Hot Bacon and Dead Deer

Time it right on a Tuesday and a chef will come out to the bar and talk to you.

The illustrator and I met at Heritage to have the happy hour we'd missed once before.

A lively crowd of Style Weekly origins took up all but a couple stools at the far end and those were ours.

Over happy hour Pinot Noir, we talked turkey (and ham and rockfish), shared relative anecdotes and affirmed our superiority over the estrogen-deficient.

It's what long-time girlfriends do after too long.

We dove into the ever-evolving menu for the smoked fish dip and an array of house-pickled vegetables.

First of all, someone is clearly having a ball smoking an doing a terrific job at it.

Secondly, those pickled swiss chard, onions, carrots and bee-yoo-tee-ful bread and butter pickles  were every canning grandmother's dream.

Devouring the dip at an alarming pace, we soon found ourselves bereft of toast on which to spread it.

And that's how we conjured up the first chef.

Chef Joe showed up unbidden with more toast and talk of pig parts.

While they were calling tonight's appetizer special "crispy terrine," we all knew it was just head cheese.

Mmmmmmmm.

The crispy pig parts sat atop a creamy polenta with brussels sprouts in between.

It was exquisite, perfectly balancing the fattiness of the terrine with the bitterness of the sprouts and the herby creaminess of the polenta.

Meanwhile, Joe regaled us with his passion for smoking things. And making his own bacon.

Conveniently, some was about to come out of the oven.

Naturally, that inspired us to get a charcuterie plate of Mangalitsa lardo, Tasso ham, Border Springs lamb summer sausage and that oven-fresh bacon along with an explanation of wooly pigs and heritage breeds from the chef.

To quote the illustrator, "Be still my heart." It was a little bit of heaven on a piece of slate.

By the time we looked up from slate o' meat and tales of first loves and pickling, the restaurant was near capacity.

No doubt they'd heard about the bread and butter pickles.

Eventually my pal had to go home to draw something so we hugged on Vine and called it a night.

Carver called.

By the time I got to the Magpie, things were slowing down.

With Impuls 71, a blend of Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon, in hand, I listened to the dessert offerings, choosing the  chocolate/caramel/sea salt torte.

Next thing I know Chef Owen has wandered out of the kitchen, probably due to all foods having been cooked by this point.

Right in front of my eyes he morphs from chef to beer drinker chatting with nearby patrons like me.

There is shared hearsay about new restaurants, rumors and realities.

Once a friend of his came in, the conversation turned to more manly topics.

The chef and I heard how a guy riding a scooter had hit a four-point deer head-on and escaped with only a sprained wrist.

And, yes, the scooter was toast.

The storyteller said the scooter driver had called a friend after it happened and said, "I totaled the scooter, I killed a deer and I need a ride home."

I would have such a hard time being serious after hearing that that I'm quite sure I would offend.

It soon became clear that both guys I was talking to were avid huntsmen since the callee's response of, "Okay, I'll come get you. How much meat do I get?" did not crack them up at all.

Instead of laughing at that response like I did, they both nodded their heads knowingly.

As in, yea, how much meat should I get for coming to get you?

I found it hilarious.

But what I found even better was when Chef Owen, a fellow Jackson Ward resident, said he was planning to have a mural put on the Norton Street side of the restaurant.

I'm quite sure the dearly departed Dr. Norton would be smiling down on such a thing.

Looking forward, he said he hoped to buy the building and treat the whole building as an art project.

I'd be the first to say that Carver could use more public art, so I found his ideas downright neighborly and even forward-thinking.

We took a sharp left into humor when  he told me about his new neighbors, one an older Italian man who walks his little dog wearing only a wife beater and sweat pants.

Except in cold weather when he adds gloves to the wife beater. And waves to Owen.

I laughed so hard I had to stop and catch my breath. I only hope to see this guy around the neighborhood.

That's right, bar sitters. Chefs are good for more than pickling tips.

Sausage and Sympathy

If you offer me sausages, I will come.

And tonight Sausage Craft, Chris Mattera's artisanal food workshop, was throwing a party to show off their new space and bring together sausage loving fools. So I went. It turned out to be much more than just sausage, although that alone would have been enough given the delectability of Chris' ground meats.

Also represented were local cheese-makers Meadow Farm and Caromont, Buzz and Ned (with their sliced pig) and Free Run Wine Merchants. There was beer, too, but I couldn't tell you what kind.

What I can tell you is that the sausages I ate were positively addicting.

There was the San Miniato, Carmelina's and the braising sausage, probably my favorite. It was a sausage that is cooked all day until its pig flavor is one with the braising liquid and vegetables; I went back three times for more of it over Billy bread.

Sublime does not begin to describe it.

Abi of Free Run Wine merchants, whom I'd just seen at the Matt & Kim show and the Metric show, was pouring some of their off-the-radar Northwestern wines, most of which end up at select Seattle restaurants. The few that escaped are now available in RVA.

I tried the Impuls Chardonnay, the "71," a Syrah/Cabernet Sauvignon blend and then, for a palate cleanser, the M. Lawrence "Us," a sparkling blend of pinot noir and chardonnay done in the Prosecco method. I finished with the Left Coast Cellars "Cali's Cuvee," a Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley.

All worth tasting again, but the "71" spoke most directly to me.

The Jason Jenkins Trio was providing the jazz and I ran into a few people I knew. Okay, lots of people I knew. The surprise was being discovered by those I didn't. One guest guessed my identity by my tights ("You must be Karen!") and another, once he learned I blogged about going out in Richmond, by my enthusiasm ("I sensed that was you").

Mattera's new work space was impressive for its variety of meat grinders and the sheer size of the refrigerators/freezers. As a friend and I discussed, it would have made a great setting for a Halloween party.

Meat Grinder #2 was my official base of operation, allowing me a full view of the room, a straight shot of the band and a surface on which to place drinks and plates while chatting with old and new friends.

When I'd done all the damage I could, I left for greener pastures, which is to say a glass of wine and dessert. And a small rescue mission.

Earlier today, I'd been out front re-potting a plant when a friend and neighbor walked by. Upon asking her how she was, she answered "Fine" but with such a quiver in her voice that it was clear she was anything but.

She said she'd been dumped last night and, to add insult to injury, she had discovered this on Facebook when her ex changed his relationship status.

Talk about a cold way to end things.

I gave her a hug and asked what she was doing to deal with it. Her plan was to spend some quality time with friends at Six Burner tonight to distract herself from being so sad. So I stopped by to be one of the feel-better missionaries. Even if I couldn't offer any encouragement about getting over being dumped, I could at least be there for her.

For a Monday evening, it ended up being a good crowd of people I knew and didn't. My farmer's market friend told me she was getting a divorce and that that was a good thing (I congratulated her).
I met a girl who wanted to talk music, so we discussed M. Ward and Mumford & Sons (whom I can't stand) and surprisingly, she'd not yet explored She and Him.

I saw a favorite DJ who, just last week, had led off with an awesome trio of music at Balliceaux (retro to the max: Tainted Love, Melt with You, Young Turks) and needed to be told that. He beamed when I complimented his mix.

Another friend, one of those I run into almost every time I'm out, upon seeing me announced, "Okay, one of us has to leave." Neither of us did and for a change, we had a good, long discussion of make/female dynamics, Jack Kerouac and the uses of basil (I grow, he cooks).

Normally we're ships that pass in the night and tonight we entertained each other.

Another eight or so sausage party attendees came in and sat down to be wined for the evening. The new Belle magazine was on the bar, so I could show off my cover story. I ate part of my dessert and shared the rest with a friend.

But mostly I listened and consoled my friend and neighbor who is still stinging from her unexpected discharge. I almost made a crack about our block of J-Ward becoming known as "Dumpee Row," but decided against it.

As I recall, humor is in short supply during the early stages.

I wish I'd had some of Chris' sausage to cheer her up. Sausage that good makes everything feel better.

Or nearly everything.