Turns out we're currently a sanctuary city.
All I knew when I left home was that it was raining lightly and I needed to be entertained. Walking past Gallery 5, I saw a young band knocking on the door, asking where to park to unload their equipment (I could've told them that). At Saison Market, I saw a guy smoking a cig under the awning and futher on, through the window, I could see a man on a table being tattooed. The clutch of valets at Max's were bored and teasing each other.
Inside, I could see the bar was empty. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.
The bartender poured my Espolon and the manager - whom I'd seen on my walk this very morning - greeted me for the second time today. After the bartender asked how we knew each other (the early Balliceaux days) we lighted on the subject of fashion.
She bragged about how fashionable her leopard print roller skates with the red wheels are (and I don't doubt it), sharing how she'd put them on the day they arrived and skated around her house for four hours to practice. I don't have that kind of room in my apartment, but then again, I never could skate, so it's a moot point.
I left there at 7:56 ("Cutting it kind of close, aren't you?" the other bartender asked when I said I had an 8:00 show to go to) but since I was only going a few doors down to Coalition Comedy, I still managed to be early.
The room was pretty crowded for the final installment of "Made-up Movie," an improvised film of which I'd seen none of the previous episodes. I wound up between a woman saving three seats for friends (only one showed) and two brothers from Raleigh who'd escaped Florence's impending doom by high-tailing it to Richmond.
When the one seated closest to me mentioned that they were originally from New Jersey, I asked why they'd moved to Carolina. "The weather, mostly," he said with a grimace. Since I had some recent Jersey cred, I shared that I'd gone to Wildwood for the first time in March and been wowed by the roller coaster on the beach because I'd never seen one before.
"You know we don't have those on all of our beaches, right?" he asked solicitously.
The next question out of his mouth was about how long I've lived in Richmond. Telling him it had been 30 years seemed to impress him. My question to him was about where they'd eaten beforehand.
"The back door at Tarrant's," he said, mistakenly putting the emphasis on the second syllable, like ta-RANTS. "My brother likes hole-in-the-wall places." I gently broke it to him that said hole-in-the-wall is attached to a good-sized restaurant with several sibling eateries and unless he'd ordered off the back door menu (fish tacos, fried chicken, fried fish sandwich or pizza), he'd missed the mark.
Nope, they'd ordered off the main menu, but the good news was they'd loved their food, so it went in the win column.
After he asked what I did, of course he had to ask for restaurant recommendations, dutifully noting them in his phone. When he asked for good bars, I had to explain that we don't have just bars in Virginia, but I could suggest some lounge-y places to imbibe if he was interested. He was.
Finally, the show started with a pair of guys improvising sets based on bad movie theme songs we heard a snippet of. And by bad, I mean singers like Bryan Adams and Peter Cetera. You know, the kind of singers that the army would play at top volume as a torture method or to force bad guys out of their hideaways.
Highlights included a discussion of why saying "gambling bookie" is redundant and the hilarious non-sequiter, "That's my fault because I threw a chihuahua at her?"
For the main event, the made-up movie, the audience was asked for a song lyric as a starting point. "I was gonna go to work but then I got high," one guy yelled out immediately.
"Somebody was ready," the group leader said, shaking her head and leading her crew offstage.
Easily the most amusing recurring segment of the movie involved an old grandpa who, cane slung over his shoulder and at the ready should he need it, was guarding his family's ice cream store. If anyone dared approach it, he'd demand the password. Sometimes, he'd just poke kids with his cane to scare them off.
Eventually, an 8-year old boy comes by and begins talking to him about how awful childhood is these days. "Life as a kid in the '50s, what was that like?" he eagerly asks Grandpa.
"My Mom would kick me out of the house at 5 a.m. and lock the door," he told the young whipper snapper. "I'd be out all day playing with rusty stuff. I'd come home at 11:00 at night and had to find food for myself."
I was rolling on the floor laughing (definitely more so than some of the younger people around me) and the youngster was mesmerized by tales of the glory days of childhood. "Wow, I've never even seen 11 p.m.!" he gushed. "Did you ever get to smoke cigarettes in bomb shelters?"
When the old man can't take the fawning anymore, he tries to get rid of the kid, first by giving him a pack of cigs and pointing him towards his bomb shelter. Then, it was, "Here, kid it's a rusty can. Go play!" Naturally, the kid cuts himself badly, thus ensuring the best kind of unsupervised childhood.
Hearing, "You're going straight to juvey, kid," sounded straight out of a '30s crime movie about kids gone wrong.
There were other subplots, one about a strip mall cop with an overprotective mother and one about a woman with too many ferrets and too much time to talk to them. One had to do with two college roommates, one a stoner and one a good girl, at least until she succumbs to stoner life ("Every problem has a solution and it usually comes in a bottle," she says, cradling a prescription of Oxycotin) which, of course, involved a 311 song being sung by a cast member from the sidelines.
And funny as all that was, and it kept the room laughing pretty much nonstop, nothing compared to the moment when Grandpa's long-estranged son shows up at the ice cream shop in disguise. When Grandpa tells him he recognizes him, the son explains he's stayed away because of the way his father treated him.
"But I've always been proud of you, I'm still very proud of you," the old man tells his son. And what does the son do? Wait for it: he tells his father to say it again and pulls out his phone to record the admission.
Now that's some seriously hysterical improvisation. That's Seinfeld-worthy observational humor right there. What good is hearing the words you've craved since childhood, the words that mean more to you than anything, if you don't have a video clip of it? I mean, did it even happen with no video?
And that's exactly what I'd told the Raleigh-by-way-of-New-Jersey guy when he'd asked why I was at Coalition. I always laugh when I go, sometimes a little and sometimes a whole lot.
When you mock the obsession to give up real life experience for the sake of online documentation, there's nothing funnier. Why? Because that's real life. And after all, they say comedy is just a funny way of being serious.
Beats playing with a rusty can.
Showing posts with label espolon tequila. Show all posts
Showing posts with label espolon tequila. Show all posts
Saturday, September 15, 2018
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Post-Midnight City
As M83 would say, hurry up, we're dreaming.
Vorfreude aside, when an outing begins with the presumption that trouble will find you and ends on hold - not once but twice, mind you - someone's bound to describe it as a wonderful evening.
Even if it takes almost eight hours to reach that conclusion.
At Pasture for drinks and curry cauliflower, a wall map of the state's geology results in the devoted urban dweller being teased about being a devotee of Virginia's coastal plain and light-heartedly chided for not venturing to the western part of the state more often.
I say give me a reason and I'll get in the car.
With my back to a young woman at the bar, I overhear her bemoaning how she feels like a cougar ogling young male actors in movies. I can't let that go, so I whirl around and tell her to imagine how I feel at the movies admiring younger men.
"Yeah, but you've earned the right to do whatever you want!" she tells me, a perfect stranger. I lean in and assure her I already do anything I want without compunction.
"Ooh, can we hang out? Can I have your phone number? What's your name?" she eagerly asks, sounding for all the world like a fangirl of a middle aged woman. I'll take it, but only because there don't seem to be fanboys of the same.
The crowd at CentreStage for the Richmond Symphony's casual Friday concert is a decidedly different one than what you'd see at a Masterworks concert: more diverse in age and race and many, many decibels louder as people take their seats and chatter.
In what has to be the bossiest thing I've yet to hear out of my ultra-polite companion's mouth, he commands me, "Move!" when yet another couple arrives at the end of row O, where we're seated. It's not that we mind getting up to allow late arrivals in, it's just easier for them not to have to climb over us.
This is not an agile crowd.
I silently nickname him Bossy Boots, moving over and rearranging. A tiny piece of paper flutters out of the side pocket of my purse - a fortune from a cookie eaten my first night in San Francisco last month.
Investigate new possibilities with friends. Now is the time!
Now BB really had something to chuckle about while I look around, noting other differences from a usual symphony performance, like the lights not being lowered for the performance and that there's a host making his way through the orchestra section with a mic, warming up the crowd.
What was especially cool, though, was that Jacques Houtmann, who'd conducted the R-Symphony from 1971-86 (so right up until I arrived in Richmond) had been tapped to lead tonight's performance of Franck's "Symphony in D Minor," which we were told in his charmingly French-accented English was particularly significant for its use of English horns (a first) and that it was written in only three movements.
Easier to digest for casual audiences, one presumes.
The program described the piece as a "cathedral of sound," which is sort of what I strive for in my living room with my turntable cranked to loud, but this was a different sort of cathedral. And while it wasn't an uplifting piece, I'm not about to complain about any aspect of starting my night surrounded by classical musicians playing.
Back on the pavement, we needed sustenance for more than the soul.
It was my first time in Maya, diagonally across from CentreStage, where I was immediately won over when I saw "tequileria" painted on the glass, found flights of tequila on the menu and heard a soundtrack playing loud enough to make things lively despite being isolated by a wall on the bar side.
I only had a bite, but his corn tamal with shrimp and scallops was stellar - sweet from corn and smoky from poblano - while my tilapia tacos suffered only for the pedestrian tortillas that cradled the fish, mango salsa, jicama, cabbage and jalapeno crema contents.
Libation-wise, my Espolon blanco won out hands down for how well it complemented both our dishes in a way that his COTU beer simply couldn't begin to match, for obvious reasons. Agave, tomatillo, poblano, hello?
Once sated, it was time to move on to my cathedral of sound for records, wine and a wide-ranging conversation that stayed fluid enough to take tangential tracks when a song lyric, a painting on my wall or a recounting of a conversation with mutual friends provoked something (the latter usually causing major laughter on his part).
I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late
Next thing you know, I'm listening to his defense of why he doesn't believe in fate, a point raised by the National's "Mr. November," a song about new blue-bloods and great white hopes. Perhaps he's both; I didn't inquire. I, on the other hand, made no defense for liking to sleep late.
I regaled him with stories from my recent past, including an evening with another friend who'd marveled at not having to "entertain" me after making me dinner because I was more than happy doing nothing more than conversing for pleasure and diversion.
We talked about people we know who are in it for the long game, despite the challenges. He explained the sonic reasons I need to ride my bike over the T Pot bridge. I let slip that I'm only 5'5", which is how he discovered I'm short.
Meanwhile, we listened to records: Lydia Loveless, Roxy Music, The National x 2, Arcade Fire, the XX.
The stars and the charts and the cards make sense
Only when we want them to
When I lie awake, staring into space
I see a different view
A tad long, but otherwise, I'd say that's practically fortune cookie material.
Vorfreude aside, when an outing begins with the presumption that trouble will find you and ends on hold - not once but twice, mind you - someone's bound to describe it as a wonderful evening.
Even if it takes almost eight hours to reach that conclusion.
At Pasture for drinks and curry cauliflower, a wall map of the state's geology results in the devoted urban dweller being teased about being a devotee of Virginia's coastal plain and light-heartedly chided for not venturing to the western part of the state more often.
I say give me a reason and I'll get in the car.
With my back to a young woman at the bar, I overhear her bemoaning how she feels like a cougar ogling young male actors in movies. I can't let that go, so I whirl around and tell her to imagine how I feel at the movies admiring younger men.
"Yeah, but you've earned the right to do whatever you want!" she tells me, a perfect stranger. I lean in and assure her I already do anything I want without compunction.
"Ooh, can we hang out? Can I have your phone number? What's your name?" she eagerly asks, sounding for all the world like a fangirl of a middle aged woman. I'll take it, but only because there don't seem to be fanboys of the same.
The crowd at CentreStage for the Richmond Symphony's casual Friday concert is a decidedly different one than what you'd see at a Masterworks concert: more diverse in age and race and many, many decibels louder as people take their seats and chatter.
In what has to be the bossiest thing I've yet to hear out of my ultra-polite companion's mouth, he commands me, "Move!" when yet another couple arrives at the end of row O, where we're seated. It's not that we mind getting up to allow late arrivals in, it's just easier for them not to have to climb over us.
This is not an agile crowd.
I silently nickname him Bossy Boots, moving over and rearranging. A tiny piece of paper flutters out of the side pocket of my purse - a fortune from a cookie eaten my first night in San Francisco last month.
Investigate new possibilities with friends. Now is the time!
Now BB really had something to chuckle about while I look around, noting other differences from a usual symphony performance, like the lights not being lowered for the performance and that there's a host making his way through the orchestra section with a mic, warming up the crowd.
What was especially cool, though, was that Jacques Houtmann, who'd conducted the R-Symphony from 1971-86 (so right up until I arrived in Richmond) had been tapped to lead tonight's performance of Franck's "Symphony in D Minor," which we were told in his charmingly French-accented English was particularly significant for its use of English horns (a first) and that it was written in only three movements.
Easier to digest for casual audiences, one presumes.
The program described the piece as a "cathedral of sound," which is sort of what I strive for in my living room with my turntable cranked to loud, but this was a different sort of cathedral. And while it wasn't an uplifting piece, I'm not about to complain about any aspect of starting my night surrounded by classical musicians playing.
Back on the pavement, we needed sustenance for more than the soul.
It was my first time in Maya, diagonally across from CentreStage, where I was immediately won over when I saw "tequileria" painted on the glass, found flights of tequila on the menu and heard a soundtrack playing loud enough to make things lively despite being isolated by a wall on the bar side.
I only had a bite, but his corn tamal with shrimp and scallops was stellar - sweet from corn and smoky from poblano - while my tilapia tacos suffered only for the pedestrian tortillas that cradled the fish, mango salsa, jicama, cabbage and jalapeno crema contents.
Libation-wise, my Espolon blanco won out hands down for how well it complemented both our dishes in a way that his COTU beer simply couldn't begin to match, for obvious reasons. Agave, tomatillo, poblano, hello?
Once sated, it was time to move on to my cathedral of sound for records, wine and a wide-ranging conversation that stayed fluid enough to take tangential tracks when a song lyric, a painting on my wall or a recounting of a conversation with mutual friends provoked something (the latter usually causing major laughter on his part).
I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late
Next thing you know, I'm listening to his defense of why he doesn't believe in fate, a point raised by the National's "Mr. November," a song about new blue-bloods and great white hopes. Perhaps he's both; I didn't inquire. I, on the other hand, made no defense for liking to sleep late.
I regaled him with stories from my recent past, including an evening with another friend who'd marveled at not having to "entertain" me after making me dinner because I was more than happy doing nothing more than conversing for pleasure and diversion.
We talked about people we know who are in it for the long game, despite the challenges. He explained the sonic reasons I need to ride my bike over the T Pot bridge. I let slip that I'm only 5'5", which is how he discovered I'm short.
Meanwhile, we listened to records: Lydia Loveless, Roxy Music, The National x 2, Arcade Fire, the XX.
The stars and the charts and the cards make sense
Only when we want them to
When I lie awake, staring into space
I see a different view
A tad long, but otherwise, I'd say that's practically fortune cookie material.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
That's the End
There is a smell - a sense, really - of wet summer nights that is quite unlike anything else.
It wasn't present when I walked home from Dinamo after a fine dinner with a birthday celebrant set to - wait for it: Christopher Cross' so-called masterpiece "Ride Like the Wind" not once but twice consecutively - nor was it in sight when I headed to Saison by myself for tonight's late night brunch with chef Mike Braune.
But, man, by the time I killed my cocktail and bade farewell to the familiar faces at Saison, cars were wet, streets were slick and the air was heavy with dampness. It was enough to make me wish I was at the beach.
As if I don't often wish that.
I slid into one of the few open bar stools, conveniently near a familiar musician and his date, to see what was going on with tonight's late night brunch, ordering Another Sunrise to keep me occupied. The cocktail of vida, Espolon Blanco, orange juice, lime, Grenadine and (I kid you not) Hellfire bitters fit the bill nicely for jumping into the lively room.
I chatted with the J-Ward restaurant owners out for a post-shift meal (but of course he wanted a shot and a beer) about their impending closing and renovation plans, with the blond bartender who thought I looked vaguely familiar but mostly admired my sass, with another bartender reveling in her new gig and with the wine rep I've known for ages.
He's become my go-to for where to eat in Norfolk/Virginia Beach now that it's one of my regular destinations.
Off the chain food-wise was the fat foie gras and chocolate chip deep dish pancake, especially after a slather of vanilla butter and a dunk in smoked maple syrup (which, I won't lie, tasted a lot like licking the interior of a chimney) before landing in my mouth.
Almost as good was lamb and avocado Benedict with za'atar Hollandaise, an obscenely rich offering considering it was midnight.
Helping the cause was great conversation about the development of the scene, beer versus door prices at shows and why some of us prefer to be renters rather than homeowners given our lifestyles. We might have even touched on my questionable introduction to tequila.
Somehow, by the time I emerged several hours later, rain drops covered windshields, streets emanated steam and there was the satisfying smell of wet pavement in the air. Late summer, ahhhh....
I was only sorry I'd been so busy blathering with friends that I hadn't seen it happen.
Hellfire, those were some powerful pancakes.
It wasn't present when I walked home from Dinamo after a fine dinner with a birthday celebrant set to - wait for it: Christopher Cross' so-called masterpiece "Ride Like the Wind" not once but twice consecutively - nor was it in sight when I headed to Saison by myself for tonight's late night brunch with chef Mike Braune.
But, man, by the time I killed my cocktail and bade farewell to the familiar faces at Saison, cars were wet, streets were slick and the air was heavy with dampness. It was enough to make me wish I was at the beach.
As if I don't often wish that.
I slid into one of the few open bar stools, conveniently near a familiar musician and his date, to see what was going on with tonight's late night brunch, ordering Another Sunrise to keep me occupied. The cocktail of vida, Espolon Blanco, orange juice, lime, Grenadine and (I kid you not) Hellfire bitters fit the bill nicely for jumping into the lively room.
I chatted with the J-Ward restaurant owners out for a post-shift meal (but of course he wanted a shot and a beer) about their impending closing and renovation plans, with the blond bartender who thought I looked vaguely familiar but mostly admired my sass, with another bartender reveling in her new gig and with the wine rep I've known for ages.
He's become my go-to for where to eat in Norfolk/Virginia Beach now that it's one of my regular destinations.
Off the chain food-wise was the fat foie gras and chocolate chip deep dish pancake, especially after a slather of vanilla butter and a dunk in smoked maple syrup (which, I won't lie, tasted a lot like licking the interior of a chimney) before landing in my mouth.
Almost as good was lamb and avocado Benedict with za'atar Hollandaise, an obscenely rich offering considering it was midnight.
Helping the cause was great conversation about the development of the scene, beer versus door prices at shows and why some of us prefer to be renters rather than homeowners given our lifestyles. We might have even touched on my questionable introduction to tequila.
Somehow, by the time I emerged several hours later, rain drops covered windshields, streets emanated steam and there was the satisfying smell of wet pavement in the air. Late summer, ahhhh....
I was only sorry I'd been so busy blathering with friends that I hadn't seen it happen.
Hellfire, those were some powerful pancakes.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Glowing in the Southern Summer
A third anniversary may not sound like much, but it is.
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Not at My Dive Bar You Don't
It was time for vacation debriefing.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Quickening My Humdrum Heart
I am delighted when I light on something different happening.
Tonight, sure, there was the drunken spelling bee at Strange Matter, but there was also Jazz in January at Page Bond gallery.
Promising jazz sketches of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition," works inspired by the "Next" exhibition of emerging artists in the gallery and original works by the band members, I was one of the first six to arrive.
Rows of chairs were laid out in between the walls, inviting listeners in. I took a seat second row center.
Gallery director Page Bond explained that the event had come about because she liked the alliteration of "Jazz in January," but also that one of her favorite recordings was Keith Jarret's "Koln Concert" recording of January 1975, done outside.
"Emerging artists need spaces to show their work or perform their work," she said by way of introduction before the quartet- sax, keys, bass and drums- of VCU jazz students took over.
I took a seat next to a writer I've known for over a decade, a few seats down from a landscape designer for whom I ghostwrite and her husband, a row in front of the former lawyer/restaurateur and his artist wife and settled in to hear music in an artistic setting.
In my element.
From "Pictures at an Exhibition," a work I know better from Emerson, Lake and Palmer's 1971 retelling of it than the original, they began with "Promenade," a piece about moving through the exhibition, sometimes strolling, sometimes briskly.
I know I do both.
Next they did "Il Vecchio Castello," telling the musical story of a troubadour singing outside a castle. It was during this movement that Justin, the upright bass player, began doing the most awkward and impressive bass faces.
The final movement had something to do with clumsily running around without legs, but mostly I was appreciating how into it the pianist was, all turtle necking, shoulders shrugging and mouth moving as he played.
Next came bass player Justin's tribute to all the British hip-hop artists he's been listening to lately, an interesting piece very different than what had come before.
Watching the quartet play against a background of large-scale yellow and green abstract works by emerging artists, I felt sure I'd picked the most interesting thing going on in Richmond tonight.
Drunken spelling bee aside, of course.
They followed that with "A Wink and a Nod," a piece they'd written after touring the "Next" exhibit and a title which reminded me of Faces' 1971 album "A Nod is as Good as a Wink...to a Blind Horse."
Of course, they were all far too young to know that reference.
The prolific bass player Justin had written a ballad called "Meet Me at the Side," a piece that started as a late-night slow dance and segued into something livelier.
Meanwhile, people continued to arrive at the gallery and look for seats or a place to stand and hear the extraordinary music that was happening.
Justin, clearly an emerging composer as well as musician, described his next composition as about biking.
"Nothing is more freeing than biking this city," he said. "When I first came here as a college student, I found I could go anywhere in the confines of the city on my bike This is a piece about freeing yourself."
The music had a traveling sound, sometimes meandering, other times deliberately heading up hills and occasionally just cruising, absolutely carefree.
We heard a re-harmonized version of the Cole Porter classic, "What Is This Thing Called Love?" with sax player Myrick saying he hoped we liked it.
What's not to like when talented musicians are playing Cole Porter live surrounded by art?
Band original "Wizard" followed Myrick's "Stars in Her Eyes" before they closed with "Seize the Joy," an imperative I took as gospel.
After the performance, I joined many others in looking at the "Next" group exhibition, recognizing a couple of artists' names - Alyssa Solomon, Nell Blaine- and seeing how easy it must have been for the musicians to take inspiration from the works on the walls.
When I got home, it was to a message from Holmes, entreating me to join him and his main squeeze at, wait for it, Lucy's.
Okay, so I'd been there for lunch earlier today, but why would I not go join friends there now?
By the time I arrived minutes later, they'd polished off a cheese and charcuterie plate (raving about the flank steak) and were awaiting entrees.
I sat down next to another J-Ward resident who wanted to convince me that the heart of the neighborhood lies on the other side of I-95.
Sorry, I beg to differ, explaining the parameters of J-Ward, with which he was unfamiliar.
My friends were drinking beer and cocktails, leaving me no choice but Espolon on the rocks as they shared their succulent medium rare Monrovia farms N.Y. strip (a curious naming juxtaposition, no?) with me.
As they gushed about the flavorful meat, I told them about the happy cows I'd met at Monrovia Farms. One follows the other.
The sounds of Edith Piaf and Billie Holliday soon gave way to Alabama Shakes and Of Monsters and Men as I joined them in another round and dessert, a flourless chocolate torte with fresh whipped cream and raspberries.
We got off on the subject of camping (not my thing), brothers who marry the same woman (Holmes can attest to it) and, not surprisingly, "Pictures at an Exhibition."
"Did they play 'Kiev Gates'?" Holmes, the resident classical music expert wanted to know. "Because the only reason anyone plays that other stuff is so that they can get to 'Kiev Gates."
I was pretty sure they hadn't, much to his disdain.
A someone who knows less about classical music than Holmes has forgotten, it didn't matter much to me.
I'd enjoyed every minute of the eclectic musical program and it's hard to beat ending a night with friends, happy cow meat and tequila.
Seizing the joy left and right, I am. And just so you know, I could have nailed that drunken spelling bee if I'd wanted to.
Tonight, sure, there was the drunken spelling bee at Strange Matter, but there was also Jazz in January at Page Bond gallery.
Promising jazz sketches of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition," works inspired by the "Next" exhibition of emerging artists in the gallery and original works by the band members, I was one of the first six to arrive.
Rows of chairs were laid out in between the walls, inviting listeners in. I took a seat second row center.
Gallery director Page Bond explained that the event had come about because she liked the alliteration of "Jazz in January," but also that one of her favorite recordings was Keith Jarret's "Koln Concert" recording of January 1975, done outside.
"Emerging artists need spaces to show their work or perform their work," she said by way of introduction before the quartet- sax, keys, bass and drums- of VCU jazz students took over.
I took a seat next to a writer I've known for over a decade, a few seats down from a landscape designer for whom I ghostwrite and her husband, a row in front of the former lawyer/restaurateur and his artist wife and settled in to hear music in an artistic setting.
In my element.
From "Pictures at an Exhibition," a work I know better from Emerson, Lake and Palmer's 1971 retelling of it than the original, they began with "Promenade," a piece about moving through the exhibition, sometimes strolling, sometimes briskly.
I know I do both.
Next they did "Il Vecchio Castello," telling the musical story of a troubadour singing outside a castle. It was during this movement that Justin, the upright bass player, began doing the most awkward and impressive bass faces.
The final movement had something to do with clumsily running around without legs, but mostly I was appreciating how into it the pianist was, all turtle necking, shoulders shrugging and mouth moving as he played.
Next came bass player Justin's tribute to all the British hip-hop artists he's been listening to lately, an interesting piece very different than what had come before.
Watching the quartet play against a background of large-scale yellow and green abstract works by emerging artists, I felt sure I'd picked the most interesting thing going on in Richmond tonight.
Drunken spelling bee aside, of course.
They followed that with "A Wink and a Nod," a piece they'd written after touring the "Next" exhibit and a title which reminded me of Faces' 1971 album "A Nod is as Good as a Wink...to a Blind Horse."
Of course, they were all far too young to know that reference.
The prolific bass player Justin had written a ballad called "Meet Me at the Side," a piece that started as a late-night slow dance and segued into something livelier.
Meanwhile, people continued to arrive at the gallery and look for seats or a place to stand and hear the extraordinary music that was happening.
Justin, clearly an emerging composer as well as musician, described his next composition as about biking.
"Nothing is more freeing than biking this city," he said. "When I first came here as a college student, I found I could go anywhere in the confines of the city on my bike This is a piece about freeing yourself."
The music had a traveling sound, sometimes meandering, other times deliberately heading up hills and occasionally just cruising, absolutely carefree.
We heard a re-harmonized version of the Cole Porter classic, "What Is This Thing Called Love?" with sax player Myrick saying he hoped we liked it.
What's not to like when talented musicians are playing Cole Porter live surrounded by art?
Band original "Wizard" followed Myrick's "Stars in Her Eyes" before they closed with "Seize the Joy," an imperative I took as gospel.
After the performance, I joined many others in looking at the "Next" group exhibition, recognizing a couple of artists' names - Alyssa Solomon, Nell Blaine- and seeing how easy it must have been for the musicians to take inspiration from the works on the walls.
When I got home, it was to a message from Holmes, entreating me to join him and his main squeeze at, wait for it, Lucy's.
Okay, so I'd been there for lunch earlier today, but why would I not go join friends there now?
By the time I arrived minutes later, they'd polished off a cheese and charcuterie plate (raving about the flank steak) and were awaiting entrees.
I sat down next to another J-Ward resident who wanted to convince me that the heart of the neighborhood lies on the other side of I-95.
Sorry, I beg to differ, explaining the parameters of J-Ward, with which he was unfamiliar.
My friends were drinking beer and cocktails, leaving me no choice but Espolon on the rocks as they shared their succulent medium rare Monrovia farms N.Y. strip (a curious naming juxtaposition, no?) with me.
As they gushed about the flavorful meat, I told them about the happy cows I'd met at Monrovia Farms. One follows the other.
The sounds of Edith Piaf and Billie Holliday soon gave way to Alabama Shakes and Of Monsters and Men as I joined them in another round and dessert, a flourless chocolate torte with fresh whipped cream and raspberries.
We got off on the subject of camping (not my thing), brothers who marry the same woman (Holmes can attest to it) and, not surprisingly, "Pictures at an Exhibition."
"Did they play 'Kiev Gates'?" Holmes, the resident classical music expert wanted to know. "Because the only reason anyone plays that other stuff is so that they can get to 'Kiev Gates."
I was pretty sure they hadn't, much to his disdain.
A someone who knows less about classical music than Holmes has forgotten, it didn't matter much to me.
I'd enjoyed every minute of the eclectic musical program and it's hard to beat ending a night with friends, happy cow meat and tequila.
Seizing the joy left and right, I am. And just so you know, I could have nailed that drunken spelling bee if I'd wanted to.
Give Me Morning Wood
Not that I ever give much thought to what's for dinner, but it's come to this: I'm taking dinner suggestions from the Internet.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Case of the Missing Red Sauce
In what may be a first, my evening began in a park.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Oddly enough, it was for a meet-up, not that I have any intention of sharing the nature of the meet-up.
I will say it involved introducing ourselves and sharing a story of something that had happened to us, but that's as far as I'll go.
Getting to know each other aside, it was a beautiful evening to be in Forest Hill Park (and coincidentally I used to go to beagle meet-ups in that same park), under the shade of huge, old trees talking to strangers as people with fishing poles and dogs on leashes walked by.
It lasted longer than I expected, though, and by the time I said goodnight, I felt sure everyone could hear my stomach grumbling.
I turned the car in the direction of Carytown, in the mood for Don't Look Back, or perhaps, just tequila.
Walking past the Daily, it was obvious that the novelty factor is packing 'em in even on a Monday night.
Across the street, Don't Look Back was lightly populated so I had plenty of choices of bar stools.
Espolon Reposado seemed the best way to start, so I did.
With no taco specials on the board, I punted, ordering a Frito Pie, my old standby.
Screech. Sound of scratching record. My server grimaced.
"Um, we're out of Frito Pie," he stammered.
So many things went through my head. How can that be? Do I need to go to 7-11 and buy a bag of Fritos for you?
You're breaking my heart, I told him.
"I am a heartbreaker," he admitted, grinning.
At least we had humor.
What they didn't have was the necessary red sauce for Frito Pie, so I defaulted to black bean nachos.
"I'm really sorry," he said, going to put the order in.
Minutes later, another bartender approached me, innocently asking how I was doing.
Quite well, I told him, considering you have no Frito Pie.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It hurts me, too. I look forward to my Monday shifts because the kitchen does a variation of carnitas with red sauce on Mondays. Even if I've already had dinner, I always eat a couple of them because they're so good. There weren't any today and I'm bummed, so I've been kicking stuff back here."
He kicked the ice chest to prove it to me.
The snafu resulted because of a transition in produce suppliers, leaving them with cases of hard avocados and unripe chilies.
Bad news for a place that goes through avocados and chilies hand over fist.
But soon my nachos were delivered by a sweet-faced girl in braids who set them on the bar with a longing glance and said, "They look really good!"
Yea, but they're no Frito Pie, I teased her.
"I'm sorry," she said, joining the regret chorus.
Grow up, Karen. No one said you always get Frito Pie when you want it.
The nachos, as usual, were very good, the music was excellent (Pandora set to Superchunk) and once I relaxed into eating and listening, all was right with the world.
I fear that my hunger had descended into hanger, and I was a little ashamed of being so vocal about something they couldn't help.
Two women near me were having a fascinating conversation about a mutual friend and eventually I couldn't help joining in.
This friend had gotten a settlement of $20,000 after a bike accident and had managed to spend the entire amount in six weeks.
45 days!
Now he was apartment-less and back to sleeping on other people's couches.
Apparently all he had to show for the money was a few new tattoos.
I'd say, "How very Richmond," except he lives in Norfolk.
The rest had gone to living in hotels, eating and drinking every meal out.
We shared our amazement at such poor use of a windfall.
Even the tooth he'd broken in the accident was still broken since he'd spent it all before having that fixed.
"And he's not young, he's 25!" one of the women said, as if his age should have guaranteed better money management.
I didn't know where to start, but I tried, leaving them aghast at the idea that there were even 35-year olds (or older) no better equipped to deal with life than their friend.
They did say they'd resolved not let him couch surf in their apartments anymore.
Tough love. That'll teach him, or so they were hoping.
Doubtful, but I didn't tell them that.
We chatted about small-town life in Richmond because they've been discovering how frequently the same people turn up if you're out and about here.
They were amazed to learn it was true, no matter what your age.
When our little meet-up wound down, I asked for my check.
My server handed it to me, saying that they weren't charging me for my tequila because they'd let me down with the Frito Pie.
In what may be a first, my evening ended with guilt about my big mouth.
And more Espolon to even the score with the heartbreaker.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Albatrosses and Lowlands
It started with eating crabcakes on the stairs and ended with tequila.
What, again?
The Library of Virginia was doing another in their "Books on Broad" series, this one with Mary Jane Hogue of Historic Richmond Foundation.
Graciously, things began with a reception, meaning they were serving shrimp skewers, chicken skewers and even crab cakes along with wine.
If they're trying to make evening lectures more appealing, they're doing a fine job of it.
While many people seemed to be going for a full meal, I kept it simple with a mini-crabcake and a skewer eaten on the impressive staircase that leads upstairs to the stacks.
A half dozen other people joined me there and we got some cocktail party chatter going despite being strangers.
In front of us was a table with old and new photographs laid out on it.
The old ones had been taken by commercial photographer Adolph Rice back in the '50s and were laid next to current photos of the same scenes.
The purpose was for people to identify anything they knew of the scene- long-gone buildings, stores or landmarks- to help future historians better understand them.
Since I wasn't here in the '50s, all I could do was marvel at how quaint the city looked back then.
Before long the talk began and Hogue, the executive director of HRF, said that women had started historic preservation in Richmond, creating the group that became HRF.
She showed us slides of buildings while sharing their stories.
The "pilot" block of 2300 E. Grace Street in Church Hill, the first block the group had saved in 1957 because of its proximity to St. John's church.
The 200 block of W. Franklin, destined to be torn down, was purchased from Dr. Tucker and saved in 1977.
The Linden Row Inn, which had been left to HRF by Mary Wingfield Scott, was saved by HRF in 1979.
Unbelievably, Old City Hall was slated to be torn down when the group "put up an unbelievable fight" to save it in 1981.
Was the city really still that short-sighted as recently as the eighties? Apparently so.
In 1983, the saved "our love and our albatross," according to Hogue, Monumental Church, now a popular site for weddings (who knew?).
Seems the center-aisle is more desirable than St. John's side aisles.
"People thought we were crazy," she said about the block with the National Theater on it.
The doctor who owned it (we were seeing a pattern) wanted to demolish the entire block and build a parking lot, so HRF paid rent on the building for two years while they raised $1.5 million to buy it.
They ended up saving the whole block, but they had to hold onto it for 17 years before they found someone willing to rehab the theater.
Thank goodness the HRF has patience or I'd never have seen so many great bands so close to my house.
The lecture went on like that, with pictures and stories of so many significant buildings saved (an 1813 house, a pre-Civil War warehouse) at the eleventh hour by the women's passion for preservation.
What would this city look like without their estrogen-fueled efforts?
As Hogue pointed out, both Savannah and Atlanta offered much larger incentives for Spielberg to film "Lincoln" in their cities, but he took Virginia's measly $4 million because we had the best buildings.
Don't we know it..
After the talk, I stayed in the neighborhood and stopped by Saison for a bite.
"How's your day going?" a friendly barkeep inquired as I sat down between the turntable and a friendly couple and ordered some Espolon while considering the menu housed in a book.
Mine was about Mexico and the couple had one about cats, which they were making fun of in the best kind of way.
After a couple of cat cracks, they paused and checked to make sure I didn't mind anti-cat jokes.
As if.
But you can only trash talk cats for so long before hunger kicks in so I ordered oxtail sopes with lime cream, pickled onion, and some crunchy pickled curtido.
I heard tell of brunch coming soon and even the possibility of them taking over the old Jackson Ward Deli space next door for lunch.
Amen to that. Anytime we can get life back in a neighborhood building, I'm all for it.
I was told how much fun vinyl night is on Tuesdays, with customers sharing their favorite records.
As I was finishing it up, another guy behind the bar inquired what I was drinking.
When he learned it was tequila, he grabbed a small menu and told me it was tequila/mezcal flight night.
Drat! How had I not been told this when I arrived?
Seems the bartender was filling in and had been unaware himself.
As consolation, I was allowed to order one flight pour (instead of the usual three).
Asking for a recommendation, I was told that the server's favorite was Tres Agaves from the lowlands.
I was game and my 3/4 ounce pour delivered a peppery and lightly floral tequila I could get used to.
Except that there are so many others on the menu I need to try, too.
"You'll have to come back on another Wednesday," the bartender told me. Or on Tuesdays for record playing. Or for $2 tamales.
I couldn't very well call myself J-Ward Girl otherwise.
What, again?
The Library of Virginia was doing another in their "Books on Broad" series, this one with Mary Jane Hogue of Historic Richmond Foundation.
Graciously, things began with a reception, meaning they were serving shrimp skewers, chicken skewers and even crab cakes along with wine.
If they're trying to make evening lectures more appealing, they're doing a fine job of it.
While many people seemed to be going for a full meal, I kept it simple with a mini-crabcake and a skewer eaten on the impressive staircase that leads upstairs to the stacks.
A half dozen other people joined me there and we got some cocktail party chatter going despite being strangers.
In front of us was a table with old and new photographs laid out on it.
The old ones had been taken by commercial photographer Adolph Rice back in the '50s and were laid next to current photos of the same scenes.
The purpose was for people to identify anything they knew of the scene- long-gone buildings, stores or landmarks- to help future historians better understand them.
Since I wasn't here in the '50s, all I could do was marvel at how quaint the city looked back then.
Before long the talk began and Hogue, the executive director of HRF, said that women had started historic preservation in Richmond, creating the group that became HRF.
She showed us slides of buildings while sharing their stories.
The "pilot" block of 2300 E. Grace Street in Church Hill, the first block the group had saved in 1957 because of its proximity to St. John's church.
The 200 block of W. Franklin, destined to be torn down, was purchased from Dr. Tucker and saved in 1977.
The Linden Row Inn, which had been left to HRF by Mary Wingfield Scott, was saved by HRF in 1979.
Unbelievably, Old City Hall was slated to be torn down when the group "put up an unbelievable fight" to save it in 1981.
Was the city really still that short-sighted as recently as the eighties? Apparently so.
In 1983, the saved "our love and our albatross," according to Hogue, Monumental Church, now a popular site for weddings (who knew?).
Seems the center-aisle is more desirable than St. John's side aisles.
"People thought we were crazy," she said about the block with the National Theater on it.
The doctor who owned it (we were seeing a pattern) wanted to demolish the entire block and build a parking lot, so HRF paid rent on the building for two years while they raised $1.5 million to buy it.
They ended up saving the whole block, but they had to hold onto it for 17 years before they found someone willing to rehab the theater.
Thank goodness the HRF has patience or I'd never have seen so many great bands so close to my house.
The lecture went on like that, with pictures and stories of so many significant buildings saved (an 1813 house, a pre-Civil War warehouse) at the eleventh hour by the women's passion for preservation.
What would this city look like without their estrogen-fueled efforts?
As Hogue pointed out, both Savannah and Atlanta offered much larger incentives for Spielberg to film "Lincoln" in their cities, but he took Virginia's measly $4 million because we had the best buildings.
Don't we know it..
After the talk, I stayed in the neighborhood and stopped by Saison for a bite.
"How's your day going?" a friendly barkeep inquired as I sat down between the turntable and a friendly couple and ordered some Espolon while considering the menu housed in a book.
Mine was about Mexico and the couple had one about cats, which they were making fun of in the best kind of way.
After a couple of cat cracks, they paused and checked to make sure I didn't mind anti-cat jokes.
As if.
But you can only trash talk cats for so long before hunger kicks in so I ordered oxtail sopes with lime cream, pickled onion, and some crunchy pickled curtido.
I heard tell of brunch coming soon and even the possibility of them taking over the old Jackson Ward Deli space next door for lunch.
Amen to that. Anytime we can get life back in a neighborhood building, I'm all for it.
I was told how much fun vinyl night is on Tuesdays, with customers sharing their favorite records.
As I was finishing it up, another guy behind the bar inquired what I was drinking.
When he learned it was tequila, he grabbed a small menu and told me it was tequila/mezcal flight night.
Drat! How had I not been told this when I arrived?
Seems the bartender was filling in and had been unaware himself.
As consolation, I was allowed to order one flight pour (instead of the usual three).
Asking for a recommendation, I was told that the server's favorite was Tres Agaves from the lowlands.
I was game and my 3/4 ounce pour delivered a peppery and lightly floral tequila I could get used to.
Except that there are so many others on the menu I need to try, too.
"You'll have to come back on another Wednesday," the bartender told me. Or on Tuesdays for record playing. Or for $2 tamales.
I couldn't very well call myself J-Ward Girl otherwise.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I Saw the Crescent, You Saw the Whole of the Moon
When people ask me for some of my favorite restaurants, I never fail to mention Aziza's on Main.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
So when I'm getting together with a couple date plus one, Aziza's comes to mind as an ideal place to suggest.
Terrific food, well-priced wine, easy-going and friendly staff, and always a surprise or two on the menu.
So it was that I ended up there tonight with three friends, where a familiar server greeted me by saying, "I went to M Bistro and you were right about the lobster roll. It was great!" Well, duh.
The four of us took over the tiny bar and began with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to get the party started. Aziza's wine prices are hard to beat.
After my friend Holmes had given me sufficient crap about the recent Lemaire incident, here, by greeting me with, "Please don't steal my soul," we moved on to first courses.
Everyone was intrigued by Fontina fondue with caramelized onions, thyme and grilled bread, plus we got the summer squash salad with fried squash blossom, tapendade and buffalo mozzarella, watermelon gazpacho with cucumber, onion and parsley and Old Chatham "Nancy" Camembert, a Hudson Valley sheep's cheese.
I'd give top prize to the Fontina fondue with the Nancy (which I knew from Secco that I liked) a close second. Perhaps I was just in a cheese frame of mind.
Or make that cheesy. My friend Holmes continued to tease me about being targeted by strange men when out and about.
He's known me for years, so it's probably hard for him to imagine me as the object of someone's desire. And frankly, I second that.
The music tonight suited Holmes, who enjoys vintage tunes from the 60s, of which we heard plenty.
Neil Sedaka, the Righteous Brothers and Gene Vincent all reared their moldy, if melodic, heads.
As far as dinner goes, it's silly not to go with pizza when you have the city's largest brick pizza oven a few steps away.
The couple got the pepperoni and mushroom and the girl and I had onion and pepperoni.
Both pizzas were red, which is never my first choice, but any Aziza's pizza is good, so I didn't complain about the unnecessary tomato sauce.
But give me a choice and I'll always take a white pizza.
We were talking about my friend's impending visit by her out-of-town boyfriend who will make his first trek to RVA next week.
She was teasing our mutual friend Holmes about being well-behaved in front of her beloved.
It's enough that he's wearing his vintage tux, wide-lapeled and black with white nubs and a ruffled pink shirt to the VMFA party they're attending that night.
I say it's a good way to introduce her boyfriend to Bygones and its treasure trove of vintage clothing.
As it is, she's planning to wow him with Sally Belle's, the VMFA, Chiocca's, Maymont, Amour, the Byrd and the Jefferson brunch.
If that's not a sampling of Richmond, I don't know what is.
One in our group wanted to have dessert at Stella's tonight (baklava was calling her) but we outvoted her and stayed for cream puffs.
It seems a shame to me to eat at Aziza's and not partake of one of their stellar cream puffs, if only to eat the chocolate ganache off of it.
Honestly though, we ate the entire thing and she stopped whining about baklava.
By the time we finished, it was only a little after 10, so while the couple was happy to head home and my friend had to be up early to travel tomorrow, I was nowhere near ready for bed.
Instead I continued east and stopped at M Bistro for a drink.
On my last visit there, the bartender had highly recommended a tequila new to Virginia, Espolon.
Just as mine was set down in front of me, the guy next to me turned from his date and said, "Straight tequila, that's impressive."
It's not really, not any more so than drinking single batch scotch straight, and I explained to him why I drink it and how I got started (yes, the same radio station story I've shared here before).
I did like the Espolon, though; it had a soft mouth feel and a nice spiciness that made me wonder why anyone would pay for Patron when so many better sipping tequilas are out there.
The couple next to me were celebrating her birthday with a whirlwind evening: Can Can, Secco, Water Grill, the Boathouse and finally M Bistro.
Secco aside, that wouldn't have been my five choices, but it was a very sweet date and he was quite proud of himself for the evening.
His desire to make her happy was unquestionably charming.
Driving back toward the city, I couldn't help but admire the sliver of a crescent moon hanging in the night sky. There's just something about the potential of a crescent moon.
Too high, too far, too soon.
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