Lookin' for Adventure

It was a day for relaxin' with the womenfolk and then showing a gent around.

Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.

When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.

"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?

The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.

With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.

We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.

We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.

The food, as always, was second only to the view.

When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.

In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.

There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.

"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?

And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.

Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.

Unexpectedly, I had company.

Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.

As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.

I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.

I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.

When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.

I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.

One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.

Intervention was essential.

The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.

We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."

My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.

In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.

From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.

We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.

We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.

And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.

Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.

Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.

Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?

Visiting My Books

It's a long way from Prince George's County to the Devil's Workshop.

Not every evening's companion could hold an extended conversation about Greenbelt, Maryland, a New Deal-era co-op community but also the first place I lived outside of my parents' home, not to mention my first exposure to a co-op grocery store.

We began our conversation marathon on this breezy Spring evening at Nota Bene, not just because I'm such a fan, but because visitors love a chef's recommendation and this was one he'd been given. Date Night ("Bring your friends!") was in full swing, but a happy-looking couple were kind enough to give us the international "we'll-slide-over-so-you-can-have two-barstools-together" signal and we were seasoned enough to read it.

Sitting down, the man leaned in and told me, "Three words: fig and pig. It'll change your life." Gently explaining that my world had been rocked, I don't know, six or seven years ago when I'd first had Pizza Tonight's fig and pig pizza, he looked incredulous. "It's our first time!"

Better late than never, sir.

My friend's suggestion to start with pasta and pizza was overruled (I was looking for a tad more balance) and he graciously relented, thus averting a carb nap for dessert. Straight outta the wood-burning oven, braised fennel got points for its charred bits while a special of seafood ragu - octopus, crab, scallops and rigatoni in a tomato and clam sauce - presented itself as rustic but tasted anything but peasant-like.

It was over dinner that the subject of our University of Maryland roots and my art history major came up. "Did you ever take a class from Rearick?" he asked, triggering a flood of classroom vignettes I hadn't even realized my brain still stored.

Professor Rearick lives on in my memory bank for many reasons, not the least of which was his complete passion for all things Italian. He had a habit of walking around the classroom as he lectured - not taught, a distinction we both recalled with clarity - one hand making a near-constant rhythmic movement as he moved about.

But it was mainly his voice that mattered. Stentorious with measured cadences, it would rise and fall for emphasis as he shared his wealth of knowledge with kids like me, in love with art history and eager to absorb this learned man's years of study.

No memory is clearer than the one where a hapless student casually referred to Leonardo as "da Vinci." Rearick looked at the kid like he was an imbecile and asked where he was born. After he squeaked out an answer, Rearick quizzed the kid about whether people called him "of Silver Spring?" Duh. The professor drew himself up and said that the great artist's name was Leonardo and he was to be referred to as Leonardo or Leonardo di ser Piero but never, not ever, as "da Vinci."

That story has lived on in my brain for decades, but until my dining companion brought up the professor's name, it had been stored so deeply in the recesses that I couldn't have pulled it up for anything. And that, dear reader, is the unabashed pleasure of spending time with a person who shares youthful people and places with you, even though we didn't know each other at the time.

Since there was still Gavi in my glass, we closed out the meal with a new dessert -  Sullivan's Pond Farm goat cheese custard with fruity Sicilian olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt - that ate like the equivalent of a cheese plate in a petite mason jar.

But there was more dazzlement to be had. We headed up the hill to the Gypsy Room for music, gingerly stepping around two passed out people being carried out of the Bonobo concert at the National and laid out on the sidewalk. It wasn't pretty.

Downstairs, my music aficionado of friend was immediately seduced by the low light ambiance of the subterranean venue as the Devil's Workshop Big Band set up to play and we sprawled out on one of the couches. I was especially impressed with the trombone player whose music stand was fitted out with a small shelf for his PBR.  That's a musician who'll go far.

The collective took a few minutes for their sound to fully gel, but the result was a satisfying evening of popular music arranged - often by the bass player - for 14 players (drums, bass, guitar, keys and horns), making for some bass-heavy funky grooves.

They played through Kool and the Gang's "Sea of Tranquility," with a segue into D'Angelo's reworking of the song for one of his own, along with Stevie Wonder's "You've Got It Bad, Girl," The Spinners' "People Make the World Go Round" and something called "Houston Express" that wasn't readily found in my friend's mental musical card catalog.

Closing out with an original song, "Mushroom Tattoos" (only in Richmond, right?), that gave everyone a chance to solo and chant the refrain of "mushroom tattoos for everyone," the band put a feather in the cap of our evening.

The best I could do to follow that up was putting some Isley Brothers and Dramatics on the turntable and letting it wash over us with the windows wide open to the night air.

You can always count on a Prince George's County boy knowing his R & B.

Taking Some Air

My reputation as a heathen precedes me.

After inviting Mac to join me for some Fat Tuesday revelry, she mentioned her plans to her Mom on the phone, being sure to tell her that it was the most religious inclination she'd seen in me in our nearly two years of friendship.

My Catholic upbringing has nothing to do with it. It's all about dressing gaudy by layering on pattern, purple, green and orange (tonight while blasting Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66), eating pancakes and hearing a brass band.

We walked over to 821 Cafe for brinner (their word, not mine) and our adorable server - cut-offs, midriff and enormous red plaid flannel shirt - thanked us for reminding her it was Fat Tuesday since she'd forgotten.

Debating whether or not to share an order of buttermilk pancakes, when pressed, I had to admit that I could eat way more than half an order.

So it was that we shared an order of bacon, I got basic buttermilk pancakes, dousing half in syrup and half in strawberry jam as is my family's habit, and Mac got Union cakes, essentially the same pancakes except hers were mounded with berries, bananas and chocolate chips.

Deciding that it was an ideal evening for Espolon with pancakes, I ordered some, only to hear that they were out and that it was our server's favorite tequila, too. Seems it's what she always orders when she gets off her shift, which makes me suspect it was her fault they were out.

And I was right about the pancakes, I could devour far more than half a plate, yet I was still the recipient of pancake shaming. Mac ate exactly half her order and asked for a box, while I worked my plate down to nearly gone, yet guess who got the comments?

"Really, you can't finish that?" the server asked incredulously. "That's like four bites!" The problem was I'd been too full to eat the previous four bites, so I certainly didn't need anymore now. Convinced I'd want them later, she insisted on bringing me a box, too.

Leftovers in hand, we walked to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque which was tonight showing "Black Girl" from 1966, the first film made by a black director on the African continent and focusing on colonialism (the French in Senegal), religion, education and a host of social activism-motivated themes.

The professor giving the pre-film talk prattled on about depictions of women and race, but also casually slid into her rambling that the main character commits suicide, a fact we were both furious to be told in advance. I don't even read movie summaries because I want the story to unfold for me with no prior information.

We'll call her a spoilsport.

Because it had sub-titles, we had to put up with simplistic translations like, "I'm going for a walk" when the character actually said, "I'm going to take some air," a far more lyrical way to say the same thing. But overall, the film was a fascinating look at an unfairly tilted colonial situation, replete with mid-century modern furniture, frosted lipstick and entitled white people.

It was while we were watching the film that the skies opened up and we heard rain beating so hard on the theater's roof that it competed with the soundtrack. No dummies, we'd both brought umbrellas for just such an eventuality.

The rain had lessened but not stopped when "Black Girl" ended, so we stayed for the Q & A despite wanting to tell the prof she'd spoiled the movie for us. Stepping outside, puddles were everywhere but nothing was officially falling.

We got as far as Broad Street when a guy asked for money for food and Mac inquired if he liked pancakes. When I turned around to check, he was devouring hers as we rounded the corner to Belvidere. That's a good egg, giving up her leftover breakfast like that.

She was also stoked about heading out for a brass band, saying, "You always know how to show a girl a good time!" I pride myself on it, actually.

Our final stop was the Gypsy Room because Illegal States was playing, albeit not for another hour. We made ourselves at home at the bar next to some of the musicians getting their dinner on beforehand, several wearing Mardi Gras beads.

When the bartender asked what we'd like, I told him to slide the absinthe drip our way because tonight was going to be Mac's first absinthe drip. She'd told me recently that she wanted to try the green fairy and there's no time like the present, especially on a night devoted to one last indulgence before sacrifice season sets in tomorrow.

It's not like I don't know this stuff, it's just I have no use for practicing any of it, well, except tonight.

Once our drips were cloudy and the green fairy in attendance, we turned our attentions to nearby strangers. Her first score was a Puerto Rican drummer playing with the band tonight, while mine was a Belgian woman who just last week sold the Fan house she'd owned for decades and moved to a cottage in Goochland.

 One guy arrived with a sequined silver mask on. Another had on an '80s sweater worthy of (dare I?) Cliff Huxtable. A lawyer came in and asked for a tall bourbon and ginger. "Tall or double?" the barkeep inquired. "Tall, but that's a good question to ask, especially on Fat Tuesday!" True that.

A bearded guy showed up bemoaning the abundance of what he called neo-Christian teenagers lined up next door at the National (not exactly how I'd have described them given the number of girls in fishnets and booty shorts), only to be told it was an Excision show - dubstep, in other words.

"You mean dumbstep?" he cracked. "No, thanks."

Turns out the Belgian was the mother of one of the band's drummers and she told me that her son had no idea she was coming tonight. When a young man walked up, he didn't look surprised in the least to see his Maman, and she couldn't figure out how he knew she'd be there.

"Call it a hunch," he grinned. Leaning into the bar, he said he wanted a Hurricane. "Hey, it's Fat Tuesday," he shrugged. The bartender had already told me he'd stopped by Lady N'Awlins on his way to work in order to score a Hurricane and some of the crawfish boil they were serving up.

The drummer Mac had been talking to had warned us that the Belgian's son's drumming was going to make things loud and when I shared that with him, he looked pleased as punch. "Wait, was he saying that was a good or bad thing?" he wondered aloud.

"No, that's cool," he concluded.

One of the band's trumpet player's came over to order a drink and I couldn't resist commenting on his magnificent sweater of white elephants on a black background, curious about where one acquires such a unique garment.

"Actually, Forever 21's men's section," he admitted softly, as if it were a secret. "They have some hidden gems there."

Finally, it seemed, the 10-piece Illegal Sates - 2 trombones, sax, 2 trumpets, tuba and 4 drummers/percussionists - got started and the sound of horns and rhythm filled the low-ceilinged room in an appropriately Mardi Gras manner.

The Belgian's son had his cowbell clipped to the side of the drum hanging from a strap around his neck. These guys weren't fooling around and girls were soon dancing with abandon in front of the band, while some of us kept our dancing on our bar stools.

"I like the WASP-y guy with his eyes closed," Mac whispered about a guy standing near us and so totally grooving to the music that he seemed oblivious to the rest of us.

When the band paused between songs, the Belgian looked at me and said, "We need a samba!" Considering she had an in with the band, I told her to tell them, not me.

It was easy to get lost in the band's energetic sound and never more so than when the horns stood to the side and let the drummers and percussionists steal the show playing off each other for an extended period.

Things got so heated that one guy called out from the crowd, "Is my girlfriend on fire?"

We didn't see any girls in flames, but she could have been radiating a heat others couldn't see. No question about it, these guys were tight on a night devoted to getting loose.

That's cool. And may Lent begin now that good times have put another Fat Tuesday in the bead-bedecked rear-view mirror.

Separating the Wheat from the Chaff

Cut to the chase: Four diamonds led to onstage vomiting and ended with a fairy and jazz.

Long version: It's probably a good thing that we already had reservations at Shagbark for Saturday night given the four diamond rating AAA bestowed on them last week.

Even with a ridiculously early reservation, our table was back in one of the private dining rooms rather than the main one, no skin off my nose since it also meant we got the locally hand-crafted dinnerware and fewer soul-less West End types at the tables surrounding us.

Being first in the dining room meant that the soundtrack was easy to hear and while some people might enjoy - even sing along to - the Little River Band's "Lonesome Loser," I'm not one of them, although they could have continued playing the Spinners and Earth, Wind and Fire all night as far as I was concerned.

"Good tune-age," my friend commented, albeit after a Billy Joel song. To each, his own.

To try to help us forget that we were at a restaurant in an empty shopping center on a boring stretch of county road, we looked at wine options beginning with the Loire before moving on to Chilean and Australian possibilities.

Asked her opinion of the southern hemisphere grapes, my friend inquired, "Why did we ever leave the Loire?" and in no time, a bottle of Domaine de la Chezatte Sancerre Blanc appeared, seducing us with its pear nose while its minerality decided my first course: bivalves.

It didn't hurt that on the menu were White Stone oysters (baked with butter, Pecorino, herbes fine and breadcrumbs) from an up and coming new oyster company I'd just read about earlier today in the Post, although I'm still not entirely convinced that producing oysters of the exact same size is desirable - come on, that doesn't happen in nature - but perhaps that's just me.

Over a wide-ranging dinner conversation - septuagenarians starting an artists' co-op, men's Star Trek boxer briefs with catch phrases (Go boldly! Engage!) on the waist band, conversational veneer - we dug deep into the four diamond menu, including a roasted winter vegetable ragout, which sounds vaguely healthful until you learn that it's crowned with a poached egg, Surry sausage, fresh Ricotta and lion's mane mushrooms made obscene with a celery root cream sauce.

No, really, the veggies were there somewhere.

High marks went to a salad of poached pears, duck confit, Goats 'R Us Camembert, walnuts and maple vinaigrette, but mainly as a way of absolving guilt for what was to come.

Good as my brandy peppercorn-crusted ahi tuna with scallions, Sea Island peas, roasted peppers and truffle vinaigrette was, nothing could touch my friend's red wine-braised ruby veal (a heritage breed, not to mention a one pound serving) with toothsome saffron heirloom creamer peas, arugula and citrus salad, shaved sweet onion and forest mushroom emulsion, a dish that was summed up with the pronouncement, "My expectations have been met and that never happens."

Truer words were never spoken, whether applicable to food, entertainment or people. Call me easy, but I'm not that hard to please.

To satisfy our collective sweet tooths (teeth?), we ordered two dark chocolate souffle cakes with creme fraiche, dulce de leche, Port, blackberries and vanilla gelato before rolling out of a restaurant that had been uninhabited when we'd arrived and was now at capacity.

Diamonds are a restaurant's best friend, it would seem, even one in a lonesome location.

The reason for our ridiculously early meal was an equally ridiculously early curtain for Quill Theatre's "The Compleat Wrks of Wllm Shkspr: Abridged" at an even more remote location than dinner: the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen.

The three man play promised us intellectual salvation and managed to cover all of Shakespeare's plays with a nod to the sonnets and spit us out at a reasonable hour, with non-stop hilarity along the way.

From the initial introduction which included a tutorial in how to use an oxygen mask should something drastic happen at the Cultural Arts Center mid-performance to the backwards ending, we laughed off a lot of our dinner, or at least that's what we told ourselves.

During the mocking of "Romeo and Juliet," for instance, when an actor walked onstage, another said, "It's the Prince," only to be corrected to, "The artist formerly known as Prince," after which all three kissed their first two fingers and raised them to heaven along with their eyes.

Where, in a scene of timeless romance
He'll try to get into Juliet's pants

Or when Romeo starts being overly familiar with fair Juliet and she reminds him in a singsong voice, "Second base is for second dates!"

"Titus Andronicus" was re-imagined as a cooking show ("Welcome, Gore-mays!") geared to those who don't feel like cooking after a long day of killing, severing and cannibalizing, while Othello became a rap despite the very white actors. How white? They met at a They Might Be Giants show.

All sixteen comedies were condensed into a montage dubbed "The Loveboat Goes to Verona," with assorted lovers and cousins washed ashore by "massive waves, like the rising tide of nationalism in the world."

So, yea, there was much referencing of current events throughout. Shakespeare takes on fresh nuances in Trump's America.

Because they said that Shakespeare's comedies aren't as funny as his tragedies, they performed "Macbeth" in ridiculously thick Scottish accents, with Macduff saying, "I was from my mother's womb untimely ripped. I didn't like it but I support a woman's right to choose."

It was during "Julius Cesar" that actor CJ Bergin was reminded by his fellow actors Dixon Cashwell and Joseph Bromfield that, "Not all Shakespeare's heroines wear bad wigs and vomit onstage," which you'd never have known given how many bad wigs and the abundance of stage vomiting we'd already seen.

Diving into the geo-political plays, we saw "Two Noble Kinsman" ridiculed as "Chernobyl Kinsman" before witnessing an interpretive dance version of "Troilus and Cressida" ("I love interpretive dance. It's so pretentious!").

"Richard II" and "Richard III" became a football game with a penalty for "fictional character on the field" when King Lear put in an appearance. By the time we got to intermission, all three actors were a hot, sweaty mess.

The second act began, not by reading any of Shakespeare's 154 sonnets, but by passing from audience member to member a card that contained the first line of them all while Joseph played a song flute onstage.

The card never made it to us, that's all I'm saying. Thankfully, I have my own copy of the sonnets and not just the first lines, either.

Naturally, "Hamlet" got the lion's share of performance time with Dixon scootching and somersaulting to reach the spotlight when it was time for his "To be or not to be" soliloquy and the audience members being recruited to play the ego, super ego and id of Ophelia.

There was a lot of screaming involved, but mercifully, no heaving.

After the final scene, they trio redid "Hamlet" except even more quickly this time and then, just to show off, did it backwards ("Listen for the Satanic messages!") and it was over. Two hours and every worthwhile Shakespearean endeavor had been alluded to, mocked and, in a few cases, even quoted accurately, albeit with a lot of bad wigs and onstage vomiting.

Rather than call it a night, I suggested the Gypsy Room for jazz because Brunswick was playing and, coincidentally, they have an absinthe fountain and it's been an absinthe sort of a weekend.

Scoring stools at the center of the bar facing the fountain, we fashioned our own drips - fact: no two people like the same ratio of sugar cube and ice water to wormwood - while the band got set up and familiar faces began drifting in - the former neighbor, the DJ, the photographer, the musician, the restaurateur.

The Gypsy Room has such great sound and the 13-piece Brunswick took full advantage, regaling the ever-growing crowd with a horn-filled vibe alternately chill and rousing, so just what a Saturday night needed.

Even for those beaten by the queen of hearts every time.

I'll Make Time

As every former Girl Scout knows, make new friends, but keep the old, blah, blah, silver and gold.

The old, a former co-worker and music buddy, had emailed with his standard, "Drinks or lunch soon?" so we'd planned lunch at Peking (I know, I know, who goes to Peking anymore, especially when a so-called Chinese restaurant doesn't provide chopsticks without asking) because it was near his office at the James Center.

Over my Sezchuan chicken and his General Tso's fried chicken, we discussed our shared allegiance in the mayoral race before moving on to the  state of the scene, a favorite topic of ours for a decade now.

Not for the first time, he thanked me for insisting he attend the Silent Music Revival back in 2008 when he hadn't a clue (always happy to be of service) and suggested a game where we chronicle our favorite cultural experiences back in that era when all the underground scenes were just beginning to burble up to a more mainstream audience.

Mermaid Skeletons in the Poe Garden, the first Listening Room at the Micheaux House, the Silent Music Revival with Blue Letter making our ears bleed, the first time we marched together in the Halloween parade.

We got a million of 'em, he and I.

Only problem is, we can play that game all day long and both of us had work to accomplish this afternoon, so I accompanied him as far as the James Center and continued my walk uphill to Jackson Ward.

As for the new (friend, that is), he was technically still wet behind the ears since we'd met exactly a week ago and this was our first outing. The man's only been back in Richmond for two months, so I'd offered to help a brother out by showcasing what I like about Richmond life.

Upon his return from a weekend in Asheville, the Barrister had notified me of his availability, I'd shared what my plans for that evening were and left him to decide if any or all of it was appealing enough to join in.

Whether bravely or foolishly, he'd checked all three boxes.

We met at Chop Suey Books for "One Hour, Four Places," with four writers reading from their work about linen closets, cheating spouses dying, overnights in a museum and bedside manner, although we were also those horrible people in the back row who only stayed for three of the readings.

Once out on the sidewalk, we agreed that Gayla Mills' ode to repeatedly patching the worn out jeans of the 21-year old she fell in love and began making music with rang truest.

As old friends of mine know well, memoir often trumps fiction for my interest.

From there, we did a convoy over to Vagabond for dinner, only to walk in and be informed that it was Restaurant Week and they were full up. On the one hand, I should probably have known what week it was given my occupation but on the other, I tend to block it out intentionally.

Fortunately, the bar was empty and dinner service extended to those stools, so we settled in to do battle with the unexpected constraints of the week, but the good news kept coming when I learned that ordering off the Restaurant Week menu was not required given the - ta da! - "Vagabond Staples" portion of the menu.

That and a glass of La Galope Rose ensured that even if Barr turned out to be dead boring as company, at least the meal wouldn't be (and he didn't). Additional points were earned because he's also firmly in the camp that food is meant to be shared so there can be no duplicate ordering.

Not a problem since I went with the staples and Barr went traditional with the Restaurant Week menu.

My first course was fried cauliflower with a swipe of earthy roasted pumpkin seed Romesco, while his was a smoked brisket taco combining pine nut salsa, pickled jalapeno and queso fresco that refused to stay contained in the tortilla despite our best efforts.

We covered the entire histories of all the people at the table where we'd met, as well as our conflicting plans for Saturday night. Despite his entreaties, Paula Poundstone yields to Julius Caesar for me in this instance.

Next up I tucked into scallops perfectly seared over smoked corn puree (something I'd love to see more of), butternut squash, pico de gallo and, yes, that's right, tortilla chips.

Snack food fine dining, yes, please.

His roasted rockfish brought up the whole roasted rockfish we'd shared with the table last Wednesday, a frequency he commented on, but, pshaw, I'd already had a second rockfish since then, making this my third in a week. Tonight's repeat fish benefited from toothsome collards, sea island red peas, potlikker and butter (although, let's face it, a fillet never measures up to whole fish).

Because that's what friends do - even brand new friends - I was happy to explain potlikker to the grown man next to me who was unfamiliar with the term despite an obvious affinity for the product.

More explaining was in order when he inquired about the photo on my blog  - Jonathan Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky" - which I took in 2008 laying in the grass at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas (and good for me since it has since been dismantled and not reinstalled) on a glorious winter day.

And since I can't mention Dallas without sharing how distasteful I repeatedly found the city despite the friend I adore who lived there, he gave me his take on Dallas, which was far more positive than mine.

But even newly-minted friends are bound to have differences of opinion, so I didn't hold it against him.

His third course was a chocolate torte with a Fall-tasting sweet Asian pear compote and goat cheese whipped cream, which he graciously shared with yours truly before we took our drinks and headed downstairs to the Gypsy Tea Room for the main event: music.

Two large groups of noisy talkers were just vacating their tables when we arrived, ordered more wine and claimed prime spaces on the banquette facing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the moody darkness, which also happens to be one reason I like this space so much.

So. Much. Atmosphere.

Given that it was a first outing for this friendship, we both had plenty of getting-to-know-you questions, such as him inquiring what radio station I listened to. When I said public radio WNRN, he said that told him everything he needed to know since he was also a huge fan of the station.

People continued to trickle in for the next half an hour as the quartet began playing and improvising, meaning I saw a favorite candidate for City Council, one of the musicians who used to live underneath me ("How are the new tenants?" he wondered about his replacements) and the drummer whose park show I'd missed last night.

Across the room, I spotted the jazz critic and several up and coming musicians, little surprise given the quality of musicianship on display tonight: the low key and multi-talented Scott on drums, Cameron Ralston slapping, plucking, bowing and generally owning the bass, Jason Scott killing it on sax and clarinet and Trey Pollard on guitar while making outstanding guitar faces.

I could see that the Barrister was enjoying himself completely. Leaning over between songs, he asked rhetorically, "Shows like this are happening all over town every night, aren't they?"

Sure are and some nights, they're in the same place where potlikker is being ladled up.

If this friendship continues to go well, in ten years I'd like to think he'll be another long-time friend thanking me for suggesting all kinds of places.

My gold and silver motto? Making new friends, keeping the old and laying in the grass when it's called for.