Sparks on My Heels

The best friends give the best advice.

I started my evening at Bistro 27 after a friend e-mailed requesting that we meet there for a drink.

Over a glass of Vinho Verde with "Love is Blue" playing in the background, he tells me about his love life and looks askance when I update him on mine.

Keep up, darling, or you'll miss something.

I inhale just enough calamari to tide me over until my dinner date, while eavesdropping on a conversation between two gallerists.

UVA's art gallery has a socialist slant, I hear, but it's now being countered by a new professor espousing a more populist view.

How did I get so lucky to hear art geek talk while sipping wine?

All at once I look up and find two good friends out front waving to me, no doubt on their way home from Tarrant's to their flat.

It's a scene we've replayed many times, but I never tire of seeing them slightly buzzed and always happy to spot me a few doors down as they head home.

After discussing my friend's love life (and the romantic card he found in his bag after his beloved left on a business trip to Ireland), he inquires about mine, necessitating an update and resulting in a raised eyebrow.

When I leave 27, it's to make my way to Rappahannock to meet a favorite couple.

Holmes has forgotten his wallet and must return home, but his girlfriend joins me inside where we order a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose, a lovely pink wine made from Pinot Noir while we await his re-arrival.

Nearby, a solo bar-sitter engages us and next thing we know, he's laughing at our jokes and hinting that he wants to know more about me.

Okay, not even hinting, just flat-out complimenting me and trying to glean information about me.

Soon Holmes returns and unexpectedly accommodates him to a surprising degree.

My admirer is a banking lawyer who lives in Windsor Farms, so he seems an unlikely interest for me except he is also a writer and passionate about reading and the arts.

When he goes to the loo, Holmes takes a moment to give me some love life advice and advises more discretion on the blog.

I couldn't be more surprised at his suggestion for how to share my life.

Still, we've been friends for almost a decade and I know he cares about me, so maybe he knows what he's talking about.

Because Holmes and the little lady are new to Rappahannock, I show them the map and explain where the various oysters come from, trying not to influence their choices based on my own preferences.

Nevertheless, they get half a dozen Old Saltes and half a dozen buttery Rappahannocks, in other words, both ends of the spectrum.

I am more inclusive, choosing not only Rappahannocks and Olde Saltes but also Witch Ducks  to deliver all my salinity needs.

The shucker, a mere 16-year old named Grayson, tells me that his Mom works at Merroir.

When I tell him that that is my preferred RRO venue, he makes me promise I will ask for her next time I'm out there.

With Lou Reed playing, Holmes and my newest fan decide we need to switch from Rose to tequila, never a stretch for me.

Herradura silver arrives and I sense a new respect from our bartender.

I follow my bi-valve course with Heritage Oaks Grange pork terrine over a slice of brioche and served with house pickles, walnut oil vinaigrette, greens and a soft quail egg.

It is rich, earthy and the pickled green beans a real treat, so I finish it all before trying Holmes' Hanover tomato gazpacho.

The beauty of the soup is the addition of watermelon (the color alone is to die for) and Virginia deep sea red crab, making for a sipper that is not only flavorful but exquisitely colored.

And the Zombies play on.

My admirer is bemoaning the fact that he loves our company but worries that he may not run into us again and Holmes mollifies him with another round of agave.

I don't complain.

By the time we reach the dessert course, the bar is beginning to clear out, Holmes is telling stories of a long-ago Janis Joplin concert and the lawyer is laughing at everything.

The female contingent orders a chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake, a twelve-layer wonder that pairs savory buckwheat with the richest ganache and real whipped cream.

It is my undoing because when my admirer comes around to my stool and asks how he can contact me, I eventually supply an e-mail address.

To keep myself in check going forward, I ask Holmes to reiterate his proposed dating strategy.

I can do this.

By now it is pouring rain so my gallant friend goes ahead to retrieve the car for his main squeeze while we womenfolk wait at the door.

As usual, I've had a stellar time with these friends and, as a bonus, met a new man who has already made his interest clear.

Moving on is turning out to be far easier and more pleasurable than I anticipated.

Especially with a good friend offering insightful advice on it all.

Perhaps those who know me best know what's best for me.

White Lightning

It would have been a day, even if the only major event had been George Jones dying.

But it wasn't, at least for me, so I was happy when Holmes extended the invitation to come join him and his honey for dinner at his house.

She's recovering from recent surgery, so the idea was to stay in and have a low key evening, just the three of us.

I should have known better.

"Do you like linguine and clam sauce?" he asked jovially over the phone, letting me know that they were already well into the bubbles.

When I arrived a few minutes later, I was greeted with Holmes singing "Busy Girl" to the tune of  the La's' "There She Goes," probably a tribute to my schedule.

I've cooked and eaten with these two before and it's a hoot.

If I'd been smart, I'd have brought some of the basil and Italian parsley growing in my dining room windowbox to contribute to the dish.

It's funny, Holmes considers himself in charge, dictating what the womenfolk should be doing, even though I inevitably take over and make the sauce myself.

The good thing about being at his house is that we're both music lovers, so he always spends the evening playing things he wants me to hear.

Tonight we began with jazz (Mel Hefty, Mel Torme) before moving on to Paul Carrack, whom he described as "my favorite blue-eyed soul singer. I don't like Hall and Oates."

Me, I was busy sauteing onions and garlic and throwing back Prosecco.

Over dinner, we talked about the Wesselmann exhibit at VMFA, which they've not seen but are eager to.

I've seen it once, but offered to accompany them for the sake of another look.

We discussed whether it's better to have a drink before an exhibit or after (or both), with Holmes coming down on the side of after, while the girlfriend and I saw no reason not to pregame and re-convene for post-art dissection.

Sopping clam sauce with our heavily-buttered garlic bread, we marveled at the VMFA getting the first full-career retrospective of Wesselmann's work in the country.

This is what happens after multiple bottles of bubbles when you have two art history geeks across the table from each other.

Dessert became a shared effort as Holmes and I made a chocolate sauce of dark Ghiradelli chocolate and butter for the ice cream and eclairs that satisfied the chocoholic needs of those of us with XX chromosomes.

Meanwhile, he played Patty Griffin's unreleased 2000 album, "Silver Bell," filling me in on the back story and walking me through his favorite tracks.

Meal over, it was on to the business at hand: George.

Holmes pulled out a bottle of Herradurra Silver, got out two very different shot glasses (mine was a skeleton head, for what that's worth) and began pouring so we could toast the late, great Mr. Jones.

The recovering one abstained from tequila, probably a wise move.

By then, we were listening to something truly unique, a CD of music recorded by Holmes, a lifelong musician, and various of his musical friends.

There was stuff written in the '70s and onward, including one called "Friend" dedicated to Holmes by the songwriter.

I've heard Holmes play his viola live, so it was a treat to hear him tearing it up on song after song, introducing, as he put it, "the wild card" element which mitigated, as he put it, "the perfection of Josh's songs."

Frankly, when someone's playing a twelve string guitar, I can't find a lot to complain about.

Since I've only known Holmes for ten years, it was fascinating to hear his 20-year old self playing with so much passion, the talent of a young man I never knew.

But I never knew George, either, although the tales of his drinking, stormy relationships and no-show concerts were legendary enough that even a non-country music fan like me knew of them.

A good enough reason to drink tequila and toast what no longer is, George included.

Even busy girls get the blues.