Lose Yourself to Life

Time to get back in the game. The question is, given my life, why did I take myself out?

There was a time when Richmond wasn't cool enough to have a Farmer Speaker Series, but that day is long gone and when I saw that Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms was coming to Ellwood Thompson to share his thoughts on "You Can't Study What Isn't," I immediately bought a ticket and advised a friend, knowing it would be a (sorry) hot ticket.

That ship sailed within a week and I heard they had a waiting list for anyone who might drop out, not that that was likely.

Arriving at ET in time to score an enormous dark chocolate-iced gingerbread cookie (my Proustian reverie) while my date went for wine (sorry, grape overload after the past two days in wine country), we snagged seats in the second row behind an earnest-looking young man with a book on farming under his seat.

Joel's topic addressed the anti-meat culture that's become more and more of a thing, his point being that so much of the research is based on the kind of farming we shouldn't be doing anyway (and not the kind he's been doing at Polyface since 1982) that's it's irrelevant.

Maybe it's because he has an English degree and does so much writing, but he was a wonderful speaker, prowling the floor at the front of the room and and frequently asking in a rising voice, "What if...?"

But he also had a wicked smart sense of humor, sharing that he names all their bulls after philanderers - Don Juan, Teddy (as in Kennedy) - and pointing out the brains of the operation, his wife of many decades, as, "Behind every great man, there's an amazed woman. There's mine."

He was full of obscure information as in 500 years ago, this land that's now the U.S. produced more nutrition than it does today, solely because the Europeans arrived with their "progressive" methods and disease. Or, how about this one? 70% of all the drugs used in America are used on agricultural livestock.

"Who's been drugging your dinner?' he joked.

He'd already told us that he was not here to try to convert us to vegans or even vegetarians (ha, fat chance), but instead to point how too much farming was being done in ways that hurt the earth, depleted resources, provided a larger carbon footprint than necessary and produced poorer-tasting food.

All I can say to attest to that is that the first time I ate a "happy" pig - one raised on the kind of farm Joel runs and espouses - it was a revelation and as different a taste as any piece of pig I'd ever put in my mouth.

With me, he was preaching to the choir because I've tasted how right he is about proper farming.

After sharing scads of information and referencing a half dozen books that would probably make excellent food reading, he closed by saying, "May all your carrots be long and straight, all your radishes fat and not pithy," and went on from there.

Basically, Joel food-blessed us in closing.

Moving on to our own food needs, we trekked down the street to ZZaam, the new Korean grill, a place with all the ambiance of a betting parlor, with multiple screens, bad music playing and endless blackboards of food and drink info (is there any cuisine that hasn't adopted tacos as their own?) as patrons are herded along a counter to order and await sustenance.

A constant state of confusion reigned as people waited to order, waited for food, considered  options and milled about.

Crab pancakes, golden brown with egg, onions, carrots and even boasting a discernible crab taste were the best of the lot, which included mandoo - steamed pork dumplings with barely a hint of pig - and fat chicken lettuce wraps.

Home by 9:00, it was pretty obvious that I needed more. More everything that I'm not getting enough of. More reasons to be glad that this is my life. More reasons to enjoy right now instead of stressing to the point that a giant zit erupts on my face.

I put on some lip gloss and walked over to Balliceaux, my first time there since we rang in 2016. Overdue, long overdue.

The 13-piece Brunswick was getting set up. The guy on the bar stool next to me welcomed me, saying he was taking a load off because he'd walked over from Carver near Sugar Shack, touching off a discussion of my walk over and how he used to live in Jackson Ward.

One of the trombonists came over to order a drink, instrument in hand, and apologized when it ran into me, leading to a discussion of his Monette mouthpiece, apparently a Winton Marsalis favorite.

Oh, and by the way, it was made of gold and named for a yoga term.

A trumpet player I know looked especially dapper in a striped shirt, bow tie and jacket, having just come from VCU Jazz Orchestra's performance.

Everyone's favorite percussionist/trombonist told me he'd been playing in Europe and with Sufjan Stevens and asked what was new with me. An elementary school teacher friend told me her Spring Break plans, which were essentially non-plans for Spring weather. The brewery queen complimented my jacket and invited me to her pig event.

Brunswick knocked the collective socks off the room with an assortment of original material for ten horns, bass, drums and percussionist, along with covers of artists as diverse as Pedro the Lion and Daft Punk. Near the bandstand, a DJ danced alone, eyes closed, to practically every song.

Note to self: You're not getting any younger. Do more, dance more. Be open to everything at least once. Change things that need improving. Maybe it's time to lose the blog and put my abundance of energy elsewhere.

Maybe it's time to grow radishes fat and not pithy, and, yes, that's a euphemism.

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?

Sugar Shopping Overload

Today I was a cliche. With three days until Christmas Eve, I had no choice.

What that means is that after a bracing walk this morning down to Great Shiplock Park, through an almost entirely deserted downtown, I hunkered down to do Christmas baking.

Five hours of it.

Fortunately for me, I was joined by a favorite couple who assisted me with the mixing, baking, icing and decorating of cookies, set to vintage Christmas music spanning 1959 ("Christmas with Conniff") to 2002 ("Maybe This Christmas"). The festive meter was set to 11.

Biggest surprise? The firefighter in the group was a master cookie decorator. His Christmas tree cookies had snow-laden branches, his snowmen had scarves and belts. It was truly artistic work.

Mine, not so much.

Fourteen dozen cookies later, I couldn't wait to escape the oven and leave the house. Unfortunately for me on a Saturday night, duty called so I wasn't leaving to have fun. It was all about the consumerism.

In case you didn't know, I lack several key feminine qualities and one of them is a love of shopping...except for food and books.

Nevertheless, and putting on my cheeriest holiday face, I headed to Carytown to gather ye presents while ye may. I had no choice.

My first stop was Old World Christmas to choose an ornament amongst a crowd of focused-looking shoppers. Things began to look up when I arrived at the counter because behind it was a favorite actor playing a sales clerk.

After paying and his reference to my blog (you never know who reads you), I said goodbye and he asked incredulously, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" Apparently my walking reputation precedes me.

I stopped in Ten Thousand Villages and bought myself a new wallet, not an intended purchase but one long overdue if you saw the state of my current one. You'd think they'd last longer considering how rarely they hold any actual money.

Mongrel was a zoo, but where else can you find such great cards and wrapping paper? As I browsed and tried to stay out of the madding crowd's way, suddenly the sound of glass shattering stopped everyone cold. After a moment's silence, the hustle and bustle returned as everyone went back to the business of spending.

Coming out of Mongrel, I heard my name called and turned to see two wine rep friends also exiting the madhouse. We chatted about the folly of last minute shopping, agreeing that experiences and time were the best gifts (I'd also add to that list words because I like nothing better than for someone to write to me for a present).

"It's better now because we're going to Don't Look Back," she said, practically beaming. Yes, I agreed enthusiastically, tequila and chicken skin tacos do make everything better.

After a stop at Plan 9, I had finished as much shopping as I was going to do tonight. Back on the sidewalk, I ran into another friend, this one a server and wine goddess with an ear for Italian and a beautiful baby in her arms. I hadn't seen her since before she'd had the wee one, so we exchanged holiday pleasantries before going our separate ways.

My consumer duties finally over, I considered stopping for a cup of Can Can's indulgent hot chocolate but a glance through the window at the boring-looking crowd at the bar told me that I didn't really want to deal with that. Even for a bowl of chocolate

Clearly I'm not cut out to be Suzy Homemaker or Sherry Shopper. Happily, after my hard work today, that's all behind me. Now it's time to enjoy Christmas time in the city.

Floating Above It

There is no end to how small a town this can seem.

It happens all the time - I see a gallerist or restaurant person in the grocery story and they're so out of context that it takes me a sec to place them.

How there's never more than a few degrees of separation between anyone in this town.

Case in point: I am meeting a friend at his house and while waiting for his girlfriend to show up, he puts on a cassette tape of a band he was in back in the late '90s.

I spot a familiar face. The woman singing in the band is someone I knew a lifetime ago.

Funny how that happens.

Once his beloved arrived, we strolled over to Pomegranate, a neighborhood restaurant for them but one they'd never been to.

I consider it essential to know about any restaurant that I can easily walk to and from. I was assisting them with research.

On the way, I spotted Bertha, a woman whose backyard had backed up to mine for the 13 years I lived on Floyd Avenue.

Bertha had been old when I'd moved there in 1993 and I knew she'd lost her husband of 70-some years just a couple of years ago.

But there she was, sitting on the porch of the house she'd moved to during WW II.

Even though I moved away eight years ago, she remembered me almost at once and hugged me, eager to chat.

It didn't take long for her to brag about being 93 (she doesn't look a day over 80) and I asked her point blank if she attributed part of her longevity to her long, happy marriage.

She did and admitted she still misses him every day. "I was lost without him," she said.

It was a kind of wonderful flashback talking to Bertha after so long. Our lives had been intertwined for over a dozen years.

She'd lent me her lawn mower before I had one (her husband always reminded me not to cut the lawn in flip-flops), taught me how to make squash fritters with the abundance she grew at the rear of my back yard and was, in general, the neighborhood busybody.

When my friends started ahem-ing to get me off her porch and walking to Pomegranate again, I hugged her goodbye.

"Come back again soon!" she admonished as I re-joined my dinner companions.

You know, I think I will. That's a woman with some great stories and I'd like to be the one to hear them.

When we got to the restaurant, every patio table was taken, but there was plenty of room in the main dining room which was suffering a wilting sonic attack from a group of  30-something women catching up on each other's lives.

Let's just say I heard the words "wedding" and "pregnancy" a lot.

We massed around the end of the bar so as to hear one another talk.

From bread served with salty high quality butter to salad to ravioli, blue fish two ways and twice fried quail over mashed potatoes, my friends were seduced by Pomegranate's food.

At one point, he compared her satisfied food moans to those of Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally," high praise indeed.

The closer was Pomegranate's version of bananas foster and, for the chocoholics among us, chocolate pate with figs and berries.

When our server delivered the chocolate pate, he was quick to point out the locally grown Black Mission figs.

Took them off of somebody's tree, didn't you? I inquired.

"We totally did," he said quickly and honestly.

I'm just happy to eat figs; I don't worry much about whose tree they were plucked from. Call me old school.

The pate tasted as if it had been made with that same decadent high fact butter as we'd been slathering on bread, meaning the rooves of our mouths were soon slick with fat. Mmm.

Friend pointed out that the bananas foster didn't taste as if it had been lit (he's cocky because he'd made four of them in a night once), but was nonetheless exquisite in its rich banana creaminess.

By then, not only the patio had cleared out, but the final trio of the get-together threw in the towel and went home to their pre-fab lives.

We were the last. Walking home down Auburn, I pointed out that a block away, my father had been born.

That was a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

After my friends went home to their beds and early wake-up calls, I made one last stop at Cary Street Cafe to hear Fear of Music.

Josh Small did a couple of songs to finish out the opening set while I joined the people began pouring in.

Spotted a restaurant manager, a bartender, an editor, a banjo player and who knows who else among the expectant looking crowd.

Once the all-Talking Heads extravaganza began, it didn't take long for the room to become a mass of people dancing or at the very least, dancing in place.

All except three I saw, who inexplicably managed to remain stationary while some of the danciest music since Kool & the Gang (whom David Byrne once earnestly cited as the band's main inspiration) tried to wind its way into their body.

I don't understand. When you're hearing "Psycho Killer" or "And She Was" or "Drugs," the human body just wants to move.

Didn't we prove that back in the '70s?

A friend was charmed when a guy began filling the room with hundreds of bubbles raining down on the dancing masses, an effect I might have seen in a couple other decades.

She and I have been saying for ages that we were going to schedule a night out together and here we'd shown up for the same late show on a Tuesday night.

When the town's small enough, you don't even have to make plans. We're just not that big and it's kind of grand.

I'll say it loud and proud...I guess that this must be the place.

What We Will

Oh, sure, I can plan, but I can also go along with someone else's agenda.

But when a friend puts the ball in my court with, "What shall we do with ourselves?" I feel it's my duty to concoct an evening worth doing.

Her response? "I just knew I could count on your poetical planning."

I had suggested we begin at Chop Suey for John Sealy's reading from his debut novel, "The Whiskey Baron," which conveniently allowed me to make a pit stop at Mongrel to buy a Mother's Day card for the impending holiday.

Two birds with one stone and all that rot.

Once at Chop Suey, we found seats for a pre-reading catch-up session about possible changes for her at work, how her dogs had chosen to wake her up at 5 a.m. (unbeknownst to her as she started her day assuming it was 6 a.m.) and the difference in cultured and country.

For the record, she's the former, not the latter.

Sealy took the podium looking young, which is fine, but being somewhat of a timid reader, which was less so. Just because you can write well doesn't mean you can read aloud well.

Beginning with page 3 in his novel, he treated us to a few pages of his story about a bootlegger's South Carolina crumbling whiskey empire.

Despite his less than ideal reading aloud skills, he had a way with a phrase, such as, "Time had at least given him the blessing of patience," a phrase that could apply to yours truly.

After reading enough to set up the story for us he drawled, "I think I'm gonna stop there," and opened up the room to questions.

A reader curious about whether he "heard" the characters' voices in his head as he wrote had him explaining, "What I love about fiction is writing in the third person, the ability to hear sounds and slide in and out of the people I create. I love the responsibility of going into someone's head."

I was intrigued when he compared the slow creation of a character to watercolor painting where you begin with vague shadows and gradually build up images as you keep adding to it. Nice metaphor.

He'd set his novel in a fictional South Carolina county based on Chester County, a place he knew well from summers visiting his family's home there.

We learned that part of his motivation for writing came from a concern that experienced history was fading into recorded history as the people who lived it are dying off. "I wanted to capture a period that'll soon be gone as the people who lived it die."

Idiomatic phrases particularly captivated him as he listened to people's stories about life in a mill town and "musical" terms like "bobbin dodger" and "lint head" captured his imagination, being evocative and unusual enough to make it into the book.

When someone commented that they saw elements of literary naturalism in his novel - elements referring back to writers like Theodore Dreiser, Jack London and Stephen Crane- he was impressed because exactly that sort of writing had been his interest in college.

That youthful focus had given way to a more contemporary fear that we have lost the ability to choose our paths. "I'm paranoid we're living in a computer simulation and no longer have free will," he said, sounding quite serious or at the very least, highly concerned.

Now there's a depressing thought.

Well, if tonight was a computer simulation, we were at least going to simulate good eating and drinking, so we strolled up Cary Street, where I came across a musician friend busking, playing mouth harp enthusiastically for anyone who would listen.

Naturally I stopped to chat, having missed his band's show last night, and garnering an invitation to his recently established compound on the east end of town.

I have no doubt it's all very groovy and look forward to going out for a visit.

We continued on to Amour Wine Bistro, my first visit since they reopened after the January fire, and found the bar full of a birthday party waiting for the guest of honor to arrive and be surprised.

While my poetical planning had chosen Amour, I can take no credit for the superb Rose that awaited us, Chateau de Valcombe Rose, the color of a pink diamond and so sippable my friend wished for a case for herself.

Perhaps my needs are simpler, but I'd have settled for a case for the two of us.

Since we were well into dinner time, we ordered housemade country pork and scallion pate (so fabulous it required extra bread and the grilled leeks a delightful bonus), asparagus with a poached egg, Parmesan and shaved radish (tasting as spring-like as the Rose) and warm potato salad with mustard, bacon and red onions (a deeply flavorful take that had my friend in raptures), a solid trio that came off the happy hour menu.

We had a great time with our server, hearing about his impending cohabitation in a 630 square foot apartment (so brave) and trying to discuss our own lives without him overhearing us.

Claiming to hear nothing, he made a reference to our chatter being the equivalent of Charlie Brown's teacher. Wahh, wahh.

I asked my friend about going to see "The Taming of the Shrew" with me, which you'd think was a pretty simple request to make of a theater lover, but which led to a deeply philosophical discussion of her objections to the play on the grounds that offends her '80s-era feminist sensibilities by belittling the Katerina character.

Funny, I don't see it that way, which means it was a lively discussion where we both learned a little about each other's views on the male/female dynamic. And wound up discussing "Much Ado About Nothing" instead.

As it happened, we also got into the art of haikus, but she shut that down by insisting that she preferred limericks. Not so me.

Since this was a girls' night out, we used our free will to go with two desserts, a chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee paired with grapefruit sorbet and chocolate sorbet so creamy it coated the spoon and didn't want to let go.

The creme brulee and grapefruit pairing was inspired, the refreshing and tart sorbet cutting the richness of the dark chocolate.

With the chocolate sorbet we switched from Rose to Saint Dominique Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, a lightly sweet wine that must have been created to be savored with just such a dessert.

We used the accompanying orange slices to swipe the last of the sorbet from the bowl, enjoying the sweetness of the oranges under chocolate for our last rapturous bites.

Sorry, no computer simulation could recreate that kind of mouthfeel, those beautiful flavors to close out our evening.

Turns out it wasn't only the planning that was poetical.

Sunny and Good Crescendo

When people ask me about my religion, I admit to being a heathen, with the qualifier that I see no need for organization when it comes to belief systems.

Then I usually joke that for me, walking outside every day is equivalent to a weekly service inside a building with a bunch of strangers.

I saw a lot of people who prefer the more conventional religious route as I headed to Carytown this morning, passing the throngs on their way to mass at Cathedral of the Scared Heart.

If they'd asked, which they didn't, I'd have told them I was on my way to worship at the church of live music, today's Mozart Festival celebrating the composer's 258th birthday.

The first event of the festival was at Alternatives boutique on this sunny, cold morning and I walked in to find all kinds of familiar faces, the conga player, the handsome bass player, the former neighbor, the scientist/musician involved in coordinating the festivities, who said he was surprised at the size of the crowd, having expected a half dozen people at best so early on a Sunday morning.

It wasn't long before he excused himself to "get a few snaparoos" and I moved closer to get a better view of the quartet about to play.

Ellen of Classical Revolutions welcomed everyone to the kick-off of the Mozart festival and thanked AlterNatives for being the presenting sponsor and making it all possible.

Against a backdrop of jewel-colored scarves and bejeweled wall hangings, the foursome began with Mozart's quartet #14, which Ellen had described as sunny, a perfect beginning for the day and the festival.

Turning the page literally and figuratively, quartet #15 in D minor, she said, wasn't as sunny but, "Mozart couldn't help himself and the sun comes out halfway through this piece."

It wasn't quite Mozart for Dummies, but it was nice to have some insider information for each piece.

A minuet from the same piece followed after an explanation that it was usually the first Mozart piece Suzuki students learn. "It's in book seven of ten because Mozart is hard!" Ellen said.

Afterwards, the symphony librarian observed that, "People don't know when to clap with classical music," so he led them, saying in an aside to me, "Now they'e all thinking, hey, I didn't hate hearing classical music!"

He, I might add, looked very smug about that.

What's to hate about hearing live classical music in a colorful boutique, especially when doughnuts are being served?

Some of us would call that a religious experience. And then we'd still go home and take a walk to see what else might drop from the sky.

But it was a fairly quiet walk with few people outside except for the ones I saw in their church clothes going into Mama J's Kitchen, the happy looks on their faces probably as much a function of where they were headed as where they'd been.

Rounding the corner from Leigh Street to St. James on my way back, I immediately heard the call and response coming from inside the Miracle Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ of the Apostolic Faith.

Moving from stained glass window to window, I realized that the congregation's role was clapping and a big "Ahhh" after every ecstatic line the pastor said.

You're gonna get up in the morning!
Ahhh!
You're gonna read the word of god!
Ahhh!
Of our savior Jesus Christ!
Ahhh!

I'm gonna stand outside your church and listen to the testifying that is the sound of Sunday music in Jackson Ward. Ahhh!

But then I'm going to drive back to Carytown to go hear another installment of the Mozart Festival, this time Operatic Incarnations at Plan 9.

When I arrived, there were fewer than 20 of us and by the time the program ended, there must have been at least 60 or more. On stage were cardboard cut-outs of both Mozart and Daft Punk, an apt metaphor for the crowd.

I found a prime spot in front of the new releases (Mogwai, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings), next to a fresh-faced kid wearing a Maggie Walker Governor's School hoodie and prepared to take notes in his Chorus notebook.

With a pianist to accompany them. a succession of soloists, duos, trios and quartets took the stage to show off Mozart's operatic talent.

They began with a quartet doing the opening from "The Magic Flute," three girls in black boas fighting over one boy laying on the floor.

Glancing at the student's notes in pencil on lined notebook paper, I read, "very good vowels," proof enough that he knew what to look for.

A duet from "Marriage of Figaro" concerned two women trying to trap one of their husbands in the act of betrayal and they even acted it out a little.

We got a solo from "Don Giovanni" about how much he loved her and during a solo from "Marriage of Figaro," I spotted an older woman near me mouthing every word.

Sure, I'd seen several people I knew - DJs from WRIR, the man about town, the filmmaker/artist- but there were also many people who were serious opera fans.

Another "Figaro" piece sung by a woman in the part of a 13-year old boy who wants to talk about love with everyone he meets elicited the student noting, "Good consonants, good crescendo."

Throughout the performance, people would be walking by Plan 9 and either hear the music or see the people onstage and pause to look in and listen. Many then decided to come in while some kept on going, a shame considering there was plenty of room and it was free.

After another "Figaro" aria and then duet, the pianist gathered up her music to leave as the next singer came onstage.

"Uh, my accompanist is at the petting zoo right now," she explained looking crestfallen, but the talented pianist sat back down to play for her.

Explaining that she was doing an aria from "Magic Flute," she said it was the part of the queen of the night. "She's evil and she's evil because she's single. Sorry, that was Mozart's interpretation."

I'm here to say that we no longer have to be evil just because we're single.

Some of us may be godless, but we're also thrilled when there's a Mozart Festival going on all day long.

I've heard there'll be snaparoos to show you what you missed, but you really had to hear it to believe it.

Best of all, I'm pretty sure a bad-ass new Richmond tradition was born today. Ahhh!

Funny How Time Flies

I got the memo: it was small business Saturday.

With limited funds, I couldn't do a lot to support the cause, but I did what I could.

That meant a walk to Carytown, five plus miles there and back, to pick up a shoe being repaired at Mitchem's and observe capitalism in action.

It was a zoo.

Traffic barely crawled, the sidewalks were jam-packed and all I could hope was that all those independent stores were making bank today.

But you can be sure that once I procured my shoe, I escaped as quickly as possible.

Turning south to escape the hullabaloo of Cary Street, I was greeted by the sound of bells and horse hooves clopping as a holiday-decorated horse and carriage headed down Idlewood.

Nice seasonal touch.

Returning to Cary just in time to score a chocolate-frosted doughnut from Dixie, I headed east where I was surprised to see two artists working on a street art mural near Stafford Street.

Curious about why they were still painting at this point, I crossed the street to ask.

Seems there were a couple of unfinished sections of wall and they'd been given the chance to do something about that.

"This is our third weekend working on it. So now we're out here in the dead of winter, well, I guess the dead of fall, but it feels like winter, finishing up finally," one told me.

A foursome walked by and complimented her on her piece, saying it looked like a quilt and she smiled broadly as if she wasn't freezing with a paintbrush in her hand on the shady side of the street.

An unexpected art bonus.

Further on, a favorite bartender jogged past, waving and saying hi as we uncharacteristically saw each other in broad daylight.

In what seemed like no time at all, I was back in J-Ward where we also have small businesses in need of support.

This was more fun because it involved music.

Local band My Darling Fury (a brilliant band name if you ask me) was playing at Steady Sounds as part of Black Saturday/Record store day or maybe just because they frequently host bands on Saturday afternoons.

Here was my chance to support a local business and hear live music.

The first surprise was that the performance started right on time, a rarity in record store shows, but MDF began playing before I even got started looking through the record bins.

It was at least my third or fourth time seeing the band and I like these guys a lot.

In the casual atmosphere of Steady Sounds, the crowd was practically on top of them, but in a good way.

Some people continued to browse the stacks but eventually they were won over by the sound.

I recognized several of the songs like "Friendly Parasite" and "Spilled Milk" and laughed when during "Perfectly Mad," drummer Joel called out "guitar solo!" to alert us what was coming up.

Midway through their set, Todd, whose upright bass playing adds immeasurably to MDF's sound, suggested to the others that they do "Head Over Heels," and Danny claimed he didn't know the lyrics.

Conveniently, Joel had them in a zip-lock bag so with that instantly-recognizable (at least to me) intro, they launched into the 28-year old nugget as Steady Sounds owner Marty looked over at me grinning.

They did a really excellent version, and let's be real here, plenty of singers don't have the range for that song, but it took some of the audience a while before they recognized it, understandable since they hadn't been alive in 1985.

Singer Danny didn't want to do "Blots in the Margins" but bowed to band peer pressure and then finished with "The End of the World," which has been their closer, appropriately enough, every time I've seen them.

My music itch scratched, I finally got a chance to do some record shopping, picking up three albums for Christmas presents and doing my small part for small business Saturday while the band packed up.

It occurred to me that if My Darling Fury wanted to cover a Tears for Fears song, they'd have the perfect set-ender with "Goodnight Song."

Here on the stage the time has come
With the strains of "be my angel" of rock in two four
Time may keep alive that old swan song
That we've been playing forever
Till the time may be right to say goodbye

But then I remembered that my responsibility on this Saturday was to spend money, not offer set list advice to strangers, so I took my records and walked home.

You have to admit, 'tis the season for an angel of rock in two four...just saying.

Some Like It Hot

If last night's date was all about the literature, tonight's was all about the music.

He was craving spicy and suggested Lemon. I countered with Curry Craft since I hadn't been since practically the first week they opened.

You have to appreciate a guy who asks you out and then lets you dictate the destination.

It was our first date, although not our first conversation and although it had been a while, we picked up where we'd left off.

First he cracked wise about being intimidated about my superior food knowledge but I assured him eating was the surest way to learning.

"You have the best job in the world," he told me.

Well, maybe, unless you like expensive houses and jewelry but fortunately I like neither.

Although now he's a banker, he's been a musician for far longer so we had loads to talk about.

Our waitress suggested we order an appetizer to tide us over since she'd already picked up on the fact that we had much to discuss and weren't in any hurry to order.

We asked for Juhu beach-style chaat (puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions and pomegranate and spices), requesting it medium-hot, plenty of heat for me but my date was left wanting more.

Twenty minutes into the date and I already know he can handle more heat than I can.

We talked about some of the music we'd seen at the National, his years as a sound engineer and why 21st century bands are lucky to have decades worth of influences to pull from.

In one of those "we know we're the same generation" moments, we discussed the pleasures of album art and liner notes and how reading them can lead to discovering other musicians.

His tangent about "X" was exquisite.

After the third time our server came back to take our order, we took a minute to look at the menu and choose.

He went with chicken-mushroom dhaniwal, a Kashmiri-style chicken stew, while I got chicken khubani-zafrani for its spicy sauce boasting saffron, iris essence and apricots.

After enjoying tender chicken morsels with the sweetness of the fruit over basmati rice, I used garlic naan to sop up some of the beautifully fragrant sauce.

It didn't take us long to discover some of our shared soapboxes - iPods, photographing food, people not willing to pay for music - and I teased him that we sounded like fist-shaking blue-hairs.

Where we differ from true old folks is a shared passion for new music and smart-ass attitudes.

"I've always liked older women," he tells me.

I recognize a kindred geek when he tells me about his upcoming trip to Las Vegas and his intention to visit the neon museum, a place I would surely go should I ever end up in Vegas.

We talk about Chicago, a city we both enjoy, agreeing that walking it and looking up is enough to occupy entire days there.

I was impressed to hear that he'd made a record with a group of British musicians and he was impressed to hear what my first concert was.

He kept making obscure music references and I kept getting them while our poor server kept stopping by unnecessarily.

Eventually we let her box up our remains, mainly to give her something to do, but we continued to camp out.

Fortunately, it's the second night of a three-day weekend and the restaurant wasn't full, so we had no guilt about taking up space.

We did get mango kulfi, a creamy ice cream studded with cranberries and two kinds of nuts, a decadent ending to the meal, if not the conversation.

That didn't end until we looked up and realized four hours had passed.

Now he knows. Older women can go on and on.

Fortunately for the newly-dating, some men seem to like that.

Punjabi Tagging

All that was left was food and film.

I'd fed my art and music needs earlier today, leaving Saturday night for a new restaurant and a film about tagging NYC on a summer day.

Walking into Curry Craft in Carytown, my Saturday night partner-in-crime and I had our choice of a table, a booth or the bar.

Given that they don't yet have their ABC license, the bar looked kind of abandoned so we opted for a booth.

Looking around at the saffron-colored walls, I approved of the spare decoration - a terra cotta relief, some cut-out dark wooden panels- and variety Indian music playing - traditional, dancey.

I was pleased to see that Bonvenue's sleek chandeliers had conveyed with the sale since they worked well withe the decor.

Our waiter was sweet, accommodating and friendly, and when we asked if we could order in stages, he assured us that would be fine.

First off, we asked for the paneer asparagus "Tak a Tak," a savory melange of asparagus, spiced paneer chunks, tangy green mango and garbanzo beans in a zesty glaze.

A salad of greens, sliced apples, chutney-marinated celery, dates and beet threads (so thin I would have preferred beet ribbons so I could actually taste the beet) provided a plate of appetizing flavors and only a few overly-salty bites.

We'd ordered garlic naan but regular naan showed up and we didn't complain because it was warm and soft and ideal for sopping up what was left on both plates.

A couple came in and sat down behind us but within moments of speaking to their waiter, got up and walked out, the door slamming behind them.

Apparently, they found it unacceptable that there was no booze.

Come on, people, the restaurant just opened and we all know how efficient the ABC is.

Since we were fine without, we went on to Punjabi Taari Gosht, a northern Indian-style leg of lamb curry, a pungent dish with a satisfying depth of flavor and proceeded to eat it down to the last few grains of rice.

To finish our meal, our server brought a shot glass of saunf, roasted and candied fennel seeds, intended to be poured in hour hand in a dime-sized amount and chewed as a digestif.

The sweet licorice-like flavor immediately quelled the heat from the curry and notified our bellies of the end.

We ended up very pleased with our meal.

It'll be interesting to see how extensive their craft cocktail list will be since I've heard they're looking to be both a dining and bar destination.

Bellies properly full, our next stop was the Criterion for "Gimme the Loot," a film about graffiti that won at South by Southwest's film fest.

It was a small movie in many ways - shot for next to nothing, unknown cast, odd subject matter - but big in others - a stellar soundtrack, witty commentary about urban life and strong performances by beginners.

It was really just a day in the life movie of two kids who spent their time tagging, only to be infuriated when someone tags over them.

Their major goal was to tag the Mets' giant apple at Shea Stadium, something that has apparently been a goal of taggers for twenty years.

I know that only because the movie opened with footage of an actual show shot two decades ago where a tagger talked about the holy grail of tagging the apple.

The film unfolded over a day as they try to make things happen, all the while traipsing through various boroughs of NYC, making it a terrific travelogue of the city.

One of the funniest lines came from the white girl to whom our hero is delivering weed.

She tells him his drug-dealing boss used to play golf on Cornell's team (unthinkable when it comes to street cred) and he tells her that the dealer's girlfriend is a hippie.

"She can't be a hippie because they only existed in olden times," the entitled, rich girls announces to him. "Like Victorian courtesans and Mayan princesses."

Maybe I found it funny because just this week, a 20-something friend had referred to himself and his girlfriend as hippies and this is certainly not olden times.

Now that I think about it, she did correct him, saying, "I'm a lazy hippie," so maybe it's only lazy hippies who exist in modern times.

But, wait, we all know there are plenty of old hippies to be found, even now.

They're probably the ones who spend Saturday nights doing dinner and a movie.

And god knows they don't worry about their street cred.

Make That 1 for 4

"I'm 0 for 3 for hanging out with Karen," a friend messaged me yesterday.

True enough; he'd forgotten our lunch Friday, I couldn't do lunch yesterday because I was on deadline and he didn't get my e-mail about dinner last night until it was too late.

Today we were going to make it happen, come hell or high water.

Waiting for the perennially late one outside in front of my house, I used the time to pull weeds from the brick sidewalk in front of my garden.

Everything came up easily because of the recent snow and rain, and I tossed the weeds into the street, satisfied in taking care of a chore during a few found minutes.

Bent over and pulling up a particularly large clump of wire grass from around the light post, I look over and see that a cop car has stopped in front of my house.

The window is down and the officers inside the car are glaring at me.

"You know that's illegal, right?" the one in the driver's seat says in a stern police voice.

Gulp. My heart is now pounding like it's going to come out of my chest.

Meekly, I admit that I hadn't known this and was counting on tomorrow's street cleaning to remove the green debris.

"Just kidding!" the cop says. "I told my partner I was going to mess with you when I saw you."

Oh, ha ha. Real funny.

He assured me I was doing nothing wrong, wished me a good day and cruised down Clay Street.

Are my city tax dollars going to comedians or cops?

My friend arrived minutes later and when I told him the story, he laughed long and hard, bent over double at how funny it was to challenge Karen on breaking the law.

I'm sure it's much funnier when you're not the one being reprimanded by men in blue.

Once he stopped laughing at me, we set out on our walk with me taking him by some of my favorite sites - the crooked blue house, the living roof, my broken swing.

As we walked, we tried to decide where to have lunch but he was leaning toward pho (and I wanted more than that) and I was leaning toward a burger (but he'd recently had McDonald's against his will and was uninterested).

Once back at my house, we piled into his large vehicle to go to his bank in Carytown, thereby narrowing down where we might lunch.

When I found out he didn't know about Doner Kebab, our choice was made.

We waited behind a sweet-looking, older couple ordering before deciding on what we wanted, shawarmas both, his beef and lamb, mine chicken and white garlic sauce.

While they were being made, we went to claim seats at the tiny counter that faces Cary Street.

I saw that the couple had already staked their claim on the bar, laying out utensils and drinks, but my friend didn't notice them and sat down in claimed territory.

The nice older man came over and pointed out their stake, suggesting we all share the prime seats for watching the street theater.

It gave me a chance to tease my friend about his obliviousness, small compensation for his earlier belly laughter at my expense.

In an effort to show there was no hard feelings about his seat poaching, Friend showed the couple his malt beverage (non-alcoholic) pomegranate drink with Arabic writing as a way to get conversation going.

It was their first time and they were as happy with their beef/lamb and falafel choices as my friend was with his.

Tasty, cheap, fast, an ideal lunch with strangers.

And, significantly for me, no laws broken while eating it. As if.

Bag It

Oh, jeez, I have to do it again.

If I'm shopping in Carytown, it must be almost Christmas.

Because I dislike shopping so much (food and wine being the exceptions), I avoid it all year long.

I know it makes me a poor excuse for a woman, but I'm good with that.

But with the holiday imminent, I had no choice. It was time to spend my money locally.

Rostov's Coffee and Tea was the first stop, a baby step toward the mass of humanity that awaited in C-town.

Which is not to say that Rostov's wasn't busy because it was.

Apparently unlike me, there are plenty of people out there who would appreciate a gift of coffee or tea.

In fact, I was shopping for one of them.

Who are these people and how did I end up on the same planet with them?

With gifts in bag, the next stop was the strip.

One good thing about shopping late is that parking spaces open up as early bird shoppers leave just as I arrive.

I began at the Bizarre Market upstairs at Chop Suey, wanting to look for homemade options.

Bingo!

From there, it was up Cary past a well-appointed busker with a microphone stand and music stand.

What happened to sitting on the sidewalk with your hat next to you?

I ran into the Man-About-Town and his face told me that the Firehouse brouhaha was weighing heavily on him.

I asked, he expounded and I heard more of the disappointing details of the ouster of the artistic director who had been instrumental in not only founding Firehouse Theater Project, but in steering it to where it is nineteen years later.

Sadly, I heard that he had resigned from the board of directors and since he was a founding member too, it was sad news indeed.

If there's any way this mess can be corrected, I hope for the sake of the theater-loving crowd in Richmond that it is.

For a pick-me-up and as part of my annual Christmas shopping tradition, the next stop was Can Can.

The bartender presumed that brunch menus were in order, but all that was required was a cup of their fabulous hot chocolate.

Not cocoa, but real French-style hot chocolate, more of a dessert than a beverage and mounded with whipped cream.

I drained my cup in a most unlady-like manner.

But then, it's that good.

Properly fortified, the last stop was For the Love of Chocolate, which was a madhouse.

Customers crammed every inch of the place and running into a familiar face (and this is a small town, so it happened a lot) inevitably caused a traffic jam.

Let's just say I got what I needed, was introduced to an artist/DJ and got the hell out of Dodge.

And as I walked out of the store, it was as if the clouds had cleared and the birds were chirping.

I was finished shopping.

Sure, I still had cooking and wrapping to do, but the stores no longer had any hold over me.

And that definitely means it's practically Christmas.

On the bright side, I don't have to shop for another year.

Step Right Up

"I know I'm not going to get any sympathy from you," the birthday boy said with a grin.

Probably not, since turning 30 hardly requires sympathy from friends.

Which is not to say that I wasn't at his house for the pre-dinner festivities, sipping Prosecco, admiring the tucked away Christmas decorations (miniature Santa suit hanging from a mirror, HO HO HO atop a kitchen cabinet), and having a bottle of peanut butter and jelly vodka shoved under my nose for consideration.

Thank you, no. Not if it was the last spirit on earth.

Mixing and mingling was the order of the night, at least right up until it was time for the first wave to leave for Carytown.

You see, the guests were being dispatched in waves to walk the four blocks to Don't Look Back for chow.

Being a little peckish, I immediately volunteered to be part of the first wave and follow the host carrying a plate of cupcakes down the street.

Right past the ambulance at Cary Street Cafe (never a good sign).

On the other hand, according to the outside banner, they were having karaoke (Free! tonight at 9) later.

DLB was hopping on a Monday night (mega margarita specials no doubt helped), so we began our slow assault on the room, insinuating ourselves into the limited space and bar stools available.

There was an Indiana Jones movie on the big screen, which meant every male within viewing range was sharing his opinion of it.

Once they started throwing terms like "hyper-realism" around, I tuned out and considered the menu.

A friend who'd met the party at DLB took us aside and recommended that we order before our entire party decided to.

It was a brilliant suggestion and we were munching on nachos when the second wave arrived.

The birthday boy is a friend of six or so years and his friends are an eclectic lot, so there were lots of possibilities for good conversation.

I talked to a favorite gay couple about their plans to move to Maryland for a more gay-friendly state to pay taxes to.

I heard from friends their plans for a minimal family holiday. "I'd rather be sitting around a fire in the woods with friends and laughing and talking for Christmas," she said with feeling.

My fellow theater buff and I talked about what we'd both seen since we last met.

Then there was another friend who's seen Richmond Triangle Players" "Whoop-Dee-Do" three times and it runs until December 29th.

He was especially tickled because he'd advised the actor who plays Judy Garland in that play to employ her trademark over-the-shoulder mic cord maneuver and by the time he saw it for the third time, he was doing just that.

There's such satisfaction in people taking your advice, isn't there?

The birthday boy was being taken advantage of, with many of his friends buying him shots of indeterminate ingredients.

He tried to convince me that turning 30 was a big deal, but I failed to follow his reasoning.

Eventually he gave up, acknowledging that I wasn't going to see 30 as much of a milestone.

I mean, I do think that by 30 a man should be at least partly house-trained, aware of basic social conventions and able to maintain home and hearth.

And Andrew has achieved all that.

But sympathy? When 2/3 of his life is still to be enjoyed?

When he's still got decades to go to shows and talk about how these young bands aren't nearly as good as the bands he grew up to?

Sympathy for him being a fine physical specimen while his brain has developed beyond the post-college state finally?

And certainly no sympathy for his over-active metabolism which still allows him to order fries and mashed potatoes as sides for his burger.

Oh, yes. He did.

So, no, my friend, no sympathy for turning an arbitrary age when you're about to discover how much better the 30s are than the 20s.

But not any envy, either. I wouldn't mind having my 30-year old body back, but I can assure you I want nothing to do with my 30-year old mind.

You'll see. It only gets better, Andrew. Promise.

And you know how I'm always right.

Nerds R Us

You think you know someone and then they show up in a bright yellow Scout to fetch you.

On the other hand, the literary reference on his license plate was so incredibly well-conceived that I felt reassured that he hadn't changed all that much.

It had been ages since we'd seen each other and he had all kinds of new milestones (another degree, turning 40) behind him since we'd last lunched.

I suggested C Street in Carytown since I'd only been in for drinks and he agreed, saying that he knew one of the sous chefs.

Walking by Guitar Works, we saw musicians of various ages playing loudly on the porch while passersby lingered to listen.

Band camp, perhaps?

At C Street, an enormous bridal luncheon of women in flowered dresses was in progress, making us happy for a table down the hall.

"Will you think me a Troglodyte if I order a burger?" he asked.

In fact, I'd expected it. Even at 40, his favorite foods are still burgers and pizza.

And while I love both, he's got six feet and three inches to spread out that kind of eating and I've got less than five and a half feet.

So I chose the shrimp salad spinach wrap which, will not exactly overflowing with shrimp salad, benefited from the marinated cherry tomatoes and dill in it.

He'd recently been going through the hoop jumping of the job interview process, including one with several local steps followed by the company flying him to NYC.

There they said that he didn't have enough experience, a conclusion he said could have been easily reached during any number of conversations here.

Ah, the challenges of seeking work. I remember its frustrations well, here.

In fact, it was part of the reason I finally gave up and opted to work for myself despite the poverty level wages of it.

So I'll never drive anything as cool as a bright yellow '75 Scout with a ragtop, metal framed windows and a shiny silver glovebox.

But even the economically-challenged can appreciate a good literary reference when they see one, albeit on a license plate.

J.L. Finch? On a Scout? Frickin' brilliant.

It takes a certain kind of nerdy mind to think up stuff like that.

Even better, he ordered the sesame soy slaw for its alliteration.

Truly my kind of friend.

Lunch as Life Lesson

Timing is everything and never more so than at a restaurant.

Last night's rendezvous had yielded lunch plans with a husband and a bachelor after I'd raved about the chicken skin tacos at Don't Look Back in Carytown.

The only variable was whether or not they'd be on the specials menu today.

Score! They were.

Taking only my word as recommendation, they both got one along with other regular menu items.

A pro at this, I ordered two of them.

The minute our order hit the kitchen, we heard the call to 86 chicken skin tacos.

Apparently our order used the last of whatever chicken skin was in the house.

Sorry about latecomers' bad luck, but very happy to have made it in time to get what we came for.

Although the kitchen claims that all they use on their skin is salt, pepper and oregano, the perfectly seasoned tacos  (traditional style and not any of this gringo abomination) were a huge hit with my friends.

In fact, I got the sense that they were sorry that they'd only ordered one.

I had no such regrets with my double order.

With Scooby Do cartoons playing behind us, we talked about growing shitake mushrooms on a log, balanced ecosystems in Goochland and fish skin that tastes like deep ocean water.


My friend made fun of me for not being able to get up early enough on Saturdays to make it to the South of the James farmers' market.

And compromise my Friday night? Not happening, much as I'd like to experience the market.

We talked about Saturday's bachelor auction, "Single in the City," mainly because one of my friends is being auctioned off.

I gave him major props for his nerve; I'd been asked to be sold and said no, fearful I wouldn't be a hot commodity.

My other friend pointed out that the kind of multi-location date that I'd suggest would not likely be popular with many bidders anyway.

Really? There are people out there who wouldn't want to go somewhere for a drink, somewhere else for dinner, on to an art show and finish up with music?


Apparently not, so better I don't even try.

Once the boys finished their beers and we did a through examination of the excellent tequila menu, we moseyed down the block to Dixie Donuts.

Channel 12 had just left but it was clear from the small number of donuts in the case that lots of people had been in for their first day of business.

They had only three kinds of doughnuts left so we wasted no time in choosing five for the three of us to share.

A chocolate cake doughnut with dark chocolate frosting was covered in toasted coconut and we all got one of those.

We then split two traditional yellow doughnuts with chocolate frosting, just for the sake of research, of course.

The toasted coconut doughnut was a big hit with us all. The dark chocolate kept the sweetness of the toasted coconut in check.

We all agreed that a cake doughnut provides the satisfaction of a piece of cake in a way that no yeast doughnut could ever hope to.

For me, I also like the crusty edges of a cake doughnut.

As we stood there munching and rhapsodizing, a woman came in to buy copious amounts of doughnuts.

When she learned that everything in the case was all they had, she looked crestfallen. She wanted them and more.

"Go ahead and clean us out," the owner told her. "We're ready to close."

So every last doughnut in the case was scooped up into two boxes and for the second time this afternoon, we three breathed a sigh of relief to have ordered before the supply was depleted.

As she went to leave with her loot, a large man approached the shop.

"Uh, oh," my friend said. "Someone's not going to be happy."

When the staff showed him their just-created "Sold Out!" sign, not yet hung, his face fell.

"I've got a little boy in the car who's going to be mighty disappointed," he said sadly.

The woman with the two boxes immediately opened one and insisted he take a doughnut for the boy.

We almost cheered, but were too busy finishing up the last bits of the chocolate-frosted yellow doughnuts to do it without spitting crumbs.

Walking out as they prepared to hang the sign that will inevitably ruin moods all afternoon, we saw other people headed across the parking lot.

"Come back earlier in the day next time so you can try more flavors," they instructed us, mentioning peach cobbler and apricot.

Time and doughnuts wait for no man or woman. Older and wiser now, I won't risk a 2:30 p.m. doughnut run next time.

We'll just call today a learning experience.

Fact is, chicken skin and cake doughnuts are worth getting up a little earlier for.

They certainly guarantee that this someone is going to be happy.

Surf and Turf with Two

It's tough to say no to surf and turf.

True, I was being invited by a happy couple, so I'd be the odd man out.

And I do have an early morning tomorrow, so I really didn't need a late night with lots of good wine. But how better to celebrate Memorial Day than with a cook-out?

A long-time friend invited me to join him and his girlfriend for a backyard feast of lobster, lamb and veggies. His only concern was that I like butter, garlic and mesquite. Check, check and check.

When I arrived, they were chopping and I joined them in sipping a White Haven Sauvignon Blanc, of which we made short work.

Talk centered around the new Egyptian Gallery (she being as big an art nerd as me), ocean swimming and past loves.

Next up was the New Harbor Sauvignon Blanc, tasting less of cat you-know-what, which lasted through the grilling process and into dinner.

The lobster tails were succulent with melted butter and  followed by medium -rare lamb and grilled vegetables with onions, garlic and butter. It was a meal to savor and linger over as darkness descended.

It was at that point that I shared my contribution to the evening, the lovely 2001 Bodegas Carrau Tannat Amat, a rustic red to die for, which I'd been cellaring for a while now.

It's been a huge favorite of mine since the wine dinner at Bistro 27 with Francisco Carrua, the winemaker who kindly invited me to Uruguay after I fell in love with his wines, here.

My friends were as impressed with the black plum and blackberry nose of this wine as I had been, savoring how it continued to open up as we sat on his backyard deck enjoying our meal with the fireflies lighting up all around us.

We drained the bottle of Tannat before deciding that we needed chocolate, so we gathered our forces and walked over to Bonvenu to scratch that itch. It was a lovely night for a walk, even a short one.

Carytown had a decent crowd, although certainly not the typical Saturday night usual. Good or bad, it didn't matter to us; we were three blocks away and it was convenient and that's all that really mattered.

Although the bar was full, we settled for a table and ordered a bottle of the  Pol Deau Blanc de Blanc to accompany a chocolate ganache with cream and blueberries as well as a flourless chocolate torte.

If bubbles and chocolate can't finish off a satisfying evening, nothing can (okay, besides the obvious and currently unobtainable).

On the stroll home, my friend offered to perform an impromptu viola solo when we arrived at his house, but those of us with a busy day tomorrow bowed out.

There was no way we were going to top that meal or the Tannat, so I decided to head out while my star was still ascending.

Besides, happy couples need some time alone on a lovely spring night so I was extraneous at that point. At least that's the way I'd feel if I were part of the happy couple.

I almost remember what that was like...Tannat and fireflies, as I recall.

Cafe Ole: Slugs and Salamanders

Slugs need food, too.

I say that because I accomplished next to nothing today, making me feel very lazy and yet by late afternoon, all I could think of was where I wanted to eat lunch.

I've no doubt that my sluggishness arose from two of the last three nights being 3 a.m. bedtimes.

What with today being the weekend, though, I corrected that deficit by getting up, having breakfast and taking a windy walk before crashing for a two-hour nap.

And I don't know about you, but I always wake up from a nap hungry, so when I arose around 3:00, I found myself headed to the new Cafe Ole in Carytown still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

Since I'd never patronized Ben and Jerry's, it was my first time in that space with its great panorama of C-town's street theater.

And today's sunshine had brought out a full cast of characters human and canine.

With the Arcade Fire's new album "The Suburbs" blaring overhead, the place had all the entertainment I could hope for.

I was disappointed to see that the wall menu had a paper sign over the nachos portion saying "No Nachos."

When I inquired as to why nachos were not yet available (I mean, come on, the ingredients are all over the rest of the menu), I was told it was because they don't yet have a salamander.

This became a teachable moment because I didn't know about Salamander toaster ovens.

My server explained, "They're expensive and we just opened, so we gotta pay the electric bill before we buy anything else new. But nachos are definitely coming."

Whew.

So I had to move beyond the nachos portion of the menu for my late lunch.

Although I didn't see them on the menu, I took a chance and asked if they had fish tacos; they were always my favorite item at the downtown Cafe Ole.

Bingo!

I ordered a couple of those, found a window table and settled in to read the Washington Post article about the competitive eating club at University of Maryland (my alma mater).

Frankly, I found the idea of a school-sponsored club centered around overeating pretty repulsive, but who am I to judge extra-curricular activities?

My tacos arrived, full of blackened tilapia, fruit salsa (pears and mango, but I was told it changes), and chopped lettuce with a honey/chipotle sauce; they were surrounded by Ole's signature chips (fried in peanut oil the sign boasts) and house salsa.

It had been easily a year since I'd last had the downtown location's fish tacos and these were just as good as I remembered. It occurred to me that down there, you could only get them on Thursdays.

And, come to think of it, why weren't they listed on the menu at all here?

Enquiring minds need to know, so I went up to the counter to ask.

Turns out they only serve fish tacos in Carytown on Saturdays, Mondays and Wednesdays.

So I'd just lucked out in ordering them today.

The girl did say that they were sort of planning to add them to the menu soon and possibly even daily.

I told her I was glad for my random good luck in having inadvertently stumbled in on a fish day.

"Oh, good!" she said, sounding relieved. "I thought you were coming up to say you were allergic to tilapia or something."

Not a chance.

Slugs eat everything, honey.

She Shops!

It has been read into the record that I hate shopping (except for grocery). I only shop when I have something specific to buy and even then, I get in and out as quickly as humanly possible. I am a terrible conspicuous consumer.

That said, it's the season of gift giving, so I am forced to shop. Yes, I could do it online, but that wouldn't help the Richmond economy any, would it now? So I invited a favorite couple to join me for a stroll through Carytown to procure presents and end with some seasonal sipping.

And despite the hordes of people clogging the sidewalk in indecision about which way to walk, it turned into a pretty enjoyable afternoon. The leaden sky definitely gave a wintry vibe to it all (looks like snow, everyone was saying) and then there was the usual Carytown color.

We saw a bike strung with battery-powered lights, a purple poodle with red toenails, a three-piece accordion band (including sculptor and parade organizer Lily, who stopped mid-squeeze to throw her arms around me and say, "I love you, Karen!") and the decorated horse-drawn carriage clopping down Cary Street.

In River City Cellars was a dog in full Santa regalia sprawled in the center of the floor, his owners buying New Year's Eve dinner tickets for Secco (nearly sold out) while I bought a gift certificate for a beer geek friend.

At Bygones, the sales staff was fiddling with Internet radio in pursuit of Christmas music when suddenly the Smiths "There is a light that never goes out" burst forth. I was thrilled, as were a couple of those girls, although they acknowledged that should their boss walk in, they'd be in big trouble.

I offered to take the fall, promising to tell the owner I'd requested the Smiths while I shopped (I also found the red gloves of my dreams, but I wasn't shopping for me. Sigh).

At Chop Suey, we went upstairs to shop the Bizarre Market, finding several gifts there among all the handmade items crowded into that tiny space. When my friend went to pay with her debit card, she was amazed to see Bird swipe the card on her iPad ("Yea, it's crazy the apps you can get for these things!"). Interesting buying old-school artisan crafts using the latest 21st century technology.

After stops at Mongrel (a favorite DJ friend had somehow "lost" her 6'-plus boyfriend with the magnificent mutton chops) and Luxor (where I love to ogle dated labels: Julius Garfinckle & Co. Miller & Rhoads, Arden), I was over shopping.

My solution was to go to Can-Can for hot chocolate, easily the best in RVA, in my humble opinion. And since I don't drink coffee or hot tea, when I crave a warm drink, it's my only option.

I'd learned my lesson the last time though, and ordered the small rather than the large (which comes in a soup bowl-sized mug). Thick and tasting like a bowl of liquid chocolate, it made me forget that I was only there because I'd just spent hours (shudder) shopping. The fries didn't hurt, either.

By the time my sweet/salty snack was finished, it was starting to drizzle and time to head home, gifts procured and taste buds satisfied. If only I didn't have to do it again...the shopping part, I mean.

Black Shadowess

This is what my life has come to. Sitting at my computer just before midnight last night, the phone rang. Anyone who knows me knows I hate the phone, so I don't get many calls during daylight hours, much less after dark.

Me: Hello?
Him: What are you doing home so early?
Me: Well, I went to the Silent Music Revival and out for a drink but now I'm home. Is that okay?
Him: Yea, I knew if you were home you'd be up. Wanna have lunch tomorrow?
Me: Uh, sure.
Him: Pick you up at noon.
Me: Okay, bye.

Of course, he could have just e-mailed me, but he planned to sleep until 11:30 this morning and wanted to know before he went to bed if we had plans. Welcome to my world.

We ate at 3325 West Cafe on the portico of the church building that used to house Acacia. As he pointed out, it's our second lunch of late looking down on the street theater of Carytown, always ripe for commentary from the peanut gallery (and we so enjoy being peanuts).

He needed coffee STAT and a Margarita pizza; I got the Bleu salad (Romaine lettuce, bleu cheese crumbles, toasted pine nuts, red onions, banana peppers, tomatoes, cukes and croutons with a vinaigrette), knowing he'd share his pizza, which he did.

My salad was perfect for me, mainly because I'd prefer a bleu cheese vinaigrette over a creamy bleu cheese dressing anytime. His pizza had the thinnest crust, almost cracker-like, and weighty with cheese, although basil was a tad short in supply. He ate four pieces, paused and got a second wind and finished off the rest. There went any hope of dessert, something he's usually good for.

Driving home, we were behind a 70s-era black van, pimped out nicely...if it were still 1977. On the spare tire cover, the owner had taken the kind of gold lettering you buy in a hardware store and written a message to the world: BLACK SHADOW - COME AND GET SOME.

"Yea, baby, cause that's the way to pull in the ladies," my friend said.

Suppose it would work on the back of a black Altima? Nah, probably not.

On Not Squaring Shoulders

Why is it that long days always follow short nights? There was the excitement of the Folk Fest, followed by a much-needed nap and finally getting some work done, and all of a sudden it was after 8 and I hadn't even begun to consider dinner.

And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.

Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).

Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.

More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.

The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.

After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.

Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.

Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?

Balcony Bliss at Xtra's

I thought I was having lunch with one of my best friends today, but his position had been usurped by the time he picked me up at noon.

His replacement? Well, that would be VCU's Facebook page because of their unlikely choice to use my "Unofficial Tour Guide" post on their page (sample comment: "Nice stumps").

Fortunately, my head still fit in his vehicle, so off we went to Carytown to partake of a lovely lunch on Xtra's balcony. It's a stylish place, designed by a professional restaurant designer and, as usual, my main complaint was the TV (aka: ambiance killer). Favorite design element: the metalwork in the opening of the balcony's brick wall with the bluest sky visible through it.

But we had no intention of staying inside, instead choosing a two-top at the railing, which put my legs conveniently in the sun, right where I wanted them.

We had a view of the Merita white bread billboard atop Mary Angela's and a bird's eye view of passersby. It's kind of fascinating to be above everyone else.

After much back and forth to coordinate ordering different side dishes, I opted for the mini muffuletta, made of roasted turkey, Genoa salami, roast beef, cheddar, and Gruyere on toasted ciabatta with mufuletta relish and Mediterranean vinaigrette with Greek pasta salad.

Recently demoted friend got all manly on me, ordering the Black Angus burger with Gruyere and sweet pepper aioli with Thai cole slaw. He said he liked his burger and my muffuletta was filling, if a tad over-relished (further proof of why I'm not a food blogger). Before long, we both called it quits and he had our leftovers boxed up for his Scooby snack later.

He also provided the best quip in many a lunch. He was telling a mutual friend that he had a new girlfriend and she responded, "It's not Karen, is it?" to which he responded, "Nooo, she missed her chance to get on the Danny train." I laughed so hard I started wheezing.

And with that, he reclaimed his former friend standing on humor points alone. VCU who? Make me laugh and all is right with the world.

Even better, do it on a sunny balcony.