Soul, with a Side of Sad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunny and Soulful

It seemed like the right day to support at Church Hill business.

Everyone is understandably distraught about the fire at Sub Rosa Bakery last night and it looks like benefits galore are being planned to help Evrim get the place back up and running.

So when a Church Hill friend suggested lunch at Johnson's Southern Comfort, I headed down and back up the hill.

The door was wide open to the afternoon sunshine with a "J" left from the Jumpin' J's days still embedded right in front of the entrance.

We were both impressed with what a nice-looking space it as, with dark booths and bar and an impressive tin ceiling in half of it.

The ABC application was pasted to the front window, explaining the bar devoid of either spirits or stools.

We needed neither.

I'd come especially for chicken and waffles and my lunch buddy wanted one of the lunch specials with two large pieces of fried lake trout, collards, mac and cheese and a dinner roll.

The batter on the fish alone was worth the visit. When he complimented it our affable server agreed, saying he couldn't share the recipe.

Originally, he'd asked for collards and cabbage but our server suggested the mac and cheese, promising it would be "just like your Mom makes."

My friend clarified that his Mom's mac and cheese came straight out of a box.

"Okay, your grandma's then," he said, cementing the adjusted order.

He'd also hoped for cornbread, but that's only served after 5 p.m.

Despite choices of  fancy waffles (cinnamon, blueberry, red velvet), I wanted just a plain waffle with fried chicken on it.

I was offered an array of toppings for my waffle (whipped cream, blueberries, strawberries, bananas  or fried apples) but all I wanted was butter and syrup.

My chicken and waffle needs are simple, really.

"You got it!" our server promised as he headed to the kitchen.

On the sound system was a local gospel station, not usually a favorite of mine, but between our server's voice singing along to every word and the inspiring nature of the music on this beautiful day, I listened along happily.

As we ate our soul food lunch, we talked about the shame of a new business like Sub Rosa having such bad luck.

He'd already been by and seen the broken windows and soot-smeared roof, but I hadn't.

And I don't know if I will, but I do know I'll support every fundraiser I find out about to help them get back up and making all those lovely breads and baked goods again.

In the meantime, I enjoyed a nearly perfect lunch with my Nashville-bound friend eating on the Hill.

Sticky Fingers

When my Church Hill-living friends rave about their neighborhood, I nod.

And then there's the but...

My passion for Jackson Ward aside, I couldn't live in a neighborhood with so few restaurants.

And yet after last night's kick-ass meal at the Roosevelt, I was right back on the Hill for lunch today at OMG Cafe.

And frankly, OMG. The menu was well-priced, with everything from a bologna burger to curry chicken with palm-rolled dumplings and steamed cabbage.

Tempting as they both were, I went straight for the OMG chicken and waffle with blueberries, as did my friend.

I figured they must be good because the mother and two sons at the next table had all ordered them, too.

When the youngest boy's plate was delivered before his mother's, he wasted no time in folding his hands and saying grace, not about to wait for her food to arrive to dig into his own.

His t-shirt said "Blame My Sister" but I'd be inclined to blame the chicken and waffles.

My friend and I both liked the sleek interior with its ten-seat bar, four high two-tops and back table done in green, silver and black.

I was especially enamored of the music which began with Marsha Ambrosius' soulful song stylings and segued into Evelyn "Champagne" King.

There is a particular high unlike any other when you are eating fried chicken with your syrup-sticky fingers and "Love Come Down" comes on the sound system at just the right volume.

My friend's grin was as satisfied as mine. "I haven't heard this song in forever," he agreed.

OMG, now I want to go back and order the lake trout sandwich and see what comes on the stereo with that.

Sacrificial Brunch

Holmes had e-mailed me a few days ago with an invitation to brunch.

Actually, he'd gotten an invitation to the 2300 Club from a friend and scrawled at the bottom was a note. "Hope you can come. Please bring your female friend, too!"

Since the last time I was out with Holmes and his squeeze we had met the guy doing the brunch inviting, he presumed that I was the female friend being invited by proxy.

"Are you leading the lamb to the slaughter?" I responded.

Given his reply, we decided to forgo the 2300 Club but meet for brunch anyway.

I wanted chicken and waffles but he wasn't interested in either of the places I knew have it so we settled on Selba.

Since it was their first time there and Holmes is a musician, I knew they'd enjoy the live piano music.

Since they're both Bloody Mary lovers, I knew they'd appreciate the fact that they make their own tomato and celery juice base (we watched).

Because I don't do Bloody Marys, I had a Bellini made all the better for the addition of St. Germaine to the white peach puree and bubbles.

The floral notes it added were a lovely addition to a traditional brunch sipper.

As a bonus for Holmes, the two (annoying) TV screens had football, NACAR and baseball on at various times.

Luckily there was a talented man playing piano for the females to be entertainment by.

The bartender provided one menu and said that if we were greedy and needed one each, he could accommodate. We made do.

Nothing on the brunch menu was calling my name except the house-cured bacon and the Sausagecraft sage patties and they were out of those.

Nothing, that is, until our server (one of two I knew moonlighting from their usual restaurants) said that today's special was, wait for it, chicken and waffles!

I got so excited that she looked at Holmes and said, "Well, I guess we know what she's having."

Holmes had Fontina-laced eggs with Sausagecraft Iberian Chorizo sausage and a bacon cheddar muffin and his love had an omelet with the house bacon on the side.

Meanwhile I was in heaven with my (only quibble: boneless) fried chicken and Belgian waffle.

I used every ounce of whipped homestead butter they brought me to fill the deep wells of my waffle and then drowned the whole thing in real maple syrup.

I lost track of whatever they were talking about while I gave in to a sweet/salty eating frenzy of crispy chicken and crispy waffle.

When I came up for air, it was to enjoy a few bites of the Chorizo and the bacon, both stellar.

Because it's a big place, it wasn't anywhere close to full although the Garden Room had a good crowd.

I saw the Chef and the Mrs. from Bobette, a local theater critic I know (so many new openings to discuss) and a musician I'd sat next to at the Ballet Russes lecture the other day.

And unexpectedly and happily, I got my chicken and waffles.

Without, it should be noted, being led to the slaughter.

Bones at Balliceaux

Somewhere, an old southern cook is spinning in her grave and the micro greens are only part of it.

At issue is the southern soul food staple, chicken and waffles, that long-time marriage of salty and crispy with sweet and bready. It's a combination so perfectly balanced as to leave no room for improvisation.

But this is 2011 and what chef doesn't like to riff on an old standard? The challenge, I would think, would be finding a way to improve upon something so classic without alienating fans of the original.

Balliceaux does it beautifully with their take on chicken and waffles, and I say this as someone who just ate it for lunch and had to wipe the residual grease off her fingers before beginning to type this.

Two perfectly fried chicken thighs arrived atop two Belgian-style waffle squares. The perky little micro-green gracing the thighs were nothing more than eye candy to remind the eater that this is the twenty-first century. I could have downed them in one bite, but merely smiled at their presence, pushing them to the side.

What did grab my attention at first bite was the spicy maple syrup, a definite change-up for its kick where sweetness usually delivers. The syrup benefited from the addition of red pepper flakes and it added a new dimension to both the waffle and especially the yard bird.

Subtle heat infused every bite since the syrup was not the sort of thing to be contained by the indentations of the waffle. I know because it ended up on my chin, on the napkin in my lap, and on the handles of my knife and fork.

By the time I finished eating, my fingers were a lovely mix of greasy and sticky. Maybe knowing that will reassure those dead southern cooks trying to process all this change.

But probably not. My Richmond grandmother's speciality was fried chicken and she never accepted that people stopped frying their chicken in bacon grease like she did.

Come to think of it, I had kind of a hard time with that myself.

A Soulful Lunch of Chicken and Waffles

Whenever possible, I try to incorporate sweet into my salty.

The quintessential example of this is the soul food staple that was my lunch today: chicken and waffles.

Chicken we heard and smelled being fried up after we ordered it.

A waffle on which every single square was filled with butter (oh, yes, I used every bit of butter given me in that little cup, unlike my health-conscious friend) and then saturated with syrup. Oh my, my.

I had suggested lunch today to a friend and he had suggested Leigh Street Bar & Grill over in Carver.

He tends bar and one of his regulars had raved about the place and since it's only a few blocks from home, why not?

The menu ranged from Angus beef sliders to the fishbone fillet seasoned with Creole spices to a spicy shrimp salad over greens.

But the menu was forgotten when we saw the chalkboard chicken and waffles special and we both ordered it from our smiling server.

Moments later the chef came out of the kitchen to introduce himself and tell us about a couple of specials; one was a grilled salmon with sauteed peppers and the other a turkey burger with sauteed onions, peppers and cheese.

We were immovable, though. Tempting as they looked (he showed us pictures on his cell phone), we wanted sweet and salty.

The satellite radio was tuned to an R & B soul station played at a volume that allowed us to appreciate every bass line, every booty call lyric. Absolute perfection.

Meanwhile, there was serious frying going on in the back.

Our plates arrived with the chicken steaming and the waffle a crispy golden brown (which I immediately smeared with all that butter while it was hot).

The four large wings bore no resemblance to those pitiful specimens so often seen on a wing platter.

We just grinned at each other in anticipation. Let the eating begin.

When we finally took a break from chowing down and looked up at each other, he'd finished his entire waffle and two wings.

I'd finished 3/4 of my waffle and 2 1/2 wings.

But it was time to stick a fork in us because we were done, so we each got boxes to take the remaining wings with us for later snackage.

Breakfast and dinner. Sweet and salty. Protein and carbs.

Chicken and waffles may be the closest thing to plate perfection a girl could hope for at lunch.

My, my indeed.