Rabbit Potpie Face

Tonight was what you call delayed gratification with a tinge of regret.

Right after Labor Day, I'd gotten a ticket to a show at the Black Cat, anticipating seeing one of my favorite Portland bands.

Wouldn't you just know that all kinds of amazing shows had since been scheduled for tonight in Richmond?

But I gathered two fellow Helio Sequence lovers and we embarked for the nation's capital anyway.

Luck was with us when we found a parking space barely two blocks from the club.

It followed us into Bar Pilar where we were told we could be seated immediately in the last table available.

The hardest part of the evening was deciding what to eat off a menu with all kinds of appetizing offerings.

Lard-fried buttermilk chicken? Grilled sweetbreads? Duck pho?

It was a pleasure to have to work so hard at choosing.

We started with the house roasted mixed nuts, enjoying our oily fingers as much as the salt/spice blend that satisfied on so many levels.

In the interest of our arteries and the night ahead, we had roasted beets with mixed greens, walnuts, citrus and goat cheese.

Mid-bite I learned that it was one of our party's first beets.

Horrors!

That's the second time in less than a year that I've been party to someone's first beets.

Our next course was stellar: braised oxtail with mashed sweet potato, a housemade half-smoke with onions and spicy mustard and rabbit potpie.

I got the lion's share of the potpie, mainly because the potpie fanatic claimed she tasted her childhood pet rabbit in it.

She did, however, manage to abscond with a healthy share of the peas, potatoes, carrots and flaky pie crust.

Being a native Washingtonian, I am a huge fan of the half smoke, with its coarse meat and large size, and this one especially because it was housemade.

It is such a pleasure to enjoy the meat-making revival going on in my lifetime.

I was drinking a delightful Negroamaro with the meal and a corner view to a floor of a Washington eatery at 8 on a Friday night.

We certainly weren't in Richmond anymore.

Desserts were only $6 so we got three, all with housemade gelato: buttermilk pie with raspberry , chocolate torte with  pumpkin and an apple turnover the size of a doll's head (really a whole apple baked en croute) with vanilla.

Good thing the rest of the night involved standing.

Ramona Falls, another from Portlandia, was opening for Helio Sequence.

"Welcome, people of D.C. We know you're here to see Helio Sequence so we're going to pork barrel on them."

Pork barrel away, guys. I thoroughly enjoyed their mix of effects-laden violin (she looked like a young Pat Benetar and had such a violin game face) , drums, bass, guitar, keyboards and mandolin.

After the first few songs, the drummer (and, a bit surprisingly, the spokesperson for the band) shrugged and said to the crowd, "You're messing with our set list. We love your punctuality but we're caught off guard. We didn't think you'd be here yet," explaining that the list would have been different knowing people came to hear them.

It was endearing.

Songs were introduced as "a pop number" or "a tender song" and always delivered as promised.

I saw a few people singing along to every word, but most seemed, like me, to be won over tonight.

"We have two more songs before the Helio Sequence rock concert begins," the magnificently-Afro'd drummer joked. "Like most good songs, it starts with a tambourine."

I was sorry to see them go.

It was my third time seeing Helio Sequence and the last time in Charlottesville had its issues.

The sound had been terrible and guitarist/singer Brandon had not been happy about it.

But he was in fine voice and mood tonight as they played through most of "Keep Your Eyes Ahead" and some of the new "Negotiations."

"This is our second to last night of this three-month tour," Brandon said by way of hello. "It's great to see you guys."

Despite the room being much bigger and the crowd several times what it's been the last couple of times I saw them, we were near enough to the front to have great views.

Drummer Benjamin is a force of nature on the drums. Because they're a duo, there's a lot of space to fill musically, and his frenetic drumming is like watching an octopus doing it.

And he makes the most amazing drummer faces while doing it.

His synth parts came courtesy of a laptop while Brandon gave us guitars, harmonica and vocals.

As the pea-eater observed, "It's a lot of sound for two people."

But beautiful, poppy sound with a Dylan-esque bend to the vocals, psychedelic guitars and percussion to die for.

The exquisite "Lately" had people singing along when really, I would have preferred to hear the band.

But everyone's lived that lyric.

Lately, I don't think of you at all
Or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on

I noticed the drummer from Ramona Falls standing to the side of the stage smiling and studying, apparently mesmerized by Benjamin in some parts.

Damn skippy.

Even on my third time seeing them, it's still an audio and visual treat to watch that small guy sweat out his body weight providing accents and endless cymbal crashing for an hour and a half to such an evocative voice.

By the time we rolled out onto 14th Street, I was fully gratified, but still had a tinge of regret.

I'd missed a great show in Richmond, I've no doubt.

A Yucky Night

It has been a week and it's been a week too long
There are several things that I've been doing wrong

One thing that I did not do wrong was drive up to DC in the rain to see Yuck at the Black Cat.

Oh, I would have liked to have had company, but despite plenty of friends who are Yuck fans, no one else was going.

There was no way I was missing them; despite being incredibly young and British, I think their take on '90s music is positively brilliant.

Naturally, I had built a food/drink stop into my itinerary before the show. Masa 14 offered an interesting concept (Mexican and Asian fusion) and location, location, location (same block).

Given the cuisine, I expected some nice tequila choices but I couldn't have anticipated a tequila menu with nearly 100 choices, priced from  $8 to $80.

Needless to say, with my budget I stayed on the lower end of that price range.

Even so, the Casa Noble had a nice pepperiness and a floral nose that made me wish I had 100 tequila choices in Richmond.

There was no way I was resisting pork belly steamed buns (with red Fresno chiles, pickled onions, hoison, pineapple and lime) and was rewarded with the lightest of buns surrounding lean belly and singing with flavor.

The Wagyu beef and pork meatballs with cotija cheese, scallions and smoked tomato yuzu sauce were so good I'd have ordered a second dish if I'd had time.

Noticing the guys next to me looking at one's phone, I asked what people did in bars before cell phones.

"Well, ten years ago they watched TV and before that, I have no idea," the one said.

Is it just me or is that tragic?

Tragedy turned to high excitement when I got to the Black Cat for the surprisingly not sold out show.

Taking a seat at the bar, I was pulled into conversation by the guys next to me, both of whom worked for Apple and were still in adjustment mode.

I had far fewer tequila choices here but the bartender was charming with waist-length hair ("Sometimes I put it in a bun") and bared his soul by telling me that he has a thing for "office women" types.

"I'm just a working stiff, so I love to watch office women walk home in their low-heeled black pumps," he confided.

The things people tell me.

Playing first was Porcelain Raft which is really one guy, Mauro Remiddi, who sings and plays guitar while playing loops and samples of other instruments resulting in a great big sound coming from one person.

Wait, I think I've seen that done in Richmond.

But I liked his voice and his melodies were beautiful, even if the crowd talked over them.

I made it to the third row when Yuck took the stage to immerse us in their mixtape of 20-year old influences (you say J. Mascis, I say Yo la Tengo).

No nearly as loud as it could have been (which was good considering how close I was), they said that tonight's show was the third to last of this tour.

"Then we're going to go home and write songs and make another album and come back and play for you," guitarist and singer Max said.

They played most of their self-titled debut, minus my favorite track "Sunday," but threw in some newer stuff like "Milkshake" and "Soothe Me."

I was satisfied that they alternated between their faster-tempo stuff and the mellower songs since they do both so well.

Except for the two very drunk girls dancing and bumping into me and the people around me, it was a superb evening of music from a band that will no doubt sell out next time they come through.

By then there will be dozens of hair-flipping drunk girls (like the brunette) dancing and just as many holding onto speakers (like the blond) so they don't fall down.

Better I didn't wait until I had a companion for these guys.

You see the time it takes for you
Is the time it takes for me
Oh, so don't agree

A Balloon Called Moaning

When I checked into the B & B, the desk clerk told me breakfast was served from 7-10:00; when I laughed, she asked why. "I don't think I'll make it," I explained.

An hour later when I left the B & B for Bar Pilar, recommended to me by my D.C. food critic friend, I was debating whether to move my car or not before beginning my evening. Not sure how strict the parking enforcement was, I turned to the guy walking behind me and asked.

He turned out to be a neighborhood resident, full of information and absolutely charming. He was surprised to hear that I was a D.C. native since he was not.

When I mentioned I was going to a show, he asked which one because he was, too (his was Harlem Dance Theater at the Lincoln). Then he asked where I was headed to eat and I told him Bar Pilar, he said he'd walk me there.

I told him I'd seen the Gauguin show this afternoon and he had a quick response. "Yes, but did you see the Canaletto show?" he challenged me, asking about the National Gallery's "Venice: Canaletto and his Rivals."

Of course I'd made a point to see the exhibit of 18th-century Venetian view painters; the enormous canvasses with the minutest of details were breathtaking in their scope and revelatory in the depiction of daily live, both of upper and lower classes (and dogs were in so many scenes it surprised me).

I mentioned the Picasso show at home but it was the mention of the Ife art of ancient Nigeria that made his eyes light up. Confirming to him that it is a must-see show, I tried to convey the sculptural beauty with which he'd be rewarded for the soul-sucking drive down I-95.

"I just need to find someone to go down with me and do it," he said. I assured him that if he couldn't find someone, he could come down anyway and that I'd happily see the show again. There's nothing like a fellow art geek with which to enjoy something like that.

Then we reached Bar Pilar and he extended his hand, so I introduced myself. Then it was his turn, "I'm Tom and it's been delightful walking and talking with you."

My evening was off to a great start and I wasn't ten minutes in. Inside, BP was filling up, just as I'd been warned it would early. Taking the only free stool, the bartender put a menu in front of me; it was the Bar Pilar "Offal" happy hour menu, which I already knew I had every intention of sampling.

Holding it up, I said, "I drove two hours for this!" and the guy sitting next to me responded, "On the house then!" to the bartender. To get the ball rolling, I ordered the Aria Cava and grilled beef heart with salsa verde off the offal menu, each a steal at $4.

My seatmate Mark was curious about where I'd come from and why, but he was delighted to learn I'd grown up in the same county he had ("P.G. County represent!" he exclaimed), even going to the same high school as my first (that would be first everything), DeMatha. We'd found our first common bond.

The Hemingway-themed restaurant had an old Underwood typewriter at the end of the bar and photographs of Papa with fish on a dock. Everywhere around me, people were ordering Dark and Stormies, which arrived in a glass half full of dark rum with an accompanying small bottle of Fentiman's ginger beer.

Meanwhile, I felt like I was being rewarded for my drive; when my glass of Cava reached half-mast, the bartender said, "Let me top that off for you," and filled it to the brim. What a lovely thing.

My three pieces of beef heart were delivered and I couldn't help myself, so I dug right in while Mark and I continued to chat each other up. It was wonderful, crispy-grilled but rare on the inside and the salsa verde gave it a nice spice. Mark was on his way to a dinner date, but with a twist: he planned to tell his date that he just wanted to be friends.

He lives in the Atlas neighborhood, which I haven't visited but am eager to, so he gave me the skinny on where I need to go. We laughed about our childhood memories of H Street, so different from now.

I ordered another wine off the offal menu, this time a Ruffino Orvieto, but paired it with a regular menu item, the salad of warm frisse, bacon, sunny egg and bleu cheese. I figured it best to put some sort of plant in my belly before returning to offal. And do I even need to wax poetic about warm greens with bacon, egg and cheese on top? I think not.

Mark asked about my plans for the night, which led us to music and we never looked back. He was envious that I'd seen the Mountain Goats last night ("Do you go to a show every night?" he wondered) because they are a huge favorite of his. Turned out we had loads of music favorites in common.

My next course was veal sweetbreads with polenta and caper sauce paired with Casa de Campo Malbec. I'd now had five of the six offal menu items, but at $4 a pop, who was counting?

All of a sudden, it was time for Mark to leave for his date, but not before telling me how much he'd enjoyed our conversation. "At the very least, we need to be friends on Facebook," he said. By the time I got back here from the Black Cat, the friend request was waiting for me.

I finished out my BP time with an enormous red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing and a chat with an Indian attorney who extolled the virtues of life in Mississippi, of all places. We hit it off when we discovered he eats out every night of the week and more restaurant recommendations rolled my way.

It was great, I barely had to walk half a block to get to the Black Cat and I arrived in time to snag a stool at the bar for the first two bands.

My bartender was older, smart-assed, tattooed and accommodating ("Would you like another Hornitos?" and when I said he'd have to twist my arm, he actually took hold of it...and grinned before bringing it to me).

Washington state-based Lonely Forest had a poppy indie sound and the singer's voice had lots of character. I really enjoyed them.

The next band was from Nashville, but less to my taste. It worked out well, though, because a guy sat down next to me and we began chatting. He asked what I thought of the band, I shared and he clutched his heart. "Ooh, that was harsh. I can't listen to them the same after that.."

A graduate student in philosophy at American University, Philip was ashamed to admit that it was his first Black Cat show after almost five years living in D.C.

I didn't judge (okay, maybe a tad) but I also didn't hesitate to tease him unmercifully about his musical laziness, which he readily acknowledged. "You just met me and you've already figured me out," he laughed. Years of practice, my friend. He'd only discovered the Joy Formidable this morning while searching for something to do tonight.

We left our stools and made our way to the stage, maybe three people back, for an excellent vantage point to hear the Joy Formidable play. I'd seen them up close all evening because they were sitting two bar stools away, just around the corner of the bar from me.

This was epic, primal, shoegaze-sounding rock full of reverb from a Welsh trio who looked like they were thrilled with how into them the crowd was. Lead singer Ritzy was adorable, her eyes wide when she sang and her pale blond bob swinging in time as she shredded.

Fact: I wouldn't have been anywhere else but front and center for that aural assault on my eardrums tonight. I've been waiting almost a year to hear the songs on their EP "Balloon" live and I finally got that pleasure.

Color me blissed out. Walking back to the B & B afterwards, my ears were ringing, which I expect will continue well into tomorrow.

Which is just fine, because tomorrow involves only brunch and more art, so all I'll need are my mouth and eyes, both of which got a workout tonight, but are still fully functional.

I should only be so lucky as to have such great random conversation from strangers again. Fingers crossed...

And, if not, there's always art and food.

How To Be Happy by Paul Gauguin

Amongst the pleasurable lessons I learned at the crowded National Gallery's "Gauguin: Maker of Myths" exhibition was this: Be in love and you will be happy.

It was the name of a woodcut print. It was the name of a carved and painted linden wood piece. It was one of two things inscribed on the wooden panels Gauguin made for the entrance to his house (which he called the house of sensual pleasure) in Tahiti.

To enter his studio, you had to walk under the inscription and through his bedroom. There was really no missing his point.

The exhibition explored how Gauguin used myths throughout his career, blending fact and fiction to blur the lines between reality and his fertile imagination.

And given his artistic gift (when he was 28, his landlord taught him marble-carving and a bust of his wife showed his immediate mastery of the medium), he could blur that line using any number of methods.

This was beautifully illustrated in one of my favorites in the show, "Clovis Asleep," an especially Impressionistic piece for Gauguin, with a lovely blue wall covered in planets and stars over the slumbering child's head, surely signifying his dreams.

Another piece I couldn't resist was a pair of wooden Dutch shoes from which Gauguin had removed the bright paint, adding two decorative motifs (Breton women and a goose); he took to wearing them frequently to show his identification with the Breton peasantry, as well as his rejection of Parisian excesses.

I found it fascinating how Gauguin used questions for titles of paintings. It is supposed that many of the questions came from overheard conversations in Tahiti, but it gave an intimacy to the figures in the works, as you literally saw them and figuratively heard them.

"Ondine in the Waves" was the simplest of compositions and yet spectacular: a nude woman's back with an S-curve of red hair stood against an entire background of green waves. A study in color and form, it was mesmerizing.

Making my way through the exhibition and around the masses of humankind, it was hard not to get caught up in the beauty of the tropics. Even through the primitive paradise Gauguin sought turned out to be a thing of the past, I'm thinking he may have been right about the secret to happiness.

I was all kinds of happy looking at the fruits of his labors of love this afternoon, even without being in love. Yet. Give me time.