He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking. ~ Leo Tolstoy "Anna Karenina"
Because that's what girlfriends do, they discuss the language (or absence) of romance when they meet for dinner. She got to the Roosevelt first and I joined her at the bar, bemoaning the fact that it had been far too long since we last met up.
She took one look at my skirt and said, "You are wearing two pairs of tights, right?" Fleece leggings under tights, yes, ma'am. A good friend checks to be sure.
Scanning the wine list, we sought something that neither of us had ever had before, deciding on the 2011 Stinson Vineyards Tannat. Although I'd visited the winery in January two years ago, the Tannat had not yet been available, although what had stuck with me was that winemaker extraordinaire Gabriele Rausse had planted the first vines there 40 years earlier.
It was a big wine, with a nose of blueberry and a peppery finish, a fine choice to sip as we got caught up amid the clamor and bustle of a busy dining room on a cold night.
While it had been a while since I've eaten at the Roosevelt, it didn't take many bites of my arugula salad to remind me what I'd been missing. Topped with fennel, beets, country ham, bleu cheese and buttermilk dressing, the abundant salad kept me busy while my friend shared gossip, cold weather woes and fashion secrets.
She had on a fabulous fashion statement of a necklace, something I wouldn't even attempt, and I envied her ability to pull it off so well.
While she went with the bone-in Berkshire pork chop (sharing a few heavenly bites with me), I chose local lamb neck ragout over fregola with pickled onion and mint. On a chilly night, the earthy lamb over nutty pasta made for a hearty, comforting dish, just what the Roosevelt does best.
When I inquired of the bartender where he'd eaten well lately, his response was, "I had a religious experience at Metzger last week." While I'd fallen hard for the liverwurst, his downfall had been the lamb three ways (because who can resist lamb belly?) which was still haunting his dreams.
At the end of the bar, a couple seemed to be struggling with conversation. Only after they left did we learn that they'd been on a Tinder date, one hindered by him arriving totally drunk and then having four rounds. This had so unhinged the girl that she'd gotten testy, accusing a server who was staring into space of ogling her.
Whoever thought that swiping right was a good way to begin a relationship should have seen the look on the faces of these two as they struggled through a pseudo-date. Such a waste of time.
Not so our get-together, where we chatted about our devotion to John Currence, our indifference to Elvis and our latest cooking accomplishments (my ragout, her paprikash). There aren't many women I discuss cooking with, but she's one.
Three hours in, she began to fade, no doubt attributable to an early morning wake-up call, causing her to push the last of the bottle of Tannat in my direction before heading home.
So what am I going to do with the end of a bottle and no friend? Oh, please. It took about five minutes for a guy to come in and sit down at the bar near me before I had fresh conversation.
After asking about spirits, he said, "Nobody has Chivas in this town," but was seduced anyway into trying Virginia Highland malt whiskey by the savvy bartender. But I had all the information I needed to start talking.
His reference to "this town" meant he wasn't from around here, so where did he live, I wanted to know. Shanghai, it turns out, but he's here on vacation (and escaping Chinese New Year) visiting his parents. Within moments, his father showed up after parking the car.
Dad wasted no time in extending his hand and introducing himself, unlike his son, and he turned out to be a delightful fellow.They'd just come from Dutch & Co, so we discussed food for a bit - Edo's, Lehja, Nora Lebanese - during which he let slip that he was in the music business.
Opening #2. How so? Turns out his career had consisted of making the percussion devices that strike things such as drums and xylophones. He grabbed a long cocktail mixer to demonstrate the kind of sticks and mallets he makes.
Coincidentally, at the table behind us was big band leader Samson Trinh from whom my new friend had taken ukulele lessons. It's a small world in Richmond.
Along about then, the bartender looks at the visitors, raises an eyebrow and asks, "Is she bothering you gentlemen?"
"Yes, she's bothering me and no, don't make her stop," he responded, extending our conversation to my work, my neighborhood and my history. His son sat there, apparently bored by us, saying little, although he admitted to liking the Virginia Highland.
By the time I finished my wine, they'd finished their whiskeys and another satisfying night begun with a friend had ended in the hands of a stranger. As I left, the kitchen guys smoking on the porch outside gave me one last laugh before heading into the Church Hill night.
Language wins every time. Romantic language, even better.
She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.~
J.D. Salinger "A Girl I Knew"
Showing posts with label gabriele rausse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gabriele rausse. Show all posts
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Welcome, Spring
Sometimes the best plan is no plan at all.
It was the rare evening with no performance, no place to be at a certain time, no must-do. A luxury, time-wise.
With the temperature hovering at ninety degrees, I headed to Bistro 27 to see what trouble I could find.
First off, a glass of happy hour $4 wine, namely my favorite Gavi to whet my whistle on a day that felt more June-like than April fourth.
Sitting at the bar was a handsome man I'd met at a birthday party last year and I was flattered when he remembered my name.
We were soon joined by another of my random acquaintances, this one an art-lover with a talent for musical theater whom I'd met at 27 last Fall.
He had the new "Style Weekly," so we discussed my piece on the billboard art project, essentially saving him the trouble of reading it by hearing even more about it in person.
Sadly, it's true; I can go on and on.
But luckily, he's an art lover, too, so we moved on from billboard art to French photography and promised that we'd meet up at the museum soon.
Then it was on to meet a fellow Roosevelt lover and go to dinner once we covered the subject of rankling.
We were both in the mood for my favorite Church Hill establishment, but less sure about arriving close to 8:00 and finding bar stools.
It worked out fine because the apparent combination of a very warm day and later light has distracted people from early dining.
Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris made for the ideal start because nothing says easy drinking summer wine like white pinot noir.
An appetizer special of scallop carpaccio with an apple radish slaw and bacon-lemon vinaigrette knocked our socks off with its delicately nuanced flavors and the silky mouthfeel of the scallops.
It was accompanied by rollicking New Orleans-style dance music that had my fellow eater commenting, "It's a good thing you don't dance."
And of course I do, I have, but not at the Roosevelt.
I can now say that Spring has officially arrived because of what I had for dinner tonight.
It was another special, this time an entree of a soft shelled crab with sausage, butterbeans and rice.
Oh, yes, it's the fourth day of April and I was eating both softshells and butterbeans.
I can safely say that I have never had either this early in the season. And yet both tasted like they were at peak perfection.
The sausage added some spice to the meaty and fork-tender crab and the enormous butterbeans were positively swoon-worthy.
Okay, maybe not for everybody, but as someone who didn't get butterbeans growing up (my mother thought they tasted like paste and refused to serve them to us), I still savor them every time I can get them.
They're such a big deal to me that part of my annual trek to the beach includes stopping for them at a roadside stand on the way down so that I can eat them all week long while I'm there.
When it came time for dessert, we were made an offer we couldn't refuse - new desserts on trial.
So in the interest of helping the Roosevelt critique some new sweet offerings, we graciously assented to trying out two of the new three.
The Tyler pie was a custard pie, delicately flavored and, according to my companion, much like a traditional Italian Easter cake.
All I know is that it would appeal to even a non-dessert lover and paired beautifully with King Family's Loreley.
As luck would have it, we got the last glass of Loreley, which necessitated a switch to King Family's Seven to pair with the pecan pie.
Made in the traditional Porto style with 100% Merlot and fortified with brandy, it made for the best pecan pie of my life.
Don't get me wrong, pecan pie is all well and good, but the combination of its dark richness and the depth of the Seven made my vote for the pecan pie a shoe-in.
As long, I was adamant about making clear, as they didn't take the coconut cake off the menu.
It's not just my love of coconut cake, but at this point that cake is practically a heritage item on the menu and needs to remain for the ages.
I mean, if you're going to ask my opinion on desserts, I'm going to have lots to say.
As opposed to any other time. Especially on a night where I didn't have anywhere to go or anything in particular to do.
It might be my new favorite plan.
It was the rare evening with no performance, no place to be at a certain time, no must-do. A luxury, time-wise.
With the temperature hovering at ninety degrees, I headed to Bistro 27 to see what trouble I could find.
First off, a glass of happy hour $4 wine, namely my favorite Gavi to whet my whistle on a day that felt more June-like than April fourth.
Sitting at the bar was a handsome man I'd met at a birthday party last year and I was flattered when he remembered my name.
We were soon joined by another of my random acquaintances, this one an art-lover with a talent for musical theater whom I'd met at 27 last Fall.
He had the new "Style Weekly," so we discussed my piece on the billboard art project, essentially saving him the trouble of reading it by hearing even more about it in person.
Sadly, it's true; I can go on and on.
But luckily, he's an art lover, too, so we moved on from billboard art to French photography and promised that we'd meet up at the museum soon.
Then it was on to meet a fellow Roosevelt lover and go to dinner once we covered the subject of rankling.
We were both in the mood for my favorite Church Hill establishment, but less sure about arriving close to 8:00 and finding bar stools.
It worked out fine because the apparent combination of a very warm day and later light has distracted people from early dining.
Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris made for the ideal start because nothing says easy drinking summer wine like white pinot noir.
An appetizer special of scallop carpaccio with an apple radish slaw and bacon-lemon vinaigrette knocked our socks off with its delicately nuanced flavors and the silky mouthfeel of the scallops.
It was accompanied by rollicking New Orleans-style dance music that had my fellow eater commenting, "It's a good thing you don't dance."
And of course I do, I have, but not at the Roosevelt.
I can now say that Spring has officially arrived because of what I had for dinner tonight.
It was another special, this time an entree of a soft shelled crab with sausage, butterbeans and rice.
Oh, yes, it's the fourth day of April and I was eating both softshells and butterbeans.
I can safely say that I have never had either this early in the season. And yet both tasted like they were at peak perfection.
The sausage added some spice to the meaty and fork-tender crab and the enormous butterbeans were positively swoon-worthy.
Okay, maybe not for everybody, but as someone who didn't get butterbeans growing up (my mother thought they tasted like paste and refused to serve them to us), I still savor them every time I can get them.
They're such a big deal to me that part of my annual trek to the beach includes stopping for them at a roadside stand on the way down so that I can eat them all week long while I'm there.
When it came time for dessert, we were made an offer we couldn't refuse - new desserts on trial.
So in the interest of helping the Roosevelt critique some new sweet offerings, we graciously assented to trying out two of the new three.
The Tyler pie was a custard pie, delicately flavored and, according to my companion, much like a traditional Italian Easter cake.
All I know is that it would appeal to even a non-dessert lover and paired beautifully with King Family's Loreley.
As luck would have it, we got the last glass of Loreley, which necessitated a switch to King Family's Seven to pair with the pecan pie.
Made in the traditional Porto style with 100% Merlot and fortified with brandy, it made for the best pecan pie of my life.
Don't get me wrong, pecan pie is all well and good, but the combination of its dark richness and the depth of the Seven made my vote for the pecan pie a shoe-in.
As long, I was adamant about making clear, as they didn't take the coconut cake off the menu.
It's not just my love of coconut cake, but at this point that cake is practically a heritage item on the menu and needs to remain for the ages.
I mean, if you're going to ask my opinion on desserts, I'm going to have lots to say.
As opposed to any other time. Especially on a night where I didn't have anywhere to go or anything in particular to do.
It might be my new favorite plan.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Make Mine a Nebbiolo
For the third time in four years, I spent the afternoon pouring for strangers.
The Virginia Wine Expo is at the Convention Center, mere blocks from my house and an easy, if breezy, walk for me.
I'd been asked to pour for Gabrielle Rausse, Italian winemaker of some of my very favorite Virginia wines.
True, I'd have to smile at drunk people all day, but I also got to surprise people ("Wait, why isn't this Pinot Noir red?"), listen to their defiance ("How can you have a Malbec? There's no Malbecs in Virginia!") take compliments from people ("Whoa, look those amazing tights!") and confound them ("What do you mean there's no tasting room or website? How off the grid is that?").
How could an eccentric like me not be impressed with a winemaker not playing by everyone else's rules?
As you might expect, the first few hours are far saner than later in the day when people have their buzz on.
You can tell because after a while, some people just walk up and stick out their glass and say, "Gimme your fill-in-the-blank" instead of doing a full tasting.
You can also tell by the glazed eyes, but I don't want to judge. Much anyway.
And we're not even going to talk about the ones who wear their wine glass on a string around their necks.
But all that is mere comic dressing for the pleasure of pouring well-made wines while the winemaker stands next to me doing the same, but with an Italian accent.
And he was so good at working the crowd.
When a woman asked how he made such great wines, he responded, "I tried making bad wines and this was the result."
At one point he asked me about our mutual friend, the one who'd asked me to be a pourer today.
"How did you meet?" Gabriele asked me and I explained our Virginia wine connection.
"Well, you must be practically perfect because that's the only people he makes friends with," he told me.
Of course, that just solidified that Gabriele must be the same since they're friends, too.
And while I'm anything but, I am more than happy to be standing for six hours on a concrete floor conveying my enthusiasm for fabulous wines made by a practically perfect Italian with grapes grown in Virginia.
Call it an eccentric's idea of a good time.
The Virginia Wine Expo is at the Convention Center, mere blocks from my house and an easy, if breezy, walk for me.
I'd been asked to pour for Gabrielle Rausse, Italian winemaker of some of my very favorite Virginia wines.
True, I'd have to smile at drunk people all day, but I also got to surprise people ("Wait, why isn't this Pinot Noir red?"), listen to their defiance ("How can you have a Malbec? There's no Malbecs in Virginia!") take compliments from people ("Whoa, look those amazing tights!") and confound them ("What do you mean there's no tasting room or website? How off the grid is that?").
How could an eccentric like me not be impressed with a winemaker not playing by everyone else's rules?
As you might expect, the first few hours are far saner than later in the day when people have their buzz on.
You can tell because after a while, some people just walk up and stick out their glass and say, "Gimme your fill-in-the-blank" instead of doing a full tasting.
You can also tell by the glazed eyes, but I don't want to judge. Much anyway.
And we're not even going to talk about the ones who wear their wine glass on a string around their necks.
But all that is mere comic dressing for the pleasure of pouring well-made wines while the winemaker stands next to me doing the same, but with an Italian accent.
And he was so good at working the crowd.
When a woman asked how he made such great wines, he responded, "I tried making bad wines and this was the result."
At one point he asked me about our mutual friend, the one who'd asked me to be a pourer today.
"How did you meet?" Gabriele asked me and I explained our Virginia wine connection.
"Well, you must be practically perfect because that's the only people he makes friends with," he told me.
Of course, that just solidified that Gabriele must be the same since they're friends, too.
And while I'm anything but, I am more than happy to be standing for six hours on a concrete floor conveying my enthusiasm for fabulous wines made by a practically perfect Italian with grapes grown in Virginia.
Call it an eccentric's idea of a good time.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Standing Room Only
If romantic comedies are date movies, does that make historical dramas about sex nerd date movies?
Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.
Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.
Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.
One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.
Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.
It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.
Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.
A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.
Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.
A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."
Not true.
Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).
Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.
If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.
But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.
That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.
If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.
It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.
I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.
Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.
"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."
Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.
Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.
Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.
But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.
You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true
I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?
The spanking, however, I could do without.
Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.
Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.
Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.
One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.
Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.
It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.
Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.
A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.
Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.
A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."
Not true.
Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).
Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.
If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.
But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.
"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.
That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.
If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.
It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.
I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.
Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.
"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."
Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.
Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.
Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.
But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.
You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true
I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?
The spanking, however, I could do without.
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