Goin' Down, Down, Down

The basement called with Bordeaux.

As many times as I've been to Bistro Bobette, I'd never been to their subterranean event space, so getting an email about their French wine dinner meant they were all but putting me on notice to correct that wrong. That I knew Pru and Beau would jump on board with me only hastened my acceptance.

Arriving before they did, the server at Bobette greeted me by saying, "One for dinner?" This might not sound extraordinary to you, but as someone who resents being asked, "Just one tonight?" when I arrive solo, it was a welcome kindness. I am more than just one.

He showed me how to get downstairs and a gaggle of women followed me into the elevator. Like me, they'd never been to one of Bobette's basement wine dinners, but unlike me, they said they buy most of their wine at Costco.

Luckily, vintage soul music was playing on the sound system loudly enough to drown out most of the rest of their conversation as I found a seat several chairs away.

It wasn't long before Pru and Beau arrived and we were introduced to Jules, a stylish Frenchman working in Chicago for the wine distributor. Jules had a lovely accent, red socks and the most un-French peccadillo imaginable: he didn't like cheese.

I mean, I don't want to say we judged him for his failure lacking, but how does he keep his French card if he doesn't like fromage? Quelle horreur!

We had no choice but to overlook that since he'd brought such wonderful (and well-priced) wines to share with the long table of wine lovers tonight. To my right was the wine rep from the local distributor, a young NOVA escapee, and he provided delightful color to the conversation, not to mention a whole lot of Snapchatting.

First wine out of the gate was a white Bordeaux, Chateau la Freynelle, and given Pru's love of Sauvignon Blanc, Beau and I both knew he'd be taking some of that home with them. Paired with it were shrimp and soba noodles in an Asian dressing, a lovely complement to the balanced wine with the juicy finish.

Between courses, we discussed how both Beau and Pru had forgotten about tonight's dinner, despite having made the reservation only days ago. When Pru and I were messaging earlier this afternoon, I mentioned seeing her in a few hours and that was her first inkling that tonight was the night. Beau, meanwhile, had made plans with his oldest friend, completely oblivious to the reservation he'd made.

Clearly it's my job to remind everyone what plans they agree to with me. Just call me your private social secretary. Oh, and if you do, I want a raise.

Our next course featured Chateau Haut Colombier, a blend with 90% Merlot which Jules promised us was "well-balanced, not big," a solid assessment. We sipped it with plates of stuffed baby veggies, miniature foods that warmed the cockles of Pru's hors d'oeuvres-driven heart. It was the kind of thing I'd love to see (as would vegetarians, I'm sure) on a restaurant's regular menu for the sheer variety of flavor profiles on one plate.

The foursome next to us, two couples, were the first to decide that they needed a bottle of wine to tide them over between courses and a bottle of that Merlot soon showed up. The three of us looked at each other and Beau wasted no time in ordering us a bottle of the white Bordeaux to sip in the interim.

At one point, our server came by - we've known each other since his days at La Parisienne - to refill water glasses, pointing to my metal straw and grinning. "You still have your straw," he said.  Using the white paper over the tablecloth, I drew a quick sketch of a sea turtle with a plastic straw up his nose for reference in case anyone wondered why I never leave home without my straw.

Not to sound too groovy '70s, but I want to be part of the solution, not the problem.

By then, the quartet next to us was feeling their Merlot - they were already tilting to the obnoxious side before that bottle was ever opened - so we focused our attention in the other direction, chatting with young Ryan about his time in Richmond and why Charlottesville had been too small town for him.

"You walk down the Mall and everyone knows everyone's business," he said with a shudder.

Because Chateau du Caillau was 100% Malbec, it led to a lively discussion of how most people's opinions of Malbec are based on South American makers and not more the more round and mellow French expression of the grape. Pru still took issue with its mature tanins, but it made for a fine pairing with bistro steak with bleu cheese sauce and whipped potatoes.

One of the funnier moments happened when Beau screwed up his visage and announced, "That's my Dr. Evil face!" Raising an eyebrow, Pru asked, "You have a Dr. Evil face?" in a tone that said she clearly didn't think he could pull it off.

That was the end of Dr. Evil.

During a lull in the chatter, I shared that I'd gotten asked out and Beau's first question wasn't whether I'd said yes or who'd asked, but whether or not that meant the blog would go live again. That's what friends are for, right? To make sure I'm documenting their lives any time I'm with them.

Besides, I didn't say I was going, I said I was asked.

Glancing at the menu, Beau wrinkled his nose when he saw that the next wine was a Sauternes, saying he was no fan. I politely reminded him that he should taste the pairing before pronouncing judgement on the wine while Pru, a devoted Sauternes lover, rolled her eyes.

It was about then that we noticed that not only had the music faded to nothingness, but the inebriation level in the room had risen so that it sounded like a party and poor Jules had to fight to get everyone's attention to brag about his wines.

Which is just what he wanted to do about the Chateau Laribotte Sauternes, reminding the boisterous crowd that, "It's always a great year for Sauternes" before leaving us to the sublime pairing with orange blossom sabayon adorned with bits of fruit.

Looking across the table what seemed like moments longer, I noticed that Beau, the Sauternes hater, had drained his glass. Looking sheepish, he admitted that his perception of Sauternes was that of cloying sweetness and that perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Again.

Pru's eyes did a lot of rolling tonight. Beau did a lot of wine ordering tonight. A Frenchman who doesn't like cheese did a lot of explaining tonight. Me, I had some very interesting conversations. Just don't get me started on what.

I believe the rule is that what happens in the basement stays in the basement.

Use Me Up

Life is a sunny Saturday with cake at the end.

My morning can be summed up as the epitome of soulful spring in Jackson Ward: a guy on Marshall Street washing a car with "Girl, I Wanna Shake You Down" blaring as I walked by. Another was driving down Clay Street with all his car windows down blasting Bill Withers' "Use Me Up." All my apartment windows open so I could share Donny Hathaway with the neighbors, too.

My afternoon took me to the Bijou, past a guy on Broad Street who inquired if he hadn't just seen me at Kroger, proving that some people pay far more attention to their fellow shoppers than I do.

The film that lured me inside on a gorgeous spring day was "Neruda," a biopic ostensibly about a communist poet going underground when communism was outlawed, but actually more of a poetic dream that allowed the director to take us on a journey through brothels and political meetings, orgies and snow-covered mountains as a driven policeman makes it his mission to find the poet.

To write well, one must know how to erase. ~ Neruda

Weird, but utterly entrancing and sometimes as enigmatic as poetry can be, it was a film that left the small crowd - including a musician there on what she called a "lady date" with a girlfriend - dazzled with the beauty of its cinematography and the sheer pleasure of watching the story of how a talented man indulged his every whim, with little regard for consequence but laser-focused desire on seeking out his own stimulation, whether physical, intellectual or emotional.

My evening began at Pru's manse on Church Hill with bubbly on the screened porch before dodging the green-clad masses of the Church Hill Irish Festival to make it down to the Slip and Bistro Bobette for a proper French birthday celebration meal in her honor.

Actually, feast might be a better word because of everything that landed on our table, was Hoovered up and whisked away by our young server, who quietly informed us that not only was it his first night there but we were his first table.

We promised to be gentle.

Out first were bowls of cream of asparagus soup, a cheese and charcuterie plate and ahi tuna tartare, followed by monkfish medallions, two kinds of beef including beef wellington for the birthday girl, and, for me a special of scallops with celery root galette with roasted garlic crema, all washed down with a Sancerre recommended by the barkeep who greeted us with hugs and the intel that a good friend of mine was downstairs at a private dinner.

When I felt a tap on my shoulder, I turned to find said friend looming over me, and soon chiding me for not responding to his recent email, one which I'd mistaken for a mass email (it wasn't, apparently). Still, it was wonderful to see him.

And while I heard two Grand Marnier souffles being ordered, I missed out entirely by heading to the loo, where I ran into friends along the way and chatted a bit too long, returning to see empty plates. It mattered not because we were heading back to the manse for dark chocolate cake with ganache (lovingly made by Beau), and far more my dessert speed anyway.

That the evening was so beautifully temperate ensured that we all set up camp on the candlelit porch again, this time for bubbles, birthday cake and present-opening, a highlight being the exquisite absinthe fountain Beau had bought for his beloved. As much artful as functional, the winged woman holding up the glass reservoir with four taps exuded feminine energy and was a thing of beauty at the same time.

In the interest of testing out the new apparatus - and the new wormwood leaf-shaped absinthe spoons - Beau filled it with ice water and we all set our taps to drip over the Granddaddy of absinthes, Vieux Pontalier, mine being the slowest by far because of how much I enjoy the lead-up to the arrival of the green fairy.

Once she'd arrived, conversation reached new levels. On the subject of a former boyfriend who'd told me he dreamt of eating my belly for dinner once I'd gone to the other side, Pru observed, "Other cities donate their bodies to science, but in Richmond, we donate ours to local chefs."

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Beau took issue when we pointed out his tendency to titter, claiming he was actually guffawing (as if), finally agreeing that he perhaps did giggle a bit. Neither Pru not I saw that as preferable. "Neither a titterer nor a giggler be," he quipped.

Impossible, we discovered, when you find yourself at an eight-hour birthday soiree. To party well, one must know how to go where the green fairy takes you. Preferably, without tittering.

La Vie en Rose

We didn't storm the Bastille, but, make no mistake, things got pretty raucous.

Bistro Bobette was hosting those determined to celebrate French independence while eating and drinking well - people such as moi - although I did opt out of the waiter race scheduled hours earlier. I'd say it was because one can't spend an entire day celebrating the storming, except before the night was over, I met someone who did.

The bartender appeared quite happy to see me, a guy from Philly offered me a seat next to him and Le Figuier Rose seemed like the ideal pink with which to toast France.

Philly and I got to talking with a woman who gets to travel the world because her Dad's job is setting up wind farms and anytime he's doing it somewhere interesting, off she goes. Next up is Peru, but tonight she regaled us with her two trips to Australia.

Some of the best show and tell came from the bartender who shared that the chef had asked him what beer they could carry for tonight that was blue, white and red. Naturally, he suggested PBR, the people's beer of Richmond, but the best part was the video he showed me of the kitchen staff shotgunning PBRs in the back alley under the celebratory Bastille day banner.

Almost as good was his saga of the broken crepe maker, a potential disaster for a busy night in a classic French restaurant, but they adapted by rigging up what he called a "redneck crepe maker" by fitting the top part over another heat source - it wasn't pretty, I heard - and voila! Les crepes!

Before long, a favorite couple arrived to join the party and Philly moved to the end of the bar so we could sit together. After ordering duck rillettes along with a cheese and charcuterie board, conversation began ping-ponging around the bar as we ate with our fingers.

Since it had been a while since I'd been to Bobette, I was tickled pink (or was that the Figuier?) when the Gentleman from Upstate New York arrived and sat down next to me. We'd met years ago at this bar, but it had been far too long since I'd enjoyed some quality conversation with him.

He was the one doing the double dipping, having eaten lunch at Bobette earlier today, but he lives nearby and is such a regular, he can be counted on to eat there three or four nights a week, admitting that if they served breakfast, he'd consider doing all three squares there on occasion.

Conversation turned to restaurants - Southbound, Galley, l'Opossum, Roosevelt - and vacations, because the Gent was just back from his lake house and Philly was headed up that way Friday.

In walked another Bobette regular, the gentleman from Virginia in a suit and red tie, as traditional a southerner (read: churchgoer) as I've met at Bobette, although fortunately he has a whip smart sense of humor he wields often. Ordering the same Le Figuier as we were drinking, he raised his glass and began the toasting.

Out walks the chef to greet his guests, although I knew exactly what he wanted from me. Presenting a cheek and pointing, I delivered pink lip prints to both. After some Franco-American banter, I pointed to the nape of my neck, telling him I was wearing perfume brought to me from his hometown of Paris.

"My wife used to wear that!" he said, inhaling deeply near my hair while I pointed out that I was not his wife.

"I'm going to close my eyes and pretend that you are," he said suavely. We laughed about his introduction to PBR earlier this afternoon. I'd heard he'd moved from the city to the Avenues and inquired about his garden, knowing full well he must have one. He beamed just talking about it.

The bartender entertained us with stories and photos from his vacation in Colorado, a highlight of which had been an extended afternoon at a butchery selling over 160 kinds of locally caught meat. We're talking antelope, moose, buffalo, you name it. By the time they finished their man meat feast, they'd run up a $300 tab. I'll bet that was some outstanding eating.

Next to arrive unexpectedly was the friend whose lifestyle screams "conspicuous consumption," although he's currently trying to downsize by giving away stuff he doesn't actually use as part of a life simplification process.

When he spotted me, he made a crack to the bar at large about how I probably wasn't going to speak to him because it had been so long since we'd been out together, but instead I just feigned not recognizing him.

He took the seat recently vacated by the NY gentleman who'd left too soon and tried to get in my good graces by reminding me that he'd just last week invited me to go see Bill Maher with him, an eleventh hour offer I'd had to decline because of existing plans.

"But you were the first person I thought of to ask!" he insisted. Note to men worldwide: no one wants to turn down a $90 ticket but no one wants to be asked at the last minute, either. I introduced him to Pru and Beau with one of my favorite stories about him.

This is a man who created an Excel spreadsheet of the 77 qualities he wanted in a woman and then began dating (always telling the women on the first date that he would never marry or have children with them), checking off requirements along the way. He stopped when he met a woman who had 52 of the 77 and they've been together now for 14 years.

He'd come directly from his cocktail class, completion certificate in hand, so I had the ultimate surprise for him. Since we hadn't gotten together in months, he was unaware I'd begun drinking cocktails. His jaw dropped and he let out a heartfelt, "NO!?"

Yes. See what happens when you stay away too long?

Meanwhile, I moved on to a perfect summer salad of watermelon, heirloom tomatoes, Feta and greens, the same one the New Yorker had eaten and praised earlier (granted, he's also trying to lose a few pounds and give his liver a bit of a rest...such a smart man, that one) and it was easy to understand why after one satisfying bite of such fresh flavors.

In the tradition of Holmes regularly chiding me for my lifestyle choices when we go out (he rails against my lack of cell phone, refusal to watch movies on TV and the length of my bangs), tonight Pru decided to berate me for my 22-year refusal to use air conditioning as well as my green velvet couch which she considers hot and uncomfortable.

I'm noticing a pattern. No one seems willing to accept me as I am.

The cocktail king and I discussed Portland because he wanted a full accounting of where we'd eaten (by the way, he keeps a spreadsheet of his many restaurant visits also). He gave me props for Ned Ludd and Swedish restaurant Broder, saying the latter had been their best meal in all of the Rose City.

When he left, it was to go to a cocktail pop-up at Osaka, while we went back to witty repartee with anyone willing at the bar. Within moments, 22-year old A. had taken his stool, making for my fourth seat mate of the evening.

I do so love playing musical bar stools.

Uninvited, he didn't hesitate to join the conversation as he inhaled his steak frites and we debated our next course: sweet or savory? Pru announced that she wanted spinach while Beau and I put in our votes for frites (Pru insisting on curry ketchup) and chocolate mousse. For good measure, we also got the chef's housemade strawberry ice cream.

It was the spinach that got Alex excited. "That is so awesome that you're comfortable ordering spinach for dessert. Go for it! Do what you want," he enthused. Like Pru needs to be told to do what she wants.

It was about that time that I noticed that the music had gone quiet and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a restaurant meal without music. Pru asked the bartender to correct the situation, which he did immediately, observing that she hated to hear people chew.

"I know, I hate loud chewers," A. roared and Pru joined in the rant, calling it one of her pet peeves. "It's like a symphony is going on in their mouths and I don't want to hear it!"

"No, no, not a symphony, because I would be okay with that," Pru corrected, "It's just that unpleasant noise. Like that sound when people kiss, I hate that sound, too."

It was clear these two were soul mates.

Because I didn't have a dog in this race, I was just happy when he left because he was a shouter and my position right next to him left me vulnerable to his volume.

The evening's last addition was a beer-drinking chef who'd just closed his won restaurant and come directly to the Bastille Day festivities. It worked out well as Pru began to plan Beau's upcoming birthday dance party (the birthday boy wants to play Twister and I think that sounds like a terrific idea) because he could guide her to choosing a day when he was free to attend, having missed her last soiree.

By the time it was decided that sleep was in order, we were the last four people standing. The chef had already claimed his good night kisses from me and gone home. Bastille Day was over.

I'm going to close my eyes and pretend it's not. GWAR Bar, anyone?

When American Women Talk

Saturday nights are alright for belated birthday celebrations, not fighting.

The Leo being feted is a long-time friend, something like almost 20 years, and one with whom I have much in common and with the rest, we complement one another magnificently

When she picked me up, she made sure I knew she'd gotten as far as her car before going back in the house to put on lipstick "because I was meeting Karen," according to her.

It's satisfying to know I can inspire friends to the heights of lipstick wearing for our dates.

Properly made up, we wiped the lipstick off our teeth and drove straight to Bistro Bobette where we found the door stuck closed, swollen the way doors do in the summertime.

Bartender Olivier was kind enough to push it open from the inside, revealing reservation signs on most of the tables but not a person in the restaurant other than staff.

We settled into a corner of the bar to catch up after a month and a half apart ("Never more than three weeks again!") with glasses of intensely pink and aromatic Chateau de Campuget Rose and more stories than we could possibly share in one evening.

Happily, we had the bar to ourselves so we could laugh hysterically and shriek over high points in the narrative without disturbing anyone else.

Back and forth we went - my beach week, her Massachusetts vacation, my hurricane story, her hoarder tale, my writing life, her dead car on the side of the road.

Breaking to eat something obscenely rich, we chose tonight's featured appetizer, a big, fat slab of pate en croute, a decadent combination of veal, rabbit, pistachios and foie gras in puff pastry with cornichons, apricot puree and gelee.

Bobette's pates are always out of this world and this one was no different, earthy and addictive, especially when paired with a vinegar or sweet complement.

My friend is a master storyteller (having graced Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story on several occasions) and tonight she had a couple of beauts, including one revolving around her health of late.

"So it's been kind of a tough summer what with having the plague and going blind," she deadpanned and we both laughed uproariously.

And while it's certainly one way to put it, the shame of it is that it's more or less true.

Meanwhile, three women arrived and took seats at the bar and I soon learned that the two younger ones were actresses in Meg Ryan's upcoming film "Ithaca" and the middle-aged one was the set director.

If there's anywhere I know I will reliably see/meet actors, directors and movie people, whetehr I want to or not, it's Bistro Bobette.

For that matter, a handsome young man appeared out of nowhere and threw his arms around my friend and he turned out to be a costume and wig designer from NYC down for the weekend.

On the way to the loo, Olivier asked where my usual beautiful tights were and I had to remind him it was bare leg season. Silly bartender, tights are for cold weather.

As part of the birthday business, I presented my friend, a fabulous cook and hostess, with a card and book - the tantalizing "When French Women Cook: A Gastronomic Memoir" - as a present, a nod to her having gifted m with "The Goldfinch" for my birthday.

That also turned out to be a jumping off point since she'd read "The Goldfinch" first and we'd both recently read some juicy criticism of the book.

You have no idea how much I enjoy dissecting a book with a friend, even more so when that friend was the one gave me the book with the caveat, "I know you don't usually read fiction, but I think you're going to love this."

The bottom line is this: is there any difference between a good read and literature?

History has proven that so many books we now consider classics were originally panned by critics as frivolous and with little redeeming value, only to become essential to subsequent generations.

Will the Pulitzer prize- winning "The Goldfinch" still be a must-read in 100 years? Hard to say and I guess I'll never know.

For dessert we chose chocolate mousse, deeply flavorful and with a mouthfeel that spoke to the quality ingredients used to make it, a fitting close to our belated birthday soiree.

Fully aware that we hadn't begun to cover all the ground we needed to, we spent the last of our evening together plotting a road trip for next week so we can be guaranteed a whole day to talk until we run out of stories and opinions.

Yea, like that'll ever happen.

To Love Life Terribly as I am Able

Sometime between Robert Frost and foie gras, a fierceness overtook the skies.

All was calm, all was warm when I walked into Chop Suey Books and found a crowd of poetry lovers waiting downstairs for the reading room upstairs to empty.

Right in front of me was the lovely poet who had earlier today posted to no one in particular, "Let's go to this. Tonight!" As she explained, it was not a message aimed at me since she never doubted for a second that I'd be in attendance.

The only thing better than a poet I don't know reading poetry to me is a man I do know reading poetry to me. For tonight, the strangers Emilia Philips and Nick McRae were my only offer.

Once upstairs, the room filled up so quickly that extra chairs had to be brought in, a sight that warmed my poetic heart.

Coming all the way from Texas, Nick McRae began with humor, saying, "Before Emilia comes up to read and blows you away, I thought I'd read a few poems."

After a poem about a dead deer, he commented how during the copy editing process of his book, Mountain Redemption, he'd noticed that there were lots of eviscerated deer in his poetry.

Probably not a realization most poets make.

He went on to recite, not read, a poem that he explained was not his own, but Elizabeth Bishop's 1953 "The Shampoo."

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where, 
so straight, so soon?
Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin
battered and shiny like the moon.

That was followed by another of his own, this one a touching eulogy to his grandfather, Joseph, a man who once put out a cigarette on his wife's tongue and later lost an eye to a knife slip while working in a carpet factory (which he considered his "just desserts") before dying while on his International harvester tractor.

A recitation of Robert Frost's 1926 "Desert Places" followed, once again proving what a fine interpreter of others' works he was.

There was a poem he wrote interpreting the legend of St. Nicholas, the Turkish bishop, with the line, "Streets purpled by dusk."

Isn't it magical when colors become verbs?

"Metaphor" was inspired by Virginia poet Claudia Emerson and repeated a line from her poem of the same name, "But mine is in no way equal to hers," McRae warned us.

He labeled "The Cause" a little less grim and said it had been written only a couple of months ago, but what struck me was the line, "To love you terribly as I am able."

Okay, so I didn't know Nick, but what woman doesn't want to hear a man read a line like that?

Next came Emilia Philips wearing fabulous shoulder duster earrings and looking absolutely tiny after the bear-sized McRae.

She spoke of having come back to Richmond last fall for surgery and the poems that came out of that experience before reading some of them.

"The Rising Cost of Dying" took its title from a TV segment seen in the subterranean MCV cancer ward waiting room.

Her Dad was the inspiration for "The Episode of 'Cops" in Which My Father Appeared" and referenced, "No suicides on basic cable," "pantless perps" and "a Yogi Bear jelly jar of milk."

How long has it been since I thought of those cartoon-festooned jelly jars that families use for glasses? An eternity.

After seeing a roadside Jesus sign in Denton, Texas, she'd written "Roadside America," observing "apocalypse is a matter of scale" and mentioning "the parable of the paper doll."

After reading nothing but new work, she returned to her book Signaletics for her final poem, saying, "I tried to think of one poem from it that I'd never read in Richmond, but I couldn't find a single one."

As one who had heard her read before, I know I wouldn't have minded hearing something she'd previously read.  It's still a poet reading to me.

She settled for reading the book's final poem about a long ago trip to the VMFA to see "The Mourners: Tomb Sculptures from the Court of Burgundy," a gorgeous show I'd also seen, here, two years ago.

When Emilia had arrived, it had been prior to opening but she'd been allowed in and the docent had watched her like a hawk, as if she was going to make off with one of the foot and a half tall statues.

Her poem, "Mourner with Cow, Hands in Sleeve" chronicled  her visit, with evocative images such as "all the color of smudged lipstick" and "ravaged by revolution."

And isn't that part of the pleasure of poetry, to hear how poets combine words and evoke things I can't see or hear?

Soul fed, I went to leave Chop Suey only to see it had begun to rain lightly outside while we'd been upstairs lost in poetry.

No matter, I scurried to my car and headed it east to the Slip for dinner at Bistro Bobette.

A friend had thrown out a challenge and promised the winner he'd buy them a drink and it was time to collect.

I bet I didn't get a mile before the rain picked up considerably and by the time I reached the crest of the hill leading down toward the Bottom, all hell broke loose and horizontal sheets of rain were flying across Cary Street in front of me.

Suddenly my floral skirt and open-toed shoes seemed woefully inadequate.

After parking only semi-illegally (a tad too close to a corner in all likelihood), I waited for a break in the monsoon to high tail it up to Bistro Bobette to meet the friend known as Rainman.

The kind of guy who can tell you the exact date he met you, who won the World Cup in what year and other ephemera most people forget immediately.

I arrived before he did, a rarity, and ordered a glass of Chateau Ferry Lacombe "Haedus" Rose to sip while looking through the program for the upcoming French Film festival.

No doubt he was surprised to arrive early (as is his wont) and find me already in place, and we lost no time in ordering a pate plate and an octopus special.

It's best to get the ordering out of the way when there's much to discuss.

Starting with his earlier e-mail comment ("That thud you heard was me falling out of my chair"), we began a major catch-up session first on my life and then on his.

Changes abounded.

So did fabulous food. Baby octopus and lump crab found happiness together with seaweed salad and tiny radish matchsticks, tasting of cardamom and a hint of other Indian spices.

Doing the heavy lifting was a plate of house made pate and variations. Foie gras mousse with marmalade was obscenely rich with a silky mouth feel, earthy and deeply flavored venison pate stalked our palates, a terrine of sweetbreads and pork loin had a bottom of foie gars for a sensual melange of innards and turkey rilletes benefited from a liberal layer of fleur de sel.

Add in tangy gherkins and pickled grape tomatoes and I'm ashamed to say we couldn't even finish the last few bites. Not that we didn't give it our all.

At one point our always agreeable barkeep came over to check if we needed anything and my only request was music. Silence was suddenly reigning and who wants that when there' so much to talk and laugh about?

He rectified the situation tout de suite and the XX eased over the speakers like fine wine.

A TV director came in to have dinner at the bar and my friend showed me his IMD page, unbeknownst to the man. Tough for me to be impressed when I recognize no TV shows.

Soon after arrived a neighbor I'd met at Bobette years ago, a man responsible for the lighting and/or sound systems in dozens of restaurants around town.

He told a hilarious story about driving a big truck to Champlain and trying to go through a tunnel too small for the truck.

When a cop pulled him over he said he was certain he was about to get a ticket, but fortunately his girlfriend's large breasts distracted the cop and all he got was a "Welcome to New Joisey!" and the command to make a U-turn and go another way.

Never underestimate the power of a large rack.

Once the chef finished service, he came out and joined the lively conversation, telling tales of a former restaurant he worked at and its thrifty blue hair clientele, his favorite northern Virginia sushi restaurant and reminscing about the rillettes and gherkins his father made for him as a boy in Paris.

While my friend and I shared a lavender honey chocolate mousse, we talked about The Shack, which resulted in my getting to hear an Indian and a Frenchman try to pronounce Staunton in their best American accents.

You've never heard such flat vowels as they did their best redneck imitations. The Staunton-off was topped only by a discussion of what part of an Indian you feel for confirmation of his maleness and what part of a Frenchman.

Touching a forehead, "Wow, that's a really big brain you have, mister.

We closed out a perfectly lovely meal with blood orange sorbet so exquisitely textured that my friend deemed it a disservice to call such a creamy concoction sorbet.

With just enough sweetness on the finish and a bright wash of acidity to cleanse the palate, it was as beautifully colored as it tasted.

Tongues oranged by the night, a poet might say. Or this.

All the color of smudged lipstick tonight was on the chef's two cheeks, left there in a European kiss by a happy diner.

Picking Up the Pieces

What a long, strange trip it's been.

That was the e-mail I got from an old friend I hadn't seen in well over a year, with a promise to tell me the story over lunch.

Because we've had so many outstanding meals at Bistro Bobette over the years, we agreed on that as our destination.

I walked in to find a blast from the past, a former bartender from a neighborhood haunt now waiting tables.

"I knew I'd see you in here eventually," he said hugging me.

Once seated on a banquette in the back, another smiling, familiar face arrived to greet me, this one a former Carytown restaurateur, whom I'd seen the last time I'd been in Bobette.

I got my first clue of what was to come when my friend surprised me by saying, "Order wine if you like, but I don't drink any more."

Nothing could have surprised me more. "Or smoke," he continued. What in the world?

We decided to order so he could start sharing. I went with the chickpea crepe of crabmeat and mushroom while he had sauteed rainbow trout with haricot verts.

My crepe came with a beautiful side salad made all the more delectable for the abundance of multi-colored grape tomato halves studding it.

We're so tragically close to the end of good tomato season.

Food in front of us, my friend began explaining all that had happened in the last six months.

He'd decided to give up alcohol and cigs because, as he put it, "I needed to before I die."

That had been followed by his wife of many years informing him that she was leaving, precipitating some serious depression on his part.

Like lay-in-bed and don't-get-up depression, not at all like my friend's usual busy days.

It's hard to know what to say when a long-time friend (18 years) tells you what a hard time he's been having after not seeing him for so long.

I was happy to hear that meds and therapy are helping him cope, as is sincere effort on his part to put things back together with his wife.

We decided to toast his efforts and hoped-for success at that with desserts: chocolate mousse and fig/red wine ice cream, both stellar.

It's sobering to realize how easy it is to let people drop off your radar when they stop reaching out to you.

The fact that we hadn't met up in more than a year I had attributed to my lack of initiation, never suspecting that his life was taking a downward spiral.

Talking and eventually laughing together, I realized how far he's come since his world fell apart and how restorative it was for him to be out with an old friend, just enjoying himself.

I remember when my own world collapsed a few years ago and what a process it had been climbing back out of all that for me.

Fingers crossed that he can piece together a new reality as satisfying as the one I fashioned out of my dark days, whatever that means for him.

What I'd learned was that sometimes long and strange just come with the territory. Now it's his turn.

You can do it, friend. Hang in there.

Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darling

As Petula Clark put it:

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go downtown

We'll say that's how I ended up downtown at Gallery A for the opening of Jack Solomon's new show, "Incidental Dramas for the 21st Century."

I'd already interviewed Jack about his early years at VCU and now I had a chance to see his most recent work.

The "Small Talk Series" was his solution to needing a more immediate way to express himself when larger acrylic paintings were demanding more of his time.

Sort of like stopping a 900-page novel to read a short story for the simple satisfaction of finishing.

Walking in, I saw more than a few people I knew, including the artist and his wife.

There was one from my past, another from the French Film Fest and another who connected with me solely because of her name - Mia.

The show traces the artist's recent series of abstracts, mellow dramas (as he calls them), abstracts and composites, all executed through complex paintings with layers of imagery and meaning.

Oh, if I could only afford one of his pieces on paper, I already know the one I'd want.

Making my way around the gallery, I was struck by the intricacies of Jack's work and the whimsy which permeated them all.

You have to admire a man who'd been doing what he loves for 60 years and is still producing intriguing work.

Leaving the show when the musicians playing at it did, my companion and I headed up to Bistro Bobette for some wine and whatever else they had to offer.

Downtown.

The bar was full when we arrived but all kinds of familiar faces showed themselves.

One server I knew from Carytown, another from a chance meeting at Patrick Henry's two years ago, the affable bartender I hadn't seen in months, plus the mustachioed director from many previous visits to Bobette.

He's presently working on "Killing Kennedy" and tonight he had with him the actor playing Lee Harvey Oswald (no doubt a short role), but he paused talking long enough to say hello with a smile.

Since all we wanted was some wine, it was just a matter of waiting for the bar to clear out.

Once it did, we grabbed stools and settled in to listen to the lounge-y satellite radio station providing the mellow groove.

Although we'd already eaten, it was getting close to dessert time and the chef's dessert du jour, a delicacy of ladyfingers with creme anglaise, whipped cream and hazelnuts, proved to be exactly what we needed.

Sometimes you don't know what you need until it presents itself.

Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle bossa nova
You'll be dancing with them, too, before the night is over
Happy again

No finer place, for sure, downtown.

Figs and Dates

My lunch date scored big on two points.

Between his vertigo and my schedule, we'd been trying all week to set up a third date.

When it seemed like nothing was going to work, he cut right to the chase, not mincing words.

"But I so want to see you!"

Suddenly my Friday lunch hour opened up and I suggest Bistro Bobette, a place he's somehow never been.

Then he shows up with The New York Review of Books, eager to discuss Martin Scorsese's article on the language of cinema.

Well done, sir.

When he suggests wine for lunch, I agree based on my friend Pru's theory that wine at lunch is so civilized.

That and a good Rose from Provence is tailor-made for a mid-day date.

We start with a special of charred octopus, chanterelles, bacon, arugula, white beans and red pepper, a dish that could only have been better if eaten on a seaside balcony.

(imagine soft breezes of salty air)

Instead, he tells me about one of his all-time favorite movies, "Paris, Texas," a film that had been showing in Europe on his post-college trip but one he'd waited to see until he got home.

Ah, the mistakes of youth. But I add another Palme d'Or winner to my list of must-see movies.

For my next course, I have another of today's specials, this one a killer salad of heirloom tomatoes, beets and figs in a balsamic reduction.

I will continue to order figs as long as the sweet beauties keep showing up on menus, determined to savor their particular late summer ripeness.

We get off on a tangent about travel because it's been years since he was in Italy and less than a year for me, so he wants my take.

When I tell him about the Vermeer exhibit I saw in Rome, I am surprised at what a Vermeer fan he is and how much he knows about the artist.

This leads to a discussion of Amsterdam, a place he loves and one I've never visited.

Even so, I have been avidly reading about the recently-completed 10-year renovation of the Rijksmusuem there, home to Rembrandt's "Night Watch."

Of all the unlikely topics, he's been keeping up with the re-opening of the museum, too and tells me about his memories of visiting it years ago.

Well, this is going awfully well.

For lunch I have tuna tartare with my Rose, enjoying an Asian-inspired dish in a French bistro almost as much as I'd enjoyed a Dutch artist in an Italian museum.

Too full for dessert, we linger as the dining room begins clearing out, talking about everything and nothing.

"I just love hearing what's in your head and talking to you." he says toward the end of our afternoon.

He sure knows how to ace a third date, that's all I'm saying.

Blood Orange Night

I'd hoped for red and instead get blood orange.

The theater lover and I  conspired to score rush tickets to Virginia Repertory's production of "Red" after she wrote me, "Haven't seen a play in ages and am jonesing."

But the highlight of her message was yet to come. "I'm calling off date Saturday for greener Karen pastures."

I moved our date to Friday so she wouldn't disappoint an admirer and agreed to address her theater jones, adding in a pre-theater drink.

The box office gods were not with us.

I arrived at 5:59 to get tickets (the box office opens at 6:00), only to be told that there was only one ticket available.

What kind of friend would I be if I bought the one ticket for myself and left her in the lurch?

Exactly.

Fortunately, Rothko will be around for another month, so we intend to see it yet.

But for tonight, I punted, suggesting we do dinner instead.

Agreeable sort that she is, she promised to report to my house at once and we'd motor from there.

Rather than calling out my name when she arrived, I instead heard, "Stellaaaaaa," from the sidewalk out front.

It was an auspicious start.

Inexplicably, we made Bistro Bobette our destination, found an easy space in front of Fountain Books and walked back up the hill.

Past the diners we went, straight to the bar and seats at the end near a huge vase of lilies and eucalyptus.

The bartender I'd missed on my last two visits was there, happy to see us and we began with a bottle of Paul Mas Estate Picpaoul de Pinet from Languedoc, well-balanced and dry.

I'd been drinking a wonderful white Languedoc just last Friday with Holmes and was happy to continue the tradition this week.

From the moment I sat down, the music suited me so I asked about it, discovering it was Pandora set to Thievery Corporation.

Well done, Bobette.

Wine in hand, girlfriend and I got started when she looked at me, paused and announced, "I think my stepmother drunk-dialed me last night."

Honestly, I wouldn't be the least surprised if that sentence had never before been uttered.

The hysterical story that followed necessitated sustenance, so we listened to the specials.

Ostrich crudo with cilantro oil, capers, cayenne and shaved horseradish got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from us both.

Warm, crusty bread accompanied the lean and flavorful flightless bird.

I made a simple supper of mesclun salad, mushroom and bacon quiche and squid ink pasta with tomatoes and asparagus, while my friend did the "meatless," a selection of four sides.

We agreed that the spring squash sauteed with shallot and herbs was exquisite.

My friend told me that her comments about going to see "Red" with me tonight, and that it was about painter Mark Rothko, had been met by blank stares from co-workers.

This is why we are soul mates - no explanations are necessary.

A regular came in and sat down at the bar, a guy I've met before who's been here working, first on the "Killing Lincoln" movie for what seemed like ages and now on the "Killing Kennedy" movie.

It's gotten so we recognize each other by now.

Tonight he was joined by another film type and they had intense discussion of important stuff while my girlfriend and I discussed Bermuda, anacondas and working from home when the night before necessitates it.

In lieu of dessert, we had a digestif of blood orange wine, as beautifully colored as scented.

The chef came out to have a glass of Rose and enthusiastically jumped into the conversational fray.

"The best tartare is horse," he said when we got into a discussion of unusual meats.

Friend recalled seeing lion meat in a market and inquired about how best to serve it.

We heard rumors about Peking's space across the street being taken over by another tenant.

A server told us horror stories about a recent visit to a certain restaurant I long ago gave up on.

We got a full report on the French Food Festival, an event neither of us had ever before heard good things about.

We talked so long about boating with the chef that all at once we realized that we were the final customers of the day.

Wishing the chef a fine day on his boat tomorrow ("I don't care if it rains, I just want to feel the wind," he grinned, reminding me of the photo of him on his boat in the ladies' room), we headed out onto Cary Street, which was bustling and noisy compared to when we'd arrived.

A woman playing sax sat on a window ledge, wailing away.

Couples walked by, ignoring everyone else.

A couple of guys gave us a second look and a tentative compliment.

Down at the end of the block, the construction fence was up around the former parking lot and soon-to-be hotel at 14th Street.

We should have been having a post-theater drink to discuss how well Rothko had been portrayed.

Oh, well. "Red" will run for another month and you can be sure the two of us will see it.

You could say that'll be part of the future greener Karen pastures.

It's reassuring to know I'm considered one step away from a superlative.

Killing Monday

It was a simple plan.

I took the remaining sections of Sunday's Washington Post and went to dinner at Bistro Bobette, content to have reading material and good eats.

The end result was so much better.

When I arrived, it was to a server who recognized me and directed me to the bar with a smile.

There, I found two couples who graciously welcomed me.

I began with a glass of a grenache/mouvedre blend and a look at the bar menu.

As I slurped a bowl of the soup du jour (vegetable/pasta with Parmesan) and enjoyed a mixed green salad (where did they get such flavorful grape tomatoes this time of year?), the couple at the end of the bar introduced themselves.

Except that they weren't really a couple.

He was from Raleigh, N.C. and she was from Arlington and they'd both brought their own bottles of wine since there's no corkage fee on Monday nights.

Before long, they wanted to know my back story and I wanted to know how they'd ended up eating together.

Next thing I knew, they were inviting me to join them for lunch tomorrow at Buzz and Ned's for baby back ribs and further conversation.

Seems they're both regular visitors to Richmond and were excited at the idea of having a local guide.

They insisted that at the very least, I meet them back at Bobette next Monday for more chatting.

Meanwhile, I moved on to lamb tenderloin over couscous, swooning over the buttery-textured meat and savory grain.

It didn't hurt that the music was Pandora with a starting point of Thievery Corporation, meaning a nice range of jazz to bossa nova for my listening pleasure.

The chatty couple said goodnight just after a new mustached arrival took a seat near me.

He turned out to be the producer of "Killing Lincoln" and had just come from Mama Zu's.

I was introduced by the owner and enjoyed a bit of conversation with a man who will be in Richmond through the end of the summer.

Cataloging where he'd eaten so far (Arcadia, Tio Pablo, Kuba, Kuba, Edo's, Millie's), I tried to make suggestions to better represent Richmond.

He told a charming story of buying a nice watch for his son when he was 18 and holding on to it until the son was 27, the better for him to appreciate it.

I had to assume he was a smart man based on that story alone.

After he left, the Raleigh guy returned and offered to buy my girlfriend and I a drink.

Given that he'd already made a stop at Tobacco Company since we'd seen him last, we declined.

Not to be unkind, but the chef had finished cooking and come out and he was far better company than someone who was obviously on the prowl.

"I see how men look at you," my friend observed. Like idiots, I asked?

Because the chef cooked for many years in my hometown, Washington, we got off on a tangent about what works there versus here,

He lamented that kidneys and other exotica no longer get ordered at his restaurant.

Sweetbreads are about the only offal he consistently sells, he said.

When a French-speaking customer stole the chef's attention, my girlfriend and I returned to the matter at hand: girltalk.

Men and bathrooms and space. The important stuff.

Best line overheard: I'm a pain in the ass but I'm always right.

I finished my meal with chocolate truffles and more wine, while we discussed good and bad Asian food, the pursuit of nose to tail menus and our preference for brunch menus that don't depend solely on egg dishes.

But then maybe we're atypical.

Next thing I knew, it was closing time and I had yet to open my Post.

Newspapers can wait, perfect strangers not so much.

Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid

So it was a friend's birthday but I got to choose the place to celebrate.

Bistro Bobette is one of my friend's favorite restaurants, so while I decided on it, he happily complied.

I was coming straight from doing an interview at Plant Zero, so he was already ensconced at a table when I breezed in late into lunchtime.

We did some quick catch-up.

He's just over the crud that's been going around, had a getaway to a snow-covered cabin in West Virginia recently and bragged about an overseas record find.

A Neil Young concert recorded in the Netherlands and unearthed in a Dublin record store.

Nice, very nice.

Since he'd already decided on the triple cut burger on bricohe (although, sadly, he wanted no cheese on it) and frites, I wasted no time in making up my mind.

With our cow base covered, I went for the sauteed rainbow trout in almond butter with shallot-sauteed haricot verts.

Since we were doing a day-late celebration of his birthday, he ordered a bottle of 2009 Chateau Valcombe, a supple and rich Cote du Rhone ideal for a gray day.

It matched the Pink Martini station playing in the background, lulling us into relaxed long lunch mode.

We shared off of each other's plates, including a bacon "orphan" off his burger that he generously handed me, while the conversation ran the gamut from the pleasures of pig at Publican in Chicago to U-shaped raw bars to the latest Dylan album.

When our server noticed we'd given up on eating, he asked tentatively about dessert.

Since part of the motivation in ordering the Cotes du Rhone had been for the pleasure of having it with chocolate, he got an enthusiastic "bien sur" in response.

The chocolate crousillant with its layers of cake, mousse and crushed hazelnut made both the birthday boy and his guest very happy.

As we finished it up, we heard a woman tell a man behind us, "Just don't tell your wife," a warning that inspired wonder about the circumstances of the conversation.

But ours was not to judge.

All at once a woman came around the divider, exclaiming when she saw me, "Look who's here in the daylight!"

I could say the same about her since it's almost always night time when we run into each other.

A conversation about the newest restaurants ensued as we compared notes about the places we've both been lately.

We got so caught up in it we even made plans to meet up for dinner soon to check out a place she hasn't been.

I have, but I'm willing to give the place a second try for her sake. Anything for a friend.

The birthday boy and I had stayed so long that eventually the chef came out and joined our discussion, telling us which new places he'd tried and what he thought of them.

He was curious about Godfrey's drag brunch, wanting the scoop there.

As far as I'm concerned, they're the original Grace Street pioneers.

Walking out, my friend observed that the roundtable with the chef had been the perfect ending to his delicious birthday lunch.

Some of us sure know how to pick 'em, if I do say so myself.

And I do.

Welcome Back, Old Friend

If you invite me, I will come.

So when the bartender at Bistro Bobette messaged me reminding me that it had been a while since I'd been at his bar, I took note.

And when a friend from Maryland said she'd be in town tonight and wanted to met up with me and a favorite couple, where better to go than Bobette?

They had a nice little crowd already in place when we arrived, pleasing the out-of-towner who wanted a lively scene.

Conveniently, there were two seats together open at the bar when we arrived, another stool next to a regular who said hello (and kindly asked if I'd lost weight!) and the two stools nearby were vacated within minutes.

Our party of five took over the little bar and the bartender was impressed that his message to me had worked.

Hey, I am nothing if not responsive, one way or the other.

While the other three stayed festive with Cremant d'Alsace, my date and I opted for Chateau de Vinigelais Courbieres 2010.

Deciding on food at Bobette is doubly enjoyable because they have two menus, one for the dining room and another for the bar.

The bar is the place for surprises and great deals, so I like to look there first.

But Holmes was sure we needed oysters, so we got the last ten in the house, scoring a couple each.

It must have been a busy night because they were already out of baguettes and that's saying something at Bobette.

So while the two of us have yet to have Bob's dog together (sure, I've had it more times than I can count), we weren't going to have it tonight sans baguette.

A travesty!

And yet one in our party braved it for the sake of that exquisite Sausagecraft dog.

My interest was piqued by the chicon, a special on tonight's bar menu.

Poached endive was covered in Parisian ham, Gruyere and Swiss cheese for an obscenely rich starter that had the regular curious and the other couple placing a late order of it.

The bartender had been correct in chiding me about not having been in in a while.

I found out that my favorite wine geek had taken a prestigious wine position befitting his encyclopedic knowledge of all things grape.

The owner teased me about my absence, but all I could focus on was her new hairstyle which looked fabulous on her.

I was as surprised to learn that she had curly hair as she was to learn mine is straight.

Naturally we each wished we had the other's hair. Isn't that always the way?

My visiting friend was doing her best to convince us all to come visit for a community weekend, although she mentioned one slight problem.

There are no doors on the bedrooms in her '30s-era bungalow on the Chesapeake Bay.

Seems a tad cozy, if you know what I mean.

While she moved on to the steak frites and mixed pickled veggies (with just the right amount of tang), we ordered the Bobette burger with frites and were rewarded with a well-seasoned burger smothered in Camembert and at barely medium rare, tasting more of steak tartare than a conventional burger.

In other words, yum.

After a mound of salty fries, all I could think about was something sweet, so we ordered the chocolate hazelnut crousillant.

The dense chocolate dessert with a layer of hazelnut crunch was swoon-worthy, causing the couple in our group to order the same.

Sadly, we had gotten the last one.

Or maybe appropriately since it felt like my treat for showing up on demand.

I can be easy when I want to.

Every Day I Write the Book

Tonight was all about saying so long, farewell.

The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.

But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.

What a civilized way to handle summer.

So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.

But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.

We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.

Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.

But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.

It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.

The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.

I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.

The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.

By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.

Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.

Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.

The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.

The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"

But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.

A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.

The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.

The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.

But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.

It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.

Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.

By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.

If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."

Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.

As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.

How else to recover but with some live local music?

Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.

Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.

You say goodbye and I say hello.

We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.

As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.

By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.

No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.

We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.

Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.

The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.

Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.

Yikes. And no doubt true.

They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs  (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.

Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."

By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.

So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.

To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.

To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.

And that's enough good-byes for a while.

Tales from Urban Bohemia

Chapter 1: In which there is a reprieve

With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.

Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.

By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.

It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.

And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.

Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts

Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.

"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.

A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.

I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.

Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.

The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation

At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.

A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.

In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.

My question exactly.

Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.

Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.

Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.

The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.

Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.

Walking home, a  magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.

What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?

Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy

With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.

Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.

Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?

The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.

Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.

Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.

Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.

Even dress-wearers...when prodded.

I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.

One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"

Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.

Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo

Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.

"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."

I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.

Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.

Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.

Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.

There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.

There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.

There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.

I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.

The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.

The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.

After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.

He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.

I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.

"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.

He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.

I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.

I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.

"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."

Just doing my job.

Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon

Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.

The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.

A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.

I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.

Chapter 6 should do just fine.

Color the Evening Cassis

He shouted at me without even meeting me.

Going to meet my friend at Bistro Bobette, I spotted a girlfriend on the street, chatting with a man. I rolled down my window, called hello and she waved back.

Grinning widely at me, he called out. "I'm in love!" despite having no idea who I was.

Not a bad start to the evening.

Inside Bistro Bobette, it was mobbed. The bartender found me a stool and I awaited the arrival of my friend.

His backside barely hit the stool next to mine before he ordered foie gras, claiming we can't start a dinner without it.

The woman next to me told me in her charmingly accented English that I owed her for saving me a seat.

For my main course, I took advantage of a special, flightless bird.

It was grilled ostrich  over fava bean risotto in a tarragon and black peppercorn sauce. Medium rare, of course.

Friend entertained me with tales of the 80s and people he knew who overindulged in cocaine use. Lawyers, doctors, dentists, I heard some gruesome tales.

Without a good chocolate option for dessert, we defaulted to my friend's ultimate weakness, ice cream.

A black currant sorbet had such depth of flavor as to require tiny bites to fully appreciate its bracing fruit flavor.

When I got up to use the bathroom, I was reprimanded.

Not one, but two, men complained when they spied my bare legs.

"This is the first time I've ever seen you without stockings on," a wine buddy said, clearly astonished. "I'll let it slide this time."

It's April, for god's sake

The chef voted differently so I let his opinion weigh more.

Then it was on to Balliceaux for Brooklyn's Xenia Rubinos, described as CubanRican with a hint of M.I.A., a lot of Tuneyards and a bit of P.J. Harvey.

Using keyboards and a busy drummer to accompany her, she created beats and harmonies that built layer upon layer of sound.

The crowd wasn't giving her the attention she deserved, resulting in her taking to the floor in front of the stage to figuratively say, "Hey! Listen to me!"

A few dancing types helped things along by moving to the eclectic groove, furthering the rest of the audience's attention.

By the time the duo got to the last song, the room was fully engaged because they were killing it.

After clamoring for an encore, Xenia said, "The truth is, I don;t really have another one. But here's one I'm working on, but it's a baby, so be kind."

And while it didn't sound fully formed, it did promise to be another attention getter down the road.

Making my way out of the back room, a stranger grabbed my hand and began to dance with me.

Up front, the DJ was doing it Euro-trash-style ("Glamorous Life" and "Rebel, Rebel") and I ran into a Friday night assortment of friends representing fashion, theater, music, restaurants and photography.

It's always a good evening when you have time to talk to your favorite vibes player.

Not one, but two, theater types stopped me, one for a critique of a play I'd seen him in and the other to high five me for my next stop.

After a couple days of dizziness, I was just glad to remain upright in a room crammed with people dancing and socializing practically on top of each other.

But I did make it out the door without hearing that anyone was in love with me.

Not a bad end to the evening.

On a Crowded Avenue

After being knee-deep in Italian lately, I decided to go all French all the way for New Year's Eve.

After a champagne cocktail, my NYE date and I had a simple little supper at Bistro Bobette of steak frites and Chateau de Vaugelas Corbiere.

It was as filling as it was well-prepared. Adding to my pleasure was running into a guy I used to see on my walk everyday (minus his dogs), one of my favorite wine geeks and the always-friendly Bobette staff.

My date had shown up wearing a muff, absolutely making my night. She and I had just recently been discussing when the last time was that anyone wore a muff.

I can only aspire to find one of my own.

After a leisurely supper, we abandoned the Slip for Amour, where we found the party in full swing when we arrived in the last hour before ball drop.

I had never spent New Year's Eve in Carytown.

Despite our recent cow, we savored a small plate of duck breast with rosemary/red onion relish with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.

Hearing the Flamingos' version of "I Only Have Eyes for You" in Amour caused our conversation to stop mid-syllable as we both let the very romantic song wash over us.

Call it New Year's Eve sentimentality. Or just a really beautiful love song.

A server to the owner said, "When you're through doing whatever it is you're doing, I need two coffees."

To be clear, he was shaking a plastic box of money at us, in a most "alms for the poor" kind of way.

Positively hysterical.

Dessert was a divine espresso/hazelnut panna cotta with a chocolate wafer.

Long after the ball had dropped and the exodus of ball rats was a distant memory, there was a woman on a horse sitting outside Can Can.

Sure, we'd seen plenty of mounted cops earlier, but this was just a woman in a sweater on a horse.

The people-watching on Cary Street in Carytown (flip-flops and glitter) was exceeded only by the people-watching on Cary Street in the Slip (far too many size 16s squeezed into size 8s and wearing 5" heels).

I left lip marks on French cheeks all over town. We'll call them Happy New Year prints.

As I sit here, I hear fireworks going off in Jackson Ward.

May 2012 be everything 2011 was not.

Excel Incompetence

Lots of my people were at Bistro Bobette tonight.

I went out with a girlfriend, ran into a former couple date, chatted with a couple of fellow theater-loving friends and said hello to an unlikely Saturday night date couple.

When I arrived at the bar, my girlfriend was the lone barsitter, but the familiar faces just kept on coming.

Bubbles (a Vouvray dewmi-sec) started the evening and I followed that with a venison pate complemented perfectly with cranberry relish.

My theater boys arrived and we discussed "My Fair Lady," which I'd opted out of last week; they considered this an error of judgement on my part, heartily recommending the new production at the Empire.

I offered them tastes of my pate which so impressed the critic that he later told me, "I had my first deer tonight because of you."

Always glad to help broaden a cute boy's horizons.

The owner came over and we coerced her to tell us how she and the chef had met, which turned out to be a great story.

There's a lot to be said for the hand of fate.

Somehow that led to a discussion of how I need to do do something about my singlehood, with both her and my girlfriend telling me what I need to do.

Well, that led to the male half of the couple date joining the discussion. A logical sort of a guy, he once compiled a spread sheet of the 77 qualities he wanted in a mate. 

His girlfriend, who rated the highest (52 out of 77), was sitting next to him.

He joined the discussion by throwing out questions about my deal breakers, my requirements and my negotiables.

My girlfriend said it was like the e-Harmony questionnaire, only much better because he focused on more important issues.

Things like, what are your three biggest eccentricities? Would you carry a cell phone if a partner asked you to? Could you date a vegetarian? A non-drinker?

They all concluded that I need to give up on Richmond and look in D.C.

I concluded that I wanted to talk about anything else.

When I saw a restaurant owner and her paramour come in, I went over to give her a hug and say hello.

Her man insisted on the same, saying, "Don't we know each other well enough by now?"

You just never know who's a hugger and who isn't.

After a bit, the theater boys got ready to leave for a party, but not before disclosing that one of them had a midnight date.

"You know, late night take-out," the other one whispered to me, making me laugh. "Or should I say late night delivery?"

On my way back from the bathroom, I was greeted by the paparazzi in the form of the owner who was trying to get a picture of me because of my gray tights.

She was unsuccessful; every picture had my eyes an evil white color that made me look like a demon.

I suggested she just shoot my legs and save herself the trouble.

Maybe that's how I should do it: a picture of my legs and a list of my eccentricities.

I'll post fliers all over town and see what happens.

Better, yet, I think I'll wait for the hand of fate. I was never any good at spread sheets anyway.

Tiny Bubbles and the Tights

I do it for the romance, you know.

Because I certainly don't  morph from a lazy afternoon magazine-reading sloth to making myself presentable in public for any other reason.

It happened over a dog.

(cue gypsy accordion music)

When I sat down at Bistro Bobette, I was the only customer at the bar.

It worked to my advantage, garnering me a tasting of Michele Turgy Champagne, an unexpected delight they're considering carrying.

Even better was the Jean Vesselle Brut Rose de Saignee, a deep pink and complex sparkler that almost qualified as chewy (GB, this is your kind of bubbles), so I got a glass of that.

Finally another customer approached the bar and I was told he was a regular and quickly given his name and occupation.

It made it easier to greet him by name and see the look of confusion on his face since he'd never laid eyes on me before.

We were introduced and we started talking with and without the bartender joining us, until we both got hungry.

He'd never had the Bobette dog, and asked about it, allowing me to share what I liked about it (everything).

I got one myself to make it seem like a good idea. Actually, I was going to have one anyway, but he didn't need to know that.

Come on, it's the chef's recipe executed by Sausgaecraft with harissa mustard and Gruyere on crusty bread.

Oh, and a mountain of frites so perfectly cooked and seasoned that ketchup seems like a crime against cuisine.

We talked about music, discovering we had very little in common; he likes old, I like new.

(fade in Journey and out quickly, fade in Dum Dum Girls))

He told me about a bunch of restaurant projects he's worked on, so we knew some of the same people.

The conversation was quick and we laughed a lot.

We even discussed the definition and execution of creativity.

Then, as I sat there in my floral-patterned magenta tights, he told me that he has a tights fondness. Well, actually a fetish.

A stocking fetish.

(sound of record being scratched)

Which came off as more comic than anything because we'd just finished discussing his personal life.

He's been dating a girl for eight years. "First off," he said, "I love her."

She has the misfortune to be married (to someone else) with children. They have agreed to stay together until the kids are out of school.

Meanwhile, the Mrs. and tights fan have been meeting for lunch Monday through Friday for eight years, biding time until she's free.

He misses her terribly on the weekends but thinks she's worth waiting for.

Maybe it was those lovely pink bubbles, and I know the whole situation is wrong on one level, but that devotion struck me as very romantic.

And yes, she does the whole tights thing for him.

(cue vamp)

But lunch every day for eight years? Isn't there a romantic comedy in there just waiting to be filmed?

So, yea, I had a hot dog with a tights fetishist tonight, earnestly discussing holding out for your own true love.

Top that.

Hey, "R" Months!

I spent the day on the Northern Neck and practically every gas station I passed driving out there had a sign out front advertising "Fresh Oysters."

Which must be exactly why a French place like Bistro Bobette was hosting a wine dinner tonight featuring not only Virginia oysters but Virginia wines.

Yes, Virginia wines in a place that is as Francophile as they come, but it is Virginia Wine Month after all.

How could I resist?

Roping in a fellow oyster-lover, I arrived early enough to greet the chef (lip prints left on both cheeks, as requested), the wine host (looking very dapper in a gray suit) and the bartender (as busy tonight as I've ever seen him)before my friend arrived.

While I waited, I was served with Barren Ridge's Rose, a dry Rose with beautiful color and a representation of the winery that would be featured tonight.

I don't know when the next time I'll be sipping local in Bobette will be, so I savored it.

Once my friend arrived, we chose bar seats for our meal and a server came up and asked if it was okay to release our table to the masses.

Of course, I told him. "Good," he responded, "Cause I already did!"

And masses is not exaggerating because there were so many people present tonight, including the ubiquitous Lincoln cast.

Yet again, I saw "Lincoln" actor Bruce McGill and spoke to him about him following me all over town.

Dinner was a masterful effort by the chef and the Wine Consigliere, Rob,who had paired courses beautifully.

Barren Ridge, out of Fisherville, was the featured winery and the owner, John Higgs, came over to introduce himself.

"He wouldn't have lingered so long if I'd been alone," my friend noted. I can't help it if your people are a weak one.

The first course paired Barren Ridge Viognier with raw Rappahannock oysters (from a gas station, perhaps?) and a traditional mignonette.

Next we had Stingray Oysters Rockefeller with the Tinkling Spring, a blend of Viognier and Vidal Blanc. The acidity of the wine cut the richness nicely.

The oysters Rockefeller were, by consensus, the best anyone had ever had. Instead of the over-baked and dry cheesy version, the juiciness of fresh, briny Stingray oysters dominated.

Vidal Blanc reappeared in its purest form for the third course, Old Salt oyster stew, a soup rich with cream and oysters and decadent with perfectly balanced flavors.

The Rose we'd had earlier had lost out to the Cabernet Franc as the pairing for the bacon-wrapped quail with oyster stuffing.

While I hate to see a good Rose lose out (Rose season quickly fading as it is), the Cab Franc really was the wine to handle pig and quail.

And can we just take a moment to appreciate the beauty of quail with oysters and bacon?

All the wines were notable, so getting a chance to talk to the winery owner proved especially satisfying.

The winery is in a former orchard and we got off on a discussion of older apple varieties versus Red Delicious (a type I wouldn't eat if you paid me) and how his ancestors' orchard had lost out to the big guys.

His story underscored the importance of seeking out obscure apple varieties instead of going with West Coast big boys.

My friend, a smoker, returned from one of his cig breaks toting three roses, saying that if he'd been my actual date (he wasn't; his wife was busy) he'd have brought flowers.

Nice touch.

Later during a discussion  with the bartender, owner and wine host (all married) of why I'm still unattached, I pointed out that all the good ones are taken.

Their response amounted to "aw, shucks." Not terribly helpful.

For dessert, we had lavender ice cream (the lavender coming from Goochland County) profiteroles with caramel sauce.

The change-up to lavender and caramel made for a  most pleasing profiterole change of pace. My friend paired his with Calvados while I went with Sauternes.

The chef was in and out of the kitchen all night, happy to be serving Virginia food and wine and pleased at his over-full dining room.

After four hours, we took our over-full bellies and walked outside to leave.

I was off to Balliceaux and my friend was headed home. Mine turned out to be the better choice.

My intent was to see Hey, Marseilles, a Seattle septet and by the time I'd arrived, I'd missed only one song.

They were an indie music lover's wet dream.

From across the room, my friend Austin gave me a thumbs up and I did the same.

Whoa, this was amazing music.

With trumpet, drums, violin, guitars, cello (occasionally bass), and keyboards (occasionally accordion), they came across as Fanfarlo meets Devotchka meets the Decemberists meets Ra-Ra Riot.

There was even a Francophile quality to the sound.

Chamber pop? Cabaret pop? Folk Pop? Who really cares?

I couldn't have been any more thrilled with the music if I'd booked it myself (insert nod to Chris Bopst).

"Thanks for hanging out with us on a Tuesday, in RVA. We're Hey, Marseilles," the lead singer rhymed. "And that is why I write the lyrics."

The lyrics were actually quite smart and the full sound from so many instruments made fans of almost everyone in the room.

And I guarantee you when they hit Philly a few nights from now, it'll cost way more than five bucks.

It won't likely follow a stellar dinner of Virginia wine and oysters, either.

"Fresh Oysters, Stellar Wine, Awesome Music:" That's what those gas station signs should have said coming back.

Not that I don't like pleasant surprises.

First Rule of the Blogosphere

Be careful who you blog about for you may run into him the next night.

After a catch-up date with a good friend on the patio of The Empress in the balmy (84-degree!) late afternoon air (where I professed that a certain female chef would be my choice should I decide to jump the proverbial fence), I headed downtown for a birthday celebration dinner for a friend.

We were gathering at the bar of Bistro Bobette for drinks before dinner and I was the second arrival.

First there was a female chef (she's a great friend but not one I'm hypothetically lusting after), who was drinking a Cosmo and welcomed  my company as we waited for the others.

I was poured a glass of the Barren Ridge Chardonnay, an unusual offering for Bobette because it's a Virginia wine, but one from the winery to be featured in their local oyster dinner next week.

When our quintet of four women and one guy was assembled, we moved to a table to begin the evening in earnest.

Since I am usually a bar-sitter at Bobette, I found it interesting to be in the middle of the dining room, surrounded tonight by a lot of large parties.

Which was a good thing because we were not a quiet table.

Of course the advantage of being part of a group was all the good things I got to taste: sauteed calf liver, veal tenderloin, crispy veal sweetbreads, rainbow trout and smoked trout tart, all beautifully executed.

The one newcomer to the restaurant at our table marveled at finding calf liver on the menu and then was thrilled with its tender, flavorful delivery.

The birthday girl regaled us with pictures and tales of her recent trip to Puerto Vallarta, where she and her boyfriend stayed in a pricey resort (and pricey is not a relative term here; the room was $2,000 per night).

She assured us that she'd used points, not cash, to make the trip happen.

Still, towels folded to look like swans, rose petals floating in the bathtub and private pool and ocean views out all the windows made it clear that this was a world away from any vacation I've taken.

As we were sitting there sipping wine after the meal, a lone diner walked in looking remarkably familiar.

It was the same lone diner who'd come into Bistro 27 last night and stolen everyone's attention.

Bluntly put, this town is lousy with actors from that "Lincoln" movie.

Rather than allow the ubiquitous Bruce McGill to capture the attention of everyone in this restaurant too, I headed over to accuse him of following my restaurant lead.

And don't you know that rather than admitting to being a copycat, we ended up talking restaurants. He also said that he loves to cook.

I asked how he was managing to end up at all the restaurants I frequented and he said he uses his nose to make his dining decisions.

It's a method that's hard to argue with.

So now that I've met the man, I can't go on and on about people fawning over him while I get ignored.

He agreed with several of my takes on local restaurants, so he's clearly a smart cookie and not just an attention-seeker.

But if he shows up tomorrow night, I'm going to be a tad suspicious.

After saying goodnight to him (and the bartender and the chef and the regular and his college roommate), I left to join my friends at Rowland for dessert.

Once we got through the birthday song and chocolate torte, I was pushed off on an unsuspecting restaurant guest by the birthday girl.

The poor guy had tried to engage her in food talk and she'd abdicated to someone with a wider palate (actually that's anyone who eats more than beef, grits and potatoes).

It worked out well for me because he was enjoyable to talk to and not only knew Richmond restaurants, but Washington's as well.

We got off on a tangent about the wild and inappropriate things some guys say to girls.

He shared an incident from his own past that involved his fingers around a guy's throat after the guy invaded his ex-girlfriend's personal space.

I shared a few hysterical examples from my own life as he listened in amazement.

"On behalf of men everywhere, please let me apologize," he said, taking personal responsibility for his people.

It was a sweet but unnecessary gesture.

True, I've been told some crazy stuff, but I'm not ready to jump the proverbial fence as long as there are still guys out there who like to talk, kiss well and like to eat.

Some of them even cook, I hear.