It was time for vacation debriefing.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Showing posts with label happy hour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happy hour. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Two L'heures Happy
Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves. ~ Albert Einstein
Before Einstein, there was Henry Box Brown.
Meaning that my evening began at the Anderson Gallery happy hour for Jefferey Ruggles' talk on Henry Box Brown, the man who mailed himself to Philly to escape life as a slave.
I arrived and found a seat on the bench with a good view of the screen and close access to the cheese and cookies, as a nearby attendee pointed out.
Soon, I was joined by a WRIR DJ who, like me, was eager to glean some new information about an escaped slave with a plan.
As we awaited the start of the talk, we discussed Floyd Avenue and Cambridge, MA, and their very different worthiness as bike routes.
As a former thirteen-year resident of Floyd Avenue, I felt his pain about present-day Floyd.
Ruggles was funny, losing sight of his slide show as he shared endless details about Brown's journey from boxed cargo to globe-trotting entertainer, sharing his panoramics about life in Africa and as a slave with audiences all over the world.
Our speaker had even acquired original drawings of "A Nubian Slave," an illustrated and devastating series about the journey of an African destined for the New World.
At one point in the slide presentation, we saw a slide of Boston, the Charles River and Cambridge on the other side, necessitating me observing, "Speaking of..."
"Yea, I know, right?" the DJ agreed, referencing our earlier conversation.
The lecture was fascinating for its story of Brown's life, his struggle and his success at creating a life in Canada after abolitionists found fault with how he squandered his new-found freedom.
Wine, women, gambling and song.
Like it was their job to judge.
Friend and I bolted once the lecture ended, both with plans that would not wait.
Mine involved Amour Wine Bistro's l'heure heureuse, a happy hour involving four small plates for $12.
Who wouldn't be happy with such a deal?
They were the ones who had posted the Einstein quote and, frankly, anyone sharing that sentiment was speaking to me directly.
Moments after I sat down, I ordered a flight of roses and soon a man joined me at the bar, ogling my array of pink wines.
"That looks good!" he said, clearly coveting my roses.
What's not to love about Pere Cabouche 2012, Chateau de Valcombe 2012, L'Opale de la Presqu'ile de Saint Tropez 2011 and Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011?
Inquiring of the owner if any of my roses were not sweet (duh), he was assured that sweet was not an issue here.
He promptly ordered the exact same flight.
Oohing and ahhing over the array of roses, he told me that he'd been out shopping for his 32nd anniversary tomorrow.
The VMFA had yielded the jewelry for his wife's gift and Mongrel (natch) had supplied the card.
Just as he'd finished there, wifey had called and asked him to pick up dog food.
A side trip to PetCo. had delivered the dog chow, leaving him hot and sweaty (there is a heat wave going on, after all) and craving a glass of wine.
Sadly, he'd come in looking for a glass of Pinot Grigio.
It was only once he spied my four pink glasses that he'd succumbed to something far better.
As if I hadn't inspired enough envy, I proceeded to rub salt in the wounds by taking advantage of Amour's happy hour deal of four small plates for $12.
In short order, I devoured smoked trout "sushi" (English cucumber and smoked trout in orange-poached carrot roll with wasabi-soy-shitake reduction and candied ginger), marinated scallops with aioli and the freshest of melon and red onion salsas, summer gazpacho of English cukes and chilled watermelon gazpacho with a pickled veggie salsa and, finally, crispy prosciutto (baked prosciutto cups with tomato basil soubise, shaved Parmesan and the reddest of grilled tomato).
My pre-anniversary-celebrating friend was pea-green with envy.
Why not? In a city where all of a sudden every restaurant in town is doing early-evening specials, these four dishes were superb examples of big flavors and small prices.
Translation: score.
But he was also marveling at the array of stellar roses we were both drinking and eventually wised up, purchasing a bottle of the Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011, flattering me by saying he never would have a) tasted it, much less, b) bought a bottle if he hadn't seen me enjoying it.
I love being the reason people experience (and buy) wine.
Besides, I bet his wife will have a better anniversary because of that bottle, so my work here was done.
To his credit, he has a successful 32-year relationship under his belt, a fact he said causes amazement among his friends.
Once he left, I enjoyed dessert, a trio of ice creams - lime, white peach and cocoa- with the ideal accompaniment, Muscadet de Beaume de Venise Domaine Saint Dominique.
Two words: perfect pairing.
I may be allergic to stone fruit, but I will never pass up white peach anything and the creamy mouth-feel of this peach ice cream was swoon-worthy.
Let my tongue swell and my mouth itch, for it is well worth the reaction.
The cocoa delivered raptures and I heard that there are people driving from D.C. to enjoy that cocoa bliss.
No surprise there.
While savoring dessert, I heard of the owner's impending trip to Paris and Provence, two destinations I have yet to experience and yet two places I long to know.
Even better, he's meeting a mutual friend there, a man who will ensure that they visit the best dance clubs and experience all that both cities have to offer.
A perfect travel companion, in other words.
By the time I finished the last of my flight, the final dinner guests were leaving and I knew it was time for me to clear out, too.
Driving home alone, I wasn't threatening anyone's driving with my kissing, but I was awfully satisfied with the direction my happy hours had taken.
Tomorrow's goal: preventing a man from driving safely.
I can dream, can't I?
Before Einstein, there was Henry Box Brown.
Meaning that my evening began at the Anderson Gallery happy hour for Jefferey Ruggles' talk on Henry Box Brown, the man who mailed himself to Philly to escape life as a slave.
I arrived and found a seat on the bench with a good view of the screen and close access to the cheese and cookies, as a nearby attendee pointed out.
Soon, I was joined by a WRIR DJ who, like me, was eager to glean some new information about an escaped slave with a plan.
As we awaited the start of the talk, we discussed Floyd Avenue and Cambridge, MA, and their very different worthiness as bike routes.
As a former thirteen-year resident of Floyd Avenue, I felt his pain about present-day Floyd.
Ruggles was funny, losing sight of his slide show as he shared endless details about Brown's journey from boxed cargo to globe-trotting entertainer, sharing his panoramics about life in Africa and as a slave with audiences all over the world.
Our speaker had even acquired original drawings of "A Nubian Slave," an illustrated and devastating series about the journey of an African destined for the New World.
At one point in the slide presentation, we saw a slide of Boston, the Charles River and Cambridge on the other side, necessitating me observing, "Speaking of..."
"Yea, I know, right?" the DJ agreed, referencing our earlier conversation.
The lecture was fascinating for its story of Brown's life, his struggle and his success at creating a life in Canada after abolitionists found fault with how he squandered his new-found freedom.
Wine, women, gambling and song.
Like it was their job to judge.
Friend and I bolted once the lecture ended, both with plans that would not wait.
Mine involved Amour Wine Bistro's l'heure heureuse, a happy hour involving four small plates for $12.
Who wouldn't be happy with such a deal?
They were the ones who had posted the Einstein quote and, frankly, anyone sharing that sentiment was speaking to me directly.
Moments after I sat down, I ordered a flight of roses and soon a man joined me at the bar, ogling my array of pink wines.
"That looks good!" he said, clearly coveting my roses.
What's not to love about Pere Cabouche 2012, Chateau de Valcombe 2012, L'Opale de la Presqu'ile de Saint Tropez 2011 and Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011?
Inquiring of the owner if any of my roses were not sweet (duh), he was assured that sweet was not an issue here.
He promptly ordered the exact same flight.
Oohing and ahhing over the array of roses, he told me that he'd been out shopping for his 32nd anniversary tomorrow.
The VMFA had yielded the jewelry for his wife's gift and Mongrel (natch) had supplied the card.
Just as he'd finished there, wifey had called and asked him to pick up dog food.
A side trip to PetCo. had delivered the dog chow, leaving him hot and sweaty (there is a heat wave going on, after all) and craving a glass of wine.
Sadly, he'd come in looking for a glass of Pinot Grigio.
It was only once he spied my four pink glasses that he'd succumbed to something far better.
As if I hadn't inspired enough envy, I proceeded to rub salt in the wounds by taking advantage of Amour's happy hour deal of four small plates for $12.
In short order, I devoured smoked trout "sushi" (English cucumber and smoked trout in orange-poached carrot roll with wasabi-soy-shitake reduction and candied ginger), marinated scallops with aioli and the freshest of melon and red onion salsas, summer gazpacho of English cukes and chilled watermelon gazpacho with a pickled veggie salsa and, finally, crispy prosciutto (baked prosciutto cups with tomato basil soubise, shaved Parmesan and the reddest of grilled tomato).
My pre-anniversary-celebrating friend was pea-green with envy.
Why not? In a city where all of a sudden every restaurant in town is doing early-evening specials, these four dishes were superb examples of big flavors and small prices.
Translation: score.
But he was also marveling at the array of stellar roses we were both drinking and eventually wised up, purchasing a bottle of the Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011, flattering me by saying he never would have a) tasted it, much less, b) bought a bottle if he hadn't seen me enjoying it.
I love being the reason people experience (and buy) wine.
Besides, I bet his wife will have a better anniversary because of that bottle, so my work here was done.
To his credit, he has a successful 32-year relationship under his belt, a fact he said causes amazement among his friends.
Once he left, I enjoyed dessert, a trio of ice creams - lime, white peach and cocoa- with the ideal accompaniment, Muscadet de Beaume de Venise Domaine Saint Dominique.
Two words: perfect pairing.
I may be allergic to stone fruit, but I will never pass up white peach anything and the creamy mouth-feel of this peach ice cream was swoon-worthy.
Let my tongue swell and my mouth itch, for it is well worth the reaction.
The cocoa delivered raptures and I heard that there are people driving from D.C. to enjoy that cocoa bliss.
No surprise there.
While savoring dessert, I heard of the owner's impending trip to Paris and Provence, two destinations I have yet to experience and yet two places I long to know.
Even better, he's meeting a mutual friend there, a man who will ensure that they visit the best dance clubs and experience all that both cities have to offer.
A perfect travel companion, in other words.
By the time I finished the last of my flight, the final dinner guests were leaving and I knew it was time for me to clear out, too.
Driving home alone, I wasn't threatening anyone's driving with my kissing, but I was awfully satisfied with the direction my happy hours had taken.
Tomorrow's goal: preventing a man from driving safely.
I can dream, can't I?
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
We'll Always Have Scuffletown
Some people have Paris, some have cicadas.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
Can I!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
It was hard to imagine there was anywhere more pleasant to be at that moment than in this little pocket park hearing live music.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.
I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.
When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.
I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.
The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.
With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.
Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.
"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.
It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.
Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.
A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.
White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.
The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.
We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.
Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.
We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.
When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.
Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.
That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.
Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!
I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.
Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.
She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.
Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.
Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."
He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.
Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.
As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.
He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.
Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.
Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.
The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.
Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.
Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"
By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.
It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
A Little Wisp of a Scherzo
You start slow and you build on a hot Wednesday evening.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Lotus and Lemons
It must be summer because the Anderson Gallery began their happy hour series tonight.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
He Wants, She Wants
Should I know what do I want to do with the next year, or even five years, of my life?
I got to thinking about that because it's been a day to listen to my friends' plans for the future.
Out of the blue, I heard how they have decided to make sharp turns and try something completely different with their lives.
Although the first had been a surprise, I knew there was news with the friend I met for happy hour. He'd said so when he asked me to meet him at Garnett's.
Although fairly low key on arrival, the joint was soon jumping with a butt in nearly every seat.
And I've been told that that's the goal of a restaurant owner.
I started with the Gabriele Rausse rose, which didn't displace King Family's Crose' as my favorite Virginia pink, but satisfied nonetheless.
While my friend told me about his upcoming career change, we took advantage of the $3 happy hour specials.
Devils on horseback (bacon wrapped dates), tea sandwiches of ham and garlic ailoi on crostini, and white bean spread with avocado on crostini made for a tasty little sampling of flavors.
As I listened to how my friend's commuting miles will go from hundreds of miles a week to barely 50 a week, I could tell he's been overdue for a change.
I don't have commuting issues, but maybe there's some other facet to my life that needs addressing.
For our discussion of winery work, classic French bubbles and over-hyped restaurants, I switched to Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
It's such a familiar and easy-drinking wine.
Which is sort of a description of Garnett's for me: familiar and easy.
In the few feet between our table and getting something from my car, I first ran into my organizer friend having dinner with her mom (Mom said, "I've heard about you!").
Stepping outside, I then ran into the beekeeper holding a vase of wilted flowers ("Love your hair!").
God knows if I'd walked to the end of the block who else I might have met.
We finished our rendezvous by walking across the street to Meadow Park to discuss Antero, hip-hop versus country (he plays in both kinds of bands) and the suitability of Civil War monuments in the capital of the Confederacy.
Only when the fireflies appeared did we break camp so he could start his long commute home.
With no cultural destination tonight, I decided to revisit Six Burner since the recent relaunching had been too mobbed to get a handle on the new vibe.
Luckily, a holdover from the old vibe is half off on wines by the glass on Tuesdays, so I tried the elegant Stefano Massone Gavi for four bucks.
Glass in hand, the next thing I noticed was how much louder the music was than it used to be.
Amen to that.
Tonight it was set on a Pandora station with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings as the starting point.
Okay, maybe not my first choice, but way better than the soft jazz that used to be standard play.
It must be a new direction because they're also going to do live music on Wednesday nights. And beer specials.
What? Toto, I don't think we're in Six Burner anymore. Except we were.
There was a lively trio at the bar and he was chiding her about lifestyle choices.
"You said you wanted to participate in my debauchery and reckless behavior. Did we not do that this weekend?" she inquired rhetorically. "Yes, we did!"
Brilliant. Always remind a man what he said he wanted.
I lost interest in them when my arugula salad with goat cheese and roasted beets arrived, notable for the warm, lightly salted beets (red and striped) contrasting with the peppery arugula.
The salad was a conscience salve for my other choice, crispy pork belly confit with a fried duck egg and jalapeno johnny cakes covered in Highland County maple syrup.
The pork belly may have been a tad too salty but the sweetness of the syrup made it less of an issue.
Meanwhile the giant duck egg coated everything in an obscene richness.
Dessert was a moot point because the syrup had more than satisfied my sweet tooth.
But even without dessert, I now had a much better read on the "new" Six Burner.
Louder, cheaper, more varied menu, better music.
Always give a woman what she wants and she'll keep coming back.
Even if she has no idea where she's going forward.
The question is, does she really need to?
I got to thinking about that because it's been a day to listen to my friends' plans for the future.
Out of the blue, I heard how they have decided to make sharp turns and try something completely different with their lives.
Although the first had been a surprise, I knew there was news with the friend I met for happy hour. He'd said so when he asked me to meet him at Garnett's.
Although fairly low key on arrival, the joint was soon jumping with a butt in nearly every seat.
And I've been told that that's the goal of a restaurant owner.
I started with the Gabriele Rausse rose, which didn't displace King Family's Crose' as my favorite Virginia pink, but satisfied nonetheless.
While my friend told me about his upcoming career change, we took advantage of the $3 happy hour specials.
Devils on horseback (bacon wrapped dates), tea sandwiches of ham and garlic ailoi on crostini, and white bean spread with avocado on crostini made for a tasty little sampling of flavors.
As I listened to how my friend's commuting miles will go from hundreds of miles a week to barely 50 a week, I could tell he's been overdue for a change.
I don't have commuting issues, but maybe there's some other facet to my life that needs addressing.
For our discussion of winery work, classic French bubbles and over-hyped restaurants, I switched to Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris.
It's such a familiar and easy-drinking wine.
Which is sort of a description of Garnett's for me: familiar and easy.
In the few feet between our table and getting something from my car, I first ran into my organizer friend having dinner with her mom (Mom said, "I've heard about you!").
Stepping outside, I then ran into the beekeeper holding a vase of wilted flowers ("Love your hair!").
God knows if I'd walked to the end of the block who else I might have met.
We finished our rendezvous by walking across the street to Meadow Park to discuss Antero, hip-hop versus country (he plays in both kinds of bands) and the suitability of Civil War monuments in the capital of the Confederacy.
Only when the fireflies appeared did we break camp so he could start his long commute home.
With no cultural destination tonight, I decided to revisit Six Burner since the recent relaunching had been too mobbed to get a handle on the new vibe.
Luckily, a holdover from the old vibe is half off on wines by the glass on Tuesdays, so I tried the elegant Stefano Massone Gavi for four bucks.
Glass in hand, the next thing I noticed was how much louder the music was than it used to be.
Amen to that.
Tonight it was set on a Pandora station with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings as the starting point.
Okay, maybe not my first choice, but way better than the soft jazz that used to be standard play.
It must be a new direction because they're also going to do live music on Wednesday nights. And beer specials.
What? Toto, I don't think we're in Six Burner anymore. Except we were.
There was a lively trio at the bar and he was chiding her about lifestyle choices.
"You said you wanted to participate in my debauchery and reckless behavior. Did we not do that this weekend?" she inquired rhetorically. "Yes, we did!"
Brilliant. Always remind a man what he said he wanted.
I lost interest in them when my arugula salad with goat cheese and roasted beets arrived, notable for the warm, lightly salted beets (red and striped) contrasting with the peppery arugula.
The salad was a conscience salve for my other choice, crispy pork belly confit with a fried duck egg and jalapeno johnny cakes covered in Highland County maple syrup.
The pork belly may have been a tad too salty but the sweetness of the syrup made it less of an issue.
Meanwhile the giant duck egg coated everything in an obscene richness.
Dessert was a moot point because the syrup had more than satisfied my sweet tooth.
But even without dessert, I now had a much better read on the "new" Six Burner.
Louder, cheaper, more varied menu, better music.
Always give a woman what she wants and she'll keep coming back.
Even if she has no idea where she's going forward.
The question is, does she really need to?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
