Once upon a time in the south, we took heat naps. I still do.
When by late afternoon it felt like an effort to research and write in the sunny front room (even with the shades angled down), I gave up and took to my bed.
With both a ceiling fan and an oscillating fan blowing directly on me, I stretched out on freshly changed sheets for a a bit of shut eye to escape the heat and restore my energy.
Only problem was that after my late night tiki adventure, I ended up sleeping longer than I intended, making for limited time to eat before going out for music.
Walking in to Magpie, I found a practically full house and claimed one of two empty bar stools, the only free seats in the house.
New-to-me Le Chaz Rose got me started while I listened to an annoying-sounding woman discuss with her fiance how they might invest some of their wedding gift money and waited for an order of charred asparagus with sauteed wild mushrooms, spring onion cream and Manchego crumbs to come out.
Next to me, two women were having a lively conversation and when I glanced over, one of the women smiled at me. A moment later, I heard her say, "I'm the problem," and I had to laugh at the sound of that statement and join in.
Leaning across her friend, the smiler said to me, "You are so lovely, I just had to tell you that." What can you say besides a heartfelt thank you when a random stranger says something so nice to you? Damned if I know.
But it was the start of a conversation with the two of them, who turned out to be librarians, well traveled and positively delightful to talk to. Before it was all over, we knew a surprisingly lot about each other despite the whole conversation lasting less than an hour.
One used to have a riverfront house on the Rappahannock until Hurricane Isabel had destroyed half of it. The other had lived all over the world and was amazed at how much there was to do in Richmond. Both loved to eat out and had been coming to Magpie since it first opened.
I got so caught up in our discussion that one of them finally had to remind me to eat my food before it got cold, but not before we discussed books and they suggested I join the library's summer reading club, something I haven't done since childhood.
When they got their check, one turned to me and said, "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed talking with you," and asked how they could contact me for a future rendezvous.
It wasn't the first time I've given strangers my name and e-mail and it probably won't be the last. I couldn't help thanking them for providing such stellar company on a solo outing.
From there, I went to Scuffletown Park for the sunset concert series where I found a good-sized crowd gathering: kids in pajamas, pizza eaters, wine drinkers, a girl with lavender hair, two platinum blonds with pixie haircuts (one of whom I know) and several familiar faces including the musician whose band's first performance I'd recently seen.
With my fan in hand, I took a seat on a bench behind a trio munching on pizza sprawled out on a groovy-looking blanket.
Pedal Pops RVA was rapidly selling out, having already gone through avocado/lime and triple berry, but still offering strawberry, pineapple/mint and cherry chai. Given the heat, it was definitely Popsicle weather.
Organizer Patrick kicked things off by reminding us that the sunset series always begins 15 minutes before sunset, "So consult an almanac, go to your library or call City Hall to find out when sunset is and be here next Tuesday."
Playing tonight beside the Little Free Library box were the Trillions or at least half of them, including bandleader Charlie in shorts, something I don't think I've seen before.
With acoustic and electric guitars (and the smallest of amps), two voices and a catalog that took a lot of its cues from the Beatles (including the first song with its many "yea, yea, yeas"), the two members of the Trillions played and harmonized for our listening pleasure.
"There's usually more of us to make us louder, " Charlie explained to those new to the Trillions, although I don't know who in this town couldn't know about these masters of power pop.
As cicadas buzzed and fireflies flitted around, they played some new songs from their upcoming album and one about a sports bar with the line, "My friend are your friends, but your friends are bullshit," while Charlie danced around in the grass making it his own stage.
"What/When/Where" ("This song is kind of appropriate for this, kind of about Richmond") was vintage Trillions but I got even more excited when I heard the first few chords of the Beatles "Two of Us," but then they stopped. Fortunately, it was just a misfire and they went on to do a lovely rendition of the song as the night sky began giving way from blue to dusky black.
You and I have memories
longer than the road
that stretches out ahead
My evening ended with a nightcap of Le Petit Balthazar Rose at Lucy's and lazy hours of conversation with other bar sitters while Band of Horses, Ryan Adams and songs like the Sundays' cover of "Wild Horses" played.
This summer heat is all the permission I need to do whatever I want. Besides my summer reading list, of course.
Showing posts with label le petit balthazar rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label le petit balthazar rose. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Wet Verse
I love a rainy day and today's for even more reasons.
First of all, it's a good morning when I wake up to read that Charles Wright was named poet laureate.
You see, I'd heard Wright read at the Library of Virginia last Fall and fallen in love with his meditative lyricism, sly sense of humor and references to growing up in Tennessee.
I recall swooning over his poem "Lullaby" and the lovely line, "I've said what I have to say as melodiously as I could," an apt descriptor of everything he writes.
Isn't it just like Richmond to have already hosted Wright so that for the first time in my poetry-loving life I can say I'd heard the poet laureate read before he was chosen?
The day just kept getting better with lunch plans at Lucy's with a favorite girlfriend. Pulling up in front of the restaurant seemed to be a sign to the weather gods, though, and the heavens opened up so we just sat in the car and began our non-stop conversation until it let up sufficiently.
Wading through curbside puddles after a while to find refuge in the cozy restaurant, we found a good-sized crowd chowing down.
Taking seats at the end of the bar, right in front of a pedestal boasting six Roses, I spotted a farmer I know at the other end and waved hello. Spencer Davis Group's "Gimme Some Lovin'" was playing, a clue that the classic soul soundtrack was going to be right up my alley.
Not to make sexist generalizations, but we did the girly thing, ordering salads and fries, mine the shrimp po' boy salad of hand-breaded shrimp over greens, the reddest of cherry tomatoes, red onions and avocados with tangy ten thousand island dressing and hers the chicken white bean salad she always chooses (not that there's anything wrong with that).
There was so much to talk about - restaurant news, side projects for both of us, and always me trying to talk her into joining me at some fun upcoming events.
Get this, we even discussed technology. Okay, so she talked and I listened.
After being confronted with all those lovely pink wines staring us in the face while we ate, we were helpless not to order glasses of Le Petit Balthazar Rose, a delicate pink diamond color and tasting of strawberries, thus qualifying it for our dessert course.
When she drove me home, she parked in front of my house so we could sit in the car and talk even longer. She left with plans to ask her husband if she could go out with me next week to replace their usual date night since their babysitter is away.
Poetry news, a chatty lunch and a possible girl date. Could this day get any better?
First of all, it's a good morning when I wake up to read that Charles Wright was named poet laureate.
You see, I'd heard Wright read at the Library of Virginia last Fall and fallen in love with his meditative lyricism, sly sense of humor and references to growing up in Tennessee.
I recall swooning over his poem "Lullaby" and the lovely line, "I've said what I have to say as melodiously as I could," an apt descriptor of everything he writes.
Isn't it just like Richmond to have already hosted Wright so that for the first time in my poetry-loving life I can say I'd heard the poet laureate read before he was chosen?
The day just kept getting better with lunch plans at Lucy's with a favorite girlfriend. Pulling up in front of the restaurant seemed to be a sign to the weather gods, though, and the heavens opened up so we just sat in the car and began our non-stop conversation until it let up sufficiently.
Wading through curbside puddles after a while to find refuge in the cozy restaurant, we found a good-sized crowd chowing down.
Taking seats at the end of the bar, right in front of a pedestal boasting six Roses, I spotted a farmer I know at the other end and waved hello. Spencer Davis Group's "Gimme Some Lovin'" was playing, a clue that the classic soul soundtrack was going to be right up my alley.
Not to make sexist generalizations, but we did the girly thing, ordering salads and fries, mine the shrimp po' boy salad of hand-breaded shrimp over greens, the reddest of cherry tomatoes, red onions and avocados with tangy ten thousand island dressing and hers the chicken white bean salad she always chooses (not that there's anything wrong with that).
There was so much to talk about - restaurant news, side projects for both of us, and always me trying to talk her into joining me at some fun upcoming events.
Get this, we even discussed technology. Okay, so she talked and I listened.
After being confronted with all those lovely pink wines staring us in the face while we ate, we were helpless not to order glasses of Le Petit Balthazar Rose, a delicate pink diamond color and tasting of strawberries, thus qualifying it for our dessert course.
When she drove me home, she parked in front of my house so we could sit in the car and talk even longer. She left with plans to ask her husband if she could go out with me next week to replace their usual date night since their babysitter is away.
Poetry news, a chatty lunch and a possible girl date. Could this day get any better?
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Speak to Me of My Passions
The birthday finale could not have been more wonderful.
After being collected by a friend (and former co-worker, stylish and witty, an artist, cook and gardener extraordinaire) of 18 years, we took a driving tour of J-Ward that ended at Lucy's for dinner.
I try never to miss a chance to show off the 'hood.
Positioning ourselves at the far end of the bar, we got the party started with floral-scented Le Petit Balthazar Rose and major debriefings on both our parts.
Make no mistake, we both had our frustrations to share but there were also laugh out loud stories (hello, cottage cheese) and art excursions to plan. Those paintings aren't going to look at themselves, you know.
I couldn't have ordered up a better soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Al Green, all classic stuff played loud enough to save others from having to listen to our blather and laughter.
With the early evening sunlight lighting up the restaurant through the big front window, we began our meal with herb cream cheese-stuffed roasted endive inside crispy house cured pork loin.
I know there are people who think they don't like endive and to them I say: wrap some pig around it, fools!
It was my friend's first time at Lucy's, so she took time to look around and enjoy all the little details that give it such charm - dog plates, wire heads, an entire row of Roses on the bar.
During a discussion of my upcoming beach trip, she insisted we stop and open presents, including a thoughtfully-chosen card ("Everything seems to speak to me of my passions..."), a Chop Suey gift certificate and Donna Tartt's Pulitzer prize-winning novel "The Goldfinch."
Having read and loved the book, she was adamant that it be part of this year's beach reading for me.
Done. I promised to bring it back with sand in the spine.
For dinner, she chose a killer special of crispy red snapper with lemon aioli, spaghetti squash, spinach and red peppers and generously shared a nice chunk of it with me while raving about the squash and how she wished hers was as good.
Meanwhile I got and shared a stellar dinner salad of bacon-infused chicken over mixed greens with hard-boiled egg, cukes, tomatoes and carrots.
It's rare I get jacked up about chicken but start infusing it with bacon and it's a different story.
While the conversation kept flowing about parents, porches and untimely strokes, the Balthazar flowed as well, its strawberry flavor perfectly attuned to a June night celebration of a May birth.
All around us, people came and went from booths and tables, even the bar, but we stayed focused on each other and the conversation since our evenings out are usually limited to less than two hours and tonight's knew no boundaries.
When I went to tell her about the massive firefly extravaganza I'd seen in the country my birthday weekend, she countered with a recent NPR story about fireflies this time of year. Only then did I learn that all those flickers of lights were about sex, tiny courtship dances to attract a mate.
And here I thought they were just to entertain me on my birthday weekend. It's a very good friend who not only gifts you, but takes you out to be wined and dined and teaches you something along the way.
Eventually, I find our server standing at the end of the bar beside me scanning the room like a good server does, so I turn to ask the only pertinent question at that point in a long Rose evening.
Is there chocolate?
"Yes, there is. Would you have it?" she responded with an economy of words.
This 11-day birthday marathon wasn't going to be able to end without chocolate, so I had to assume hers was a rhetorical question.
My taste buds read the flourless chocolate torte as almost mousse-like and with vanilla bean cream and blackberries, found the closure for my prolonged celebration.
While talking to a neighbor the other day about what I'd been up to lately, I'd mentioned my recent birthday. "You seem like a person who would stretch out a birthday as long as you could," she'd observed with a smile.
Is it that obvious?
After being collected by a friend (and former co-worker, stylish and witty, an artist, cook and gardener extraordinaire) of 18 years, we took a driving tour of J-Ward that ended at Lucy's for dinner.
I try never to miss a chance to show off the 'hood.
Positioning ourselves at the far end of the bar, we got the party started with floral-scented Le Petit Balthazar Rose and major debriefings on both our parts.
Make no mistake, we both had our frustrations to share but there were also laugh out loud stories (hello, cottage cheese) and art excursions to plan. Those paintings aren't going to look at themselves, you know.
I couldn't have ordered up a better soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Al Green, all classic stuff played loud enough to save others from having to listen to our blather and laughter.
With the early evening sunlight lighting up the restaurant through the big front window, we began our meal with herb cream cheese-stuffed roasted endive inside crispy house cured pork loin.
I know there are people who think they don't like endive and to them I say: wrap some pig around it, fools!
It was my friend's first time at Lucy's, so she took time to look around and enjoy all the little details that give it such charm - dog plates, wire heads, an entire row of Roses on the bar.
During a discussion of my upcoming beach trip, she insisted we stop and open presents, including a thoughtfully-chosen card ("Everything seems to speak to me of my passions..."), a Chop Suey gift certificate and Donna Tartt's Pulitzer prize-winning novel "The Goldfinch."
Having read and loved the book, she was adamant that it be part of this year's beach reading for me.
Done. I promised to bring it back with sand in the spine.
For dinner, she chose a killer special of crispy red snapper with lemon aioli, spaghetti squash, spinach and red peppers and generously shared a nice chunk of it with me while raving about the squash and how she wished hers was as good.
Meanwhile I got and shared a stellar dinner salad of bacon-infused chicken over mixed greens with hard-boiled egg, cukes, tomatoes and carrots.
It's rare I get jacked up about chicken but start infusing it with bacon and it's a different story.
While the conversation kept flowing about parents, porches and untimely strokes, the Balthazar flowed as well, its strawberry flavor perfectly attuned to a June night celebration of a May birth.
All around us, people came and went from booths and tables, even the bar, but we stayed focused on each other and the conversation since our evenings out are usually limited to less than two hours and tonight's knew no boundaries.
When I went to tell her about the massive firefly extravaganza I'd seen in the country my birthday weekend, she countered with a recent NPR story about fireflies this time of year. Only then did I learn that all those flickers of lights were about sex, tiny courtship dances to attract a mate.
And here I thought they were just to entertain me on my birthday weekend. It's a very good friend who not only gifts you, but takes you out to be wined and dined and teaches you something along the way.
Eventually, I find our server standing at the end of the bar beside me scanning the room like a good server does, so I turn to ask the only pertinent question at that point in a long Rose evening.
Is there chocolate?
"Yes, there is. Would you have it?" she responded with an economy of words.
This 11-day birthday marathon wasn't going to be able to end without chocolate, so I had to assume hers was a rhetorical question.
My taste buds read the flourless chocolate torte as almost mousse-like and with vanilla bean cream and blackberries, found the closure for my prolonged celebration.
While talking to a neighbor the other day about what I'd been up to lately, I'd mentioned my recent birthday. "You seem like a person who would stretch out a birthday as long as you could," she'd observed with a smile.
Is it that obvious?
Sunday, April 20, 2014
I'm Gonna Be an Optimist about This
I don't often make the rounds on Saturday night.
But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.
I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.
The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.
Not much I can do about my girl parts.
We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine
The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.
We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.
Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.
Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.
A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.
After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.
If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.
One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.
Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.
We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.
Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.
We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.
Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.
All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.
Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.
We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.
The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.
When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.
With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.
But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.
Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.
But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.
I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.
The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.
Not much I can do about my girl parts.
We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine
The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.
We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.
Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.
Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.
A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.
After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.
If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.
One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.
Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.
We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.
Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.
We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.
Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.
All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.
Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.
We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.
The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.
When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.
With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.
But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.
Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.
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