It was a day with some age on it.
When I got back from my walk, it was to an invitation to breakfast at Joe's Inn.
As in Joe's Inn, begun in 1952 Joe's Inn.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been in Joe's and while I know the citywide consensus is that it's the place for breakfast, it had probably been more like eight years since I'd started my day at Joe's.
The sidewalk was crowded with large groups of hungry people, meaning that our small group slid right in and got a booth at the back.
It's always easier to get in to Joe's if you don't bring nine of your closest friends or family members.
As in the past, the wait to get into Joe's is always longer than the wait to get food and in a twinkling, I had a pile of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
Over conversation about the similarities of Portland and Richmond, the new classical/jazz series starting next week at Commercial Taphouse and the benefits of Relay Food, I worked that stack down.
When we left, people were still gathered in clumps on the sidewalk awaiting their shot at plentiful, cheap food.
Our city is nothing if not predictable.
Full of pancake and pig, my next stop was the Byrd Theater for a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
They were showing "Bullitt," a 1968 movie I've never seen, so naturally I was meeting up with someone who'd seen it many, many times, albeit never on the big screen.
Out in front of the Byrd, I was surprised to find several vintage Mustangs, the car star of the film, parked on Cary Street.
Apparently the Central Virginia Mustang Club was doing some showing off and helping lure film goers inside.
As I checked out the pristine cars, I heard the three guys sitting in chairs guarding them talking.
The big one with the Southern accent was telling the others, "Yea, I took her out 360 past Pole Green Road and you know where the road dips way down there? Well, I come over that hill at a right good clip and every one of them pine trees musta dropped its pollen that day, 'cause it was like being in a sandstorm. Now, I been in some fierce sandstorms in Saudi Arabia, but this pollen had them beat!"
The discussion devolved into the importance of keeping one's Mustang as clean as possible, no matter how often washing was required.
Luckily my companion arrived before I got sucked into that conversation.
When we went to get popcorn (yes, popcorn after breakfast), I found a favorite musician behind the counter.
She was amazed that I'd never seen "Bullitt," although she, too, had only seen it at home.
I told her I hoped she was coming inside to watch it then.
"Oh, yea, I'm gonna stick my head in," she grinned. "Steve McQueen is a dreamboat."
While a cop drama is not my usual cup of tea, I reveled in the period details of 1968.
Taxi drivers gave hand signals to make turns.
Nurses and stewardesses wore caps.
Every woman, old or young, fat or skinny, wore her skirts above the knees.
Men's sideburns were epic and everywhere.
People locked their car doors with a key and wore lap seat belts if they wore them at all (most didn't).
When people checked in at an airline, the attendant looked at a list to see the passengers' names. A list!
Despite never having seen the movie, even I knew of its seminal car chase scene through the hills of San Francisco.
It wasn't just the beauty of San Fran architecture whizzing by (although it was lovingly shot) or the ridiculously fast speeds they were doing that made it so compelling.
No, it was the way it had been filmed, with the camera angle replicating every up and down motion of the car until I felt my stomach go queasy like it does on a roller coaster.
It wasn't hard to see why the picture had won an Oscar for best editing.
The movie also had a jazz-influenced score that conveyed the tension of the four-day period encompassed in the story, giving it a very hep 1968 feel.
But the two most interesting things I noticed were the absence of bad language ("bullshit" was as risque as it got) and how it wasn't until the final scene that Bullitt fired his gun.
Not that there hadn't been tons of shooting by bad guys throughout, but not our man Bullitt.
And despite his stolid countenance, he even had a romantic moment with his girlfriend. Once.
What will happen to us time, she asks him after viewing a murder victim.
Time starts now, Bullitt says, although what that means, I have no idea.
I guess that's what makes him a dreamboat.
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Good Morning, Irene
I am many kinds of nerd, but certainly one of my longest running is as a weather nerd.
For thirteen years, I kept a color chart of cloud formations taped inside my kitchen cabinet in case I needed a quick reference.
Cumulonimbus? Cirrus? Stratocumulus? I wanted to know my clouds.
So when I heard about a public screening and lecture called "Weather Mass Movement," I was determined to attend despite the 11 a.m. Saturday start time.
I have to admit that the allure of a pancake breakfast to accompany the weather didn't hurt, either.
So I was up by 10:25, and walking over to Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery by 10:40.
The smell of pancakes cooking lured me up the three flights of stairs where I found other sleepy looking people mainlining Lamplighter coffee.
As a non-coffee drinker, I need to be brought to life in other ways.
I was second in line for pancakes, slathering them with enough butter and real maple syrup to make my 10:25 wake-up call seem like a very good idea.
Sponge's mistress Hope wished us all a happy earth day, saying that it seemed like a good day to reflect on the weather (and accompanying drama) and introducing the SP Weather Station team of Nathalie and Heidi.
They talked about the evolution of their fascination with weather, installing weather stations on rooftops and collecting data.
Because you know, with weather it's all about observation and prediction and a lot of the observation in the weather world comes from non-experts.
Yes, I'm a non-expert.
The two made me grin when they talked about "cooperative observers" (which they are not) who help collect weather data for the experts.
Their purpose in coming to VCU had been to assist students in creating a time lapse video of the movements of Hurricane Irene last August.
Using wool tufts to simulate clouds on a map, the film showed the storm gathering force and eventually traveling up the east coast.
The arduous process required endless effort to shift the formations, photograph it and then do it all over again.
For six hours.
But the resulting stop motion film was beautiful and told the story of the storm that rained down hard on Richmond that day.
I remember well; part of my bedroom ceiling came crashing down that night because of Irene's wetness.
When the presentation ended, Hope was the first to stand up.
"I have a question," she said. "Are there going to be more pancakes?"
Riley, the student with pancake duties, immediately got up to turn on the burners under the pans.
With my head full of weather images and my belly full of buttery pancakes, I left Sponge to do my daily walk.
Almost immediately I heard, "Karen!" and looked up to see my favorite activist on the steps of a building across the street. "Haters gonna hate!" she called smiling, referring to the online trolls judging my latest review.
So true.
By the time I got over to Grace Street, one of my walking regulars spotted me and came charging out of the Village.
"A dress?" he shouted incredulously from across the street.
Yes, a dress. When one goes to a weather event with pancakes, one likes to wear a dress.
It makes it easier to feel the weather as you walk under the stratus clouds.
Just ask any cloud chart-posting weather nerd.
For thirteen years, I kept a color chart of cloud formations taped inside my kitchen cabinet in case I needed a quick reference.
Cumulonimbus? Cirrus? Stratocumulus? I wanted to know my clouds.
So when I heard about a public screening and lecture called "Weather Mass Movement," I was determined to attend despite the 11 a.m. Saturday start time.
I have to admit that the allure of a pancake breakfast to accompany the weather didn't hurt, either.
So I was up by 10:25, and walking over to Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery by 10:40.
The smell of pancakes cooking lured me up the three flights of stairs where I found other sleepy looking people mainlining Lamplighter coffee.
As a non-coffee drinker, I need to be brought to life in other ways.
I was second in line for pancakes, slathering them with enough butter and real maple syrup to make my 10:25 wake-up call seem like a very good idea.
Sponge's mistress Hope wished us all a happy earth day, saying that it seemed like a good day to reflect on the weather (and accompanying drama) and introducing the SP Weather Station team of Nathalie and Heidi.
They talked about the evolution of their fascination with weather, installing weather stations on rooftops and collecting data.
Because you know, with weather it's all about observation and prediction and a lot of the observation in the weather world comes from non-experts.
Yes, I'm a non-expert.
The two made me grin when they talked about "cooperative observers" (which they are not) who help collect weather data for the experts.
Their purpose in coming to VCU had been to assist students in creating a time lapse video of the movements of Hurricane Irene last August.
Using wool tufts to simulate clouds on a map, the film showed the storm gathering force and eventually traveling up the east coast.
The arduous process required endless effort to shift the formations, photograph it and then do it all over again.
For six hours.
But the resulting stop motion film was beautiful and told the story of the storm that rained down hard on Richmond that day.
I remember well; part of my bedroom ceiling came crashing down that night because of Irene's wetness.
When the presentation ended, Hope was the first to stand up.
"I have a question," she said. "Are there going to be more pancakes?"
Riley, the student with pancake duties, immediately got up to turn on the burners under the pans.
With my head full of weather images and my belly full of buttery pancakes, I left Sponge to do my daily walk.
Almost immediately I heard, "Karen!" and looked up to see my favorite activist on the steps of a building across the street. "Haters gonna hate!" she called smiling, referring to the online trolls judging my latest review.
So true.
By the time I got over to Grace Street, one of my walking regulars spotted me and came charging out of the Village.
"A dress?" he shouted incredulously from across the street.
Yes, a dress. When one goes to a weather event with pancakes, one likes to wear a dress.
It makes it easier to feel the weather as you walk under the stratus clouds.
Just ask any cloud chart-posting weather nerd.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Breaking the Mold at Breakfast
You have to wonder if you're getting a little predictable when you walk into a restaurant (say, 821 Cafe) at 9:30 and the server looks at you and says, "You're not getting nachos for breakfast, are you?"
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Morning at McLean's
I'll be thru town around 8 a.m. Thursday.
Let's have breakfast...
Although the message doesn't say so, it came from my Williamsburg friend and when he says "thru," he means he's heading north. Like any of our meals before he leaves the Old Dominion, he always insists on eating Southern, here.
Knowing that, the logical place to go for breakfast was the new and improved McLean's. But first I had to disabuse him of the notion that I'd be up by 8. Once we renegotiated to a more reasonable 9, the plan was in place.
I was never a regular at the old McLean's, but it was pretty obvious walking in that the booths and tables must have come from the old location. It felt a lot like the new 821 where the walls and bar look fresh and new and everything inside still has its character.
No, I didn't get brains with my eggs; I got salt herring with them, sausage patties (not a link girl) and of course, biscuits (one with butter spread (!) and one with strawberry jam).
I'm used to eating within ten minutes of rolling out of bed, and it had been about half an hour at that point, so I inhaled my breakfast and then watched my traveling friend savor his (two eggs over easy, sausage patties, grits and coffee; they were out of the cornbread he wanted).
Meanwhile we talked about the Rosewell mansion which is down in his neck of the woods. He even advised me on the most enjoyable way to get there (he's the guy who taught me the pleasures of Route 5) for my road trip.
And now, sufficiently satisfied, he will drive to New Jersey with a belly filled with a proper Southern meal and I (with my salt herring-filled belly) can start my day much more enthusiastically for not having had to get up at at the god-forsaken hour of 7:45.
Let's have breakfast...
Although the message doesn't say so, it came from my Williamsburg friend and when he says "thru," he means he's heading north. Like any of our meals before he leaves the Old Dominion, he always insists on eating Southern, here.
Knowing that, the logical place to go for breakfast was the new and improved McLean's. But first I had to disabuse him of the notion that I'd be up by 8. Once we renegotiated to a more reasonable 9, the plan was in place.
I was never a regular at the old McLean's, but it was pretty obvious walking in that the booths and tables must have come from the old location. It felt a lot like the new 821 where the walls and bar look fresh and new and everything inside still has its character.
No, I didn't get brains with my eggs; I got salt herring with them, sausage patties (not a link girl) and of course, biscuits (one with butter spread (!) and one with strawberry jam).
I'm used to eating within ten minutes of rolling out of bed, and it had been about half an hour at that point, so I inhaled my breakfast and then watched my traveling friend savor his (two eggs over easy, sausage patties, grits and coffee; they were out of the cornbread he wanted).
Meanwhile we talked about the Rosewell mansion which is down in his neck of the woods. He even advised me on the most enjoyable way to get there (he's the guy who taught me the pleasures of Route 5) for my road trip.
And now, sufficiently satisfied, he will drive to New Jersey with a belly filled with a proper Southern meal and I (with my salt herring-filled belly) can start my day much more enthusiastically for not having had to get up at at the god-forsaken hour of 7:45.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Not Ruing the Roe
So it's National Women's Health and Fitness Day and what did this woman do to observe said obscure holiday?
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
View Trumps Porn...for Today Anyway
With the early morning departure of four of the guys, we were down to just a half dozen of us by the time I woke up.
I had already made clear my intention of having breakfast on the Nags Head pier today because I hadn't done it since I was a child and honestly, I don't even remember doing it then.
One of the guys wanted to go with me and the other four were going to get take-out from Biscuits and Porn (takeout breakfast biscuits, not take-out porn...they said), so we split up.
It was lightly raining when we arrived at the pier and there were a lot of fishermen taking their gear out in hopes of a good catch on a rainy day.
Either that or they had nothing better to do in the rain, but who am I to judge?
We requested seats on the enclosed deck rather than in the restaurant proper and were rewarded with surf crashing all around us and a great view of the anglers.
Some of the guys at the house had alerted me to the mega-sized blueberry pancakes (both as a warning and a recommendation), since they'd already eaten there a couple of times this week and considered themselves pier pros.
I finally decided on eggs with sausage, mainly because they served patties rather than links, which is my preference.
The hash browns were way better than average, not greasy or tasting as if they'd been long under a heat lamp (as I had also been advised by a hash brown aficionado) and my biscuit came porn-less, as expected (there are always trade-offs in life).
My companion had ordered breakfasts #16 and #17 (while he is a big guy, the waitress had tried to talk him out of it), so there were plenty of pancakes to share after all.
I loved all the old photographs on the walls of the deck.
There was one of the restaurant with a casino sign on it and there were several of the parking lot with vintage cars in it.
And of course, pictures of men with their catches, although not always smiling. There was even an old wooden parking sign, looking quaint and weathered.
Paying our bill, I noticed the Peach Jacks on the counter, personal-sized fried peach pies that looked mighty good.
Seeing me admiring them, the cashier, clearly a pier veteran, asked if I'd ever had one.
I stunned her by saying it was my first time eating at the pier.
"Well, it better not be your last!" she admonished.
Not likely, although I have to admit to some curiosity about Biscuits and Porn's breakfast offerings, too.
But it would probably be wiser if I didn't go with one of the frat boys there.
That'll just have to be a solo breakfast excursion.
Biscuits and porn for one, please...at least once.
I had already made clear my intention of having breakfast on the Nags Head pier today because I hadn't done it since I was a child and honestly, I don't even remember doing it then.
One of the guys wanted to go with me and the other four were going to get take-out from Biscuits and Porn (takeout breakfast biscuits, not take-out porn...they said), so we split up.
It was lightly raining when we arrived at the pier and there were a lot of fishermen taking their gear out in hopes of a good catch on a rainy day.
Either that or they had nothing better to do in the rain, but who am I to judge?
We requested seats on the enclosed deck rather than in the restaurant proper and were rewarded with surf crashing all around us and a great view of the anglers.
Some of the guys at the house had alerted me to the mega-sized blueberry pancakes (both as a warning and a recommendation), since they'd already eaten there a couple of times this week and considered themselves pier pros.
I finally decided on eggs with sausage, mainly because they served patties rather than links, which is my preference.
The hash browns were way better than average, not greasy or tasting as if they'd been long under a heat lamp (as I had also been advised by a hash brown aficionado) and my biscuit came porn-less, as expected (there are always trade-offs in life).
My companion had ordered breakfasts #16 and #17 (while he is a big guy, the waitress had tried to talk him out of it), so there were plenty of pancakes to share after all.
I loved all the old photographs on the walls of the deck.
There was one of the restaurant with a casino sign on it and there were several of the parking lot with vintage cars in it.
And of course, pictures of men with their catches, although not always smiling. There was even an old wooden parking sign, looking quaint and weathered.
Paying our bill, I noticed the Peach Jacks on the counter, personal-sized fried peach pies that looked mighty good.
Seeing me admiring them, the cashier, clearly a pier veteran, asked if I'd ever had one.
I stunned her by saying it was my first time eating at the pier.
"Well, it better not be your last!" she admonished.
Not likely, although I have to admit to some curiosity about Biscuits and Porn's breakfast offerings, too.
But it would probably be wiser if I didn't go with one of the frat boys there.
That'll just have to be a solo breakfast excursion.
Biscuits and porn for one, please...at least once.
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