Ladies Who Brunch

Except for having to explain what a fern bar was to one of my girlfriends, we chose the ideal spot to reconvene after a year.

As for how three long-time friends who'd met through a shared love of music could let a year go by without breaking bread, well, I blame myself. Between my low period and the whirlwind of meeting my match, I'd not been pushing for get-togethers like I used to.

No surprise, today's overdue brunch happened because of music, too. Earlier this week, I'd heard from Xtina after she'd spotted me at a show and we'd decided a rendezvous was in order. Naturally we folded in Em, which made running into her Friday night even more unlikely.

Surely my moon must be in the seventh house or something.

These two always defer to me about picking where to eat and though I tried to suggest our usual place, 821 Cafe, they were hankering for something new to them. That was simple enough because neither had been to Laura Lee's, a shame given the fabulous food and decidedly female vibe, and it took no time for Em to jump on making a reservation.

Good thing, too, because the place was mobbed by mid-day.

Walking in to find I was the last to arrive, a fact which thrilled Xtina who'd made it one of her life goals to arrive before I did at one of our dates, led to a discussion of punctuality. For most of my life, I can safely say I was always on time, but that changed a decade ago when I stopped holding myself to that standard. It was hugely liberating, a fact I shared, and both friends marveled at my willingness to go easier on myself.

"Women have such a hard time with that," Em noted. "I wish I could relax about it." Give it a decade or so, my dear, and see if you don't soften all kinds of self-imposed rules.

I watched as they ogled the joint and made suitably appreciative comments about the decor: the soft green curved banquettes, the beguiling art that doubled as sound baffles, the glass garage door that let in loads of November sunlight.

Then I explained to the young 'un that bars were once bastions of male dominance, news to her. So I shared that fern bars were created in the happenin' days of the sexual revolution in the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do  - more likely explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers - in seedy, smokey dives full of men.

The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes. Fast forward to the 21st century and Laura Lee's nods to the fern bar Version 2.0, combining the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility.

Of course they were enchanted once they knew the history and, as the senior member of this trio, it's my job to inform them.

First on the conversational docket was the development of Xtina's stage presence, a  subject brought up because Em had recently seen Xtina's band perform and had been wowed at how much more comfortable she'd become on stage. I'd noticed myself the last few shows.

"She was dancing and wearing a crop top onstage, Karen!" Em explained, seeking to share her surprise with a like-minded friend. Who was this person inhabiting our friend's body? We reminisced how when we'd first seen her performing in a band, she'd sung and played guitar while keeping her eyes closed and pretending that the audience wasn't there.

Shyness had prevented any sort of audience rapport.

But no more. Her new attitude, she said, was to have a good time and not worry about messing up a line singing or with a goofy dance step. She was far happier for letting go of unrealistic expectations.

When we finally got around to ordering, the orders broke down along party lines. Xtina got her usual huevos rancheros, while Em was a shoe-in for the enormous chocolate chip pancakes. What I really wanted was the fried chicken for two, but since I had no partner-in-yardbird, I made do with avocado  toast with tomato jam, bacon and part of the biscuits we ordered for the table.

Also for the table was a hot toddy with chai spice, which arrived in a black glass that resembled the intricate designs on milk glass. We agreed that it tasted like Christmas - or Thanksgiving at the least - and Xtina especially dug the lemony warmth of it.

And while I don't need to rhapsodize about Laura Lee's biscuits, let's just have a moment for biscuits with enough fat baked into them (Em: "If they're made with lard, I don't want to know about it") that slathering butter on them isn't essential. That said, I did slather cherry jam over every available biscuit surface.

I gave props to Em (and her cute husband) for having DJ'd the Abigail Spanberger victory party - that's right, I'm friends with the brilliant woman who played Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" - and really gotten that party started. That led to her telling us about how often a guy will approach them when they're DJing together, but direct every question, whether about equipment, music choice or just DJing, directly to her husband as if she were invisible.

The struggle is real.

Much of today's extended brunch talk was about Xtina's new dating life now that she's recently out of a two-year relationship. She's torn about going forward with a nice drummer she met and looking forward to meeting up with a handsome NOLA transplant who used to live in Richmond and will be back soon. Meanwhile, we watched as our server made eye contact with her every chance he could and she debated whether or not to leave her phone number on her bill. Should she, shouldn't she, how do you know who's right for you?

It must be exhausting to be young, beautiful and single.

Of course, we couldn't dissect their lives without touching on mine, meaning I got to hear both telling me how much I deserve this new reality of mine, even if it does keep me out of the widespread circulation that used to define my life. I'm still out an awful lot, but often now it's with my biggest fan.

Which sort of makes me the poster child for hanging in there until the right person shows up. You just never know how long it'll take or how worthwhile the wait will be. Patience, not necessarily punctuality.

Try telling that to someone who doesn't know what a fern bar is.

The Mellow Yellow Age

Because why wouldn't you celebrate your birthday with brunch?

Queen B was celebrating her 80th at Max's on Broad and I was invited. Strangely enough, although I've celebrated my birthday in myriad ways - including years requesting a birthday dinner of cheeseburgers, which is exactly what B had asked for on her actual birthday dinner yesterday - not once have I made brunch a part of it. Some people clearly think otherwise.

So after a morning walk along Grace Street in the Fan - mind you, in 85% humidity (so beach-like I loved it) under a stormy sky - I got cleaned up and strolled over to Max's to return to the scene of last night's tequila for the big event.

Tucked in an alcove near the front window. we had enough privacy to feel like we could talk about anything without ears around. Not that any of our conversation was particularly personal unless a woman copping to her OCD tendencies counts.  Or another admitting standing naked in front of her refrigerator to cool off. Or a man confessing he lost his faith because of weather predictions.

Weaving its way through all this was a discussion of red wax lips and their edibility. As it happens, a pair resides on  a stack of old books on my mantle. Also mentioned: those little wax bottles of colored sugar water.

The hostess who led us to the table jumped in on the conversation when I said something about how cold the restaurant was and Pru said she found the temperature ideal. That was the hostess' daily dilemma: she's either freezing or overheated in the restaurant every shift, sometimes resorting to drinking a glass of cold water in the walk-in. TMI? Then she handed us dinner menus and sailed off.

A minute or so later, she was back, saying, "JK! I meant to give you brunch menus!" So cute. JK.

When it came time to order, it was obvious I was the only one who'd eaten breakfast already. They all went for some sort of eggs - over hard, over medium, quiche Florentine - while I went straight for a combination that epitomizes the marriage of breakfast and lunch that is brunch.

Half a dozen Little Saint oysters on the halfshell and the pancake platter, please. With jam and syrup.

My fellow celebrants laughed out loud at my selection, but not when our server inquired which I wanted first. Then everyone got pensive and offered suggestions on timing. To me, it made the most sense to begin with pancakes and move on to bivalves. And not just any bivalves, but ones cultivated in a secluded tributary of the James by none other than the Rappahannock Oyster Company guys solely for this restaurant group.

And while they weren't nearly as briny as is my preference, I can appreciate a restaurant serving their own locally grown oysters. Next thing you know, they'll be bartering them for plumbing services.

A discussion of the '60s took the conversation into go-go boot territory and as we're all sharing stories, Queen B casually leans over to Pru and asks, "Still got yours?" Without missing a beat, Pru says out of the side of her mouth, "Of course!" Once a smart girl finds a pair of good-fitting white go-go boots, she doesn't let them go.

Since I don't wear white, it's not an issue for me.

My card for the birthday girl was opened and commented on ("The Struggle is real. Acting your age vs. giving a damn" - though we both knew that's no struggle at all), as was my gift of several pendants of Murano glass for B to transform with her brilliant jewelry-making talent.

Our affable server came and went unobtrusively as the hours passed, dropping off a small pot of coffee here, a birthday Gran Marnier creme brulee complete with lit candle there. He delivered additional OJ for Beau's Mimosa (though how does one ever have extra bubbly?) and brought me bonus mixed berry jam for my pancakes. Like our own personal Jeeves, he kept glasses filled and himself out of the way.

All the better to celebrate the first eight decades of Queen B's colorful life...and clothing...and hair. Pru, never the romantic but always the realist, summed it up best. "Don't complain about 80 because think how good it'll seem on your next birthday!"

If I didn't know better, I'd think she was competing for my role of Suzy Silver Linings. Everyone seems to be mellowing with age lately. JK.

Cult of Personality

The day has nowhere to go but up when breakfast involves watching a stranger vomit.

For the record, the guy was a passenger in the back seat of a car stopped at a traffic light across from where my friend and I sat eating and looking out a big plate glass window. He opened the door, barfed and closed it, re-opened it, barfed again and closed it.

At that moment the guy in the front passenger seat locked eyes with me and I gave him the thumbs up. He cracked up and returned the gesture as the driver pulled away.

Must have been a helluva Sunday night is all I can say.

Tonight was all about fighting fascism, so a friend and I were among the 100 or so people who gathered at Babe's of Carytown for a reading sponsored by Chop Suey Books. It was a diverse crowd of anarchists, middle aged people, crazies ranting about the monument removal, millennials and more than a few people taking notes.

A good representation of Richmond, in other words.

In the spotlight was Mark Bray, author of "Antifa: The Anti-fascist Handbook," which came out shortly before the Charlottesville debacle, making him a hot commodity these days.

He read from the book, but the bulk of the evening was devoted to taking questions and although everyone played shy at first, eventually the questions came hard and fast and he shared what he'd learned from talking to 60 anti-fascists from 17 countries.

"Fascism is colonialism and imperialism come home to roost," he told the room and surely I wasn't the only person marveling at the astuteness of the statement.

He emphasized that the goal of antifa (and let's face it, almost everyone I know is anti-fascist) is simply preventing fascists (neo-nazis, white supremacists, KKK) from having a platform to spew their venom.

Come on, who's not on board with that?

But his greatest passion was discussing the history of fascism and anti-fascism because, well, he's a history professor at Dartmouth. But he was also part of the Occupy Wall Street protest, so he had plenty of street cred as well.

Plenty of the discussion centered around freedom of speech and whether it's a slippery slope to deny fascists a platform, but for crying out loud, we're talking about fascism here. Did we learn nothing watching Hitler, Mussolini and Franco take over after being given platforms?

What I thought was especially notable about tonight - besides the interior of Babe's with its disco ball, aquarium, paneled walls and Jell-o shots - was that over 100 people came out on a Monday evening for a book reading (unheard of and I would know since I'm usually one of 6 or 10 people at readings) about an unlikely subject like anti-fascism.

Richmond, just let me say that your coolness goes far beyond new restaurants and trendy breweries.

There were so many questions and such passionate discussion that it was close to 9 by the time we strolled down Cary Street and settled on the patio at Can Can for dinner. Lucky us, there was only one other couple out there enjoying the warm night air and they were just finishing up.

I don't know which impressed our server more, the choice of Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou or that I travel with my own metal straw. She took it for environmental savvy but I also pointed out that it keeps my lipstick off the glass and dishwashers appreciate that.

"You're so considerate!" she marveled. Too many restaurant friends not to at least try.

My crabcake was thick with lump crabmeat and the accompanying baby kale, arugula and mango salad provided a nice counterpoint to the crab's richness, while my companion's plat du jour - half a grilled chicken with obscene garlic mashed potatoes and toothsome haricots vert - was equally over the top for such simple components.

Nothing like a brasserie to overfeed us while we savored the breeze and watched the street theater of Carytown unfolding a few feet away.

And while we were bound to see a few obviously drunk people (one woman, leading her friend out of Can Can, slurring, "Did you have a good time? See? Monday's as good as Friday for having fun!") given that we were across the street from Weezie's, at no point did anyone pull up, open the car door and barf in front of us.

Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night...the way I see it, any one of them can be just as good as Friday night.

Considerate types know it just depends on what you're doing. And sometimes, who you're with.

Take Door #2, Son

Sometimes you just need to take a break and catch up with friends.

That meant brunch at Helen's with the girlfriend I'd run into at several shows in the past two weeks, but hadn't sat down to dish with in eons. We'd both had too much life going on of late not to make time to debrief the other.

We timed it just right, sliding into one of the two window tables just as the early crowd was paying their checks. I'd forgotten about the charming flowered oil cloths that lend such kistch charm to the tables at the classic Richmond spot.

Because it had been far too long, we took turns eating and talking, so I got to hear about her life while diving into a well-constructed BLT with avocado on crusty sourdough toast while she listened intently to me while inhaling huevos rancheros.

In that typical Richmond-is-so-small way, when she began telling me about a guy who'd caught her eye but is looking at moving to the Big Easy, I knew who she was talking about before she even mentioned his name. When I shared details about my recent second trip to the beach, she already knew about the group house I'd gone to and with whom.

Small world.

We have no true secrets in Richmond, just the most delicate tendrils connecting us all whether we know it or not.

When we parted ways after giving each other love life advice, it was to do weekend girly-type things: go shopping for bras and flowerpots.

My evening's plans had been decided a few days ago when FotoBoy reached out to me.

I'm dateless Saturday I just found out and am wondering if you wanna do something with me?

Coincidentally, I was also dateless tonight, so I immediately suggested sharing some laughs at the Comedy Coalition, which got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from him. My idea was to meet here and walk the 6 blocks there even if it was still 97 degrees outside and he knew me well enough to agree.

En route, we passed a dozen or so people milling about and taking photos at the Maggie Walker statue and he marveled at the sheer amount of merchandise on the sidewalk in front of Circle Thrift. How do they get away with that?

Although we were greeted by a major blast of cold air inside the comedy theater, the air soon rose to a comfortable but not especially cold level once humans started filing in and soon we were joined by a third, a buddy of his, also dateless and looking for some Saturday night fun.

Turns out he'd found out 2 hours too late about "Stop Making Sense" playing the Byrd the other night and was mildly envious I'd been there, at least until he heard about the interview with Jonathan Demme and David Byrne that proceeded it and then he was hugely jealous.

I, in turn, was mildly envious he'd seen the film originally at the Biograph in 1984 when he was in 10th grade. I only became hugely jealous when he shared that he'd seen Demme and Werner Herzog interviewed in NYC and actually spoke to Herzog on the street before the event.

We put our petty jealousies aside when the show began.

Host Ryan reminded the crowd that what we were about to see would never be repeated and exhorted us to, "Breathe it in! Live in the moment!" before our evening of long-form improv began.

Ambassadors were up first and their verbal starting point was "old pants." That somehow took us to a closed Old Navy store ("I thought I had some idea of what capitalism would be like when it collapsed, but no!"), remorse about Circuit City closing and memories about the highs and lows of Orange Julius (there's a throwback).

The team was fairly young, so their comedy included references to pretentious young people, technology ("I'm swiping left and he\s still here!" about an intruder) and fluids.

Their climax involved kicking down a door, cocking a shotgun and yelling, "Biscuit!" but you had to be there to see how they got there.

Second team Da Vinci got started with a cue of "bike tires" and a couple of witches wanting to switch from brooms to bikes to save their magic.

Naturally, the witches weren't very nice. "Do you burn children?" they were asked. No, why, they wanted to know? "I have a nephew I don't like."

They made us laugh with comedy that referenced "Game of Thrones," accusations of infidelity, "Survivor" and boob sweat. There was also a cigarette-smoking bad father who needed to learn to hate less.

Big Bosses, the final team, was made up of the long-standing coalition members, the people who've been doing this since before they had a brick and mortar place to do it and were nomads.

These are the people who make it look so easy.

Their cue came from a guy in the front row after they asked the audience what our favorite soundtrack album was and the guy shouted out "Titanic." He was then mercilessly razzed about whether he knew anything else on the soundtrack besides "My Heart Will Go On" and he didn't seem to.

Naturally, their improv began on the bow of the Titanic, with passengers explaining how they got their tickets (murder, theft, death) and how they planned to find the American dream and segued into a bit about a Russian and American sub in the Arctic Ocean, each being manned by a guy who'd eaten too much chocolate and needed to poop.

One of the funniest bits concerned two passengers on a first date, one who was obsessed with his dead grandparents to the point of taking her to the cemetery to talk to the man who'd buried them.

After amusing herself playing Candy Crush while he chats up the gravedigger, she gets tired of waiting for him to finish questioning the man about them.

"Hey!  You can live in the past or come with me and at least get a hand job!" she calls out, bored and impatient.

I thought I had some idea how my Saturday night would end, but no. Hand jobs aside, I think we can all agree there's no point in living in the past.

And biscuits? Well, they'are always a good idea.

Venus with Peaches

In search of the divine within an hour, we nailed it.

I happen to know that the last time I saw so many Botticelli paintings was at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence back in October 2012, going on five years ago. As far as I was concerned, I was overdue for some masterful early Renaissance artwork, so the love story was a bonus.

Our first destination was the Muscarelle Museum to see "Botticelli and the Search for the Divine," a show so important that it will leave Williamsburg in two weeks and move on to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. With no invitations to Boston currently pending, I thought I'd best get myself down there.

Walking into the dimly-lit exhibit with wine-colored walls, we encountered a mass of humanity clustered in front of a docent leading a tour of the exhibit in the most droning voice possible. Fortunately, they soon moved on to the next gallery so we could concentrate on the work of the man to whom Botticelli was apprenticed, Fra Filippo Lippi, and ascertain how the master's style influenced the younger's.

But where things really got good was in the second gallery, full of his exquisite mature works such as "The Madonna of the Loggia" and "Madonna and  Child with the Young St. John the Baptist" (although I'm not going to lie, I'd have far preferred to be seeing them in the Uffizi) and the breathtaking "Venus," which has never been shown in the U.S. before.

Like ever. How fortunate was I that someone was willing to ensure I saw it during its brief visit?

No, no, not his "Birth of Venus," this was just "Venus," although both paintings are clearly of the same woman and today I learned her name: Simonetta Vespucci, a cousin-in-law to the explorer Amerigo Vespucci we've all heard of (I say "all" presuming schools still teach such things).

Was Botticelli in love with the great beauty who was already married to a nobleman? The very male docent said there's no proof of passion unless you count the painter's request to be buried at her feet, which he was after she died at 22.

Allow me to get on my estrogen soapbox here and say for the record that if a man wants to be buried at a woman's feet, there's about a 100% chance he's madly in love with her. Art historians, you may quote me on that.

Looking at "Adoration of the Magi" with my 20th century eyes, all I could think of when I saw the limited palette of reds and blues was Paramount Studio's mid-century Vista-Vision, where everything looked red or blue.

I ask you, how many people could look at a Botticelli and see a connection to "White Christmas?" You're welcome.

The final gallery held Botticelli's later works and I'm not going to lie, once church reformer Savonorola took over Florence, forcing artists to burn profane art in the bonfires of the vanities (and, no, I hadn't known what historical event that term referred to until today) and create instead religious paintings, Botticelli's work suffered.

No one should have made that man abandon his depictions of the beautiful Simonetta.

My art lover and I continued on to the Gabriel Archer Tavern for brunch because what could be better than a drive down a grape vine-lined road after our immersion in all things Italian? The view continued as we ate and drank in a dining room with windows for walls that also looked out on trellised vines.

A wooden box reading "William Byrd Brand Peaches" set on a ledge nearby, a reminder that we were solidly in colonial territory.

Toasting the lovely Simonetta and her talented admirer with Wedmore Place Cremant and Wessex Hundred Petit Verdot, we had a most un-Renaissance meal that began with fried chili chickpeas and concluded with double chocolate hazelnut mousse, with all manner of quiche, salads and heartfelt conversation in between.

By the time we finished talking and sipping, a front had moved through and the gray humidity had been replaced with a fierce wind and a serious drop in temperature, making it more appealing to get in the car than walk the vineyard.

Homeward bound, we were barely 20 minutes in when a sign warned us of a crash ahead and traffic all but stopped. A car with New York license plates sped by us on the shoulder, was soon followed by a police car with his lights on and by the time we caught up to them, the driver was out of the car and listening earnestly, hands in pockets, to what the cop was saying.

That guy's response to the inconvenience of stopped traffic had been a poor one while we were making the most of it, especially after I was handed the driver's phone and told to choose any playlist that appealed to me, an offer I never refuse.

It took us almost an extra hour and a detour through downtown Sandston to get back to Richmond, but when you're conversing pretty much non-stop and listening to a mix called "As Time Goes By," it's pretty divine and you really don't.

Notice that it's going by, that is.

That's the End

There is a smell - a sense, really - of wet summer nights that is quite unlike anything else.

It wasn't present when I walked home from Dinamo after a fine dinner with a birthday celebrant set to - wait for it: Christopher Cross' so-called masterpiece "Ride Like the Wind" not once but twice consecutively - nor was it in sight when I headed to Saison by myself for tonight's late night brunch with chef Mike Braune.

But, man, by the time I killed my cocktail and bade farewell to the familiar faces at Saison, cars were wet, streets were slick and the air was heavy with dampness. It was enough to make me wish I was at the beach.

As if I don't often wish that.

I slid into one of the few open bar stools, conveniently near a familiar musician and his date, to see what was going on with tonight's late night brunch, ordering Another Sunrise to keep me occupied. The cocktail of vida, Espolon Blanco, orange juice, lime, Grenadine and (I kid you not) Hellfire bitters fit the bill nicely for jumping into the lively room.

I chatted with the J-Ward restaurant owners out for a post-shift meal (but of course he wanted a shot and a beer) about their impending closing and renovation plans, with the blond bartender who thought I looked vaguely familiar but mostly admired my sass, with another bartender reveling in her new gig and with the wine rep I've known for ages.

He's become my go-to for where to eat in Norfolk/Virginia Beach now that it's one of my regular destinations.

Off the chain food-wise was the fat foie gras and chocolate chip deep dish pancake, especially after a slather of vanilla butter and a dunk in smoked maple syrup (which, I won't lie, tasted a lot like licking the interior of a chimney) before landing in my mouth.

Almost as good was lamb and avocado Benedict with za'atar Hollandaise, an obscenely rich offering considering it was midnight.

Helping the cause was great conversation about the development of the scene, beer versus door prices at shows and why some of us prefer to be renters rather than homeowners given our lifestyles. We might have even touched on my questionable introduction to tequila.

Somehow, by the time I emerged several hours later, rain drops covered windshields, streets emanated steam and there was the satisfying smell of wet pavement in the air. Late summer, ahhhh....

I was only sorry I'd been so busy blathering with friends that I hadn't seen it happen.

Hellfire, those were some powerful pancakes.

Heatwave in My Brain, Smolder in My Soul

The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea. ~Isak Dinesan

My first choice would be the sea and my last resort, tears. So I sweat, while the rest of Richmond seemingly takes a different tack: retreat.

It could be when you're walking down the street and, block after block, there are no other people to be seen walking, much less the usual lounging on porches.

It's going four blocks to the ice cream shop and seeing that they're sold out of over half the flavors. Seems the neighborhood has been mainlining gelato the past few days.

It's most certainly when your friends - modern-day hippies and activists when it comes to environmental concerns - praise the benefits of releasing toxins through sweat, then admit that they're going to buy a window A/C unit tomorrow to install in the "community" room of their collective's house.

It's meeting a friend I haven't seen in months for brunch at Amuse (housemade ginger limeade, chilled one-note strawberry soup, Cheddar Bay biscuits du jour, yum, and a fresh take on tres leches cake with chocolate sauce), which is mobbed, but seeing people choose to leave rather than sit on the balcony.

Or it might be when I'm standing outside in my fourth change of clothes for the day, watering my garden and filling the birdbath at 10:30 at night.

I get it, it's next level hot. Call it "soup," call it oppressive, while I take cold showers and baths and train three fans on me while I do nothing more than read in bed or sleep.

Once I got up this morning, my apartment was already 93 degrees and it wasn't much past 9:30.

Arriving home from the Silent Music revival seeing Dharma Bombs play a soundtrack to Buster Keaton's madcap chase caper, "The Goat," it's a refreshing 96 degrees in here, down from 98 when I'd come home from a feisty three hour meeting discussing the past year's theatrical season and who's award-worthy.

While I'm at home, I pretty much live in a tank top and underwear with my hair up. A constant sheen is my new normal. There can't be a toxin left in my body.

No season suits me better than Summer in the South.

Baby, I was born to sweat.

January in the Rearview Mirror

Could there be a bigger treat than waking up on January 31 to a predicted high of 66 degrees?

While I was already looking forward to brunch plans in Carytown, it never occurred to me we'd be able to eat on the sunny patio or that I'd be inclined to walk there. Double score. Also, totally weird to be wearing a skort and t-shirt while still climbing over massive snow piles on the north side of the streets.

Knowing that Dixie Donuts closes in two weeks, there was no way I was walking by it without dipping inside for a doughnut. I may live far closer to Sugar Shack, but I far prefer Dixie's doughnuts.

The guy in line in front of me was dithering about his choice because as a newcomer to Richmond, it was his first time in, but he finally decided, telling the owner that he'd be back every Sunday after church to try all the other varieties.

"We close after Valentine's Day," she told him and his face fell, as mine would've if I hadn't already known. Somehow, the owner remembered me from our ages-ago meeting at Cask Cafe as I ordered a my usual: a chocolate chocolate doughnut (but not, it should be noted, a chocolate chocolate chocolate doughnut  because I'm not a jimmies fan).

Walking home, the streets were buzzing with everyone who'd been trapped inside last weekend, strolling, running, porch drinking, dog-walking, biking, eating outside and generally just hanging out in the sunshine. It was glorious.

My first order of business once I got home was opening all seven windows in my house, which means opening storm windows, too, but completely worth the double duty. Coming a week after the near-blizzard, I'd have done pretty much anything to access fresh, warm air.

I no sooner got the apartment opened up than I left for Sub Rosa to hear some '60s Turkish music.

Yeni Nostalji was playing a set and, as you might expect on a sunny, warm winter day, people were out and about in Church Hill withsome, like me, stopping by specifically because of Christina's dulcet tones and Vlad's beautiful guitar playing, but also others seeking the best breads in town.

The bakery was filling up quickly when I arrived to find a stool behind the wide open door. Unfortunately, one idiot closed it on his way out and after that, everyone followed suit, trapping the hot air from Evrim's wood-fired oven and putting a glow on everyone's face in minutes.

But who's going to complain when Yeni Nostalji are playing their exquisite take on Turkish pop?  A foursome came in and stood right next to the musicians, riveted, even dancing a little in place. Turns out they were Turkish students, paying Christina the ultimate compliment by praising her Turkish accent before they left.

Most of us couldn't determine that, but just being in a place that sounded and smelled so good on this beautiful last day of January was more than enough.

Thanks, Mother Nature, for the payback. Double or nothing tomorrow?

Any Kind of Fool Could See

I've long been firmly in the Foodist Colony camp. Hell, I'd wear their t-shirt if they had one.

The needy get food from the food bank, the artists pay forward good karma and people such as me get a new piece of art to live with. What's not to support?

I'd been to two such events in the past seven years, one at the short-lived Thanky Space on Brook Road and another put together by VCU students in a rented building on Main Street. Today I got my third piece of art paid for with cans - tuna fish, soup, peanut butter - to add to my walls and increase my pleasure in looking at them.

A last minute brunch invitation had me scurrying (as much as you can scurry whislt carrying a bag with 19 cans in it) over to 1708 Gallery right at noon to submit cans, ogle prints and make my selection.

The invitation had been appealingly groovy: "Pick whatever time you're going to arrive and then don't be late. Be true to your own time." I am the first to arrive so the volunteers work out their process on me as we figure it out together.

As my cans are considered for their worth, I admire the wooden crates that have been designed with orange lettering on one end proclaiming, "Foodist Colony," the handiwork of organizer Travis Robertson.

Then it's on to the art. Not surprisingly, several prints catch my eye. I look long and hard because I want to choose something that will still give me daily pleasure years from now - much like considering a mate - before deciding on Travis' clean red, green and black image.

I'm drawn to its brilliant colors, line work and symbolism. It's also the second of Travis' works I've bought, the first one scooped up at an early Jonny Z Festival and now framed and residing whimsically between two sunny windows in my living room.

Interestingly enough, that older print is also done in shades of red, green and black. But that one isn't hand-signed or numbered (16/35) like this one is. Sometimes a girl wants authentication.

By the time I walk out with my empty bag and coveted print in my hand, 1708 is filling up with bag and box-toting art lovers, including a former gallerist and artist who says, "If I'd been out of town for this, I'd have flown home for it."

We bond over our love for Travis' Foodist Colony before I set off to meet my brunch date.

Breakfast for him and lunch for me was attempted at Perly's (mobbed) and eaten at Lucy's (never disappoints), where bacon doughnut holes got us started while Player's "Baby Come Back" crooned overhead. Hello, '70s AM radio.

Young women at the bar next to us sipped successive mimosas as they discussed the hazards of saying yes too often to one's boss. "Um, no thanks, I do not want to go to another festival tonight." It must be tough being on the fast track career-wise. I certainly wouldn't know.

The '80s arrived when "Billie Jean" inexplicably followed Player, accompanying a lumberjack-sized special of fried softshell over grits with eggs on top, providing me with more than I could eat and that was after requesting just one egg instead of two.

Sopping up the last of the yolk with buttered wheat toast, it was time for me to go home and get some work done. New art procured? Oh, yes. Donation to food bank made? Check. Mid-day meal savored? Yup.

True to my own time? Always. Pride at being part of the Foodist Colony? Immeasurable.

When the Proposal's Gone

If you're going to go after someone, go after her in a big way.

With plans to meet friends for brunch, the Spring-like weather inspired me to walk to Carytown and it was only because I was walking west on an eastbound street that I even spotted the Byrd Theater's marquee.

Caroline
Will you marry me?

In the scenario in my head, the source of this message would suggest to Caroline a sunny morning walk, perhaps to brunch at Secco or Amour or even just to Dixie Donuts for a treat.

Like me, they'd round the corner - holding hands, of course, and talking animatedly about something interesting - from the Boulevard to Cary Street and Caroline would see the proposal.

He'd drop to his knees and look up at her expectantly and Caroline would smile (to the point of dimples if she had them) and nod her head repeatedly, too surprised to speak.

Another part of me thinks she'll look at the marquee, look at him, roll her eyes and laugh long and hard. Marriage, really? So old school.

Except I'll never know how Caroline reacts.

Without a shot at knowing the romantic resolution, I met my friends for brunch where conversation led to me being shown pictures of their dog and cats. It was while I was admiring their four-legged friends that my friend complained that his girlfriend gave the pets more one-on-one attention than she did him.

Turns out he wants to be stroked, petted and cooed over just the way she does with her furry roommates. I find this hilarious since I've known him for years and had no idea he wanted to be treated like a domesticated animal, which, come to think of it, I suppose some boyfriends are.

Once we finished eating and catching up, he wanted to go outside and take a picture of the Byrd's marquee, no doubt to post on Facebook. If I were cynical, I'd wonder sometimes why people took pictures before there was online posting.

From there, we parted company but only for a while. The plan was to meet at Hardywood for music in an hour, so I took my time walking home, noticing how many people were outside on their front porch soaking up this gorgeous day.

I ran into a dog walker listening to the new Matt Kearney and spotted several hopeful patches of crocus in bloom that were probably buried in snow a few days ago.

When I got home, I was glad I'd left my windows open before setting out because the apartment smelled like sunshine and freshness instead of the same stale winter air that's been circulating for months now.

Luckily, Hardywood had taken the same approach, opening two of the garage doors to the brewery so that the afternoon sunshine and warmth could permeate the smelly hop-saturated space.

My brunch dates were nowhere to be found, but my favorite Jackson Ward couple were there, already engrossed in the Green Boys' set, which had just begun.

It was the Green Boys who had brought this non-beer drinker out to a brewery today because it had been too long since I'd seen them play. Young and extremely talented, their brand of country revival ranges from sad and slow to dance-worthy almost bluegrass.

A friend whispered that they hadn't been playing out much lately, but you'd never have known from their tight harmonies and playing. A few people up front were shuffling about as if they wanted to dance but hadn't yet had quite enough beer to make it so.

It was during their set that my brunch friends finally arrived, admitting that they'd gone home, sat down in front of a screen and almost fallen asleep. "I said, we better get up and do something or we'll be in for the rest of the day," my friend recalled.

Let's see, music in a room open to the temperate afternoon or sitting inside oblivious to the loveliness of the day. Not a tough call.

We chatted with the friend who's recently begun working at Sugar Shack Donuts, which surely holds a lot of appeal as far as munching goes, but also requires being at work at 4 a.m. Um, no thanks.

Her husband was funny, though. "She comes home smelling like a doughnut sometimes," he said with a shrug, as if saying his wife could smell like worse. Given how wondrous just the air around Sugar Shack smells when I walk by, I imagine having a partner smelling of fried dough would have its appeal.

All of us were looking forward to seeing Locust Honey, a Nashville by way of Asheville quartet of women.

Watching them set up, one friend admitted he'd always wanted to play fiddle but didn't have the patience to learn. Another said she was in love with the sound of slide guitar and drawn to guys who played it ("Oh, good hands, eh?").

I shared that a girlfriend had assured me that if you were going to date a musician, a horn player was the way to go.

My friends had opposite reactions. The boyfriend looked confused, but my friend wasn't. "Embouchure!" she squealed, apparently having learned its benefits from a teenage boyfriend who played trumpet. Her current squeeze rolled his eyes.

Sound issues finally resolved, it was time for Locust Honey to play.

Fiddler Chloe said they'd just come from doing a radio show in Floyd, Virginia ("Anyone heard of a little town called Floyd?" got all the old hippies affirming) where she'd been cast as a French Labrador ("Oof!" she barked). "It was our shining moment in musical theater," the banjo player joked.

With banjo, fiddle, upright bass and acoustic guitar, the band played intimate-sounding new and old-timey songs, harmonizing ethereally as only women's voices can.

"It's nice to look out and see people looking happy and sunny like Spring is coming," the guitarist said.

When the crowd was asked if anyone was an Ernest Tubb fan, only one person yelled back. "That's all you need is one," Chloe said.

Saying they had a song being used in an upcoming Richard Gere movie, they announced the song "When the Whiskey's Gone," saying, "It's a tragedy." No doubt brown liquor drinkers everywhere agree with that sentiment.

All four were talented musicians playing confidently, with three of them trading vocals for a variety of lead singers and musical genres. Songs ranged from old English ballads to classic country to gospel with the occasional man-done-me-wrong song thrown in.

Hands-down favorite title: "I've Forgotten More Than You'll Ever Know About Him."

Amen, honey.

Although many in the crowd left before their set ended, those of us who stayed were treated to the Green Boys' Nathaniel sitting in on mandolin for their last barn-burner before saying goodnight.

Best of all, walking out, it wasn't pitch black because of last night's change to daylight savings time. It felt like there was still time for something good to happen.

Still time to say yes. Caroline, if you've already forgotten more about him than any other woman will ever know, you may as well go ahead and accept. What else have you got to do?

Lunch is for Later

The thing about brunch is, some people just want breakfast.

When we'd made these plans, I thought it was for lunch. Turns out my companions had other ideas so we detoured to Perly's instead.

No one was surprised at how busy it was, but it didn't take too long to get seated at a booth and out of the way of the bustling servers.

It was my first look at the morning menu - dubbed "Sunrise" - which offered all kinds of temptations (but no pig products) and after some discussion, we placed our order with our smiling server.

Time to socialize.

The artist in the group shared pictures of some of his latest endeavors, everything from his handmade groovy guitar strap to a recent painting and textile wall hanging incorporating beads and figures.

Meanwhile, the False Cape expedition survivor (humongous horse flies, horrific heat and flying tents) told us about her upcoming trip next week to Yosemite, Tahoe and Sacramento.

The best I could do was talk about the stellar band I'd seen last night at Balliceaux.

We had plenty of time to chat because our food took a while to arrive, understandably given the jam-packed restaurant and the fact that they've barely been open two weeks.

When our server arrived, she had only two plates in hand and put them down in front of my companions; at that moment there was a loud crash from the back.

"Gee, I hope that wasn't yours," she said to me with a slight grimace and grin.

Fortunately, it wasn't and soon we were all tucking in to our breakfasts as a light rain fell outside.

Chocolate babka French toast with banana cream anglaise and blueberries was decadent without being too chocolaty (given that it was the first meal of the day) and got even better with the addition of the salt component in the form of strips of turkey bacon.

Two of us did the build your own breakfast, enjoying kishka - beef sausage with oatmeal- for the first time and debating what makes better toast, seeded rye or challah.

My vote is for the former, slathered with butter and strawberry jam delivered in a ramekin.

People kept arriving as we ate and they ran the gamut, some of them no doubt long-time Perly's regulars from its last incarnation and plenty of others looking more like they'd arrived via the Black Sheep connection since the chef is the same one who launched that brunch mecca.

Boldly ordering a cross between dessert and a drink, the artist got the shickered egg cream (delivered in a miniature glass milk bottle), a compelling combination of bourbon, cream, cream de cacao, Fex's U-Bet chocolate syrup and almond orgeat seltzer fizz.

Because sometimes when you want breakfast, you also want a bit of a buzz.

I think that's why they call it brunch.

Blame It on the Bossa Nova

I'm on a brunch jag.

For the third time in a week, I accepted a brunch invitation, this time choosing Aziza's on Main because in the five plus years they've been open, I'd never eaten anything but lunch and dinner there.

Exiting the car in front of 2113 Bistro directly across the street, I noticed their sign advertising a bossa nova brunch, but stayed true to Aziza's anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I love me some bossa nova, but once committed, you have to follow through. As luck would have it, they had a theme of their own going, playing a solid '80s soundtrack.

It began with Mister Mister's "Broken Wings," a song my date guessed as '90s, but which I was certain was '80s ('85, to be exact). His problem was that he couldn't remember what he was doing when the song was big and that's always key when you try to recall a song's year.

The brunch menu was pretty straightforward with few flourishes, but I happily settled on the Lebanese scramble with bits of London broil and onion while my fellow eater decided to take the measure of a brunch spot by ordering the sausage gravy biscuit.

Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing" naturally brought up MTV and the ubiquitous video that even had toddlers singing, "chicks for free."

Not much better was Steve Perry's "Oh, Sherrie," another played to death video of the era, one that might as well have been a Journey song.

And we all know how I feel about Journey.

Our food arrived from two directions, his from the huge wood-burning oven in the back and mine from the kitchen, spurring me to ask our brightly-clad server what was up.

In an attempt to speed up brunch service, they have different stations, some front and some back and over easy eggs come from the oven in the back while my scrambled are handled up front.

Hey, you don't find out stuff unless you ask and I'm anything but shy about asking.

I liked my meat and onion studded eggs (could have used more butter on my toast, but when isn't that the case?) and my date's fried eggs were perfectly executed, runny yolks and all, so sopping ensued.

Difficult as it was for me to turn down dessert of Aziza's cream puff, I did, but only because I have dinner plans and a girl's got to stop eating at some point...if only so she can do it again later.

We detoured to Union Market afterwards, where I ran into a favorite sous chef and his honey picking up a few goodies in between moving in to a house on the Hill today.

They were all smiles about their move.

At the register, I was surprised to see the smiling and dimpled face of the hard-hitting drummer I'd just seen at Balliceaux the other night, who admitted he'd had to ice his arm after that show.

He'd also noticed that I'd dipped out before the last song and called me on it, forcing me to admit that after an evening that had spanned eight hours and multiple destinations, I'd finally gotten tuckered out.

Honestly, I needed to go home and get some sleep so I could get up and go to brunch the next morning. All this morning eating is exhausting.

Black Iron Bitches Brunch

Who can be bothered with her daily walk when she has girlfriends to meet for brunch?

The Monument Avenue 10K had caused us to scrap our plans to meet at 821 (hence last night's visit) and try Lunch instead, despite a 40-minute wait when we arrived.

Ho-hum, just another Saturday morning at Lunch.

With umbrellas overhead and plenty to start talking about, our trio would have waited longer than that.

As if turned out, it wasn't even ten minutes before we were offered three seats at the bar and all was right with the world.

The music was set to solid gold soul - Dusty Springfield, Stevie Wonder- and our only wish was that it was louder.

I was the only one who hadn't brought major news but the other two had plenty. One is about to get a big, juicy promotion where she'll get to run things efficiently instead of pushing paper and the other is seeing a new (and very handsome) man, the best kisser she's ever had.

Hold on to a good kisser, my dear, because it bodes well for other things.

There were plenty of post-10K runners in there but between the three of us, we don't have one athletic bone in our bodies, so while they may have been eating the runner's special of an egg white omelet, we were more into real food- Nutella French toast, Greek omelets, the Ike with a monster pile of potato chips.

They talked about how a few drinks (or even caffeine) before shopping loosens a girl's wallet, but since I hate shopping, I stayed out of that one. Our server complimented my friend's cute glasses, recognizing them as the exact same ones she has. On more philosophical matters, we tried to figure out why guy friends never go to brunch together.

After plowing through our food, we set about coordinating upcoming music events: the great busk, a new Turkish band, a loud feminist punk band. Not the kinds of shows you want to be left out of.

Since it seemed rude to linger at the bar when people were waiting outside to get in, we took our post-meal conversation out to the sidewalk for a while.

Being better at the girl thing than I am, one was off to go shoe shopping and the other to go thrifting while I was returning to the Byrd for another French film.

Lady Luck was with me because I found a prime parking space next to Coppola's and managed to slide into an aisle seat for "Demi Soeur" with a minute to spare.

Taking up residence next to me were two young guys, one of whom commented, "This looks good!" when the opening credits began and all we could see was a church spire.

Optimist or French film expert, it was hard to tell.

But he was right about the sweet comedy about a mentally challenged woman (and her pet turtle, Tootie), Nenette, trying to find her father after her mother dies and instead finding her half brother, a lonely, introverted man with an ordered life but no friends or contact with his own family.

Because it was French and things like this never happen in American movies, the woman gets lost in the woods and stumbles on a rave with a screaming band called the Black Iron Bitches thrashing onstage while people on Ecstasy dance hypnotically.

It's through meeting the Bitches that she ends getting a makeup job from Too Much, the lead singer (a black star on her eye and deep plum colored lipstick on an old woman look pretty interesting), along with a bag of Ecstasy when the cops arrive mid-show.

It's that drug which she uses as sweetener in her brother's coffee, having been told that's what it is, that causes him to see everything and everyone in a new light. It was most definitely a ringing endorsement for drug use to affect a better personality.

He ends up having a euphoric day, the best of his life, with his half sister at the seashore, releasing his pet hermit crabs to the ocean and visiting and trying to make amends with his ex-wife and son from whom he's been estranged.

It wasn't a deep movie and it's not likely to be as memorable as any of the other films I've seen this time around at the FFF.

But I like to think that watching a sweet parable about what matters in life kind of counts as doing something  girly after brunch.

It also gives me an idea for what my brunch buddies and I can call ourselves from here on out.

Soul, with a Side of Sad

I swear, all I did was sit down. I wasn't looking for anything more than a seat.

My Sunday began, as all good Sundays should, with brunch, but not at a restaurant.

The Sharon Jones soul brunch was happening at Steady Sounds, an easy three-block walk from my house, and the occasion was the impending release of the new Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings album.

I walked in to hear the mellow madness of Michael Murphy spinning soul 45s and proceeded upstairs where he was for brunch.

There I found the pop-up style guru, the cheese whiz and lots of others chowing down. Me, I passed by three kinds of Proper Pies to get to Heritage's chicken and waffles with chile honey.

I may not be a southerner by birth, but damned if I don't think that chicken and waffles is the best breakfast ever.

Downstairs, I found more friends, the mod-looking DJ who's growing out her bangs for the first time since I've known her and a favorite cute couple.

I'd seen on Facebook recently that half the couple had posted that, "a perfect Friday night would include art, pie and dancing," so naturally I asked if his had.

Affirmative. Curious about the source of the pie, he said he'd gotten it at Bamboo, "served with a side of crochety."

Apparently when you order pie at Bamboo at 1:45 a.m., the server will tell you you're not allowed to eat it there. And the pie won't be as good as at Garnett's, either, he said.

I couldn't resist looking at the latest art show, Nick Crider's "Work," a collection of prints as well as posters for music shows, trying to decide which one I'd like to own given how reasonably priced they were.

Too full from brunch and with too many people to talk to, I couldn't decide, but I'll go back and score one before the show ends, that much I know.

When I left there, soul music was still blaring and the joint was just as full, always a pleasure to see at my neighborhood record store.

My next stop was the VMFA to see "Atonement," part of the "60 Films in 60 Days" series they're doing.

I slid into a seat at the end of my favorite row and the couple next to me turned as if they'd been awaiting my arrival.

It was the trifecta. Recent transplants landing in my lap again, just like the past two nights.

These had moved from Morgantown, West Virginia and were over the moon about being back in a place with more than chain restaurants and culture at every turn.

They'd just heard of Lucy's and wanted to know if I'd been. They wanted restaurant recommendations and to know about docent tours at the VMFA. They were my kind of people.

In the fifteen minutes before the film began, I learned that they'd seen the Hollywood photography show and, like me, liked it even better than the costume show.

The one of Liz Taylor on the beach was her favorite, she told me after asking mine (couldn't decide).

Interestingly enough, she'd once had a chance to meet Liz, back when she was Warner's wife and living in Virginia.

But a prior engagement had prevented her from going and she'd never gotten over missing her chance.

"I divorced him because he kept me from meeting Elizabeth Taylor," the woman said dryly and I knew we were going to be friends.

I guess that makes you the lucky replacement, I said to her current husband.

"That's me, Mr. Lucky," he grinned, actually sounding sincere.

They were delightful and just before the lights went down, insisted that we exchange cards after the movie so we could meet for drinks or dinner.

Honestly, I did not try to engage these people, they engaged me.

As for "Atonement," I'd seen it at the Westhampton back in 2007 when it came out, but frankly, anything that happened before 2009 is like another lifetime to me, so I'd forgotten how a) beautifully shot it was and b) heart-breakingly sad.

The first half takes place on a summer's day so scenes of lush, green, English fields, hollyhocks and Queen Anne's lace blooming everywhere, felt as faraway as 2007.

Doors were left open, bees crawled on windowpanes and people asked questions at dinner like, "Does the hot weather make you behave badly?"

I only wish it was hot enough for me to answer yes to that.

After an ending that had me in tears, my new friends were as good as their word, insisting we get together soon for drinks and more conversation at the very least.

He handed me a card with both their names, both their phone numbers and a shared e-mail address printed on it.

I found it quaint, perhaps because I'd never seen a couple's card before.

Maybe it's the prize you get when you finally find Mr. Lucky.

Pheasants and P.Y.T.s

Brunch for me usually means lunch.

But not today because a visiting friend wanted to meet at 12:15 and I didn't get up in time to have breakfast before walking over to Magpie.

Good thing, too, because it's a very egg-centric menu on Sunday, something I hadn't known since, despite many dinners there, I'd never done brunch.

I chose a bar table by a sunny window so we had a view of Leigh Street and new arrivals.

Not eating breakfast at home meant I'd missed my morning grapefruit, so I lucked out finding fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice on the beverage listing.

Before ordering it, my friend inquired of our server whether it was sweet or tart and she answered honestly that it depended on the grapefruits squeezed on any given day.

Today they were sweet and pink and the glass of juice was a worthy substitution for my usual.

I warned my friend that the music usually skewed '80s at Magpie, but in addition to the expected Depeche Mode and INXS, we heard a superb acoustic and folksy cover of MJ's "P.Y.T." that launched a discussion of Richmond's overall vibe versus that of Washington.

We're just not trying as hard in Richmond, making for a far less intense way of life, something readily apparent to a visitor like my friend.

For our very Richmond breakfast, we chose chicken-fried pheasant with cheese grits, collard greens, poached eggs and popcorn cream.

The collards were nicely done, not overcooked and generously studded with hunks of bacon.

I'm a sucker for any kind of fried bird, especially when the crust is so well seasoned and as my northern friend noted, the grits were a thing of beauty, long cooked and with just enough cheese to make them an indulgence and not just a breakfast staple.

Huevos Rancheros delivered housemade pheasant sausage, black beans cooked in beer, poblano cream and fried eggs on a grilled tortilla.

The three patties of sausage were stellar, but then the chef is a hunter and a master with game, so that was a surprise only to the visitor.

While eating, we geeked out on linguistics, because that's not an interest I have in common with many people and my friend has been researching a book, so he was full of recently discovered phrases dating back to the American south in the 19th century.

I was especially impressed that he was planning to use them as a matter of course without explanation in his book, a method that's catnip to word lovers like me who want to research what they don't recognize.

One thing I know is that it was my first all-pheasant breakfast and that it had taken me way too long to try the Magpie on a Sunday.

Considering I can walk over (and did) and that they'll already have the grapefruit squeezed for me, I'm thinking it'll happen again.

The other thing I now know is that language nerd chatter is harder to find than pheasant on Sunday.

At least in laid back Richmond.

Tongue to Tongue

Last year, it was a first day hike.

This year, a first day brunch.

When a friend and I heard that Pasture was doing a Mexican brunch, we immediately committed to it.

I'd been to Comfort's Mexican brunch a couple of years ago and remember the thrill of eating off a south of the border menu instead of the usual southern comfort food.

This was to be the same thing.

Walking in to a half full restaurant, the hostess, looking cute in a ruffled skirt and boots, led us to a front window table.

I'd expected a bigger crowd, but it was already going on 3:00 and apparently the crowds had arrived en masse on the dot of 11 when they first opened.

My question was, who the hell is up that early on New Year's Day? And why?

The menu was far more extensive than what I'd remembered last time, meaning the decision making process was more challenging.

All except the given, tacos lingua.

Must have braised beef tongue when available.

So Friend and I split an order of three, making for his first tongue taco experience, a fact I took great pleasure in.

And of course he loved them, finding the tomatillo salsa and cheese a yummy addition to the long-cooked slices of tongue.

He even went so far as to make corny jokes about being glad he'd brushed his teeth before going tongue to tongue with his lunch.

Wah, wah.

When our server returned to find an empty plate mere minutes later, he observed, "Guess you didn't like those."

Everyone's a comedian on New Year's Day.

Up next for me was a tostada with braised chicken in red chile sauce and pickled slaw on top.

The deep flavor of the chicken and chile was satisfying, especially on a gray and damp afternoon.

The new tongue lover got seared Scottish salmon in Mexico City-style green pumpkin seed sauce, wrapping bits of fish in the accompanying flour tortillas and oohing and ahhing over the sauce.

All I know is the bites he shared with me would make a salmon lover swoon.

As we lingered in the front window eating our first brunch of 2013, we talked about our New Year's eves (he worked, I played), his love life ("I don't need any more women right now!" he said about being introduced to one) and about people who are up for anything.

We agreed that they're the best kind.

When our server came to inquire if we needed coffee or tequila (hmmm, how did he know?), my friend piped up, saying, "How about dessert?"

The choices included the "candy bar" that we'd devoured at our last Pasture lunch, as well as three other options.

My friend dithered over choosing until I finally laid it out there. "You know you want the candy bar, so just get it," I bossed him.

"Yea, you're right," he admitted sheepishly and a candy bar was delivered post haste.

If you've never had this combination of dark chocolate pate over peanut butter with a mound of thick caramel beside it, be forewarned.

Despite how obscenely rich it is, you will eat every bite.

And if you're sharing with, say, a good friend, eat quickly or risk a fork in your hand.

Once the sweet course was finished, we looked around and realized we were one of only two tables left, despite another hour before brunch ended.

Walking out onto Grace Street, the bells of the church across the street were ringing, making for a symbolic reminder of the new year we were ringing in with our shared meal.

I was even thanked for being such a good friend, a compliment I returned.

Sure, a first day hike would have been nice, but 2013 got off to a terrific start with sharing food and conversation with someone who's heard all my stories and knows where all the bodies were buried over the past four tumultuous years.

I'd even go so far as to say starting the year with him is a good omen for the coming year.

Come on, lucky '13, bring it on.

Moving Beyond Green Eggs & Lamb

Brunch on a holiday weekend is always a crap shoot. You never know who'll be open.

When I'd gotten home last night, I'd found an invitation from a friend saying only "Breakfast tomorrow?"

He wanted to eat at the ungodly hour of 10, so I guess that disqualified it as brunch.

We struck out at Ettamae's because they're on vacation, although Chef Matt was there working away.

He did share that they're debuting a new dinner menu starting next week, so that was worth hearing about.

But where to go now?

Keeping with the "E" theme, we drove down Broad to The Empress, spotted a couple sitting in the window and went in to choose our own window seat.

Our two talkative tables must have been just the incentive people needed because tables continued to be filled from then on.

Today's menu had a breakfast section and a lunch section, but no Green Eggs and Lamb, long my go-to on their brunch menu.

Owner Melissa explained that the price of lamb had tripled, so she'd taken my favorite off the menu. And understandably so.

It was probably a good thing, forcing me to try something different, so I ordered the Chorizo pizza with fresh Mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on herb focaccia.

My friend considered the Manly Man's Breakfast (two fried eggs over bison gravy and mashed potatoes) but chose instead the Simply Breakfast of bacon, seasoned potatoes, two poached eggs and toast with jam.

I didn't consider him any less of a manly man because of his decision. Or maybe I'm just not into manly men.

Of course we got a side of bacon. The two of us try never to go to breakfast or brunch and not have a plate of bacon to nosh on.

My pizza turned out to be an inspired choice; the thick bread made a savory bed for the sliced Chorizo and cheese topping and I scarfed it down like I hadn't eaten all day.

I hadn't. And I'm the type who usually gets up and eats within minutes, so I was starved.

Spying my suddenly empty plate, our server came over and offered to take it, saying, "But I won't take that one because there's still bacon on it."

Good thinking if you don't want a fork in the back of your hand.

My friend's breakfast suited him just as well with perfectly poached eggs, addictive potatoes and The Empress' usual exceptional bread.

Once the bacon was finished, we had a lingering salty taste that could only be cured by dessert.

I'm sure some people would look askance at dessert after breakfast/brunch, but we're not two of them.

When our server offered us the chocolate chile pate, we gave him the "Is that a rhetorical question?" look and soon after it appeared.

There's a good reason their pate took first prize at Broad Appetit last year; the combination of dark chocolate and the heat of the chiles on the finish is sublime.

Not to be overly optimistic, but I think it bodes well for the rest of the day when you've already had dessert by noon.

My friend chalked it up to a bacon/chocolate endorphin high.

I say whatever gets you through a Sunday...

New to Brunch? Follow Me

A great restaurant review will usually keep me away from a place for months.

No sense competing with the herds; it's easier to steer clear until the dust settles.

But then a group of us wanted to go to brunch today and it was such a beautiful day for a walk and Ettamae's has such a tasty brunch and so I just said damn the review and off we went.

As I suspected, with Broad Appetit tomorrow, brunch in J-Ward wasn't nearly as crowded as usual.

Every table on the patio was taken naturally, but I never mind sitting in the charming pink dining room, now much cooler with improvements in the a/c system.

Two of our party were completely new to Ettamae's and one had had dinner, so brunch was virgin territory for all three. Not so me, of course.

I always recommend Matt's corned beef, so one went the corned beef hash and eggs, another with one of today's specials, the stuffed French toast with mixed berries and cream cheese, and the third with the silver dollar pancakes, a menu staple with good reason.

Me, I was ready for lunch and took advantage of the roasted chicken salad over mesclun with some good looking tomato slices.

I love steering people to Ettamae's corned beef because I always get thanked for it. The four triangles of French toast were almost as thick as a club sandwich and got raves all around the table. The silver dollars were apparently as light as a feather.

By the time we went downstairs to pay, all three were converts to Ettamae's brunch (and about damn time, I say).

I couldn't help but ask co-owner Laura if the recent review had brought the suburbanites out of the woodwork; it had, she admitted.

My guess was that they handle coming to Jackson Ward the same way they do going to Carver to the Black Sheep.

That is, they drop off the women-folk right in front of the restaurant while the manly men park the over-sized vehicle and bravely walk the block to the restaurant. I got an affirmative on that.

But once inside, Laura says they squeal over how cute the place is and I know for a fact that they must enjoy the food because it's consistently terrific.

And it pleases me no end to have people come to my neighborhood, whether timidly or boldly, and spend money.

Even better if they decide to take a walk and check out its historic beauty after eating.

Jackson Ward: It's not just for First Fridays anymore.

Love is in the Air at The Empress

Going out to eat on Mother's Day is like going out on Valentine's Day or St. Patrick's Day. You've got to carefully pick your spot.

So we carefully picked The Empress and timed brunch for almost 2:00, figuring the worst of the hordes would be finishing up and we were right.

It was a beautiful day for brunching on Broad Street and the open door allowed the warm-smelling air into the bustling dining room.

Our little two-top was the oddball in a room full of large groups. We saw some very sweet grandmotherly types, one in the kind of pale pink knit pants that only grandmothers can pull off.

Settled in with rose hibiscus iced tea, we opted for both breakfast and lunch, ordering the challah French toast with peanut butter sauce and fresh whipped cream and the arugula salad with chickpeas, sunflower seeds, chicken and Edam cheese in a red wine vinaigrette, thus satisfying both cravings.

We finished with chocolate/strawberry crepes placed on a plate of chocolate sauce poured to look like a daisy, making for a very groovy and rich ending to a lovely meal.

Owner Melissa was waiting tables and when I inquired as to why, she explained that she was allowing each of her employees to leave for a few hours to celebrate with their mothers, a very sweet gesture for a boss, we thought.

But then, The Empress is the only place I know where the menu clearly states (as do the servers if you ask why something is so good) that they offer love-infused social cuisine, so apparently there's a lot of love floating around the place.

Hell, I'm all about the love, wherever I may find it.

Ettamae's Mad World Brunch

It is a practically perfect brunch when you have both sausage and bacon on your plate while hearing "Mad World" sung live. The only place I know where that happened today in RVA was Ettamae's Cafe and I made sure I had a prime table for it.

Ettamae's now has wine and beer so traditional mimosas as well as a lemon/basil variety were available. Talking to co-owner Laura later, she said she's thinking of adding a pomegranate version, too.

"Just trying to keep it weird," she explained and I agreed that weird is what J-Ward loves. "What do you think of calf's blood as a mixer? A bloody mimosa!" That's my kind of brunch humor.

Upstairs, I took a table facing singer Ian Hanawalt and his guitar; a guy at the next table said hello and a couple of his friends smiled. I decided to go with one of the Saturday specials, a sausage, onion, apple and Swiss cheese omelet with toast. For good measure, I asked for a side of bacon.

"Not that anyone needs sausage and bacon," I admitted to my vintage-aproned server. "Need, want," she said. "You'd be amazed how many people want both." I must have more kindred eating souls out there than I realized.

Having live music at brunch is such a treat and Ian Hanawalt was doing a fine job of entertaining us with original material as well as covers. Besides the classic "Mad World," he did Old Crow Medicine Show's "Wagon Wheel," probably best known for Dylan having written the chorus.

My omelet was an ideal balance of sweet and salty and absolutely stuffed with hot sausage (my favorite breakfast type) made even better by the three slices of perfectly cooked bacon nestling next to it.

I used strawberry jam-spread toast and the bowl of mixed fruit to round out my breakfast as I listened to Ian. I'd brought the Post, but against the good food and music, it didn't hold a candle so it sat unread.

Talking to the guys at the next table after Ian's set ended, I discovered that they were a Philly band who'd done a house show in J-Ward last night and were making their way to Charlottesville for a show tonight.

How could I resist asking them about their music? The first thing they explained was that the band's name, Kill You in the Face, was not representative of their sound. Well, that was good news.

The hemmed and hawed about describing themselves, finally settling on something they'd been told, that they had a '90s sound with jazz influences (they have a trumpeter who explained how much damage Dizzy Gillespie did to his face with improper blowing techniques).

Naturally I came home to check them out online where I discovered the irrelevance of their name to the band's melodic and upbeat poppy sound. Now I wish that I'd been at that house show last night (or at least that they come back and play another show here).

But I don't wish I'd been anywhere else but at Ettamae's Cafe for that well-made breakfast, all the more pleasurable for Ian's live music accompaniment.

As the guys in Kill You in the Face noted as we were paying, "This is a great place and a really cool neighborhood. So glad we got to experience it"

Don't I know it, weirdness and all.