Time to Play B-sides.

As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."

The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.

Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.

The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.

What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?

All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.

He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.

Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.

You know, that old chestnut.

If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.

I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).

We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.

Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.

Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.

And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a  level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.

James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.

TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.

Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.

We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.

Cue next day.

Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.

Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.

I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).

Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.

Number 178, right here, folks.

After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.

It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.

Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.

Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."

No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.

During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail

The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.

"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.

A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.

Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.

The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.

But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.

Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.

Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.

It's practically poetic, right?

The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.

I totally dug it, not gonna lie.

With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.

What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?

Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.

Nothing's More Than Words

Don't talk to me about the local economy.

Local is winning $10 (and a VHS copy of "Ernest: Volume 1", but that's another story) playing bingo (third win in as many months) at Gallery 5 and days later turning around and giving those same ten bills to Richmond Comedy Coalition two blocks away for "Musical, the Improvised Musical."

Just keepin' it in the 'hood, which, by the way, is uncharacteristically low-key with nary a band practicing or porch of beer drinkers to be seen as I walked from place to place in the windy cold. The liveliest thing I passed was a bunch of West End types hugging and saying "Merry Christmas" to each other in front of Max's on Broad and that's a pretty sad state for affairs in J-Ward.

For the record, it was a distinctive crowd at RCC because when asked how many people had already seen "Star Wars," very few raised their hands. "Oh, wow!" our host exclaimed, clearly surprised at the absence of pop culture slaves. "Don't say anything!" a guy in the front row admonished.

Don't spoil it, in other words. The theme for the evening, as it turned out.

Few evenings have gotten off to as fine a start as hearing earnest duo Chet and Steve do the unlikeliest of power ballads considering they were a couple of high school sophomores. Midway through Extreme's "More Than Words," I was sorely regretting not having a Bic lighter with me to show my devotion 1990-style, while fully cognizant that no one in the room would have any idea why I was doing it.

Best line afterwards was Chet asking rhetorically, "This is a comedy show, right?"

Because the audience's first suggestion - Ebola - had been used just last week, the improv musical cast solicited a second and that's how we landed on "Star Wars Spoilers" as the name of the musical they were about to create before our eyes.

That meant everything from a waiting room full of mothers singing "Moms Can Be Bitches" to a couple of guys who spend their lives putting TV show and movie spoilers out into the ether. Their motto was, "How can we ruin it for others?" so their song was "We're Trolls" with accompanying hand and facial gestures.

The goal is comedy, after all.

The entire cast joined together for the musical extravaganza, "It's Like They Don't Know Us," a lamentation for the significant others who are clueless about present-buying come Christmas time ("It's been three weeks and two dates! Come on, check my Tinder profile!").

Most importantly, we all got through the evening without finding out how Princess Leia wears her hair in the new movie. Now that was a close one.

Childhood flashbacks followed at Comfort where I arrived just in time for their new late night burger, a masterful layering of burger, fried bologna and cheese, grilled onions and Duke's mayo, along with some Espolon.

While there was no tequila in my childhood, there were scores of fried bologna and cheese sandwiches and all my memories are good ones. Tonight's match and even exceed, probably thanks to the onions. Along the way, the barkeep and I agree to have no more awkward moments.

Honestly, I didn't even want the burger, just the other ingredients on a bun, but the late night burger comes as a matched set, a fact disappointing to the Philly woman next to me who doesn't do dairy. Too bad, doll. I did share a bite with the couple at the end of the bar because I'd heard her asking about it  and now she's my devoted slave.

As if that wasn't enough to make me blissful, the music was way too good to be satellite or Spotify, so I had to ask and got a story as good as the tunes.

Former cook and enormous music nerd (and by music nerd, I was told he had an entire room with shelves on all four walls for albums so when his girlfriend insisted he stop buying music, he began having his purchases sent to Comfort) makes multiple play lists for the restaurant, then quits and leaves various mixes.

We're listening to the dance mix, notable, I'm told, because the cook was a shy, awkward guy you'd never imagine dancing. "I had to know what his idea of dance music was," the bartender tells me. Now, he admits, it's easily his favorite mix.

Mixing lesser artists with great hooks (When In Rome's "The Promise') with classic grooves (Talking Heads), it's the best kind of dance mix, not dance music per se, but songs that make body parts move involuntarily.

A fabulous enough mix to accompany a fried bologna and cheese sandwich and that's saying something. In words, no less...'cause sometimes you need more than a Bic lighter.

A Leg Up

So maybe I wasn't the very last person invited. Maybe I was just one of the last.

All I know is that when I got home from the beach at midnight last night, there was an invitation to Style Weekly's Best of party at Hardywood awaiting me. As a token of their appreciation for my hard work writing for the issue, two bands (Upper East Side Big Band and Photosynthesizers), lots of local restaurants and beer could all be mine, if I said the word.

I said yes, figuring I'd know a few people, go early and stay just as long as I chose to. Walking out of my apartment, the new guy next door sitting on his porch smiled and gave me an approving nod. "You look really great. Got a hot date?"

Not that I know of. P.S: Second oldest line in the book.

At Hardywood, the party was just starting, so I set out to mingle. I was talking to a restaurant owner about the double whammy of Broad Appetit and today's event, munching on Pasture's ham, pickle and pimento cheese roll, when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying, "I need to say hello to those legs."

You just never know who you're going to run into out of the blue or what's been going on in their life since you saw them last (a tumultuous relationship that didn't sound like much fun and was already over), but it was like old times listening to him critique all the dishes we sampled as we talked.

He was surprised to see I wasn't drinking, having forgotten I don't drink beer. In fact, the first time we hung out over a three-hour conversation, he'd e-mailed me when he got home with a fine compliment: "You'd be perfect if you drank beer." Not true, but flattering.

My friend and former neighbor, the councilman, introduced me to the owner of Paradise Garage, so I got to hear about his fabulous fundraiser parties. Maybe now my invitation will show up in the mail. When we went to try Torero Tapas Bar and Grill's paella, one of the chefs turned out to be a familiar face from another restaurant I frequent.

At the Alamo table, I asked for a sample of everything (although my hands-down favorite is that cowboy caviar) and looked around to see a disappointed-looking singer I've met before. Poor man doesn't eat pork and was having a devil of a time finding anything else at the party. This is a pig-centric town, after all.

Not shy, I didn't hesitate to ask the Alamo server if he had anything non-pig and sure enough, he got barbecued chicken for him from the back. Never hurts to ask...or to score points with a musician

Upper East Side Big Band was playing when I arrived so I caught most of their set, unsurprisingly a lot of clever arrangements of Beatles' songs ("Something" to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), and then later, part of Photosynthesizers' set as well. I was honestly amazed at how few people were in the room listening to music at any given time.

It was the photographer I'd first met at the "Man Meat" dinner seven years ago who steered me to Goatacado, where, against his advice, I skipped over the Athena for the Mountain Tropp, a killer bowl of warm quinoa, arugula, smoked Gouda, avocado, black beans, plus apple and sweet corn pico de gallo in lime mango sauce.

Apparently I looked like I was enjoying the hell out of it (true story) because twice strangers came over and asked what I was eating because it looked so good. I sent them straight to the goat.

I decided I'd had enough savory to earn my sweet, a chocolate sea salt pop from King of Pops (the guy who handed it to me agreed). I carried it inside, letting it soften, and ran into the talented and energetic actor/singer I'd come to see here Saturday night.

We talked about that show for a minute and he started razzing me about being at Hardywood so often. "Want a beer?" he said, laughing and already knowing the answer. "Gotta ask!"

Outside, I saw a patient Mom occupying her two little ones with the cornhole boxes and before long, her youngest was smiling at me and trying to impress me with his toddler moves. It was very sweet. Then his hip father steps over to speak to me and says, "Are you still doing your blog?"

Hello! Once again, my past had shown up at the party. This time it was a musician I'd met seven or eight years ago when he'd been in a band I'd really liked. I'd interviewed them, been to plenty of their shows but hadn't seen him in eons. Apparently he'd been busy in that interim.

Just as I decided to leave, a friend insisted I try a beer that had been brewed with a wine component, something still in development, but he was praising it for its integration of the two. Couldn't I taste that? I'll take my wine straight, thanks, although not at Hardywood.

Walking to my car, I realized I'd had a far better time at the party than I'd expected, but then who doesn't like getting reacquainted when it comes with sides of compliments and dinner invitations?

Leaving behind that crowd, my next destination was the great outdoors for live music. It's the first of this series I'd made it to this year, despite frequent attendance the last two years.

Plenty of people had brought blankets (a lot of the Indian print kind we all had in college) and beer (although the girl next to me forgot an opener. Duh), but not me. I found a wooden bench with a  good view of the band and got comfortable, scanning the grass for my people. Before long, the organizer came over to say hello and update me on the band tour he's been working on as a roadie.

One thing I noticed right away was that the crowd was larger and more diverse age-wise than it had been in the past, a good thing. Since the organizers insist on no social media about the event, it looks like their goal of community building in real life is working. Hooray for the old ways.

The dance party king showed up and we commiserated about the (possible) loss of Balliceaux. I was certain he'd also been there that last night but I hadn't laid eyes on him. Sure enough, he'd been just as bummed as I was about the loss to the scene

I was happy to see the world travelers arrive, also recently back from their own tour. She thanked me kindly for the blog post about her outdoor birthday party, a laid back and enjoyable night with a potluck supper, a campfire, music on cassette and wide-ranging conversation. I thanked her for providing great fodder for me to write about, not to mention a thoroughly pleasant evening outdoors.

When they didn't recognize the band, Manatree, they asked who it was. "Man, they're babies!" my lanky friend said. If they looked like babies to him, they should have looked like embryos to me.

But of course, they don't because I've seen them plenty of times, although never unplugged like they were in the park tonight. There were even times when the annoying stage-whispering and laughing of self-involved twits near me all but drowned out their voices, guitars, fiddle, flute and tambourine. Only the drum beat out the rudeness.

Do I need to get back on my soap box about talkers not ruining the experience of others? If you go to a show to blather and not listen, at least have the decency to go to the back. Yeesh, I'd swear some people were raised by wolves.

Filling out their sound for the first time tonight were two female singers, also the source of the flute and fiddle playing. It was such a different experience hearing Manatree this way when their usual M.O. is short, hard, fast and loud. Tonight their sound was folky, harmonious and almost pretty.

During one song at dusk, the buzzing insects in the trees around us began humming in time with the tambourine shakes and drumbeats while fireflies lit on and off around our heads. It doesn't get much groovier than that.

It might have been perfect, but I didn't drink beer.

Broadly Speaking

Broad Appetit, you're getting tedious.

With each year that you crow about the plethora of participants - "a record-breaking 75 restaurants" this year, you claim- are we not supposed to notice the amount of "filler" fair food options such as gyros and fries taking up space? Or the absence of some past favorites like Acacia and Magpie?

And what about the layout? You'd expect that more participants would mean the festival would extend another block or two instead of practically stacking booths on top of each other, with lines winding into each other and confusion about whether or not a person is in line for the desired place.

More than one person mentioned the need for a separate lane for those with strollers and dogs, two demographics that snarl foot traffic and seem oblivious to the back-ups they're causing. Why do people even bring small children to an event like this? All the ones I saw looked sunburnt, sweaty and miserable as their parents tried to cajole them into eating something the kid didn't want.

Since I'd not even been up an hour when I got to Broad Street at 11 a.m., I began with Lucy's corn fritters with jalapeno sour cream, not exactly breakfast but at least a distant cousin of doughnuts, and a hot, crispy and flavorful start to the day.

Amour had the ideal brunch dish: savory ham, mushroom and duck bechamel crepes and a vegetable crepe for good measure. The owner looked particularly dapper cooking crepes in a beret and I know he was wishing he could pour me a glass of French cider to pair with my crepes.

At Comfort, I had a drumstick of fried chicken with butterbean honey and a side of strawberry/rhubarb slaw, a slaw that tasted like May. As I sat in the shade eating, a mother tried unsuccessfully to convince her two youngsters that they wanted the fried chicken, which they both refused with hands over their mouths. Dad left in search of cheese pizza.

Family Meal, Brian Voltaggio's new spot at Willow Lawn (which I've yet to visit as I'm not especially attracted to eating with families), was offering deviled egg samples, so I nabbed one, enjoying the mixture of yolk, cream cheese, hot sauce and Dijon mustard with bacon on top.

Curious about the FeedMore Community Kitchen booth, I selected mesquite-marinated southern fried pork spareribs with spicy maple glaze and watermelon slaw. Honestly, I have no need for my ribs to be fried, but that slaw was one of the highlights of the day, peppery, refreshing and packed with complementary flavors.

After five savory dishes, I was ready for sweet and found it at the new Belle & James booth, a place that won't even open for a couple more months. They were giving away t-shirts to early customers, so I chose the tank top along with a piece of chocolate and buttermilk layer cake with buttercream frosting, a multi-layered treat that tasted like my Richmond grandma used to make.

Making my way through the mass of humanity was not without its humorous moments.

At the Mosaic booth, they had a yard-high red blown glass bottle adorning their table, causing a young man near me to observe to his buddy, "Check out that bong."

I passed two different women wheeling their little dogs around in strollers, more reason for that separate lane, just so normal people don't have to see such nonsense.

Wine drinkers could choose from Wine on Tap's various selections (not one was Virginia wine) and for the truly tasteless brave there was a tent for wine slushies, but of course the longest lines by a mile were for the breweries, all of which were from Virginia. Anyone else notice this disparity in local liquid sourcing?

After four laps, I'd only seen a handful of familiar faces beyond those working the booths and I was full enough. I still had half a piece of cake left, so I got a new fork and took the cake to one of the volunteers on the side street that leads to my house who seemed thrilled to have it.

There, that's done.

Back home, I changed into my new Belle & James tank top, shorts and Nikes and made my way through the endless neighborhood traffic jam (so many suburbanites trying desperately to parallel park in Jackson Ward) to escape for a 5 1/2-mile walk to Chapel Island, a welcome respite for the mayhem on Broad Street.

Don't get me wrong, I had several very tasty dishes and at $3 a pop, the price is right. But the truth is, despite living two blocks off of Broad Street, I only bother with this event because I have to, because I write about food and need to be there.

I saw that a friend just posted from Broad Appetit, saying, "Enjoyed this so much more a couple of years ago when it was smaller and not as crazy."

What he said. Where's the suggestion box?

Last Train to Snowsville

Did I go out in winter storm Pax? Well, of course I did.

It was once again time for the Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road, week two of our neighborhood get-together to brainstorm how to turn the triangle at Brook and Adams into the local hot spot.

Naturally I was one of the first arrivals, fine by me since this evening's food had just arrived. Tonight Comfort had supplied slices of country ham, a mound of pimento cheese the size of my head, Ritz crackers and housemade pickles.

My favorite Jackson Ward couple soon showed up, dusting snow off their shoulders, and joining me in some pre-spitballing fare.

Talking about country hams, my friend shared a story about a Virginian who sent her California in-laws a Smithfield country ham, only to eventually hear back from them that they'd thrown it away after one taste because it was so salty, not to mention how moldy it looked on the outside.

Well, duh, that's the point. Leave it to left coasters not to grasp the concept of east coast pig.

None of us had any problem downing our salty ham and sinfully rich pimento cheese-slathered Ritz especially when complemented by the tartness of the pickle slices eaten between bites.

Then it was down to business but because half of last week's turnout were being snow wimps this week, we had only two groups instead of five.

Tonight's plan was to fine tune last week's bright ideas to get closer to what will be the final plan for the triangle.

Fortunately, we didn't have anyone in our group foolhardy enough to suggest taking down the century-old oak tree as a few people had done last week.

We worked through all the issues, spending a lot of time on lighting and greenery, two key components to making the area feel safer and more inviting.

I got creative, suggesting a video projection wall with changing kinetic imagery courtesy of VCU students and a vertical bike rack designed by the winner of a contest among sculpture students to go on Adams Street.

Yea, that's me, full of big ideas.

Much as I love and support the idea of public fruit trees, even I had to admit that they're messy and attract birds who poop all over the place and  that isn't going to help us attract anyone to the neighborhood.

Never mind, I'll work on someone else to get public fruit trees planted in some of our many vacant lots.

Tonight we also got into the details of the planters we want to see closing off Brook Road and scattered among the public tables taking up the public piazza in what was formerly the street.

One woman even suggested a rain barrel so we could have a green water source for watering all those planters.

As we envisioned the triangle becoming a food cart stop, an Etsy pop-up marketplace or a free wi-fi destination, it became pretty obvious that a major snowstorm is no deterrent for the kind of people who want a say in shaping their 'hood.

By the time we'd turned in our sketches and plan details, we were all feeling mighty pleased with ourselves and our snowy evening's work.

My friends headed home but since I already knew the Heavy Midgets album release show at Balliceaux tonight had been canceled, I thought I'd at least make one last stop at Comfort for a drink and dessert.

Except they turned out to be among the snow wimps. Closed due to snow.

Oh, well, I suppose I can always stay home for the evening and read more of Peter Guralnick's "Last Train to Memphis." Gotta admit, I'm curious to see how things turn out for this Elvis kid.

How about that, an evening at home reading.

I might be able to pull this off for one night, but these snow wimps better get their acts together before tomorrow night.

That's all I have to say.

No Risk Roulette

Nothing like a neighborhood restaurant for lunch with a friend.

Walking into Comfort, he summed it up for both of us with, "It's been ages since I've been here, but nothing changes here."

That's why it's so comforting, my dear.

He knew he wanted a burger and I knew I wanted a salad, but it was the wine list that charmed me.

"Feeling adventurous? Play wine roulette! Get something random!"

I love a bossy menu.

Who could resist a wine list with such verve and humor?

Not me, that's for sure.

The list read like a set of trade-offs, bracketed by helpful information.

If you like XYZ, described as this and that, then try ABC.

So, if you like chardonnay (rich, white), try this Marsanne/Viognier blend.

If you like Sauvignon Blanc (citrusy, thirst-quenching), try Muscat.

For me, that meant trying the Grange Phillips "Gipsy," a fruity and smooth syrah rose ideally suited to a summer day lunch with a friend.

Shoot, as if I wouldn't have chosen a Rose anyway.

Of course, with my friend, he likes a chardonnay so he ordered a chardonnay.

No wine roulette for him.

Over discussion of hotels (The Rittenhouse versus the Jefferson), "Othello" at Agecroft ("I didn't even fall asleep," he bragged about how much he'd enjoyed the production) and how challenging his job gets, I ate through a chef salad piled high with roasted turkey and country ham.

Other tables filled up around us in the sunny dining room as we wiled away a couple of hours sipping wine, sharing a chocolate mousse and dishing about some Richmond types we despise.

Oh, the pleasures of an unexpected Monday lunch with a friend.

Comforting and close to home.

Oh, right, this is Richmond roulette. No bullets, just easy.

View to a Night

A neighborhood regular walks into a bar and an entire evening's plan goes out the window as she contemplates farm life.

When I got to Bistro 27, I had to run the gauntlet of a group cocktail party surrounding the bar.

As it turned out, they were a group who is the liaison between social workers and Presbyterians and they were presenting someone with a giant gold key tonight.

I didn't pretend to understand.

Because it was Brazilian night, my wine of choice was Vega Douro, the chef's choice for the evening's featured dishes.

I saw another Brazilian regular and when he couldn't recall what we'd been drinking the last time we'd both been there for Brazilian night, I jogged his memory for him.

When his date arrived, she fell in line with our wine choice, too.

Then another neighborhood regular showed up and also went Portuguese.

Carlos' plan was working exactly according to his master plan.

In an annual rite of spring, albeit one much later this year than last, I had my first soft shell crab tonight.

They were doing two Brazilian redneck dishes (as he calls them), the braised short ribs and yucca I'd had a couple of weeks ago and a soft shell Bobo.

The rich dish with its sauce of yucca root puree, palm oil and coconut milk was a siren call I couldn't resist, especially with a molting crustacean front and center.

So I was going to have the crab, natch, but I also couldn't resist the short ribs, making for a very filling meal.

While eating the Bobo, it occurred to me that this might be a Virginia take on Brazilian food, given the crab.

I called over answer man Carlos to inquire if this was actually something Brazilians ate or if he was just riffing on a traditional dish.

Oh, no, he explained, it was very much rooted in Brazilian cuisine although they used their native crabs rather than blue crabs.

After hearing about their local crabs - large, long-legged, hairy and living in shallow tidal pools- I had a whole new appreciation for our own species.

My neighbor told me about his new riding mower, bought earlier today and apparently already his pride and joy, while the chef welcomed his wife and baby girls, daughter, sister, niece and nephew.

All of a sudden, it was turning into a Tuesday night Brazilian party with Portuguese not just in the glasses but being spoken all around the bar.

Before I realized it, I had missed the movie I'd intended to go see and was blathering away with the other bar sitters and the chef as dusk turned to night time.

Eventually the liaison group left, the big parties on the other side departed and it was just the bar group still drinking and laughing.

The rest ended up across the street at Comfort for a nightcap.

The music was  exquisitely awful (Duran Duran, Survivor, Peter Cetera), leading to discussion with a nearby couple about what constitutes bad music.

Our conclusion: depends on when you were born.

They were sipping whiskeys while we stayed with wine, a lovely cinnamon-nosed Bielsa Garnacha with the silkiest of mouthfeels.

Down at the end of the bar, a woman was so obviously savoring her dessert that a guy sitting at mid-bar finally gave up admiring and ordered his own.

A couple of bites in, he caught me looking covetously at his dessert and apropos of nothing, looked at me and said, "You should get this."

The woman at the end, who was nearing the end of hers concurred, saying, "You know you want it."

It's good to know I'm an easy read for perfect strangers.

I ordered my own chocolate mousse and enjoyed it with my garnacha while eavesdropping on the whiskey lecture that was going on to my left.

Truth is, I always feel like an interloper in a place that focuses on a spirit I never drink.

Conversation flowed as I heard about a talented local chef who'd gotten married and moved to a farm to live the back-breaking bucolic life.

And while it's a charming, even romantic notion, all I could think about was how do you get soft shell Bobo and late night mousses when you live on a farm?

Not to mention the ungodly early hours.

I figure our party departed Comfort approximately three hours before any farmer worth his salt was rolling out of bed.

Shoot me now.

I'm more likely to eat a hairy crab than take on early morning chores, even for the sake of romance.

Luckily, no one's asking me to.

Build Me Up Buttercup

You never know what Jackson Ward will offer up on any given evening.

I love evenings where I stay in the neighborhood, walking to my destinations. Tonight's plan was to make it to Gallery 5 for the Julia Nunes show at 8:30. By 8:15, there was a line outside to buy tickets; I couldn't have been more surprised.

But when I made it inside, the ticket-seller was telling the girls in front of me that the show wouldn't actually start for an hour. "Okay, we'll be back. We're going to drink," they told him.

And why not, I thought. I got my wristband and headed down the block to Comfort for a drink before the show.

It was the bartender's first night and he was flummoxed as to what good tequilas they carried when I asked.  With a little investigative bartending, he was able to help me. And, boy, was he proud about it.

 Within moments a guy sat down next to me and initiated  compliments and conversation. He turned out to be the engineer in charge of the VCU parking deck project over on Grace Street, the one I pass every day on my walk. Small world.

I commented about how quickly the deck was coming together and how it appeared that it was jigsaw puzzle-like, with interlocking pieces.

Pre-cast, he called it, and told me that the pieces range from 48,000 pounds to 73,000 pounds. And, amazingly, the deck will have cars parking in it by July.

He insisted on buying me a drink, but since he turned out to be an interesting conversationalist, I considered it worth it.

Naturally I asked him where he had been eating since he'd come to Richmond for the project and it was only the places in J-Ward; he was loving the neighborhood. In fact, he was already a regular at Comfort.

During the relatively brief period before I returned to Gallery 5 for the show, we discussed tobacco-based economy, corporal punishment, travel and food worship.

I enjoyed hearing a visitor's perspective of our city and got an invitation for a hard-hat tour and for dinner with him soon before walking the one block to hear music. Totally random.

Opener Ian Axel was an obvious Ben Folds devotee and his sweet and melodic voice made me sorry I had missed his first song.

With a back-up vocalist, he sang, strummed and played piano. At one point, headliner Julia Nunes joined them on stage for a rollicking number with the most beautiful harmonies.

After his set, he asked people to come visit him at his merch table. "If you don't buy an Ian Axel fortune cookie, we'll give you a hug." It was the perfect metaphor for his earnest sound.

During the break, I ran into J-Ward neighbors who live literally across the street from G5 ("We go out on our patio and listen to the music before deciding if we're going to a show").

Like me, they thought this show far too interesting to miss on a Tuesday night. Unlike me, they had seen Ben Folds recently at the National (even sending a paper airplane song request onstage...along with hundreds of other people), so they were thrilled with both Ian and Julia's devotion to and influence by the piano man.

With her ballsy, borderline vaudeville persona in the vein of Nellie McKay, Julia was a compelling stage presence.

Introducing  a song, she said, "This is the first love song I ever had the balls to write," before launching into a song clearly written from experience.

She did one of her big youtube hits, a cover of "Build Me Up, Buttercup" with the audience exuberantly doing the background vocals.

She introduced her bass player, saying he would be playing guitar. Actually, he made bass and percussion noises. Later he snapped an accompaniment, no easy task.

Her ability to meld original and covers songs was best demonstrated with a song she introduced by saying, "This song is half me and half not original. You will realize when that happens."

And indeed we did, as she segued from the line, "When I am over you, it will be f*cking great," and then seamlessly went into "Twist and Shout."

Later she managed to insert a few lines from Adele's red-hot "Rolling in the Deep" into one of her songs.

During the course of the show, she played a lot of ukulele (hey, it got her 35 million hits on youtube) and her mustachioed guitar.

She brought up Ian and Chad onstage to "be the mouths she needed to pull off" certain songs. With her terrific voice and room-filling stage presence, the crowd ate her up.

When she finished her last song, she promised to meet and greet at the merch table and the crush of people to get over there was unlike any I've seen at a G5 show.

People wanted to talk (touch?) Julia and were willing to wait in line for the privilege.

For me, it was enough to have seen the show, so I headed out into the streets of Jackson Ward. Well, actually I walked home through the cobblestoned alleys.

Tonight J-Ward was offering up the intoxicating smells of honeysuckle and mock orange blooming in the alleys. Amongst other pleasures already enumerated...

Read to Me of Antigone

Trying to park on VCU's campus at night while classes are in session is an exercise in futility.

Knowing this, I decided to walk over for an 8:00 reading; it just seemed easier.

And if I was going to walk, I decided that I might as well go earlier and walk first to 821 Cafe for dinner.

The only interesting thing I overheard on the way was a freshman-looking girl telling her two friends, "Well, I read in Cosmo that guys like it!"

It wasn't my job to confirm or deny, so I kept moving.

For a change, I didn't know my server, so I had to actually tell her that I wanted the black bean nachos.

I grabbed a magazine from the rack and got comfy on the center stool, anticipating my food.

When she set a bag with two to-go containers down in front of me, my face must have clarified things for her.

"Oh, you didn't want it to go?" she asked. "I thought you said to go."

Nope.

She took the boxes to the kitchen and returned with their contents emptied onto a plate.

And since they'd been put into the container right side up, they were now wrong side up.

All the cheese and beans were somewhere on the bottom of the plate.

They looked like hell.

But, what was I going to do, complain about aesthetics?

Instead, I dove in, attempting to pull the good stuff from the bottom and mix it with what I could see.

It was ugly, but it tasted just fine.

Seriously full, I walked over to the Student Commons for a poetry reading by Richard Jackson, a man who has published ten collections of poetry and teaches at the University of Tennessee Chattanooga.

The Virginia Room was small and the audience smaller and Jackson warned us, "This won't be the most uplifting night you've encountered."

He had a hushed voice, causing the audience to lean in to hear his rhythmic language enhanced by the poet's nuanced delivery.

Explaining the poem "Night Sky," he said he found great metaphors in science.

"Sometimes I think we're all hurtling through love at the speed of light."

Such a sad commentary.

"Residence" was particularly moving, as in the line, "And my love starts to ache like a phantom limb."

It's tough to convey just how evocative his language was, both in terms of its beauty and its sadness.

Between poems, he amused us by sharing bad country music song titles ("The thing is, they get paid better than poets") like "I Flushed You From the Toilet of My Heart" and "You Were Only a Splinter as I Slid Down the Bannister of Life."

Seriously laugh-worthy.

The hour with this charming and erudite man ended all too soon for me; I could have listened to him read for another hour and then some.

He finished with "No Turn on Red," with a line containing the eternal question, "Who says any love makes sense?"

Walking back toward Jackson Ward with his words still floating around in my head (like "So much of what we feel is habit," from "Otherness"), I had only to decide where to stop for some conviviality.

Comfort won out and although most of the tables were empty, the bar was lively.

As I approached it, I heard my name yelled out accusingly.

"So THIS is where you come to cheat on me on a Tuesday night!"

It was Josh from Six Burner, giving me a hard time because I have been known to spend a fair number of Tuesdays at 6B.

But I was as quick as he was, reminding him that there was no reason for me to go there on a night he wasn't there.

"Well done," he acknowledged. "Here, have my stool."

He was there for "one and done," except that he was on his second PBR.

As is our usual habit, we chatted music; he's beyond thrilled about the just-announced Flaming Lips show.

Actually there's been a flurry of show announcements lately.

We've become a regular stop on the circuit and music geeks like us couldn't be happier about it.

On my other side were a couple from the neighborhood.

We run into each other frequently at our local establishments because we share a fondness for neighborhood dining and music shows.

Like me, they're excited about the progress and potential of the Hippodrome, not to mention Ettamae's adding dinner hours (and liquor!).

We discussed further enhancements to the 'hood and that the Broad and Third Street area is the ideal location for a city Target.

It's so satisfying being with other J-Ward lovers.

Bartender Greg checked to see if we wanted more libations by arching an eyebrow and asking, "Shots?"

To me he inquired, "Mas tequila?" but I explained that one was probably enough for Tuesday night.

"Not for some people," he grinned.

"Well, I didn't say every Tuesday night, either. I don't want to be penned in on future Tuesdays," I back-pedaled.

The couple and I walked out together, immediately feeling and smelling the warmer air.

We're all anticipating tomorrow's mid-sixties temperatures, even if they're only supposed to last a day.

As it was, on the first of February I got to walk to all my evening's pleasures.

Most satisfying of all was hearing Richard Jackson read his magnificent poems while I let them wash over me.

A line from "Residence" said it best: "Words avalanching like clouds on top of each other."

Ah yes, words. One of life's greatest pleasures.

Start Me Up

I'm a firm believer in the no ticket left behind rule. If you've got an extra or can't use them, it's time to get all kindergarten and share.

Which is why I happily accepted the offer of one of my favorite couples to join them this afternoon for Richmond Symphony's "A Night at the Opera."

At my suggestion, we decided to meet first at Comfort for brunch and invited a fourth along who wasn't going to the performance but liked the idea of a convivial Sunday meal.

When I got to Comfort, my friends weren't there, but I got the royal welcome from man-about-town and musician Prabir, who was busy at the bar discussing robot-making with a friend. When I told him of my afternoon plans, a shamefaced look crossed his face.

"I had tickets for last night's performance and didn't use them," he admitted sheepishly. Permission to rant, please.

What in the world, I asked. You couldn't have at least posted a Facebook status saying you had tickets to give away? Called one of your bazillion friends and offered them up?

No, he hadn't had time to do that, he said. Further berating and his friend jumped on board with me, saying he'd have loved to have used the tickets.

Prabir finally admitted that we'd made him feel sufficiently awful for wasting his tickets and depriving somebody without the funds but with the desire to have experienced the evening at the opera with the symphony. Mission accomplished.

My friends came in and we chose my favorite booth, the one with the heat vent that blows directly on your legs providing you know where to sit (I do). Bloody Marys ripe with horseradish and mimosas sweet with peach Schnapps were ordered.

We ran the brunch gamut with the couple doing soft scrambled eggs, Surry sausage and biscuits, the fourth doing just a side of squash casserole (having eaten fried chicken, grits, biscuit and bacon an hour earlier; yes, we gave her crap about that decision. You're not supposed to have brunch before brunch) and me doing a cheeseburger with a side of roasted asparagus.

As the male half of the couple has been telling me for years, "Not everyone can do eggs well," but Comfort doesn't have that problem. The female portion of the couple deemed them the best eggs she'd ever had.

After they asked me to run down my leisure activities of the past 48 hours, we all shared the conversational floor. Always happy to share if people ask. From there, though, they lost me as the discussion turned to Taylor Swift, Nieman-Marcus' Last Call stores and football coaches with foot fetishes.

The last course was chocolate mousse and banana pudding, putting the dessert-eaters right over the edge before we left to sit for the next two hours. Sometimes I am so weak.

At Center Stage, my first stop was the ladies' room, where I overheard the following exchange:
#1: "Oh! This is all brand new!"
#2: "Everything's up to date in River City. I love it!"
It's good to know that if the theater itself doesn't impress a guest, the lavatory can.

The program started with selections from Britten's Four Sea Interludes and after "Storm," my friend leaned over and said, "Start me up!" using a Stones metaphor for the kick-ass tone of the piece. I couldn't have put it better myself, at least not so succinctly.

Soprano Kelley Nassief joined the company for selections from Ravel's Sheherazade and her stellar voice and presence was the talk of the intermission crowd.

I ran into Six Burner's owner, completely surprising him by being out of context. My buddy-in-nerdom, James, was there and I chatted with him and my friend Treesa, one of the Symphony's violinists (and partner in crime musically with Prabir), about the performance.

The Symphony Chorus appeared after intermission for parts of Bizet's Carmen. Introducing Pucini selections, conductor Steven Smith explained that Pucini's publisher warned him against rewriting a French story, especially one full of minuets and powdered wigs.

"But he did it the Italian way, full of desperate passion," Smith explained. That's what we like, desperate passion. Okay, maybe that's just me.

Verdi's "Triumphal March" from Aida ended the program on a stirring note, proving that there's nothing quite like an evening of opera in the afternoon.

Especially after a good cheeseburger.

Taking the New Year by the Horns

"What are you doing New Year's Day?"

The question came out of the blue from an old friend I hadn't seen in forever (he actually called me, if that tells you how out of touch we'd been).

I don't know about other people, but the first of the year is not usually a big day for me (although I once got married on New Year's Day, but that's a story for another day).

So when he suggested lunch today, I thought it was a fine idea. He wanted to hear what had been going on in my life since we last talked and although that meant there was the potential of lunch running into dinner to share everything, I was game.

It was also his first trip to J-Ward and based on the little he knew of it, his overall impression was nowhere near reality. I gave him directions to my house and told him to admire the architecture on his way in and that there would be a quiz later.

He left the restaurant choice to me and since I'd already thought I might go to Comfort today, suggested there (he'd never even heard of it). The Comfort kitchen was putting a Mexican spin on their menu and suggesting people bring themselves, their friends and their hangovers. Can do.

We were immediately seated in one of the two front alcoves with a three-sided view of Broad Street, which although a tad chilly for me, suited my friend fine. His first question to me was, "Are we drinking?" Um, I don't know why not. When's the next time it's going to be 1.1.11?

He wanted a screwdriver ("It's too early for wine," he told me. 1:30? Says whom?) and I asked for a glass of the Josef Bauer Gruner Vetliner. My friend liked the place but was flummoxed by things on the menu like pollo con mole and carne asada. I translated for him, causing him to ask, "How do you know this stuff?"

Our libations arrived and my friend and I ordered our food. He then came up with perhaps the best line of the afternoon. "Now don't go putting our food order in right away. I want to enjoy my drink and get a buzz on before eating." Our server laughed out loud.

We used the cocktail hour to hear about what had been going on in each other's lives, necessitating him ordering another drink since we both had a lot to share and many comments to make on the other's stories. I was surprise to hear how many serious relationships he'd been in since we'd last talked.

Luckily, we'd covered all the salient points when a food-runner arrived with our plates, grinning a mile wide. "I wanted to see who'd ordered the two best dishes," she claimed. "Really, these are the most amazing things on today's menu." Insert sound of us patting ourselves on back.

Friend had gotten the torta milanese, a crispy pork cutlet with the traditional accompaniments on a crispy roll with fries and I'd chosen the braised oxtail tacos, charros beans and rice. It was great to have her blessing on our choices and I told her so. "You'll see," she promised.

Our server came over shortly thereafter to ensure he'd timed our food arrival correctly. We assured him that he had, but my wine was long gone and he scurried off for more. The Austrian must keep up with the Mexican, if you know what I'm saying.

The staff's promises had not been empty ones; the oxtail was braised into chunks and slivers full of flavor and my friend's pork caused him to gush about how good it was. The huge sandwich kept him busy enough that I could snag a few fries while he worked his way through it.

The music was good when I could hear it, but we arrived just before the bulk of the masses did and there were times when it disappeared under the din of conversation.

Other times, Ray LaMontaigne, David Gray and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros provided a suitable soundtrack to our reunion visit. My friend, the type who is (sadly) oblivious to music, tolerated my extended conversation with our server about their playlist and band choices.

After having occupied a prime table for several hours, I suggested we move on to the rest of our respective days. He reluctantly agreed.

When we parted ways, he thanked me for "the charm of my company" and said it had been his best New Year's Day ever.

I wouldn't go that far, but it certainly beat the one where I got married. That's all I'm saying.

Getting Comfort in the 'Hood

Sometimes you haven't been to a restaurant in a really long time and then when you finally go, you can't quite remember why you had stopped going in the first place.

I'm talking about Comfort, a mere five blocks from my apartment, and yet I haven't been there for dinner in eons.

Pity, too, because I ran into an artistic music buddy with graphite all over his hands, met a charming man who knows what he's talking about when it comes to men and got reacquainted with a bartender who remembered me from a music discussion in another bar.

Why exactly did I stop frequenting Comfort?

I arrived before my perennially late friend and my backside had barely grazed my bar stool when a friend motioned me over from the other side of the bar. "Come sit with me!"

It was Austin, my talented furniture-making friend and fellow Marionette/Beach House fan.

Knowing my friend wouldn't show up anytime soon, I accepted his offer to sit down and visit for a while.

He was drinking the Crispin Cider and insisted I taste its 6.9 % goodness.

He said it wasn't as good as the Honey Crisp hot cider with shots of rum and brandy, but how could it be without those additions?

Still, it was very fall-like.

The late one finally showed up and planted herself between me and a nearby bar sitter.

We ordered a bottle of 2008 Verona Romeo and Juliet White (garanega and sauvginon blanc blend) and I went back to Austin while she took on the newcomer.

It was her first time to Comfort, so she took a while with the menu, but I went ahead and ordered the soup (pork and corn) and the Surry sausage.

Our bartender Sean had already brought me out a taste cup of the soup, and I'd been impressed enough with all the pig and veggies to order it.

Foolishly, I'd ordered a bowl instead of a cup and wound up with an enormous bowl of pig soup competing with my pig in casings.

Friend finally decided on the pulled pork barbecue, mac and cheese, green beans and squash casserole.

I shared my sausage with Austin because the serving was so generous and because sausage with such perfectly crisp skin needs to be shared and savored with a friend.

It was after our devouring that Austin finally had to leave and we turned our full attention to the newcomer.

Ready or not, he rose to the challenge.

And he was delightful.

Confident, opinionated and extroverted, he was the perfect foil for two females looking for talkative company.

We covered it all; the definition of men, the best way to impress the opposite sex and the irrelevance of age.

If ever we'd met our conversational match, he was all that and a bag of chips.

The music was enjoyable if repetitive, so after the second time I heard Spoon's "Don't You Evah" I was compelled to ask Sean the source of the music (iTunes), which jarred his memory about where we'd first met (the B @ B after the Silversun Pickups show we'd both attended) and led to a discussion of music and neighborhood bars, not to mention another bottle of Romeo and Juliet.

While my friend was sharing the details of her recent relationship with our new compadre, I ordered the chocolate mousse for a diversion, since I had no intention of sharing anything about my own dating adventures (which are necessarily already cutting into my blogging frequency since kissing and telling is not my thing).

Sorry, I'm too busy getting my chocolate fix to spill the beans just now.

After three and a half hours, we were the sole occupants of the room and I realized it was perhaps time to vacate the premises before "Don't You Evah" came on again.

I'm thinking I shouldn't have evah written off a restaurant capable of providing such pleasurable company and abundance of pig.

That I can blog about.

Catfishin' at Comfort

Planning a quickie is all about knowing where you're going to do it. A friend wanted to have lunch with me today but said that it had to be short and sweet. Based on that, I suggested Comfort, puzzling him. "But it's always mobbed at dinner," he said as we walked through the door.

Ah, but it's not always mobbed at lunch and, in fact, within the first ten minutes we were there, the four occupied tables paid their bills and left the restaurant to just the two of us. With the kitchen cooking for only two people, this lunch was bound to be brief, even if we ordered entrees instead of sandwiches.

So I did, enjoying the fried catfish with squash casserole and fries. How's that for a nice light lunch? His cheddar and bacon grilled cheese and house made chips weren't a whole lot lighter, but just as tasty. It seemed like they arrived from the kitchen mere moments after we ordered them.

The cornmeal-crusted catfish was crispy and steaming; the squash and zucchini bound thickly with cheese sauce was decadent, especially for lunch. It led to a discussion of making a meal of sides when you had such a rich starting point as this dish.

Josh, one of my favorite bartenders, came in for lunch wearing a Benedictine Football t-shirt and telling me he'd heard I'd been in to 6B on a night he didn't work. Which was true, but I'd been taken care of by the guy he'd trained, who'd done a fine job subbing for the master.

My only complaint was that his trainee couldn't talk music with me like Josh can, but that's not really something you can train someone to do either, nor is it fair to expect it from someone hired to sling drinks. I'm smart enough to know that I can hope for it, but I can't expect it.

What I can expect when I eat with this particular friend is dessert, so we listened politely to our server's elaborate description of their house specialty, the banana pudding, only to have my friend respond, "Sounds nice, but I don't like bananas." Ergo we got the chocolate mousse and devoured that instead.

Walking out, my friend mentioned the sudden appeal of a nap. I could see his point; sometimes even a quickie can wear you out.

Make My Night: The National and Marionette

It's almost exactly three years since I first saw The National live (they were opening for the Arcade Fire) and nearly two years since I saw them last (while on a night off from the tour with REM), so I was more than overdue to see them tonight.

When the tickets originally went on sale, I'd purposely chosen the Thursday show rather than the Friday, knowing I wouldn't be able to enjoy doing anything else on Thursday knowing they were playing here and I wasn't there. It turned out to be a wise choice.

As much as I'd been eagerly anticipating tonight, I was in for the surprise of the year when, checking online this afternoon for when the show started, I saw that the opener was local band Marionette, a band I've been a huge fan of for a couple of years now. There could be no more perfect show for me than the combination of these two on stage in one evening. They might as well have called it the Karen Show (and wouldn't it have been amazing if The National had sung "Karen"?).

I started out by meeting a friend and his charming out-of-town guest at Comfort. He'd already introduced her to my blog (she thought it was funny) and told me about hers (more serious due to its work-related nature). We had some great music talk and she was very surprised to learn that I'm not one of those people who tries to get backstage to meet the band. Must be my innate shyness that keeps me in the audience (okay, not likely). I raved about Marionette to them so we left in time to catch their set.

At the National we found frigid temperatures in anticipation of the crowd tonight. Only 800 tickets had been sold in advance, but people continued to walk up and buy them. I didn't want to deal with a shoulder-to-shoulder sell-out crowd (hence the choice of tonight over tomorrow) but I wasn't adverse to more warm bodies nearby either. Unfortunately when I got them, they were of the most obnoxious kind, but more on that later.

Marionette was performing as a four piece , rather than five, and played an excellent and energetic set. My friends were won over in a matter of a couple songs and it was obvious that the audience recognized them as something special as they got more and more into it with each song.
I loved that so many new people were being exposed to this talented band who have had me raving about their unique sound for over some time now. They're playing for the grand re-opening of the Virginia Museum next Saturday night and I can't suggest strongly enough that you go check them out. Not to be corny, but they will knock your socks off and besides, then I can say I told you so.

I wasn't sure what to expect different from The National other than new material, of which we got plenty. The main change I noticed was how much looser the band was, especially lead singer Matt Berninger. Last time, he'd been more staid, singing with closed eyes and less crowd interaction.

Tonight he was touching hands, bending down and engaging with the audience so much more. Maybe it was the bottle and glass of wine he'd brought onstage with him. I have to say, him removing the cork with his teeth was a pretty appealing picture.

At one point, he jumped off the stage and moved through the crowd singing, finally stopping at the sound booth. Much like my favorite bar stool at a restaurant, I have a favorite place at the National and it's against the guard rail of the sound booth. So it was a stroke of luck for me that he mounted the rail and sang from it, putting him a matter of a couple feet from where we were standing. It might have been the most exciting thing I've witnessed at a show and that's saying something, considering how many shows I attend every year.

Another (unfortunate) difference at the show was the addition of the party fan base. The summer 2008 show was a collection of The National fanatics who came to hear an amazing band. Tonight's crowd included those unpleasant types who are jumping on the bandwagon late and are far less devoted to the music.

The two guys in front of us, for instance, were obnoxiously drunk before the band even came onstage (one guy had five empty beer cups when his friend brought him his sixth beer). I heard him say, "I'm determined to get thrown out of here tonight."

By the third song, he and his buddy were shouting an inane conversation directly in front of me. As they got louder and obliterated my view, I couldn't stop myself from asking them to move or be quiet so I could hear the music. The guy with the six beers decided to challenge me by saying, "Yea, well we don't have to shut up. We're from New Orleans and we come to shows to party."

He continued to berate me while I ignored him and my friends closed in around me, but at least he wasn't in front of me anymore. Eventually his ADD kicked in and he moved away. I'm the wrong person to be near if you plan to talk loudly through a show; I've got no compunction about telling you to shut the fuck up, as I did with this guy tonight. No one's going to drown out bands this good in my presence.

The new material sounded great and Matt B. acknowledged that he was doing much better with the new material tonight than with the old. He said that, "At the end of a show, we give demerits and count the fuck-ups and tonight I'm going to win." During the encore, he apologized again for his mistakes. Honestly, the audience was just thrilled to hear that magnificent baritone and obtuse lyrics.

At that last show of theirs I saw, all the material was drawn from Alligator and Boxer, so the devoted got to hear all their favorites. With so much new stuff tonight, that wasn't necessarily the case. For me, satisfaction arrived in the form of "Slow Show," quite possibly the most romantic song ever written. And that's not just my opinion because I know for a fact that guitarist Adam Rose of Marionette agrees with me on that. Romance is, after all, in the ear of the beholder.

And tonight's performances by two of my all-time favorite bands made for a night not likely to be topped musically for quite some time. If ever there were two bands who understand what appeals to my ears, it's these guys. Or, as The National puts it:

I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my fist
Big wet rose in my teeth
I'm a perfect piece of ass

I couldn't have said it better myself. Hats off to both bands for making my night a perfect piece.

A Comfort Lunch with the Employed

Today was laid-off lunch at Comfort, which meant my friend and I got together to commiserate about the pleasures and perils of being unemployed and unattached. She had been surprised by the Inverse Automotive Repair rule, with which I was well familiar. Your car can be reliable and trouble free for years, but once you lose your job, it will slowly start to reveal its growing problems. My car has been in the shop a half a dozen times in the year I have been laid off, more than the five years beforehand combined. Hers just recently started showing its weaknesses for which she was completely unprepared. I tried to be reassuring, but apparently cars just know the worst time to require service.

On the other hand, my friend was all aglow about the quantum leap her love life has taken during the same period. Seems that an old friend who for years had been inordinately fond of her finally got around to making his move, resulting in a fast-forward start to an extremely promising relationship. Only about six weeks in and they were already marveling at their compatibility and comfort level with each other. She even guiltily admitted to having hopes of something long-term with this guy and judging by the perpetual grin on her face, he seems to be making her incredibly happy already. I could relate.

We did a mock day-after-Thanksgiving sort of leftover lunch, she with the roasted turkey sandwich and me with the ham sandwich (hot, with Swiss and spicy Bourbon orange spread). She went with mashed potatoes for her side, which I completely understand, but my leftover- day sandwiches require chips and Comfort's homemade chips are terrific.

It was definitely a Friday lunch crowd, with our fellow bar sitters enjoying mixed drinks, mimosas and beer, possibly to kick off the weekend, possibly to get through the afternoon at work. No doubt you can guess which it was for us.

Restaurants Not the Usual Suspects

Sunday's Washington Post Travel section had not one, but two articles about eating in RVA.

While I'm always happy to see word of our fair city in the larger press, I'm beginning to wonder about the sources for their destinations.

The first, "In Richmond, fine dining is in the details" was written by Post food critic Tom Sietsema, a man whose writing I read often and always enjoy, and chronicled his eating journey through our little town. Go ahead, I bet you can guess at least three, if not four, of the places where he chowed down.

Duh. Millie's, Can Can, Acacia and Mezzanine (because of its relative newness and Style's Restaurant of the Year award apparently) made the cut.

His only other stop was Buzz and Ned's Real Barbecue where he was underwhelmed. He also found Millie's lacking, despite having had a good lunch there several years ago. The others he enjoyed.

The second article, "For food shops, it's a capital city" was mainly about Belmont Butchery, but also gave a nod to 821, Comfort, Sally Belle's, Kuba Kuba, Yellow Umbrella Seafood and the brand new Spoonfed (formerly Stonewall Market).

The writer raved about Belmont Butchery with good reason, although Tanya Cauthen is quoted as saying that when she needs additonal counter help, she calls on local chefs from Balliceaux and Pomegranate. I question how a place as new as Balliceaux got lumped in with the defunct Pomegranate.

My question is this: can a piece about eating in RVA be written without mention of Can Can, Acacia, Millie's, Comfort, or Kuba Kuba? And, let's be real here, even 821 and Sally Belle's are semi-regulars when the topic is our restaurant scene. I'm not saying these aren't good places to eat, but who doesn't know that by now?

Clearly even the out-of-towners are aware of these places, so why can't we see an article about eating through Richmond mention some of the less obvious eateries we have to offer?

Yellow Umbrella was an unexpected surprise to see given a nod, as was the barely opened Spoonfed, but it was an article about markets after all. But a truly good story about what's worth checking out during a visit to RVA should inform the reader about the places not mentioned over and over in the travel press.

Or, at the very least, whomever is supplying the suggestions to these out-of-town writers should give them the scoop on the places the locals know are our best -kept secrets.

If anyone should need a good source in the future, I'm happy to provide a list of less obvious places worth a bite or sip, as, I'm sure, would any regular diner in Richmond.

Or are we trying to keep these places to ourselves?

Comfort. Compliment. Cop.

The great thing about having friends in the restaurant business is that they're free during the day, much as I am. One such friend, also a Jackson Ward resident, had suggested having lunch together today and left the destination up to me, so I chose Comfort. I don't frequent Comfort much, mainly because the menu never changes and I like a little more variety than that. But this was lunch, I hadn't tried it and I was curious.

So friend met me here and we enjoyed a short but sunny five block walk; I was really enjoying the warmth of the day, but friend was suffering a bit due to the brightness...or perhaps the lateness of the prior evening. The restaurant wasn't too crowded, maybe 5 or 6 tables occupied, and after first being seated in the direct sun, were moved to a less painful table near the front.

I ordered the roasted turkey with Muenster cheese, apple slices and roasted apple mustard on a kaiser roll, with mashed potatoes for a side. If I'm getting real turkey, I want mashed potatoes nearby. Friend got the spicy ham sandwich with olive relish and macaroni and cheese for a side. Thus began the wait for our food. Tables arrived after us and got their meals and still we waited. I finally asked the waitress where our food was, much to the dismay of restaurant friend who said she'd only lie to me about its whereabouts.

After a while (okay, it had been close to 40 minutes since we'd ordered) our sandwiches arrived and friend dove right into his mac and cheese, even complimenting how good it was. My sandwich was thick with turkey and perfectly delicious (as were the mashed potatoes I demolished). Friend thought the olive relish was competing with the spicy ham on his, but since it was exactly as stated on the menu, he couldn't complain too much.

Leaving the restaurant, he headed east (to nap) and I went west. I got two blocks down when a man came up beside me and smiled.

Him: Can I say thank you? It's so nice to see a woman in a dress and stockings for a change. Doesn't happen much anymore.

Me: (not pointing out that it's actually a jean skirt and leggings) I know what you mean and I've heard it before. I'm just a dress person.

Him: Good for you for looking so nice. Have a great day.

Even the cop sitting in his van at the curb gave me a big smile when he heard that.

Wine Dinner at Bistro 27 Leads to....

...unbridled wine consumption, superior food offerings, fascinating conversation with wine geeks, wine sellers, catering types and Uruguayan winemaker as well as bourbon tasting for the out-of-towners afterwards.

The wine dinner tonight at 27 had many things to recommend it: the charming presence of Francisco Carrau of Bodegas Carrau, a menu that included, among other things, seared scallops. grilled stuffed quail and breaded pork tenderloin scallopini, sustainable and hand-harvested wines made by a family of ten-generation winemakers and a savvy crowd of wine geeks, sellers and buyers.

Portions were huge, pourings generous and the wine talk exceptional.

Chef Carlos did what many local chefs can't: spoke briefly about the food and wine pairings before the dinner started and then let us find out for ourselves what he intended to accomplish.

No between courses blustering about the upcoming dish or pairing.

Five courses made for a very full group by meal's end, but not too full to organize a party of winemaker, distributor, wine seller, chef and chosen few to trek down a block for an after dinner course of bourbon, tequila and digestifs.

Our honored guest, Uruguayan Francisco Carrau, was most curious about Kentucky bourbon, so we took him to Comfort to sample our country's best.

Three hours later, he seemed satisfied enough with his new-found knowledge of the array of American bourbon and even a little Virginia whiskey.

I was satisfied with an invitation to Uruguay to see first-hand South American wine county. Everybody was happy.

For you green types, Carrau vineyards boasts the highest sustainability index possible. For you foodies, Chef Carlos outdid himself with a menu of five perfectly paired courses.

For you stay-at-home types, you missed an evening of engaging conversation and all kinds of interesting personalities.

Wine highlight?

Bodegas Carrau Tannat Amat, a rich rustic wine with considerable tannins.

It was served with the scallopini with chimmichurri sauce and I requested it be poured again with the dark chocolate tart; the winemaker enthusiastically seconded my motion.

I had to order some for home as well; it was that good.

Uruguayan wine. Who knew?