You want to spend a long holiday weekend in town? I'm your girl.
Make no mistake, if I'd gotten an invitation to the beach or river, I'd have been gone. But years gone by have also taught me the pleasures of staying in town when so many people are gone. Easy parking, half empty restaurants, leisurely pace. It's Richmond as a different animal.
Not to brag or anything, but if I'd been eager to show off the range of what Richmond has to offer, I'm not sure I could have done a finer job of doing so.
Friday night started at Hardywood for the Shangri-Lords, because a holiday weekend is best rung in with a man singing lead on girl group songs. Midway through their set, as I was admiring the matching go-go boots and stellar dance moves of the female back-up singers, a man approached me tentatively, saying, "Karen?"
Joe? That's how we wound up seated at a table with the former dean of VCU's art school and his wife, with both of the guys reveling in hearing the soundtrack of their youth. It was also, oddly enough, the second night in a row that I heard a cover of Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."
C'mon, what are the chances?
Next came a stop at Carytown Gyro, which replaced Doner Kebab - a long-time fave of Mac's and mine - and while the chicken shawarma had good flavor, they don't make their own pita and the difference was disappointing. It was justa few doors down to Garden Grove Brewing and Urban Winery for a couple of glasses of their Vidal Blanc/Chardonnay blend (which they don't bottle, an interesting side note) and a chance to enjoy the Brazilian music of Quatro na Bossa.
Unlike every other place this weekend, Garden Grove was mobbed with talkers who made hearing singer Laura Anne's beautiful voice challenging at best, so we left when the set ended. Who's so uncouth they talk loudly over such transcendent music anyway?
Saturday began with a pipeline walk before moving on to the ICA for artist Paul Rucker's talk about his exhibit, "Storm in the Time of Shelter," of colorfully patterned KKK robes and hoods and the array of lynching and anti-black memorabilia in the cases around the gallery. He was a forceful speaker on the topic of systemic and institutionalized racism, challenging the mostly white crowd on how well they knew their history.
Answer: rather poorly. But his talk was rich in commentary about the realities of race in this country circa 2018, just the kind of talk that makes white people uncomfortable. The kind of talk Mac and I seek out for that every reason.
We followed heavy talk with bagels at Nate's Bagels, notable because unlike every other visit, it was all but empty. But Nate was there and stopped to chat before heading home to his real family and leaving his bagel crew to carry on without him. And while they were out of everything bagels (holiday weekend, you know) we managed with one onion bagel and one rosemary and sea salt bagel instead.
On the plus side, I now know what something besides an everything bagel at Nate's tastes like. I've been called a creature of habit for good reason.
To fully embed a come-here into the myriad pleasures of Richmond, thrifting was also required. A stop at the Clothes Rack not only introduced a newcomer to its bargain pricing, but also provided a fitted summer wardrobe. Let's face it, we've got months of shorts-wearing weather left. The Hall Tree netted only a couple of shirts, but they were winners.
I like to remind people that recyclers do it over and over again.
Acacia offered proof positive that half the city was missing when we showed up at prime dinnertime and easily found stools at the bar, unheard of on a normal Saturday. We celebrated the first 24 hours of our extended play weekend with multiple glasses of Mimi Bulles Rose and an entire dinner (well, except for the chocolate cremeux) that had begun life in the sea: a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber, pickled onion, hard egg, radish and lettuces in a lemon dill vinaigrette, fresh caught rockfish over a luscious summer salad of heirloom tomatoes and greens in balsamic and shrimp, linguine and spinach in an obscene garlic butter sauce.
When we walked out, Cary Street was just this side of dead. On a Saturday night, mind you.
Come Sunday, we packed up an Ellwood Thompson picnic and headed to the mountains, namely King Family Winery, so that the newbie could see his first polo game. Situated under one of the few shade trees, we sipped King Family Viognier and watched riders taking their horses up and down the enormous field to score goals.
Only the obnoxious sound of an air horn marking the start and end of each chukka marred the idyllic setting at the foot of several mountains. By the time we broke camp, the staff was busy setting up for a wedding on the lawn and no doubt a glorious summer party afterward.
Polo-watching can be exhausting, which is why we only went two blocks for dinner. Tiny Victory, the colorful new Fillipino restaurant on Broad, welcomed us with a dish of shisito peppers, sweet corn on the cob, watermelon radishes and burnt honey.
Next came kinilaw of snapper with coconut, citrus and red onion, elevated with a thick shmear of avocado inside the bowl's edges. I swiped every bite of snapper with avocado as I brought it out of the bowl and then used the crispy shrimp chips to get the rest. We closed out the meal with pancit, a mixture of rice noodles, mushroom XO, Napa cabbage, spicy pickled carrot and crispy garlic that got raves from the healthy eater across from me. Me, I was already full from the first two courses.
Also, really glad to have a restaurant in that space again, given its proximity to my apartment.
Sunday meant a trip to the VMFA to see "Howardena Pindell: What Remains To Be Seen," a fascinating exhibition by a black, activist artist about whom we knew nothing. Located in two separate places in the museum, the show was enormous. Here was a woman who'd never been shy about exploring the intersection of racism, violence, feminism, slavery and exploitation since the '60s and doing it using unconventional materials like glitter, talcum powder, postcards and chads, in some cases, chads she'd taken the time to number.
Her attention to detail and the sheer amount of time her pieces took set her apart from other abstractionists of that era.
And while we'd gone to see her show, both of us were captivated by the small show of works on paper, "The Precisionist Impulse." Drawings, photographs, watercolors and prints, most - but not all - made between the World Wars showed a decidedly neo-Cubist bent and attraction to modern urban subjects such as architecture, infrastructure and mechanics.
When you talk about the benefits of a world-class museum in your home town (besides the absinthe drip upstairs at Amuse, still my favorite place to unwind at the VMFA), one of them has to be happening on a small, unexpected show (or work of art) that you hadn't come to see. It's like finding an extra Christmas gift tucked away once you start clearing out all the balled-up wrapping paper. Oh, look, something else for me?
Keeping to the theme started with Paul Rucker and continued through Howardena Pindell, "BlackkKlansman" seemed like a natural. Sure, I'd seen it, but I'd also left knowing I wanted to see it again, so here was my chance.
No surprise, Movieland wasn't the least bit crowded for a late afternoon Labor Day show, so when better for my partner-in-crime to see Spike Lee's latest? Much as I appreciated the film on many levels when Mac and I first saw it, I knew there was plenty I'd missed.
Not to mention plenty I wanted to see a second time, including that wonderful dance scene set to the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose's "Too Late to Turn Back Now." Thank you, Spike Lee, for allowing the scene to unfold languorously and not as a quick cut.
Walking out, a woman in front of me summed up her impressions. "Spike Lee always teaches you something, doesn't he?" Indeed he does.
Once out of the theater, we must have sat in the car for at least a quarter of an hour, talking about the film: how it had been made, how it must have begun shooting before the Charlottesville incidents that close out the film even happened, how much the film concerned prejudice against Jews as well as blacks.
We met the challenge of finding an open restaurant on Labor Day by heading directly to My Noodle, which was mobbed. Our table was all but on top of the table of the couple next to us, but we can ignore practically anyone with chopsticks flying into plates of broccoli and chicken in black bean sauce.
Back in the Ward, it was obvious that cars and their owners were back in the city, even if things were still a bit quiet. We figured everyone was hunkered down, gearing up for work or the upcoming school year.
Not us. Instead, we got settled on my balcony for a night devoted to listening to cover albums - "Bleeker Street: Greenwich Village in the '60s," Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl" and "If I Were A Carpenter," a '90s take on the music of the Carpenters. Overhead, puffy little clouds stayed visible in the night sky and an occasional breeze rewarded us with reasons to linger.
And if this Labor Day weekend in town was about anything, it was about the lingering. Why go when staying is this pleasurable?
That's a rhetorical question, by the way.
Showing posts with label labor day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label labor day. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Monday, September 7, 2015
I Do Know
My body's been at odds with my spirit the past 48 hours.
I managed to get sick - a rarity for me - over a three-day weekend, so not only was I stuck in the city, but feeling sub-par. It's why I didn't make it to the afterparty last night to celebrate the success of "The Third Man" fundraiser. It's also the reason I napped the past two days and slept 11 1/2 hours last night.
As you might guess, I don't really have the temperament for being laid low, so by mid-afternoon, I swallowed some meds and was scouring the Internets for a movie to amuse me.
A film-savvy friend had told me yesterday that she was eager to see Noah Baumbach's latest work, "Mistress America," so I took that as a recommendation since I'd seen his "While We're Young" earlier this year and really enjoyed it.
My mistake. Apparently a movie about 40-somethings exploring the lifestyles and habits of millennials (to great comedic affect) was far more to my taste than the vapid story of a friendship between a completely self-absorbed scatterbrained 30 year old and the college freshman she takes under her wing (Ignore other people! Focus on yourself constantly!).
Noah, baby, I know Greta Gerwig is your love and muse, but as a member of the audience, sometimes she's the most annoying person on the planet to watch and listen to. Non-stop verbal diarrhea doesn't help, either. I'm fine with dysfunctional characters but these were just pretentious assholes.
So while the movie wasn't anything I'd recommend, it got me out of the house and killed a couple of hours without unduly taxing my compromised physiology.
But then you get out of the movie, it's still Labor Day, everyone's doing something fun but you and you realize you've barely eaten today (proof positive you're not feeling like yourself), so you do the only logical thing: Go to Cookout for the first time.
So it wasn't cooked in a friend's backyard. It's still a burger and lemonade on Labor Day and that feels right.
I'd taken two bites driving long before being stopped at a red light. A man with a sign that began, "I bet you don't know..." walks up to my open passenger-side car window before I can even finish reading his message.
Happy Labor Day, I tell him before offering him my lemonade. Without missing a beat, he immediately takes a big draw on the straw. You can have my burger, too, I say, handing it out the window with the two bites missing, not sure if he'll accept partially-eaten food.
"Bless you, bless you," he says, almost bowing. Before he makes it back to the curb, he's already chomping through the burger.
As it turns out, two bites was about all I really wanted anyway. And, who knows, maybe that blessing will have me back in glowing health sooner.
Honestly, I'm feeling better already.
I managed to get sick - a rarity for me - over a three-day weekend, so not only was I stuck in the city, but feeling sub-par. It's why I didn't make it to the afterparty last night to celebrate the success of "The Third Man" fundraiser. It's also the reason I napped the past two days and slept 11 1/2 hours last night.
As you might guess, I don't really have the temperament for being laid low, so by mid-afternoon, I swallowed some meds and was scouring the Internets for a movie to amuse me.
A film-savvy friend had told me yesterday that she was eager to see Noah Baumbach's latest work, "Mistress America," so I took that as a recommendation since I'd seen his "While We're Young" earlier this year and really enjoyed it.
My mistake. Apparently a movie about 40-somethings exploring the lifestyles and habits of millennials (to great comedic affect) was far more to my taste than the vapid story of a friendship between a completely self-absorbed scatterbrained 30 year old and the college freshman she takes under her wing (Ignore other people! Focus on yourself constantly!).
Noah, baby, I know Greta Gerwig is your love and muse, but as a member of the audience, sometimes she's the most annoying person on the planet to watch and listen to. Non-stop verbal diarrhea doesn't help, either. I'm fine with dysfunctional characters but these were just pretentious assholes.
So while the movie wasn't anything I'd recommend, it got me out of the house and killed a couple of hours without unduly taxing my compromised physiology.
But then you get out of the movie, it's still Labor Day, everyone's doing something fun but you and you realize you've barely eaten today (proof positive you're not feeling like yourself), so you do the only logical thing: Go to Cookout for the first time.
So it wasn't cooked in a friend's backyard. It's still a burger and lemonade on Labor Day and that feels right.
I'd taken two bites driving long before being stopped at a red light. A man with a sign that began, "I bet you don't know..." walks up to my open passenger-side car window before I can even finish reading his message.
Happy Labor Day, I tell him before offering him my lemonade. Without missing a beat, he immediately takes a big draw on the straw. You can have my burger, too, I say, handing it out the window with the two bites missing, not sure if he'll accept partially-eaten food.
"Bless you, bless you," he says, almost bowing. Before he makes it back to the curb, he's already chomping through the burger.
As it turns out, two bites was about all I really wanted anyway. And, who knows, maybe that blessing will have me back in glowing health sooner.
Honestly, I'm feeling better already.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Rural Retreating
Rest assured, if I had any white shoes, skirts or dresses, I'd have stayed home and spent the weekend packing them up.
But since I don't wear white - looks awful on me - that left me free to accept an invitation to the country for the long weekend instead.
First order of business after a bountiful breakfast: an all-day pool party under a bright blue sky.
The wine was free-flowing, the memories stretched back to living in Church Hill before it was chic and just about everybody ended up in the water at some point.
I especially liked the high-spirited guy who kept cannonballing in an attempt to knock others off their floats. If not water hi-jinks at a pool party, then when?
Our host had apparently started his own partying before the guests arrived, so he dropped out for a while to take a nap, returning to his chair unobtrusively as if he'd never been away...except for the creases on his cheek.
One trio took an expedition into the woods, returning with a 6' black snake in hand, choosing not to bring it into the pool area only when I made my snake feelings clear to all.
Don't harsh my mellow with a black snake, y'all.
Mid-afternoon, swimming and snake handling paused for lunch of pizza (our host had made his own crust, our hostess had chosen all the vegetable toppings from her abundant garden), lasagna, corn on the cob and kale salad (despite the creator acknowledging that she had not massaged the kale, it was stellar).
Also, wedges of watermelon, because it could be construed as un-American not to bookend the summer with watermelon on both Memorial Day and Labor Day.
As was probably the case at holiday celebrations all over the Commonwealth, there was a fair amount of chatter about our former first couple and their unsuitability for the governor's mansion.
We had a consensus that not a single person anywhere ever needed to see pictures of our former first lady headed into the federal courthouse with a camel-toe courtesy of her polyester pantsuit.
After much laughter courtesy of multiple empty bottles of wine, we went the rural retreat route for a low-key evening of grilled t-bone steak, a salad that could been the poster child for the holiday weekend (corn, tomatoes, red onion, basil and balsamic, the second and fourth from the cook's gardens) and crusty bread slathered with Irish butter enjoyed on the screened-in porch surrounded by Chianti bottles housing burning candles,
Our musical point of departure was Teddy Pendergrass, making for some excellent R & B tangents as the evening dancing and conversation progressed. Some might say we were workin' it.
Teddy, now there was a man who looked far too good in white to pack it away, no matter what the holiday.
My Labor Day hero.
But since I don't wear white - looks awful on me - that left me free to accept an invitation to the country for the long weekend instead.
First order of business after a bountiful breakfast: an all-day pool party under a bright blue sky.
The wine was free-flowing, the memories stretched back to living in Church Hill before it was chic and just about everybody ended up in the water at some point.
I especially liked the high-spirited guy who kept cannonballing in an attempt to knock others off their floats. If not water hi-jinks at a pool party, then when?
Our host had apparently started his own partying before the guests arrived, so he dropped out for a while to take a nap, returning to his chair unobtrusively as if he'd never been away...except for the creases on his cheek.
One trio took an expedition into the woods, returning with a 6' black snake in hand, choosing not to bring it into the pool area only when I made my snake feelings clear to all.
Don't harsh my mellow with a black snake, y'all.
Mid-afternoon, swimming and snake handling paused for lunch of pizza (our host had made his own crust, our hostess had chosen all the vegetable toppings from her abundant garden), lasagna, corn on the cob and kale salad (despite the creator acknowledging that she had not massaged the kale, it was stellar).
Also, wedges of watermelon, because it could be construed as un-American not to bookend the summer with watermelon on both Memorial Day and Labor Day.
As was probably the case at holiday celebrations all over the Commonwealth, there was a fair amount of chatter about our former first couple and their unsuitability for the governor's mansion.
We had a consensus that not a single person anywhere ever needed to see pictures of our former first lady headed into the federal courthouse with a camel-toe courtesy of her polyester pantsuit.
After much laughter courtesy of multiple empty bottles of wine, we went the rural retreat route for a low-key evening of grilled t-bone steak, a salad that could been the poster child for the holiday weekend (corn, tomatoes, red onion, basil and balsamic, the second and fourth from the cook's gardens) and crusty bread slathered with Irish butter enjoyed on the screened-in porch surrounded by Chianti bottles housing burning candles,
Our musical point of departure was Teddy Pendergrass, making for some excellent R & B tangents as the evening dancing and conversation progressed. Some might say we were workin' it.
Teddy, now there was a man who looked far too good in white to pack it away, no matter what the holiday.
My Labor Day hero.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Hard Labor, Easy Day
The thought of staying in town for Labor Day held not one whit of appeal.
It was perfectly clear nothing was happening here.
Fortunately for me, I was plenty welcome at a holiday celebration outside the city.
It's the first time in memory that I was away for all three summer holidays and while there's a certain charm to being one of the remaining few over a long weekend, I've done that plenty.
It wasn't a big party, but those who did attend were superior conversationalists and I even lucked into a willing companion who accompanied me down gravel roads and on nature trails in a nearby park when I needed my walking fix.
You can take the girl out of the city, but she's going to want to get in her miles no matter where she is.
I was the last to arrive and just in time for the opening of some Graham Beck bubbly, the absolute best way to kick off a holiday.
My affection for South African wine is common knowledge in this group, although I didn't see anyone else turning it down, either.
Once the sparkling had everyone in a thoroughly festive mood, we took a field trip to the local Italian joint for, what else, pizza and Italian hoagies.
The only hiccup there was when the 2007 Bella Sera Pinot Grigio arrived long past its prime, smelling suspect and tasting downright disgusting.
Our server handled it with aplomb, going downstairs and, as she said, "crawling through the bottles" to find a more recent vintage.
The 2011 did far more justice to the onion rings and garnered her a bigger tip for the effort.
I'd like to say we were ambitious enough to play croquet or badminton when we returned, but the super-saturated air did little to encourage movement.
Truth be told, some people even napped.
Once everyone was vertical again, we moved directly to happy hour and the traditional lighting of the grill for the holiday meal.
My skill set wasn't required for cooking lamb but I was consulted about the music mix for the evening.
Between Pandora and me, I think we created several stellar playlists using my chosen starting points: Small Black, The Love Language and Twin Shadow.
The oh-so-'80s synth-pop based first set was (in my humble opinion) as good a holiday night soundtrack as anyone could have hoped for.
Tell the story how you want to
Make up all the details
Tell me what feels good
I don't care
You're no stranger
To me
True, everyone was sitting rather than actually dancing, but I did see some feet doing the horizontal mambo on a chaise lounge.
Okay, they were mine, but the point is, if it hadn't been so humid and if the wine hadn't been so free-flowing, it would have been a Labor Day dance party by the time the evening wound down.
As it was, it ended reluctantly, so we found one last activity before calling it a (labor) day.
Because we were beyond the worst of the city lights, our fine holiday celebration ended with star-gazing and perhaps even a little silent wishing on a star for those who were so inclined.
Don't look at me. I state my wishes outright and out loud.
It was perfectly clear nothing was happening here.
Fortunately for me, I was plenty welcome at a holiday celebration outside the city.
It's the first time in memory that I was away for all three summer holidays and while there's a certain charm to being one of the remaining few over a long weekend, I've done that plenty.
It wasn't a big party, but those who did attend were superior conversationalists and I even lucked into a willing companion who accompanied me down gravel roads and on nature trails in a nearby park when I needed my walking fix.
You can take the girl out of the city, but she's going to want to get in her miles no matter where she is.
I was the last to arrive and just in time for the opening of some Graham Beck bubbly, the absolute best way to kick off a holiday.
My affection for South African wine is common knowledge in this group, although I didn't see anyone else turning it down, either.
Once the sparkling had everyone in a thoroughly festive mood, we took a field trip to the local Italian joint for, what else, pizza and Italian hoagies.
The only hiccup there was when the 2007 Bella Sera Pinot Grigio arrived long past its prime, smelling suspect and tasting downright disgusting.
Our server handled it with aplomb, going downstairs and, as she said, "crawling through the bottles" to find a more recent vintage.
The 2011 did far more justice to the onion rings and garnered her a bigger tip for the effort.
I'd like to say we were ambitious enough to play croquet or badminton when we returned, but the super-saturated air did little to encourage movement.
Truth be told, some people even napped.
Once everyone was vertical again, we moved directly to happy hour and the traditional lighting of the grill for the holiday meal.
My skill set wasn't required for cooking lamb but I was consulted about the music mix for the evening.
Between Pandora and me, I think we created several stellar playlists using my chosen starting points: Small Black, The Love Language and Twin Shadow.
The oh-so-'80s synth-pop based first set was (in my humble opinion) as good a holiday night soundtrack as anyone could have hoped for.
Tell the story how you want to
Make up all the details
Tell me what feels good
I don't care
You're no stranger
To me
True, everyone was sitting rather than actually dancing, but I did see some feet doing the horizontal mambo on a chaise lounge.
Okay, they were mine, but the point is, if it hadn't been so humid and if the wine hadn't been so free-flowing, it would have been a Labor Day dance party by the time the evening wound down.
As it was, it ended reluctantly, so we found one last activity before calling it a (labor) day.
Because we were beyond the worst of the city lights, our fine holiday celebration ended with star-gazing and perhaps even a little silent wishing on a star for those who were so inclined.
Don't look at me. I state my wishes outright and out loud.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Southern Exposure
I lucked out because a friend had invited me to dinner last night and when I said I couldn't make it because of the Al Green show, he invited me for tonight instead. My host-to-be was the bialy-pushing Gregg, one of the husbands I've been known to appropriate for an evening out, here.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
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