As days turn to nights with zero time for blogging, it's probably best to think of these as postcards.
Greetings from First Fridays...
You know it's going to be a great evening when the owner of Chez Foushee asks how close you'd like to sit to the bossa nova band. We put just enough distance between the music and our conversation to enjoy both.
Meanwhile, we took our time with crab bisque, olives and Marcona almonds in herbed oil and a couple of Foushee market salads loaded with cannellini beans, craisins, toasted almonds and red onions over peppery arugula with green goddess dressing. The salad choice was a matter of necessity once I found out that their long-standard brussels sprouts salad (the one with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese) has been put out to pasture. I may never recover from the loss, though a dense dark chocolate mousse helped ease the pain somewhat.
Our art fix was taken at the main library with "Herald 4- Drawing from the Knew," an exhibit of seven regional artists working in vastly different styles. At 1708, we took in "Yo, Bruce: Gerald Donato + Bruce Wilhelm" because the playful nature of Donato's work never gets old. At Black Iris for the "Sink or Swim" show, my favorite was the drawing that incorporated Popeye, Olive Oil and Wimpy into one image (and probably unrecognizable to a younger viewer). Candela Gallery's group show, "Channels" of work by Willie Anne Wright, Courtney Johnson and Lisa Kokin was compelling, none more so than Kokin's mixed media sewn collages using old black and white photographs of people sewn together.
Because we're all connected, right?
Greetings from Peaches, home to 45s
Even if there had been no crate of surprises, the meal would have been memorable. Holmes, Beloved and I ventured out of their usual comfort zone for a meal taken at the corner of Nota Bene's bar. Holmes went in looking for the cauliflower that had changed his opinion about cauliflower, only to find it (like the brussels sprout salad at Chez Foushee) M.I.A. Where he scored points was in suggesting we get the brocaletti with red peppers and anchovy breadcrumbs instead.
Since when does Holmes suggest a vegetable he can't even pronounce? Or, more to the point, who was I with and what had he done with Holmes?
Bottles of Rosabella Rose (unfortunately, they were out of the Arianna Occhipinti Grillo we'd requested) accompanied the brocaletti, along with an arugula salad with red onion, fennel and sweety drops. One of the servers told us she'd been so enamored of the sweety drops that she'd ordered an entire jar for herself. I have to say, Holmes, Beloved and I were mighty taken with the teardrop-shaped cross between a cherry tomato and a jalapeno that managed to taste both sweet and tart at once.
Next we went on a fungi bender, first with a wild mushroom, roasted garlic, caramelized onion and Fontina pizza (with crust to die for) and then with a special of tagliarini with an array of mushrooms in a cream sauce. The tagliarini was so tender, it all but melted in your mouth.
Dessert was an extravaganza, with tiramisu (Beloved's first ever), lemon buttermilk zeppole with dark chocolate dipping sauce and the dessert du jour, a fig crostata. We paired the latter two with Barolo Chinato, as lovely an accompaniment to a sweet course as could be hoped for. And that rustic fig crostata, well, its thick, barely sweet crust was worthy of the figs and that's saying a lot coming from a fig fanatic.
The evening's soundtrack came courtesy of Holmes' buddy who'd been downsizing. Seems Holmes stopped by and scooped up an old Peaches crate filled with 45s. Granted, you have to be pretty seasoned to remember what Peaches was and that they sold crates for records, but none of us had any trouble.
There was loads of Elvis Costello, only a couple from the Beatles, plus the Jam, the Stranglers, B52s and a host of other '80s bands. We spent the evening working our way through the 45s, occasionally going to an album (can you ever hear too much Brass Ring, really?) for a side just to give Holmes a break on the turntable.
Greetings from the land of secession
When the day is spent driving to and from Norfolk, where signs with dire warnings of "High tide gate testing Tuesday 1 a.m." foreshadow the impending hurricane, it's best if the evening involves no car time. Fortunately, Conch Republic was no more than a brief stroll for a view of skulling boats, setting sun and a photo shoot for the restaurant at a nearby table.
In what was no doubt early preparation for Florence's arrival, all the umbrellas had been taken off the deck, unfortunate since the sun continues to shine until the weather system arrives. I made do by sitting with my back to the sun, but given that it's (sadly) nearly mid-September, it slid behind the trees before too long.
Broadbent Vino Verde washed down conch chowder, a wedge salad ("What kind of dressing do you want on that?" our young server asks. Um, bleu cheese because it wouldn't be a true wedge salad without it?) and a California Cobb. Over at the Boathouse, we saw tiki torches burning on their deck, although I can no longer think of them without thinking of last year's white supremacy march at UVA. Damn neo-Nazis spoil everything for the whole group. What's next, beach umbrellas?
I know, I know, I'm leaving out an awful lot for someone with lots to say who hasn't blogged in days, but you know what? It's going to get worse before it gets better. Depending on how Flo decides to behave, things could get even crazier next week. And the week after? Forget about it.
When you throw your lot in with a planner, there's bound to be too much adventure to document it all. All I can tell you is that my aim is true.
Showing posts with label chez foushee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chez foushee. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Resistance is Futile
Where better to discuss 45's latest embarrassment than on the way to Colonial Heights?
If I'm not mistaken, the round table discussion (or should that be rectangular car discussion?) got off the ground because of the awkward bully handshake he's been thrusting at world leaders lately by refusing to let go, but moved on to hanging up on the leader of the easiest-going nation around before we found a way to name it.
The consensus was that these past three weeks have given new meaning to the term "mind-boggling," spurring the backseat to relate it to shaken baby syndrome - boggled adult syndrome. It may not be contagious but it's clearly widespread.
And each of us deals with it in our own way.
I go out with friends and do things I enjoy as a way of banking good memories for the dark days when the regime's control is complete and such things are no longer possible.
It hurts my optimist's heart to write such things, but there it is.
What our quartet hadn't counted on when making plans for tonight was that for some lovers and would-be wooers, tonight was the main event because Valentine's Day falls on a school night, making our four-top stand out in a room full of couples dining at Chez Foushee.
Or maybe they thought we were swingers. We're not.
"I can personally vouch for the Sancerre," the Francophile noted and no one was going to argue with a personal recommendation.
In what has to be one of the most unexpected dishes on a Valentine's Day specials menu, fried chicken livers were right there next to a far more quotidian sauced fillet mignon with crabcake blah, blah, blah.
You can be damn sure the livers came to our table, along with multiple bowls of a sublime parsnip bisque heavily stocked with wild mushrooms, a platter of broiled local oysters under a mounding sauce of parsley, bread crumbs, butter and Pernod and - because it's irresistible and no one was offering to share - multiple brussels sprouts salads laden with candied walnuts, Bleu cheese, pickled red onions and swimming in red wine vinaigrette.
I told the group that chicken livers always took me back to Barbados because I'd over-indulged in them on my first night on the island and now the two are inextricably linked in my memory. Turns out one at our table calls Barbados his favorite Caribbean island, so he opened up the conversation by soliciting my opinion, which pretty much matched his for all the same reasons.
Over dinner, the word geek squad (all of us, really) went down the linguistic rabbit hole trying to figure out why, if vegetables can be cruciferous, do we call raw vegetables crudites? Shouldn't the root word be the same, making them crucites instead?
Legalities cropped up when the doting boyfriend told me that if, god forbid, his intended should vacate this mortal coil, he would be incapable of sorting through her bedroom so it would fall to me to sort through everything in her inner sanctum.
Well, of course I agreed to be executor of her bedroom, even before she sweetened the deal, saying, "You'll have to imagine me telling you from the beyond how cute you look in certain of my outfits so you should take them for yourself. You should bring a suitcase, wait, you can just take mine."
Shoe fetishes and dressing room etiquette were discussed over four supremely decadent desserts and I'm ashamed to say I was in the two-person minority who couldn't finish theirs, although I'm convinced that the sticky toffee puddings weren't nearly as dense as the double chocolate mousse tarts with praline sauce the rest of us had attempted.
Dessert failures always have an excuse, don't we?
We left behind couples still celebrating romance and staring into each other's eyes to trek to Swift Creek Mill Theater to see "Deathtrap" becausesometimes murder is the result of love we had tickets.
Director Tom Width began the evening by telling us that when Swift Creek last produced "Deathtrap" in 1989, ambulances had to be called twice (no one died, mercifully) and once the ice bucket onstage was appropriated so a female in the audience could barf into it.
Small wonder they wanted to produce it again.
Except, of course, that we're no longer the sensitive souls we were in the late '80s, having upped our tolerance for dishonesty, hypocrisy and breaking the law significantly since then. The past three weeks alone have helped immeasurably with that.
I immediately recognized the playwright's name, Ira Levin, because of his book "The Stepford Wives," which, like every other feminist-minded woman with a reading list, I'd devoured and reviled for its misogynist themes.
But "Deathtrap," a one set, five character thriller, I wasn't familiar with.
Which turned out to be a lucky break for me because I was completely sucked in by the plot, of which I had no knowledge. Hell, I was so enmeshed in the thriller thread, we were halfway through before I recognized the gay theme.
Even better, it was written in 1978, making it chock full of dated references a millennial might have to go home and Google, like the Merv Griffin Show, the Reverend Sun Myung Moon or fear of obscene phone calls.
Meanwhile characters mentioned Women's Lib, middle aged suburbanites talked about "smoking grass at a party," writers debated manual versus electric typewriters and someone was derisively accused of "preaching" ecology.
Maybe they were preaching it because they worried that one day there'd be ecological imbeciles denying climate change.
Perhaps most tellingly, the biggest issues were changing cultural norms. "I know what gay means! Elizabeth told me!" or "Everybody's opening up about everything these days!" sounded positively archaic to modern ears.
Positively modern to archaic ears, on the other hand, is when you stand up to leave for the loo and are told that while they hate to see you go, they love to watch you walk away. Their fulsome appreciation didn't fool me, I knew it was the Berlin tights.
Everybody opens up about everything these days. I'm just enjoying it now before 45 bans that, too.
If I'm not mistaken, the round table discussion (or should that be rectangular car discussion?) got off the ground because of the awkward bully handshake he's been thrusting at world leaders lately by refusing to let go, but moved on to hanging up on the leader of the easiest-going nation around before we found a way to name it.
The consensus was that these past three weeks have given new meaning to the term "mind-boggling," spurring the backseat to relate it to shaken baby syndrome - boggled adult syndrome. It may not be contagious but it's clearly widespread.
And each of us deals with it in our own way.
I go out with friends and do things I enjoy as a way of banking good memories for the dark days when the regime's control is complete and such things are no longer possible.
It hurts my optimist's heart to write such things, but there it is.
What our quartet hadn't counted on when making plans for tonight was that for some lovers and would-be wooers, tonight was the main event because Valentine's Day falls on a school night, making our four-top stand out in a room full of couples dining at Chez Foushee.
Or maybe they thought we were swingers. We're not.
"I can personally vouch for the Sancerre," the Francophile noted and no one was going to argue with a personal recommendation.
In what has to be one of the most unexpected dishes on a Valentine's Day specials menu, fried chicken livers were right there next to a far more quotidian sauced fillet mignon with crabcake blah, blah, blah.
You can be damn sure the livers came to our table, along with multiple bowls of a sublime parsnip bisque heavily stocked with wild mushrooms, a platter of broiled local oysters under a mounding sauce of parsley, bread crumbs, butter and Pernod and - because it's irresistible and no one was offering to share - multiple brussels sprouts salads laden with candied walnuts, Bleu cheese, pickled red onions and swimming in red wine vinaigrette.
I told the group that chicken livers always took me back to Barbados because I'd over-indulged in them on my first night on the island and now the two are inextricably linked in my memory. Turns out one at our table calls Barbados his favorite Caribbean island, so he opened up the conversation by soliciting my opinion, which pretty much matched his for all the same reasons.
Over dinner, the word geek squad (all of us, really) went down the linguistic rabbit hole trying to figure out why, if vegetables can be cruciferous, do we call raw vegetables crudites? Shouldn't the root word be the same, making them crucites instead?
Legalities cropped up when the doting boyfriend told me that if, god forbid, his intended should vacate this mortal coil, he would be incapable of sorting through her bedroom so it would fall to me to sort through everything in her inner sanctum.
Well, of course I agreed to be executor of her bedroom, even before she sweetened the deal, saying, "You'll have to imagine me telling you from the beyond how cute you look in certain of my outfits so you should take them for yourself. You should bring a suitcase, wait, you can just take mine."
Shoe fetishes and dressing room etiquette were discussed over four supremely decadent desserts and I'm ashamed to say I was in the two-person minority who couldn't finish theirs, although I'm convinced that the sticky toffee puddings weren't nearly as dense as the double chocolate mousse tarts with praline sauce the rest of us had attempted.
Dessert failures always have an excuse, don't we?
We left behind couples still celebrating romance and staring into each other's eyes to trek to Swift Creek Mill Theater to see "Deathtrap" because
Director Tom Width began the evening by telling us that when Swift Creek last produced "Deathtrap" in 1989, ambulances had to be called twice (no one died, mercifully) and once the ice bucket onstage was appropriated so a female in the audience could barf into it.
Small wonder they wanted to produce it again.
Except, of course, that we're no longer the sensitive souls we were in the late '80s, having upped our tolerance for dishonesty, hypocrisy and breaking the law significantly since then. The past three weeks alone have helped immeasurably with that.
I immediately recognized the playwright's name, Ira Levin, because of his book "The Stepford Wives," which, like every other feminist-minded woman with a reading list, I'd devoured and reviled for its misogynist themes.
But "Deathtrap," a one set, five character thriller, I wasn't familiar with.
Which turned out to be a lucky break for me because I was completely sucked in by the plot, of which I had no knowledge. Hell, I was so enmeshed in the thriller thread, we were halfway through before I recognized the gay theme.
Even better, it was written in 1978, making it chock full of dated references a millennial might have to go home and Google, like the Merv Griffin Show, the Reverend Sun Myung Moon or fear of obscene phone calls.
Meanwhile characters mentioned Women's Lib, middle aged suburbanites talked about "smoking grass at a party," writers debated manual versus electric typewriters and someone was derisively accused of "preaching" ecology.
Maybe they were preaching it because they worried that one day there'd be ecological imbeciles denying climate change.
Perhaps most tellingly, the biggest issues were changing cultural norms. "I know what gay means! Elizabeth told me!" or "Everybody's opening up about everything these days!" sounded positively archaic to modern ears.
Positively modern to archaic ears, on the other hand, is when you stand up to leave for the loo and are told that while they hate to see you go, they love to watch you walk away. Their fulsome appreciation didn't fool me, I knew it was the Berlin tights.
Everybody opens up about everything these days. I'm just enjoying it now before 45 bans that, too.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Absent the Spanking December Breeze
You know Christmas has me firmly in its grip when I can't even find time for my walk.
Instead, the morning found me upstairs from Chop Suey Books at the Bizarre Market finishing up one of my least favorite chores, shopping, not long after I finished up breakfast.
Impressive as all the locally hand-crafted items were, I was most awed when I saw two wooden Velveeta boxes in the familiar loaf shape. Imagine, there was a time when that totally unnatural cheese food product was sold in small wooden crates as if it were a legitimate foodstuff.
This is cultural history, kids.
By mid-day, Mac and I were strolling over to Chez Foushee for lunch, savoring every second in the 61-degree air. Like Max's, which we'd passed on the way over, Foushee was mobbed because it's that most wonderful time of year: matinee season.
And, sure, it could be that kind of matinee season, too, but for now, we're talking about the theatrical kind, okay?
Between Virginia Rep, where we were headed, and Richmond Ballet's Nutcracker at CenterStage, the ladies who lunch were out in force, and we proudly joined their ranks by eating salads (mine was roasted Brussels sprouts with candied walnuts, bleu cheese, bacon and pickled red onions, hers a Caesar with fried oysters) followed by a shared chocolate mousse tart with caramel sauce for a classic pre-theater luncheon that probably dates back to the Cole Porter days.
Afterward, we strolled a few blocks east to take in the air before making a U-turn and heading to our destination.
The November Theater was packed and the artistic director mentioned that the show had been added at the last minute, so they hadn't been sure how its timing would work with people's holiday schedules. Judging by the full orchestra and faces peering over the balcony, I'd guess rather well.
The draw may have been the play and its roots as a childhood favorite for some. Mac was one of them and when she'd seen the marquee saying that "A Christmas Story, the Musical" was playing, she'd expressed enthusiasm while I had to admit that I'd never even see the 1983 original movie ("Of course you haven't," Pru would observe later, rolling her eyes).
So we came to our afternoon with Ralphie's family from completely different backgrounds, she looking for a familiar touchstone and me hoping to connect the dots on the few cultural references I knew about, namely the BB gun and the leg lamp.
I'd say we both came away satisfied.
The set resembled a little girl's dollhouse with its cutaway views of rooms and the claustrophobic feel of a small suburban home. In "A Major Award," dancers wore lamp-shade-like dresses (complete with tassels) and formed a kick line that appealed to us both.
Then there were the quaint elements of the yarn. When the story reached the point where it was 12 days until Christmas, Ralphie's family set out to get a tree, a laughable and old-fashioned time frame in 2016.
Just last week, a Christmas tree seller had told Mac that it used to be that peak tree-buying time was around December 10th, but that's been pushed back to Black Friday weekend now and most places are cleaned out of firs long before December 9th.
Call me a dinosaur because when I was a kid, plenty of families didn't even go buy their tree until Christmas Eve, which made sense given that the 12 days of Christmas don't officially begin until Christmas, but in our typical bigger-is-better American way, we've shifted the focus to beforehand for a Christmas that begins with the last bite of turkey and pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving and is history by Boxing Day.
Tragic.
While it wasn't the kind of musical where you leave humming a great song (all were entirely forgettable, in my opinion), there was lots of dazzling dancing thanks to an extensive ensemble doing everything from Moulin Rouge dancing to pioneer square dancing to a chorus of heavenly angels whenever the BB gun was mentioned. Ahhhhhhhhhh.......
The funniest scene to a word nerd, hands down, was when Ralphie imagines his teacher Mrs. Shields coming to his house to inform his parents what a stellar theme paper he's written on "What I Want for Christmas." Actress Susan Sanford's impeccably-delivered speech about the splendor of Ralphie's prose, the beauty of his conjugated verbs, the wonder of his magnificent margins, made me laugh so hard I almost choked.
Less funny was a scene on Christmas Day at Chop Suey Palace Co. (with a sign reading, "Never closed") where the family goes for dinner after the neighbor's dogs eat their turkey and where they're served by a dated caricature of a Chinese man. Awkward, very awkward.
It was particularly interestingly timed because over lunch, Mac had used the idiomatic expression "shanghaied" and it had, for the first time, struck me for the negative connotation that it has. Funny how you can hear something a hundred times before it resonates as the racist remark it really is.
"Christmas Story" concluded with Mac more than satisfied with the musical version, me up to speed on the plot of a classic and that holiday line item off my list. Win/win.
Walking home afterward, we stopped by my neighborhood candy store, Chocolates by Kelly, for some more last-minute shopping and found Kelly and her mate a tad frazzled after the non-stop parade of frenzied customers today.
After tying up our packages, I wished them lots more business right up until the minute they close for the holiday.
"And then we're going to get wasted in a ditch!" she sang out as we headed out the door. More power to you both.
Gathering up an armful of presents, my final stop of the day was Pru's manse on Church Hill for a bit of five-way holiday socializing in the glow of twinkling lights.
Gifts addressed to "K-Bar" and "K-Wow" accompany Beau's fabulous musical gifts (tags identify him as the self-deprecating "Corn Boy" and "V-Corn"), while from the three Church Hill residents I get all manner of grooviness, including a plantable card, a mod little dress, sweater leggings and a sassy lipstick in a color called cherry pie.
"It's such a great color, all you need to do is fall out of bed, put that on and you're set," Pru advises as I go on to unwrap a copy of "Tales of French Love and Passion," a brief collection by Guy de Maupassant on an obvious subject of interest.
When I say something to Beau about being a huge fan of short stories, he looks lost.
"I'm still stuck on the part about you naked with just red lipstick on," he says from his chair in the corner. I blame Pru, but given the conversational odds at tonight's get-together - four women, one man - he could be forgiven for tuning out.
If I don't get a walk tomorrow, I may wind up doing the same. Ralphie may insist that it all comes down to Christmas, but at this late stage, a little cherry pie lipstick never hurts.
Although how it helps could make for some fabulous tales of Christmas love and passion.
Instead, the morning found me upstairs from Chop Suey Books at the Bizarre Market finishing up one of my least favorite chores, shopping, not long after I finished up breakfast.
Impressive as all the locally hand-crafted items were, I was most awed when I saw two wooden Velveeta boxes in the familiar loaf shape. Imagine, there was a time when that totally unnatural cheese food product was sold in small wooden crates as if it were a legitimate foodstuff.
This is cultural history, kids.
By mid-day, Mac and I were strolling over to Chez Foushee for lunch, savoring every second in the 61-degree air. Like Max's, which we'd passed on the way over, Foushee was mobbed because it's that most wonderful time of year: matinee season.
And, sure, it could be that kind of matinee season, too, but for now, we're talking about the theatrical kind, okay?
Between Virginia Rep, where we were headed, and Richmond Ballet's Nutcracker at CenterStage, the ladies who lunch were out in force, and we proudly joined their ranks by eating salads (mine was roasted Brussels sprouts with candied walnuts, bleu cheese, bacon and pickled red onions, hers a Caesar with fried oysters) followed by a shared chocolate mousse tart with caramel sauce for a classic pre-theater luncheon that probably dates back to the Cole Porter days.
Afterward, we strolled a few blocks east to take in the air before making a U-turn and heading to our destination.
The November Theater was packed and the artistic director mentioned that the show had been added at the last minute, so they hadn't been sure how its timing would work with people's holiday schedules. Judging by the full orchestra and faces peering over the balcony, I'd guess rather well.
The draw may have been the play and its roots as a childhood favorite for some. Mac was one of them and when she'd seen the marquee saying that "A Christmas Story, the Musical" was playing, she'd expressed enthusiasm while I had to admit that I'd never even see the 1983 original movie ("Of course you haven't," Pru would observe later, rolling her eyes).
So we came to our afternoon with Ralphie's family from completely different backgrounds, she looking for a familiar touchstone and me hoping to connect the dots on the few cultural references I knew about, namely the BB gun and the leg lamp.
I'd say we both came away satisfied.
The set resembled a little girl's dollhouse with its cutaway views of rooms and the claustrophobic feel of a small suburban home. In "A Major Award," dancers wore lamp-shade-like dresses (complete with tassels) and formed a kick line that appealed to us both.
Then there were the quaint elements of the yarn. When the story reached the point where it was 12 days until Christmas, Ralphie's family set out to get a tree, a laughable and old-fashioned time frame in 2016.
Just last week, a Christmas tree seller had told Mac that it used to be that peak tree-buying time was around December 10th, but that's been pushed back to Black Friday weekend now and most places are cleaned out of firs long before December 9th.
Call me a dinosaur because when I was a kid, plenty of families didn't even go buy their tree until Christmas Eve, which made sense given that the 12 days of Christmas don't officially begin until Christmas, but in our typical bigger-is-better American way, we've shifted the focus to beforehand for a Christmas that begins with the last bite of turkey and pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving and is history by Boxing Day.
Tragic.
While it wasn't the kind of musical where you leave humming a great song (all were entirely forgettable, in my opinion), there was lots of dazzling dancing thanks to an extensive ensemble doing everything from Moulin Rouge dancing to pioneer square dancing to a chorus of heavenly angels whenever the BB gun was mentioned. Ahhhhhhhhhh.......
The funniest scene to a word nerd, hands down, was when Ralphie imagines his teacher Mrs. Shields coming to his house to inform his parents what a stellar theme paper he's written on "What I Want for Christmas." Actress Susan Sanford's impeccably-delivered speech about the splendor of Ralphie's prose, the beauty of his conjugated verbs, the wonder of his magnificent margins, made me laugh so hard I almost choked.
Less funny was a scene on Christmas Day at Chop Suey Palace Co. (with a sign reading, "Never closed") where the family goes for dinner after the neighbor's dogs eat their turkey and where they're served by a dated caricature of a Chinese man. Awkward, very awkward.
It was particularly interestingly timed because over lunch, Mac had used the idiomatic expression "shanghaied" and it had, for the first time, struck me for the negative connotation that it has. Funny how you can hear something a hundred times before it resonates as the racist remark it really is.
"Christmas Story" concluded with Mac more than satisfied with the musical version, me up to speed on the plot of a classic and that holiday line item off my list. Win/win.
Walking home afterward, we stopped by my neighborhood candy store, Chocolates by Kelly, for some more last-minute shopping and found Kelly and her mate a tad frazzled after the non-stop parade of frenzied customers today.
After tying up our packages, I wished them lots more business right up until the minute they close for the holiday.
"And then we're going to get wasted in a ditch!" she sang out as we headed out the door. More power to you both.
Gathering up an armful of presents, my final stop of the day was Pru's manse on Church Hill for a bit of five-way holiday socializing in the glow of twinkling lights.
Gifts addressed to "K-Bar" and "K-Wow" accompany Beau's fabulous musical gifts (tags identify him as the self-deprecating "Corn Boy" and "V-Corn"), while from the three Church Hill residents I get all manner of grooviness, including a plantable card, a mod little dress, sweater leggings and a sassy lipstick in a color called cherry pie.
"It's such a great color, all you need to do is fall out of bed, put that on and you're set," Pru advises as I go on to unwrap a copy of "Tales of French Love and Passion," a brief collection by Guy de Maupassant on an obvious subject of interest.
When I say something to Beau about being a huge fan of short stories, he looks lost.
"I'm still stuck on the part about you naked with just red lipstick on," he says from his chair in the corner. I blame Pru, but given the conversational odds at tonight's get-together - four women, one man - he could be forgiven for tuning out.
If I don't get a walk tomorrow, I may wind up doing the same. Ralphie may insist that it all comes down to Christmas, but at this late stage, a little cherry pie lipstick never hurts.
Although how it helps could make for some fabulous tales of Christmas love and passion.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Waiting for a Pass on a Train
I go out thinking I'm having a ladies-who-lunch kind of a day.
You know, the kind of day where one woman drops an evocative bon mot such as, "All I know is he made a pass at her on a train," except it winds up being so much more than a girly lunch of salads and chocolate at Chez Foushee followed by a matinee.
First of all, how is it that I'd never seen the musical "1776"?
When I casually mentioned it last night, I was rewarded with a lyric sung to me from one of its songs and the intel that he who was serenading me once owned the soundtrack.
Even my date today, the former theater queen, knew little, asking me when she arrived if the play had been written in 1976, during that drawn-out Bicentennial celebration some of us lived through.
But, no, a bit of quick research revealed that it had been inexplicably written in 1969, the year of Woodstock and during the dark days of Vietnam.
That something so potentially corny and old-fashioned for the time went on to win three Tony awards only increased my amazement at knowing nothing about it.
All I can say is I'm wholly indebted to Virginia Repertory for choosing to stage such a compelling and informative piece of theater with a top-notch cast to bring me up to speed.
After three decades in the Commonwealth, my delight in all the Virginia references was immense.
So when the simple Richard Henry Lee says, "Why, hell! I'll leave right now if you like! I'll just stop off in Stratford long enough to refresh the missus and then straight to the matter," I have no problem conjuring up Stratford Hall, where we celebrated my mother's birthday a few years back.
"Refreshing the missus," now there's a phrase you don't hear often enough.
And when Benjamin Franklin, played masterfully by Jason Marks, explains away Lee's exuberance by saying, "They're a warm-blooded people, Virginians," it's laugh-out-loud funny to me.
Summing up how the British empire has stifled the colonists' spirit, Franklin's words, while straight out of 1969, could describe a whole lot of people at political rallies of today: "We've spawned a new race here, Mr. Dickinson. Rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising, less refined."
Just as of the eras - both the mid 1770s as well as the late '60s, that is - is John Adams (played to passionate and playful perfection by the inimitable Scott Wichmann) whose Puritanical roots blush to their core when he discovers that Jefferson intends to bed his wife before so much as writing the first word of the Declaration of Independence.
"Good god, you don't mean...they're not going to?...in the middle of the afternoon?" to which Franklin dryly informs him, "Not everybody's from Boston, John."
Oh, and, by the way, they're a warm-blooded people, Virginians, so let's hear it for afternoon delight, shall we?
Looking exceptionally dandy in brocade and lace, Alexander Sapp as South Carolina's Edward Rutledge delivered a master class in staying in character, his pinky always elevated, his eyebrow conveying disdain, even the motion of sitting down repeatedly executed with the impeccable grace of a gentleman.
As far as the music went, his defense of slavery, "Molasses to Rum" was a show-stopper while it was tough to resist the charm of "The Lees of Old Virginia" - The FFV, the first family, in the sovereign colony of Virginia. And may my wife refuse my bed, if I can't deliver, as I said, the resolution on independency - as much for the mocking of Virginia pride as for the '60s emphasis on sex.
But easily the most currently topical song was "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" - We have land, cash in hand, self-command, future planned, Fortune flies, society survives, in neatly ordered lives with well-endowed wives - about the southern delegates' determination to move ever to the right, never to the left, because they won't risk losing the white male dominated way of life they've established.
Pshaw, such blind partisanship is both not cool and inconsiderate.
Truth be told, my main takeaway from the production was mortification at how little I knew (remembered?) about the Second Continental Congress and how central to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence John Adams was.
This is a revolution, dammit! We're going to have to offend SOMEbody!"
Ah, but Mr. Adams, we're still offending people. We could hardly help it given how much rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising and less refined we are.
Since 1776, forging ahead and in bed, it's practically the American way.
You know, the kind of day where one woman drops an evocative bon mot such as, "All I know is he made a pass at her on a train," except it winds up being so much more than a girly lunch of salads and chocolate at Chez Foushee followed by a matinee.
First of all, how is it that I'd never seen the musical "1776"?
When I casually mentioned it last night, I was rewarded with a lyric sung to me from one of its songs and the intel that he who was serenading me once owned the soundtrack.
Even my date today, the former theater queen, knew little, asking me when she arrived if the play had been written in 1976, during that drawn-out Bicentennial celebration some of us lived through.
But, no, a bit of quick research revealed that it had been inexplicably written in 1969, the year of Woodstock and during the dark days of Vietnam.
That something so potentially corny and old-fashioned for the time went on to win three Tony awards only increased my amazement at knowing nothing about it.
All I can say is I'm wholly indebted to Virginia Repertory for choosing to stage such a compelling and informative piece of theater with a top-notch cast to bring me up to speed.
After three decades in the Commonwealth, my delight in all the Virginia references was immense.
So when the simple Richard Henry Lee says, "Why, hell! I'll leave right now if you like! I'll just stop off in Stratford long enough to refresh the missus and then straight to the matter," I have no problem conjuring up Stratford Hall, where we celebrated my mother's birthday a few years back.
"Refreshing the missus," now there's a phrase you don't hear often enough.
And when Benjamin Franklin, played masterfully by Jason Marks, explains away Lee's exuberance by saying, "They're a warm-blooded people, Virginians," it's laugh-out-loud funny to me.
Summing up how the British empire has stifled the colonists' spirit, Franklin's words, while straight out of 1969, could describe a whole lot of people at political rallies of today: "We've spawned a new race here, Mr. Dickinson. Rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising, less refined."
Just as of the eras - both the mid 1770s as well as the late '60s, that is - is John Adams (played to passionate and playful perfection by the inimitable Scott Wichmann) whose Puritanical roots blush to their core when he discovers that Jefferson intends to bed his wife before so much as writing the first word of the Declaration of Independence.
"Good god, you don't mean...they're not going to?...in the middle of the afternoon?" to which Franklin dryly informs him, "Not everybody's from Boston, John."
Oh, and, by the way, they're a warm-blooded people, Virginians, so let's hear it for afternoon delight, shall we?
Looking exceptionally dandy in brocade and lace, Alexander Sapp as South Carolina's Edward Rutledge delivered a master class in staying in character, his pinky always elevated, his eyebrow conveying disdain, even the motion of sitting down repeatedly executed with the impeccable grace of a gentleman.
As far as the music went, his defense of slavery, "Molasses to Rum" was a show-stopper while it was tough to resist the charm of "The Lees of Old Virginia" - The FFV, the first family, in the sovereign colony of Virginia. And may my wife refuse my bed, if I can't deliver, as I said, the resolution on independency - as much for the mocking of Virginia pride as for the '60s emphasis on sex.
But easily the most currently topical song was "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" - We have land, cash in hand, self-command, future planned, Fortune flies, society survives, in neatly ordered lives with well-endowed wives - about the southern delegates' determination to move ever to the right, never to the left, because they won't risk losing the white male dominated way of life they've established.
Pshaw, such blind partisanship is both not cool and inconsiderate.
Truth be told, my main takeaway from the production was mortification at how little I knew (remembered?) about the Second Continental Congress and how central to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence John Adams was.
This is a revolution, dammit! We're going to have to offend SOMEbody!"
Ah, but Mr. Adams, we're still offending people. We could hardly help it given how much rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising and less refined we are.
Since 1776, forging ahead and in bed, it's practically the American way.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Wine is Not Sad
In the game of life, I've been told, sometimes you have to focus on the end game.
Today's challenge was fitting in a whole lot of work around a fair amount of fun that began with a very ladylike plan for the afternoon: walking over to Chez Foushee for lunch, followed by a play at Virginia Rep.
Yes, we were the ladies who lunch and then matinee. It may as well have been 1959 except for the salty language and absence of gloves.
We began with a sunny table in the front window - "Great people watching!" the hostess told us as she installed us there - and the best of intentions. I knew the brussels sprouts salad with red onions, bleu cheese, walnuts and red wine vinaigrette was divine, a fact confirmed not once, but four times by our handsome young server, so we both ordered it.
Just before he takes the menus away, my friend looks at me guiltily and tells him, "And the pate."
And by pate, it was really a plate of country pork pate and a massive hunk of chicken liver pate, along with cornichons, mustard and toasted bread, none of which we needed and most of which we downed.
Because it was Chez Foushee, we easily brought down the average age significantly, but also enjoyed basking in the glow of a place so fussy and old-school.
We got so embroiled in discussing my recent post about my past (favorite comment, "Wait, you once dated men older than you?" Sure, when I was 18) that all too soon it was going on 2:00 and we had seats to fill. Luckily Virginia Rep is spitting distance from Chez Foushee.
"Saturday, Sunday, Monday" began with an actor singing "Volare" while playing guitar and went on to tell the tale of an extended Italian family in Naples in 1959 where Mama's not happy and as we all know, if Mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy.
For that matter, nor is Dad, who not only thinks his wife is having an affair with the accountant upstairs, but is also trying to accept that his son is leaving the family business to open his own menswear shop.
All the Italian cliches were in place (except Italian accents): the mythical process of making the weekly Sunday ragu, the strong-willed aunt who's already buried her husband and lover and now dominates her meek son's life, the dutiful daughter trying to carve out her own niche and not follow her mother's path and the doddering grandfather lost in the shuffle.
After a while, you wonder if anyone in Naples is happy. And don't get me started on the dutiful sons who worship at Mama's altar. Catherine Shaffner as Aunt Meme was the most compelling to watch as she espoused higher education and having the courage to be honest to get what you want.
But as my theater-savvy friend and I discussed walking home, no matter what the minor flaws of a play, there's always a great deal of satisfaction simply in watching actors act on the stage.
We parted ways at my house because she was home to sew while I had an assignment to finish before going to school. Tonight was Amour Wine Bistro's "Taste the Terroir" class and no one wants to be tardy for class.
Taking my seat at the bar, some of the other attendees introduced themselves and our teacher began explaining tonight's topic beginning with how to read a wine label in French, Italian and German before moving on to the specifics of terroir.
Naturally this was a class with experiments to prove the teachers' points, meaning two glasses set in front of each of us, both utilizing the same grape but from different regions, the better to assess terroir. So we'd taste a Sauvignon Blanc from the chalky Loire (citrusy) and compare it to one from the hot and sunny Rhone (ripe fruits and herbs) and then enjoy them both with salmon ceviche and grilled bread.
One of the women near me asked her couple date why their friend Kyle had canceled. "Did he get a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding sarcastic.
"No," the husband answered. "He said he had to save his money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone." Everyone within earshot cracked up at hearing this. but I understand. The man has priorities.
We repeated the wine lesson with two Chardonnays from Burgundy served with Comte and bread, and during this discussion period, I was schooled on what is referred to as the "Asian flush," a result of Asians lacking enough of the enzyme dehydrogenase to properly process alcohol.
I know this only because the two Asian women explained it patiently to the rest of us and then half an hour later, showed us their flushed cheeks and ears. Oh, the things we were learning tonight.
It was while we were sussing out the differences in two Pinot Noirs, one from Burgundy (berries, no tannins) and another from Languedoc (cherries, more acidic) that plates of rabbit rilletes arrived, leading to more new information from one of the students.
Seems that when she decided to go vegetarian, she heavily researched proteins and discovered that humans can't rely solely on rabbit as a protein source. "So when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, don't think you can rely on rabbit meat to sustain yourself," she warned us. "Not enough vitamins for survival."
Well, don't you know that led to a round table discussion of cricket-eating and fortunately, we had two firsthand sources for reference. One girl had eaten them in Japan, skewered on a stick and resolved never to eat them again, while a guy had enjoyed them in Mexico, scooped out of a bucket like peanuts, covered in oil, lime juice and cayenne.
"They were tasty, but the legs got stuck in my teeth," he said with a straight face.
Nerdy as I am, I don't remember school ever being as much fun as tonight was turning out to be.
The couple from Petersburg told us that he was soon leaving for Alabama for a year and a half's training learning to fly helicopters. "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one," his chipper wife piped up like a sage.
Her husband grinned. "Can we all just admire that statement: "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one?" he asked, beaming with pride.
Our final experiment involved Cabernet Franc from Loire (blueberries and minerality) and Bordeaux (smoky, full-bodied, velvety) and a plate of Soprasetta arranged to look like a heart. When that was pointed out, a collective "awww" went up from the room and one woman pointed at her mate of a year and a half and announced, "He was super romantic."
"You burned that out of me like the Vikings burned their dead," he said without missing a beat.
Clearly we had a lot of class clowns at school tonight.
By evening's end, everyone agreed that they'd learned plenty and enjoyed the process even more. Turns out tonight was part of a whole series of wine classes Amour is doing, meaning more opportunities to drink for the sake of learning to come.
And speaking of learning, once class was over and everyone was chatting and drinking full glasses of their favorites, one woman shared that she was about to embark on a class in ethical hacking, which sounded a lot like an oxymoron to me.
When I asked if that was really a thing, she answered, "No, not really," which meant yes, but she also hopes it'll help her get a job in this brave new world where people carry their every secret in their phones.
Several of tonight's participants were part of a 2500-person group called "New in Richmond," although some members have lived here for as many as 16 years, which hardly sounds new to me. When I asked what kind of activities the group did, the answer was short and to the point: "Drink!"
I suppose that's one way to get used to Richmond.
Alan Rickman's namecame up and almost everyone there had something to say about a favorite role or movie - Dogma! Truly, Madly, Deeply! Love, Actually, but you have to fast forward through that scene of Carl undressing!- but then people began getting sad because Alan's dead now.
"But wine's not sad," owner Paul said, stepping in and saving the moment by returning us to topic like a good teacher does.
We also had some runners in the group, so the rest of us heard about the difference in how the French do marathons and, let me tell you, it's way better than the way we do them here.
Who knew that at the Paris marathon or the Medoc marathon, there are stops for cheese, chocolate and fine wine? How civilized is that?
Ditto tonight's adventure at school.
In addition to all the laughter and new faces (last question from a recent acquaintance before I left: "You're coming for next week's class, aren't you? Yes, you are!"), I really did further my understanding of terroir with a well-executed lesson plan and the kind of science experiments that can make an Asian flush.
Besides, haven't you heard? The only acceptable excuse for missing out is if you're saving money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone.
Just don't go all Viking and burn out the romance getting there.
Today's challenge was fitting in a whole lot of work around a fair amount of fun that began with a very ladylike plan for the afternoon: walking over to Chez Foushee for lunch, followed by a play at Virginia Rep.
Yes, we were the ladies who lunch and then matinee. It may as well have been 1959 except for the salty language and absence of gloves.
We began with a sunny table in the front window - "Great people watching!" the hostess told us as she installed us there - and the best of intentions. I knew the brussels sprouts salad with red onions, bleu cheese, walnuts and red wine vinaigrette was divine, a fact confirmed not once, but four times by our handsome young server, so we both ordered it.
Just before he takes the menus away, my friend looks at me guiltily and tells him, "And the pate."
And by pate, it was really a plate of country pork pate and a massive hunk of chicken liver pate, along with cornichons, mustard and toasted bread, none of which we needed and most of which we downed.
Because it was Chez Foushee, we easily brought down the average age significantly, but also enjoyed basking in the glow of a place so fussy and old-school.
We got so embroiled in discussing my recent post about my past (favorite comment, "Wait, you once dated men older than you?" Sure, when I was 18) that all too soon it was going on 2:00 and we had seats to fill. Luckily Virginia Rep is spitting distance from Chez Foushee.
"Saturday, Sunday, Monday" began with an actor singing "Volare" while playing guitar and went on to tell the tale of an extended Italian family in Naples in 1959 where Mama's not happy and as we all know, if Mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy.
For that matter, nor is Dad, who not only thinks his wife is having an affair with the accountant upstairs, but is also trying to accept that his son is leaving the family business to open his own menswear shop.
All the Italian cliches were in place (except Italian accents): the mythical process of making the weekly Sunday ragu, the strong-willed aunt who's already buried her husband and lover and now dominates her meek son's life, the dutiful daughter trying to carve out her own niche and not follow her mother's path and the doddering grandfather lost in the shuffle.
After a while, you wonder if anyone in Naples is happy. And don't get me started on the dutiful sons who worship at Mama's altar. Catherine Shaffner as Aunt Meme was the most compelling to watch as she espoused higher education and having the courage to be honest to get what you want.
But as my theater-savvy friend and I discussed walking home, no matter what the minor flaws of a play, there's always a great deal of satisfaction simply in watching actors act on the stage.
We parted ways at my house because she was home to sew while I had an assignment to finish before going to school. Tonight was Amour Wine Bistro's "Taste the Terroir" class and no one wants to be tardy for class.
Taking my seat at the bar, some of the other attendees introduced themselves and our teacher began explaining tonight's topic beginning with how to read a wine label in French, Italian and German before moving on to the specifics of terroir.
Naturally this was a class with experiments to prove the teachers' points, meaning two glasses set in front of each of us, both utilizing the same grape but from different regions, the better to assess terroir. So we'd taste a Sauvignon Blanc from the chalky Loire (citrusy) and compare it to one from the hot and sunny Rhone (ripe fruits and herbs) and then enjoy them both with salmon ceviche and grilled bread.
One of the women near me asked her couple date why their friend Kyle had canceled. "Did he get a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding sarcastic.
"No," the husband answered. "He said he had to save his money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone." Everyone within earshot cracked up at hearing this. but I understand. The man has priorities.
We repeated the wine lesson with two Chardonnays from Burgundy served with Comte and bread, and during this discussion period, I was schooled on what is referred to as the "Asian flush," a result of Asians lacking enough of the enzyme dehydrogenase to properly process alcohol.
I know this only because the two Asian women explained it patiently to the rest of us and then half an hour later, showed us their flushed cheeks and ears. Oh, the things we were learning tonight.
It was while we were sussing out the differences in two Pinot Noirs, one from Burgundy (berries, no tannins) and another from Languedoc (cherries, more acidic) that plates of rabbit rilletes arrived, leading to more new information from one of the students.
Seems that when she decided to go vegetarian, she heavily researched proteins and discovered that humans can't rely solely on rabbit as a protein source. "So when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, don't think you can rely on rabbit meat to sustain yourself," she warned us. "Not enough vitamins for survival."
Well, don't you know that led to a round table discussion of cricket-eating and fortunately, we had two firsthand sources for reference. One girl had eaten them in Japan, skewered on a stick and resolved never to eat them again, while a guy had enjoyed them in Mexico, scooped out of a bucket like peanuts, covered in oil, lime juice and cayenne.
"They were tasty, but the legs got stuck in my teeth," he said with a straight face.
Nerdy as I am, I don't remember school ever being as much fun as tonight was turning out to be.
The couple from Petersburg told us that he was soon leaving for Alabama for a year and a half's training learning to fly helicopters. "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one," his chipper wife piped up like a sage.
Her husband grinned. "Can we all just admire that statement: "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one?" he asked, beaming with pride.
Our final experiment involved Cabernet Franc from Loire (blueberries and minerality) and Bordeaux (smoky, full-bodied, velvety) and a plate of Soprasetta arranged to look like a heart. When that was pointed out, a collective "awww" went up from the room and one woman pointed at her mate of a year and a half and announced, "He was super romantic."
"You burned that out of me like the Vikings burned their dead," he said without missing a beat.
Clearly we had a lot of class clowns at school tonight.
By evening's end, everyone agreed that they'd learned plenty and enjoyed the process even more. Turns out tonight was part of a whole series of wine classes Amour is doing, meaning more opportunities to drink for the sake of learning to come.
And speaking of learning, once class was over and everyone was chatting and drinking full glasses of their favorites, one woman shared that she was about to embark on a class in ethical hacking, which sounded a lot like an oxymoron to me.
When I asked if that was really a thing, she answered, "No, not really," which meant yes, but she also hopes it'll help her get a job in this brave new world where people carry their every secret in their phones.
Several of tonight's participants were part of a 2500-person group called "New in Richmond," although some members have lived here for as many as 16 years, which hardly sounds new to me. When I asked what kind of activities the group did, the answer was short and to the point: "Drink!"
I suppose that's one way to get used to Richmond.
Alan Rickman's namecame up and almost everyone there had something to say about a favorite role or movie - Dogma! Truly, Madly, Deeply! Love, Actually, but you have to fast forward through that scene of Carl undressing!- but then people began getting sad because Alan's dead now.
"But wine's not sad," owner Paul said, stepping in and saving the moment by returning us to topic like a good teacher does.
We also had some runners in the group, so the rest of us heard about the difference in how the French do marathons and, let me tell you, it's way better than the way we do them here.
Who knew that at the Paris marathon or the Medoc marathon, there are stops for cheese, chocolate and fine wine? How civilized is that?
Ditto tonight's adventure at school.
In addition to all the laughter and new faces (last question from a recent acquaintance before I left: "You're coming for next week's class, aren't you? Yes, you are!"), I really did further my understanding of terroir with a well-executed lesson plan and the kind of science experiments that can make an Asian flush.
Besides, haven't you heard? The only acceptable excuse for missing out is if you're saving money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone.
Just don't go all Viking and burn out the romance getting there.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Peddlers of Bombast
It took me nine days to get there but it was sure worth it once I did.
In conjunction with the VMFA's "Hollywood Costume" exhibit, they're showing 60 films in 60 days, each with a costume represented in the show.
Today's was "Shakespeare in Love," and what could be sweeter than an afternoon of Elizabethan love on a gray, rainy day?
I'd already seen Shakespeare's doublet and Elizabeth's gown, now I wanted to see the source material.
As icing on the cake, a friend e-mailed offering to take me to lunch beforehand, so we met at Chez Foushee for matching grilled romaine salads with shrimp in a cozy, tucked-away table that allowed us to gossip with abandon.
Then he was off to work and I to the museum for some romance.
Not surprisingly, the crowd was mostly women with a few men thrown in for good measure (for measure).
Since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1998, I'm not sure if I'd forgotten or, horrors, not noticed originally how many inside Shakespeare jokes were in this film.
And I'm not talking about the obvious ones like Will's coffee mug, which read, "Souvenir of Stratford-upon-Avon."
No, I mean all kinds of lines from later Shakespeare plays being spouted by characters throughout and the Shakespeare-literate audience laughed about them all.
Plus there was the kind of language humor like when the producer takes the cast to a bawdy house and orders drinks for everyone, saying, "Oh, happy hour!"
While there someone describes a dish of pig's foot marinated in vinegar on a buckwheat pancake being served and while that might have gotten a groan in 1998, it actually sounds both tasty and trendy now.
Will discusses his writer's block with his shrink, saying, "It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud tower of genius is collapsed. Nothing comes. It's like trying to pick a lock with a wet herring."
Clearly he's not just talking about writing and the good doctor asks, "Tell me, are you lately humbled in the act of love? How long has it been?"
"A goodly length in times past, but lately..." Truly, nothing says Shakespeare like veiled genital humor.
I could relate to our heroine Viola, played by a luminescent 26-year old Gwyneth Paltrow, when she proclaimed, "I will have poetry in my life...and adventure and love."
What more could a girl ask for?
How about a man who describes his feelings by saying, "I love her like a sickness and a cure together"?
The fabulous Judi Densch has one of the funniest lines at the end, instructing, "Tell Master Shakespeare to write something more cheerful next time for twelfth night," but Viola had the most romantic.
"I love you, Will, beyond poetry."
If hearing that that doesn't clear upa man's wet herring problem writer's block, god help him.
In conjunction with the VMFA's "Hollywood Costume" exhibit, they're showing 60 films in 60 days, each with a costume represented in the show.
Today's was "Shakespeare in Love," and what could be sweeter than an afternoon of Elizabethan love on a gray, rainy day?
I'd already seen Shakespeare's doublet and Elizabeth's gown, now I wanted to see the source material.
As icing on the cake, a friend e-mailed offering to take me to lunch beforehand, so we met at Chez Foushee for matching grilled romaine salads with shrimp in a cozy, tucked-away table that allowed us to gossip with abandon.
Then he was off to work and I to the museum for some romance.
Not surprisingly, the crowd was mostly women with a few men thrown in for good measure (for measure).
Since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1998, I'm not sure if I'd forgotten or, horrors, not noticed originally how many inside Shakespeare jokes were in this film.
And I'm not talking about the obvious ones like Will's coffee mug, which read, "Souvenir of Stratford-upon-Avon."
No, I mean all kinds of lines from later Shakespeare plays being spouted by characters throughout and the Shakespeare-literate audience laughed about them all.
Plus there was the kind of language humor like when the producer takes the cast to a bawdy house and orders drinks for everyone, saying, "Oh, happy hour!"
While there someone describes a dish of pig's foot marinated in vinegar on a buckwheat pancake being served and while that might have gotten a groan in 1998, it actually sounds both tasty and trendy now.
Will discusses his writer's block with his shrink, saying, "It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud tower of genius is collapsed. Nothing comes. It's like trying to pick a lock with a wet herring."
Clearly he's not just talking about writing and the good doctor asks, "Tell me, are you lately humbled in the act of love? How long has it been?"
"A goodly length in times past, but lately..." Truly, nothing says Shakespeare like veiled genital humor.
I could relate to our heroine Viola, played by a luminescent 26-year old Gwyneth Paltrow, when she proclaimed, "I will have poetry in my life...and adventure and love."
What more could a girl ask for?
How about a man who describes his feelings by saying, "I love her like a sickness and a cure together"?
The fabulous Judi Densch has one of the funniest lines at the end, instructing, "Tell Master Shakespeare to write something more cheerful next time for twelfth night," but Viola had the most romantic.
"I love you, Will, beyond poetry."
If hearing that that doesn't clear up
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Hook a Brother Up
I am in need of a Karen fix. Are you free for lunch today? I promise I will be on time today.
Another friend had once likened time with me to a drug, so I knew what he was talking about. And he knew lunch was an offer I wouldn't refuse.
When I got to Chez Foushee, I inquired if there was a man waiting for a woman, but no, so they gave me the table in the front window so we couldn't miss each other.
I had a great view of the corner of Grace and Foushee with a parade of characters walking by, like the girl in colorful leggings printed with comics, although I'm not sure I'd want a big, red "POW!" on one butt cheek.
Then there was the guy walking by with a clergy member (judging by his white collar) who blew me a kiss while they were waiting for the light to change.
I eavesdropped on the trio two tables away, discovering that one was a artist and the other his dealer, with his trendy-looking wife who didn't say a word the whole time next to him.
After about 40 minutes, I heard my name called, but not from the doorway; my friend was standing in the middle of the restaurant.
Seems he'd arrived five minutes before I had and been seated in the back and patiently awaiting my arrival ever since.
Okay, not so patiently because he'd e-mailed me five times wondering where I was.
You should have seen the face of the guy who'd seated me when he spotted my friend. Oops.
Bu better late than never and when I got to his table, I saw he already had wine chilling although given the wait time, a fair amount of it was already history.
Pimento cheese and crackers soon arrived and he started telling me about everything going on his life, the purpose of our get-together.
When some people need a Karen fix, what they mean is they need a listener willing to tell them what they should do.
Can do.
I ordered the brussels sprout salad, my perennial favorite at Foushee for the bacon, bleu cheese and red onions that make it one of the tastiest ways I've ever found to eat seared sprouts.
We talked about how things are going with his love life and he showed me a text he'd gotten this morning, a romantic and suggestive missive to start his day.
Obviously I can't get texts, but I sure wouldn't mind a bawdy e-mail to start my day on occasion.
More than one server came over periodically throughout our meal to apologize for not getting us together sooner, but by then that was water under the bridge and what were we going to do, flog them for their mistake?
No, far better to indulge ourselves so we chose chilled double chocolate mousse torte with warm pecan-studded praline sauce, an obscenely rich desert that no one person really ever needs to eat alone.
It took a long time to eat because it was so heavy and we continued to gab as the restaurant began to empty out.
We may not have started on time (again!) but as he pointed out, that just gave him more time to get his fix.
A lovely lunch aside, gotta love a Karen junkie.
Another friend had once likened time with me to a drug, so I knew what he was talking about. And he knew lunch was an offer I wouldn't refuse.
When I got to Chez Foushee, I inquired if there was a man waiting for a woman, but no, so they gave me the table in the front window so we couldn't miss each other.
I had a great view of the corner of Grace and Foushee with a parade of characters walking by, like the girl in colorful leggings printed with comics, although I'm not sure I'd want a big, red "POW!" on one butt cheek.
Then there was the guy walking by with a clergy member (judging by his white collar) who blew me a kiss while they were waiting for the light to change.
I eavesdropped on the trio two tables away, discovering that one was a artist and the other his dealer, with his trendy-looking wife who didn't say a word the whole time next to him.
After about 40 minutes, I heard my name called, but not from the doorway; my friend was standing in the middle of the restaurant.
Seems he'd arrived five minutes before I had and been seated in the back and patiently awaiting my arrival ever since.
Okay, not so patiently because he'd e-mailed me five times wondering where I was.
You should have seen the face of the guy who'd seated me when he spotted my friend. Oops.
Bu better late than never and when I got to his table, I saw he already had wine chilling although given the wait time, a fair amount of it was already history.
Pimento cheese and crackers soon arrived and he started telling me about everything going on his life, the purpose of our get-together.
When some people need a Karen fix, what they mean is they need a listener willing to tell them what they should do.
Can do.
I ordered the brussels sprout salad, my perennial favorite at Foushee for the bacon, bleu cheese and red onions that make it one of the tastiest ways I've ever found to eat seared sprouts.
We talked about how things are going with his love life and he showed me a text he'd gotten this morning, a romantic and suggestive missive to start his day.
Obviously I can't get texts, but I sure wouldn't mind a bawdy e-mail to start my day on occasion.
More than one server came over periodically throughout our meal to apologize for not getting us together sooner, but by then that was water under the bridge and what were we going to do, flog them for their mistake?
No, far better to indulge ourselves so we chose chilled double chocolate mousse torte with warm pecan-studded praline sauce, an obscenely rich desert that no one person really ever needs to eat alone.
It took a long time to eat because it was so heavy and we continued to gab as the restaurant began to empty out.
We may not have started on time (again!) but as he pointed out, that just gave him more time to get his fix.
A lovely lunch aside, gotta love a Karen junkie.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Broadly Appetizing
Broad Appetit is the new Watermelon Festival.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Begin My Blisteringly Fast Romantic Period
It was my last time subbing for Mom and I knew it.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Brown Bag Discarded
I sold out Jeff Davis for Chez Foushee with nary a nerdy look back.
Just as I was getting dressed to go hear a brown bag lecture about the inauguration of Jefferson Davis at the Museum of the Confederacy, a friend called to ask, "What are you doing today?"
Chalk it up to my northern birthplace, but I forgot all about spending my lunch hour learning more about the Lost Cause and agreed to be at Chez Foushee twenty minutes later.
If nothing else, it was going to be a far shorter walk to the restaurant than it would have been to the MOC.
And it's not that there wasn't going to be any learning at lunch. Good conversation always leads to learning something or other.
Walking in, I was directed to my lunch buddy's table by one of the staff that knew him well.
We started with a bottle of Perrin et Fils Reserve Cotes du Rhone Blanc, because that's what restaurant people do and that's what he is.
Is there anything as delightful as honeysuckle notes at lunch?
As the ladies who populate Chez Foushee sat down all around us, I tucked into the seared Brussels sprouts salad with bacon, bleu down cheese, walnuts, red onion, fresh mint and red wine vinegar.
A former boyfriend once told me that my favorite things were all strongly flavored (tequila, stinky cheese) and this salad proved his point in spades.
But it was the delicate mint undertones that really made this salad sing.
The salty bacon, the pungent bleu cheese, the strong-flavored Brussels sprouts were a combination made for those with strong tastes.
I loved it.
As we discussed the restaurant business, bad dates and clueless bartenders, it occurred to me that there was no way Jeff Davis could have been half as much fun.
I mean, I'm a history nerd par excellence, but there's nothing like a lunch that ends with that most old-school of all desserts, the molten chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and a little more wine.
Especially when surrounded by ladies who lunch and a man who likes his wine, liquor and men white.
In that order.
Just as I was getting dressed to go hear a brown bag lecture about the inauguration of Jefferson Davis at the Museum of the Confederacy, a friend called to ask, "What are you doing today?"
Chalk it up to my northern birthplace, but I forgot all about spending my lunch hour learning more about the Lost Cause and agreed to be at Chez Foushee twenty minutes later.
If nothing else, it was going to be a far shorter walk to the restaurant than it would have been to the MOC.
And it's not that there wasn't going to be any learning at lunch. Good conversation always leads to learning something or other.
Walking in, I was directed to my lunch buddy's table by one of the staff that knew him well.
We started with a bottle of Perrin et Fils Reserve Cotes du Rhone Blanc, because that's what restaurant people do and that's what he is.
Is there anything as delightful as honeysuckle notes at lunch?
As the ladies who populate Chez Foushee sat down all around us, I tucked into the seared Brussels sprouts salad with bacon, bleu down cheese, walnuts, red onion, fresh mint and red wine vinegar.
A former boyfriend once told me that my favorite things were all strongly flavored (tequila, stinky cheese) and this salad proved his point in spades.
But it was the delicate mint undertones that really made this salad sing.
The salty bacon, the pungent bleu cheese, the strong-flavored Brussels sprouts were a combination made for those with strong tastes.
I loved it.
As we discussed the restaurant business, bad dates and clueless bartenders, it occurred to me that there was no way Jeff Davis could have been half as much fun.
I mean, I'm a history nerd par excellence, but there's nothing like a lunch that ends with that most old-school of all desserts, the molten chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and a little more wine.
Especially when surrounded by ladies who lunch and a man who likes his wine, liquor and men white.
In that order.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Bottom Expectations
Do small chairs make a restaurant a "chick place"?
I don't think so, but I have a (male) friend who does, so when I'm in the mood for a place like Chez Foushee with its small chairs, I usually ask a female to join me.
Actually, today's lunch came about when I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in months at the neighborhood drug store. Right there in line, she immediately insisted we make lunch plans.
But she's only lived in J-Ward for three years and with my almost six-year tenure and penchant for eating out, she always defers to me about where to go.
So we ended up at the charming Chez Foushee and she fell in love with their dark wood bar and the decor the moment we sat foot in the place.
"How did I not know about this place?" she asked rhetorically. Considering it's been open for a decade and a half, I had no answer anyway. But now that they do dinner, there's really no excuse.
We walked in just after they opened and the sever who greeted us looked apologetic for the lack of bustle. "It'll get busier in a few minutes," she assured us as if that mattered to us.
So we took our window seats and did the girly thing ordering iced teas and salads. She had the potsticker salad, always a good choice.
I had the Foushee Market Salad, of romaine, red onions, shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, marinated white beans, Manchego cheese and that loveliest of antipastos, artichoke caponata, with a Balsamic vinaigrette.
As we sat chatting non-stop about what's been happening in our lives since our last meeting, the dining room did fill up as promised...with women. And more women. We never saw an actual man come in during our entire time there.
But our server was a male and after he cleared our plates, asked if we wanted dessert.
Begging off, he got mock-indignant with us, asking, "What do you mean you don't want dessert?" I felt it was a valid question, but my neighbor was a tad taken aback.
There are certain expectations in a chick place and apparently dessert-eating (especially after salad-eating) is one of them. Now we know.
The thing is, a girl's got to ensure that she still fits on the small chairs.
I don't think so, but I have a (male) friend who does, so when I'm in the mood for a place like Chez Foushee with its small chairs, I usually ask a female to join me.
Actually, today's lunch came about when I ran into a neighbor I hadn't seen in months at the neighborhood drug store. Right there in line, she immediately insisted we make lunch plans.
But she's only lived in J-Ward for three years and with my almost six-year tenure and penchant for eating out, she always defers to me about where to go.
So we ended up at the charming Chez Foushee and she fell in love with their dark wood bar and the decor the moment we sat foot in the place.
"How did I not know about this place?" she asked rhetorically. Considering it's been open for a decade and a half, I had no answer anyway. But now that they do dinner, there's really no excuse.
We walked in just after they opened and the sever who greeted us looked apologetic for the lack of bustle. "It'll get busier in a few minutes," she assured us as if that mattered to us.
So we took our window seats and did the girly thing ordering iced teas and salads. She had the potsticker salad, always a good choice.
I had the Foushee Market Salad, of romaine, red onions, shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, marinated white beans, Manchego cheese and that loveliest of antipastos, artichoke caponata, with a Balsamic vinaigrette.
As we sat chatting non-stop about what's been happening in our lives since our last meeting, the dining room did fill up as promised...with women. And more women. We never saw an actual man come in during our entire time there.
But our server was a male and after he cleared our plates, asked if we wanted dessert.
Begging off, he got mock-indignant with us, asking, "What do you mean you don't want dessert?" I felt it was a valid question, but my neighbor was a tad taken aback.
There are certain expectations in a chick place and apparently dessert-eating (especially after salad-eating) is one of them. Now we know.
The thing is, a girl's got to ensure that she still fits on the small chairs.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Ladies Who Lunch at Chez Foushee
Sometimes girls simply must put on their pearls and lunch like grown-ups.
Okay, so I don't wear jewelry (much less own pearls) and my friend had no idea where we were going, so hers were at home, but Chez Foushee definitely has the ambiance of a place where those types can be found mid-day.
And, just for the record, I saw three women in pearls there today.
All of my male friends who have eaten at Chez Foushee have essentially said the same thing about it: the chairs and portions are inadequate for their needs.
Having an X chromosome, however, neither of those things have ever been an issue for me.
And it's not like there aren't plenty of businessmen types there on an given day, so clearly some men are able to satisfy their appetites and posteriors there.
I may have fulfilled a stereotype by being one of those women who order a quiche or salad for lunch, but I couldn't resist the Asian Pot Sticker Salad (steamed pork and shrimp pot stickers over mixed greens with Asian dressing, peanuts, red peppers, carrots and crispy noodles).
My pearl-less friend got the grilled salmon with capellini, zucchini and squash matchsticks in a Putenesca sauce with unusually good iced tea.
Unlike the real ladies who lunch, we are not old money, nor do we plan charity events.
What we do after a delicious girls' lunch out is order dessert, in this case the bourbon chocolate pecan pie with Chantilly cream.
We also aren't Southerners, but a little bourbon on the palate after lunch sits awfully well with both of us.
Despite neither of us having actually been there, we imagine the Miller & Rhodes Tea Room must have been a lot like Chez Foushee feels today.
We'll call it nouveau southern fem.
Good iced tea, appealing girl food and bourbon-soaked dessert.
Pearls not required.
Okay, so I don't wear jewelry (much less own pearls) and my friend had no idea where we were going, so hers were at home, but Chez Foushee definitely has the ambiance of a place where those types can be found mid-day.
And, just for the record, I saw three women in pearls there today.
All of my male friends who have eaten at Chez Foushee have essentially said the same thing about it: the chairs and portions are inadequate for their needs.
Having an X chromosome, however, neither of those things have ever been an issue for me.
And it's not like there aren't plenty of businessmen types there on an given day, so clearly some men are able to satisfy their appetites and posteriors there.
I may have fulfilled a stereotype by being one of those women who order a quiche or salad for lunch, but I couldn't resist the Asian Pot Sticker Salad (steamed pork and shrimp pot stickers over mixed greens with Asian dressing, peanuts, red peppers, carrots and crispy noodles).
My pearl-less friend got the grilled salmon with capellini, zucchini and squash matchsticks in a Putenesca sauce with unusually good iced tea.
Unlike the real ladies who lunch, we are not old money, nor do we plan charity events.
What we do after a delicious girls' lunch out is order dessert, in this case the bourbon chocolate pecan pie with Chantilly cream.
We also aren't Southerners, but a little bourbon on the palate after lunch sits awfully well with both of us.
Despite neither of us having actually been there, we imagine the Miller & Rhodes Tea Room must have been a lot like Chez Foushee feels today.
We'll call it nouveau southern fem.
Good iced tea, appealing girl food and bourbon-soaked dessert.
Pearls not required.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Chez Foushee 20th Anniversary Dinner Part Deux
I'd never been to Chez Foushee for anything but lunch; I know they do First Fridays dinners, but I always seem to have other plans.
When they announced their 20th anniversary dinner, a three-course meal for 1989 prices, it seemed like a golden opportunity to pay them a visit.
The dinner was scheduled for October 17th, but both seatings sold out immediately, so they extended it to tonight, hence the "Part Deux" reference.
I invited Beer Geek friend to join me, but he was going to be on the Left Coast, so I made a reservation for one.
Upon arrival, the host asked me my name, I responded and he greeted me like they'd been expecting me all evening.
It was very sweet.
I have to assume it was because I was their only reservation for one all evening.
I was led to a cozy table tucked in an alcove.
If I ever go here with a date, it's the table I would request (it reminded me of a table where I had an intimate meal in London several years ago).
The menu was very basic, but for $20 for three courses, who's going to complain?
They were offering several champagne cocktail specials, but I went with the Graham Beck Brut unadulterated, since it was an anniversary celebration.
The first course was non-negotiable: a mixed green salad with Roma tomatoes, organic carrots, herb-roasted croutons and pear vinaigrette.
Paired with a crusty roll and more butter than I needed, it was a fine start to the meal.
There were two entree choices: sliced seared fillet of beef with red wine reduction or jumbo lump crab cake with parsley Pernod sauce, both accompanied by roasted rosemary potatoes and buttered blanched asparagus.
I'd had red meat last night, so I chose crab tonight.
It was a good-sized crab cake, flavorful and perfectly cooked and the veggies complemented it well.
For dessert, there was lemon butter cake with Melba sauce, a timeless recipe Chez Foushee has been using for its entire 20-year existence and a classic, to be sure.
I've had it before at lunch and it is yummy, sort of like lemon chess pie.
It tastes very Richmond to me.
But tonight I went with the obvious, the chocolate truffle torte with Chantilly cream, which I couldn't even finish.
I did manage to finish the rest of the Brut somehow, though.
I have to give a mention to the music, both the selection and the volume, because it was so well done that it elevated the entire experience for me.
First of all, it was louder than I've encountered at any other Richmond restaurant.
Not you-can't-hear-your-dinner-partner loud, but more like you were dining in a 1940s movie and they had a band with a girl singer playing throughout the evening kind of a volume.
The music itself was of a continental nature; there was lots of Latin music, especially bossa nova and salsa, French love songs, selections from the classic American songbook and it all contributed to a sophisticated kind of a dining vibe that, to my knowledge, isn't available anywhere here.
I absolutely loved it.
Included with the check was a souvenir of the occasion, a Chez Foushee key chain, in tasteful black and gold.
As I went to leave, the host again spoke to me by name, inquiring after my meal satisfaction and thanking me sincerely for joining them.
Sure, he could have just been marvelling at a solo Saturday night diner, but whatever the reason, it was charming and made for a lovely ending to my meal...and a twenty-dollar meal at that.
Bubbles, of course, were extra.
When they announced their 20th anniversary dinner, a three-course meal for 1989 prices, it seemed like a golden opportunity to pay them a visit.
The dinner was scheduled for October 17th, but both seatings sold out immediately, so they extended it to tonight, hence the "Part Deux" reference.
I invited Beer Geek friend to join me, but he was going to be on the Left Coast, so I made a reservation for one.
Upon arrival, the host asked me my name, I responded and he greeted me like they'd been expecting me all evening.
It was very sweet.
I have to assume it was because I was their only reservation for one all evening.
I was led to a cozy table tucked in an alcove.
If I ever go here with a date, it's the table I would request (it reminded me of a table where I had an intimate meal in London several years ago).
The menu was very basic, but for $20 for three courses, who's going to complain?
They were offering several champagne cocktail specials, but I went with the Graham Beck Brut unadulterated, since it was an anniversary celebration.
The first course was non-negotiable: a mixed green salad with Roma tomatoes, organic carrots, herb-roasted croutons and pear vinaigrette.
Paired with a crusty roll and more butter than I needed, it was a fine start to the meal.
There were two entree choices: sliced seared fillet of beef with red wine reduction or jumbo lump crab cake with parsley Pernod sauce, both accompanied by roasted rosemary potatoes and buttered blanched asparagus.
I'd had red meat last night, so I chose crab tonight.
It was a good-sized crab cake, flavorful and perfectly cooked and the veggies complemented it well.
For dessert, there was lemon butter cake with Melba sauce, a timeless recipe Chez Foushee has been using for its entire 20-year existence and a classic, to be sure.
I've had it before at lunch and it is yummy, sort of like lemon chess pie.
It tastes very Richmond to me.
But tonight I went with the obvious, the chocolate truffle torte with Chantilly cream, which I couldn't even finish.
I did manage to finish the rest of the Brut somehow, though.
I have to give a mention to the music, both the selection and the volume, because it was so well done that it elevated the entire experience for me.
First of all, it was louder than I've encountered at any other Richmond restaurant.
Not you-can't-hear-your-dinner-partner loud, but more like you were dining in a 1940s movie and they had a band with a girl singer playing throughout the evening kind of a volume.
The music itself was of a continental nature; there was lots of Latin music, especially bossa nova and salsa, French love songs, selections from the classic American songbook and it all contributed to a sophisticated kind of a dining vibe that, to my knowledge, isn't available anywhere here.
I absolutely loved it.
Included with the check was a souvenir of the occasion, a Chez Foushee key chain, in tasteful black and gold.
As I went to leave, the host again spoke to me by name, inquiring after my meal satisfaction and thanking me sincerely for joining them.
Sure, he could have just been marvelling at a solo Saturday night diner, but whatever the reason, it was charming and made for a lovely ending to my meal...and a twenty-dollar meal at that.
Bubbles, of course, were extra.
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