Fourth time's the charm apparently.
It's not like I hadn't been on the canal boat tour before because I had, dating back as far as 2008 and as recently as 2017. But this was the first time that it was just me, my date and the boat's captain and who am I to complain about a private tour?
You know me, I'll revel in it.
Even better, our captain was a Scotsman, complete with accent ("goods" sounded like "gutes") and tales from his recent trip back to Glasgow, where improbably, he experienced only one hour of rain over ten days. I'm here to tell you I was only in Scotland for three days and, with the exception of one hour, it rained, snowed, hailed or sleeted the entire time. When I mentioned I had a friend who lives in Barrhead, we were instant buddies.
But I digress.
The idea of taking the canal boat tour had been based solely on the glorious weather which was mid-70s, sunny and breezy without a drop of humidity in the air. And while I love my humidity, it gets mighty hot on the canal when it's hanging in the air. Besides, if a boat tooling along the canal wasn't the ideal place to be from 6 to 7:00, it was pretty darn close.
Since I'd been on the tour before, one thing I'd learned was that each captain has his own spiel and they differ. Our Scotsman, for instance, made no mention of the canal as a natural habitat - great blue herons, turtles - as several past guides had.
Instead, he was all about the history, some of it old hat (the spy Elizabeth van Lew posing as a mumbling homeless person to gather intel) and some of it new to me. Captain Dave explained that Tobacco Row had come to be because all the tobacco companies wanted the easy access to boats bringing in tobacco leaf, so they all built warehouses long the canal.
Seems it didn't take long for everyone to realize that the warehouses were prone to flooding and the companies fled for higher ground. All, that is, except Philip Morris, who stayed put. Interesting how that decision played out in the long run. I mean, let's not forget that as recently as 1984 (!!), Richmond held the National Tobacco Festival, complete with parade and Tobacco Queen and who do you suppose helped finance the festivities?
Call for Philip Morris (how's that for dating myself?).
The best part of being on a private tour (even if it was accidental) was having the ability to move around the boat to see whatever we wanted to or escape the sun while Captain Dave regaled us with obscure information, his enthusiasm for the local history evident in every obscure fact he shared. That and not having strangers' bodies blocking the breeze.
After disembarking, we headed up the hill toward Elizabeth van Lew's old estate (now a school) and onward to Dutch & Co. for dinner. The dining room was filling up but the bar was wide open except for a couple of women discussing what's wrong with men and relationships at the far end. And rather loudly, I might add.
Fortunately, nothing that a little Rose of Cinsault couldn't blot out.
Turns out it's Crabcake Week in Richmond and it's to benefit Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay, a worthy cause if ever there was one. Given my childhood in Maryland, I couldn't help but order Dutch's version given that they were baked, not fried, and served with succotash. I believe I've gone on record as saying that good succotash makes me weak in the knees and this was the first I've had this year.
But before that came an amuse bouche of a tiny pea shoot meringue with cilantro cream, followed by fave bean crostini, a fine starter that layered Sub Rosa bread with mashed fava beans, spicy Capicola (oh, how I've missed you, Capicola!) and a drizzle of honey. The bread and spread made a glorious backdrop for the killer one-two punch of the meat's spice and the honey's sweetness.
Then the crabcakes showed up and the swooning began. Two fat filler-less crabcakes (as in gluten-free, so zero bread binder) looked more like lump crab patties than traditional crabcakes, bound only with a little mayo, mustard and egg. To take them over the top was lobster roe butter sauce and a healthy helping of bacon-studded succotash with fresh fava beans and sweet corn.
Be still my heart (and belly).
I'd have scarfed them down even if it didn't aid the Bay, though I'll admit I felt a little more virtuous for knowing it did.
When it came time for dessert, I passed right over the regular dessert menu for a special of phyllo dough-wrapped chocolate cake, topped with chocolate ganache and orange marmalade. After I ordered it, the bartender double-checked to make sure I understood about the phyllo dough part, aka the buttery, crispy "leaves" surrounding the chocolate center. Seems several women have ordered it and then been upset that it's not just chocolate cake.
It reminded me of that time I ordered Spam at Ste. Ex in D.C., only to have the sever ask if I knew what Spam was. Well, duh. Why do you think I ordered it, son?
Anyway, the dessert was a brilliant take on an old standard, the phyllo's outer crispiness a satisfying textural contrast to the soft, dark center it encased. At my date's suggestion, we savored it with glasses of Ten Year Old Tawny Port, all but ensuring that we weren't going anywhere anytime soon.
But as Captain Dave had told us at the beginning of the cruise, what's the hurry? We'd sailed the seas, had a private history lesson, saved the Bay and outlasted the men-bashers.
I'd say that's more than enough for a Monday night.
Showing posts with label canal boats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label canal boats. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Best Laid Plans
What are we doing?
Because I seem to be everyone's default planner, inevitably when I make a date to meet someone, they count on me to decide what we're going to do (and usually, where we're going to eat). And it isn't a recent phenomena because I was always the organizer of trips and excursions as far back as my college days, when I was gifted with a shirt that read, "Social Director."
Plans "R" me, if you will.
So after a friend recently told me he was really enjoying getting to know new things through me, I laid out a simple Monday evening that began with parking once and partying twice.
Because it's only fair to revisit a place I haven't been in years, we began at Casa del Barco for happy hour.
I still love the Italianate building, the sunlight glinting off the bottles hung from the ceiling and the rustic metal light fixtures over the bar, yet I still marvel at how such a large staff can be so inattentive when there are only a dozen customers.
Heaven help us if we'd wanted food.
Still, through patience, hand signals and flagging down a manager with a headset, we were able to procure glasses of Prosecco on two separate occasions, although I have to believe it shouldn't be that challenging.
From there we walked to the turning basin to board the Martha Jefferson so my date could experience his first canal boat ride. I'd purposely chosen the last boat ride of the day, the better to appreciate the soft evening light and the sunset's reflections off the downtown buildings.
Where I was surprised - this was, after all, my fourth canal boat ride, although it had been several years since my last - was in the spiel delivered by our young female boat driver.
In addition to the standard patter about the burning of Richmond and the tobacco warehouses, we heard about how one of the bridges was modeled on Paris' Pont Neuf, the city's oldest bridge. Who knew?
Just as surprising was the story of Maggie Walker, complete with a reference to the new statue here in Jackson Ward. That definitely wasn't part of the tour before, although I was thrilled to hear it shared as just another key part of Richmond history.
On the uncrowded boat with us was an Hispanic family, the youngest son in a t-shirt with an American flag and the Dad proudly wearing a U.S. Army hat, all of them except the youngest child (who was fixated by a screen), seemingly enthralled with the history lesson they were hearing.
Depending on your politics, they could have been a poster family for American assimilation or an example of just the kind of no-good people we need to build a wall to keep out.
Don't get me started.
For my companion, who was seeing the Low Line, man-made Chapel Island and the half bascule bridge (think mules and rocks) from the water for the first time since I'd walked him over that territory, it was an opportunity to delight in an alternate vantage point.
Everything looks different from the water.
During the Q & A, someone inquired about the canal's depth and the driver said it was only up to her waist, a fact she'd recently learned when her sunglasses went overboard.
"But I don't recommend getting in because it's pretty gross," she shared. It was my first canal boat ride without a blue heron sighting, although I see them so frequently on the pipeline now that I can't really complain.
Once back on dry land, we weren't ready to return to air-conditioning, instead ending up in the brick-walled garden of Sang Jun Thai for dinner. We shared the dusky patio space with only one other table and it held friends already enjoying a meal.
Our server was sweet and incredibly young-looking, but also flummoxed when the first two bottles of wine we ordered were no longer available. Seems the wine list needs updating and no one could be bothered to do it.
Eventually, she brought out a hand-written list of available wines for us to choose from, we each ordered a glass and she returned with just one. We took it as a hint that we should abandon any hope of drinking.
But our entrees - broccoli lover with chicken and Chinese broccoli with crispy pork belly - were solid, the lanterns came on to provide ambiance and our friends moved on, leaving us the sole occupants of the charming patio.
No, I hadn't planned that part, although I might have if I'd known how.
But listening to Curtis Mayfield by candlelight on my balcony afterward while sipping Eden Imperial 11 Rose? That was all me.
I got this plan-making thing down cold. Or warm, as the night may be.
Because I seem to be everyone's default planner, inevitably when I make a date to meet someone, they count on me to decide what we're going to do (and usually, where we're going to eat). And it isn't a recent phenomena because I was always the organizer of trips and excursions as far back as my college days, when I was gifted with a shirt that read, "Social Director."
Plans "R" me, if you will.
So after a friend recently told me he was really enjoying getting to know new things through me, I laid out a simple Monday evening that began with parking once and partying twice.
Because it's only fair to revisit a place I haven't been in years, we began at Casa del Barco for happy hour.
I still love the Italianate building, the sunlight glinting off the bottles hung from the ceiling and the rustic metal light fixtures over the bar, yet I still marvel at how such a large staff can be so inattentive when there are only a dozen customers.
Heaven help us if we'd wanted food.
Still, through patience, hand signals and flagging down a manager with a headset, we were able to procure glasses of Prosecco on two separate occasions, although I have to believe it shouldn't be that challenging.
From there we walked to the turning basin to board the Martha Jefferson so my date could experience his first canal boat ride. I'd purposely chosen the last boat ride of the day, the better to appreciate the soft evening light and the sunset's reflections off the downtown buildings.
Where I was surprised - this was, after all, my fourth canal boat ride, although it had been several years since my last - was in the spiel delivered by our young female boat driver.
In addition to the standard patter about the burning of Richmond and the tobacco warehouses, we heard about how one of the bridges was modeled on Paris' Pont Neuf, the city's oldest bridge. Who knew?
Just as surprising was the story of Maggie Walker, complete with a reference to the new statue here in Jackson Ward. That definitely wasn't part of the tour before, although I was thrilled to hear it shared as just another key part of Richmond history.
On the uncrowded boat with us was an Hispanic family, the youngest son in a t-shirt with an American flag and the Dad proudly wearing a U.S. Army hat, all of them except the youngest child (who was fixated by a screen), seemingly enthralled with the history lesson they were hearing.
Depending on your politics, they could have been a poster family for American assimilation or an example of just the kind of no-good people we need to build a wall to keep out.
Don't get me started.
For my companion, who was seeing the Low Line, man-made Chapel Island and the half bascule bridge (think mules and rocks) from the water for the first time since I'd walked him over that territory, it was an opportunity to delight in an alternate vantage point.
Everything looks different from the water.
During the Q & A, someone inquired about the canal's depth and the driver said it was only up to her waist, a fact she'd recently learned when her sunglasses went overboard.
"But I don't recommend getting in because it's pretty gross," she shared. It was my first canal boat ride without a blue heron sighting, although I see them so frequently on the pipeline now that I can't really complain.
Once back on dry land, we weren't ready to return to air-conditioning, instead ending up in the brick-walled garden of Sang Jun Thai for dinner. We shared the dusky patio space with only one other table and it held friends already enjoying a meal.
Our server was sweet and incredibly young-looking, but also flummoxed when the first two bottles of wine we ordered were no longer available. Seems the wine list needs updating and no one could be bothered to do it.
Eventually, she brought out a hand-written list of available wines for us to choose from, we each ordered a glass and she returned with just one. We took it as a hint that we should abandon any hope of drinking.
But our entrees - broccoli lover with chicken and Chinese broccoli with crispy pork belly - were solid, the lanterns came on to provide ambiance and our friends moved on, leaving us the sole occupants of the charming patio.
No, I hadn't planned that part, although I might have if I'd known how.
But listening to Curtis Mayfield by candlelight on my balcony afterward while sipping Eden Imperial 11 Rose? That was all me.
I got this plan-making thing down cold. Or warm, as the night may be.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Hometown Tourist
Who needs to go out of town for Memorial Day weekend?
Just stay right here and the out-of-towners come to you.
Or so it seemed on a canal boat ride today, my fourth and my seafaring companion's first, as good a destination as any for a Saturday stroll.
Our able-bodied skipper Cotton (yes, as in "Hi, Cotton!") broke the party ice by asking from whence came the visitors aboard.
Colorado, New York, Connecticut and North Carolina were in the house.
"Anyone here a Richmonder?" Cotton asked and a flurry of hands went up, including my own.
I'm one of those people who actually thinks being a Richmonder comes from RVA experiences and not birthright.
"That's what Richmonders look like," Cotton told the visitors, a point well made since we were a very diverse group.
"If you hate history, you just got on the wrong boat," he said as the final two passengers arrived, explaining their tardiness by saying they were from England.
"We'll be talking about you later," Cotton quipped.
"And you won't be nice about it, I'm sure," the man smiled in a clipped British accent.
Luckily for our former mother country's spawn, Cotton was not just a knowledgeable and humorous tour guide, but dressed to impress.
That's right, in this heat he was wearing a tri-cornered hat, a puffy shirt and lace-up vest, breeches and shoes with buckles.
The other canal boat was being commandeered by a guy in a baseball cap and a polo shirt, so how's that for job devotion?
I know, because we breezed right by them.
One sure way Richmond can seduce is gliding along the canal near Shockoe Boat Slip on a sunny day as a wheat-colored CSX Grain Express train passes through the triple crossing and turtles lounge nearby on dead branches, legs sticking out for maximum sunning.
When we got to the turnaround point near the Leonardo-inspired bascule bridge at Shiplock Park, Cotton said he was going to break bad.
Nest thing we knew he was vigorously repeating Patrick Henry's liberty speech, immediately followed by, "Happy Memorial Day!"
If we'd had a red, white and blue jello mold, that would have been the moment we broke it out.
As it was Cotton turned the boat around and we listened to tales of Richmond's history.
We were the first city to put beer in cans? Who the hell knew?
You should have seen how impressed with that the English couple was. So we Yanks were good for something.
On a related note, after docking we made our way up to Urban Farmhouse for lunch. where a sign greeted us, "Have you had your mimosa today?"
Why, no, now that you mention it.
The best part of a simple spinach salad with almonds and lemon honey dressing was the abundance of fresh strawberries, every one declaring itself to be at its peak.
But after walking from J-Ward to the canal, protein was in order, so I added a scoop of tarragon tuna salad, delightful to this mayo disdainer for its olive oil base.
Best of all, we ate our meal in the corner big front window thrown open to the parade of passersby.
A sunny walk, a languorous yet informative boat ride and a big plate of food in front of me.
Happy Memorial Day indeed.
And it wasn't just me. A man walking down the street winked at me when he caught my eye sitting there.
I know, Mister, right?
Just stay right here and the out-of-towners come to you.
Or so it seemed on a canal boat ride today, my fourth and my seafaring companion's first, as good a destination as any for a Saturday stroll.
Our able-bodied skipper Cotton (yes, as in "Hi, Cotton!") broke the party ice by asking from whence came the visitors aboard.
Colorado, New York, Connecticut and North Carolina were in the house.
"Anyone here a Richmonder?" Cotton asked and a flurry of hands went up, including my own.
I'm one of those people who actually thinks being a Richmonder comes from RVA experiences and not birthright.
"That's what Richmonders look like," Cotton told the visitors, a point well made since we were a very diverse group.
"If you hate history, you just got on the wrong boat," he said as the final two passengers arrived, explaining their tardiness by saying they were from England.
"We'll be talking about you later," Cotton quipped.
"And you won't be nice about it, I'm sure," the man smiled in a clipped British accent.
Luckily for our former mother country's spawn, Cotton was not just a knowledgeable and humorous tour guide, but dressed to impress.
That's right, in this heat he was wearing a tri-cornered hat, a puffy shirt and lace-up vest, breeches and shoes with buckles.
The other canal boat was being commandeered by a guy in a baseball cap and a polo shirt, so how's that for job devotion?
I know, because we breezed right by them.
One sure way Richmond can seduce is gliding along the canal near Shockoe Boat Slip on a sunny day as a wheat-colored CSX Grain Express train passes through the triple crossing and turtles lounge nearby on dead branches, legs sticking out for maximum sunning.
When we got to the turnaround point near the Leonardo-inspired bascule bridge at Shiplock Park, Cotton said he was going to break bad.
Nest thing we knew he was vigorously repeating Patrick Henry's liberty speech, immediately followed by, "Happy Memorial Day!"
If we'd had a red, white and blue jello mold, that would have been the moment we broke it out.
As it was Cotton turned the boat around and we listened to tales of Richmond's history.
We were the first city to put beer in cans? Who the hell knew?
You should have seen how impressed with that the English couple was. So we Yanks were good for something.
On a related note, after docking we made our way up to Urban Farmhouse for lunch. where a sign greeted us, "Have you had your mimosa today?"
Why, no, now that you mention it.
The best part of a simple spinach salad with almonds and lemon honey dressing was the abundance of fresh strawberries, every one declaring itself to be at its peak.
But after walking from J-Ward to the canal, protein was in order, so I added a scoop of tarragon tuna salad, delightful to this mayo disdainer for its olive oil base.
Best of all, we ate our meal in the corner big front window thrown open to the parade of passersby.
A sunny walk, a languorous yet informative boat ride and a big plate of food in front of me.
Happy Memorial Day indeed.
And it wasn't just me. A man walking down the street winked at me when he caught my eye sitting there.
I know, Mister, right?
Friday, August 20, 2010
View from the Water
My photographer friend messaged me this morning, saying that the beautiful day called for a picnic. I one-upped him and suggested we picnic on one of the canal boat cruises (food + fun). It worked out that we ended up picnicking on the canal walk and then taking the cruise, so we did get to enjoy lunch outside.
We stopped by Tarrant's for a couple of picnic salads, one Cobb and one Tuna Nicoise. Our picnic basket was a plastic bag, if that tells you something about us (if it doesn't, try reading my tongue-in-cheek picnic piece at my former employer's website, here.) Anticipating a lot of sun on the water, we'd both brought hats and, for a change, he'd remembered his camera.
When I took my first canal cruise a few years ago, I remember being struck by the views from the water, so unlike any other of Tobacco Row and the hills to the west. I'd come back for a second cruise just to take pictures of it all.
So if my untrained eye was impressed with it, surely someone who makes money taking pictures would be. And he was, snapping furiously the whole time. Hell, he was even taking pictures of us while we sat there waiting for the boat (shall I look pensive?).
We enjoyed our shady lunch chatting with the boat captain ("I'm not normal, so I'm going to make this fun!" he promised. Probably just as well that we were only going to be in three feet of water...) and a woman visiting from upstate New York with her speed-skating champion grandson (sunglasses, iPod, sullen).
In fact, it turned out that we were the only local residents on the cruise, accompanied as we were by visitors from England, NC, NY, and and a boisterous group from Philly.
Our captain regaled the guests with stories of Tropical Storm Gaston's fury, the perils of the Mighty James and an encyclopedic listing of long-forgotten cigarette brands. The visitors got the critter sitings they wanted with snapping turtles and great blue herons putting in appearances.
His tangents meandered, but he showed a lot of enthusiasm for the city and its offerings. He warned us that 5:00 is the bewitching hour for Richmond museums to close up, suggesting an early start for museum visiting. "Don't think you can go in at 2:30 and see everything," he warned ominously.
Since the captain knew it wasn't my first cruise, he made a point of asking me when we disembarked if I'd heard anything new this time around. Honestly, I'd been sort of lost inside of my own head enjoying the views for most of his spiel and what I did hear I had heard before, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"I had a great time," I enthused. Which was entirely true, if not exactly the answer to his question.
We stopped by Tarrant's for a couple of picnic salads, one Cobb and one Tuna Nicoise. Our picnic basket was a plastic bag, if that tells you something about us (if it doesn't, try reading my tongue-in-cheek picnic piece at my former employer's website, here.) Anticipating a lot of sun on the water, we'd both brought hats and, for a change, he'd remembered his camera.
When I took my first canal cruise a few years ago, I remember being struck by the views from the water, so unlike any other of Tobacco Row and the hills to the west. I'd come back for a second cruise just to take pictures of it all.
So if my untrained eye was impressed with it, surely someone who makes money taking pictures would be. And he was, snapping furiously the whole time. Hell, he was even taking pictures of us while we sat there waiting for the boat (shall I look pensive?).
We enjoyed our shady lunch chatting with the boat captain ("I'm not normal, so I'm going to make this fun!" he promised. Probably just as well that we were only going to be in three feet of water...) and a woman visiting from upstate New York with her speed-skating champion grandson (sunglasses, iPod, sullen).
In fact, it turned out that we were the only local residents on the cruise, accompanied as we were by visitors from England, NC, NY, and and a boisterous group from Philly.
Our captain regaled the guests with stories of Tropical Storm Gaston's fury, the perils of the Mighty James and an encyclopedic listing of long-forgotten cigarette brands. The visitors got the critter sitings they wanted with snapping turtles and great blue herons putting in appearances.
His tangents meandered, but he showed a lot of enthusiasm for the city and its offerings. He warned us that 5:00 is the bewitching hour for Richmond museums to close up, suggesting an early start for museum visiting. "Don't think you can go in at 2:30 and see everything," he warned ominously.
Since the captain knew it wasn't my first cruise, he made a point of asking me when we disembarked if I'd heard anything new this time around. Honestly, I'd been sort of lost inside of my own head enjoying the views for most of his spiel and what I did hear I had heard before, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"I had a great time," I enthused. Which was entirely true, if not exactly the answer to his question.
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