Don't you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You would't marry a girl just because she's pretty, but my goodness, doesn't it help? ~ Marilyn Monroe
Rich people are not like us.
I know this because I've been slammed all week doing two things: writing close to 7,000 words for multiple assignments and driving all over Manakin Sabot, Westhampton and Park Avenue to interview the aforementioned affluent types.
Don't get me wrong, they were all extremely nice people, but then why wouldn't they be when they don't have to worry about money?
I went to one house that may as well have been an art gallery considering the number of pieces and name-recognition value of what was hanging on the walls and sitting on tables and in cabinets. I'm talking, Chihuly, Hans Hoffman, Grandma Moses and Dali and those are just some of the ones I was allowed to mention. And don't get me started on their original Bob Dylan drawing and Robert DeNiro, Sr. paintings.
At another house on the highest point in Goochland County, I strolled the gardens with the master of the house as he explained his fondness for delphiniums and foxgloves, the former ill-suited for starting in Virginia's climate and the latter a biennial that only blooms every other year. He solves both problems nicely by having a man grow hundreds of both for him and deliver them only once the plants are ready to bloom.
Then there were the owners of the 1850s Italianate mansion who bought the house to save it after extensive water damage had all but destroyed it. Luckily, they'd been collecting paneling, doors, columns, windows and pediments - that's right, pediments - for years before they had anywhere to put them. Ditto the 80 or so chandeliers they'd accumulated, all of which now hang from one of the many high ceilings in their home.
Meanwhile, I'm just happy my landlord is repainting my bathroom, trim and deck for the first time in ten years. Being poor means simple pleasures resonate big time.
And while I love what I do for a living, having to come up with 7,000 words over four days means pulling a lot of verbiage out of my head. You know I'm buried in deadlines when I don't go out a single night because I'm working right through until bedtime.
Recognizing that I'd been under the gun and without fun all week, the ever-thoughtful Mr. Wright had seen fit to reserve us two stools at the bar at Brenner Pass to celebrate me making my seven deadlines.
A little "Reserved" sign greeted us, while around us, there were only a half dozen other people at the large bar.
In the spirit of the evening, we kicked things off with Domaine Eugene Carrel Cremant de Savoie Brut and me finally letting out a sigh that could have been heard in J-Ward. Then I let loose a torrent of words which had been stored up all week because of me staying in except when I was doing interviews.
Luckily, he's a good listener.
Smoked trout, Marcella beans and fermented beet arrived hidden under a fan of radicchio leaves, a light yet satisfying start to the meal, the most surprising part being that by the time we finished it, the couple to our left was already paying their bill.
Wait, kids, it's still light outside.
Next came a platter of pillowy gnocchi gussied up with fava beans, bottarga (salted, cured fish roe) and sauteed greens, a dish that managed to be decadent despite its simple ingredients and a fine pairing with Steninger Gruner Veltliner. A big bowl of the cutest little baby turnips and turnip greens shone with only the addition of garlic oil, a dish that should be everyone's introduction to turnips.
To our right, everyone who'd been in place when we'd sat down was now exiting, soon to be replaced by the next wave. We hung in there.
Just about the time we were checking out the dessert menu, the replacement couple to our left closed out and moved on. For a Friday night, people sure were eating and running.
To accompany chocolate mousse with a crown of coconut, meringue and a dollop of lime sorbet, we chose glasses of Butler Nephew Co. 20-year Tawny Port, which all but guaranteed we weren't going anywhere anytime soon.
In fact, by the time we did decide to move the party back to Jackson Ward, it had been over four hours and the bar was nearly as deserted as when we'd first arrived. There's something to be said for longevity, whether on a bar stool or in a relationship.
A wise man knows that stellar company can keep a girl on a bar stool indefinitely, relaxing and unwinding after a killer week.
I mean, he wouldn't talk for four hours just because he thinks she's pretty, but my goodness, doesn't it help?
Showing posts with label brenner pass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brenner pass. Show all posts
Saturday, March 23, 2019
Sunday, March 11, 2018
The Almighty Dollar
I didn't want to go out, but I knew I needed to.
By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.
When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.
For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.
Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing. Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.
Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.
But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.
I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.
The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.
Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.
No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.
Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?
I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?
Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.
It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.
By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.
When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.
For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.
Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing. Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.
Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.
But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.
I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.
The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.
Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.
No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.
Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?
I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?
Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.
It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.
Save Me from Soma
Not everyone cares to revisit the dystopian memories of youth.
To be clear, I'd invited three friends to join me for Quill Theatre's production of "Brave New World." Although not one of us had ever seen it performed live, two turned me down flat on the spot and only one, the ever-agreeable Beau, signed on.
Where's your spirit of adventure, kids?
When he came to pick me up, I invited him upstairs to admire three pieces of newly-framed art I'd just hung. It's all part of my master plan to convince him to finally frame the art he bought two years ago that has yet to make it to his walls.
How do people live with no art on their walls anyway?
Even after I'd made my clunky point, he was still willing to drive us to Brenner Pass for dinner. I don't know what kind of week it had been for him, but he said for the record that he needed something sweet and fruity (no judgement here), resulting in a frothy pink Caribbean Canneberg showing up, while I kept my drinking simple (and bubbly) with a Cremant de Jura while the dining room crowd multiplied around us.
He was curious about what I'd been up to, so I dished on the cyclist I'd interviewed the day before and the month-long biking trips he takes all over the world. He'd told me that once he biked a place, he never went back because he preferred that his first memory of a place be his only, a sentiment I said I could understand.
Not Beau. He was immediately flummoxed. What if you like a place and want to see it again? Why go somewhere new if you liked the last place you went? It's fascinating to me how some people can't even imagine the pleasure of something they personally have no desire to do.
Once we got down to the business of food, there was some horsetrading going on because he wanted the quail (turns out he grew up eating quail...Beau, I hardly knew ye) but he also wanted bucatini, so I agreed to get the bird and share, allowing him to have his pasta and eat quail, too.
But before any of that, I wanted to share the citrus salad, a brilliant choice, it turned out, as we both raved about the complementary flavors and textures.
The quail had gotten the Thanksgiving treatment, with stuffing and pureed root vegetables subbing for mashed potatoes, but it was the crispy, seasoned skin neither of us was forgetting anytime soon.
Amazed to see a new dessert on the menu since I was last in, I felt obligated to fall on that sword. Did I mention it happened to be chocolate? It was called a mousse, but came across as more of a bombe, with a thick coating of dark chocolate ganache over a lighter chocolate, while Beau finally ordered the coffee profiteroles and promptly went into raptures.
Never mind that I'd suggested them when we were there two weeks ago and he'd claimed to be too full for dessert. Of course, he then went on to eat half of mine.
There was no lingering after dinner, much as we might have enjoyed it, because we needed to get to the far reaches of the Henrico county for the play. Along the way, we made a pit stop at the Dugout, not for cheap drinks and the so-so jukebox, but for a photo of us against the sign, the better to taunt the employee we know who wasn't there and missed our brief appearance.
And as a side note, I'd like some bonus points for venturing to the county, since everyone is convinced I don't. We all make sacrifices for art, you know.
Waiting for the play to start, Beau inquired about my break in blogging, asking if it felt weird not to blog when I'm still going out every night. When I told him that wasn't the case, he was gobsmacked. In fact, he was still wrapping his man brain around it when the action onstage began.
Once we got through the initial exposition, "Brave New World" turned out to be a well-acted, creatively-directed take on a story most of us haven't read since high school or college (except Ihad reread it about 6 or 7 years ago), but still mostly remember.
Cliff Notes: Soma is the government-supplied happy drug, babies grow in test tubes and there is no emotion. The end.
In the not-often-enough category, it was especially gratifying to see the colorblind and gender-blind casting of Lucretia Anderson in the main role of Mustapha. Just as satisfying were the sheer amount of lines taken directly from Shakespeare - a joy to hear spoken - along with Caleb Wade's terrific performance (and fine-looking chest) as the savage John.
And lest I sound like I can't get past a firm young body, Jacqueline Jones chewed up scenery as Linda, the savage's mother, but then when isn't she magnificent in whatever role she's playing?
Once we left Huxley's dystopian world, it was for the glamour of Pru's manse and a few hours of conversation. She may not have wanted to go to the play, but she did want every detail on dinner and the play.
As Beau and I fell over each other's words describing what we'd seen, he praised Wade's performance but said he couldn't recall seeing him before. Knowing this wasn't the case and whipping out the program to prove it, I showed Pru his bio listing with its accompanying photo.
"Of course I remember him!" she said, with a wave of her hand, as I knew she would. An attentive playgoer remembers a finephysique talent such as his
Of course, if she'd gone with us, she could have appreciated it from the good seats. His talent, I mean.
To be clear, I'd invited three friends to join me for Quill Theatre's production of "Brave New World." Although not one of us had ever seen it performed live, two turned me down flat on the spot and only one, the ever-agreeable Beau, signed on.
Where's your spirit of adventure, kids?
When he came to pick me up, I invited him upstairs to admire three pieces of newly-framed art I'd just hung. It's all part of my master plan to convince him to finally frame the art he bought two years ago that has yet to make it to his walls.
How do people live with no art on their walls anyway?
Even after I'd made my clunky point, he was still willing to drive us to Brenner Pass for dinner. I don't know what kind of week it had been for him, but he said for the record that he needed something sweet and fruity (no judgement here), resulting in a frothy pink Caribbean Canneberg showing up, while I kept my drinking simple (and bubbly) with a Cremant de Jura while the dining room crowd multiplied around us.
He was curious about what I'd been up to, so I dished on the cyclist I'd interviewed the day before and the month-long biking trips he takes all over the world. He'd told me that once he biked a place, he never went back because he preferred that his first memory of a place be his only, a sentiment I said I could understand.
Not Beau. He was immediately flummoxed. What if you like a place and want to see it again? Why go somewhere new if you liked the last place you went? It's fascinating to me how some people can't even imagine the pleasure of something they personally have no desire to do.
Once we got down to the business of food, there was some horsetrading going on because he wanted the quail (turns out he grew up eating quail...Beau, I hardly knew ye) but he also wanted bucatini, so I agreed to get the bird and share, allowing him to have his pasta and eat quail, too.
But before any of that, I wanted to share the citrus salad, a brilliant choice, it turned out, as we both raved about the complementary flavors and textures.
The quail had gotten the Thanksgiving treatment, with stuffing and pureed root vegetables subbing for mashed potatoes, but it was the crispy, seasoned skin neither of us was forgetting anytime soon.
Amazed to see a new dessert on the menu since I was last in, I felt obligated to fall on that sword. Did I mention it happened to be chocolate? It was called a mousse, but came across as more of a bombe, with a thick coating of dark chocolate ganache over a lighter chocolate, while Beau finally ordered the coffee profiteroles and promptly went into raptures.
Never mind that I'd suggested them when we were there two weeks ago and he'd claimed to be too full for dessert. Of course, he then went on to eat half of mine.
There was no lingering after dinner, much as we might have enjoyed it, because we needed to get to the far reaches of the Henrico county for the play. Along the way, we made a pit stop at the Dugout, not for cheap drinks and the so-so jukebox, but for a photo of us against the sign, the better to taunt the employee we know who wasn't there and missed our brief appearance.
And as a side note, I'd like some bonus points for venturing to the county, since everyone is convinced I don't. We all make sacrifices for art, you know.
Waiting for the play to start, Beau inquired about my break in blogging, asking if it felt weird not to blog when I'm still going out every night. When I told him that wasn't the case, he was gobsmacked. In fact, he was still wrapping his man brain around it when the action onstage began.
Once we got through the initial exposition, "Brave New World" turned out to be a well-acted, creatively-directed take on a story most of us haven't read since high school or college (except Ihad reread it about 6 or 7 years ago), but still mostly remember.
Cliff Notes: Soma is the government-supplied happy drug, babies grow in test tubes and there is no emotion. The end.
In the not-often-enough category, it was especially gratifying to see the colorblind and gender-blind casting of Lucretia Anderson in the main role of Mustapha. Just as satisfying were the sheer amount of lines taken directly from Shakespeare - a joy to hear spoken - along with Caleb Wade's terrific performance (and fine-looking chest) as the savage John.
And lest I sound like I can't get past a firm young body, Jacqueline Jones chewed up scenery as Linda, the savage's mother, but then when isn't she magnificent in whatever role she's playing?
Once we left Huxley's dystopian world, it was for the glamour of Pru's manse and a few hours of conversation. She may not have wanted to go to the play, but she did want every detail on dinner and the play.
As Beau and I fell over each other's words describing what we'd seen, he praised Wade's performance but said he couldn't recall seeing him before. Knowing this wasn't the case and whipping out the program to prove it, I showed Pru his bio listing with its accompanying photo.
"Of course I remember him!" she said, with a wave of her hand, as I knew she would. An attentive playgoer remembers a fine
Of course, if she'd gone with us, she could have appreciated it from the good seats. His talent, I mean.
SO Low SO Long
They grow up so fast. Restaurants, that is.
When I'd first visited Brenner Pass last July, it was uncrowded, having barely been open a month. and some servers were still learning how to open wine bottles (ours had to call in someone more qualified). The second time, wine skills had been mastered and the food was even better.
Craving a third time, Pru, Beau and I had made dinner reservations ahead of tonight's play at the Basement. Unlike that first time, though, the hordes began arriving as soon as the doors opened. We had a good excuse for our ridiculously early reservation (an 8:00 curtain), while I'm guessing many others in the first seating were there simply because it was the only time they could get seats.
Keeping with our Jura theme from last visit, we began with a bottle of Benoit Badoz Cremant Rose and a small plate special: rillete of oil-poached swordfish with frisee, mustard and housemade chips to spread it on. The night was off to a good start.
One noticeable difference was the level of the music, meaning we could actually hear it this time (and who doesn't want to hear Slowdive?), which added considerably to the overall vibe. And when you have a restaurant as large as Brenner Pass, you really need a good sound system to overcome the din of loud talkers in an industrial space.
Beau couldn't resist the fondue burger, although I think that had to do with the ability to order it "tres epique," meaning with veal demi-glace and mushrooms. I can attest to the burger's tastiness even if the fries were a bit on the dry side. Pru's lamb leg was swoon-worthy with prune jam and armagnac puree.
My arctic char with pickled mushrooms over barley boasted an obscene caviar cream sauce that ensured my choice of fish scored me no virtuous points whatsoever, but, man, was it memorable. And something else, too - barley is an underused grain and I'd love to see it on more menus. Along with flour, sugar and tea, my D.C. grandmother's kitchen canister set had a container for barley but it fell out of fashion by the time I was a kid, so I've only discovered my taste for it as an adult.
We were already on the second bottle of Cremant when we finished our entrees, but our server was good enough to understand that we were in no hurry for dessert and allowed us to linger before ordering.
Pru, like several other friends recently, demanded to know why I was suddenly on Instagram and where my line in the sand was when it comes to technology. Apparently it unnerves some people for me to exist in a new realm without having a cell phone.
Looks like they'll have to adjust.
Since we hadn't had time to order the souffle on our last visit, Pru corrected that this time, while Beau and I shared a salted caramel and dark chocolate ganache tart with hazelnut dragees while they explained to me the appeal of Cubano coffee and I pretended to appreciate the nuances.
By the time we vacated the premises two and a half hours after arriving, Brenner Pass was in full-on Saturday night mode, with people waiting for tables, the bar too crowded to see the staff and the music lost to tipsy conversations.
Coincidentally, the first act of the play we were seeing at TheatreLAb, "I'm Gonna Pray for You So Hard" was a drunken conversation between a father and daughter as she waits for the reviews to come out of her first play.
Alan Sader was superb as the father, displaying a restraint with his acting unlike his usual scenery-chewing ferocity. Any theater fan knows he's a master, so seeing him rein it in was all the more impressive.
TheatreLAB's theme this year is "taking sides," which means the stage is placed between two risers of audience seats, providing a view of half the audience in addition to the action on stage. It's a brilliant move, allowing us to observe what others are watching or how they're reacting in a way viewers don't often get to do.
Not gonna lie, I like to watch. Does that make me a voyeur?
Maybe, but in my present state of mind, I'm not good for much more than that. Tres triste.
When I'd first visited Brenner Pass last July, it was uncrowded, having barely been open a month. and some servers were still learning how to open wine bottles (ours had to call in someone more qualified). The second time, wine skills had been mastered and the food was even better.
Craving a third time, Pru, Beau and I had made dinner reservations ahead of tonight's play at the Basement. Unlike that first time, though, the hordes began arriving as soon as the doors opened. We had a good excuse for our ridiculously early reservation (an 8:00 curtain), while I'm guessing many others in the first seating were there simply because it was the only time they could get seats.
Keeping with our Jura theme from last visit, we began with a bottle of Benoit Badoz Cremant Rose and a small plate special: rillete of oil-poached swordfish with frisee, mustard and housemade chips to spread it on. The night was off to a good start.
One noticeable difference was the level of the music, meaning we could actually hear it this time (and who doesn't want to hear Slowdive?), which added considerably to the overall vibe. And when you have a restaurant as large as Brenner Pass, you really need a good sound system to overcome the din of loud talkers in an industrial space.
Beau couldn't resist the fondue burger, although I think that had to do with the ability to order it "tres epique," meaning with veal demi-glace and mushrooms. I can attest to the burger's tastiness even if the fries were a bit on the dry side. Pru's lamb leg was swoon-worthy with prune jam and armagnac puree.
My arctic char with pickled mushrooms over barley boasted an obscene caviar cream sauce that ensured my choice of fish scored me no virtuous points whatsoever, but, man, was it memorable. And something else, too - barley is an underused grain and I'd love to see it on more menus. Along with flour, sugar and tea, my D.C. grandmother's kitchen canister set had a container for barley but it fell out of fashion by the time I was a kid, so I've only discovered my taste for it as an adult.
We were already on the second bottle of Cremant when we finished our entrees, but our server was good enough to understand that we were in no hurry for dessert and allowed us to linger before ordering.
Pru, like several other friends recently, demanded to know why I was suddenly on Instagram and where my line in the sand was when it comes to technology. Apparently it unnerves some people for me to exist in a new realm without having a cell phone.
Looks like they'll have to adjust.
Since we hadn't had time to order the souffle on our last visit, Pru corrected that this time, while Beau and I shared a salted caramel and dark chocolate ganache tart with hazelnut dragees while they explained to me the appeal of Cubano coffee and I pretended to appreciate the nuances.
By the time we vacated the premises two and a half hours after arriving, Brenner Pass was in full-on Saturday night mode, with people waiting for tables, the bar too crowded to see the staff and the music lost to tipsy conversations.
Coincidentally, the first act of the play we were seeing at TheatreLAb, "I'm Gonna Pray for You So Hard" was a drunken conversation between a father and daughter as she waits for the reviews to come out of her first play.
Alan Sader was superb as the father, displaying a restraint with his acting unlike his usual scenery-chewing ferocity. Any theater fan knows he's a master, so seeing him rein it in was all the more impressive.
TheatreLAB's theme this year is "taking sides," which means the stage is placed between two risers of audience seats, providing a view of half the audience in addition to the action on stage. It's a brilliant move, allowing us to observe what others are watching or how they're reacting in a way viewers don't often get to do.
Not gonna lie, I like to watch. Does that make me a voyeur?
Maybe, but in my present state of mind, I'm not good for much more than that. Tres triste.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Take My Advice and Live
I'm in a coma, stuffed to the gills with more food and musical theater than one person should try to consume in an evening.
The four of us had good intentions, really we did. All we wanted was to try out a new restaurant and see a play and instead we finished the evening reeling from an obscene amount of both.
Sorry/not sorry.
It only took us three U-turns to arrive at the front door of Brenner Pass and whatever I expected it to look like, it wasn't a spacious restaurant in a glass-fronted new building, though I immediately liked the comfortable chairs and distance between tables.
To celebrate Beau's new job, I was tapped to pick an appropriately celebratory wine and don't you know I went right for pink bubbly.
Boasting the best possible description ("harmonious, fresh and youthful, sunshine and happiness in a glass," to which Pru quipped, "Sounds like you. Maybe you should put that next to your picture on your blog"), Tissot Cremant du Jura Rose was dry and lush. Beau was especially taken with the nose of red fruits.
When our server couldn't quite manage to get the cork out, a pinch un-corker showed up and did the job effortlessly, commenting that it should not be a noisy affair. I shared that Holmes says it should sound like a woman's sigh, but he said in wine circles, it was said that it should sound like a nun's fart.
"Well, whoever says that must not hang around many Catholics because some nuns' farts are anything but!" Pru corrected him. The woman is a font of information.
After toasting the man of the hour, we dove into Gruyere fondue for four - each of us with a different colored tip on our fondue forks - dipping bread, potatoes and speck, along with cornichons and pearl onions for tartness to cut the richness.
Not the lightest start to an Alpine meal, but an appropriate one.
Since it's tomato season, I couldn't resist tomato and bread soup made with heirlooms, smoked pork and the masterstroke of aromatic fennel mascarpone. I might have wished for a tad more bread, but that's just me.
Trout Grenobloise was glorious, done with vermouth, lemon and parsley with three piped stars of potatoes dauphine for garnish. Beau's paccheri bolohnese bianco was comfort food at its finest with smoked pork, trumpet mushrooms and grace notes of sage.
"I want to crawl in this bowl of pasta," he announced, but we overruled him.
I was too full to taste either the bacon and Reblochon croquettes or the Tajarin - tagliorini, chicken liver, thighs and skin with dandelion greens - but not for lack of desire.
Meanwhile, while discussing men, I'd brought up the subject of non-alpha men and Beau didn't hesitate to include himself in that group.
"I'm the alpha male in this relationship," Pru stated emphatically for the record. Duh. Nothing new here, keep moving along.
By the time we got to dessert, the dining room had completely filled up and servers - including one in cute black tights - were buzzing about like bees. We may have felt uncomfortably full, but damn if we were going to forego dessert in a restaurant with a dedicated pastry chef.
We didn't have time to wait for a souffle, so I instead chose the gianduju tart, a dark chocolate ganache with hazelnut over swipes of salted caramel, while Pru swooned over baba au rhum, a delicate sponge cake taken over the top with orange blossom mascarpone.
And there you have it, a meal that both starts and finishes with mascarpone. There ought to be a law.
We left Scott's Addition impressed and overly full with just about enough time to get to Swift Creek Mill Theater by curtain time, but only if Beau sped, which he happily did. Actually, everyone but me in that car has a lead foot, so I just buckle up and hope for the best.
Tearing down I-95, someone worried about the possibility of the law pulling us over. When someone envisioned the cop asking the speeder who's having a baby, I reminded them that there wasn't a live egg in the car and Beau roared with laughter.
You never know where your jokes will land.
We landed at the theater with a few minutes to spare before "The Musical of Musicals, the musical" began. The director explained that there'd be strobe lights but that they were startling, not dangerous. Kind of like how you want new life adventures to go.
This was a musical for fans of musical theater, divided into five scenes, each paying homage to different songwriters and rife with overt and sly references to the songwriters' plays.
To keep things simple, the plot remained essentially the same in each: someone couldn't pay their rent.
So for "Corn," a tribute to Rodgers and Hammerstein, there were references to "Sound of Music," "Cinderella," "Oklahoma," "Carousel," "South Pacific" and "The King and I" and young June being forced into marriage with her landlord because she couldn't pay her rent.
Also, ears of corn dropping down from the rafters and lots of corny songs like "I Don't Love You." So very un-Rodgers and Hammerstein.
My favorite was "A Little Complex" in the style of Stephen Sondheim, which meant mocking his way with internal rhymes, non-rhyming lines, bizarre plots and deep characters. There was plenty of "Sweeny Todd," not a little "Into the Woods" and an hysterical reference to "Specific Overtures."
"Dear Abby" paid tribute to Jerry Herman with a larger-than-life diva a la "Mame," "Hello, Dolly" and god knows what else with boas, brassy showstoppers and classic tunes like "Did I Put Out Enough?"
Define "enough."
During intermission, we got off on a tangent about the paisley zipper-front dress Pru was wearing. I told her I'd worn a zipper-front dress to a party in the late '80s and a guy had walked up to me and unzipped it.
When I got amazed gasps, I shared that I'd once gone to a dinner party and the guy next to me had pulled out handcuffs and cuffed me to him for the evening (claimed he'd lost the key). And, no, my husband hadn't been pleased.
Somehow the discussion got off on men wearing women's clothes, prompting Pru to ask of us, "Do you know how many men have worn my clothes?"
Actually, no, I didn't, but apparently it began when she was 11 when a neighboring football player put on her pantyhose and blossomed from there. When she asked, "Do you have any idea how many men have been in my closet?" I knew I'd led a sheltered life.
Act 2 began with an Andrew Lloyd Webber's tribute couched in "Phantom of the Opera" and "Jesus Christ, Superstar" and necessarily involved mocking his penchant for spectacle (golf announcer: "The audience applauds at the set change") and hubris ("I'll do for you what I did for Jesus").
And when the phantom is unmasked, it turns out he was born a cat. Get it?
The final scene used Kander and Ebb's plays such as "Chicago," "New York, New York" and "Cabaret," all of which necessitated slutty showgirls, German (and pig Latin) accents and a song called "Color Me Gay."
Oh, yes, plus jazz hands and the most fantastical conical sequined bras ever.
The four cast members all had fine voices and excelled at a variety of roles, making for a thoroughly satisfying, if a bit overwhelming, tribute to many of the great musicals of the audience's lifetimes.
Not that this was a young audience by any stretch of the imagination, so we left thoroughly stuffed with musical theater references and tried parsing them on the drive home.
Impossible. Color us way too full on theater to think.
The four of us had good intentions, really we did. All we wanted was to try out a new restaurant and see a play and instead we finished the evening reeling from an obscene amount of both.
Sorry/not sorry.
It only took us three U-turns to arrive at the front door of Brenner Pass and whatever I expected it to look like, it wasn't a spacious restaurant in a glass-fronted new building, though I immediately liked the comfortable chairs and distance between tables.
To celebrate Beau's new job, I was tapped to pick an appropriately celebratory wine and don't you know I went right for pink bubbly.
Boasting the best possible description ("harmonious, fresh and youthful, sunshine and happiness in a glass," to which Pru quipped, "Sounds like you. Maybe you should put that next to your picture on your blog"), Tissot Cremant du Jura Rose was dry and lush. Beau was especially taken with the nose of red fruits.
When our server couldn't quite manage to get the cork out, a pinch un-corker showed up and did the job effortlessly, commenting that it should not be a noisy affair. I shared that Holmes says it should sound like a woman's sigh, but he said in wine circles, it was said that it should sound like a nun's fart.
"Well, whoever says that must not hang around many Catholics because some nuns' farts are anything but!" Pru corrected him. The woman is a font of information.
After toasting the man of the hour, we dove into Gruyere fondue for four - each of us with a different colored tip on our fondue forks - dipping bread, potatoes and speck, along with cornichons and pearl onions for tartness to cut the richness.
Not the lightest start to an Alpine meal, but an appropriate one.
Since it's tomato season, I couldn't resist tomato and bread soup made with heirlooms, smoked pork and the masterstroke of aromatic fennel mascarpone. I might have wished for a tad more bread, but that's just me.
Trout Grenobloise was glorious, done with vermouth, lemon and parsley with three piped stars of potatoes dauphine for garnish. Beau's paccheri bolohnese bianco was comfort food at its finest with smoked pork, trumpet mushrooms and grace notes of sage.
"I want to crawl in this bowl of pasta," he announced, but we overruled him.
I was too full to taste either the bacon and Reblochon croquettes or the Tajarin - tagliorini, chicken liver, thighs and skin with dandelion greens - but not for lack of desire.
Meanwhile, while discussing men, I'd brought up the subject of non-alpha men and Beau didn't hesitate to include himself in that group.
"I'm the alpha male in this relationship," Pru stated emphatically for the record. Duh. Nothing new here, keep moving along.
By the time we got to dessert, the dining room had completely filled up and servers - including one in cute black tights - were buzzing about like bees. We may have felt uncomfortably full, but damn if we were going to forego dessert in a restaurant with a dedicated pastry chef.
We didn't have time to wait for a souffle, so I instead chose the gianduju tart, a dark chocolate ganache with hazelnut over swipes of salted caramel, while Pru swooned over baba au rhum, a delicate sponge cake taken over the top with orange blossom mascarpone.
And there you have it, a meal that both starts and finishes with mascarpone. There ought to be a law.
We left Scott's Addition impressed and overly full with just about enough time to get to Swift Creek Mill Theater by curtain time, but only if Beau sped, which he happily did. Actually, everyone but me in that car has a lead foot, so I just buckle up and hope for the best.
Tearing down I-95, someone worried about the possibility of the law pulling us over. When someone envisioned the cop asking the speeder who's having a baby, I reminded them that there wasn't a live egg in the car and Beau roared with laughter.
You never know where your jokes will land.
We landed at the theater with a few minutes to spare before "The Musical of Musicals, the musical" began. The director explained that there'd be strobe lights but that they were startling, not dangerous. Kind of like how you want new life adventures to go.
This was a musical for fans of musical theater, divided into five scenes, each paying homage to different songwriters and rife with overt and sly references to the songwriters' plays.
To keep things simple, the plot remained essentially the same in each: someone couldn't pay their rent.
So for "Corn," a tribute to Rodgers and Hammerstein, there were references to "Sound of Music," "Cinderella," "Oklahoma," "Carousel," "South Pacific" and "The King and I" and young June being forced into marriage with her landlord because she couldn't pay her rent.
Also, ears of corn dropping down from the rafters and lots of corny songs like "I Don't Love You." So very un-Rodgers and Hammerstein.
My favorite was "A Little Complex" in the style of Stephen Sondheim, which meant mocking his way with internal rhymes, non-rhyming lines, bizarre plots and deep characters. There was plenty of "Sweeny Todd," not a little "Into the Woods" and an hysterical reference to "Specific Overtures."
"Dear Abby" paid tribute to Jerry Herman with a larger-than-life diva a la "Mame," "Hello, Dolly" and god knows what else with boas, brassy showstoppers and classic tunes like "Did I Put Out Enough?"
Define "enough."
During intermission, we got off on a tangent about the paisley zipper-front dress Pru was wearing. I told her I'd worn a zipper-front dress to a party in the late '80s and a guy had walked up to me and unzipped it.
When I got amazed gasps, I shared that I'd once gone to a dinner party and the guy next to me had pulled out handcuffs and cuffed me to him for the evening (claimed he'd lost the key). And, no, my husband hadn't been pleased.
Somehow the discussion got off on men wearing women's clothes, prompting Pru to ask of us, "Do you know how many men have worn my clothes?"
Actually, no, I didn't, but apparently it began when she was 11 when a neighboring football player put on her pantyhose and blossomed from there. When she asked, "Do you have any idea how many men have been in my closet?" I knew I'd led a sheltered life.
Act 2 began with an Andrew Lloyd Webber's tribute couched in "Phantom of the Opera" and "Jesus Christ, Superstar" and necessarily involved mocking his penchant for spectacle (golf announcer: "The audience applauds at the set change") and hubris ("I'll do for you what I did for Jesus").
And when the phantom is unmasked, it turns out he was born a cat. Get it?
The final scene used Kander and Ebb's plays such as "Chicago," "New York, New York" and "Cabaret," all of which necessitated slutty showgirls, German (and pig Latin) accents and a song called "Color Me Gay."
Oh, yes, plus jazz hands and the most fantastical conical sequined bras ever.
The four cast members all had fine voices and excelled at a variety of roles, making for a thoroughly satisfying, if a bit overwhelming, tribute to many of the great musicals of the audience's lifetimes.
Not that this was a young audience by any stretch of the imagination, so we left thoroughly stuffed with musical theater references and tried parsing them on the drive home.
Impossible. Color us way too full on theater to think.
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