Clicking My Heels Together

I am clueless in Short Pump.

So when I set out at 5:35 to get to the new Peter Chang's in the Far West End, I anticipate being on time for a 6:00 dinner.

How naive of me.

First there was the stopped traffic waiting to get off on the Short Pump exit.

Then there was the slow merge as we all tried to get off the ramp and on to Broad Street while others did the reverse.

Already behind schedule by then, I was now faced with finding a storefront in a sea of strip malls.

Let's just say I finally found it in the last strip center I intended to look.

Which is a roundabout way of saying that I got there at 6:20.

Another fifteen minutes and I could have been at the Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.

After a minute or two of mingling (well, I was late), we were asked to take seats and the parade of food began.

Dumplings, duck soup, rice cakes, lamb chops, chicken, noodles, eggplant. And so much more.

All Sichuan spicy, all perfectly executed.

All washed down with Jefferson Cab Franc, which made for a fine pairing.

Next to me I had the eighth grade-daughter of a local chef, so we talked about books  ("The Hunger Games"), her musical faves (Queen, the Beatles and Coldplay, in that order) and food (Dad said she was a natural cook).

I advised her to avoid boys who didn't eat everything. We agreed that life without meat was unthinkable.

The vegan restaurant owner to my right begged to differ.

Mrs. Lee (Chang's partner's wife), beautifully resplendent in a black dress and hot pink shawl (and delicate ankle bracelet), did the introductions and translated for her the Chef.

When the meal was finished, I agreed to fetch one friend to meet another and her date at Secco.

He wasn't so much her date as someone she met in the 90s and recently reconnected with (that's apparently what we're calling it these days).

Who knew those things really happened?

During a discussion of being given a hard time by one's date, one member of the party noted, "Sadly, I like it."

And aren't those the best relationships?

All that spicy Chinese food had left some people wanting dessert to accompany the jammy Cantina del Pino Dolcotto d'Alba we ordered.

Pistachio cannoli was a worthy match for the fragrant wine while the others enjoyed the bread pudding with sea salt and caramel.

It was pretty obvious we weren't in Short Pump anymore.

Never let it be said that I don't leave the city to eat. I did just that for Peter Chang's food.

There, I've done my Short Pump for 2012.

Sunday Satisfaction: Subtitles and Sex

The UR campus is a long-time nemesis of mine and since it was my destination tonight, I thought it wisest to stop at Secco beforehand for a glass of wine.

It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.

So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.

After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.

But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).

Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.

The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.

Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.

And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.

But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.

Ogling the New Pizza Ovens

I spent the evening doing the progressive thing, moving around and enjoying a bit of everywhere I went. It wasn't so much an ADD thing as it was a last minute call from a friend suggesting we meet up when I already had some wandering in mind for myself anyway.

After getting an effusive e-mail today from my Italian friend directing me to Stuzzi, I dropped by and dropped his name and was promptly taken on a tour and given the full-on razzle-dazzle. It is a truly magnificent pizza oven with its Venetian glass and center stage presence and I oohed and ahhed appropriately and sincerely.

It's hard not to appreciate an oven designated as one of the ten official (of the thousands in existence in the US) by the Italian government. It's also hard not to appreciate being called a beautiful woman by an effusive Italian man (have we established yet that I'm a sucker for compliments? See my past for why) with a new restaurant. Flown-in tomatoes and house made Mozzarella aside, these guys seem like the real deal.

Next up was Secco for a glass of Portugese wine (2008 Esporao Reserve DOC Alentejo), lushly perfumed and full-bodied (like a certain kind of woman, but don't look at me; I don't wear perfume). The crowd was manageable when I arrived but quickly grew to capacity. Of note was that owner Julia finally caved, right in front of my eyes, and henceforth food will be served to those waiting on the couches, something she had resisted from Day One. But then, life is a series of concessions, as all wise ones know.

I was meeting a friend at Bellytimber afterwards to see what the owners of Mezzanine had concocted for a casual bar space. Their intention, they said, was to serve fresh and tasty food at affordable bar prices. The interior is definitely an improvement over the former Border location, but the two huge flat screens told me all I needed to know.

I loved the open windows along Plum Street and bartender Sean's iPod was so indie right-on that I had to compliment him on it (Temper Trap, Killers, Peter, Bjorn and John et al). Despite his claim that he's been a bartender forever (followed by a laundry list of all the places he's tended bar), fortunately for customers like me, his musical taste is of the moment.

Seeing the igloo-looking mound from our perches at the far end of the bar, it was inevitable that we'd try the pizza. The couple next to us had raved about the pepperoni, but we couldn't resist the caramelized bacon and onion, which turned out to be quite good. An enthusiastic kitchen staffer gave me a tour, so to speak, of the oven with its logs burning briskly and its heat blasting directly into the kitchen. Three minutes and done! No need for delayed pizza gratification here.

We bypassed the Scotch egg (hard boiled egg encased in house made ground pork sausage) despite a recommendation from a nearby Jagermesiter drinker, and got the pirogis (homemade egg noodle dumplings stuffed with mashed potato, seared with onions and served with sour cream); the slices of green onion tops made the dish, we agreed. It qualified for bar comfort food in the best possible way.

I was actually surprised to find several vegetarian/vegan choices on the menu, although I'm not sure why they caught me off guard. Several local offerings were noted, including Victory Farms greens and Twin Oaks tofu. They also make their own rolls and potato chips, for those who appreciate such things.

Bellytimber 's ABC license is very new, so the wine list is still handwritten on a piece of yellow legal pad (a printed version arrives tomorrow, I was told), which I found charming. I went with Cava at the bartender's suggestion ("Feel like bubbles?"), a restaurant opening, even a soft one, being a festive occasion.Entrees are not yet available but will be shortly. Coming soon! Meat!

We made one last stop at Comfort because my friend had heard they were doing live music, but it had been cancelled, so we made that the end of our forward progress.

Besides, seeing as how I was now merely blocks from home with my wanderlust sated, all that was left was to share my stories...just in case anyone's curious. Anyone at all.

After a Month, There's a Lot to Tell

I put the period on my birthday sentence tonight with an evening of merriment at Stronghill Dining Co. They've got a great happy hour until 7:30 Mondays through Fridays and friend had never seen the place. That massive chandelier, the art deco mural, the hanging sculpture were all things that I knew would impress and they did. Impressing me was the bartender, who actually remembered me from four moths ago, here, and guiltily admitted that she'd still not been to the theater. I didn't judge.

I ran into a musician I hadn't seen in years who introduced me to his friends and tried to persuade me to join them at tonight's baseball game; one of the friends asked what it would take to get me to come along. Um, shackles? As they were preparing to leave, the musician asked me about my relationship status ("are you still seeing that guy?)" and when I answered in the negative, asked if he could call me. Sure, I said, just don't ask me out; he took my number anyway. No comment here.

Friend and I were weeks behind in life updates, so we each got a couple of glasses of Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola ($6 each at HH prices) and settled in to share details. As we got deeper into love lives and futures, it became clear that nibbles were in order (appetizers 25% off at the bar) so we asked for the wedge (iceberg wedge, applewood-smoked bacon, roasted Roma tomatoes, classic blue cheese dressing) and the lobster rolls ( poached lobster claw, sauteed baby spinach, nishiki rice wrapped in nori, flash-fried and served with sweet soy reduction and wasabi). We shared dishes while over sharing information; it was the perfect balance of both.

About the time we got to the "why do men do that?" portion of the evening, my friend suggested something birthday festive, which resulted in the Hillenger Secco (are you paying attention, Clement?), pretty and pink and the ideal birthday toaster.

The bartender informed us that birthday girls get the desert of their choice and I did the cliched thing and ordered the chocolate torte (with vanilla bean ice cream). Delivering it, the server laughingly admonished, "Appetizers may be shared, but not desserts." Oops, we were just trying to close out the 2010 birthday spectacular, a feat best done with a tell-all friend.

Afterwards, I dropped off my car and walked over to Gallery 5 for RVyAy!, an evening of bands and local vendors and artisans. Vinyl fans were in heaven with so many record sellers, but my turntable is long since dead, so I focused on buying a screen-printed bandanna for a friend and perusing and discussing show posters with a couple of local artists/music fans. I always enjoy comparing impressions of shows with others and these two guys had seen even more live music than me, or at least almost as much (I don't go to Phish or Widespread Panic shows, though, so I may have lost by default).

Mingling the night away, I heard about the upcoming season of the Richmond Symphony, a Memorial Day show I was told was a must-see and some comments on my Listening Room post. As I was about to leave, gallery owner Amanda asked me to name some of my favorite music to add to the gallery's repertoire. What, me share my music preferences?

Oh, okay, if you insist. But be warned: this is a subject on which I can go on and on.