Because nothing says Christmas quite like men in women's clothes.
The holiday drag brunch at Laura Lee's was as good an excuse as any to assemble the manse crew to drink Christmas libations, gorge on a southern-fried brunch menu and watch grown men cavort in skirts.
Settling into our curved soft blue banquette at Laura Lee's with a fine view of the "runway," Pru noted that the vibe was pure Copa. All we needed was one of those little lamps that used to provide appropriately flattering low light to finish the effect.
Unlike the others who immediately determined their poison of choice - Pru's eggnog, Beau and Queen B's brunch punches - I was distracted when a writer friend dropped by the table to say hello. After she warned me to stay until the end so I could catch her in performance as Elvis, we talked about how the brunch was going.
"The earlier crowd was pure sit and quit," she shared. "We expected people to stay and get drunk, but it's been more of a rolling sober crowd." The problem for her was that she'd only signed on to play Elvis because she presumed the crowd would be trashed.
Looking around at tables of women clutching dollar bills, I felt safe reassuring her that they'd get there.
By the time I sat down, it was to finally order a Poinsettia to sip on and catch up with my tablemates. Meanwhile, fat, sweet blueberry muffins with vanilla buttercream had arrived and my posse was digging in like it was their first meal of the day. Not so for me.
That said, it was a bit like starting with dessert and that's not a complaint.
Miss Magnolia Jackson Pickett Burnside kicked things off with a lecture on drugs - "Stay away from the Booger Sugar" - but also didn't hesitate to toss out packets of pseudo-cocaine to the eager crowd.
I saw one guy pocket his, just in case.
The second performer arrived in a red sequined dress and Liza (with a "Z") haircut, belting out that holiday classic, "Christmas in Rehab" and leaving a generous lip print on one of the sole men in the room's ample forehead. Not long after, Beau, the drag brunch virgin, noted that the guy had already wiped it off, a rookie mistake if ever there was one.
Like the occupants of the other tables, we kept folded dollar bills at the ready to gift our entertainers, though Beau took some time learning the right methods to get his bills noticed. At one point, it felt almost like the performers were intentionally avoiding him, but eventually even his money was good enough (along with a comment about the panties he was presumed to be wearing).
Trying to defend himself as okay with being weird, Pru piped up, saying, "If we are together, I am not okay with weird." No need to mince words during mince pie season.
Today's host was Michael, the manager and organizer of today's frivolities. He also has a bushy red beard worthy of Yukon Cornelius, a fact he knew. Turns out he'd considered coming in today dressed as Yukon, "Lickin' the pick and everything!" he boasted, a remark meaningful only to fans of that classic "Rudolph" special.
Watching the fun didn't stop us from eating. Pru and Beau both went for the fried oatmeal with bacon and a fried egg under syrup, while Queen B opted for fried chicken with biscuit and hushpuppies, all of which I managed to wrangle bites of. My smoked fish over greens, onions and matchstick carrots was a tad overdressed in cumin lime vinaigrette, but tasty nonetheless, the hunks of fish smokey and meaty.
As more drinks arrived, the repartee got livelier, with Pru telling me that she'd been voted "Wittiest in Class" at age 17, a difficult standard to maintain over a lifetime. It made me glad no one had singled me out young and set a bar I may not have been able to maintain.
Far better to start low.
For Magnolia's next number, she arrived attired in a short Santa suit with cute white knitted tights and a white Afro wig with a giant, glittery poinsettia pinned in it, the ideal togs to lip-sync and dance to a Christmas conga song.
"Who likes Cher?" she asked of the room and the table behind us showed their Cher love. "Oh, just the table of homosexuals right here," Magnolia joked of the five young women. Pru and I had already noted the quintet's shared physical qualities - tall, straight blond hair, vacant look - and sure, they could easily have been pretty boys dressed as young hipster women of a certain ilk.
As she bent over to thank a table for cash, Beau got a glimpse of Cher 's derriere, noting, "She's got a butt like I do, which is to say, not at all." Ba dum bum.
Statements like that are given wide berth to lay on the table without commentary.
Afterward, Magnolia said it was her last song. "That took everything I have to skip," she explained. "Cher does two things - punches the air and skips and I figured if Cher could do it, so could I!"
Not sure I've ever seen Cher quite so beet red or winded, though 'tis not the season to judge.
Next came Cookie Pants, a performer in a gingerbread suit she used as an excuse to do a striptease down to an elf costume complete with striped leggings.
Magnolia's Grandma was in the house and he talked about how accepting she and his family had been of his proclivities. He wanted us to know that she insists there is no Christmas without Elvis, which is why we got a cross-dressing woman as the King, complete with pompadour.
That it was my friend from earlier meant I had plenty of bills folded between my knuckles when she approached our table singing "Blue Christmas."
Between the cash and our long-standing friendship, I was treated to a full-on extended breast nuzzle through her white polyester jumpsuit, enough to elicit cheers from the crowd. And, yes, we could see her black panties underneath, but we liked it.
By the time Elvis got back to Grandma and began hugging/dancing with her, Yukon Cornelius was tearing up, saying, "They're gonna make me cry!" and dabbing at his eyes. And he wasn't the only one.
At the front, Magnolia was in full waterworks mode. "This is making me cry!" she said watching her Grandma, smiling happily and wiping away the heavy makeup running down her face. "Ooh, it burns!"
Said no one ever at the Copa.
Showing posts with label laura lee's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label laura lee's. Show all posts
Saturday, December 22, 2018
Monday, November 19, 2018
Ladies Who Brunch
Except for having to explain what a fern bar was to one of my girlfriends, we chose the ideal spot to reconvene after a year.
As for how three long-time friends who'd met through a shared love of music could let a year go by without breaking bread, well, I blame myself. Between my low period and the whirlwind of meeting my match, I'd not been pushing for get-togethers like I used to.
No surprise, today's overdue brunch happened because of music, too. Earlier this week, I'd heard from Xtina after she'd spotted me at a show and we'd decided a rendezvous was in order. Naturally we folded in Em, which made running into her Friday night even more unlikely.
Surely my moon must be in the seventh house or something.
These two always defer to me about picking where to eat and though I tried to suggest our usual place, 821 Cafe, they were hankering for something new to them. That was simple enough because neither had been to Laura Lee's, a shame given the fabulous food and decidedly female vibe, and it took no time for Em to jump on making a reservation.
Good thing, too, because the place was mobbed by mid-day.
Walking in to find I was the last to arrive, a fact which thrilled Xtina who'd made it one of her life goals to arrive before I did at one of our dates, led to a discussion of punctuality. For most of my life, I can safely say I was always on time, but that changed a decade ago when I stopped holding myself to that standard. It was hugely liberating, a fact I shared, and both friends marveled at my willingness to go easier on myself.
"Women have such a hard time with that," Em noted. "I wish I could relax about it." Give it a decade or so, my dear, and see if you don't soften all kinds of self-imposed rules.
I watched as they ogled the joint and made suitably appreciative comments about the decor: the soft green curved banquettes, the beguiling art that doubled as sound baffles, the glass garage door that let in loads of November sunlight.
Then I explained to the young 'un that bars were once bastions of male dominance, news to her. So I shared that fern bars were created in the happenin' days of the sexual revolution in the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do - more likely explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers - in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes. Fast forward to the 21st century and Laura Lee's nods to the fern bar Version 2.0, combining the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility.
Of course they were enchanted once they knew the history and, as the senior member of this trio, it's my job to inform them.
First on the conversational docket was the development of Xtina's stage presence, a subject brought up because Em had recently seen Xtina's band perform and had been wowed at how much more comfortable she'd become on stage. I'd noticed myself the last few shows.
"She was dancing and wearing a crop top onstage, Karen!" Em explained, seeking to share her surprise with a like-minded friend. Who was this person inhabiting our friend's body? We reminisced how when we'd first seen her performing in a band, she'd sung and played guitar while keeping her eyes closed and pretending that the audience wasn't there.
Shyness had prevented any sort of audience rapport.
But no more. Her new attitude, she said, was to have a good time and not worry about messing up a line singing or with a goofy dance step. She was far happier for letting go of unrealistic expectations.
When we finally got around to ordering, the orders broke down along party lines. Xtina got her usual huevos rancheros, while Em was a shoe-in for the enormous chocolate chip pancakes. What I really wanted was the fried chicken for two, but since I had no partner-in-yardbird, I made do with avocado toast with tomato jam, bacon and part of the biscuits we ordered for the table.
Also for the table was a hot toddy with chai spice, which arrived in a black glass that resembled the intricate designs on milk glass. We agreed that it tasted like Christmas - or Thanksgiving at the least - and Xtina especially dug the lemony warmth of it.
And while I don't need to rhapsodize about Laura Lee's biscuits, let's just have a moment for biscuits with enough fat baked into them (Em: "If they're made with lard, I don't want to know about it") that slathering butter on them isn't essential. That said, I did slather cherry jam over every available biscuit surface.
I gave props to Em (and her cute husband) for having DJ'd the Abigail Spanberger victory party - that's right, I'm friends with the brilliant woman who played Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" - and really gotten that party started. That led to her telling us about how often a guy will approach them when they're DJing together, but direct every question, whether about equipment, music choice or just DJing, directly to her husband as if she were invisible.
The struggle is real.
Much of today's extended brunch talk was about Xtina's new dating life now that she's recently out of a two-year relationship. She's torn about going forward with a nice drummer she met and looking forward to meeting up with a handsome NOLA transplant who used to live in Richmond and will be back soon. Meanwhile, we watched as our server made eye contact with her every chance he could and she debated whether or not to leave her phone number on her bill. Should she, shouldn't she, how do you know who's right for you?
It must be exhausting to be young, beautiful and single.
Of course, we couldn't dissect their lives without touching on mine, meaning I got to hear both telling me how much I deserve this new reality of mine, even if it does keep me out of the widespread circulation that used to define my life. I'm still out an awful lot, but often now it's with my biggest fan.
Which sort of makes me the poster child for hanging in there until the right person shows up. You just never know how long it'll take or how worthwhile the wait will be. Patience, not necessarily punctuality.
Try telling that to someone who doesn't know what a fern bar is.
As for how three long-time friends who'd met through a shared love of music could let a year go by without breaking bread, well, I blame myself. Between my low period and the whirlwind of meeting my match, I'd not been pushing for get-togethers like I used to.
No surprise, today's overdue brunch happened because of music, too. Earlier this week, I'd heard from Xtina after she'd spotted me at a show and we'd decided a rendezvous was in order. Naturally we folded in Em, which made running into her Friday night even more unlikely.
Surely my moon must be in the seventh house or something.
These two always defer to me about picking where to eat and though I tried to suggest our usual place, 821 Cafe, they were hankering for something new to them. That was simple enough because neither had been to Laura Lee's, a shame given the fabulous food and decidedly female vibe, and it took no time for Em to jump on making a reservation.
Good thing, too, because the place was mobbed by mid-day.
Walking in to find I was the last to arrive, a fact which thrilled Xtina who'd made it one of her life goals to arrive before I did at one of our dates, led to a discussion of punctuality. For most of my life, I can safely say I was always on time, but that changed a decade ago when I stopped holding myself to that standard. It was hugely liberating, a fact I shared, and both friends marveled at my willingness to go easier on myself.
"Women have such a hard time with that," Em noted. "I wish I could relax about it." Give it a decade or so, my dear, and see if you don't soften all kinds of self-imposed rules.
I watched as they ogled the joint and made suitably appreciative comments about the decor: the soft green curved banquettes, the beguiling art that doubled as sound baffles, the glass garage door that let in loads of November sunlight.
Then I explained to the young 'un that bars were once bastions of male dominance, news to her. So I shared that fern bars were created in the happenin' days of the sexual revolution in the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do - more likely explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers - in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes. Fast forward to the 21st century and Laura Lee's nods to the fern bar Version 2.0, combining the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility.
Of course they were enchanted once they knew the history and, as the senior member of this trio, it's my job to inform them.
First on the conversational docket was the development of Xtina's stage presence, a subject brought up because Em had recently seen Xtina's band perform and had been wowed at how much more comfortable she'd become on stage. I'd noticed myself the last few shows.
"She was dancing and wearing a crop top onstage, Karen!" Em explained, seeking to share her surprise with a like-minded friend. Who was this person inhabiting our friend's body? We reminisced how when we'd first seen her performing in a band, she'd sung and played guitar while keeping her eyes closed and pretending that the audience wasn't there.
Shyness had prevented any sort of audience rapport.
But no more. Her new attitude, she said, was to have a good time and not worry about messing up a line singing or with a goofy dance step. She was far happier for letting go of unrealistic expectations.
When we finally got around to ordering, the orders broke down along party lines. Xtina got her usual huevos rancheros, while Em was a shoe-in for the enormous chocolate chip pancakes. What I really wanted was the fried chicken for two, but since I had no partner-in-yardbird, I made do with avocado toast with tomato jam, bacon and part of the biscuits we ordered for the table.
Also for the table was a hot toddy with chai spice, which arrived in a black glass that resembled the intricate designs on milk glass. We agreed that it tasted like Christmas - or Thanksgiving at the least - and Xtina especially dug the lemony warmth of it.
And while I don't need to rhapsodize about Laura Lee's biscuits, let's just have a moment for biscuits with enough fat baked into them (Em: "If they're made with lard, I don't want to know about it") that slathering butter on them isn't essential. That said, I did slather cherry jam over every available biscuit surface.
I gave props to Em (and her cute husband) for having DJ'd the Abigail Spanberger victory party - that's right, I'm friends with the brilliant woman who played Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" - and really gotten that party started. That led to her telling us about how often a guy will approach them when they're DJing together, but direct every question, whether about equipment, music choice or just DJing, directly to her husband as if she were invisible.
The struggle is real.
Much of today's extended brunch talk was about Xtina's new dating life now that she's recently out of a two-year relationship. She's torn about going forward with a nice drummer she met and looking forward to meeting up with a handsome NOLA transplant who used to live in Richmond and will be back soon. Meanwhile, we watched as our server made eye contact with her every chance he could and she debated whether or not to leave her phone number on her bill. Should she, shouldn't she, how do you know who's right for you?
It must be exhausting to be young, beautiful and single.
Of course, we couldn't dissect their lives without touching on mine, meaning I got to hear both telling me how much I deserve this new reality of mine, even if it does keep me out of the widespread circulation that used to define my life. I'm still out an awful lot, but often now it's with my biggest fan.
Which sort of makes me the poster child for hanging in there until the right person shows up. You just never know how long it'll take or how worthwhile the wait will be. Patience, not necessarily punctuality.
Try telling that to someone who doesn't know what a fern bar is.
Monday, September 11, 2017
At Least It Took
Don't lure me to a cemetery with wine and then try to get me to say god. Not happening.
This afternoon was the official unveiling and dedication of the new Daniel Norton grave monument at Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Those not up on their Virginia wine might not recognize the name of the man who discovered Virginia's native grape, but let me assure you, he's a pretty big deal.
As today's speaker acknowledged, other than Chief Justice John Marshall, Dr. Norton is the most important person buried in that cemetery and that's saying something.
None of that was news to me since years ago I'd read Todd Kliman's "The Wild Vine" and learned the story of the doctor-turned-viticulturist and his life-long devotion to the grape that has since carried his name: the Norton.
For that matter, for years now I've made a regular pilgrimage to Shockoe Hill Cemetery for the sole purpose of maintaining the five stones I placed on Norton's original grave marker.
I'd even trekked to Chrysalis Vineyard because it has more acres planted with Norton than any place in the world and an array of wines made with the Norton grape. I know a lot of people find the grape's taste too foxy, but I like what our speaker described as "an American kind of wildness taste" that Norton has.
That's just a long-winded way of saying that I was happy to walk over to the cemetery to witness any and all festivities dedicated to Dr. N.
Walking toward the gravestone, I noticed two things simultaneously: two rifles casually propped against a nearby tree and a swooping trail of large white mushrooms, no doubt the result of those rainy days last week.
Things got started when a four-piece color guard from the General Society of the War of 1812 marched out from behind a tree in lockstep, all carrying flags. That's when they wanted us all to say the pledge of allegiance and while I'm willing to do that, I have never accepted Dwight Eisenhower's decision to insert the words "under god" into the pledge.
Which made me the sole person at the cemetery today with her hand over her heart who also went seamlessly from "one nation" directly to "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Sorry, but I fail to see how a country founded on the principles of separation of church and state should require its citizens to acknowledge some crazy Christian's notion of a higher being. Nope.
Shockoe Hill had brought in the big gun to sing the praises of the Norton grape (and the 30-some varieties that grow in Virginia today): Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis.
She talked about how all the Norton grapes in Virginia died out during Prohibition and how Horton Vineyards had been the first to plant it again. How Norton had been trained as a surgeon but followed his passion to become a farmer and viticulturist instead. She even humble bragged that her Norton Locksley Reserve had been rated #2 in the world by an important European wine magazine.
The marker, complete with a bas relief image of the good doctor, was unveiled to oohs and ahs. But the real treat was watching the color guard's rifle salute afterward, marred only when one of the two riflemen found his gun jamming and unable to fire.
To lighten the moment, the head of the color guard observed, "Can you imagine everyone coming at you in battle and you have trouble loading your gun?" Rhetorical question.
Naturally, "Taps" followed, taking me back to summer camp, except then it had been played on a bugle and not a cell phone. But don't get me started.
Tonight's fun was Laura Lee's one year anniversary party for friends and neighbors and held in their about-to-open back garden, which was in full blooming splendor tonight.
As far back as late May, I'd celebrated my birthday and that of a fellow Gemini in Laura Lee's garden, but none of the plantings were nearly as mature then, the strings of lights hadn't been added nor the comfortable furniture brought in. All the pieces were in place tonight to wow.
People had broken up into small groups, so simply moving between groups meant a change in conversations. A woman eating only a bite of spanikopita said that spanikopita was the only food she knew how to make. Another lamented her decision to wear high-heeled pumps. A man blanched at the mention of a $42 steak.
A favorite couple was there and they were just back from eating at Oriole in Chicago, although they'd run out of time to do the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio. That led to a conversation about Richmond's restaurant scene back in the days when Millie's, Mama Zu and Helen's were as good as it got.
Those who didn't live here then found it tough to fathom that Helen's had ever been a big deal, but I know that it was the first place I was ever served gold leaf on top of a bisque, something that was most definitely not happening anywhere else in Richmond back then.
There was speculation about what's going into the former Kinfolk spot (and who signs a ten-year lease on a restaurant anyhow?), opinion swapping about the swank Brenner Pass, an in-depth analysis of the Roosevelt's burger versus Laura Lee's and a fair amount of trash talk about the Richmond Times Dispatch.
Wine and whiskey punch were laid out for guests to help themselves while appetizers of Mexican street corn, spanikopita, sausages and egg rolls were scooped up to keep pace with the booze.
Being surrounded by so many of Laura Lee's neighbors, I was bound to hear the restaurant's praises sung all night long. Everyone was so grateful that they now have this wonderful place to eat, drink and hang out right in their neighborhood.
I get it. People like to be able to walk to their neighborhood joint and stumble home when necessary.
And while it's not that for me - it's a tad too far to J-Ward - it has turned out to be a terrific place not only to meet up with friends but to meet new people. Repeatedly, in some cases.
You know what they say, as many times as it takes. The rest is easy.
This afternoon was the official unveiling and dedication of the new Daniel Norton grave monument at Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Those not up on their Virginia wine might not recognize the name of the man who discovered Virginia's native grape, but let me assure you, he's a pretty big deal.
As today's speaker acknowledged, other than Chief Justice John Marshall, Dr. Norton is the most important person buried in that cemetery and that's saying something.
None of that was news to me since years ago I'd read Todd Kliman's "The Wild Vine" and learned the story of the doctor-turned-viticulturist and his life-long devotion to the grape that has since carried his name: the Norton.
For that matter, for years now I've made a regular pilgrimage to Shockoe Hill Cemetery for the sole purpose of maintaining the five stones I placed on Norton's original grave marker.
I'd even trekked to Chrysalis Vineyard because it has more acres planted with Norton than any place in the world and an array of wines made with the Norton grape. I know a lot of people find the grape's taste too foxy, but I like what our speaker described as "an American kind of wildness taste" that Norton has.
That's just a long-winded way of saying that I was happy to walk over to the cemetery to witness any and all festivities dedicated to Dr. N.
Walking toward the gravestone, I noticed two things simultaneously: two rifles casually propped against a nearby tree and a swooping trail of large white mushrooms, no doubt the result of those rainy days last week.
Things got started when a four-piece color guard from the General Society of the War of 1812 marched out from behind a tree in lockstep, all carrying flags. That's when they wanted us all to say the pledge of allegiance and while I'm willing to do that, I have never accepted Dwight Eisenhower's decision to insert the words "under god" into the pledge.
Which made me the sole person at the cemetery today with her hand over her heart who also went seamlessly from "one nation" directly to "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Sorry, but I fail to see how a country founded on the principles of separation of church and state should require its citizens to acknowledge some crazy Christian's notion of a higher being. Nope.
Shockoe Hill had brought in the big gun to sing the praises of the Norton grape (and the 30-some varieties that grow in Virginia today): Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis.
She talked about how all the Norton grapes in Virginia died out during Prohibition and how Horton Vineyards had been the first to plant it again. How Norton had been trained as a surgeon but followed his passion to become a farmer and viticulturist instead. She even humble bragged that her Norton Locksley Reserve had been rated #2 in the world by an important European wine magazine.
The marker, complete with a bas relief image of the good doctor, was unveiled to oohs and ahs. But the real treat was watching the color guard's rifle salute afterward, marred only when one of the two riflemen found his gun jamming and unable to fire.
To lighten the moment, the head of the color guard observed, "Can you imagine everyone coming at you in battle and you have trouble loading your gun?" Rhetorical question.
Naturally, "Taps" followed, taking me back to summer camp, except then it had been played on a bugle and not a cell phone. But don't get me started.
Tonight's fun was Laura Lee's one year anniversary party for friends and neighbors and held in their about-to-open back garden, which was in full blooming splendor tonight.
As far back as late May, I'd celebrated my birthday and that of a fellow Gemini in Laura Lee's garden, but none of the plantings were nearly as mature then, the strings of lights hadn't been added nor the comfortable furniture brought in. All the pieces were in place tonight to wow.
People had broken up into small groups, so simply moving between groups meant a change in conversations. A woman eating only a bite of spanikopita said that spanikopita was the only food she knew how to make. Another lamented her decision to wear high-heeled pumps. A man blanched at the mention of a $42 steak.
A favorite couple was there and they were just back from eating at Oriole in Chicago, although they'd run out of time to do the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio. That led to a conversation about Richmond's restaurant scene back in the days when Millie's, Mama Zu and Helen's were as good as it got.
Those who didn't live here then found it tough to fathom that Helen's had ever been a big deal, but I know that it was the first place I was ever served gold leaf on top of a bisque, something that was most definitely not happening anywhere else in Richmond back then.
There was speculation about what's going into the former Kinfolk spot (and who signs a ten-year lease on a restaurant anyhow?), opinion swapping about the swank Brenner Pass, an in-depth analysis of the Roosevelt's burger versus Laura Lee's and a fair amount of trash talk about the Richmond Times Dispatch.
Wine and whiskey punch were laid out for guests to help themselves while appetizers of Mexican street corn, spanikopita, sausages and egg rolls were scooped up to keep pace with the booze.
Being surrounded by so many of Laura Lee's neighbors, I was bound to hear the restaurant's praises sung all night long. Everyone was so grateful that they now have this wonderful place to eat, drink and hang out right in their neighborhood.
I get it. People like to be able to walk to their neighborhood joint and stumble home when necessary.
And while it's not that for me - it's a tad too far to J-Ward - it has turned out to be a terrific place not only to meet up with friends but to meet new people. Repeatedly, in some cases.
You know what they say, as many times as it takes. The rest is easy.
Friday, August 11, 2017
The Last to Know
I made the woman I once aspired to marry want to turn on the waterworks tonight.
After months of not seeing each other, we met up at Laura Lee's for an evening of former bandmates, chicken wings and tomato salad and surprising revelations.
It was while we were digging deep on the scuttlebutt she'd heard about me that we were joined by the director of a certain museum. We offered him the comfort of either/both our laps, but instead he stood, sharing a host of anecdotes about the Monument Avenue public meeting last night, being interviewed by NPR and our illustrious mayor.
So. Much. Dirt.
Once she began digging for the scoop on my personal life, we decided to take our Gruner Veltliner and relocate to the patio for a more in-depth conversation that began with her telling me about a guy she'd been wanting to set me up with for months.
In what was surely a surprise to her, I shared that I'd skipped the matchmaking and made contact on my own back in early June. While she'd been dithering, I'd been getting acquainted.
She minced no words in her assessment: "See? When someone is interested, they show it," which was followed by a sly smile at her husband across the table. "Of course I showed it," he grinned. "I wasn't about to let you get away!"
Anybody got a tissue?
I'd barely gotten into the details of my new situation when she began welling up, saying, "I think I'm going to cry." In 9 years of friendship, I don't think I've ever made her so happy. Of course she had to remind me that everyone knew before her.
Only after we'd dished mightily did we turn to the other guests and join their conversation.
Her former bandmates, meanwhile, were a fascinating bunch who obliged with audio of the band's songs (including digs at the hair band-sounding guitar solo by the guitarist) and frequent references to the seismic shifts in their lives since then.
Because so much deep conversation requires sustenance, we noshed through General Tso's wings, fried oysters and heirloom tomato salad under a gorgeous blue evening sky. She and I were asked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi, dredging up memories of fire truck rides, the Stax Museum and every John Currance restaurant we visited.
Good times.
When I finally got up to go, it was with reluctance (who wants to walk away from four men and the woman of her dreams?) but I was double-booked and had no choice.
Truth be told, a friend from D.C. had also inquired about my dance card tonight, but I'd been unable to accommodate.
Act two involved a short walk with another friend to Jackson's, the new smokehouse and beer garden on Second Street. We made our way through a series of doorways to wind up on the patio, in this case, a high-walled space complete with smoker and fan to disperse the smoke and heat.
All I know is that when I left the restaurant, I reeked of smoke.
The four top at the next table were agog when our bottle of wine arrived because it was inserted into a stone wine tap at our table, the better to serve ourselves, we assumed. The only problem was that it didn't actually keep the wine chilled.
Ah, details.
While I listened to an annotated accounting of my friend's trip to D.C., we made a meal of chicken tacos (meh) and a rack of ribs with collard greens and mac and cheese, but only after our server had brought us samples of four types of barbecue sauce (sweet, spicy, sweet/spicy, smoked) to choose from to accompany our meals.
The walls of the patio may have been high, but the sky was the color of dark blue velvet with a lone star punctuating it and we gabbed about the upcoming Perseid meteor shower and the eclipse that has everyone planning trips south.
We had a nightcap at Lucy's, along with a brassy, loud-mouthed woman who earns a living as a shrimper and her crew, but they cleared out shortly, apologizing for their decibel level.
The owner talked about his upcoming trip to Mexico, the bartender showed off her white lace bolero ("I wear it over everything") and we drank Rose from Provence while having polite conversation of no consequence.
Some evenings begin with heartfelt admissions and end with innocuous blather.
And when it comes to the best dirt, someone has to be the last to know. You just hate for it to be the person who wanted it to happen all along. She swears she told me that, but she didn't.
The good news is, it happened. It finally happened.
After months of not seeing each other, we met up at Laura Lee's for an evening of former bandmates, chicken wings and tomato salad and surprising revelations.
It was while we were digging deep on the scuttlebutt she'd heard about me that we were joined by the director of a certain museum. We offered him the comfort of either/both our laps, but instead he stood, sharing a host of anecdotes about the Monument Avenue public meeting last night, being interviewed by NPR and our illustrious mayor.
So. Much. Dirt.
Once she began digging for the scoop on my personal life, we decided to take our Gruner Veltliner and relocate to the patio for a more in-depth conversation that began with her telling me about a guy she'd been wanting to set me up with for months.
In what was surely a surprise to her, I shared that I'd skipped the matchmaking and made contact on my own back in early June. While she'd been dithering, I'd been getting acquainted.
She minced no words in her assessment: "See? When someone is interested, they show it," which was followed by a sly smile at her husband across the table. "Of course I showed it," he grinned. "I wasn't about to let you get away!"
Anybody got a tissue?
I'd barely gotten into the details of my new situation when she began welling up, saying, "I think I'm going to cry." In 9 years of friendship, I don't think I've ever made her so happy. Of course she had to remind me that everyone knew before her.
Only after we'd dished mightily did we turn to the other guests and join their conversation.
Her former bandmates, meanwhile, were a fascinating bunch who obliged with audio of the band's songs (including digs at the hair band-sounding guitar solo by the guitarist) and frequent references to the seismic shifts in their lives since then.
Because so much deep conversation requires sustenance, we noshed through General Tso's wings, fried oysters and heirloom tomato salad under a gorgeous blue evening sky. She and I were asked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi, dredging up memories of fire truck rides, the Stax Museum and every John Currance restaurant we visited.
Good times.
When I finally got up to go, it was with reluctance (who wants to walk away from four men and the woman of her dreams?) but I was double-booked and had no choice.
Truth be told, a friend from D.C. had also inquired about my dance card tonight, but I'd been unable to accommodate.
Act two involved a short walk with another friend to Jackson's, the new smokehouse and beer garden on Second Street. We made our way through a series of doorways to wind up on the patio, in this case, a high-walled space complete with smoker and fan to disperse the smoke and heat.
All I know is that when I left the restaurant, I reeked of smoke.
The four top at the next table were agog when our bottle of wine arrived because it was inserted into a stone wine tap at our table, the better to serve ourselves, we assumed. The only problem was that it didn't actually keep the wine chilled.
Ah, details.
While I listened to an annotated accounting of my friend's trip to D.C., we made a meal of chicken tacos (meh) and a rack of ribs with collard greens and mac and cheese, but only after our server had brought us samples of four types of barbecue sauce (sweet, spicy, sweet/spicy, smoked) to choose from to accompany our meals.
The walls of the patio may have been high, but the sky was the color of dark blue velvet with a lone star punctuating it and we gabbed about the upcoming Perseid meteor shower and the eclipse that has everyone planning trips south.
We had a nightcap at Lucy's, along with a brassy, loud-mouthed woman who earns a living as a shrimper and her crew, but they cleared out shortly, apologizing for their decibel level.
The owner talked about his upcoming trip to Mexico, the bartender showed off her white lace bolero ("I wear it over everything") and we drank Rose from Provence while having polite conversation of no consequence.
Some evenings begin with heartfelt admissions and end with innocuous blather.
And when it comes to the best dirt, someone has to be the last to know. You just hate for it to be the person who wanted it to happen all along. She swears she told me that, but she didn't.
The good news is, it happened. It finally happened.
Friday, May 5, 2017
A Trim Reckoning
I was just waiting on a friend.
By the time he joined me at Three Notch'd Brewing's Collab House, Bard Unbound was already well into Shakespeare's drinking scenes. Since I was already enjoying the performance, where he was invaluable was with his sampler of four beers, including Falstaff's Folly, a beer brewed in collaboration with the Bard crew.
I tasted through all four, intrigued and open, but did not come out of it any more a beer lover than I went in. Still, it's all about the experience.
Can we still be friends?
Since it had been a month since our last rendezvous - I know, what kind of friends put that much time between laying eyes on each other? - we had plenty to catch up on and a noisy brewery wasn't exactly the ideal place to do it.
Instead, we crossed the river to Laura Lee's, more on principle than anything for me, since a friend had gone on record as saying I never go to the Southside.
Or perhaps I do go and just keep it on the down low.
That would have been tough tonight given the nearly full house (back to back stellar reviews will do that to a place), although we did park ourselves at the far end of the bar away from the crowds.
Personally, I was completely satisfied with a soundtrack of Paul Simon and fresh flowers along the bar.
And the menu! That was a love poem to Spring - the ramps! the asparagus! the softshells! - and we wasted no time in diving into the seasonal pool.
Glasses of Vina Galana Verdejo accompanied roasted tomato soup with whipped burrata and ramp oil, followed by softshell crabs with cauliflower puree, bacon, asparagus and mushrooms in ginger butter and a side of broccolini with almonds, preserved lemon and shallots in brown butter.
It's not the first time I've led a man to softshells and, with any luck, it won't be the last.
All my friends say.
A favorite Gemini joined us for a bit, showing off a photo of a new-to-her vintage Bianchi, lamenting the porch furniture her mother removed from her porch and insisting she has no memory.
That's why she has me, despite the fact that she's convinced I make up the memories I tell her.
The friend currently working through his larva stage showed off a photo of art, lamented waiting too long to get Shins' tickets and insisted he really needs enough bikes for an ultimate Frisbee team. That would be seven. Seven!
That's why he has me, to keep him in line when he needs it most, which is more often than you'd think.
That's what friends are for.
By the time he joined me at Three Notch'd Brewing's Collab House, Bard Unbound was already well into Shakespeare's drinking scenes. Since I was already enjoying the performance, where he was invaluable was with his sampler of four beers, including Falstaff's Folly, a beer brewed in collaboration with the Bard crew.
I tasted through all four, intrigued and open, but did not come out of it any more a beer lover than I went in. Still, it's all about the experience.
Can we still be friends?
Since it had been a month since our last rendezvous - I know, what kind of friends put that much time between laying eyes on each other? - we had plenty to catch up on and a noisy brewery wasn't exactly the ideal place to do it.
Instead, we crossed the river to Laura Lee's, more on principle than anything for me, since a friend had gone on record as saying I never go to the Southside.
Or perhaps I do go and just keep it on the down low.
That would have been tough tonight given the nearly full house (back to back stellar reviews will do that to a place), although we did park ourselves at the far end of the bar away from the crowds.
Personally, I was completely satisfied with a soundtrack of Paul Simon and fresh flowers along the bar.
And the menu! That was a love poem to Spring - the ramps! the asparagus! the softshells! - and we wasted no time in diving into the seasonal pool.
Glasses of Vina Galana Verdejo accompanied roasted tomato soup with whipped burrata and ramp oil, followed by softshell crabs with cauliflower puree, bacon, asparagus and mushrooms in ginger butter and a side of broccolini with almonds, preserved lemon and shallots in brown butter.
It's not the first time I've led a man to softshells and, with any luck, it won't be the last.
All my friends say.
A favorite Gemini joined us for a bit, showing off a photo of a new-to-her vintage Bianchi, lamenting the porch furniture her mother removed from her porch and insisting she has no memory.
That's why she has me, despite the fact that she's convinced I make up the memories I tell her.
The friend currently working through his larva stage showed off a photo of art, lamented waiting too long to get Shins' tickets and insisted he really needs enough bikes for an ultimate Frisbee team. That would be seven. Seven!
That's why he has me, to keep him in line when he needs it most, which is more often than you'd think.
That's what friends are for.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Go On, I Dare You
Do I chase the night or does the night chase me?
On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.
While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.
With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.
It all feels very southside neighborly.
And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.
But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.
What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.
There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.
Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.
Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.
On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.
While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.
With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.
It all feels very southside neighborly.
And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.
But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.
What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.
There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.
Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.
Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Rolling in the Deep Estrogen
What is Galentine's Day? Only the best day of the year! Leave the boyfriends and husbands at home and come and kick it. Ladies celebrating ladies. It's like Lillith Fair, minus the angst. Plus snacks.
Ovaries before brovaries!
Just a guess, but I'm pretty sure they'd have welcomed a girl in even if she had no menfolk to leave at home.
I was constitutionally unable to resist such an invitation - if you are, you're a better woman than I am - and that the call to celebrate came from Laura Lee's only made it a sure thing.
Last year, I celebrated my first Galentine's Day at Studio Two Three with chicken and waffles and a DJ playing vintage soul all night, so the bar was set pretty high for this year, but when I walked in and heard Whitney Houston blaring, I had a feeling things would work out just fine.
I got the last free bar stool in the place - which was packed - up against the wall, but with a superb vantage point of all the mostly female faces, many in traditional red. Naturally I'd worn orange.
Regardless of color, girl power was thick in the air as the speakers blasted George Michael.
The first familiar face was my girl crush (I had her Valentine's Day card at the ready) and the second was the music writer who's secretly a beer geek, with main squeeze and friend in tow. She'd come for the last keg of Veil Brewery's "Hornswoggler" which she'd attempted to taste at the brewery only to arrive moments after it had been finished.
Everywhere you looked, there were smiling women of all ages. There were a few men, some gay, some who'd happened in unsuspectingly with a partner and the outlier was a bearded musician who lives in the 'hood and decided he liked the odds on a night such as this.
Several of us admired his chutzpah, but I took it a step further and did it to his face.
The host, clad in tiara and pink boa, managed the vibe of the bar and dining room like the flawless party-giver he undoubtedly is, adjusting the music louder and the lights dimmer as the night wore on and people got looser.
I wanted the pork shoulder wonton soup but they'd run out of it, so instead I chose a salad with buttermilk dressing and a dish of butternut squash with golden raisins and capers in curry oil, which pretty much did double duty as dinner and dessert.
A friend had been tasked with photography duty and as we surveyed the room and what kinds of pictures he might take, he admitted he wasn't very good at capturing candid shots despite the array of interesting tableaux surrounding us.
Still, he knew he could execute the assignment. "Because if I can't get good shots of drag queens, I may as well go home," he concluded. A lesson no doubt learned in Photog 101.
Moments later, the volume was cranked again and Magnolia Pickett Burnside came out in full drag as Adele, mouthing the words to several hits as she made her way through the dining room. I scurried over to that side to watch the reactions of drag virgins (there'd been no announcement that there'd be drag tonight) which ranged from complete shock to a look of utter joy on one gray-haired woman's face.
Utter. Joy.
When Magnolia got to the dimly-lit bar, she began making her way down the line of stools singing and emoting, causing the photographer to lean in to say, "I can't help feeling like this is magic. This is the center of the female resistance tonight."
It was a reassuring thought during troubling times, the likes of which we'd already discussed. And, yes, very good vibes abounded.
The magic continued when our next performer did "Fat Bottomed Girls," including suggestively rubbing a bald bar patron's head while singing. Needless, perhaps, to say, skirts were lifted.
At one point, a couple started to come in to Laura Lee's, only to be greeted by Magnolia singing to a customer at the end of the bar. Their eyes got wide and terrified as they quickly scuttled into the dining room to escape the gaze of the room.
That became the program for the evening: each would do a song in full costume, then the party would go back to smaller conversations until the next performance which inevitably got the room all riled up again.
But mostly, people of the female persuasion just kept arriving. The happy couples who came in hoping for an early Valentine's Day meal mostly chose not to wait given that the place was full, there were more reservations coming and nobody was in any hurry to finish and leave on a Monday night.
Galentine's Day, for the uninitiated, is a marathon, not a sprint.
Women danced in their seats while they were chewing, while others sang along to every song while the performers only mouthed the words. Carrying on was encouraged.
Catching the host's eye, I made sure I told him what a great party it was. He winked proudly (he already knew it) and thanked me for noticing.
One of my favorite women showed up hungover and in search of a cheeseburger (her fave in the city) and took the stool next to me to talk. "Relationships are the easiest and the hardest thing in the world," she posited before music sidetracked us like it always does, a benefit for me since one of the tangents put a show on my calendar.
Like many of the women in the room, she admitted she had little use for Valentine's Day. Like Lillith Fair, there's just too much angst.
Far better to celebrate Galentine's Day properly...at the center of the female resistance. With snacks.
Ovaries before brovaries!
Just a guess, but I'm pretty sure they'd have welcomed a girl in even if she had no menfolk to leave at home.
I was constitutionally unable to resist such an invitation - if you are, you're a better woman than I am - and that the call to celebrate came from Laura Lee's only made it a sure thing.
Last year, I celebrated my first Galentine's Day at Studio Two Three with chicken and waffles and a DJ playing vintage soul all night, so the bar was set pretty high for this year, but when I walked in and heard Whitney Houston blaring, I had a feeling things would work out just fine.
I got the last free bar stool in the place - which was packed - up against the wall, but with a superb vantage point of all the mostly female faces, many in traditional red. Naturally I'd worn orange.
Regardless of color, girl power was thick in the air as the speakers blasted George Michael.
The first familiar face was my girl crush (I had her Valentine's Day card at the ready) and the second was the music writer who's secretly a beer geek, with main squeeze and friend in tow. She'd come for the last keg of Veil Brewery's "Hornswoggler" which she'd attempted to taste at the brewery only to arrive moments after it had been finished.
Everywhere you looked, there were smiling women of all ages. There were a few men, some gay, some who'd happened in unsuspectingly with a partner and the outlier was a bearded musician who lives in the 'hood and decided he liked the odds on a night such as this.
Several of us admired his chutzpah, but I took it a step further and did it to his face.
The host, clad in tiara and pink boa, managed the vibe of the bar and dining room like the flawless party-giver he undoubtedly is, adjusting the music louder and the lights dimmer as the night wore on and people got looser.
I wanted the pork shoulder wonton soup but they'd run out of it, so instead I chose a salad with buttermilk dressing and a dish of butternut squash with golden raisins and capers in curry oil, which pretty much did double duty as dinner and dessert.
A friend had been tasked with photography duty and as we surveyed the room and what kinds of pictures he might take, he admitted he wasn't very good at capturing candid shots despite the array of interesting tableaux surrounding us.
Still, he knew he could execute the assignment. "Because if I can't get good shots of drag queens, I may as well go home," he concluded. A lesson no doubt learned in Photog 101.
Moments later, the volume was cranked again and Magnolia Pickett Burnside came out in full drag as Adele, mouthing the words to several hits as she made her way through the dining room. I scurried over to that side to watch the reactions of drag virgins (there'd been no announcement that there'd be drag tonight) which ranged from complete shock to a look of utter joy on one gray-haired woman's face.
Utter. Joy.
When Magnolia got to the dimly-lit bar, she began making her way down the line of stools singing and emoting, causing the photographer to lean in to say, "I can't help feeling like this is magic. This is the center of the female resistance tonight."
It was a reassuring thought during troubling times, the likes of which we'd already discussed. And, yes, very good vibes abounded.
The magic continued when our next performer did "Fat Bottomed Girls," including suggestively rubbing a bald bar patron's head while singing. Needless, perhaps, to say, skirts were lifted.
At one point, a couple started to come in to Laura Lee's, only to be greeted by Magnolia singing to a customer at the end of the bar. Their eyes got wide and terrified as they quickly scuttled into the dining room to escape the gaze of the room.
That became the program for the evening: each would do a song in full costume, then the party would go back to smaller conversations until the next performance which inevitably got the room all riled up again.
But mostly, people of the female persuasion just kept arriving. The happy couples who came in hoping for an early Valentine's Day meal mostly chose not to wait given that the place was full, there were more reservations coming and nobody was in any hurry to finish and leave on a Monday night.
Galentine's Day, for the uninitiated, is a marathon, not a sprint.
Women danced in their seats while they were chewing, while others sang along to every song while the performers only mouthed the words. Carrying on was encouraged.
Catching the host's eye, I made sure I told him what a great party it was. He winked proudly (he already knew it) and thanked me for noticing.
One of my favorite women showed up hungover and in search of a cheeseburger (her fave in the city) and took the stool next to me to talk. "Relationships are the easiest and the hardest thing in the world," she posited before music sidetracked us like it always does, a benefit for me since one of the tangents put a show on my calendar.
Like many of the women in the room, she admitted she had little use for Valentine's Day. Like Lillith Fair, there's just too much angst.
Far better to celebrate Galentine's Day properly...at the center of the female resistance. With snacks.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Do It for Your Country
Not really remotely important in the scheme of things but, man, this president is totally screwing up our love life. Are any liberals still doing it?
There are myriad reasons I've been friends with Adam for a decade and this kind of comment is but one of them.
Goodness knows, it's a fair question given recent events, yet carrying on in the pursuit of happiness seems almost essential as a way to try to feel normal during these disastrous times.
Because art is a reminder that good abides when things seem bleakest, I began at 1708 Gallery, an easy walk, for the preview of their Cabin Fever fundraiser this weekend.
From Kendra Wadsworth's oil, tar and graphite "Cellular Divide," a jarring abstract expressionist-like composition to Rachel Hayes' "There in One Shot," a series of seductive color stripes on fabric, I only wish I had a purse large enough to choose a piece for my own, maybe Sally Bowring's "Always Blue Skies."
Afterward at Laura Lee's, I'm greeted by a handsome lumber-sexual in a red plaid flannel shirt and a red, curly beard worthy of one of the seven brothers searching for a bride. Pulling out his phone, he shares a photo of himself at 23, beardless and baby-faced, and I'm ogling it when a favorite food-loving friend arrives to join me for an evening's pleasure.
Taking a stool at one end of the bar, our new mayor waves at me from the other, asking if we didn't just see each other two nights ago. Right, Pizza Club. I can't lie, we did. When he gets up to move to a bar table, I ask if it was something we said, but it turns out he needs electricity to continue his endless phone conversations.
The evening kicks off when my friend orders a cocktail dubbed the Illegal Smile, while I take advantage of a glass from a fresh bottle of La Collinna "Quaresimo" Lambrusco, with Mr. Plaid Shirt regaling me with the wine's organic and natural pedigree and the southside residents who supply it to them.
Laura Lee's is a neighborly place, that's for sure.
We begin with what is essentially a banh mi without the bread: pork belly, cucumber, cilantro, pickled carrot, radish, jalapeno and hot sauce, a fiery way to kick off a friendly night. Best to keep the heat on the plate for now.
Next up, I have an earthy salad dressed in walnut vinaigrette, with burrata cheese, arugula, red grapes and roasted beets over arugula pesto, trading a few bites for some of my friend's entree special of seared scallops over cauliflower and cauliflower puree with greens.
Shamelessly, both plates go back to the kitchen licked clean.
It's while we're trying to decide where the evening should go next that a fellow Gemini arrives, her husband in tow, both basking in the glow of several drinks. It's date night and after a meal at Shagbark, they want dessert and more libations at Laura Lee's.
All of a sudden it's a get-together, so we decide to adjourn to a table in the dining room, with the overly-cautious Taurus and my glass of Lambrusco accompanying me.
Discussing what the menfolk intend to drink, I learn that "Illegal Smile" is actually the title of a John Prine song and not just an intriguing phrase. My appalling lack of musical knowledge spurs the manager to put on some John Prine to school me.
When it's followed by "Teen Dream"-era Beach House and Future Islands' "Singles," I am completely content, although the lion's share of the credit for that goes to my disarming companion and his willingness to roll with the changes.
The cyclists, meanwhile, are contentedly sipping on an Old Fashioned and a Tiger's Eye respectively, while the little woman and I talk about a mutual friend and how we wound up sharing him last week without realizing it. Next time, we decide, it'll be a three-way. Conversation, anyway.
Everyone weighs in on Shagbark only to discover that our opinions are nearly identical, despite having been determined on three separate outings. This naturally leads to conversation about its location and how circumscribed our lives tend to be, with our favorite destinations solidly within a small city range that does not include Staples Mill or Libbie Mill, or whatever suburban-sounding moniker they've slapped on it.
Two of the three occupants of the table seize the moment to razz me about not spending enough time on the south side of the river, yet here I am at Laura Lee's, so their point is a moot one.
The happy couple generously share their desserts - an obscene chocolate turtle cheesecake and cinnamon apple pie with vanilla gelato - as the conversation breaks down by sexes then reconvenes as a foursome, covering everything from the Capitol Trail to the local real estate market to the state of the country.
Which necessarily includes liberals not doing it. Sorry, Adam, but you're picking at a sore here.
On a trip to the loo, I hear my name called and spot a music-loving friend last seen in a Facebook photo at the hospital after a nasty accident that involved being concussed. She admits to still being a little woozy, but in desperate need of a cheeseburger, a feeling I know well.
Still, I'm glad to see she's up and about, not to mention well enough to inhale a double cheeseburger and fries.
Back at the table, I hear about an upcoming pop-up, make plans for Galentine's Day and swap tales of inappropriate behavior near the T Pot bridge (none mine, so you know, but a doozy from my VCU Prof friend and lesser from the Gemini), which led to reminiscing about shared bad behavior in Oxford, Mississippi which only one of us has any memory of.
As is our habit, we practically close the place down, leaving just as the mayor does, begging the question, is his new job screwing up his love life, too?
I wouldn't be surprised if it is and my guess is, Adam and his wife wouldn't, either.
Well, this does seem dire and widespread. No one has yet to reply, "YES, we are doing it!"
In lieu of the real thing, illegal smiles and surreptitious hugs may be all liberals have left. Even given the scheme of things, I wouldn't say that's enough.
There are myriad reasons I've been friends with Adam for a decade and this kind of comment is but one of them.
Goodness knows, it's a fair question given recent events, yet carrying on in the pursuit of happiness seems almost essential as a way to try to feel normal during these disastrous times.
Because art is a reminder that good abides when things seem bleakest, I began at 1708 Gallery, an easy walk, for the preview of their Cabin Fever fundraiser this weekend.
From Kendra Wadsworth's oil, tar and graphite "Cellular Divide," a jarring abstract expressionist-like composition to Rachel Hayes' "There in One Shot," a series of seductive color stripes on fabric, I only wish I had a purse large enough to choose a piece for my own, maybe Sally Bowring's "Always Blue Skies."
Afterward at Laura Lee's, I'm greeted by a handsome lumber-sexual in a red plaid flannel shirt and a red, curly beard worthy of one of the seven brothers searching for a bride. Pulling out his phone, he shares a photo of himself at 23, beardless and baby-faced, and I'm ogling it when a favorite food-loving friend arrives to join me for an evening's pleasure.
Taking a stool at one end of the bar, our new mayor waves at me from the other, asking if we didn't just see each other two nights ago. Right, Pizza Club. I can't lie, we did. When he gets up to move to a bar table, I ask if it was something we said, but it turns out he needs electricity to continue his endless phone conversations.
The evening kicks off when my friend orders a cocktail dubbed the Illegal Smile, while I take advantage of a glass from a fresh bottle of La Collinna "Quaresimo" Lambrusco, with Mr. Plaid Shirt regaling me with the wine's organic and natural pedigree and the southside residents who supply it to them.
Laura Lee's is a neighborly place, that's for sure.
We begin with what is essentially a banh mi without the bread: pork belly, cucumber, cilantro, pickled carrot, radish, jalapeno and hot sauce, a fiery way to kick off a friendly night. Best to keep the heat on the plate for now.
Next up, I have an earthy salad dressed in walnut vinaigrette, with burrata cheese, arugula, red grapes and roasted beets over arugula pesto, trading a few bites for some of my friend's entree special of seared scallops over cauliflower and cauliflower puree with greens.
Shamelessly, both plates go back to the kitchen licked clean.
It's while we're trying to decide where the evening should go next that a fellow Gemini arrives, her husband in tow, both basking in the glow of several drinks. It's date night and after a meal at Shagbark, they want dessert and more libations at Laura Lee's.
All of a sudden it's a get-together, so we decide to adjourn to a table in the dining room, with the overly-cautious Taurus and my glass of Lambrusco accompanying me.
Discussing what the menfolk intend to drink, I learn that "Illegal Smile" is actually the title of a John Prine song and not just an intriguing phrase. My appalling lack of musical knowledge spurs the manager to put on some John Prine to school me.
When it's followed by "Teen Dream"-era Beach House and Future Islands' "Singles," I am completely content, although the lion's share of the credit for that goes to my disarming companion and his willingness to roll with the changes.
The cyclists, meanwhile, are contentedly sipping on an Old Fashioned and a Tiger's Eye respectively, while the little woman and I talk about a mutual friend and how we wound up sharing him last week without realizing it. Next time, we decide, it'll be a three-way. Conversation, anyway.
Everyone weighs in on Shagbark only to discover that our opinions are nearly identical, despite having been determined on three separate outings. This naturally leads to conversation about its location and how circumscribed our lives tend to be, with our favorite destinations solidly within a small city range that does not include Staples Mill or Libbie Mill, or whatever suburban-sounding moniker they've slapped on it.
Two of the three occupants of the table seize the moment to razz me about not spending enough time on the south side of the river, yet here I am at Laura Lee's, so their point is a moot one.
The happy couple generously share their desserts - an obscene chocolate turtle cheesecake and cinnamon apple pie with vanilla gelato - as the conversation breaks down by sexes then reconvenes as a foursome, covering everything from the Capitol Trail to the local real estate market to the state of the country.
Which necessarily includes liberals not doing it. Sorry, Adam, but you're picking at a sore here.
On a trip to the loo, I hear my name called and spot a music-loving friend last seen in a Facebook photo at the hospital after a nasty accident that involved being concussed. She admits to still being a little woozy, but in desperate need of a cheeseburger, a feeling I know well.
Still, I'm glad to see she's up and about, not to mention well enough to inhale a double cheeseburger and fries.
Back at the table, I hear about an upcoming pop-up, make plans for Galentine's Day and swap tales of inappropriate behavior near the T Pot bridge (none mine, so you know, but a doozy from my VCU Prof friend and lesser from the Gemini), which led to reminiscing about shared bad behavior in Oxford, Mississippi which only one of us has any memory of.
As is our habit, we practically close the place down, leaving just as the mayor does, begging the question, is his new job screwing up his love life, too?
I wouldn't be surprised if it is and my guess is, Adam and his wife wouldn't, either.
Well, this does seem dire and widespread. No one has yet to reply, "YES, we are doing it!"
In lieu of the real thing, illegal smiles and surreptitious hugs may be all liberals have left. Even given the scheme of things, I wouldn't say that's enough.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Say Good Morning to the Night
I went to see my first exhibit of Cuban photographs last night and then Fidel Castro died.
Coincidence?
The show by Joe Ring at Artworks, "Cuban Chrome," focused on the colorful old cars from the pre-Revolution era (and now used as cabs), set against backdrops of the island's magnificent architecture, stormy skies and crashing surf.
For me, the appeal of the photographs was color, namely the serendipitous way a yellow car parked in front of a yellow building, or the scattered touches of aqua in an alley scene that popped between buildings, people and cars.
But for the guy with me, an appealing palette was insufficient and he was curious yellow. As he leaned in close for examination, he wanted to know how much post-production work had been done to the photographs to achieve what we were ogling.
Fortunately, the photographer overheard him and was gracious enough to point out specific areas he'd enhanced as well as those that were untouched, despite their hyper-colorful nature and brilliant reflection of light. His strongest point was how similar what he does digitally to photos now is to what he used to do to them in the darkroom during the finessing process.
The good news was my companion was more than satisfied once his curiosity had been satisfied by the artist. As we left, he was already declaring that the mustard-colored T-bird close-up was his hands-down favorite, which only proves that you can lead a man to art and, with any luck, he'll not only drink it in but thank you for steering him there.
I had more new experiences in store for him because he'd never been to Laura Lee's just down the road, and although I had, there was a new (yet very familiar) chef in place since my last visit, making it feel somewhat new for me as well.
Installed at the corner of the bar, I knew I'd chosen the right place when the first song we heard was "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" from 1972's "Honky Chateau" and a bottle of Mont Grave Rose soon followed.
Before long, a favorite chef and his date came in for dinner and the bartender got busy right away concocting a drink named for the chef's habit of singing loudly in the kitchen, and always replacing the word "girl" in songs with "squirrel."
Hence the cocktail that was forming in front of us: the Uptown Squirrel.
I'm gonna try for an uptown squirrel
She's been living in her white bread world...
On the other side of me at the bar was one of my favorite actors from the Comedy Coalition, notable because she inadvertently changed the trajectory of our meal when her heaping plate of fried shrimp arrived. The lightly-battered shrimp, a special, smelled divine and looked even better, so we pulled a Meg Ryan.
We'll have what she's having.
For my companion, it was a stroll down Memory Lane, reminding him of the fabulous fried shrimp he used to get at a seafood place in Lynnhaven called Steinhilber's and never seen successfully replicated anywhere else.
I'd managed to stir up fond memories for him without even intending to do so.
For good measure, we also got an equally large mound of fried oysters and a charcuterie plate, notable for the unlikely inclusion of southern staple hushpuppies (score!) alongside three kinds of meats including speck, prosciutto and a fabulous orange fennel ham, with a schmear of grainy mustard and everything from pickled okra and carrots to thickly-sliced housemade bread and butter pickles on the side.
By then, the music had changed to the Zombies (with several Colin Blunstone solo cuts thrown in for good measure) and, like the Elton John, we were hearing multiple songs. Turns out it's Laura Lee's standard operating procedure to play whole albums and not just songs, a practice preferable for those of us weaned on entire records and not singles.
Score again.
There was no way I was passing up salted German chocolate cake while he was seduced by the Key lime tart with vanilla bean gelato, and you could've stuck a fork in us because we were so done by then, at least with eating.
Yet the night was still young.
Eager to show off some of the record finds I'd lifted from my Dad's collection, we made a bee line for the turntable to investigate the comedic talents of Brother Dave Gardner, a "beat" comedian in the vein of Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl, except a Southern boy, one-time seminary student, but also a jazz drummer and occasional lounge singer.
Let's just say that on every album cover, he's got a cigarette in his hand, Rat Pack-style and there was a fair amount of cigarette humor. His southern accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Apparently he'd been big on college campuses in the late '50s and early '60s and Dad had given me four of his albums for consideration. Our goal was trying to listen to them in the context of the time for maximum effect.
Brother Dave delivered in spades on the 1961 album, "Ain't That Weird," saying, "We don't care if Kennedy's spending all our money because Johnson'll get it all back!"
The nightclub crowd howled.
He did a dated bit on politics - "I was from the South, so I was a Democrat. Then I learned how to read..." - and mocked JFK's pronunciation of Cuba as "Cu-ber" before referring to "this cat, Kruschev" as casually as if they were drinking buds.
But beneath his hep cat lingo was a sharp-eyed, quick-witted Southern boy who made observations like, "The Beats are seeking poverty to learn from it," a pretty profound statement if you think about it. And we did.
Because you can lead a man to your records, but you have to reach a certain point in the evening before thinking turns into deep discussion.
Meanwhile, I'm seeking to learn from it all.
Coincidence?
The show by Joe Ring at Artworks, "Cuban Chrome," focused on the colorful old cars from the pre-Revolution era (and now used as cabs), set against backdrops of the island's magnificent architecture, stormy skies and crashing surf.
For me, the appeal of the photographs was color, namely the serendipitous way a yellow car parked in front of a yellow building, or the scattered touches of aqua in an alley scene that popped between buildings, people and cars.
But for the guy with me, an appealing palette was insufficient and he was curious yellow. As he leaned in close for examination, he wanted to know how much post-production work had been done to the photographs to achieve what we were ogling.
Fortunately, the photographer overheard him and was gracious enough to point out specific areas he'd enhanced as well as those that were untouched, despite their hyper-colorful nature and brilliant reflection of light. His strongest point was how similar what he does digitally to photos now is to what he used to do to them in the darkroom during the finessing process.
The good news was my companion was more than satisfied once his curiosity had been satisfied by the artist. As we left, he was already declaring that the mustard-colored T-bird close-up was his hands-down favorite, which only proves that you can lead a man to art and, with any luck, he'll not only drink it in but thank you for steering him there.
I had more new experiences in store for him because he'd never been to Laura Lee's just down the road, and although I had, there was a new (yet very familiar) chef in place since my last visit, making it feel somewhat new for me as well.
Installed at the corner of the bar, I knew I'd chosen the right place when the first song we heard was "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" from 1972's "Honky Chateau" and a bottle of Mont Grave Rose soon followed.
Before long, a favorite chef and his date came in for dinner and the bartender got busy right away concocting a drink named for the chef's habit of singing loudly in the kitchen, and always replacing the word "girl" in songs with "squirrel."
Hence the cocktail that was forming in front of us: the Uptown Squirrel.
I'm gonna try for an uptown squirrel
She's been living in her white bread world...
On the other side of me at the bar was one of my favorite actors from the Comedy Coalition, notable because she inadvertently changed the trajectory of our meal when her heaping plate of fried shrimp arrived. The lightly-battered shrimp, a special, smelled divine and looked even better, so we pulled a Meg Ryan.
We'll have what she's having.
For my companion, it was a stroll down Memory Lane, reminding him of the fabulous fried shrimp he used to get at a seafood place in Lynnhaven called Steinhilber's and never seen successfully replicated anywhere else.
I'd managed to stir up fond memories for him without even intending to do so.
For good measure, we also got an equally large mound of fried oysters and a charcuterie plate, notable for the unlikely inclusion of southern staple hushpuppies (score!) alongside three kinds of meats including speck, prosciutto and a fabulous orange fennel ham, with a schmear of grainy mustard and everything from pickled okra and carrots to thickly-sliced housemade bread and butter pickles on the side.
By then, the music had changed to the Zombies (with several Colin Blunstone solo cuts thrown in for good measure) and, like the Elton John, we were hearing multiple songs. Turns out it's Laura Lee's standard operating procedure to play whole albums and not just songs, a practice preferable for those of us weaned on entire records and not singles.
Score again.
There was no way I was passing up salted German chocolate cake while he was seduced by the Key lime tart with vanilla bean gelato, and you could've stuck a fork in us because we were so done by then, at least with eating.
Yet the night was still young.
Eager to show off some of the record finds I'd lifted from my Dad's collection, we made a bee line for the turntable to investigate the comedic talents of Brother Dave Gardner, a "beat" comedian in the vein of Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl, except a Southern boy, one-time seminary student, but also a jazz drummer and occasional lounge singer.
Let's just say that on every album cover, he's got a cigarette in his hand, Rat Pack-style and there was a fair amount of cigarette humor. His southern accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Apparently he'd been big on college campuses in the late '50s and early '60s and Dad had given me four of his albums for consideration. Our goal was trying to listen to them in the context of the time for maximum effect.
Brother Dave delivered in spades on the 1961 album, "Ain't That Weird," saying, "We don't care if Kennedy's spending all our money because Johnson'll get it all back!"
The nightclub crowd howled.
He did a dated bit on politics - "I was from the South, so I was a Democrat. Then I learned how to read..." - and mocked JFK's pronunciation of Cuba as "Cu-ber" before referring to "this cat, Kruschev" as casually as if they were drinking buds.
But beneath his hep cat lingo was a sharp-eyed, quick-witted Southern boy who made observations like, "The Beats are seeking poverty to learn from it," a pretty profound statement if you think about it. And we did.
Because you can lead a man to your records, but you have to reach a certain point in the evening before thinking turns into deep discussion.
Meanwhile, I'm seeking to learn from it all.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
A Single Sizzling Rivulet
Between today's discovery of the rape of Chapel Island and tomorrow's possible doomsday scenario, it only seemed prudent to plan a low-key evening.
What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?
Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.
With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.
Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.
And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.
Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.
First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.
As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.
Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."
I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.
Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.
The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.
Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.
The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.
I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.
By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.
It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.
Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.
I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.
Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?
Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.
What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?
Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.
With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.
Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.
And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.
Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.
First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.
As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.
Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."
I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.
Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.
The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.
Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.
The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.
I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.
By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.
It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.
Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.
I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.
Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?
Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Girls Just Wanna Drink
Remember when bars were bastions of male dominance? Yea, neither do I.
But the fact is, fern bars were created in the happenin' sexual revolutionary days of the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do (or explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers) in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
As in, we weren't going to drink at Rocky's, but we might at the Regal Beagle (look it up, kids).
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes.
Fast forward to the 21st century and, wouldn't you just know, we've got ourselves a spankin' new fern bar that combines the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility. Here, the fern bar's requisite Harvey Wallbanger has become The Girl from Ipanema, making for an inside joke.
Welcome to Laura Lee's.
When it was the White Horse Tavern, the place was ferociously noisy and had the look of a southside rec room - dark, low-ceilinged, awkwardly chopped up - as decorated by a man, while the new iteration screams estrogen with yellow walls and ceilings, a blue-stenciled floor, plants and flowers throughout and sound-absorbing art panels.
Along the dividing wall separating the bar area from the dining room sat a linear lounge boasting studded club chairs and small tables, all but inviting people to relax with a drink. I didn't take my drink, but I did spend some quality time testing out the chairs for comfort (they passed with flying colors).
The absolutely stellar soundtrack was a mix of vintage soul music created late at night by a time-starved (female) restaurant owner who agrees with me that just the right music is essential to any memorable experience. Any.
Honestly, we're so much wiser and more clear-headed that I'll never understand why my sex hasn't been been running the world since the beginning of time.
I ran into no less than nine people from the neighborhood, all of them thrilled to have a legit place to sip and sup within stumbling distance of home. Given how spoiled I am in my 'hood (although nary a fern bar), I could appreciate their elation.
Keeping to the theme, the menu offered some interesting plates with a leaning toward lighter (dare I say slightly healthier?) fare and, mercifully not another neo-southern wannabe or multiple cuisine mashup.
My first choice was beef-braised local carrots with horseradish and rosemary, the carrots satisfyingly toothsome and surrounded by bits of beef. Next came toasted quinoa studded with edamame and thinly sliced radishes over sesame oil, a deliciously nutty-tasting dish that was instantly filling and savory.
Not content to stop because I was full, I moved on to pressed, marinated fennel with roasted figs, buttermilk blue cheese and prosciutto, notable for the unique note the fennel added to the classic trio of flavors.
Meanwhile, the happy guy just down the bar from me admitted to downing two large plates, first blue crab and corncakes and then sausage, corn and okra, making me feel a whole lot better about my three small plates.
Because it's a neighborhood spot, some people felt comfortable bringing their kids with them, but the beauty of Laura Lee's configuration was that once they were on the dining room side, the perfectly-calibrated music on the bar side completely obliterated any crying, squawking or otherwise potentially annoying sounds from young guests.
Everybody wins.
And everybody was there, it seemed, from half the Roosevelt crew to Amuse staffers to the scooter queen and entourage ("Have you gotten your ticket?" she queried me about an upcoming secret show) to the baker to the woodworker.
For all I know, the candlestick maker was there, too, and I just didn't lay eyes on him.
I didn't ask for the dessert menu but when presented with it, I caved and ordered a warm dark chocolate flourless cake with white mint mousse, essentially an upscale take on a classic ice cream roll. I stopped just short of licking the plate.
Perhaps most striking of everything about this latter day fern bar with the epic soundtrack was just how lived in it already felt. Laura Lee's doesn't even open to the public until Tuesday, but everything about the feel of the place was comfortable, inviting and yet stylish.
Just the way a single woman likes to be described when she's drinking in public.
But the fact is, fern bars were created in the happenin' sexual revolutionary days of the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do (or explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers) in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
As in, we weren't going to drink at Rocky's, but we might at the Regal Beagle (look it up, kids).
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes.
Fast forward to the 21st century and, wouldn't you just know, we've got ourselves a spankin' new fern bar that combines the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility. Here, the fern bar's requisite Harvey Wallbanger has become The Girl from Ipanema, making for an inside joke.
Welcome to Laura Lee's.
When it was the White Horse Tavern, the place was ferociously noisy and had the look of a southside rec room - dark, low-ceilinged, awkwardly chopped up - as decorated by a man, while the new iteration screams estrogen with yellow walls and ceilings, a blue-stenciled floor, plants and flowers throughout and sound-absorbing art panels.
Along the dividing wall separating the bar area from the dining room sat a linear lounge boasting studded club chairs and small tables, all but inviting people to relax with a drink. I didn't take my drink, but I did spend some quality time testing out the chairs for comfort (they passed with flying colors).
The absolutely stellar soundtrack was a mix of vintage soul music created late at night by a time-starved (female) restaurant owner who agrees with me that just the right music is essential to any memorable experience. Any.
Honestly, we're so much wiser and more clear-headed that I'll never understand why my sex hasn't been been running the world since the beginning of time.
I ran into no less than nine people from the neighborhood, all of them thrilled to have a legit place to sip and sup within stumbling distance of home. Given how spoiled I am in my 'hood (although nary a fern bar), I could appreciate their elation.
Keeping to the theme, the menu offered some interesting plates with a leaning toward lighter (dare I say slightly healthier?) fare and, mercifully not another neo-southern wannabe or multiple cuisine mashup.
My first choice was beef-braised local carrots with horseradish and rosemary, the carrots satisfyingly toothsome and surrounded by bits of beef. Next came toasted quinoa studded with edamame and thinly sliced radishes over sesame oil, a deliciously nutty-tasting dish that was instantly filling and savory.
Not content to stop because I was full, I moved on to pressed, marinated fennel with roasted figs, buttermilk blue cheese and prosciutto, notable for the unique note the fennel added to the classic trio of flavors.
Meanwhile, the happy guy just down the bar from me admitted to downing two large plates, first blue crab and corncakes and then sausage, corn and okra, making me feel a whole lot better about my three small plates.
Because it's a neighborhood spot, some people felt comfortable bringing their kids with them, but the beauty of Laura Lee's configuration was that once they were on the dining room side, the perfectly-calibrated music on the bar side completely obliterated any crying, squawking or otherwise potentially annoying sounds from young guests.
Everybody wins.
And everybody was there, it seemed, from half the Roosevelt crew to Amuse staffers to the scooter queen and entourage ("Have you gotten your ticket?" she queried me about an upcoming secret show) to the baker to the woodworker.
For all I know, the candlestick maker was there, too, and I just didn't lay eyes on him.
I didn't ask for the dessert menu but when presented with it, I caved and ordered a warm dark chocolate flourless cake with white mint mousse, essentially an upscale take on a classic ice cream roll. I stopped just short of licking the plate.
Perhaps most striking of everything about this latter day fern bar with the epic soundtrack was just how lived in it already felt. Laura Lee's doesn't even open to the public until Tuesday, but everything about the feel of the place was comfortable, inviting and yet stylish.
Just the way a single woman likes to be described when she's drinking in public.
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