.
I went for a scenic drive up Route 301 to Fredricksburg to celebrate with my two favorite sisters (when you have five to choose from, some just rise to the top).
Standing on the street corner waiting for them, I knew they'd arrived when I heard, "Hey, honey, have much you charge?" yelled from the window of a passing car. My baby sister, the card.
They arrived bearing presents and we decided to begin at Bistro Bethem at a sunny table with a view of the street.
Rose and beer were poured and we got down to eating while talking a mile a minute since it had been six months since we'd gotten together.
After so much rich food lately, I couldn't resist the whole avocado stuffed with Dragon Creek lump crab meat and micro-greens and pine nuts scattered over it then drizzled with EVOO.
I can never get enough crab and avocado is one of the few worthy vehicles for it, in my humble opinion.
We also shared a dish of grilled asparagus spears, Serrano ham,a sunny side up local organic egg and roasted red peppers; it was a hearty side salad to my crab.
All of a sudden our eyes were caught by a trio of girls outside the restaurant. Their faces and legs were panted deep blue and they were dancing on the sidewalk.
With no identifying clues, we couldn't imagine why, but we watched as traffic slowed and people pointed. Dancing girls, whatever. Back to present unwrapping.
From there we walked a half block to Kybecca WIne Bar for another course. The outside tables were being kept temperate by a fine mist released from the edges of the awnings. It was the first time I'd seen such a thing at a restaurant.
The chef, we were surprised to see, had cut his hair and shaved his beard, making for a striking change in his appearance, but he was just as friendly as ever.
I love the way their seating is arranged against the banquette with two additional chairs, making for three-tops, something I've never seen in Richmond either.
The beer drinker was excited about something hoppy and the other two of us got the Bebe Prosecco Rose, a beautiful deep pink bubbly that suited the festive and female occasion (celebrating me and talking about the other sisters).
Despite there being no appetizers on the brunch menu, we convinced the chef to do a cheese plate for us with little effort. The Epoisses de Bourgogne, a rich and strong-smelling washed rind cheese, was my favorite, oozy and pungent.
The Fromager d'Affinois, a cousin to Brie, but a triple creme was downright decadent (at 60% fat, I guess so). With the fig compote, it was heavenly.
The Beehive Barely Buzzed cheddar, our only hard cheese, was nutty, full-bodied and unique with its lavender, oil and coffee rubbed rind. I'm not a coffee drinker, but this totally worked for me.
As we sat there sipping and nibbling on our bread and cheeses, we looked out the window to see a trio of girls leading a duo of guys on pink leashes. The guys were dressed only in black Speedos.
And before you recoil, the guys had the bodies for Speedos, so it was okay. Actually, it is awesome eye candy and about as unexpected on the streets of downtown historic Fredericksburg as I could have imagined.
Again, there was nothing to indicate who they were or why they were doing this, so we just watched and enjoyed. I was prepared to step out under the mist if overheating became an issue.
And it's only my birthday eve. No telling what I might happen on tomorrow.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Not Your Birthday Lunch at 821
"I will pick you up for lunch at 1:00 but this is just a regular lunch, not your birthday lunch."
When I got in the car, I asked why he'd sent me that message.
Seems he hadn't had time to plan anything special.
Forget special, I told him, I just wanted to have lunch with you like we do almost every week and call it a birthday lunch.
No planning required.
To underscore that fact, I suggested 821, always a favorite of mine and now that I've made a convert of him for their black bean nachos, of his too.
Highlight #1: the server who for years has teased me about my inability to order anything but the black bean nachos admitting to me that she's now addicted to them, too.
What goes around comes around, sweetie.
Highlight #2: our server who when he noticed us admiring the James Callahan piece on the wall (my friend saying, "I just don't get the whole zombie thing") made sure to ask if we'd noticed "the shark and the boner in the tighty whities."
Actually, I had noticed the shark, thank you very much. Ahem.
And how better to end a birthday lunch than with a look forward?
We stopped by the National so I could get a ticket for a future show and then drove to nearby Shockoe Hill Cemetery for a reminder of the fact that I'm not getting any younger (or intending to be buried, but I digress).
Referring back to the first evening we ever spent together, my friend let loose an inside joke.
"Another year older. Whoa."
Birthdays are for celebrating with smart-assed friends.
When I got in the car, I asked why he'd sent me that message.
Seems he hadn't had time to plan anything special.
Forget special, I told him, I just wanted to have lunch with you like we do almost every week and call it a birthday lunch.
No planning required.
To underscore that fact, I suggested 821, always a favorite of mine and now that I've made a convert of him for their black bean nachos, of his too.
Highlight #1: the server who for years has teased me about my inability to order anything but the black bean nachos admitting to me that she's now addicted to them, too.
What goes around comes around, sweetie.
Highlight #2: our server who when he noticed us admiring the James Callahan piece on the wall (my friend saying, "I just don't get the whole zombie thing") made sure to ask if we'd noticed "the shark and the boner in the tighty whities."
Actually, I had noticed the shark, thank you very much. Ahem.
And how better to end a birthday lunch than with a look forward?
We stopped by the National so I could get a ticket for a future show and then drove to nearby Shockoe Hill Cemetery for a reminder of the fact that I'm not getting any younger (or intending to be buried, but I digress).
Referring back to the first evening we ever spent together, my friend let loose an inside joke.
"Another year older. Whoa."
Birthdays are for celebrating with smart-assed friends.
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