Seeing Me, Seeing You

Les bon temps are rolling over here.

As is our tradition, Mac and I walked over to 821 Cafe for a heaping plate of pancakes, the better to celebrate Fat Tuesday with. This year, we even wore beads for good measure.

Now don't get me wrong, we're both heathens of the highest order, but a holiday that features pancakes for dinner is our kind of holiday.

Unlike past years, though, this year's Fat Tuesday falls during VCU's spring break, so my part of the city is deserted. You could throw a bowling ball down Clay Street without worry of hitting a thing. Walking down Laurel Street was like walking through a ghost town.

The scant crowd at 821 wasn't especially festive, although the father sitting behind us falsely narrating a Godzilla movie to his young son was pretty hilarious. Meanwhile, I did what I always do with a plate of pancakes: ate half with syrup and half with strawberry jam and finished them all.

Mac felt obligated to do the same once my plate was licked clean.

Walking back through Monroe Park, we detoured to check out Portals, the public art piece that looks like a shipping container in the middle of the park, never expecting it to be open. A man came out the door and invited us in. Walking into the portal meant facing a screen filled with the images of two families - a Dad, son and daughter and a Mom and daughter -  at a school in Ipswich, Massachusetts and looking right into their eyes.

Hello, strangers, whatcha knowin?

Yes, of course I'd read about the year-long art installation, even heard that Richmonders had spoken with folks in Afghanistan and Sweden since it began. It turned out we were happening into a portal with people as near as New England, so the Portal didn't even have to translate for us.

It didn't feel terribly exotic - I mean, Massachusetts - but it was still a brilliant concept.

The portal really is an immersive experience as you look at the life-size people beaming in from the other end and have a conversation with them. It's a lot like real life, except from different zip codes.

After we explained that we'd just come from having Fat Tuesday pancakes and pulled out our beads as proof, the Dad shared that they'd just celebrated with red beans and rice with, wait for it, duck.

Seems he'd won half a cooked duck in some office pool (the questions I could have asked about that, but I was still figuring out the civilities here), so he thought it would be a fine addition to the traditional Mardi Gras beans and rice.

And as heathens who carb up and wear beads for no good reason, who were we to judge their choice of how to celebrate?

At the point that we walked in, the families, okay, mainly the kids, were waiting for the King cake to arrive, so they were having an even grander Fat Tuesday celebration than we'd had. But maybe they weren't heathens and I didn't ask.

But once the Dad started talking about how old a town Ipswich is and about all its maritime history, he had the audacity to brag about their 1632 roots. That was enough to get me going, as I pointed out that in our neck of the woods, we backdate to 1607.

His face fell. "Oh, yea, I guess that's right."

He pointed to the Mom and daughter, informing us that they lived in a 100-year old house. I didn't bother rubbing his face in it by pointing out that mine's 143 years old. I've long opined that Massachusetts has always had a better PR department than Virginia.

They told us the saga of Mr. Crane, the wealthy man whose company made porcelain for toilets, and his waterfront summer house in Ipswich which had 8 1/2 miles of private waterfront. Once a year, on Mr. Crane's birthday, he opened up his beach to school children and it was their only chance to go to the beach all year. Now he's dead but the kids, teachers and families still celebrate, even though that stretch of waterfront is now public so it's nowhere near the big deal it once was.

They also mentioned that there are exactly two weeks a year when the water is warm enough for humans to go in it and it's tough to get them out when it's like that. "We just stay down there and order pizza to be delivered at the beach," Dad says.

Mac's eyes widened and her mind immediately went to the possibilities of Outer Banks beachside pizza delivery. Hold your horses, girl and think of how badly that could go.

When we asked for more dish on Ipswich, the little boy pulled his chair forward and said very seriously, despite his missing teeth, "We're known for our clams here." Then his Dad tried to convince us that Ipswich invented fried clams but I wasn't convinced.

As the guy who'd invited us in marveled to the screen, "That's kind of a big claim, don't you think?" I do.

It was kind of fascinating to have this kind of conversation with complete strangers, although none of us had any trouble coming up with things to share. When they wanted to know what we were doing next, we explained that Spring break meant that a local restaurant did all tiki drinks, so we were toasting the start of Lent with rum drinks.

Even the kids looked impressed with our brilliance.

After saying farewell to the Ipswichians, we meandered over to Saison through deserted streets and sat down at a bar with only one other occupant and one long table of loud millennials talking about fear of scuba diving ("I'll do my own breathing, thanks"), house decorating ("Come over anytime and I'll show you what I've done") and not dating (by choice, natch).

My libation of choice came directly from the "strong and boozy" section of the menu. It was a spring break old fashioned made with Jamaican and Martinican rums, pineapple-hop syrup and tiki bitters, while Mac gravitated straight to the Hurricane, which arrived in a 10' glass, complete with enormous green straw and some kind of leaves speared together.

The bartender wanted to know what we'd been up to, so we explained how two heathens never failed to eat pancakes in celebration of a season they have nothing to do with. This required explaining Lent and Ash Wednesday to her, as if I'm some expert.

But she was even more taken with the Portal experience we'd had, asking for specifics so she could go do it, too. We made sure to tell her to get there in the next month or so before they move the Portal to another part of town.

When we declined a second round, she responded with great disappointment. "You're not much of heathens, are you, to have only one drink each?" This from the woman we'd had to explain Shrove Tuesday to when we walked in. How quickly they jump on board.

Besides, we'd worn our beads, devoured our pancakes, chatted with long distance celebrants and washed it all down with fancy rums. We didn't need to drink the entire tiki menu to prove ourselves.

Don't forget, missy, Richmond's been Mardi Gras ready since 1607.

Taking Some Air

My reputation as a heathen precedes me.

After inviting Mac to join me for some Fat Tuesday revelry, she mentioned her plans to her Mom on the phone, being sure to tell her that it was the most religious inclination she'd seen in me in our nearly two years of friendship.

My Catholic upbringing has nothing to do with it. It's all about dressing gaudy by layering on pattern, purple, green and orange (tonight while blasting Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66), eating pancakes and hearing a brass band.

We walked over to 821 Cafe for brinner (their word, not mine) and our adorable server - cut-offs, midriff and enormous red plaid flannel shirt - thanked us for reminding her it was Fat Tuesday since she'd forgotten.

Debating whether or not to share an order of buttermilk pancakes, when pressed, I had to admit that I could eat way more than half an order.

So it was that we shared an order of bacon, I got basic buttermilk pancakes, dousing half in syrup and half in strawberry jam as is my family's habit, and Mac got Union cakes, essentially the same pancakes except hers were mounded with berries, bananas and chocolate chips.

Deciding that it was an ideal evening for Espolon with pancakes, I ordered some, only to hear that they were out and that it was our server's favorite tequila, too. Seems it's what she always orders when she gets off her shift, which makes me suspect it was her fault they were out.

And I was right about the pancakes, I could devour far more than half a plate, yet I was still the recipient of pancake shaming. Mac ate exactly half her order and asked for a box, while I worked my plate down to nearly gone, yet guess who got the comments?

"Really, you can't finish that?" the server asked incredulously. "That's like four bites!" The problem was I'd been too full to eat the previous four bites, so I certainly didn't need anymore now. Convinced I'd want them later, she insisted on bringing me a box, too.

Leftovers in hand, we walked to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque which was tonight showing "Black Girl" from 1966, the first film made by a black director on the African continent and focusing on colonialism (the French in Senegal), religion, education and a host of social activism-motivated themes.

The professor giving the pre-film talk prattled on about depictions of women and race, but also casually slid into her rambling that the main character commits suicide, a fact we were both furious to be told in advance. I don't even read movie summaries because I want the story to unfold for me with no prior information.

We'll call her a spoilsport.

Because it had sub-titles, we had to put up with simplistic translations like, "I'm going for a walk" when the character actually said, "I'm going to take some air," a far more lyrical way to say the same thing. But overall, the film was a fascinating look at an unfairly tilted colonial situation, replete with mid-century modern furniture, frosted lipstick and entitled white people.

It was while we were watching the film that the skies opened up and we heard rain beating so hard on the theater's roof that it competed with the soundtrack. No dummies, we'd both brought umbrellas for just such an eventuality.

The rain had lessened but not stopped when "Black Girl" ended, so we stayed for the Q & A despite wanting to tell the prof she'd spoiled the movie for us. Stepping outside, puddles were everywhere but nothing was officially falling.

We got as far as Broad Street when a guy asked for money for food and Mac inquired if he liked pancakes. When I turned around to check, he was devouring hers as we rounded the corner to Belvidere. That's a good egg, giving up her leftover breakfast like that.

She was also stoked about heading out for a brass band, saying, "You always know how to show a girl a good time!" I pride myself on it, actually.

Our final stop was the Gypsy Room because Illegal States was playing, albeit not for another hour. We made ourselves at home at the bar next to some of the musicians getting their dinner on beforehand, several wearing Mardi Gras beads.

When the bartender asked what we'd like, I told him to slide the absinthe drip our way because tonight was going to be Mac's first absinthe drip. She'd told me recently that she wanted to try the green fairy and there's no time like the present, especially on a night devoted to one last indulgence before sacrifice season sets in tomorrow.

It's not like I don't know this stuff, it's just I have no use for practicing any of it, well, except tonight.

Once our drips were cloudy and the green fairy in attendance, we turned our attentions to nearby strangers. Her first score was a Puerto Rican drummer playing with the band tonight, while mine was a Belgian woman who just last week sold the Fan house she'd owned for decades and moved to a cottage in Goochland.

 One guy arrived with a sequined silver mask on. Another had on an '80s sweater worthy of (dare I?) Cliff Huxtable. A lawyer came in and asked for a tall bourbon and ginger. "Tall or double?" the barkeep inquired. "Tall, but that's a good question to ask, especially on Fat Tuesday!" True that.

A bearded guy showed up bemoaning the abundance of what he called neo-Christian teenagers lined up next door at the National (not exactly how I'd have described them given the number of girls in fishnets and booty shorts), only to be told it was an Excision show - dubstep, in other words.

"You mean dumbstep?" he cracked. "No, thanks."

Turns out the Belgian was the mother of one of the band's drummers and she told me that her son had no idea she was coming tonight. When a young man walked up, he didn't look surprised in the least to see his Maman, and she couldn't figure out how he knew she'd be there.

"Call it a hunch," he grinned. Leaning into the bar, he said he wanted a Hurricane. "Hey, it's Fat Tuesday," he shrugged. The bartender had already told me he'd stopped by Lady N'Awlins on his way to work in order to score a Hurricane and some of the crawfish boil they were serving up.

The drummer Mac had been talking to had warned us that the Belgian's son's drumming was going to make things loud and when I shared that with him, he looked pleased as punch. "Wait, was he saying that was a good or bad thing?" he wondered aloud.

"No, that's cool," he concluded.

One of the band's trumpet player's came over to order a drink and I couldn't resist commenting on his magnificent sweater of white elephants on a black background, curious about where one acquires such a unique garment.

"Actually, Forever 21's men's section," he admitted softly, as if it were a secret. "They have some hidden gems there."

Finally, it seemed, the 10-piece Illegal Sates - 2 trombones, sax, 2 trumpets, tuba and 4 drummers/percussionists - got started and the sound of horns and rhythm filled the low-ceilinged room in an appropriately Mardi Gras manner.

The Belgian's son had his cowbell clipped to the side of the drum hanging from a strap around his neck. These guys weren't fooling around and girls were soon dancing with abandon in front of the band, while some of us kept our dancing on our bar stools.

"I like the WASP-y guy with his eyes closed," Mac whispered about a guy standing near us and so totally grooving to the music that he seemed oblivious to the rest of us.

When the band paused between songs, the Belgian looked at me and said, "We need a samba!" Considering she had an in with the band, I told her to tell them, not me.

It was easy to get lost in the band's energetic sound and never more so than when the horns stood to the side and let the drummers and percussionists steal the show playing off each other for an extended period.

Things got so heated that one guy called out from the crowd, "Is my girlfriend on fire?"

We didn't see any girls in flames, but she could have been radiating a heat others couldn't see. No question about it, these guys were tight on a night devoted to getting loose.

That's cool. And may Lent begin now that good times have put another Fat Tuesday in the bead-bedecked rear-view mirror.

Throw Me Some Beads

All it took was my friend Danny's FB reminder that today is Fat Tuesday and I knew what had to be done.

But when I started checking online, it became clear that the local Catholics are weather wimps so all the church pancake dinners for Mardi Gras were already canceled.

Boo hiss.

So I did what an self-respecting totally lapsed Catholic would do: high tailed it to City Diner to eat myself stupid with pancakes before the onset of Lent, which I will, as always, ignore completely.

The lapsed life is an easy one.

I slogged through the sloppy snow covered sidewalk and through the door barely 35 minutes before the diner closes its doors, only to find just one guy at a booth and the staff already starting to clean before closing.

Without a smidgen of guilt about my eleventh hour arrival, I quickly put my order in: pancakes and bacon and step on it (okay, not that last part).

Just as I picked up the newspaper to read while I waited for my food, the door opened and a man joined me at the counter.

Without looking at the menu, he ordered the most perfect Fat Tuesday breakfast imaginable: three eggs, bacon, sausage, fried apples, creamed chipped beef, pancakes and a sausage gravy biscuit.

Needless to say, I'd been out-ordered. Even though the three pancakes on my plate were not only as big as the plate but considerably wider than my head, it was no contest.

I followed ye old family rule for eating pancakes and waffles, slathering with butter (in this case the dreaded "buttery flavored spread") and syrup and the other half with butter and strawberry jam.

Not sure why my father taught us to eat our pancakes this way, probably his own preference, but my adherence to it continues lo these many decades later.

Meanwhile, my companion's food arrived and he dove in like he hadn't eaten lately.

Which, as it turns out, he hadn't. When I cracked wise about people like us who show up at 2:00 expecting breakfast, he admitted that he'd been working a snow plow since 3:30 yesterday afternoon without stopping.

Coffee and Red Bull had sustained him as he'd made the parking lots of Chesterfield Mall, some old folks' home and several strip shopping centers safe for die hard consumers who might need to get out and shop today.

I told him I could no more work for 23 hours without eating than, well, go for 23 hours without getting out of the house and we all know that's never going to happen.

His reasoning was that the money was damn good and that it wasn't so bad in the short term because it's not like we get snow every week.

Actually, this winter it feel like every other week, but whatever.

His plan after working down every crumb on his plate was to head back to Ashland, feed his animals and crash hard until he was restored.

Makes my afternoon of interviewing a photographer and shoveling the sidewalk sound pretty lame.

Count me as one of the devoted heathens who got my Shrove Tuesday pancakes on so now I can go into Lent knowing that's done.

Yo, Danny! Laissez les bon temps rouler and all that jazz...with syrup and jam, if you please.