Puttin' on the Ritz

When it comes to a fancy pants gala, we're that couple who don't have to worry about what to wear.

And by that I mean, when Mr. Wright invited me to join him for Historic Richmond's "A Night on Grace Street," I knew immediately what I'd be wearing. It wasn't hard because I only have one dress that's black tie-worthy and while it was purchased in 1996, it's my automatic dressy default.

I just hadn't had to pull it out since 2013.

Now it turns out I may have met my match because Mr. Wright showed up in his tuxedo which he assured me was a good two decades old. So, basically, he put as little effort into his attire as I had, 'though I'll give him credit for freshening it up with a new bow tie. Nothing else about my ensemble was remotely new, either, since I acquired the necklace, bracelets and satin evening bag during Jimmy Carter's administration.

We must have looked good because our Uber driver told us so, followed by a directive to "have fun and get crazy." Um, why do you think we took Uber?

In what was a brilliant choice, the dinner and dancing parts of the gala took place right on the stage of the Dominion Energy Center, which is what Virginia's shadow government is trying to call the building we know is really the Carpenter Stage, or, at the very least, CenterStage.

Still, eating and dancing onstage, that was a new one for me and I liked it. What other talent besides eating is going to get me onstage?

But the evening actually began in the alcoves off the lobby where two bars did our alcoholic bidding and uniformed servers passed by with trays of oysters Rockefeller, beef wellington in pastry and, tomato tarts - and probably other things I never even noticed - while everyone mingled and got into the gala spirit.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your buzz.

When we trooped into the theater for dinner, men were stationed at the stairs to the stage to offer their hand or arm so that women teetering on high heels (not me, I had on dressy platforms) had the support of a non-drinking man. As the night wore on, it undoubtedly became a better and better idea since a trip to the ladies' room required a descent and ascent to remount.

One could say it was the only pitfall of stage dancing.

At the front of the stage were Big Ray and the Kool Kats providing early evening dinner jazz and swing to the many tables arranged on the stage. Only six of the eight chairs were filled at table six where we sat, but they were a nice enough group. There was an architect from Chicago - that made two - and his lawyer wife, residents of Chevy Chase, Maryland, next to us, leading to chatter about the development of Anacostia, the SW waterfront and how D.C. is no longer the city I left 30 years ago.

He's currently part of the team working in Richmond on the renovation of Old City Hall and you could hear the reverence in his voice talking about taking the interior back to its original look. Apparently. that means it's going to be far less colorful than what it's been for decades, so he's prepared for Richmond to take issue with the changes.

His wife spoke of how busy he was, so busy that the renovations he sketched on a bev nap 14 years ago when they bought the Chevy Chase house are still nothing more than doodles on a napkin because he's been too busy to work on his own house. Or, as Mr. Wright pointed out, perhaps home remodels are just not his thing.

Meanwhile, what was listed on the menu as an amuse bouche was far more than a bite. Enjoying a first course of golden beet trifle layered with trout caviar and George's Mill goat cheese, I watched as another diner pushed the beets aside and ate only the cheese. Who does that?

The gala chair gave a stirring speech about the good work of Historic Richmond, followed by a short video and when she mentioned Jackson Ward, I raised my fist in solidarity for my adopted neighborhood every time.

She also mentioned that the chef for tonight's event was Carlos Silva, whose food I've eaten since I first moved to Jackson Ward a dozen years ago. After hearing that piece of information, I asked our server to tell him hi, but she did me one better by delivering him to table six so we could chat.

A salad of micro greens and assorted root vegetables was topped by a confit quail, a satisfying rich note for the earthy and bitter underpinnings. What was funny was watching people trying to figure out how to eat the quail.

Another speech, another video, more fist pumping and it was time for braised beef in Barboursville Cabernet Sauvignon and Rockfish braised in Upper Shirley Chardonnay over Byrd Mill cheese grits and wax beans, an entree guaranteed to please multiple palates. The beef especially tasted like something Carlos used to make at Bistro 27 when he was nodding to his Brazilian roots.

As we were finishing up, Big Ray took to the floor as the emcee for the donation bidding (on the back of everyone's program was a bidding number for this purpose) to keep the good work of Historic Richmond going. It was fascinating to see how one person at a table bidding often caused someone else at the table to retaliate with a bid of their own, which made Big Ray very happy.

Once $30,000 was raised (and, mind you, that didn't even include the ridiculous price of the tickets), Big Ray shared that the bar included 12 year Glenlivet, a fact which caused a small stampede as men from nearly every table headed to the bar for some single malt. Since he was still on the clock, Ray's Scotch had to wait, so he returned to the bandstand, only to be joined by two female singers in sequined dresses and one dapper-looking man. Their job it was to take the music from big band to full on dance band and that meant Motown to start and very soon Bruno Mars and Walk the Moon.

Because everyone - I'm looking at you, girl crush and carrot cake man - loves "Shut Up and Dance" after a few drinks, even the preservationist and architect types populating the room.

Between Glenlivet and dancing fools, table six was mostly absent when dessert began arriving, so I waited for no one to try it. Miniature Nelson county apple pies with mascarpone apple butter and - a nice touch - apple slaw provided a sweet ending and a proper sugar buzz to get on with the business of the night.

After all, how often does a woman get to go dancing in her fanciest dress? I may have danced to "Brick House" scores of times during and since the Carter years, but I'm not sure I ever had a better time doing it. I know because I didn't even hold it against Big Ray when he chose to end the night with Journey's hackneyed "Don't Stop Believin'."

How could I? If I'm honest, it's my new mantra, shared already with friend, doctor and interview subject anyone who will listen. Hang on to that feeling long enough and you just may be rewarded. Mightily.

And though he'd never tell me to "shut up" - what would be the point? - the "dance with me" part is a given.

Fifths and Sacred Dances

The only thing missing was the rioting.

On this glorious spring afternoon, I was at CenterStage for the Richmond Symphony's program of "Musical Revolutionaries."

Our seats were in the nosebleed section, but given the $10 ticket price, neither me nor either of my companions was complaining about the height.

Hell, I've bought $10 seats that landed me in the very last row and this time there were two rows behind us, so it was plenty uptown for me.

Even from so far away, I spotted my favorite bass clarinet player, looking handsome and ready to play.

Likewise, the lanky bass player with whom I love to chat was holding up his large instrument (and no, that's not a metaphor although I feel sure he'd say it was).

The program began with Monteverdi's "Toccata and Ritornelli" from an opera, "Orfeo" he'd written in 1607.

Yea, that didn't mean anything to me, either.

Wait, wasn't that the year the colonists were landing in Jamestown?

The short piece was notable mainly for how the orchestra had to simulate the sounds of instruments no longer in use.

Fast forward 200 years for Beethoven's "Symphony No. 5," or as it was called in the '70s, "A fifth of Beethoven."

From the first distinctive four notes, da da da DA, I could only think of one thing.

Just how many cartoons have used this piece of music.

When the orchestra finished the four-movement piece, the audience rose to its feet for a standing ovation.

After intermission came the reason I was at CenterStage today: Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring."

This month is the centennial of the first performance of the composer's tradition-smashing work.

My only complaint was that the program, in describing it, referred to "the shear noise of new music."

Two of our group are serious language geeks, and that egregious error left us shaking our heads in disgust.

Perhaps I should volunteer my proofreading skills to the symphony.

But that aside, hearing "The Rite of Spring" performed live was a magical experience.

Just before it began, one of my companions began adjusting stuff on the floor, saying, "I need to clear the decks for toe-tapping."

Let's just say before long my toes, my legs and everything else was pulsating along with the pagan rhythms.

Conductor Steven Smith called the revolutionary piece of music a "sonic extravaganza," trying to prepare us for what we were about to hear.

And that was the music written for a ballet about a pagan rite, namely old men sitting around watching a young girl dance herself to death.

As you can imagine, that didn't go over terribly well in 1913.

Today, however, it was a tour de force beginning with a bassoon and moving through, according to Smith, revolutionary rhythmic patterns that sounded both tribal and primitive, evocations with which we're far more comfortable today than they were 100 years ago.

So instead of throwing catcalls and insults at the musicians, today's audience sat there raptly and when the piece ended, gave a prolonged standing ovation, topping even the one we'd given Beethoven's fifth.

Why riot when it's so much more satisfying to indulge your primal side?

Evening in 3/4 Time

Obviously, it had been a few years since I'd been to see "The Nutcracker."

For instance, I didn't realize until 6:40 that the performance began at 7, not 8:00. Fortunately for me, my partner in crime was able to get it together as quickly as I was.

And I remembered it as a nearly three-hour extravaganza whereas we were out on the sidewalk by 9:15. And that's with an intermission.

Ballet for the ADHD set?

Everyone's got favorite parts in this old chestnut. I'm enamored of the snake charmer dance for the sinewy athleticism and grace of the dancer who plays the snake.

But for sheer soul-swelling and heart-melting it's the music of "Waltz of the Flowers," that makes me wish I was being waltzed  could waltz.

And part of that is the pleasure of having the Richmond Symphony performing the music.

I was pleased to see a friend, the talented Nicholas Lewis, down from the north playing that bass clarinet that he does so well.

Looking around during intermission, I only saw one familiar face; the scientist was in attendance, hardly surprising since he'd once taken me to a dance performance when he'd scored some free tickets.

He was out of reach to inquire if he had any chocolate (he usually does at any kind of performance) so I put thoughts of chocolate out of my head as the lights came down.

After walking out of the theater at the mind-blowing hour of 9:15, we went down to the Belvidere for a bite and to try to figure out why people kept clapping and interrupting the flow of the dance.

Our stay there started with a big laugh when the bartender greeted us with, "Oh, I see you made it to the second date!"

We corrected his misconception and moved on to food before the kitchen closed.

Over smoked salmon (really, who does it better in this town? Belvidere's is like butter) for me and a grilled portabello sandwich for him, we listened to a guy tell us about how he lost his dream girl after five years.

As he explained it, there were no relationship issues, he just screwed up.

He owned right up to it.

And now he's ready to find the right girl. His qualifications? That she really like him.

That's it. After realizing that looks were not the key, he just wants someone who would enjoy him.

Boy, could it be as easy as that?

Maybe that and some chocolates to show he's not going to rush her.

Waltz time is plenty fast enough.

Six Burner and Shakespeare

A simple plan: Six Burner and Shakespeare, meaning good food, and half-priced wine, followed by intense wordplay and a bittersweet ending.

What more could I want on a Tuesday evening (there's an obvious answer to that, but we'll leave it unwritten)?

Off I went.

I was greeted at Six Burner's bar by local wine god Bob Talcott, enjoying a glass of half-priced wine himself.

I'm no fool (well, not entirely anyway), so after our hellos I asked him what he was drinking, figuring I might as well take the master's lead.

I can be an apt pupil, I've been told.

It was the featured white, the Kuentz-Bas Alscace, a blend of sylvaner, muscat, auxerrois and chasselas.

He described it as a bunch of unusual grapes, dry and delicious but not particularly aromatic.

Furthering justifying his choice, he said, "I could be analytical about it, but sometimes you just have to accept it for what it is."

"You could say that about women, don't you think?" I asked.

He got all pink in the face and stopped just short of spitting out his wine, he laughed so hard; but he also admitted that there's little analysis that goes into his dealings with my fair sex.

I didn't probe further, but it was a good start to the evening.

Minutes later a friend came in with his wife and son and insisted I join them at their table.

He's the nearest thing I know to being a chef without actually being a chef; I met him through his work in a local restaurant.

Surprise, surprise, there was a lot of talk of restaurants and food as we ate.

An amuse bouche arrived, in the form of a calamari and mushroom ensalata and it was mouth-wateringly good.

I had the sunchoke soup with pig and kumquats followed by the Manakintowne greens with beets, goat cheese, blood oranges and pistachios.

I had to dash in order to make my curtain, causing our sever to ask, "Since when are you in a hurry, Karen? You don't even have time for chocolate?"

Nothing like being called out.

I arrived at Center Stage with two minutes to spare, paid my $15 (which includes a glass of wine) and grabbed a front row seat.

The cast was larger than the last few staged readings I'd been to there, with about fifteen people.

The last time I saw Love's Labours Lost performed was at Dogwood Dell at the turn of the 21st century and it wasn't by Richmond Shakespeare.

All I remembered was a short play full of repartee and men vowing to stay away from women, resulting in hilarity.

"Oh, I am stabbed by laughter," the servant Boyet says and it's a perfect description of a word nerd's reaction to the play.

It's considered one of Shakespeare's most intellectual, full of wordplay, alliteration, metaphors, puns and other literary devices we language geeks love.

Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart
And quite divorce his memory from his part.

Ahem.

It's not a play that's often performed for that very reason, as well as its bittersweet ending.

The guys don't get the girls; they're told they have to wait a year and a day to claim their loves and prove it's not just infatuation.

This is not the typical Shakespearean comedy happy ending, you know, love, chase, marriage.

Or maybe it's just a delayed happy ending, as in true love must be tested over time. I hear such things are possible.

Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come, challenge, challenge me by these deserts,
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine.

Perhaps it's the challenge that leads to happily ever after...not that I would know.

What Some Men Can Do with Their Mouths

Early start menu at Bistro 27. Arturo Sandoval playing with the Richmond Symphony. Storm strolling. That's the Cliff Notes version of my evening so that you don't have to keep reading if you don't care to.

Not long before 5:00, my friend Nicholas, who plays with the Richmond Symphony, suggested we meet at 6 for dinner and I offered 27 as a destination so I could try the early start menu (Fridays and Saturdays 5-6:30 for $20) and we could catch up before the performance. My bad; I had not allowed for the volumes of people wanting to eat before seeing Wicked and Sandoval. The place was 70% full when I walked in and 110% full within twenty minutes.

This week's early menu offered the Venti Sette salad, which I got, or a Caesar and for entrees, beef ravioli, cappelini with veggies, chicken picatta or pork loin in a mustard/caper sauce with mashed potatoes and mixed veggies (I had the pork); for dessert, it was cheesecake or chocolate torte with blueberries and strawberries (guess which one I had). The pork serving was generous and that mustard/caper sauce typical of Chef Carlos' deft hand with sauces.

As 27 continued to fill up and overflow with pre-culture attendees, I heard a nearby bar sitter ask the bartender to call them a cab for 7:45. He looked skeptical, knowing the taxi situation here when clearly they didn't, but graciously accommodated anyway. Meanwhile, the guest van from the Marriott showed up empty, only to have the driver come inside to pick up a take-out order for a hotel guest.

Because I was buying my ticket minutes before the performance, I was seated in the very last row of the Carpenter stage, a first for me. Everyone around me had been a last minute buyer and the show was sold out I was told, which wasn't surprising given our illustrious guest's appearance.

The Richmond Symphony played for the first half, with an emphasis on music that celebrated their own trumpet players. After the first piece, 'Raiders March' the guy next to me asked if it was from a movie because it had sounded familiar to him. My friend Nicholas had alerted me that they'd be playing this theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark, so I told the guy where it came from. The irony of this exchange is that I am undoubtedly the only person in the entire theater who has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark and had Nicholas not given me the scoop, I'd have been completely clueless.

The second half was all about Arturo Sandoval, the Cuban-born trumpeter who was a protege of Dizzy Gillespie. In honor of him, I'd even worn my Barcelona tights (the only ones I have with a Spanish connection) for the occasion. He began by asking if he'd played here before, apologizing by saying, "Sorry. After fifty years, I can't remember all the gigs." When they went to play 'Someone to Watch Over Me,' he asked the conductor, "Is this George Gershwin?"

Sandoval said that piano playing was considered a girl thing in Cuba and if a boy asked to learn it, the reaction was, "Uh-oh. This boy has problems." Despite the cultural bias, Sandoval went on to learn piano when he moved to the U.S. He had expected the move to better his English, but as he explained, "We moved to Miami. It's impossible to improve your English there!"

Apparently the appeal of the piano was that, unlike the trumpet, there was no pain involved. He said that playing the piano allowed him to laugh or have a phone conversation or even talk to pretty girls, things prohibited by the all-consuming trumpet. After a couple of rollicking songs with Sandoval on piano, he again picked up his horn with, "Back to the pain."

During the course of the evening, he played not only trumpet and piano, but also drums and keyboard. And his feet never stopped moving. Finally, he asked if we wanted one more song. The thunderous ovation was his answer and he did come back after that for one last encore.

During the final number, a crazy, rhythmic dance piece he'd written and dedicated to his Spanish grandparents, he let out a "Babaloo," and then told the audience, "That's Ricky." I got it, but not a lot of other people laughed. But everyone was on their feet by the end of the song.

Walking out, I heard a guy in a Hawaiian shirt say to someone, "What did you think, man? It's a gas, ain't it?" That was as good a description as any for the Latin thrill we'd experienced there tonight.

And, as if that weren't enough perfection for one night, we were walking out of Center Stage into a thunderstorm, complete with heat lightening, distant thunder and a gentle rain. What made it so wonderful was the mid-50s temperature, so even without any sort of wrap except a scarf, it wasn't the least bit unpleasant to be out in. In fact, it was like a promise that spring is just around the corner.

And, congratulations if you skipped the abbreviated version of my night and read the whole thing, details, opinions and all. You get an A+.

Opera> Fan House> Rollins

A gorgeous sunny day like today calls for being outside...except when all your plans are for indoor activities. Not that I'm complaining considering what thoroughly enjoyable activities these were. I'm counting on there being other sunny days, but how often can you start with Mozart, move on to a new restaurant and finish with spoken word? Not enough, I'm afraid. Not enough.

A friend had suggested we see Don Giovanni at Center Stage and it sounded like a great idea to me. There were four of us, not a one who'd seen it, and with the vastly improved acoustics of the Carpenter stage, we were expecting great sound, which we got. Don Giovanni, the consummate player, had a theory about women based on their hair; with blonds you get gentleness, with brunettes, fidelity. Choose your priority, gentlemen. But my favorite line came from the besotted Masetto who, after allowing himself to be won over by his fiancee's physical entreaties, says, "We men are so pathetic." As long as you know.

The opera was long (over three hours) and for dinner my hungry friend and I wanted to check out the new Fan House in the old Verbena space. We couldn't have made a better Sunday night selection. As it happened, the guy sitting next to me at the bar eating was Sonny, the mastermind behind the menu. He saw us perusing the menu and offered to assist in any way he could. We braved it ourselves but got a major nod of approval based on our choices.

The grilled calamari salad was beautifully seasoned with perfectly cooked calamari. The beef kabobs had a savory sauce that he told us came from a region on the China/Russia border; it made the dish. The tuna tartare trio was tartare three ways, all outstanding in their own way. The tofu was probably the biggest surprise in that it was absolutely sublime: scallions, sesame oil and salt and a flavor to die for. The Surprise dumplings are billed as a family recipe and a secret and for good reason. The portion was generous and the flavor unlike any dumplings either of us have had.

Music was courtesy of Pandora, with Phoenix as the starting point, so I liked everything I heard. It would have been much better to discover it was somebody's iPod and thus chosen specifically, but at least it was all current, worth hearing and loud enough to enjoy.

And last, but certainly not least, was Henry Rollins at the National doing his particular brand of spoken word. It hasn't even been two years since I saw him at the Canal Club, but he's so topical, informed and well spoken that you can never really see the man too often. He described the Internet as "allowing people to hurl invective with impunity," in his opening discussion of the First Amendment. But then he also covered his child-like role-modeling, telling kids that"the nasal cavity can hold a lot more than you think." Segueing from children to teens, he observed, "I know how teenagers are. That's why there's Joy Division records."

Discussing his extensive travels, Rollins said he takes a huge hard drive of music to introduce foreigners to and that his mission was to be "like Johnny Appleseed, there to spread the funk." One kid was so awed by the music Rollins shared that he could only get out two words: The Stooges. I find it oddly reassuring to think of Henry Rollins as our musical ambassador overseas.

But mainly Rollins advocated overcoming cynicism, which he called "intellectual sloth." His solution? Engagement in the world. "Make as much trouble as you can and support the Strummer-Jeffersonian belief."

I'd like to think I'm already doing that.

Woo Me with Words

Tragedy is the stuff Saturday nights are made of.

In this particular case, I'd been given two free tickets by a friend for tonight's performance of Othello at Center Stage and couldn't find anyone who could or would go with me.

While not a tragedy, it was certainly a shame, not that it stopped me from going to take in a play that begins as a great love story but really centers on bigotry, obsession and revenge.

It was my first time in the Gottwald Playhouse of Center Stage, although far from my first time seeing Richmond Shakespeare perform.

I'd been one of those in attendance at their Linden Row performance of Much Ado About Nothing back in the '90s. I have long been a regular at their shows.

Tonight I was lucky enough to have been given second row center seats, so I was close enough to see the actors spit, which I find satisfying for some reason.

I also knew two of the actors in the play which always adds to my enjoyment.

And despite having seen many of Shakespeare's plays done repeatedly, I'd never seen Othello preformed live before.

This production is a collaboration of Richmond Shakespeare and the African American Repertory Theater and is part of the Acts of Faith Festival RVA does every year.

Early on, Othello is accused of having used tricks or witchcraft to win the love of Desdemona and marry her.

He's forced to defend himself and explain how his wooing won her over on its own merits.

He had me completely convinced with one simple line of his self-defense, "She'd come again and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse."

That's absolutely true. When we keep coming back to hear more of what you have to say, we're definitely interested, no coercion necessary.

But as we all know, Othello is a great tragedy, so there was much sinister plotting and revenge schemes and far too many people ended up dead or maimed by the play's end.

The beauty of theater over film or television is that I don't have to see the blood and squeamish types like me appreciate that.

The crowd was diverse and included several of the former students who participated in the '60s sit-in at the Thalhimer's lunch counter and they were given a round of sincere applause.

Much to my surprise, there were some Shakespeare virgins sitting right in front of me.

I know because the man boasted to his date that he was going to go right home and update his profile so everybody would know he'd been to see a Shakespeare play.

I'm just making a wild guess here, but I'm thinking he's probably not the type who has female greedy ears coming back to devour his discourse.

My Big Show Biz Break

The call went out for extras for a shoot at Center Stage today.

Who better than those with plenty of time on their hands as well as the culturally curious, two groups that happen to include me, to be those extra bodies?

So I donned my business attire (not often used these days) as directed and reported to the Carpenter Center at 3:00 sharp.

After signing our model release forms, we were herded up to the balcony and told to scatter ourselves throughout the seats.

It occurred to me that sitting that way was going to make it look like none of us had dates at the supposed performance we were attending, which while it's true for me, would hardly represent a typical event audience.

We were told that the shoot was for the Metropolitan Richmond Visitors' Bureau's annual guide, which usually features a new attraction or major upcoming event, hence the focus on Center Stage.

And then the real work of extras began; we waited.

And waited some more.

The actual models arrived late and had to be shot first (natch, they're paid pros, we were just warm bodies).

We were then rearranged into various rows behind the models to simulate the audience, although most of us were guessing that we'd be nothing more than blurred spots behind the actual models.

But then we didn't come to the shoot for a featured role; we knew we were just there to take up space.

And we did a fine job of filling those seats, if I do say so myself.

Besides, I'm much more the audience type than the performer type, in case there was any question.

Keep On Truckin'

Seeing R. Crumb at Center Stage tonight was an exercise in pure enjoyment, a fact confirmed by every person I spoke to afterwards. 

The audience, a mix of those of us who remember Crumb from his humble beginnings to those who have discovered and worshipped him along the way, was reverently quiet in order to hear the man's every word during the hour and half he and Francoise Mouly (The New Yorker Art Editor) sat on stage conversing. 

Using a large screen to display the history of Crumb's works, including the newest, a comix version of "The Book of Genesis," the old friends maintained a fascinating and casual discussion of comic art, work habits, altered perceptions and so much more. 

Among the highlights: On attitude: "Life's not all beer and Skittles." 

 On music: "I only listen to CDs if I can't get the 78." 

On maturation: "Oh, I was a sick puppy when I was young, but I got it out of my system. Now I'm nice." 

On Fritz the Cat: "I tried to kill that character. I did." 

 On past drug experimentation: "Stay sober is my recommendation." 

 The man chuckled at his own humor, took a pratfall coming and going onstage and showed a self-deprecating wit that completely endeared him to the fawning audience. 

The after-party at the Belvidere at Broad - which has an excellent display of some vintage Zap! comix cover art - filled quickly with Crumb attendees eager to continue the conversation about the man who denied being a genius. 

According to him, anyone could accomplish what he had, "assuming they could do the cross-hatching." He claimed he just did what he did with the talent that he had. 

"And I got well-paid," R. Crumb concluded in his understated way.

The View from the Cheap Seats

I made my first pilgrimage to Center Stage tonight for the Richmond Symphony's Hitchcock! A Symphonic Night at the Movies performance.

Okay, so I only paid $17 for my ticket and was in the top balcony; given the large screen and perfect acoustics, it was still an excellent center seat.

We were treated to clips from four films, all with pitch-perfect musical accompaniment: To Catch A Thief, Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder and North by Northwest as well as a trailer Hitch made for N x NW, full of home movie footage of himself and his family on various vacations.

That alone was worth the price of admission.

As I walked down Grace Street to Center Stage, a homeless woman sitting on a bench asked what all the activity downtown was tonight and I told her (Symphony, Citizen Cope, Folk Fest).

Moments later I was joined by Russell Wilson, pianist for the Symphony, who accompanied me down the street and into the venue; I hadn't seen Russell since I took his Jazz Appreciation class three years ago at VMFA. He asked about my post-show destination and I invited him to join me.

I had already planned to meet up with my charming friend Nicholas, bass clarinetist for the Symphony, afterwards at the Belvidere. He's gluten-intolerant, as I'd discovered when we'd eaten together in the past, and I wanted to surprise him with a local place that featured an unusually wide variety of gluten-free choices (I say local because he lives in Brooklyn now, but is down here for symphony performances regularly).

At the moment, I may be his favorite friend  because of all the tasty possibilities he saw on that menu before choosing the Gouda burger on a GF roll.

Russell wasn't far behind in arriving (he had the turkey and white bean burger and pronounced it delicious; I haven't had it yet) and then we were joined by Leighton, she of the Historic Jackson Ward Association and Kim, our local school board member, and, like Nicholas and Russell, both passionate conversationalists.

Owner Julie was right there in the fray, sharing her thoughts about how to make a difference in the neighborhood and the city. As the only black members of the symphony, naturally the talk turned to diversity, gentrification and Richmond's reluctance to change.

Bets were made, conversation swirled in a dozen directions, far too many pictures were taken and before we knew it, it was closing time.

And at this moment, 2:40 a.m., a guy is walking up and down my street, drunk and confused, yelling, "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs because he can't remember where he left his car.

Don't you just love a nice low-key cultured night at the Symphony? I know I do.