There were multiple mysteries during the happy hours that are Gallery 5 After 5 this evening.
How did contra bassist Todd Matthews manage to play all the parts of a pop song, say Led Zepplin's "Kashmir," on his bass?
How did Science Museum educator David Olli make the red scarf and the water disappear from their respective containers?
And how does someone announce, "I'm dating a girl but she used to make out with my brother" in all seriousness and expect an answer?
Looping and talent.
Assorted magic tricks.
He'd already made peace with that fact and was using it for conversational shock value.
As difficult as it was to top such a thrilling start to my Wednesday night, the final showing of the James River Film Festival at the Grace Street Theater awaited me.
There was already a good-sized crowd in line when I arrived.
Being screened was Richmonder Rick Alverson's latest, "New Jerusalem," a film about an Afghan vet (and Irish immigrant) and his evangelical co-worker.
One scene was even set at the ROCK Mega-Church over on southside, a place I'd just been discussing with two G5A5 attendees (they'd both mentioned the music, the diversity of the crowd and the sheer energy of the service).
Funny how those kinds of coincidences happen.
The movie was filmed and shown in high definition, made all the better for the achingly gradual unfolding of the story.
Alverson used the kind of pacing usually only seen in much older films or foreign films; nothing was hurried or forced.
The film also featured Ipanema in all its dimly lit nighttime ambiance back in the smoking days; even if I hadn't been asked to the wrap-up party there afterwards, I'd have needed to go over there after seeing it on the big screen just for a reality check.
As several people noted at the bar, the film had been full of shots of the characters eating, making for a ravenous audience by film's end.
This film goer started with the eggplant-wrapped dates with harissa, flavorful enough that the usual bacon wrapping was forgotten.
Along with some focaccia and polenta fries, I was starting to pick up speed.
With all the film geeks in attendance, it was fun to rehash the festival: who'd seen what, which films were well attended or not (and why not?), what books need to be read now.
I was delighted when an unexpected friend showed up to have a glass of wine with me and do some quick dishing about upcoming restaurants, overly talkative chefs and copycats.
We'd have talked till closing if we hadn't already had plans to meet up tomorrow.
And so the James River Film Festival comes to an end, having provided me with outstanding film watching and speakers for the past week.
I don't know how I'll fill my free time without a festival program to fall back on.
Oh, wait, yes I do. No mystery there.
I've got so much going on at the moment, it's about time I reinserted myself into my real life.
I'm hoping for great reviews of my starring role...by the critics who count anyway.
Showing posts with label gallery 5 after 5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gallery 5 after 5. Show all posts
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Classic Rocking at the Franklin Inn
So imagine you get unexpectedly laid off from your job of five years and then a couple of years later you hear that the big wig of that company is giving a lecture. You avoid it like the plague, right?
Of course I went, but not because he was speaking; I went because I always go to the Gallery 5 After 5 soirees. I go for the mingling, the drinking, the cheese-eating and usually the music and lecture. Tonight the music was absent and the lecturer less than to my taste, but all the other elements were in place.
So what can the publisher of the RTD possibly have to say that would be of interest to a roomful of people, 98% of whom don't read the paper?
Let's see, that the old business model is dead (duh) and that print will be around for at least 12-15 more years because that's how much life is left on the RTD's Hanover printing presses. Oh, yes he did.
There was a snappy Powerpoint presentation (noted with tongue firmly in cheek) and talk of satisfying the customer base, most of whom are aging Baby Boomers.
He told us about five people who regularly contacted him (the "Put it back!" guy, the racist, Richard, Mr. Blevins and Miss Ruby) for reasons negative and positive; his point was that experiencing these people is what makes being a publisher so satisfying. Well, that and the paycheck no doubt.
After that less than enlightening time that I'll never get back, there was Q & A period, although there weren't many direct answers to the questions. Never have so many syllables been uttered to say so little. I really must work on curtailing my inner smart aleck. Okay, maybe the outer one, too.
Fortunately next up was comedy which was intended to be at Mr. Silvestri's expense. The Richmond Comedy Coalition was doing a version of their Richmond Famous show where they take a local celeb's stories and improvise on them.
Except that they had almost nothing to go on. When the audience was asked to make some topic suggestions, a guy yelled out "Sex!" Knowing full well that that wasn't going to happen, I shouted out "Dating."
The publisher started talking about how working at a newspaper is like dating or some such meaningless doublespeak. After a roundabout story with no clear ties to sex or dating, one of the comedy troupe members asked him point blank, "Did you ever have a date?"
Yes, he'd had a blind date in college and sent the girl flowers the next day. Tragically, they were left at the front door of a house where the family always used the back door. When he called her three weeks later to ask if she'd gotten them, they were found rotting on the front porch. Tragic, my seatmate noted.
RCC took it from there, doing a take off on a wife sending her husband a singing telegram which led the singer mistakenly to a recently-fumigated house; the poor singer ended up passed out and being gnawed on by rats before being discovered. It was pretty funny.
It was a testament to the improv talents of the RCC that they were able to make as much as they did with so little to go on, but they kept at it with a fair number of comics and newspaper skits; the audience laughed along, grateful to be done with Powerpoint and prognostications.
Dinner with a friend followed at the Franklin Inn, originally established in 1930 and in recent years the home of the Museum District's Corner Cafe.
I liked the clock on the outside post; it looked like it could have easily been inspired by the place's original incarnation.
Inside it was an old photograph of downtown with a huge banner proclaiming "Clean-up Paint-Up Richmond May 4-7" that looked like it was taken in the 30s that most appealed to me as we slid into a booth.
The menu was simple and very reasonably priced (topping out at $19.95 for the Ambassador for Two, 16 oz of French-sliced sirloin steak smothered in sauteed onions and mushrooms), even offering the DC classic Senate Bean Soup.
My friend opted for one of the specials, beef tips in horseradish gravy, which he loved, sopping up the gravy with the accompanying flatbread and then dipping sweet potato fries in it. I teased him about being Northern-born and so inclined to sop.
I went with the Buffalo Nickel Shrimp (spicy shrimp with crumbled bleu cheese over Gorgonzola bacon grits). The shrimp had nice heat, there was ample bleu chese and the amount of grits on that plate would have satisfied multiple Southerners.
Every now and then I had a moment, but only because the cable radio station was set to classic rock. Oh, yes, Journey, Styx and the Eagles were not only present in my ears, but also visible on the large screen TV, which not only told me the name of the song (and who on the planet doesn't know the names of these overplayed anthems?), but a fun fact about each song or band. It was slightly painful, but probably only for me.
But the conversation was good, the food enjoyable and the atmosphere relaxed, so what's a little Steve Perry between friends?
Any way you want it, that's the way I like it. Any way you want it. Yeesh.
Of course I went, but not because he was speaking; I went because I always go to the Gallery 5 After 5 soirees. I go for the mingling, the drinking, the cheese-eating and usually the music and lecture. Tonight the music was absent and the lecturer less than to my taste, but all the other elements were in place.
So what can the publisher of the RTD possibly have to say that would be of interest to a roomful of people, 98% of whom don't read the paper?
Let's see, that the old business model is dead (duh) and that print will be around for at least 12-15 more years because that's how much life is left on the RTD's Hanover printing presses. Oh, yes he did.
There was a snappy Powerpoint presentation (noted with tongue firmly in cheek) and talk of satisfying the customer base, most of whom are aging Baby Boomers.
He told us about five people who regularly contacted him (the "Put it back!" guy, the racist, Richard, Mr. Blevins and Miss Ruby) for reasons negative and positive; his point was that experiencing these people is what makes being a publisher so satisfying. Well, that and the paycheck no doubt.
After that less than enlightening time that I'll never get back, there was Q & A period, although there weren't many direct answers to the questions. Never have so many syllables been uttered to say so little. I really must work on curtailing my inner smart aleck. Okay, maybe the outer one, too.
Fortunately next up was comedy which was intended to be at Mr. Silvestri's expense. The Richmond Comedy Coalition was doing a version of their Richmond Famous show where they take a local celeb's stories and improvise on them.
Except that they had almost nothing to go on. When the audience was asked to make some topic suggestions, a guy yelled out "Sex!" Knowing full well that that wasn't going to happen, I shouted out "Dating."
The publisher started talking about how working at a newspaper is like dating or some such meaningless doublespeak. After a roundabout story with no clear ties to sex or dating, one of the comedy troupe members asked him point blank, "Did you ever have a date?"
Yes, he'd had a blind date in college and sent the girl flowers the next day. Tragically, they were left at the front door of a house where the family always used the back door. When he called her three weeks later to ask if she'd gotten them, they were found rotting on the front porch. Tragic, my seatmate noted.
RCC took it from there, doing a take off on a wife sending her husband a singing telegram which led the singer mistakenly to a recently-fumigated house; the poor singer ended up passed out and being gnawed on by rats before being discovered. It was pretty funny.
It was a testament to the improv talents of the RCC that they were able to make as much as they did with so little to go on, but they kept at it with a fair number of comics and newspaper skits; the audience laughed along, grateful to be done with Powerpoint and prognostications.
Dinner with a friend followed at the Franklin Inn, originally established in 1930 and in recent years the home of the Museum District's Corner Cafe.
I liked the clock on the outside post; it looked like it could have easily been inspired by the place's original incarnation.
Inside it was an old photograph of downtown with a huge banner proclaiming "Clean-up Paint-Up Richmond May 4-7" that looked like it was taken in the 30s that most appealed to me as we slid into a booth.
The menu was simple and very reasonably priced (topping out at $19.95 for the Ambassador for Two, 16 oz of French-sliced sirloin steak smothered in sauteed onions and mushrooms), even offering the DC classic Senate Bean Soup.
My friend opted for one of the specials, beef tips in horseradish gravy, which he loved, sopping up the gravy with the accompanying flatbread and then dipping sweet potato fries in it. I teased him about being Northern-born and so inclined to sop.
I went with the Buffalo Nickel Shrimp (spicy shrimp with crumbled bleu cheese over Gorgonzola bacon grits). The shrimp had nice heat, there was ample bleu chese and the amount of grits on that plate would have satisfied multiple Southerners.
Every now and then I had a moment, but only because the cable radio station was set to classic rock. Oh, yes, Journey, Styx and the Eagles were not only present in my ears, but also visible on the large screen TV, which not only told me the name of the song (and who on the planet doesn't know the names of these overplayed anthems?), but a fun fact about each song or band. It was slightly painful, but probably only for me.
But the conversation was good, the food enjoyable and the atmosphere relaxed, so what's a little Steve Perry between friends?
Any way you want it, that's the way I like it. Any way you want it. Yeesh.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Enjoying Time with Myself
Gallery 5 After 5 achieved critical geek mass tonight and, yes, I include myself in that mix.
There were comic geeks, engineering geeks, computer geeks, music geeks and, for all I know, cheese geeks (Cabot is a sponsor and a table was laden with the stuff).
All in the name of culture, learning and cheap drinks.
This monthly series always includes music and a lecture and tonight was no different.
pH Balance was supposed to provide the musical entertainment, but I'm here to say that they did not perform a funny and fine set.
They did not have a theme song and they were not present on the stage.
Yes, they told me to say that.
After they didn't perform, Patrick Godfrey of Velocity Comics on Broad Street led a round table discussion with a couple of illustrators and a publisher.
It was interesting hearing the different perspectives of people passionate about comics.
All four of them made it clear that it's a business you have to love because you can't count on making the big bucks doing it.
Or, as Patrick put it, "It's not all limousines and super-models."
I'm not sure if this was disappointing to the dozens of artists in the audience, all of whom had their notebooks open and were drawing throughout the evening.
Tonight's program had a bonus component, a drum-off between a robot drummer and a human one.
This stroke of brilliance was conceived of by none other than local musician Prabir as he sat on his front steps with friends one night.
I feel certain alcohol was involved.
But he'd gathered a quartet of students to create this drumming robot from (wait for it) used HP printer parts from thrift stores.
The paper rollers were attached to drumsticks; that alone is brilliance, in my opinion.
And what does a drumming robot look like, you ask?
It's big and there are drums and high-hats, lights and shiny parts and, because this is RVA, a PBR tallboy in its clutches.
Yes, really.
A sign on its front reads "future artist."
They probably got that idea from some kid at VCU.
Human drummer Kevin Willoughby played and then the robot played. Kevin was much better, but he's been playing since 1994 and the robot since, well, a few days ago.
But he did play and that alone was worth seeing.
I was craving pizza after absorbing all that educational material and non-performances, so I made a bee line for Aziza's.
It appeared to be girls' night out because several tables had clutches of women talking away.
Sliding into the bar, I was greeted by my favorite server who immediately asked if I wanted a glass of tempranillo.
Within minutes, she was telling me about her recent forays into dating again.
Now here was someone I could relate to.
She told me of the overly agreeable one ("No matter what I said, he agreed with it, even if he'd just said the opposite") and the still-wounded one ("He had everything I wanted in a man but he's just out of a relationship").
Coincidentally, I'd met both those types myself within the past couple of months, so it wasn't hard to understand where she was coming from.
She reminded me that you have to wade through a lot of mediocre men before finding a good one.
I somehow devoured my white pizza (despite the rack of ribs I'd had at lunch) as we were talking.
It's so simple yet always so perfectly executed that I never have any slices left for a to-go box.
It would have been easy to linger longer, but I was going to a show at the Camel, so I declined a cream puff and more wine, tempting as they were and said good night.
And damned if the Camel show hadn't started on time, meaning I had missed Liza Bance's performance completely.
Luckily, I hadn't missed Benvolio Wilson's set and he was the main reason I was there.
From his days in We Know, Plato! to his current stint with Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade, I have been an enthusiastic fan of this guy's voice, his songwriting and his skillful keyboard playing for a good three years.
I was just sorry I had missed any of his performance.
Headlining was Benyaro, an indie folk duo from Brooklyn, but I heard as much roots rock as folk in their sound.
Ben played guitar and harmonica and Bobby played upright bass; both had soulful voices and played percussion with their feet.
They played a lot of material from their new CD, my favorite of which was probably "Time with Yourself" or maybe "New Orleans."
Boasting a solid sound, they were enthusiastic about playing the Camel for the first time in three years and the crowd responded in kind.
After being introduced by Ben, Bobby self-deprecatingly said, "I really don't know what the f*ck I'm doing, but I'm trying to look good doing it."
I'd be the first to agree with him; he had a fluid move with his hip when he was hitting the drum pedal while playing bass that was awfully appealing (if I were one to notice such things).
Try and recreate that with a robot, my geeky friends.
Or better yet, don't.
There were comic geeks, engineering geeks, computer geeks, music geeks and, for all I know, cheese geeks (Cabot is a sponsor and a table was laden with the stuff).
All in the name of culture, learning and cheap drinks.
This monthly series always includes music and a lecture and tonight was no different.
pH Balance was supposed to provide the musical entertainment, but I'm here to say that they did not perform a funny and fine set.
They did not have a theme song and they were not present on the stage.
Yes, they told me to say that.
After they didn't perform, Patrick Godfrey of Velocity Comics on Broad Street led a round table discussion with a couple of illustrators and a publisher.
It was interesting hearing the different perspectives of people passionate about comics.
All four of them made it clear that it's a business you have to love because you can't count on making the big bucks doing it.
Or, as Patrick put it, "It's not all limousines and super-models."
I'm not sure if this was disappointing to the dozens of artists in the audience, all of whom had their notebooks open and were drawing throughout the evening.
Tonight's program had a bonus component, a drum-off between a robot drummer and a human one.
This stroke of brilliance was conceived of by none other than local musician Prabir as he sat on his front steps with friends one night.
I feel certain alcohol was involved.
But he'd gathered a quartet of students to create this drumming robot from (wait for it) used HP printer parts from thrift stores.
The paper rollers were attached to drumsticks; that alone is brilliance, in my opinion.
And what does a drumming robot look like, you ask?
It's big and there are drums and high-hats, lights and shiny parts and, because this is RVA, a PBR tallboy in its clutches.
Yes, really.
A sign on its front reads "future artist."
They probably got that idea from some kid at VCU.
Human drummer Kevin Willoughby played and then the robot played. Kevin was much better, but he's been playing since 1994 and the robot since, well, a few days ago.
But he did play and that alone was worth seeing.
I was craving pizza after absorbing all that educational material and non-performances, so I made a bee line for Aziza's.
It appeared to be girls' night out because several tables had clutches of women talking away.
Sliding into the bar, I was greeted by my favorite server who immediately asked if I wanted a glass of tempranillo.
Within minutes, she was telling me about her recent forays into dating again.
Now here was someone I could relate to.
She told me of the overly agreeable one ("No matter what I said, he agreed with it, even if he'd just said the opposite") and the still-wounded one ("He had everything I wanted in a man but he's just out of a relationship").
Coincidentally, I'd met both those types myself within the past couple of months, so it wasn't hard to understand where she was coming from.
She reminded me that you have to wade through a lot of mediocre men before finding a good one.
I somehow devoured my white pizza (despite the rack of ribs I'd had at lunch) as we were talking.
It's so simple yet always so perfectly executed that I never have any slices left for a to-go box.
It would have been easy to linger longer, but I was going to a show at the Camel, so I declined a cream puff and more wine, tempting as they were and said good night.
And damned if the Camel show hadn't started on time, meaning I had missed Liza Bance's performance completely.
Luckily, I hadn't missed Benvolio Wilson's set and he was the main reason I was there.
From his days in We Know, Plato! to his current stint with Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade, I have been an enthusiastic fan of this guy's voice, his songwriting and his skillful keyboard playing for a good three years.
I was just sorry I had missed any of his performance.
Headlining was Benyaro, an indie folk duo from Brooklyn, but I heard as much roots rock as folk in their sound.
Ben played guitar and harmonica and Bobby played upright bass; both had soulful voices and played percussion with their feet.
They played a lot of material from their new CD, my favorite of which was probably "Time with Yourself" or maybe "New Orleans."
Boasting a solid sound, they were enthusiastic about playing the Camel for the first time in three years and the crowd responded in kind.
After being introduced by Ben, Bobby self-deprecatingly said, "I really don't know what the f*ck I'm doing, but I'm trying to look good doing it."
I'd be the first to agree with him; he had a fluid move with his hip when he was hitting the drum pedal while playing bass that was awfully appealing (if I were one to notice such things).
Try and recreate that with a robot, my geeky friends.
Or better yet, don't.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Don't Eat Me. Let's Mate.
The Gallery 5 after 5 series may have reached a new high tonight with more people, a bigger spread of free food (courtesy of Cous Cous), discounted memberships to Gallery 5 (just so you know, you are looking at the legs of a new member) and, wait for it, a lecture on tarantulas.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Avalon Advice
Nothing says happy hour quite like death (you can quote me on that). At least that must have been what the Gallery 5 folks were thinking when they planned tonight's Gallery 5 After 5 event, "Viva La Muerte."
My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."
Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.
More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.
After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.
Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.
My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.
He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.
Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?
Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.
We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.
Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.
Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.
Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.
The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.
My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.
"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.
Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.
I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.
My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."
Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.
More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.
After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.
Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.
My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.
He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.
Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?
Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.
We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.
Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.
Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.
Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.
The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.
My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.
"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.
Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.
I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Art and Acacia
This new Gallery 5 After 5 series has the potential to become one of my favorite monthly events. It's got everything I like and still allows for an evening afterwards.
The first hour is music with mingling and drinking and the second is a lecture. I enjoyed talking to a girl on her first visit to G5, who'd broken up with her boyfriend of six years and was still getting the hang of going out alone. I did what I could to start her on the path to flying solo successfully (sadly, my specialty).
Tonight's talk was by sculptor Paul diPasquale, whom I'd first met 15 years ago on a community art project. When I brought it up, he remembered the project like it was yesterday. Amazing.
His talk focused on three of his works: Connecticut, the Indian, Arthur Ashe and Neptune in Virginia Beach, as well as his belief that public art should come from passion and not paid complacency.
I couldn't have been more surprised to learn that Connecticut had originally been designed for a building at the intersection of Connecticut and Woodley Avenues in D.C., a short walk from my home in DuPont Circle. I recognized the building at once and it would have certainly been a great location for the brave.
Except that the bed-ridden 90-year old owner of the building didn't want "a god-damn Indian" on his building. Luckily local modern art patron Sydney Lewis came to the rescue, leasing Connecticut for $1500 a month for two years and placing it atop Best Products here in Richmond.
The Arthur Ashe story was just as interesting because the sculptor contacted Ashe about doing a likeness of him only to have Ashe die within weeks. Luckily he'd already stated his requirements for the statue: books, children, him dressed in a warm-up suit, shoelaces untied and without the focus on Ashe.
Since a 1927 ordinance had already decreed that the next statue on Monument Avenue would be at Roseneath, and di Pasquale had obtained the tennis star's permission and preferences, it became so. It was the city that decided that Ashe would face west, welcoming people into the city.
The massive Neptune sculpture in Virginia Beach was a result of the Ashe commission and diPasquale joked that, "I like to think of it as a self-portrait." I have to love an artist with a sense of humor.
Talking to him after the talk, I found him to be charming and still enthusiastic about making art whether for public or private consumption. "Don't give up," was the only advice he'd offer. I wasn't considering it.
After such a satisfying start, I decided on Acacia for dinner and was surprised to find an empty bar (although not surprised at a full restaurant). I began with a glass of the South African Man Chenin Blanc and conversation with bartender Arthur about the state of the cocktail and speakeasy world, since we'd both recently read articles on those very topics.
One thing I love about Acacia's menu is the array of small plates and after a superb apple, mixed lettuce, cashew, golden raisin and bleu cheese salad, eagerly tore into the local rabbit rillettes with house made Saltines.
Nothing but the Pfaffl Gruner Vetliner could have made the rabbit rillettes any better than they were, and that I had. The delicate Saltines were the ideal vehicle for the spicy and perfectly rich rillettes, especially when topped with the tomato compote. I might add that the cost of this dish was $4, less than a combo at a fast food joint.
Arthur, as always, was the perfect host, chatty when I wanted to talk and discreet otherwise. We talked about the failings of the ABC (what happened to el Tesoro anyway?), the requirements for what we consider good tequila (let's not try to appeal to the lowest common denominator) and his impressions after finally seeing No BS Brass Band for the first time (wowed).
And I'm sure it was great, because No BS is great, but local rabbit rilletes for $4? That's freaking awesome.
Certainly right up there with hearing a passionate sculptor talk about taking risks to do the work he loves. Passion, risks and rabbit; now that's an evening that speaks to me.
The first hour is music with mingling and drinking and the second is a lecture. I enjoyed talking to a girl on her first visit to G5, who'd broken up with her boyfriend of six years and was still getting the hang of going out alone. I did what I could to start her on the path to flying solo successfully (sadly, my specialty).
Tonight's talk was by sculptor Paul diPasquale, whom I'd first met 15 years ago on a community art project. When I brought it up, he remembered the project like it was yesterday. Amazing.
His talk focused on three of his works: Connecticut, the Indian, Arthur Ashe and Neptune in Virginia Beach, as well as his belief that public art should come from passion and not paid complacency.
I couldn't have been more surprised to learn that Connecticut had originally been designed for a building at the intersection of Connecticut and Woodley Avenues in D.C., a short walk from my home in DuPont Circle. I recognized the building at once and it would have certainly been a great location for the brave.
Except that the bed-ridden 90-year old owner of the building didn't want "a god-damn Indian" on his building. Luckily local modern art patron Sydney Lewis came to the rescue, leasing Connecticut for $1500 a month for two years and placing it atop Best Products here in Richmond.
The Arthur Ashe story was just as interesting because the sculptor contacted Ashe about doing a likeness of him only to have Ashe die within weeks. Luckily he'd already stated his requirements for the statue: books, children, him dressed in a warm-up suit, shoelaces untied and without the focus on Ashe.
Since a 1927 ordinance had already decreed that the next statue on Monument Avenue would be at Roseneath, and di Pasquale had obtained the tennis star's permission and preferences, it became so. It was the city that decided that Ashe would face west, welcoming people into the city.
The massive Neptune sculpture in Virginia Beach was a result of the Ashe commission and diPasquale joked that, "I like to think of it as a self-portrait." I have to love an artist with a sense of humor.
Talking to him after the talk, I found him to be charming and still enthusiastic about making art whether for public or private consumption. "Don't give up," was the only advice he'd offer. I wasn't considering it.
After such a satisfying start, I decided on Acacia for dinner and was surprised to find an empty bar (although not surprised at a full restaurant). I began with a glass of the South African Man Chenin Blanc and conversation with bartender Arthur about the state of the cocktail and speakeasy world, since we'd both recently read articles on those very topics.
One thing I love about Acacia's menu is the array of small plates and after a superb apple, mixed lettuce, cashew, golden raisin and bleu cheese salad, eagerly tore into the local rabbit rillettes with house made Saltines.
Nothing but the Pfaffl Gruner Vetliner could have made the rabbit rillettes any better than they were, and that I had. The delicate Saltines were the ideal vehicle for the spicy and perfectly rich rillettes, especially when topped with the tomato compote. I might add that the cost of this dish was $4, less than a combo at a fast food joint.
Arthur, as always, was the perfect host, chatty when I wanted to talk and discreet otherwise. We talked about the failings of the ABC (what happened to el Tesoro anyway?), the requirements for what we consider good tequila (let's not try to appeal to the lowest common denominator) and his impressions after finally seeing No BS Brass Band for the first time (wowed).
And I'm sure it was great, because No BS is great, but local rabbit rilletes for $4? That's freaking awesome.
Certainly right up there with hearing a passionate sculptor talk about taking risks to do the work he loves. Passion, risks and rabbit; now that's an evening that speaks to me.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Lectures, Lyrics and Duck Pate
Prabir, one of the patron saints of Richmond's music scene and a self-proclaimed nerd, created the quintessential music event tonight as part of the new Gallery 5 After 5 series. It wasn't just music and it wasn't just a lecture. It was music, followed by a lecture about music, followed by more music. Be still my heart.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
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