According to Facebook, Mac and I have been friends for three years now.
I only know that because Mac was notified, along with photos, although only one of them was of us together and that was the shot taken on election day with Tim Kaine between us. Then there were our individual profile pictures, along with the snap Mac took of me standing by the murals on the Jamaican joint in J-Ward.
Not a very good representation of our friendship, if you ask me.
And really, you could say we celebrate Mac and Karen day every time we walk together, which is generally a few times a week. Like yesterday, when we did our usual walk down to the river to watch it raging. People were saying that at 16.2 feet, the James was higher than it had been in a decade and we wanted to see for ourselves.
Sure enough, besides sounding like a freight train, it was incredibly high, muddy and speeding by with whitecaps everywhere. We looked over the edge of Brown's Island only to see that the water had covered the path we usually take down to access the pipeline.
Now, mind you, we haven't been able to get on the pipeline from the west end of it since, what, October, but seeing the James raging was enough to make us curious about the state of the pipeline walkway. So we walked to the east end, ogling all the way the partially-submerged pipeline.
The place where Mac's keys had fallen 8 feet down into the river year before last? Water over the walkway. The bottom rungs of the ladder we use to climb up when walking east? Underwater. It was unlike anything we've seen down there and we've been regular pipeline walkers for years.
But at least we'd witnessed this aberration together.
Tonight we celebrated Mac and Karen day by walking over to the ICA in a light rain to see "Black Mother," an immersive film about Jamaica and its people, described as a "baptism by fire."
If you knew the kind of things Mac and I do together, you'd know that this was right up our alley.
"Thank you for coming out tonight and braving the Richmond drizzle," film curator Enjoli Moon said, tongue firmly in cheek, as she was preparing us for what was next. "This film is raw and real and if you have problems with that, you may want to exit stage left." I'm not sure if it was the weather or the timing - their film screenings are usually the second Wednesday of the month, so this was a bonus screening - but it was a smaller crowd than usual.
That said, I wasn't in my seat for two minutes when a DJ I know waved hi from across the auditorium.
More of a visual poem than a straightforward story, Khalik Allah's film was an ode to the island of his heritage (he's half Jamaican and half Iranian with a New York accent you couldn't cut with a knife) and its people. Introducing it, he explained that there were some parts that might make us want to close our eyes or let our mind drift and he approved of both responses since he'd made the film as a contemplation on a higher power.
Using multiple kinds of cameras and various voices talking, he used images of people staring back at him, talking and interacting with others and nature to demonstrate the range of Jamaica. As a photographer-turned-filmmaker, there was a definite sense that it was a photographer's documentary, each vignette a portrait.
What kinds of portraits? Scenes of a man eviscerating a fish he's just caught, of a pregnant woman getting a sonogram, of his grandfather's funeral and burial, of a baby being born and a woman dancing in the streets alternated with Jamaicans staring mutely at his lens. He said he saw his film as part island story, part colonization story, part tourism warning and part spiritual.
On a side note, as many times as I'd seen those murals on Marshall Street, only tonight did I learn that the one in the uniform was Jamaican-born Marcus Garvey.
After the dense film ended, he and Enjoli took the stage to talk about it. That's when we learned that he'd used friends in the movie as well as strangers, that his Mom had thought it was about her and on that dark day when 45 had been elected, he'd obtained his Jamaican citizenship "just to have an exit plan."
For Mac and me, our only exit plan was to walk back to my apartment knowing that we'd meet up again in the morning to walk and talk, the building blocks of our friendship. Now I'm thinking we're going to take a photo of us together so that next time Facebook declares a Mac and Karen Day, there's at least some photographic proof.
Chances are, any one of the strangers who say hello to us every morning would be happy to make us Facebook official by snapping a pic.
We love you, Tim, but you're kind of a fifth wheel when it comes to what matters most on this important day: Mac and me.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Friday, October 28, 2016
We've Come a Long Way, Baby
This chair's for you, my imaginary friend.
Billie Jean King came to town, but this is really the story of a friendship that began in the mid '70s, right around the time that the legendary tennis player was showing herself to be a force to be reckoned with on many fronts.
An unlikely pair (and both Geminis, at that) who met during college, she was sporty and I was girly. She was athletically talented and I uncoordinated. She was a lifelong California girl, me, pure east coast. She hated me on sight.
Once we got past her youthful mis-perceptions, we became the yin to each other's yang, with sufficient shared enthusiasms to always make for a good ride. It was so comfortable that we knew early on we'd be lifelong friends.
Yet, somehow, we've lived in the same state for exactly two years. Or, more precisely, only two years.
We met, we had two wonderful years together and ever since, there have been multiple states in between us. Letters flew back and forth pre-Internet. Years would pass between visits, but we always reverted to instant familiarity.
Back when we met, she was an avid tennis player, even attempting fruitlessly to coach me in playing (I had no interest in the game, but coveted a cute strapless tennis dress) and naturally, BJK was a role model for what a woman could accomplish.
So when I walked over to the Seigel Center tonight to hear Billie Jean King speak as part of VCU's celebration of 40 years of LGBTQ activism, I knew my friend would have enthusiastically accompanied me if she weren't living in some far away Republican state.
Which is why when I chose a seat, I put my bag on the next seat as if I were saving it for someone, which I was, but more in spirit than reality. She'd have blended right in, too, because as the redhead in front of me observed looking around, "I expected it to be all middle-aged women."
My guess would be about 70%, but we're talking about an iconic '70s role model and women's rights activist, so that's hardly surprising. It would've been embarrassing if we hadn't represented.
After introductory remarks, we saw a video of photos, clips and sound bites (inexplicably set to the Rolling Stones and Dandy Warhols, and while the latter stole plenty of guitar riffs from the former, it's still an unlikely combination to soundtrack a tennis hero's bio), my main takeaway being how incredibly lithe, agile, fluid and altogether air-born she looked in so many of the old photographs.
Just as the video was ending, the woman who needed no introduction strode out smiling, looking 73-year old fabulous in sassy red glasses and a fuchsia jacket over black pants with her brown hair stylishly short.
Instant standing ovation. Just as instant, a fervent wish that my friend was here to experience it with me.
Taking to the stage, she began with a history of significant events in LGBTQ history, sort of a primer for those unaware, reminding us of the importance of history in our lives today.
She shared stories from her childhood about how her parents never pressured her or her brother about sports, yet both grew up to be professional athletes. "I think that's why my brother and I liked the pressure so much."
In fifth grade, Susan Williams asked her to play tennis and BJK had no idea what it was. After her second tennis lesson, she decided she wanted to be the best tennis player in the world.
In 1970, she and 8 other women signed $1 contracts to create the women's professional tennis league, with the vision that any girl who was good enough had a place to compete and could make a living playing tennis.
Helluva vision.
That's when the whole male chauvinist Bobby Riggs battle of the sexes nonsense started up and he wound up playing one of the nine women, trouncing her. BJK was next in his sites.
Here she paused in her talk to give some context to the time for the students in the audience.
"This was 1973. The war in Vietnam was winding down, but it never really did" - and here she deservedly scolded us as a nation for our treatment of returning Vietnam vets - "Watergate was just cranking up and a woman couldn't get a credit card in her own name, only her husband's!"
Audible millennial gasp from the crowd. Zinger from the star: "And why would they do that when they know how much we love to shop?"
And here's where she set their brains ablaze. "The first portable phone came out that year, just as most of us were switching from rotary to touch-tone phones, and it weighed 2 1/2 pounds, you could only talk on it for 30 minutes and in order to do so, you had to charge it for ten hours!"
There were two reactions from the younger set: either their eyes glazed over or they laughed out loud. The middle-aged women nodded.
"I told the others I had to play him! The match was about social justice, not a paycheck!" Can't you just see her getting all riled up, raising her tennis racket over her head like the Arthur Ashe statue on Monument Avenue?
Perched behind the podium was a racket and BJK wasn't ten minutes in before she picked it up and never put it back down, her security blanket, moving from hand to hand.
She stuck her fingers through the criss-cross pattern as she spoke about being publicly outed by an ex-lover in '81, causing her to lose all her endorsements overnight. Theirs was the first "galimony" lawsuit, yet her husband wouldn't give her a divorce. Her parents were homophobic and she hated the shame-based life she was leading.
I tell you what, this would have made a highly successful nighttime soap opera at the time.
Our shero ended with advice to millennials, which would probably serve all of us well:
Be a problem solver
Relationships are everything
Stay informed and keep learning
Be your authentic self
Fascinating as her talk was, it got even better afterward when she dismounted the stage and walked in front of the seats answering questions submitted by the audience.
Did she ever think she'd lose to Bobby Riggs? Every day, all day.
Asked about diversity, she said she prefers the term equality ("It's like the '70s, we used to talk about equality. It's back!") because it doesn't focus on our differences.
Her advice to women was to use their body by harnessing its abilities.
When my question (Why do you think so many college students today resist being labeled a feminist?), she answered, "I do not know why that is, but if you believe in equality, you are a feminist whether you're male or female."
I felt equal parts pleasure that my question was asked and satisfaction at her succinct rebuttal.
The last question was from the English-born director of VCU's humanities resource center, asking in his clipped accent about how she and Elton John met up. Turns out it was two weeks before the Riggs match at a party for the singer who, she learned, wanted to write a song for her.
It was with obvious pride that she mentioned that "Philadelphia Freedom" made it to #1 on the charts, but she said Elton's greatest pride was that it made it to #1 on the R & B charts.
Sensing only a vague reaction from the students, BJK suggested, "Look it up on your little Spotify!"
And then, like a video director's dream, the music for "Philadelphia Freedom" started playing overhead and two VCU students with baskets of tennis balls appeared behind her and Billie Jean King began hitting autographed tennis balls into the frenzied crowd as scores of middle-aged women tried their creaky best to snatch a flying green ball out of mid-air.
Since I have zero hand/eye coordination, trying to snag a ball was never a consideration, so instead I stood among the flailing arms and watched the effortless motion of this woman's arm where the racket was nothing more than an extension of her hand as she hit 4 or 5 dozen balls into the stands while Elton John blared all around me.
I soaked it in as completely as I could and then walked a half mile home to call my friend and tell her what I'd just experienced for both of us. Like me, BJK represents a very specific era of our lives for her, so before long, we were going down the rabbit hole to those days.
What's curious is that each of us has become the repository for different aspects of our shared history.
She recalls visiting my tiny Dupont Circle apartment on 21st Street, where I showed her the window that looked out on the cute gay couple's bathroom, in case we wanted to ogle a nice male form. Until she mentioned it, this bonus feature of that place had long since left my head.
I can still conjure up the disdain on her face, the hand on her hip, the complete condescension in her voice when she first laid eyes on me.
Long complimented for her exceptional listening skills, she tells me she only acquired them after we met because I was always telling her one story or another. In my head, she'd arrived from the west coast fully loaded with a sympathetic ear.
Not so, she assures me.
An hour into the conversation, she shares that she envies me my connection to a place, something she hasn't had in a couple decades now. "Your heart is in Richmond, Kare" she tells me about my conversion to being a Virginian. "You've always had a sense of place."
Have I? I point out that this has become my place only because I took a chance on moving here when I knew no one other than my mate. That I stayed because of the pace of life here, the cost of living, the quality of life. The old houses and the green spaces. The ability to craft the life you want without being a slave to it.
I sing Richmond's praises with abandon now that she has admitted she has no reason to remain where she is.
Then I play dirty, reminding her all my city has to offer. I just came from a free event seeing one of her idols talk (and even answer my own question) mere blocks from my house. Outstanding as such an evening might seem to someone languishing in an uninspired outpost, it's hardly out of the ordinary.
The campaign to get her here has begun, essential given that we can't go our entire lives waiting for the right time to live in the same state. It's not like we're going to live forever, despite what some people say about me. Fact is, you've got to choose where you want to live your life.
And as Billie Jean came to Richmond to remind us, relationships are everything.
Billie Jean King came to town, but this is really the story of a friendship that began in the mid '70s, right around the time that the legendary tennis player was showing herself to be a force to be reckoned with on many fronts.
An unlikely pair (and both Geminis, at that) who met during college, she was sporty and I was girly. She was athletically talented and I uncoordinated. She was a lifelong California girl, me, pure east coast. She hated me on sight.
Once we got past her youthful mis-perceptions, we became the yin to each other's yang, with sufficient shared enthusiasms to always make for a good ride. It was so comfortable that we knew early on we'd be lifelong friends.
Yet, somehow, we've lived in the same state for exactly two years. Or, more precisely, only two years.
We met, we had two wonderful years together and ever since, there have been multiple states in between us. Letters flew back and forth pre-Internet. Years would pass between visits, but we always reverted to instant familiarity.
Back when we met, she was an avid tennis player, even attempting fruitlessly to coach me in playing (I had no interest in the game, but coveted a cute strapless tennis dress) and naturally, BJK was a role model for what a woman could accomplish.
So when I walked over to the Seigel Center tonight to hear Billie Jean King speak as part of VCU's celebration of 40 years of LGBTQ activism, I knew my friend would have enthusiastically accompanied me if she weren't living in some far away Republican state.
Which is why when I chose a seat, I put my bag on the next seat as if I were saving it for someone, which I was, but more in spirit than reality. She'd have blended right in, too, because as the redhead in front of me observed looking around, "I expected it to be all middle-aged women."
My guess would be about 70%, but we're talking about an iconic '70s role model and women's rights activist, so that's hardly surprising. It would've been embarrassing if we hadn't represented.
After introductory remarks, we saw a video of photos, clips and sound bites (inexplicably set to the Rolling Stones and Dandy Warhols, and while the latter stole plenty of guitar riffs from the former, it's still an unlikely combination to soundtrack a tennis hero's bio), my main takeaway being how incredibly lithe, agile, fluid and altogether air-born she looked in so many of the old photographs.
Just as the video was ending, the woman who needed no introduction strode out smiling, looking 73-year old fabulous in sassy red glasses and a fuchsia jacket over black pants with her brown hair stylishly short.
Instant standing ovation. Just as instant, a fervent wish that my friend was here to experience it with me.
Taking to the stage, she began with a history of significant events in LGBTQ history, sort of a primer for those unaware, reminding us of the importance of history in our lives today.
She shared stories from her childhood about how her parents never pressured her or her brother about sports, yet both grew up to be professional athletes. "I think that's why my brother and I liked the pressure so much."
In fifth grade, Susan Williams asked her to play tennis and BJK had no idea what it was. After her second tennis lesson, she decided she wanted to be the best tennis player in the world.
In 1970, she and 8 other women signed $1 contracts to create the women's professional tennis league, with the vision that any girl who was good enough had a place to compete and could make a living playing tennis.
Helluva vision.
That's when the whole male chauvinist Bobby Riggs battle of the sexes nonsense started up and he wound up playing one of the nine women, trouncing her. BJK was next in his sites.
Here she paused in her talk to give some context to the time for the students in the audience.
"This was 1973. The war in Vietnam was winding down, but it never really did" - and here she deservedly scolded us as a nation for our treatment of returning Vietnam vets - "Watergate was just cranking up and a woman couldn't get a credit card in her own name, only her husband's!"
Audible millennial gasp from the crowd. Zinger from the star: "And why would they do that when they know how much we love to shop?"
And here's where she set their brains ablaze. "The first portable phone came out that year, just as most of us were switching from rotary to touch-tone phones, and it weighed 2 1/2 pounds, you could only talk on it for 30 minutes and in order to do so, you had to charge it for ten hours!"
There were two reactions from the younger set: either their eyes glazed over or they laughed out loud. The middle-aged women nodded.
"I told the others I had to play him! The match was about social justice, not a paycheck!" Can't you just see her getting all riled up, raising her tennis racket over her head like the Arthur Ashe statue on Monument Avenue?
Perched behind the podium was a racket and BJK wasn't ten minutes in before she picked it up and never put it back down, her security blanket, moving from hand to hand.
She stuck her fingers through the criss-cross pattern as she spoke about being publicly outed by an ex-lover in '81, causing her to lose all her endorsements overnight. Theirs was the first "galimony" lawsuit, yet her husband wouldn't give her a divorce. Her parents were homophobic and she hated the shame-based life she was leading.
I tell you what, this would have made a highly successful nighttime soap opera at the time.
Our shero ended with advice to millennials, which would probably serve all of us well:
Be a problem solver
Relationships are everything
Stay informed and keep learning
Be your authentic self
Fascinating as her talk was, it got even better afterward when she dismounted the stage and walked in front of the seats answering questions submitted by the audience.
Did she ever think she'd lose to Bobby Riggs? Every day, all day.
Asked about diversity, she said she prefers the term equality ("It's like the '70s, we used to talk about equality. It's back!") because it doesn't focus on our differences.
Her advice to women was to use their body by harnessing its abilities.
When my question (Why do you think so many college students today resist being labeled a feminist?), she answered, "I do not know why that is, but if you believe in equality, you are a feminist whether you're male or female."
I felt equal parts pleasure that my question was asked and satisfaction at her succinct rebuttal.
The last question was from the English-born director of VCU's humanities resource center, asking in his clipped accent about how she and Elton John met up. Turns out it was two weeks before the Riggs match at a party for the singer who, she learned, wanted to write a song for her.
It was with obvious pride that she mentioned that "Philadelphia Freedom" made it to #1 on the charts, but she said Elton's greatest pride was that it made it to #1 on the R & B charts.
Sensing only a vague reaction from the students, BJK suggested, "Look it up on your little Spotify!"
And then, like a video director's dream, the music for "Philadelphia Freedom" started playing overhead and two VCU students with baskets of tennis balls appeared behind her and Billie Jean King began hitting autographed tennis balls into the frenzied crowd as scores of middle-aged women tried their creaky best to snatch a flying green ball out of mid-air.
Since I have zero hand/eye coordination, trying to snag a ball was never a consideration, so instead I stood among the flailing arms and watched the effortless motion of this woman's arm where the racket was nothing more than an extension of her hand as she hit 4 or 5 dozen balls into the stands while Elton John blared all around me.
I soaked it in as completely as I could and then walked a half mile home to call my friend and tell her what I'd just experienced for both of us. Like me, BJK represents a very specific era of our lives for her, so before long, we were going down the rabbit hole to those days.
What's curious is that each of us has become the repository for different aspects of our shared history.
She recalls visiting my tiny Dupont Circle apartment on 21st Street, where I showed her the window that looked out on the cute gay couple's bathroom, in case we wanted to ogle a nice male form. Until she mentioned it, this bonus feature of that place had long since left my head.
I can still conjure up the disdain on her face, the hand on her hip, the complete condescension in her voice when she first laid eyes on me.
Long complimented for her exceptional listening skills, she tells me she only acquired them after we met because I was always telling her one story or another. In my head, she'd arrived from the west coast fully loaded with a sympathetic ear.
Not so, she assures me.
An hour into the conversation, she shares that she envies me my connection to a place, something she hasn't had in a couple decades now. "Your heart is in Richmond, Kare" she tells me about my conversion to being a Virginian. "You've always had a sense of place."
Have I? I point out that this has become my place only because I took a chance on moving here when I knew no one other than my mate. That I stayed because of the pace of life here, the cost of living, the quality of life. The old houses and the green spaces. The ability to craft the life you want without being a slave to it.
I sing Richmond's praises with abandon now that she has admitted she has no reason to remain where she is.
Then I play dirty, reminding her all my city has to offer. I just came from a free event seeing one of her idols talk (and even answer my own question) mere blocks from my house. Outstanding as such an evening might seem to someone languishing in an uninspired outpost, it's hardly out of the ordinary.
The campaign to get her here has begun, essential given that we can't go our entire lives waiting for the right time to live in the same state. It's not like we're going to live forever, despite what some people say about me. Fact is, you've got to choose where you want to live your life.
And as Billie Jean came to Richmond to remind us, relationships are everything.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Dancing in the Dark
So it turns out the naysayers might have been right.
Only a fool thinks you can return to the scene of the crime and not find the same intersection, even if the hurt and disappointment have been paved over.
Regular readers who've gone on record as saying that they don't enjoy my posts when I'm happy and giddy can rejoice.
Optimism has left the building, replaced by regret and melancholy.
Just when I thought I was finally done with all that.
But if my disconsolate posts please you, dear reader, I don't need to know about it.
And if you're waiting for me to tell you I'm happy to give you what you wanted, that's not going to happen, either.
Sometimes we get what we deserve. And sometimes we don't.
But I wouldn't wish sadness on anyone, least of all for the sake of a poignant read.
Only a fool thinks you can return to the scene of the crime and not find the same intersection, even if the hurt and disappointment have been paved over.
Regular readers who've gone on record as saying that they don't enjoy my posts when I'm happy and giddy can rejoice.
Optimism has left the building, replaced by regret and melancholy.
Just when I thought I was finally done with all that.
But if my disconsolate posts please you, dear reader, I don't need to know about it.
And if you're waiting for me to tell you I'm happy to give you what you wanted, that's not going to happen, either.
Sometimes we get what we deserve. And sometimes we don't.
But I wouldn't wish sadness on anyone, least of all for the sake of a poignant read.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Rainy Nights and Mondays
When Friday, Saturday or Sunday don't work out for friends to get together, there's always Monday. My friend had had the day from hell at work and I had prior commitments for every day she suggested us meeting this week and before you know it, tonight seemed like the perfect fallback.
With slim pickins for restaurants on Blue Monday, we defaulted to Lemaire. Open every day and with a guaranteed bar until midnight, it's the go-to place on off nights and times. The Discovery wine list has a nice selection of wine gems all under $30 and we always seem to find people eager to chat, so it's practically a no-brainer.
While waiting for her to arrive, a guy sat down near me and pondered what to order. I recommended the Berkshire pork chop, telling him that Paula Deen had ordered it when she'd come to Lemaire recently.
I didn't bother mentioning that they'd been out of it that day and she'd had to settle for her second choice. In any case, he took me at my word, thanking me later for steering him right on that big ole chop (enjoyed with two Dogfish 60-minute IPAs).
Another guy near him got the over-the-top barnyard burger ( sunny side up egg, bacon and duck foie gras sauce) and suggested I get a napkin and have part of it with him. Tempted as I was, I demurred. I can't share burgers with every strange man who asks.
My friend's hectic day and the rain had slowed down her arrival and by the time she sat down, she practically needed an IV for the bottle of Haras sauvignon blanc we ordered. She announced that tonight's topic was OPP (other people's problems) and proceeded to tell me some juicy ones.
I finally interrupted because while the wine was going down easily enough, I was starving. I had the hearts of romaine followed by the brandy peppercorn-dusted beef tartare with horseradish and she got the filet mignon burger with a side of black-eyed peas (the barnyard burger containing too many exotic components for her taste). Food finally!
Our bartender Mark, who had served us just a few weeks ago when we'd been in, came over to me at one point, beaming. "Beruit!" he told me with obvious satisfaction.
During my last visit, we'd had an extensive music chat and while trying to make a point, the name of the band he wanted to use as an example had escaped him. It had finally come back when he saw me and he shared it with obvious pride. Now we could finish our chat.
My friend was feeling better about her harried day after we ate, although still checking her phone far too often for my taste. We ordered the Barboursville Pinot Grigio, also off the Discovery list, and were finally getting to OLL (our love lives) when two smiling faces appeared unexpectedly next to my stool.
It was RVA's two best mixologists, Bobby from Julep and Arthur from Acacia, who'd come over to say hello and chat. I never get to see these two together (well, except at Bobby's housewarming party and that's a bit vague), so it was great fun to have them both in front of me at once.
Bobby has been promising me that he'll do a tequila tasting at Julep for months. At his high-end rum tasting a while back, customers were treated to some of the most inspired and obscure rums imaginable while Bobby cooked up delicious small plates to accompany each one.
I wanted to see the same done for my beloved tequilas and was thrilled to hear that it's finally going to happen ("Although you know more about tequila than I do," Bobby insisted.) He already has Arthur and me as confirmed guests, despite Arthur's smart-assed comment that "Tequila is the new vodka." Say it isn't so.
Once they went off to eat and watch football, my friend and I resumed our wine-fueled conversation. She's very much enjoying watching me start a process she began months ago, so I was peppered with suggestions about how to handle my new choices.
I may be out of practice, but I think I can figure it out as I go along. No fallback necessary.
With slim pickins for restaurants on Blue Monday, we defaulted to Lemaire. Open every day and with a guaranteed bar until midnight, it's the go-to place on off nights and times. The Discovery wine list has a nice selection of wine gems all under $30 and we always seem to find people eager to chat, so it's practically a no-brainer.
While waiting for her to arrive, a guy sat down near me and pondered what to order. I recommended the Berkshire pork chop, telling him that Paula Deen had ordered it when she'd come to Lemaire recently.
I didn't bother mentioning that they'd been out of it that day and she'd had to settle for her second choice. In any case, he took me at my word, thanking me later for steering him right on that big ole chop (enjoyed with two Dogfish 60-minute IPAs).
Another guy near him got the over-the-top barnyard burger ( sunny side up egg, bacon and duck foie gras sauce) and suggested I get a napkin and have part of it with him. Tempted as I was, I demurred. I can't share burgers with every strange man who asks.
My friend's hectic day and the rain had slowed down her arrival and by the time she sat down, she practically needed an IV for the bottle of Haras sauvignon blanc we ordered. She announced that tonight's topic was OPP (other people's problems) and proceeded to tell me some juicy ones.
I finally interrupted because while the wine was going down easily enough, I was starving. I had the hearts of romaine followed by the brandy peppercorn-dusted beef tartare with horseradish and she got the filet mignon burger with a side of black-eyed peas (the barnyard burger containing too many exotic components for her taste). Food finally!
Our bartender Mark, who had served us just a few weeks ago when we'd been in, came over to me at one point, beaming. "Beruit!" he told me with obvious satisfaction.
During my last visit, we'd had an extensive music chat and while trying to make a point, the name of the band he wanted to use as an example had escaped him. It had finally come back when he saw me and he shared it with obvious pride. Now we could finish our chat.
My friend was feeling better about her harried day after we ate, although still checking her phone far too often for my taste. We ordered the Barboursville Pinot Grigio, also off the Discovery list, and were finally getting to OLL (our love lives) when two smiling faces appeared unexpectedly next to my stool.
It was RVA's two best mixologists, Bobby from Julep and Arthur from Acacia, who'd come over to say hello and chat. I never get to see these two together (well, except at Bobby's housewarming party and that's a bit vague), so it was great fun to have them both in front of me at once.
Bobby has been promising me that he'll do a tequila tasting at Julep for months. At his high-end rum tasting a while back, customers were treated to some of the most inspired and obscure rums imaginable while Bobby cooked up delicious small plates to accompany each one.
I wanted to see the same done for my beloved tequilas and was thrilled to hear that it's finally going to happen ("Although you know more about tequila than I do," Bobby insisted.) He already has Arthur and me as confirmed guests, despite Arthur's smart-assed comment that "Tequila is the new vodka." Say it isn't so.
Once they went off to eat and watch football, my friend and I resumed our wine-fueled conversation. She's very much enjoying watching me start a process she began months ago, so I was peppered with suggestions about how to handle my new choices.
I may be out of practice, but I think I can figure it out as I go along. No fallback necessary.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Conch & Kibbie at Aziza's
"You've been given the gift of desperation."
Lunch today was a last minute invitation from a friend I used to see often, but who has far less free time these days because he's now coupled.
In fact, for the past year and a half, we saw so much of each other that his therapist finally told him that our friendship was holding back progress in his personal life (and here I thought we were just two friends hanging out). Oh, the guilt!
It seemed that my easy availability as a friend and companion delayed his motivation to jump back into the shark-infested waters of the dating pool; our friendship was enough to keep him from being lonely.
In spite of my insidious influence, though, he managed to find a great person, but we see far less of each other now.
So I was happy for the impromptu lunch invitation, especially when he suggested Aziza's, one of my personal favorites. I arrived and took a front table with a sunny view of Main Street's foot traffic.
The server recognized me, saying, "You've got lots of sisters, don't you?" Funny the stuff people remember about you.
I do, I told her and she said she'd met a girl at a party with my mannerisms and my coloring and she was sure she must be one of my sisters. Except that this girl lives in Richmond, unlike my sisters. And here I thought I was unique; yet another personal assumption shot to hell.
My friend sat down and we started choosing our meal components. When I saw conch salad on the menu, I was sold, ordering the black lentil salad to go with it. My friend copied my conch and got kibbie, too.
The conch salad tasted like something we should have been eating at a sunny beachside shack. A generous serving of conch was mixed with fennel, capers, celery greens, red onion, olive oil, lemon juice and red pepper flakes. The sunshine coming through the front window only made the experience that much better.
My black lentil salad was perfection, the lentils cooked to just the right degree of toothsomeness. Friend's kibbie, spiced with cumin and made with London broil rather than the traditional lamb, was making its way from his plate to mine. My fork might have had something to do with that.
We were pleased to learn from our server that, with notice, they will do kibbie without baking it, so we plan to come back soon and experience kibbie that's never seen an oven.
And because we're weak and we never go to Aziza's without getting a chocolate ganache-topped cream puff, we shared one while friend sipped espresso.
It was during our enjoyment of the puff that we got to talking about how I have no single friends left. Okay, I have three: one in North Dakota, one in Scotland and one in Milwaukee. A lot of good they do me.
Which means that even for a person such as me who likes to go out alone, I still have loads of time that could be enhanced with the sparkling company of someone other than the couple dates I've been gravitating toward.
This might seem patently obvious, except that I have spent the past 21 months, according to my friend, "closed off." Acknowledging that it was maybe time to change that (maybe), my friend got positively ebullient that I was even considering opening myself up.
That's when he told me I'd been given the gift of desperation (and, for the record, I laughed hysterically when he said this). So far as I could tell, it did not come gift-wrapped.
Hey, I'm just glad it finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either.
Lunch today was a last minute invitation from a friend I used to see often, but who has far less free time these days because he's now coupled.
In fact, for the past year and a half, we saw so much of each other that his therapist finally told him that our friendship was holding back progress in his personal life (and here I thought we were just two friends hanging out). Oh, the guilt!
It seemed that my easy availability as a friend and companion delayed his motivation to jump back into the shark-infested waters of the dating pool; our friendship was enough to keep him from being lonely.
In spite of my insidious influence, though, he managed to find a great person, but we see far less of each other now.
So I was happy for the impromptu lunch invitation, especially when he suggested Aziza's, one of my personal favorites. I arrived and took a front table with a sunny view of Main Street's foot traffic.
The server recognized me, saying, "You've got lots of sisters, don't you?" Funny the stuff people remember about you.
I do, I told her and she said she'd met a girl at a party with my mannerisms and my coloring and she was sure she must be one of my sisters. Except that this girl lives in Richmond, unlike my sisters. And here I thought I was unique; yet another personal assumption shot to hell.
My friend sat down and we started choosing our meal components. When I saw conch salad on the menu, I was sold, ordering the black lentil salad to go with it. My friend copied my conch and got kibbie, too.
The conch salad tasted like something we should have been eating at a sunny beachside shack. A generous serving of conch was mixed with fennel, capers, celery greens, red onion, olive oil, lemon juice and red pepper flakes. The sunshine coming through the front window only made the experience that much better.
My black lentil salad was perfection, the lentils cooked to just the right degree of toothsomeness. Friend's kibbie, spiced with cumin and made with London broil rather than the traditional lamb, was making its way from his plate to mine. My fork might have had something to do with that.
We were pleased to learn from our server that, with notice, they will do kibbie without baking it, so we plan to come back soon and experience kibbie that's never seen an oven.
And because we're weak and we never go to Aziza's without getting a chocolate ganache-topped cream puff, we shared one while friend sipped espresso.
It was during our enjoyment of the puff that we got to talking about how I have no single friends left. Okay, I have three: one in North Dakota, one in Scotland and one in Milwaukee. A lot of good they do me.
Which means that even for a person such as me who likes to go out alone, I still have loads of time that could be enhanced with the sparkling company of someone other than the couple dates I've been gravitating toward.
This might seem patently obvious, except that I have spent the past 21 months, according to my friend, "closed off." Acknowledging that it was maybe time to change that (maybe), my friend got positively ebullient that I was even considering opening myself up.
That's when he told me I'd been given the gift of desperation (and, for the record, I laughed hysterically when he said this). So far as I could tell, it did not come gift-wrapped.
Hey, I'm just glad it finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Helluva Wake
Once upon a time I met a guy named Andrew and nothing happened. Oh, we worked together and had bland conversations, but that was about it. And then we drove to Ashland one fine day and discovered our mutual music obsession...that and our shared love of people watching and commenting. A friendship was born.
He was the first person I ever knew who blogged, so I started reading his music blog. But Andrew, unlike me, is quiet and sort of reserved. He's not effusive or the complimentary type. I had to presume that he appreciated me because we've continued to hang out for over three years.
Well, I don't have to presume anymore. Andrew gave me my absolute favorite gift: words. Forget jewelry, clothing or anything that comes from a mall; I'd rather a friend or loved one wrote me a note, letter or e-mail than anything else in the world. And I've always been that way.
And Andrew has gone and done just that. Oh sure, I may have teased him a lot lately about the fact that he never says anything complimentary directly to me. But he knows that the way I show affection for friends is to tease them and give them a hard time, sometimes even employing sarcasm (No!) and he wrote about me anyway, here.
And not only wrote about me, but included a link to my namesake song by a favorite band, surely a nod to our shared bond.
He left out a few memorable moments (like the glow-stick dance party at the Plushgun show at Alley Katz), but maybe that's because we have so many great memories together.
So yes, Andrew, we're even for the moment. But you have to promise to read that e-mail at my wake (P.S: I'll be burnt up, so there won't be a body to be a buzz kill) and read it like you mean it.
I'm only sorry I won't be there to hear you do it, but then I'm sorry I won't be there to witness all of my friends and loved ones sharing stories about me. All the different Karens are going to be revealed, for better or for worse, and some of you are going to be shocked and appalled (and delighted) when you hear what some of the others know of me.
Should be a good time.
He was the first person I ever knew who blogged, so I started reading his music blog. But Andrew, unlike me, is quiet and sort of reserved. He's not effusive or the complimentary type. I had to presume that he appreciated me because we've continued to hang out for over three years.
Well, I don't have to presume anymore. Andrew gave me my absolute favorite gift: words. Forget jewelry, clothing or anything that comes from a mall; I'd rather a friend or loved one wrote me a note, letter or e-mail than anything else in the world. And I've always been that way.
And Andrew has gone and done just that. Oh sure, I may have teased him a lot lately about the fact that he never says anything complimentary directly to me. But he knows that the way I show affection for friends is to tease them and give them a hard time, sometimes even employing sarcasm (No!) and he wrote about me anyway, here.
And not only wrote about me, but included a link to my namesake song by a favorite band, surely a nod to our shared bond.
He left out a few memorable moments (like the glow-stick dance party at the Plushgun show at Alley Katz), but maybe that's because we have so many great memories together.
So yes, Andrew, we're even for the moment. But you have to promise to read that e-mail at my wake (P.S: I'll be burnt up, so there won't be a body to be a buzz kill) and read it like you mean it.
I'm only sorry I won't be there to hear you do it, but then I'm sorry I won't be there to witness all of my friends and loved ones sharing stories about me. All the different Karens are going to be revealed, for better or for worse, and some of you are going to be shocked and appalled (and delighted) when you hear what some of the others know of me.
Should be a good time.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Second Date Brilliance
I went out tonight to shore up a friend who is having a career crisis. Oh yes, and a new relationship crisis (that part's a bit tough for me to relate to, but that's fine). She was feeling down about the negative possibilities of both and needed someone to listen and tell her everything is going to be all right.
And the fact is, I do think both issues will resolve themselves and she'll be just fine. That may be why my friend Danny calls me Pollyana, but I'm okay with that. Worrying never solved anything.
So we went to Six Burner because she hadn't been there in a couple of years. It's not really her kind of place because she's an incredibly picky eater, but it was her suggestion.
Mike, the new bartender greeted me warmly and introduced himself to her, and then was cut because it was a slow night ("I'm the new guy...last in, first out," he shrugged). He looked pretty disappointed to have finally gotten some company only to lose it.
But we soldiered on with a bottle of the Allan Scott Family Sauvignon Blanc (her choice), although the only thing she could find on the menu that appealed to her was the squash gazpacho. I don't even give her a hard time about her finicky taste anymore; she's the one who's missing out.
I ordered the crispy pork belly, slaw, and Thai-style BBQ sauce with no problem whatsoever. I gave her a bite and she actually liked the BBQ sauce, but was appalled at the layer of visible fat. Of course, she's the same person who'll eat an entire rib-eye without batting an eye about fat. And just to be obnoxious, I followed that with chocolate mousse (the bowl was larger than the soup bowl. It was an enormous chocolate mousse).
After a while listening to her predictions of doom and gloom about the wonderful-sounding new guy she's seeing, I decided she needed a distraction. Or maybe I was just tired of hearing such negativity.
So I did something I rarely do. I started offering up information about my past. We've been friends for a year or so, but we usually talk about her life . So I decided to tell her about my first adult relationship (okay, I was nineteen but I thought I was an adult...and he was 28).
On our second date, this boyfriend-to-be showed up with three sets of tickets. One pair was for the National Symphony the following month, the second pair was for the Washington Ballet the month after that and the third pair was for Equus at the Kennedy Center three months out.
How brilliant was that? By getting me to accept, he'd ensured that I'd be seeing him for at least the next few months.
Telling this old story to my friend tonight transformed her. According to her, it was the most romantic gesture she'd ever heard of, unimaginable even. Not only had he paid attention well enough on the first date to ascertain some of my interests, but he'd gambled on offering the tickets as a way to establish that we had some sort of future, at least short-term.
Well, this story so enthralled her that she stopped her descent into Sadville and asked for more, pointing out that I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about myself during the course of our friendship. It's true and it's a complaint I've heard before, but I hate to presume people are interested in that kind of stuff.
After a couple more anecdotes from my past, we looked up to find that we were the last customers and paid up so the staff could leave. My friend's mood was so much better than when we'd arrived, so I felt like I'd helped her in some odd way.
Or maybe I'd just given her something new to obsess about. The last thing she said as we stood outside saying goodbye was, "Where is this guy now? Do you think he's available? I think he might be my soul mate!"
And of course, I have absolutely no idea where he is anymore, although it occurred to me as I walked away that today is his birthday (making him my first Virgo).
So to Curt, wherever you are, happy birthday. And nice job on those second-date tickets. I'm not sure the 19-year old Karen fully appreciated the romantic brilliance of your gesture.
And if you're single, I have a friend you might want to meet...
And the fact is, I do think both issues will resolve themselves and she'll be just fine. That may be why my friend Danny calls me Pollyana, but I'm okay with that. Worrying never solved anything.
So we went to Six Burner because she hadn't been there in a couple of years. It's not really her kind of place because she's an incredibly picky eater, but it was her suggestion.
Mike, the new bartender greeted me warmly and introduced himself to her, and then was cut because it was a slow night ("I'm the new guy...last in, first out," he shrugged). He looked pretty disappointed to have finally gotten some company only to lose it.
But we soldiered on with a bottle of the Allan Scott Family Sauvignon Blanc (her choice), although the only thing she could find on the menu that appealed to her was the squash gazpacho. I don't even give her a hard time about her finicky taste anymore; she's the one who's missing out.
I ordered the crispy pork belly, slaw, and Thai-style BBQ sauce with no problem whatsoever. I gave her a bite and she actually liked the BBQ sauce, but was appalled at the layer of visible fat. Of course, she's the same person who'll eat an entire rib-eye without batting an eye about fat. And just to be obnoxious, I followed that with chocolate mousse (the bowl was larger than the soup bowl. It was an enormous chocolate mousse).
After a while listening to her predictions of doom and gloom about the wonderful-sounding new guy she's seeing, I decided she needed a distraction. Or maybe I was just tired of hearing such negativity.
So I did something I rarely do. I started offering up information about my past. We've been friends for a year or so, but we usually talk about her life . So I decided to tell her about my first adult relationship (okay, I was nineteen but I thought I was an adult...and he was 28).
On our second date, this boyfriend-to-be showed up with three sets of tickets. One pair was for the National Symphony the following month, the second pair was for the Washington Ballet the month after that and the third pair was for Equus at the Kennedy Center three months out.
How brilliant was that? By getting me to accept, he'd ensured that I'd be seeing him for at least the next few months.
Telling this old story to my friend tonight transformed her. According to her, it was the most romantic gesture she'd ever heard of, unimaginable even. Not only had he paid attention well enough on the first date to ascertain some of my interests, but he'd gambled on offering the tickets as a way to establish that we had some sort of future, at least short-term.
Well, this story so enthralled her that she stopped her descent into Sadville and asked for more, pointing out that I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about myself during the course of our friendship. It's true and it's a complaint I've heard before, but I hate to presume people are interested in that kind of stuff.
After a couple more anecdotes from my past, we looked up to find that we were the last customers and paid up so the staff could leave. My friend's mood was so much better than when we'd arrived, so I felt like I'd helped her in some odd way.
Or maybe I'd just given her something new to obsess about. The last thing she said as we stood outside saying goodbye was, "Where is this guy now? Do you think he's available? I think he might be my soul mate!"
And of course, I have absolutely no idea where he is anymore, although it occurred to me as I walked away that today is his birthday (making him my first Virgo).
So to Curt, wherever you are, happy birthday. And nice job on those second-date tickets. I'm not sure the 19-year old Karen fully appreciated the romantic brilliance of your gesture.
And if you're single, I have a friend you might want to meet...
Monday, September 6, 2010
Southern Exposure
I lucked out because a friend had invited me to dinner last night and when I said I couldn't make it because of the Al Green show, he invited me for tonight instead. My host-to-be was the bialy-pushing Gregg, one of the husbands I've been known to appropriate for an evening out, here.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tales of Love at Kenn-Tico
In the past three weeks, three close friends who, like me, have been uninvolved for quite a while have found themselves not so single anymore. It's almost like there's a bug going around and everyone around me is catching it. Except, of course, that it's a good bug because they're all incredibly happy.
The latest love story I heard about at lunch today. A friend and I had made plans previously to have lunch today and do something fun afterwards. But this morning he'd called and changed it to just lunch, saying that he was beat because he hasn't been sleeping well the past few nights.
Concerned, the first thing I asked him when he picked me up was why he wasn't sleeping. That's when I learned of his recent whirlwind romance with all the accompanying benefits, including late nights and little sleep. He was also, I might add, grinning ear to ear. As soon as we finished eating, he intended to take a nap to make up for lost sleep. How cute is that?
Fortunately he still felt up to eating (or maybe just needed to replenish his energy expenditures) so we decided to try the new Cuban place on Grace Street. Kenn-Tico. We weren't the only ones by any means; the place welcomed a steady stream of customers during the hour and a half we were there. The decor was simple with a huge panoramic picture of Havana's harbor; we took a window table to enjoy the street theater and the harbor view.
With a Cuban place, I think you have to start by assessing their pork before trying anything fancier. Accordingly, I started with the Pan con Lechon, marinated slow-roasted pork, pulled from the bone with grilled onions on hot Cuban bread. My friend couldn't resist the allure of pig three ways, so he got the Cubano Especial with sliced pork, ham, Chorizo, mustard and pickles. Both came with a mound of shoestring fries.
My pork was nicely done but the huge sandwich was more than I could manage. My love-struck friend only finished half of his, too, He had thoughtfully carved off a sample of his and placed it in my basket, saying, "I know how you love Chorizo." It was decadent with all that pig, so of course I liked it. When it was boxing-up time, I donated my remaining half to my friend.
With all the new activity and late nights of his recent love life, the man needs to keep up his stamina. I'm happy to contribute to the cause.
I may not be ready for a love life, but clearly he is. That's a cause I'm happy to get behind.
The latest love story I heard about at lunch today. A friend and I had made plans previously to have lunch today and do something fun afterwards. But this morning he'd called and changed it to just lunch, saying that he was beat because he hasn't been sleeping well the past few nights.
Concerned, the first thing I asked him when he picked me up was why he wasn't sleeping. That's when I learned of his recent whirlwind romance with all the accompanying benefits, including late nights and little sleep. He was also, I might add, grinning ear to ear. As soon as we finished eating, he intended to take a nap to make up for lost sleep. How cute is that?
Fortunately he still felt up to eating (or maybe just needed to replenish his energy expenditures) so we decided to try the new Cuban place on Grace Street. Kenn-Tico. We weren't the only ones by any means; the place welcomed a steady stream of customers during the hour and a half we were there. The decor was simple with a huge panoramic picture of Havana's harbor; we took a window table to enjoy the street theater and the harbor view.
With a Cuban place, I think you have to start by assessing their pork before trying anything fancier. Accordingly, I started with the Pan con Lechon, marinated slow-roasted pork, pulled from the bone with grilled onions on hot Cuban bread. My friend couldn't resist the allure of pig three ways, so he got the Cubano Especial with sliced pork, ham, Chorizo, mustard and pickles. Both came with a mound of shoestring fries.
My pork was nicely done but the huge sandwich was more than I could manage. My love-struck friend only finished half of his, too, He had thoughtfully carved off a sample of his and placed it in my basket, saying, "I know how you love Chorizo." It was decadent with all that pig, so of course I liked it. When it was boxing-up time, I donated my remaining half to my friend.
With all the new activity and late nights of his recent love life, the man needs to keep up his stamina. I'm happy to contribute to the cause.
I may not be ready for a love life, but clearly he is. That's a cause I'm happy to get behind.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Some Enchanted Evening
Tonight was one of those nights where the company was so good that we could have been anywhere and had a rollicking good time.
It was the inaugural outing for my bialy-pushing friend Gregg, the girlfriend I would marry if she were a man and Mac the Magnificent, one of my absolute favorite chefs in RVA.
We were a foursome to be reckoned with.
For reasons I won't go into, we decided to meet at Bellytimber.
We ordered a lot of food: romaine salad, sweet potato tots, torta (this one was my choice: Logan's hot chorizo, queso blanca, black beans, avocado, pico de gallo and lettuce on a house made roll), red curry shrimp pizza with cilantro and mint, duck confit pizza with red onions, cheddar, cilantro and hoison sauce and one of tonight's specials, chicken tamales with corn salsa.
Everyone tasted everything just to have an opinion for discussion's sake.
We were a bit limited in our drinking because they were out of good tequila (to my amazement and disappointment) and the white wine list consisted of two chardonnays, a sauvignon blanc and a pinot grigio.
Sadly, the music was so low as to be inaudible.
But the company was outstanding, with talk of a recent wine outing (look at me! I'm bottling wine!), an out-of-this world meal at the Ashby Inn in Paris, VA (the hot and cold cucumber shot alone was worth hearing about twice) and more food talk than most people would consider normal...or care to subject themselves to.
'
From there we walked the two blocks to Six Burner where we were enthusiastically greeted and all was made right with the world.
We were immediately treated to two enormous bowls of chocolate mousse to make up for the recent past and happily found that the featured white wine was a Portuguese Vino Verdhe.
Martinis were bruised, Meyer's Rum made drinks brown (ah, youth, mine at least) and the Portuguese ruled.
Life was good again.
We got into a foodie discussion with a nearby couple because the woman said she ate absolutely everything...except beets.
The men in our party did their best to make serving suggestions, but she wasn't budging on her beet hate.
As her mate said, "In all these years, I've never seen a beet cross her lips."
Clearly our cooking-savvy men were not going to change her mind about beets tasting like gasoline. End of beet discussion.
When we finally broke camp, it was only because we were the only non-staff members in the bar.
This get-together had been months in the making but once in progress, we all agreed that it must become a regular event.
Our senses of humor mesh beautifully and our interest in food/restaurant talk could not be tolerated by most others, so we ended up being the perfect quartet.
And not to be underestimated are the pleasures of a boy, girl, boy girl evening.
No matter which way I turned, there was always someone offering me great conversation or a witty bon mot.
Even the insincere compliments, and there were many, were worth hearing. My blue dress and I can take what you dish out.
I think I may have just joined my first mutual admiration society.
It was the inaugural outing for my bialy-pushing friend Gregg, the girlfriend I would marry if she were a man and Mac the Magnificent, one of my absolute favorite chefs in RVA.
We were a foursome to be reckoned with.
For reasons I won't go into, we decided to meet at Bellytimber.
We ordered a lot of food: romaine salad, sweet potato tots, torta (this one was my choice: Logan's hot chorizo, queso blanca, black beans, avocado, pico de gallo and lettuce on a house made roll), red curry shrimp pizza with cilantro and mint, duck confit pizza with red onions, cheddar, cilantro and hoison sauce and one of tonight's specials, chicken tamales with corn salsa.
Everyone tasted everything just to have an opinion for discussion's sake.
We were a bit limited in our drinking because they were out of good tequila (to my amazement and disappointment) and the white wine list consisted of two chardonnays, a sauvignon blanc and a pinot grigio.
Sadly, the music was so low as to be inaudible.
But the company was outstanding, with talk of a recent wine outing (look at me! I'm bottling wine!), an out-of-this world meal at the Ashby Inn in Paris, VA (the hot and cold cucumber shot alone was worth hearing about twice) and more food talk than most people would consider normal...or care to subject themselves to.
'
From there we walked the two blocks to Six Burner where we were enthusiastically greeted and all was made right with the world.
We were immediately treated to two enormous bowls of chocolate mousse to make up for the recent past and happily found that the featured white wine was a Portuguese Vino Verdhe.
Martinis were bruised, Meyer's Rum made drinks brown (ah, youth, mine at least) and the Portuguese ruled.
Life was good again.
We got into a foodie discussion with a nearby couple because the woman said she ate absolutely everything...except beets.
The men in our party did their best to make serving suggestions, but she wasn't budging on her beet hate.
As her mate said, "In all these years, I've never seen a beet cross her lips."
Clearly our cooking-savvy men were not going to change her mind about beets tasting like gasoline. End of beet discussion.
When we finally broke camp, it was only because we were the only non-staff members in the bar.
This get-together had been months in the making but once in progress, we all agreed that it must become a regular event.
Our senses of humor mesh beautifully and our interest in food/restaurant talk could not be tolerated by most others, so we ended up being the perfect quartet.
And not to be underestimated are the pleasures of a boy, girl, boy girl evening.
No matter which way I turned, there was always someone offering me great conversation or a witty bon mot.
Even the insincere compliments, and there were many, were worth hearing. My blue dress and I can take what you dish out.
I think I may have just joined my first mutual admiration society.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Hollywood Cemetery in the Hot, Hot Heat
The Richmond restaurant world is almost as incestuous as its musical world; you're likely to see a member of either group at another place or in another configuration somewhere.
So it was that on walking into Perly's today that the waitress eating at the end of the bar looks up and says, "Hi, Karen."
It's not that I go in Perly's often, because I don't, but I actually know the waitress from the Belvidere.
Later as I'm leaving, I hear a voice from the corner table, "Hey, Karen!"
It's a fellow Census worker and waitress from Tarrant's. It's 11:45 in the morning and the familiar faces are everywhere.
I ordered a turkey sandwich because their menu said that they roast their own turkey (I asked to verify), but it can't compare to the turkey sandwich at Comfort, which I had just last week.
Ideally, I want big, irregularly-shaped chucks of turkey to mimic a day-after-Thanksgiving Day turkey sandwich; Comfort gives me that, but Perly's doesn't.
Still, it's a perfectly fine turkey sandwich, with chips on the side, another post-Turkey Day requirement. I'm satisfied.
I am having lunch with my long-time friend from Williamsburg, here, and it's good hearing his stories after so long; he was in radio forever so he has a Voice with a capital V.
We couldn't be more opposed politically, but we have plenty to talk about without that (and I do try to avoid it).
And in all the years I've had lunch with him, I've never seen him eat anything except either eggs and sausage or a hamburger with fries and mayo.
He's an odd one, but unusual in a fascinating sort of way. He calls himself "the last of his kind" which may very well be true for a host of reasons.
Afterwards we went to Hollywood Cemetery, a favorite place of his and one he hadn't visited in several years.
Because of the heat and his health, we drove it rather than walked it, parking periodically under a shady tree to roll down the windows, admire the view and chat.
We could see all the people sunning themselves on the rocks and enjoying the water at Belle Isle.
I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that at least a few of them were restaurant workers I know, but it was too hot to walk over there and find out.
And no one was shouting, "Hey Karen" from across the river.
So the last of his kind and I stayed in the shade, amongst the past, talking about the present and hoping the best for the future.
So it was that on walking into Perly's today that the waitress eating at the end of the bar looks up and says, "Hi, Karen."
It's not that I go in Perly's often, because I don't, but I actually know the waitress from the Belvidere.
Later as I'm leaving, I hear a voice from the corner table, "Hey, Karen!"
It's a fellow Census worker and waitress from Tarrant's. It's 11:45 in the morning and the familiar faces are everywhere.
I ordered a turkey sandwich because their menu said that they roast their own turkey (I asked to verify), but it can't compare to the turkey sandwich at Comfort, which I had just last week.
Ideally, I want big, irregularly-shaped chucks of turkey to mimic a day-after-Thanksgiving Day turkey sandwich; Comfort gives me that, but Perly's doesn't.
Still, it's a perfectly fine turkey sandwich, with chips on the side, another post-Turkey Day requirement. I'm satisfied.
I am having lunch with my long-time friend from Williamsburg, here, and it's good hearing his stories after so long; he was in radio forever so he has a Voice with a capital V.
We couldn't be more opposed politically, but we have plenty to talk about without that (and I do try to avoid it).
And in all the years I've had lunch with him, I've never seen him eat anything except either eggs and sausage or a hamburger with fries and mayo.
He's an odd one, but unusual in a fascinating sort of way. He calls himself "the last of his kind" which may very well be true for a host of reasons.
Afterwards we went to Hollywood Cemetery, a favorite place of his and one he hadn't visited in several years.
Because of the heat and his health, we drove it rather than walked it, parking periodically under a shady tree to roll down the windows, admire the view and chat.
We could see all the people sunning themselves on the rocks and enjoying the water at Belle Isle.
I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that at least a few of them were restaurant workers I know, but it was too hot to walk over there and find out.
And no one was shouting, "Hey Karen" from across the river.
So the last of his kind and I stayed in the shade, amongst the past, talking about the present and hoping the best for the future.
Friday, June 11, 2010
I Will Miss His Frequency
Old friends are best. King James used to call for his old shoes; they were easiest to his feet.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
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