Valentines' Day eve is not your typical restaurant night.
A brief stop at Bistro 27 began with an empty bar and me, at least until a girl in pale green leather gloves took the corner stool.
I couldn't imagine getting such a thing in Richmond and she admitted she'd spied them in NYC and had to have them.
They were the color of an after dinner mint so I understood completely.
My stay progressed through some superb Gabrielle Rausse Nebbiolo Reserve, beef tips over Gorgonzola polenta and ended with me coming out of the men's room to find another restaurant owner inquiring, "Are you cheating on me?"
I ceded the bathroom but not my restaurant virtue.
And as I left, people were still calling the restaurant hoping to get a 7:00 reservation for Valentine's Day.
Seriously, people?
Next stop was Acacia because they'd moved half-priced wine night to VD eve, probably figuring that Valentine's Day was already going to be a good Tuesday.
My partner in crime and I scored end stools with a view and a bottle of Casamatta Rosso Sagiovese, fragrant and soft and oh-so Italian.
You know the type.
The music was different tonight, less clubby and more mainstream; I wondered if it was intentional for the occasion.
The crowd was definitely of the night-before variety. One girl had on a red satin dress while her date sported a red shirt and black tie.
They were very festive.
We ate our way through fried oysters and Southern cole slaw and house-smoked salmon with herb creme fraiche and red onion caper oil.
If you're going to have Richmond's chef of the year cooking for you, you can't go wrong with fruits of the sea given his passion for them.
Not surprisingly, I ran into several people who'd been at the Elbys last night and the consensus was that next year's event will be too big for the Historical Society.
We finished with almond and caramel milk chocolate sponge cake with coffee ice cream, rum caramel, caramel milk chocolate ganache and coffee cream.
And that dessert, I would guess, is an example of why Josh Gaulin won last night for best pastry chef. And how we justified eating it.
You see, we're just going behind the judges to fact-check. If there was also laughter to the point of soreness, it came after the research.
We certainly weren't out celebrating the night before Valentine's Day.
Showing posts with label gabrielle rause. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gabrielle rause. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
Patrick x 4
What an interesting evening of guys this turned out to be.
It began with a man carrying an ax at the Roosevelt.
As in, there was a huge ax handle sticking out of his backpack tucked discretely beneath the bar. Right next to me.
I was only mildly concerned until he informed me that he'd come directly from the hardware store and that he'd also bought a roll of plastic.
Uh huh. Sure.
Upon further conversation, I learned that Patrick, a recent transplant from San Francisco, had just bought a load of wood, all of which was too wide for his Church Hill fireplace.
Wisely, he'd bought an ax to chop it to fit. The plastic was to move and then cover the pile.
Uh huh. Sure.
Like the bartender, he'd been one of the "Lincoln" movie extras before getting bored with the whole process.
"I saw Daniel Day-Lewis do a scene, I saw Spielberg and then I was over it. Anyway, it was more of a bro-friend-fest. It was lots of guys I knew and we talked about music, Richmond and grilling meat."
Sort of sums up mankind, doesn't it?
Actually, a friend and his wife stopped by the bar to say hello and knew Patrick, a photographer with an awesome drooping Civil War mustache, and vouched for him.
It didn't much matter at that point since I was 45 minutes into our conversation by then and had decided to take my chances on talking to an ax murderer on my own.
My reassurance came when he told me he was going to the Drive By Truckers show at the 9:30 Club tomorrow night and borrowing his brother's Cadillac Escalade to make the trip.
He promised to wear his helmet in the Escalade, making the entire conversation worthwhile.
Once Patrick climbed aboard his motorcycle and took off, I turned to my right-hand neighbors and began chatting with the three guys on that side.
Somehow, they were all Patricks, too.
Luckily, by that time I'd finished my Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris and moved on to the Blenheim Cab Franc.
One can't face her second, third and fourth Patricks for the night without a bit of fortification.
And the Patricks varied widely. One was a P.E. teacher, one wanted to discuss restaurants and the third engaged me in a discussion of spirituality after death.
While entertaining them, a quartet came up behind us and tried to order the Barboursville Octagon, which the Roosevelt was out of.
The bartender's recommendation was to sub the Linden Hardscrabble Red and I took the opportunity to second that opinion.
Sharing my tale of a recent evening devoted to the Hardscrabble, I heartily recommended that they set their sights on Linden and convinced them to do so.
Meanwhile, I savored the roasted fennel and oyster stew with smoked bacon, fennel pollen and lemon oil. Divine and obscenely rich.
They were an eating out bunch, the Patricks, so once the conversation turned to how La Grotta had the best steak in town (no doubt much to the disgust of the vegan Patrick, also a fan of German hip-hop), I ordered the crostini with local beets and ricotta.
The crostini was a thing of beauty with thinly sliced yellow beets atop a thick layer of ricotta perfectly salted.
Eventually two of the Patricks departed, leaving me with the Philly Patrick who assured me that I'd love Cape May (I'd heard the same from multiple people before) and that he'd be at the Balliceaux show I'd soon be attending.
But only because I told him about it.
Even better, the Hardscrabble group stopped by to rave about the wine I'd chosen for them and left me aglow in heir gratitude.
Then it was on to Balliceaux and a most diverse crowd.
Long before I ran into Patrick #4, I saw several familiar faces: one of the members of Photosynthesizers, the band I'd come to see, who'd friended me after our first meeting ("I've been reading your blog, too" he told me) a guy who wished me Happy New Year "and all that pagan stuff" and a handsome gay friend who kissed me not once but four times on the lips ("Why don't you ever ask anything about the real me?").
I have to assume my pheromones were in full effect tonight.
A guy walked up behind me to get a drink and leaned in, taking a deep breath. "Mmmm" he said, "your hair smells so good. So do you."
For the record, I wear no scent.
Turns out he'd just come from the Republic (the smelliest place in town) so, in comparison, I'm sure I did smell pretty good since I didn't reek of cigarette smoke.
A guy who'd been hired by the band to perform magic tricks approached me and made balls appear and disappear, stuck his finger through a non-existent hole in my hot pink scarf and even made the three of clubs dance after I'd chosen it from the deck, before leaving me to entertain the masses.
A charming guy (who turned out to be in the band) guessed me for a Leo (I'm a Gemini) but had high praise for my legs and their potential.
When he challenged me on not having seen the band before, I retaliated with specific shows and venues and he was forced to acknowledge his error in misjudging me.
Well, except for my legs and their potential.
He also told me straight up that I wasn't from Richmond or the West Coast. His guess? Boston or D.C.
Points were awarded for accuracy.
Photosynthesizers played an outstanding set, necessitating much dancing amongst the crowd. Hip-hop fan or not, there is a singular pleasure to live hip-hop done as well as they do it.
The magician returned and changed into a high school English teacher and I was rewarded with someone with whom I could discuss Shakespeare, the Iliad and punctuation.
I don't often meet a guy to whom I can recommend "Eats Shoots and Leaves" but he was one.
During the last song, the hair smeller returned, questioning the force field the gay friend had thrown around me.
Since when am I so interesting?
It was probably a good thing that the lights came up.
Mom always said that it's best to take raging pheromones home at a reasonable hour.
Okay, she didn't really, but shecould should have.
It began with a man carrying an ax at the Roosevelt.
As in, there was a huge ax handle sticking out of his backpack tucked discretely beneath the bar. Right next to me.
I was only mildly concerned until he informed me that he'd come directly from the hardware store and that he'd also bought a roll of plastic.
Uh huh. Sure.
Upon further conversation, I learned that Patrick, a recent transplant from San Francisco, had just bought a load of wood, all of which was too wide for his Church Hill fireplace.
Wisely, he'd bought an ax to chop it to fit. The plastic was to move and then cover the pile.
Uh huh. Sure.
Like the bartender, he'd been one of the "Lincoln" movie extras before getting bored with the whole process.
"I saw Daniel Day-Lewis do a scene, I saw Spielberg and then I was over it. Anyway, it was more of a bro-friend-fest. It was lots of guys I knew and we talked about music, Richmond and grilling meat."
Sort of sums up mankind, doesn't it?
Actually, a friend and his wife stopped by the bar to say hello and knew Patrick, a photographer with an awesome drooping Civil War mustache, and vouched for him.
It didn't much matter at that point since I was 45 minutes into our conversation by then and had decided to take my chances on talking to an ax murderer on my own.
My reassurance came when he told me he was going to the Drive By Truckers show at the 9:30 Club tomorrow night and borrowing his brother's Cadillac Escalade to make the trip.
He promised to wear his helmet in the Escalade, making the entire conversation worthwhile.
Once Patrick climbed aboard his motorcycle and took off, I turned to my right-hand neighbors and began chatting with the three guys on that side.
Somehow, they were all Patricks, too.
Luckily, by that time I'd finished my Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris and moved on to the Blenheim Cab Franc.
One can't face her second, third and fourth Patricks for the night without a bit of fortification.
And the Patricks varied widely. One was a P.E. teacher, one wanted to discuss restaurants and the third engaged me in a discussion of spirituality after death.
While entertaining them, a quartet came up behind us and tried to order the Barboursville Octagon, which the Roosevelt was out of.
The bartender's recommendation was to sub the Linden Hardscrabble Red and I took the opportunity to second that opinion.
Sharing my tale of a recent evening devoted to the Hardscrabble, I heartily recommended that they set their sights on Linden and convinced them to do so.
Meanwhile, I savored the roasted fennel and oyster stew with smoked bacon, fennel pollen and lemon oil. Divine and obscenely rich.
They were an eating out bunch, the Patricks, so once the conversation turned to how La Grotta had the best steak in town (no doubt much to the disgust of the vegan Patrick, also a fan of German hip-hop), I ordered the crostini with local beets and ricotta.
The crostini was a thing of beauty with thinly sliced yellow beets atop a thick layer of ricotta perfectly salted.
Eventually two of the Patricks departed, leaving me with the Philly Patrick who assured me that I'd love Cape May (I'd heard the same from multiple people before) and that he'd be at the Balliceaux show I'd soon be attending.
But only because I told him about it.
Even better, the Hardscrabble group stopped by to rave about the wine I'd chosen for them and left me aglow in heir gratitude.
Then it was on to Balliceaux and a most diverse crowd.
Long before I ran into Patrick #4, I saw several familiar faces: one of the members of Photosynthesizers, the band I'd come to see, who'd friended me after our first meeting ("I've been reading your blog, too" he told me) a guy who wished me Happy New Year "and all that pagan stuff" and a handsome gay friend who kissed me not once but four times on the lips ("Why don't you ever ask anything about the real me?").
I have to assume my pheromones were in full effect tonight.
A guy walked up behind me to get a drink and leaned in, taking a deep breath. "Mmmm" he said, "your hair smells so good. So do you."
For the record, I wear no scent.
Turns out he'd just come from the Republic (the smelliest place in town) so, in comparison, I'm sure I did smell pretty good since I didn't reek of cigarette smoke.
A guy who'd been hired by the band to perform magic tricks approached me and made balls appear and disappear, stuck his finger through a non-existent hole in my hot pink scarf and even made the three of clubs dance after I'd chosen it from the deck, before leaving me to entertain the masses.
A charming guy (who turned out to be in the band) guessed me for a Leo (I'm a Gemini) but had high praise for my legs and their potential.
When he challenged me on not having seen the band before, I retaliated with specific shows and venues and he was forced to acknowledge his error in misjudging me.
Well, except for my legs and their potential.
He also told me straight up that I wasn't from Richmond or the West Coast. His guess? Boston or D.C.
Points were awarded for accuracy.
Photosynthesizers played an outstanding set, necessitating much dancing amongst the crowd. Hip-hop fan or not, there is a singular pleasure to live hip-hop done as well as they do it.
The magician returned and changed into a high school English teacher and I was rewarded with someone with whom I could discuss Shakespeare, the Iliad and punctuation.
I don't often meet a guy to whom I can recommend "Eats Shoots and Leaves" but he was one.
During the last song, the hair smeller returned, questioning the force field the gay friend had thrown around me.
Since when am I so interesting?
It was probably a good thing that the lights came up.
Mom always said that it's best to take raging pheromones home at a reasonable hour.
Okay, she didn't really, but she
Thursday, August 25, 2011
O Canada! How We Do It in the South
I have discovered the most amazing bar food in Richmond and it is Canadian.
But I never would have discovered it if I hadn't gone to meet a bartender friend at The Roosevelt for dinner.
We agreed on 7:00 in order to ensure we found stools before the madding crowd's arrival.
Good thing, too; twenty minutes after we got there, lines appeared at both doors.
Sliding into a stool, I found myself next to one of my favorite wine reps with my dinner partner to my right and the sun on our backs.
I chose the TJ Virginia Fizz to kick off my evening, much to the delight of the rep, who had actually been part of the grape crush for the Fizz vintage I was drinking.
If he'd done it with his feet, I'd have asked him to take off his socks.
As it was, he told me that Claude Thibaut was the best sparkling winemaker on the East Coast and I merely told him how much I liked the Prosecco-like creaminess of the Virginia bubbles I was drinking.
Since it was my friend's first time at The Roosevelt and I eat everything on the menu, I deferred to him on the food selection.
Like so many before him, he couldn't resist the siren song of the squash fritters.
I may have influenced him a tad to order the steak tartare with egg yolk, but only because I was sure he'd love it as much as I had (he did). The pickled green tomato got a thumbs up from us both.
The people watching is always good at The Roosevelt, like the woman stroking her date's hands in front of her face while he made goo-goo eyes at her.
So is the conversation, like mine with the dapper older man who lives across the street and came in to see if he'd like the place ("Well, I got a nice beer and that's a good start!" he said with a wheeze and a smile).
When my Fizz was gone I moved on to the Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris, soft but with a crisp finish.
It turned out to be the perfect thing to go with poutine, Roosevelt-style, which arrived moments after my wine did.
Sure, in Canada poutine may be french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy, but in Chef Lee Gregory's hands, it was all about southern style.
The crispy French fries were there, but covered in ham gravy with chunks of ham throughout; pimento cheese adorned the center of the plate.
It may just have been the ultimate bar food: carb-heavy with enough protein to be satisfying and decadent to the point of no return.
Bartender T came up and asked how we liked it.
"Awesome," I enthused. "We can feel our arteries hardening as we eat it."
"Well, they gotta harden sometime, right?" he asked with a wicked grin. Indeed they do.
Despite our best efforts, the two of us could not entirely finish this Southern tribute to the Canuck palate.
But, oh, we tried. Someday there will be a monument to Lee in the Pig Hall of Fame.
Poutine negated any need for further savory courses, so we cut right to dessert. A chocolate Coca-Cola cake with marshmallow filling had been added since my last visit.
But the chocoholic in me resisted when I saw coconut cake on the menu.
I have a sentimental attachment to coconut cake; a guy once became smitten with me when I ordered it rather than chocolate.
My friend went with the buttermilk panna cotta after he heard my glowing description of it.
As we shared the two desserts, we talked about life and choosing your path and the role that happenstance plays in it all.
We agreed that worry and guilt are not productive uses of our time.
He wanted to hear about the directions my life has taken and its changes; I wanted to hear about his upcoming changes and how his resume will reflect his colorful path so far.
Poutine may harden the arteries, but it seems to loosen the tongue. Don't say you weren't warned.
Just don't pass up a chance to try it.
But I never would have discovered it if I hadn't gone to meet a bartender friend at The Roosevelt for dinner.
We agreed on 7:00 in order to ensure we found stools before the madding crowd's arrival.
Good thing, too; twenty minutes after we got there, lines appeared at both doors.
Sliding into a stool, I found myself next to one of my favorite wine reps with my dinner partner to my right and the sun on our backs.
I chose the TJ Virginia Fizz to kick off my evening, much to the delight of the rep, who had actually been part of the grape crush for the Fizz vintage I was drinking.
If he'd done it with his feet, I'd have asked him to take off his socks.
As it was, he told me that Claude Thibaut was the best sparkling winemaker on the East Coast and I merely told him how much I liked the Prosecco-like creaminess of the Virginia bubbles I was drinking.
Since it was my friend's first time at The Roosevelt and I eat everything on the menu, I deferred to him on the food selection.
Like so many before him, he couldn't resist the siren song of the squash fritters.
I may have influenced him a tad to order the steak tartare with egg yolk, but only because I was sure he'd love it as much as I had (he did). The pickled green tomato got a thumbs up from us both.
The people watching is always good at The Roosevelt, like the woman stroking her date's hands in front of her face while he made goo-goo eyes at her.
So is the conversation, like mine with the dapper older man who lives across the street and came in to see if he'd like the place ("Well, I got a nice beer and that's a good start!" he said with a wheeze and a smile).
When my Fizz was gone I moved on to the Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris, soft but with a crisp finish.
It turned out to be the perfect thing to go with poutine, Roosevelt-style, which arrived moments after my wine did.
Sure, in Canada poutine may be french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy, but in Chef Lee Gregory's hands, it was all about southern style.
The crispy French fries were there, but covered in ham gravy with chunks of ham throughout; pimento cheese adorned the center of the plate.
It may just have been the ultimate bar food: carb-heavy with enough protein to be satisfying and decadent to the point of no return.
Bartender T came up and asked how we liked it.
"Awesome," I enthused. "We can feel our arteries hardening as we eat it."
"Well, they gotta harden sometime, right?" he asked with a wicked grin. Indeed they do.
Despite our best efforts, the two of us could not entirely finish this Southern tribute to the Canuck palate.
But, oh, we tried. Someday there will be a monument to Lee in the Pig Hall of Fame.
Poutine negated any need for further savory courses, so we cut right to dessert. A chocolate Coca-Cola cake with marshmallow filling had been added since my last visit.
But the chocoholic in me resisted when I saw coconut cake on the menu.
I have a sentimental attachment to coconut cake; a guy once became smitten with me when I ordered it rather than chocolate.
My friend went with the buttermilk panna cotta after he heard my glowing description of it.
As we shared the two desserts, we talked about life and choosing your path and the role that happenstance plays in it all.
We agreed that worry and guilt are not productive uses of our time.
He wanted to hear about the directions my life has taken and its changes; I wanted to hear about his upcoming changes and how his resume will reflect his colorful path so far.
Poutine may harden the arteries, but it seems to loosen the tongue. Don't say you weren't warned.
Just don't pass up a chance to try it.
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