Your Song Still Needs a Chorus

As 12-hour double dates go, it would be tough to beat one as epic as today's.

The four of us convened at my house for the trek to the Northern Neck with Pru and Beau regaling us with tales from their recent trip to Bermuda. I don't know which sounded more wonderful, the meals or the beaches, but I'd be willing to go back to make that determination.

Our first stop of the day was Dog and Oyster Vineyard where I had zero interest in sitting outside and every intention of parking ourselves on the expansive screened porch. We were shortly joined at our table by an older couple who were driving back from Hampton and stopped for a sip.

Consensus: the 2015 Oyster White required, well, an oyster (Beau scored a half dozen from the Byrd Seafood stand but not until after the wine was history), the 2015 Pearl was an easy porch sipper, the robust 2016 Rosie spoke to all of us (that 5% Chambourcin tank bleed), the 2014 Shelter Dog Red was a lovely, soft Chambourcin and the 2014 "Mellow" Merlot finished us off.

Half the time, the conversation at our table was so lively (a polite word for loud) that the woman pouring for us could barely make herself heard as she attempted to describe the wines.

In the center of the tasting table was a pile of oyster shells, plenty of which had been decorated using the array of colorful Sharpies grouped in a glass. There were mentions of a great girls' weekend away, several "I love yous" to specific people, artistic renderings of butterflies, sun and skies, and abstract squiggles.

My date studied the interior of a shell looking for something, much the way we find images in clouds, and cleverly used the shell's markings to fashion a face.

Beau wasted no time using a dark green Sharpie to design his own, which alluded to his willingness to relinquish the wearing of his pants to Pru. I added an orange sun so it wouldn't be so monochromatic and it was added to the pile for posterity.

We met the vineyard dogs - a couple of old beagles and a hound - in the closest vineyard while admiring the size of nearby grape clusters. Across the road, we spotted a couple bicycling across the field en route to the tasting room.

The scene was nothing short of a picture postcard extolling reasons to visit the Northern Neck.

From there, we wound our way back across the Whitestone Bridge - still being painted the most glorious shade of silvery sky blue - in search of riverside dining. We timed it perfectly: a large table near the river was being cleaned off as we approached the nearly full patio.

The next few hours were given over to sipping and supping (although I was the only one who'd expected this meal to be dinner, since the others had all skipped lunch and were ravenous) under cumulus cloud-strewn bright blue skies. An American flag on a nearby dock showed us the wind direction, although since I was facing it, I already knew from whence it blew.

On a trip to the bathroom, I ran into the chef I've known since the place opened, who was busy shucking oysters because of how busy they were.

We reminisced about how a simple tasting room concept had morphed into a place that's busy just about every day ("This place was never meant to serve 800 covers a day!" he lamented), causing me to apologize for adding to the weekend madness.

Pru warned our server that we were never going to leave and she seemed to take it in stride, allowing us to order leisurely until dusk. We started with bottles of Cave de Pomerols Picpoul de Pinet and La Galope Rose Comte to accompany the Old Saltes my date (the one who didn't eat raw oysters before taking up with me) and I inhaled and the pound of seriously spiced shrimp Pru and Beau needed.

As tables around us came and went, we continued the feast and endless commentary. Angels on horseback, a shrimp and crab roll, tuna tacos, a special of drum fish and a summer salad did a fine job of plugging the holes in our appetites.

Which is not to say we didn't save room for dessert. My date and I shared a stellar key lime pie while Beau tried an interesting take on pecan pie (airier and less Karo syrup-based than any I'd ever had) and Pru had her own key lime pie. When the two of them asked our server for coffee, she said they didn't have any.

When Pru inquired when they would, our server said, "Next month." Pru didn't miss a beat. "We'll wait."

Instead, we finished off the wine as the sun slid lower in the sky and plotted our next move on the drive back. A stop at Saison Market addressed their caffeine needs, after which the party re-commenced at my place.

And by party, I mean a swingin' scene that required playing not one but two Brass Ring records to get everyone in the proper frame of mind. We imagined my apartment crowded with guests and just how we'd samba through the hordes in search of a drink or new acquaintance.

For that matter, the Gary Farrell Pinot Noir didn't hurt the cause, either.

The two pants-optional science/audio nerds dipped down a rabbit hole that involved wow and flutter, pop and hiss and lost Pru and I entirely along the way.

Meanwhile, I kept the records playing with Roberta Flack (always a classic for a DC girl), Gladys Knight and the Pips (a live album that spurred a discussion of music recorded live), Linda Ronstatd (and correcting mistaken assumptions she had expired), Rickie Lee Jones (Pru: "All I need is a cheroot") and when we moved to the balcony for Pru's smoke break, Marshall Crenshaw's iconic first album under a midnight blue sky.

At one point sometime after midnight, Pru inquired about the time and Beau stood up, taking it as a signal they were leaving shortly. Instead, she explained that one announces one is leaving but the actual process of doing so involves another 30-60 minutes of conversation.

It's like a warning shot: we will depart the premises in an hour or so.

Frankly, I was fine with the notice. As one of our quartet pointed out late in the evening, her face hurt from laughing so hard all day. All of us nodded in agreement.

By that time, we were into our tenth or eleventh hour of non-stop chatter and humor, broken up only by putting food or drink in our mouths.

This groove may be out of fashion and these beats may be 30 years old, but any time you can maintain a solid 12 hours of enjoying every minute, you're doing something right. Must be the company.

A sore face is a small price to pay.

Not a Hot Mess

It only took 7 years of friendship to get Beckham to my apartment.

Of course, if you asked him, he'd say it was 7 years before I invited him to my apartment. Semantics, really.

In any case, he and his betrothed, the Beauty, picked me up promptly at 5 for a trip to the Visual Arts Center for the opening of "After Dark," a new show by Carli Holcomb. We had enough time before the artist's talk to walk through the exhibition and acquaint ourselves with the variety of materials and styles assembled in the 3 galleries.

I looked up at one point to see a photographer capturing the moment, certain I'd just had my photo taken, though her camera was down by then.

The place began to fill up and eventually we were bound to see people we knew like the art instructor who once had a sandwich snatched out of her hands by a bird, the photography curator, the geologist-turned-lawyer who'd been M.I.A. and for the Beauty, her first pottery teacher.

When the talk began, Holcomb took us through the exhibit explaining her intent and sometimes her process. She talked of the title "After Dark" as referring to that period where nature looks different, an apt comparison given how she uses real and synthetic materials to explore light and shadow.

Some pieces were sculpture, others more like installations (hanging from the ceiling's rafters) while still others were two-dimensional pieces. You sensed that this young artist (and former artist-in-residence at Visual Arts/Quirk Gallery) was very much spreading her wings and trying new methods and materials.

She called out her Mom and Dad during her talk, acknowledging all that they'd exposed her to, including their long-time successful relationship. It was very sweet.

When we left there, it was to drop the car at my house and sashay over to Yaki for dinner. To get there, we had to run the parking lot gauntlet on Henry Street, where one guy mumbled about needing money and another who looked me right in the eye and insisted all he needed was a date tonight.

I already have a date, sir and it's this couple right here.

Yaki was just getting going when we took up seats at the bar but classic hip hop was playing and the vibe was Friday-welcoming.

Trying to decide where to sit, the Beauty suggested me between the two of them. "Let's make a Karen sandwich," she cracked.

I was fine with that.

Because they'd never been to Yaki and because I'd only been once, we dove headlong into the menu.

The Beauty had a bad experience with wine at a wine dinner, so we made cocktails - the rye and pineapple-infused rum Be Humble, the whisky-based Toki highball, a 'Round the Rings because it used macadamia orgeat and a rose-colored, off-the-menu cocktail we used as a palate cleanser - our focus.

We did just as much experimenting with the food.

Skewers of chicken thighs sang with sake and scallion, only Beckham and I devoured chicken hearts with olive oil and sea salt, meatballs with tare dipping sauce adorned by an egg yolk (to mix in for richness), broccolini skewers with sesame and 5-spice, fried chicken don (a sweet and spicy rice bowl), curry poutine (with curry gravy to die for) and one of tonight's specials, chicken oysters (easily the best two bites on a chicken).

The funny part was that the Beauty, who's not a seafood fan at all, misheard and thought we'd gotten real oysters.

They have a rule in their marriage that if he eats seafood, she doesn't kiss him, so she was ready to write off any lip locks for the rest of the evening until we assured her it didn't just taste like (incredibly rich and unctuous) chicken, it was chicken.

Still no interest on her part, but at least kissing could resume.

With our check arrived dark chocolate covered cookie sticks, the ideal way to reset our palates after so much savory food.

Though stuffed, we still had plenty to discuss, so we set off for a stroll. If nothing else, the two block walk gave us a chance to discuss the design and finish on the still-incomplete Institute for Contemporary Art as we rounded the corner.

Only when we got back to my block and their car did I I invite them up to my place. "You know what?" Beckham asked as if just now seeing the light. "I would like to see your apartment...finally!"

You never know who wants to see how you live. I was happy to invite them upstairs for wine and vinyl because if I'm going to put on Prince and open a bottle of Gary Farrell Pinot Noir, this is the friend I'd want to do it for.

He was the one who'd given me my first absinthe spoon and now I could show him the Eiffel Tower-shaped one Pru brought me from Paris. The Beauty commented on a tiny origami bird in an Underberg bottle and I reminded him that I'd gotten it the night he and I'd gone to the tiki pop-up at Saison, drank far too much rum and laughed like fools.

Beckham loved the wainscoting in my bedroom and hall and she wanted to know the story behind several pieces of my art (because, of course, most of them have back stories). For extra credit, I showed off my balcony, resplendent with moonlight and moonflowers a-bloom.

We sipped that gorgeous Pinot Noir right through "Purple Rain" and a discussion of the militarization of our police forces, then moved on to the latest XX album, "I See You" before the early risers began to lose steam, although some fault may go to chasing cocktails with wine.

As they got up to leave, I asked Beckham if my abode had been what he'd expected. He claimed no preconceived notions, but, yea, all the art on the walls didn't surprise him. "And it only took you 8 years to invite me!" he teased.

Seven, but who's counting?

Besides, I've become the entertaining queen this summer, offering up wine and records in my living room, wine and CDs on my balcony and abundant conversation anywhere there's art.

And as you might expect, that's everywhere.