She Who Wanders Winds Up Somewhere

Is Christianity inherently arrogant? A discussion.

Yes, that was a real event tonight, although I just couldn't fit it in (despite my strong opinions on the subject), only partly because it was happening in Charlottesville.

When I looked at my calendar this morning, I had three things scheduled: two interviews and Secretly Y'All, Tell Me A Story at the new Fulton location of Triple Crossing Brewery. But then about 2ish, I was foolish enough to check Facebook and spotted the Iki Kai event at Metzger.

A Hawaiian-themed evening of tropical cocktails along with chef Brittney's take on poke? Yea, I can fit that in.

But here's the rub: the invitation had clearly stated: Starting at 5 until we run out! No reservations. Hmm, my second interview ensured I couldn't possibly get there before 630ish, but how bad could it be barely an hour and a half in?

Let's see, the building was already at capacity (consequently hovering near the bar, drink in hand, was not permitted) and a gaggle of 10 with their names on the waiting list was already assembled on the corner outside, the designated waiting room.

Still, I had time before the storytelling began, so why not wait on 23rd Street and enjoy the scent of flowering trees and warmth of waning sunshine?

And while we were already in goof-off mode, across the street four Hispanic-looking men were still very busy, despite the hour, working on two new houses going up. Watching their bustling effort, I was surprised when one on the roof whistled sharply and another stuck his head out a second story window and expertly tossed a coil of cord up and onto the roof.

Ten minutes later, two of the men got in a van and pulled out while the remaining duo kept busy, a generator humming in the background.  As the van passed the group of white people waiting on the corner for tiki drinks, I had a most incongruous thought: how many tiki-seekers had done manual labor today like these guys?

Exactly. A lot to chew on there.

By the time I finally got clearance to enter the building and claim a vacant bar stool, the white-hot intensity had cooled just a tad to red hot. I'd even go so far as to say that Metzger was finally under the fire marshall's designated capacity, although not by a lot.

A familiar bearded bartender (Redundant? Discuss...) looked relieved at the slightly slower pace and marveled that at the last tiki pop-up, they hadn't premixed any of the rums or mixers as they'd done this time, so in theory they should have been having a far easier time tonight. And yet...

Let's chalk it up to the sheer thirsty numbers of tiki-starved imbibers and not assign blame, shall we?

The menu was simple enough: a handful of classic and creative tiki drinks, three kinds of ahi tuna and three of tako, and Halo Halo beer. After ordering a Mai Tai (rum agricole, Jamaican rum, creole shrub and orgeat lime) and classic tako (they were already out of spicy ahi), I scanned the room.

No kidding, there were no fewer than four infants in baby seats taking up valuable real estate. If that doesn't seem odd to you, then please explain to me why infants belong at a tiki bar in the first place.

Because of the excessive volume that prevented me from even hearing if it was the usual Mr. Fine Wine playing his rare soul 45s or an appropriately Hawaiian soundtrack? Babies don't need noise, so I doubt it.

Because parents feel like if they want to go to a tiki bar, they shouldn't have to get childcare? Bingo, far more likely.

A much more pleasurable place to cast my eye was on the handmade Iki-Kai sign that one of the server's boyfriends had crafted in white with red lit letters and placed at the head of the bar, although it was mostly obscured by hordes of people angling for drinks.

My octopus and seaweed poke was spot on, the crispy fried wontons that accompanied it a satisfying salty crunch between bites of the bounty of the sea, while the Mai Tai delivered crispness and spiciness without ever straying into cliche territory.

When I finally found my way outside, I immediately ran into friends on their way in. Knowing I could surprise them, I told them to guess where I was headed. "The theater," one wagered. Ha! When I said I was on my way to a brewery, they - both avid beer drinkers - were incredulous. They know me better.

"Wait, wait, there's something going on there," one said, racking his brain to recall. Secretly Y'All, I reminded him aloud. "That's it!" he said with satisfaction, as if he'd come up with it.

From there, I had only to follow my handwritten directions to get me from Union Hill to Triple Crossing in Fulton. Sounds so easy, right? And it probably would be for anyone not navigationally-challenged (or using a computer to get them there), neither of which describes me.

So I tried to find the road I was supposed to make a right on and couldn't. I circled back to see if I'd missed it. Still, no trace. Two more loops still didn't produce the brewery or even any telltale signage. I wasn't lost because I knew where I was, I simply couldn't locate Triple Crossing.

It seemed foolish to keep looking. Somewhere nearby, people were telling revealing stories and somewhere in C-ville, they were (hopefully) railing against the arrogance of Christianity (Q: What do you get when you have 4 Episcopalians? A: A fifth), so I needed a Plan B.

I got it parked down at the Sugar Pad, with a view of the silvery-looking river, the setting sun and far more cyclists, runners and even couples strolling hand in hand than I'd have suspected considering the hour. Chances are, each one had a story and an opinion about Christianity.

The Mai Tai and the gorgeous evening guaranteed that I cared to hear neither.

Like What I Love

The message was clear.

Meet me tonight for dinner...TONIGHT...I say.

You'd think it had been a while since we'd been out together.

Oh, wait. It had.

Between a perpetually busy job, a move and massive house redecoration, he'd had no time to catch up with a friend since I don't know when.

All of a sudden, we were on for tonight.

Once we got together, his conversation focused on how a favorite restaurant had disappointed him the last three or four times he'd gone.

In fact, his beloved had stated for the record that they'd made their last visit there.

So naturally, the first place he suggests is that restaurant.

Fortunately, it's closed so we soldier on to Julep because, as he says, "I haven't been there in 100 years."

And I hadn't been there since Bobby's last night as mixologist there, back in 2011.

We chose the bar to eat, in the process meeting a visiting Chicagoan getting his southern chowhound on.

Despite it being a Monday night, Julep had a steady stream of people the whole time we were there, making for a lively vibe.

Friend chose a Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse because he only likes white wine and doesn't care for new world varietals.

It was a lovely choice, medium bodied and elegant, and set the tone for the first course.

I began with a crabcake appetizer, not on the menu, but I figured if you can make a crabcake entree, making an appetizer couldn't be that hard, while my companion got the crispy fried oysters.

Both dishes showed a deftness with seafood that no doubt serves them well with visitors from places liked Chicago.

We shared a salad of local baby red romaine lettuce with Parmesan curls, grilled garlic butter croutons, white anchovy and a Creole-Cesar dressing.

Truth be told, the curls were flat, but the flavor was good.

Our conversation was all over the place because it had been so long since we'd been out together.

The service at Julep is always so professional, if a tad old school with only male servers, but we had to laugh when the hostess came behind the bar.

As she was refilling our water glasses, my friend spoke to her and when she didn't hear, she came back with, "HUH?"

It was the kind of loud, honking "huh?" that has grated on the nerves of parents, teachers and anyone who'd ever heard it come out of the mouth of a clueless youth.

So we'll say the staid atmosphere was tempered by the honking of the hostess.

My friend is a beef lover so the grilled dry-aged New York strip called to him and with good reason.

The perfectly cooked piece of meat (one of his complaints at the place that had been disappointing him so much lately) came with horseradish mashed potatoes, grilled rapini, ham hock demi glace and whole grain mustard butter.

He was so impressed that he couldn't wait to bring his long-suffering mate in for that steak.

I went with the cassoulet of Sausagecraft lamb sausage, duck confit, pork belly, white beans and vegetables with an herb bread crumb topping.

It arrived in a ceramic bowl holding enough heat to warm the room, so I had to be patient before going in.

But it was worth it for the succulent bits of lamb, duck and pig, although I thought the crumb layer a bit dry.

In my book, a good bread crumb topping has as much butter as bread, but not everyone feels that way.

Meanwhile, my friend was telling me that he and his main squeeze are trying to plan a vacation where neither of them checks messages for a week.

Wow, I remember when people planned vacations where their goal was just to relax and have a good time.

Clearly, we are now setting the bar much lower.

On the other hand, I was just happy to hear that the two workaholics were attempting to get away.

It was during our discussion of all the club-hopping we'd both done in Washington in our twenties that our server inquired about dessert.

Nothing on the menu grabbed me, but my companion insisted that we needed the Bananas Foster served tableside for two.

Amazed that I'd never had Bananas Foster, he told me it had been all the rage back in the '70s.

I was game, so next thing we knew, our server brought over his mobile kitchen and was sauteing bananas in butter and brown sugar, adding spiced rum and pouring the flaming mixture over pound cake and vanilla ice cream.

All I could think of was how key it would have been to keep all that flaming away from the polyester clothing of the '70s.

Or were there tragic Bananas Foster incidents back in the day?

And while my favorite desserts are always of the chocolate variety, the bananas Foster was a fine, sweet finish to our meal.

We stayed a while, sipping more wine and talking about recent parties and new restaurants before I deposited him back and went on with my night.

Making a bee-line to the Camel for an evening of new bands, I arrived as Sea of Storms was starting their set.

I knew nothing at all about the band beforehand, but I was stopped in my tracks when I saw them.

The lead singer/guitarist was Brandon Peck.

I bought one of Brandon's prints back in 2008 before I ever knew him. It's the largest piece I own and still hangs front and center in my living room.

A couple of years later, I met him when he bartended at Ipanema and then served at The Roosevelt.

I've had many conversations with Brandon, but I'd never seen him in his music guise.

I was riveted.

You think you know someone and all of a sudden, he's part of a post-punk/hardcore trio, spitting out lyrics three feet in front of my face and it's so awesome I can't move.

Thanks, Sea of Storms, for the welcome into the night's activities.

During the break, I found lots of people I knew and the general buzz was how excited everyone was that the Camel is hosting more free shows lately.

For some of us, it was two in a row after Sunday night's Scolaro show.

I think we can all agree that more free shows allow the attendees to spend more on the bands' merch as well as adult beverages.

Headlining tonight was Hens, the new project by Josh Hryciak (formerly of Mermaid Skeletons) and David Shultz (...and the Skyline).

With no idea what to expect from them, I was thrilled when the foursome came out with guitars blazing like Band of Horses.

Josh is a stellar songwriter and we were treated to song after song from a band playing out for the first time.

"This is an awesome turnout for a first show," Josh beamed.

"We 're lucky hens," David observed drolly.

But I'd already run into any number of friends who'd said they were there to see what Josh's new project was.

The fans of Mermaid Skeletons are legion in this town

But even better, the band was more than just Josh (I'm a big fan of David's, too) and with three people trading off lead vocals, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that others, like David, are doing songwriting, too.

Josh announced a couple of personal songs, including, "Like What I Love," a concept as necessary to me as it must have been to him to write the song.

Stylistically, the set varied with one song as smooth and mellow as an old R&B groove, while a particular favorite was keyboard-based with few vocals, an almost post-rock dreamscape, and others were full on guitar and drum rocking.

But apparently, that's just how Hens roll.

As my photographer friend observed later, "Dang that was a good show."

I'd go even further.

Dang, that was a good meal. Dang, that was two good bands I needed to hear.

And only TONIGHT...I say.

It's so easy to like what I love.

Eating and Listening Ipanema-Style

Tonight was the twelfth installment of the year long series of the Live at Ipanema shows. That' s a full year of monthly shows featuring some of the top talent in the area playing free shows and being recorded every month. If you haven't caught one of these shows, you'd better have a good excuse, that's all I can say.

It's too tempting not to start the evening with a meal at Ipanema, so I did. My friend and I found prime viewing spots at the bar and ordered our meal. We began with beet salad, superior to many because of the thinness of the beet slices, the abundance of the goat cheese and the perfection of the vinaigrette.

I wanted the herbed polenta with an oyster mushroom ragout and roasted root veggies and she got the salmon. I loved the contrast of the bready polenta with the succulent mushrooms and surrounded by root veggies, a personal favorite.

Dessert was the brownie a la mode for me and the gluten-free strawberry cake for her. Mine took longer to finish, but I tasted hers and it was just as good. That pink icing more than made up for any absence of flour.

Tonight's band was Seas, who said they hailed from D.C. and rva; as one who has lived in both places, I was willing to give them a shot based solely on that. Before the show, the bass player Peter and I discussed the changes in D.C. in the past twenty years and agreed that it was no longer the same place it once was; in fact, in many ways, Richmond is far superior. It's always satisfying to find a kindred soul to discuss Adams Morgan and Chinatown in the old days.

The music, I had been warned, was heavily 70s-influenced in a John Fahey-kind of way. We weren't long into the set when that became apparent. In fact, I'd pinpoint it even further by saying that the band listened to a lot of Neil Young and Crazy Horse to arrive at this sound. But they were also twenty-somethings, which meant that when they paid tribute to Mark Linkous, what we heard was Sparklehorse filtered through Dinosaur, Jr.; it was an interesting rock lineage.

I ran into a music-obsessed friend and her partner, which gave us a chance to catch up on our recent music geekdom; turns out we'll meet again soon at the Canal Club. There were literary lions there as well; Richmond Noir is continuing to sell like gangbusters and those who still do not have a copy would be well advised to head on over to Chop Suey to correct that.

And best of all, I finally met Brandon Peck, the artist behind the silk-screen print that hangs framed in my living room (he's also in Mouthbreather I learned). But he's not just notable for his artistic talent; turns out he was at the same Fanfarlo show at the Iota as I was. Finally, another Fanfarlo fan with whom I could gush about their amazingness.

A secondary highlight of the evening was that finally signs were put up informing the audience that the show was being recorded and to shut the hell up. It was a pleasure to enjoy the music without the usual loud, drunken chatter for a change. Heading into the second year of this outstanding series, we can expect an ever-more-respectful audience, which benefits both the musicians and us.

So if you haven't gotten yourself off the couch to enjoy some excellent vegetarian food followed by free music, next month's event is the one-year anniversary and there's no telling what kinds of surprises are in order. At the very least cake and superior sounds, but the potential is actually much greater. Of course, you'll never know if you're not there.

And, yes, I'll be there and report back, but that's just not the same. Experiencing it yourself is really so much better. Besides, then you can challenge my take on it. What do I know, after all?

Of Readers, Drum Circles and Guerilla Art Shows

Not that I ever need an excuse to buy local art, but given the beautiful September weather, how could I resist a trip to Byrd Park for the Guerrilla Art show Terry Rea was hosting this afternoon?

When my dog and I arrived, Barker Field was crawling with canines so there was no shortage of company for him to play with.

And at the ripe old age of 14 and being a beagle, he really just wants to sniff and mark territory anyway.

As we strolled past the Dogwood Dell stage, I noticed a guy sitting on the edge of the stage reading a book.

Why hadn't I ever seen the potential of this excellent reading spot before?

Duly noted; I'll be back with my book.

By now we were hearing the sounds of the drum circle nearby.

Multiple drummers and a flutist were providing the accompaniment for hula dancers and anyone else moved by the music.

They had a prime space under a huge old shade tree not far from the stage.

It's clearly a very popular gathering; drummers were still joining the group over an hour later when the beagle and i finally left.

When we arrived at the Ha'Penny stage, it was alive with art: paintings, prints, posters, and ceramics.

Next to it, a man was carving the most beautiful walking sticks and he tried to talk me into one, but I'm still getting around fine on these two legs.

I took my time perusing Terry Rea's offerings because I've been wanting to add one of his pieces to my collection for a while.

I've known Terry for a decade at least; our relationship goes back to when I was an editor and he was writing for us.

Then there's also a fair number of conversational nights at the Bean in our shared history.

Terry is a walking encyclopedia of RVA and has had his hand in many pots over the years, so I always enjoyed being an audience for his stories.

After much vacillating, I finally chose an original piece called "Zism," which I plan to have framed and hang in the same room with my Brandon Peck and Adam Juresko.

It's about time I added some old-school local artistry to my walls.

It makes me happy that it's Terry who will provide the representation.