I Got a Blank Space

Only peer pressure could get me to be part of the "in" crowd.

Picking up my date involved more than driving to Church Hill, because there were beach supplies - a chair and two umbrellas - to be returned to their rightful owner before taking on a passenger. And while I'm happy to gets someone else's beach stuff out of my car, you can be certain my beach chair and umbrella are still firmly at the ready in the trunk.

You could say my optimism knows no bounds, but I've yet to rule out one last trip to the ocean this year.

With Pru riding shotgun, we drove straight to Castanea, ignoring available tables for seats at the more populated and generously-sized bar. Our bartender was affable and saucy - delighting in giving us a defiant "no" before granting every request - making for excellent patter as we selected what to sip and sup.

Wine arrived and we barely got through hearing a special  - cornmeal-dusted artichokes over heirloom tomatoes with Pecorino, pine nuts and mint - described before the two of us were nodding at each other, nudging each other, as in, yes, must have that.

At least we didn't resort to grunting at one another.

It must have been while we were moaning over the contrast of the rich fried artichoke and the bright end-of-summer freshness of the heirlooms, mint and was that a hint of basil (?) that the bartender set out to tempt us with more freshness, this time in the guise of today's cocktail.

Using local blood plums, they'd crafted a daiquiri garnished with a wedge of the gorgeous deep red fruit and while we surely didn't need one, our hesitation spurred commentary from the peanut gallery.

"We had them. Join the "in" crowd!" the guy next to us enthused. So while we didn't need blood plum daiquiris, we shared one anyway. I must not get offered blood plums enough, that's all I can say in my defense.

Meanwhile, the happy couple to our right get their dinner order and his was the cresto de gallo, a massive-sized portion ("We wouldn't have had, like, three things first if I'd known it was this big") of pan-fried chicken livers and rainbow Swiss chard in a Marsala wine sauce.

"I love a good Marsala sauce," Pru whispers, although significantly, without committing to chicken livers.

The guy who'd ordered it was large and muscular, but before long even he was lamenting the sheer size and richness of the plate of food in front of him. I told him he could probably sell bites to people at the bar, but he didn't take the bait. That said, it may be noted that he finished every bite.

Working on a theme after our first dish, we ordered skate wing in artichoke brown butter and ras al hanout with crispy roasted potatoes on the side. Despite occasional timidity with new foods and that it was Pru's first outing with skate, she embraced the dish as we talked about how its taste and texture falls somewhere between fish and seafood.

But mostly, we took our time savoring the buttery, spicy skate and then sopping the potatoes in artichoke butter. If you were trying to make a skate convert out of someone, this was the way to do it.

Another couple showed up and again decided on the bar for dinner, getting the bartender all excited. "It's a party at the bar tonight! This is what I'm talking about!" Maybe a memo had gone out to the "in" crowd without us knowing.

All of a sudden, we were just about out of time, necessitating decisions about gelato flavors and then choosing the exact same thing: double chocolate with coconut sorbet. Along the way, we tasted the melon as well as the fresh peach gelatos and felt like we were eating cream versions of fresh fruit.

"That's the idea," our server said.

Westward ho we went to Richmond Triangle Players to see a one-man tour de force: "Buyer and Cellar" starring Dan Cimo, a terribly talented actor whom I can attest from past roles is as able to play a woman as a man.

I know I'd gladly take his chiseled cheekbones.

That was particularly convenient given that in this play, he portrays someone very like himself (an actor), his boyfriend Barry (an underemployed and bitter screenwriter), Barbra Streisand (in all her idiosyncratic and vainglorious magnificence) and her housekeeper, Sharon (whose voice reminded me of Marge Simpson's sisters).

The first few minutes of the show were devoted to ensuring that we knew that this was a work of fiction, in no way related to real life events. "The premise is preposterous! None of this ever happened." Oh, and P.S. Barbra is known to be rather litigious.

"Enough people do her. Not me," Dan as Alex says. "When I tell you conversations that didn't happen, I'll just become her and you can fill in the blanks."

Ooh, the cattiness was just oozing from his handsome face.

The story took place around the time Babs' book "My Passion for Design" (in which she was also principle photographer) came out and revolved around her building a shopping mall in the basement of her Malibu house, a place to store the accumulations of her wealth. Th hook was Alex being hired to "work" in the shops, not that anyone but Babs ever visited them.

Meanwhile cultural references - Chloris Leachman in "Phyllis," Bea Arthur, Marcus Welby, Shirley Booth in "Hazel" - abounded. Good luck with those, millennials.

Seamlessly throwing out references to Babs and her roles that any fan would recognize ("You know, wearing a mink hat for tugboat travel" and, you bet your life, I know exactly what scene he's talking about) and the outfits in her dresses shop ("Irene Sharaffs and Cecil Beatons"), he establishes his diva expertise.

Things got even more hilarious the first time La Streisand visits him in the doll shop. "What can you tell me about these dolls?" she challenges in her distinctive Brooklynese, throwing down the gauntlet to the new employee.

"Okay, so Mama wants to play," Alex says smugly, garnering a huge laugh from the crowd.

The script was full of clever lines like that ("I'm not bothered by the shameless manipulation, like in "The Prince of Tides"), even playing off stereotypes for laughs (Babs: "How can anyone not like the Jews?" Pause. Alex: "I'll have to ask my grandmother next time I see her").

Cimo was masterful at switching characters, each person's voice and mannerisms so distinct that there could be no doubt who was talking at any given moment.

After various tentative conversations with his employer, Alex is invited upstairs, first to see the recreated Connecticut barn and yard and then to the Big House. "This was 'Hoarders' on a higher plane," Alex marvels. "This was relentless acquisition with no financial restraints."

Can't say I've ever experienced such a thing. I mean never. Ever.

And I don't want to spoil the play for you, but if you've been wondering all these years why such a star stayed so long with a bully like Jon Peters, I now know the answer. Babs claims he could always figure out what to do on Sundays and she never could.

Which probably means that Jon Peters was part of the "in" crowd and Barbra was only nouveau cool.

You'd think a mink hat on a tugboat would have done it. Somebody should've told her all she needed was a blood plum daiquiri to qualify.

You can fill in the blanks from there.

Sublime and Surreal

Saturday is the new Monday.

Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.

For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.

I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.

Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.

Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.

On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.

Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any  good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.

Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.

Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.

Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.

From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.

The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.

Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.

"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."

She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.

I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.

For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.

Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.

Obscene. Sex on a plate.

Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.

The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.

"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."

All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.

The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.

After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.

She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.

Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.

"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."

Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.

She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.

Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.

Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?

By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.

It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.

Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."

The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.

We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.

Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.

It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.

At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.

"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.

A scene with  two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.

Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.

One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.

There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.

When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.

One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.

"I'm afraid of dying alone."

"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."

"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."

Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.

Others were universal.

What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.

It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.

Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.

That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.