You say tomato, I say tomahto.
You could call it a girls' day out or you could call it a mutual debriefing.
It began with a mile and a half walk downtown to La Parisienne, during which the information sharing started in earnest.
She, with multiple visits to Italy under her belt, wanted to hear about my escapades in Italia.
In return, she had scads of information about what had been going on here in my absence.
Apparently despite some people's protestations to the contrary, life went on in Richmond while I was absent.
We passed a sign saying, "It's Friday! Hug a friend," so I did, right there on the sidewalk.
Arriving at the restaurant, we both agreed that the best part about it is that we never see anyone we know.
It's like having lunch in another city.
Granted, that's probably because there are plenty of suits and high-powered-looking types there and we're anything but.
Still, it feeds our fantasy that we've escaped.
Being women, we played good eater/bad eater roles, having salads (I did the Lyonnaise, also known as the bacon and bleu) with a side of their outstanding fries.
We compared impressions of Italy, important cultural conversations that women have.
Like what the hell is in the water to make a woman's hair (whether curly or straight) turn into straw while there?
And why do Italian women have an affinity for plain-sight bras of colorful hues?
And most importantly, the splendor of corner gelaterias and the importance of ordering Italian-style.
When it came time for the RVA scoop, she made sure I knew about the latest Twitter wars, which new places she'd tried and the trials of dealing with clueless types.
While she enjoyed a cappuccino, I had crepes with rum and lemon juice, a light yet sweet ending to my meal.
Walking back up the hills the mile and a half home, we wandered block to block, the better to check out what you can't from a car.
There was Social Consignment with its lovely pink-upholstered chair, a new southern style restaurant advertising a half rack of ribs lunch special (who wouldn't need a nap after a lunch like that?) and checked out the progress on the upcoming Rappahannock River Oyster Company and Tarrant's renovations.
I care more about one than the other.
After a stop at the Hoppy Dog, we moseyed back to my place for another quarter hour of catch-up.
You say ketchup, I say catch up.
Four hours with a girlfriend is the best kind of Friday imaginable.
Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Friday, October 26, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Arrivederci, Italia
What can you say about a long day of travel?
At the train station in Rome, a pair of white-robed nuns stand in front of a huge sign covered in young models in sexy bras.
It is the ideal metaphor for the duality of this country.
At the airport in Rome, we find a clusterf*ck at the Alitalia check-in, so typical of the lack of organization here.
On the bright side, everybody knows that and accepts it.
At Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, we see little of the romance that was so evident when we came through here en route at midnight in a light drizzle.
On board Air France to come home, one of our dinner choices is duck, a seemingly exotic offering for an airline, but not to the French.
When we are asked to take a survey, it questions how attractive we find the containers and cutlery of our in-flight meals.
Only in Europe.
As I read my book "East Hill Farm: Seasons with Allen Ginsberg," filled with tales of sex and drugs in the '60s, it's hard to believe that our fortnight of holiday is finally winding down.
It's been everything it could have been: exciting for this first-timer, enervating at times for the other, filling, awe-inspiring, tipsy, surprising, melancholy, exhilarating and above all, just plain amazing.
I sure am lucky.
At the train station in Rome, a pair of white-robed nuns stand in front of a huge sign covered in young models in sexy bras.
It is the ideal metaphor for the duality of this country.
At the airport in Rome, we find a clusterf*ck at the Alitalia check-in, so typical of the lack of organization here.
On the bright side, everybody knows that and accepts it.
At Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, we see little of the romance that was so evident when we came through here en route at midnight in a light drizzle.
On board Air France to come home, one of our dinner choices is duck, a seemingly exotic offering for an airline, but not to the French.
When we are asked to take a survey, it questions how attractive we find the containers and cutlery of our in-flight meals.
Only in Europe.
As I read my book "East Hill Farm: Seasons with Allen Ginsberg," filled with tales of sex and drugs in the '60s, it's hard to believe that our fortnight of holiday is finally winding down.
It's been everything it could have been: exciting for this first-timer, enervating at times for the other, filling, awe-inspiring, tipsy, surprising, melancholy, exhilarating and above all, just plain amazing.
I sure am lucky.
To Rome, With Love
Let's be clear here. Italians schedule their train strikes.
I know this only because when we went Friday to get our train tickets to Rome for Sunday, we were informed there would be a strike from Saturday at 9 p.m. through Sunday at 9 p.m.
And since our plan had been to go to Rome Sunday afternoon, that wasn't going to work.
Rule one of an Italian (make that any) holiday: adjust.
So instead we took the train to Rome Saturday morning so we could have two nights eating in Rome.
Our hotel for the night got the holiday award for best loo with its extraordinary windows. Outside, shutters could be opened or closed but still let in air and some sound. Inside, polished mahogany shutters had glass insets in case you wanted a view on a cool day.
I am in love with European windows and having them open everywhere from hospitals to subway cars.
I have yet to feel hermetically sealed in any Italian building.
At a hotel at which we did not stay, we got a recommendation for a place where, "The woman who cooks is 60 years old and the service is rude, but it's Roman food at its best."
Noisy atmosphere, surly service, perfectly-executed food? Isn't that how fans of Mama Zu describe it?
With a map and streetlights to read it by, we wound our way to a very old part of the city in search of Osteria della Suburra, a place overflowing with noise and people on a warm Saturday evening.
It looked like every table inside was taken, but there were a couple of 2-tops outside free although a bunch of people were ahead of us waiting for tables.
With no clear system in place to get on a list, we were about to leave when the host caught our eye, raised two fingers and showed us to a table in the center of the crowded patio.
Things were so tight with people lolling in chairs having multi-hour meals that our server served us from the streetside rather than the patio itself.
We kept it rustic with the dark fruit of a Solo Perto Primitivo di Maduria, a sidetrip for us to Puglia.
Then the Roman food began with an antipasto of "farm house hors d'oeuvres," meaning pickled vegetables, pearl onions, roasted peppers and the like followed by mattagliate (housemade noodles), mussels, fava beans and the ubiquitous ewe's cheese (another Pecorino).
Be still my heart.
The toothsome freshness of the flat, wide noodles had the kind of rough texture that practically collected the cheese and the fava beans were just this side of crunchy.
Even without the mussels, the beauty of the noodles, cheese and beans would have had this pasta-indifferent eater swooning, so the mussels were, metaphorically, gravy.
By the time we finished sharing the enormous primi plate, it was time to attack the secondi. Mixed offal of lamb cooked in wine and onion was made for our Primitivo.
The earthy elements of both (even when just sopping crusty bread in the broth), had me in mind of some of the Renaissance-era art we saw where lusty people ate dishes like this while swilling big red wines.
So as not to go straight to hell in a hand basket, we also got artichoke Roman style, which is to say olive oil, garlic and parsley.
Damn, the 60-year old was good, real good.
And here's the weird part. Not once did anyone get rude or surly with us. Our servers were smiling, pleasant and even nice, albeit not exactly hovering over us.
Given the lovely Roman night on a charming back street with people walking up and down the center of it all night, we didn't really need the waiter much.
When food was ready, they brought it and at the end they gave you the bill. God help us if there had been a restaurant strike, too.
If there's one thing I've learned here, it's that there's no work-around when you're talking about eating in Italy.
You eat every amazing thing they put in front of you and then you walk home past ancient architecture, elegant courtyards and arching fountains.
Thank you, train workers united.
I know this only because when we went Friday to get our train tickets to Rome for Sunday, we were informed there would be a strike from Saturday at 9 p.m. through Sunday at 9 p.m.
And since our plan had been to go to Rome Sunday afternoon, that wasn't going to work.
Rule one of an Italian (make that any) holiday: adjust.
So instead we took the train to Rome Saturday morning so we could have two nights eating in Rome.
Our hotel for the night got the holiday award for best loo with its extraordinary windows. Outside, shutters could be opened or closed but still let in air and some sound. Inside, polished mahogany shutters had glass insets in case you wanted a view on a cool day.
I am in love with European windows and having them open everywhere from hospitals to subway cars.
I have yet to feel hermetically sealed in any Italian building.
At a hotel at which we did not stay, we got a recommendation for a place where, "The woman who cooks is 60 years old and the service is rude, but it's Roman food at its best."
Noisy atmosphere, surly service, perfectly-executed food? Isn't that how fans of Mama Zu describe it?
With a map and streetlights to read it by, we wound our way to a very old part of the city in search of Osteria della Suburra, a place overflowing with noise and people on a warm Saturday evening.
It looked like every table inside was taken, but there were a couple of 2-tops outside free although a bunch of people were ahead of us waiting for tables.
With no clear system in place to get on a list, we were about to leave when the host caught our eye, raised two fingers and showed us to a table in the center of the crowded patio.
Things were so tight with people lolling in chairs having multi-hour meals that our server served us from the streetside rather than the patio itself.
We kept it rustic with the dark fruit of a Solo Perto Primitivo di Maduria, a sidetrip for us to Puglia.
Then the Roman food began with an antipasto of "farm house hors d'oeuvres," meaning pickled vegetables, pearl onions, roasted peppers and the like followed by mattagliate (housemade noodles), mussels, fava beans and the ubiquitous ewe's cheese (another Pecorino).
Be still my heart.
The toothsome freshness of the flat, wide noodles had the kind of rough texture that practically collected the cheese and the fava beans were just this side of crunchy.
Even without the mussels, the beauty of the noodles, cheese and beans would have had this pasta-indifferent eater swooning, so the mussels were, metaphorically, gravy.
By the time we finished sharing the enormous primi plate, it was time to attack the secondi. Mixed offal of lamb cooked in wine and onion was made for our Primitivo.
The earthy elements of both (even when just sopping crusty bread in the broth), had me in mind of some of the Renaissance-era art we saw where lusty people ate dishes like this while swilling big red wines.
So as not to go straight to hell in a hand basket, we also got artichoke Roman style, which is to say olive oil, garlic and parsley.
Damn, the 60-year old was good, real good.
And here's the weird part. Not once did anyone get rude or surly with us. Our servers were smiling, pleasant and even nice, albeit not exactly hovering over us.
Given the lovely Roman night on a charming back street with people walking up and down the center of it all night, we didn't really need the waiter much.
When food was ready, they brought it and at the end they gave you the bill. God help us if there had been a restaurant strike, too.
If there's one thing I've learned here, it's that there's no work-around when you're talking about eating in Italy.
You eat every amazing thing they put in front of you and then you walk home past ancient architecture, elegant courtyards and arching fountains.
Thank you, train workers united.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Gaskets or Bust
And so the journey begins.
October 1/12:32
On the way to Dulles, I hear, "That's the reason I'm going to Italy. I have to get Nan's coffee maker gaskets."
So I am going to Italy for the first time to be a party to obtaining some $2.00 rubber seals unavailable in the States.
Fine, then. The reason is immaterial. I am going to Italy.
My life-long passion for art history, the focus of (let's be real here) almost five years of my life spent studying (with assorted extra-cirricular activities interspersed) is finally going to achieve ultimate satisfaction with two weeks to see all the things I know solely from slides and books.
Plus we will bring back coffee maker gaskets.
October 1/1:30
In Dulles, in line to check baggage at Air France, I watch as one confused person after another inquires of a handsome but expressionless Air France employee.
Finally, I can't help but ask, "Is your job to help clueless people?"
His impassivity melts and he breaks into a face-splitting smile including major dimples. "Yes," he answers.
Walking toward the baggage check-in, a ticketing agent catches my eye and smiles widely.
Coincidentally, he is the ticket agent we get when we reach the front of the line.
"We've met before," I say, handing him my underpacked bag."Yes, indeed," he says grinning. When he hears our destination, he is even more enthusiastic, wishing he were also headed there.
Finally through Security (and an hysterical incident with my partner involving a full body pat-down and any number of lewd references), we decide lunch is in order.
I suggest a meal unlike anything we will eat for the next two weeks and we land at Five Guys, only my second time there ever.
Today's potatoes are from Royal City, Washington, which is not half as big a deal as the size of a "regular" french fry.
I'd like to go on record as saying that when a serving of fries nearly fills a brown paper lunch bag, we need to do a lot more than plant a White House garden.
Finally on board Air France, I begin "Chanel: A Woman of Her Own," but eventually succumb to a French comedy.
"The Chef" is a film about a talented but hapless man with a talent for food but little tolerance for diners with no taste for adventure ("You hit a man for ordering his veal medium.")
But the chef's brilliance is how he hears and feels emotion in food, telling his 3-Michelin star mentor about his ex-wife, "Since Charlotte left you, your sauces are stagnant."
If ever there was proof of the importance of the right woman, it is the effect her departure has on a man's sauces.
Metaphor intended.
Before I knew it, the flight ended and it was midnight in Paris.
We landed in a light drizzle and if ever there was a romantic place to be at that hour, this was it.
AlItalia got us to Rome not long after sunrise, an equally impressive feeling.
In the first half an hour in the Rome airport, I saw more priests than I have seen in the past twenty years.
I remain no less lapsed a Catholic than before all the men in black and white, but it was startling nonetheless.
Taking a commuter train to the train station, I get my first glimpses of Italy from the ground.
From my window, I see scores of apartment buildings with two things in common.
Nearly all of them have balconies and they are crowded with planters, window boxes and every kind of container to hold lush, trailing, colorfully flowering plants.
Each balcony is a study in lush container gardening.
In marked contrast to that is the more mundane, but no less charming, laundry.
Clothes lines are strung up between windows, on balconies, over guardrails, on wooden racks and practically any place where clothes can hang to dry.
Frequently, I see blankets and bedspreads airing off a balcony rail.
Flowers and wet clothes follow the train into the Rome train station.
It's a bustling place with Italian women in impossibly high shoes and boots, men who brazenly check out women from hair to toenails and pigeons strolling around the terminal.
October 2/11:25
The high speed Frecciarosa train bullets us through a picture-perfect Italian landscape to Florence.
Before we leave the station, I have need of a facility and use my first pay (one euro) bathroom, although I miscalculate and end up in the men's room unbeknownst to me.
Only after I exit the stall does a friendly attendant notice and apologize as if he'd made the error.
He graciously leads me out, no doubt already realizing what a great story this will be to share with coworkers.
I, for the record, am not the slightest bit embarrassed, but rather glad to have relieved myself.
The B & B is small (eight rooms), the hostess is a scooter-riding Italian character who serves us almond cake while we wait for our room to be readied.
It is at this point that our 21-hour odyssey catches up and we open the balcony door and collapse on to the bed for an epic mid-afternoon Italian nap.
The siesta acts like a tonic on us, allowing us to head out into the Florence evening with renewed enthusiasm and faith in ourselves.
Because it is early evening, everyone is out promenading and although we pass any number of Renaissance marvels, I am not ready to take them in except as foreground for a magnificent sky of gray-blue clouds.
After wandering for just the right amount of time, we head to Trattoria al Trebbio, a candlelit space almost full of happy-looking diners.
The first day gods are smiling on us and we are able to get a table in the charming and romantic little patio in the center of where two narrow streets intersect near Santa Maria Novella.
There are only seven tables and traffic of all kinds - scooters, cars and pedestrian- go by on two sides.
At one point, a car attempts to make left turn and a diner turns her head and from three feet away from the car, calmly says, "This is a one-way street."
The car backs up and heads down another street.
Meanwhile we order a bottle of Calafuria Rosato del Salento to toast our home for the next fortnight.
A pear and Pecorino salad over rocket and carrot hits all the right sweet and salty notes.
Italian pulled pork with vegetables in oil is a lesson in pig.
Unlike our American shredded version, this is thinly-sliced pig in a delicate au jus with artichokes and rocket.
Crusty bread enables us to get as much au jus as humanly possible.
As we sit there people watching, I am struck by how stylish even older couples look and how much hand-holding I see.
As we finished the pork, an accordion player took up his post across the street, as if on cue.
Come on Florence, don't be trite.
Wining and dining has left us little room for dessert, so we opt for a fresh fruit salad of kiwi, grapes, pineapple, peaches and pears, a fine European way to end two very long days.
And the best is yet to come.
October 1/12:32
On the way to Dulles, I hear, "That's the reason I'm going to Italy. I have to get Nan's coffee maker gaskets."
So I am going to Italy for the first time to be a party to obtaining some $2.00 rubber seals unavailable in the States.
Fine, then. The reason is immaterial. I am going to Italy.
My life-long passion for art history, the focus of (let's be real here) almost five years of my life spent studying (with assorted extra-cirricular activities interspersed) is finally going to achieve ultimate satisfaction with two weeks to see all the things I know solely from slides and books.
Plus we will bring back coffee maker gaskets.
October 1/1:30
In Dulles, in line to check baggage at Air France, I watch as one confused person after another inquires of a handsome but expressionless Air France employee.
Finally, I can't help but ask, "Is your job to help clueless people?"
His impassivity melts and he breaks into a face-splitting smile including major dimples. "Yes," he answers.
Walking toward the baggage check-in, a ticketing agent catches my eye and smiles widely.
Coincidentally, he is the ticket agent we get when we reach the front of the line.
"We've met before," I say, handing him my underpacked bag."Yes, indeed," he says grinning. When he hears our destination, he is even more enthusiastic, wishing he were also headed there.
Finally through Security (and an hysterical incident with my partner involving a full body pat-down and any number of lewd references), we decide lunch is in order.
I suggest a meal unlike anything we will eat for the next two weeks and we land at Five Guys, only my second time there ever.
Today's potatoes are from Royal City, Washington, which is not half as big a deal as the size of a "regular" french fry.
I'd like to go on record as saying that when a serving of fries nearly fills a brown paper lunch bag, we need to do a lot more than plant a White House garden.
Finally on board Air France, I begin "Chanel: A Woman of Her Own," but eventually succumb to a French comedy.
"The Chef" is a film about a talented but hapless man with a talent for food but little tolerance for diners with no taste for adventure ("You hit a man for ordering his veal medium.")
But the chef's brilliance is how he hears and feels emotion in food, telling his 3-Michelin star mentor about his ex-wife, "Since Charlotte left you, your sauces are stagnant."
If ever there was proof of the importance of the right woman, it is the effect her departure has on a man's sauces.
Metaphor intended.
Before I knew it, the flight ended and it was midnight in Paris.
We landed in a light drizzle and if ever there was a romantic place to be at that hour, this was it.
AlItalia got us to Rome not long after sunrise, an equally impressive feeling.
In the first half an hour in the Rome airport, I saw more priests than I have seen in the past twenty years.
I remain no less lapsed a Catholic than before all the men in black and white, but it was startling nonetheless.
Taking a commuter train to the train station, I get my first glimpses of Italy from the ground.
From my window, I see scores of apartment buildings with two things in common.
Nearly all of them have balconies and they are crowded with planters, window boxes and every kind of container to hold lush, trailing, colorfully flowering plants.
Each balcony is a study in lush container gardening.
In marked contrast to that is the more mundane, but no less charming, laundry.
Clothes lines are strung up between windows, on balconies, over guardrails, on wooden racks and practically any place where clothes can hang to dry.
Frequently, I see blankets and bedspreads airing off a balcony rail.
Flowers and wet clothes follow the train into the Rome train station.
It's a bustling place with Italian women in impossibly high shoes and boots, men who brazenly check out women from hair to toenails and pigeons strolling around the terminal.
October 2/11:25
The high speed Frecciarosa train bullets us through a picture-perfect Italian landscape to Florence.
Before we leave the station, I have need of a facility and use my first pay (one euro) bathroom, although I miscalculate and end up in the men's room unbeknownst to me.
Only after I exit the stall does a friendly attendant notice and apologize as if he'd made the error.
He graciously leads me out, no doubt already realizing what a great story this will be to share with coworkers.
I, for the record, am not the slightest bit embarrassed, but rather glad to have relieved myself.
The B & B is small (eight rooms), the hostess is a scooter-riding Italian character who serves us almond cake while we wait for our room to be readied.
It is at this point that our 21-hour odyssey catches up and we open the balcony door and collapse on to the bed for an epic mid-afternoon Italian nap.
The siesta acts like a tonic on us, allowing us to head out into the Florence evening with renewed enthusiasm and faith in ourselves.
Because it is early evening, everyone is out promenading and although we pass any number of Renaissance marvels, I am not ready to take them in except as foreground for a magnificent sky of gray-blue clouds.
After wandering for just the right amount of time, we head to Trattoria al Trebbio, a candlelit space almost full of happy-looking diners.
The first day gods are smiling on us and we are able to get a table in the charming and romantic little patio in the center of where two narrow streets intersect near Santa Maria Novella.
There are only seven tables and traffic of all kinds - scooters, cars and pedestrian- go by on two sides.
At one point, a car attempts to make left turn and a diner turns her head and from three feet away from the car, calmly says, "This is a one-way street."
The car backs up and heads down another street.
Meanwhile we order a bottle of Calafuria Rosato del Salento to toast our home for the next fortnight.
A pear and Pecorino salad over rocket and carrot hits all the right sweet and salty notes.
Italian pulled pork with vegetables in oil is a lesson in pig.
Unlike our American shredded version, this is thinly-sliced pig in a delicate au jus with artichokes and rocket.
Crusty bread enables us to get as much au jus as humanly possible.
As we sit there people watching, I am struck by how stylish even older couples look and how much hand-holding I see.
As we finished the pork, an accordion player took up his post across the street, as if on cue.
Come on Florence, don't be trite.
Wining and dining has left us little room for dessert, so we opt for a fresh fruit salad of kiwi, grapes, pineapple, peaches and pears, a fine European way to end two very long days.
And the best is yet to come.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Light Envy
I'm hearing an an awful lot about Italy lately.
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
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