A Summer State of Mind

And just like that, my summer has (unofficially) arrived.

I say that not because of the marathon birthday celebration that lasted all last week featuring stellar meals at Dinamo, Lemaire and Metzger, although it was a fine excuse to debut some of my newest thrift store summer dresses and pack away the leggings until Halloween.

For that matter, surely I could be forgiven for designating this year's first visit to Quirk's rooftop - with posse in tow, several of whom had yet to experience the beauty of Jackson Ward laid out before them from on high - as the kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year, but it wasn't.

And I don't say that my favorite season is upon us because of spending a day last week on the Outer Banks, despite the pleasures of a crabcake sandwich lunch at Frog Island Seafood, a cookout in the backyard of a soundfront cottage and the distinct pleasure of a major first: riding bikes from sound to ocean.

Technically, I could even make a case for the commencement of summer as the first night that required not only open windows (they've been the norm since April) but the additional machinations of the ceiling fan, the table fan and the upright fan, all wafting moving air directly at my bed. But I won't do that.

Another worthy indicator might be the hissing of the sprinkler saturating the continuous waves of flowers - heirloom roses, Asian lilies, Gerbera daisies, dianthus, petunias, clematis, pincushion flowers - in my little front garden. It seems like every time I'm down there moving the sprinkler, a stranger walks by and smilingly tells me some version of, "I love looking at your flowers." A woman with a toddler in a stroller has walked by repeatedly, explaining that she made my block part of her route solely so they can enjoy my garden.

No question, I could say that attending my first Sundown at Scuffletown show earlier this week qualifies as some sort of musical announcement that summer is here. The dusky interludes are one those established things (this is, what, the sixth year now?) I continue to do that never get old because the best things never do. It doesn't hurt that I always run into familiar faces, either.

As new to me as my latest summer dresses, the Billy Bacci Band - keys, guitar, bass and drums - delivered a solid set of keyboard-based indie music as the sun set behind the trees. Even Billy seemed thrilled with the outdoor venue, noting, "This is the best gig ever because I live a block from here!" But is my first outdoor show this year worthy of being the harbinger of summer's arrival? I think not.

What did make it feel like summer without a doubt was - wait for it - Mac and I finally being able to walk the Pipeline.

That it occurred on my birthday only made it all the sweeter. Uncharacteristically, we hadn't been able to get on the pipeline since last October, despite regularly attempting to do so only to find it submerged. Thanks to a record-setting soggy 2018, the pipeline has been partially or mostly underwater for months, depriving Mac and I of our favorite daily walk.

All I know is that as of May 23, the pipeline was back and we could experience the particular pleasures, both sight and sound, of walking on water again. Which means as far as I'm concerned, my season is here.

Let the hot fun in the summertime begin.

Take What You Want and Leave the Rest

Being ridiculously happy seems to leave little time to blog.

It's not like I'm not still doing stuff because of course I am. After all, I'm me, so how could I not?

After a meal in service of my hired mouth, Mac and I went to the Basement to see TheatreLab's production of "Topdog/Underdog," marveling at the tightly wound performances of Jeremy Morris and Jamar Jones as brothers with issues in the Pulitzer prize-winning play.

The production clocked in at a hefty two hours and 45 minutes (I knew I had that padding for a reason) and I thought Mac might have to dip out at intermission because of having to go to work early tomorrow, but instead she admitted how sucked in she was by such compelling performances.

Props to first-time director Katrinah Carol Lewis for providing her actors enough room to the create full, albeit flawed, characters before us.

Granted, we walked out of there feeling as if we'd been beat up, but truly great theater is always affecting in some way.

I finally made it to Goatocado, notable for the killer Tuscan arepa (Oaxacan cheese, red pepper, greens, guac and corn in a corn cake) I ate along with a pomegranate ginger-ade, but also for the 50 minutes it took some hapless, young employee to hang the canvas triangles that provided the scant shade on a sunny, blue sky day.

After ten minutes, I was feeling his pain because he was out there in the blinding sunlight without sunglasses. When I questioned the wisdom of that move, he explained that he didn't like clipping sunshades to his regular glasses. But isn't it excruciating to be out here with no sunglasses?

"I'm thinking next time I get glasses, I'll get that kind that darkens in the sun," he explained. "You know, 'cause I don't want to get cataracts." How cute is that?

And for the record, he hung and rehung those triangles unsuccessfully and repeatedly, finally asking two fellow employees to help - one to hook the pieces and the other more knowledgeable one to direct - for over 50 minutes before they were hung properly. Meanwhile, customers like us who wanted to eat outside (inside was full) had a choice of minimal shade or no shade, not the best options on a bright June day at high noon.

Fifty minutes. Have I mentioned that I weep for the future?

Lady G had finally re-surfaced and since our last rendezvous had been March 30, we were in dire need of a blather. Her suggestion was Lemaire at the Jefferson, fine by me as long as we ate outside on the patio and not inside with the business stuffy clientele.

Our table afforded a view of Franklin Street and featured a music speaker that looked like a rock in the flower bed adjacent to us. Yea, it was corny and kind of Flintstones-like, but, hey, it worked, turning the miscellaneous noises of the city into background for the jazz that was playing.

Because our time apart had encompassed April and May, Lady G insisted that it was a birthday celebration and let me choose the bottle: Argyle Brut Rose from a winery I'd visited. And while it took an inordinate amount of time to arrive (it appeared to be our server's first night and he was doing his best, at least at joking with us), it was worth the wait.

When our young server made the rookie mistake of placing the stand holding the wine near the outdoor server's station rather than tableside and G's glass went dry, she did what any self-respecting woman does: walked over, took possession of the stand and bottle and set them in their rightful place within easy reach of us.

The five-top table of young millennial women next to us knew they were in the presence of greatness. "We applaud you taking control!" one called out as the others clapped.

Someday you, too, will just take what you want, grasshopper.

We swapped updates over chilled English pea soup, crispy fried deviled eggs with cornichons and red pepper jelly and Pernod-steamed mussels with apple, fennel and chorizo while we watched people sit down and wait 20 minutes for anything more than water. Luckily, we were in no hurry, not with all the life evaluating we had going on at the table.

At one point, our charming server arrived unexpectedly and a tad out of breath, smiling and saying apropos of nothing, "I've missed you both so." What can you do but crack up at that? At the very least, a sense of humor is essential in the service industry.

We ended the evening on my balcony, where Lady G's birthday gift to me - a bottle of Chateau Kalian 2015 Monbazillac, an organic dessert wine with gorgeous notes of orange and lemon, but also with nice acidity - was opened and sipped chilled as dusk descended on Jackson Ward.

As she does every time she's on my balcony, she commented on some of the high-up architectural details on the house next door. The kind of flourishes barely visible from the street, but striking from mere feet away on the second floor. The kind of thing an artist notices and that's what Lady G is.

She and I have been swapping stories and keeping each other abreast of where the bodies are buried for two decades now, and if that's not worth toasting, I don't know what is.

Check that. Also worth celebrating is finding someone who keeps me so busy talking, laughing and traveling that blogging is all but forgotten.

Sorry/not sorry. Happiness and devoted attention, I have missed you both so.

Follow Me in Merry Measure

At some point, you just give in to the strings of street lights - even stop lights - blinking a bright red and green.

Tonight we took the Christmas train without apology.

That meant a walk by Quirk Hotel to admire its enormous pink tree and the Jefferson Street side's tasteful window decorations - a ceramic dog posed in a sea of cotton "snow" under small white trees - while outside, window boxes of blooming pink roses provided color continuity.

The Quirkster misses no details.

Compare that to the far more traditional red, gold and white color scheme that awaited us at the Jefferson Hotel, which was hosting not one but three private parties, including one that took over the entire downstairs, thus prohibiting sweeping entrances down the grand staircase as we'd hoped for.

Anticipating just this level of over-the-top holiday frenzy was exactly the reason we'd walked rather than driven. Parking at home probably was the closest parking space.

Surveying the massive two-story tree, we decided that it needed additional ornaments (preferably some with more texture and color) to fill in the irregular green spaces appealingly. We were both of the mind that you really can't overdress a tree because if there's room for a bauble, it belongs there.

But nothing could have prepared us for the Christmas craziness at Lemaire where the host warned us that no seats looked to open up any time soon, but we were welcome to hover.

Translation : welcome to cut throat Christmas at a four diamond hotel.

When we joked about how ridiculously busy it was, he told us it was a slow night for December. My condolences, indeed.

Although he was kind enough to take our drink order, what hadn't been mentioned was that we'd also need to hover like vultures near the bar if we had any hope of scoring seats so we could eat with dignity.

After losing out to a pushy couple who swooped in just as we were making our approach, we were offered two stools by a vivacious and buxom blond who knew what a favor she was doing us, so we acted properly grateful (hardly a stretch), although at that point, we were unaware of our proximity to a clutch of shrill young women who continuously screamed and laughed at a pitch usually heard only by canines.

While I wouldn't say the large staff was in the weeds, it was taking every ounce of their time and attention to keep up with the needs of so many customers - many of them in larger groups - in the restaurant at one time.

Because we had a curtain to make and because we are pros who already had drinks in hand, no time was wasted in ordering, the better to move on to important conversations before its arrival.

Like Christmas Eve dinner in some Italian families I once knew, our meal came entirely from the sea.

Rosy pink tuna tartare got crunch from cucumber, richness from avocado puree, salt  from olives, and bold color from seaweed salad, but it was fried pearl onions that surprised and delighted most.

Richer than I needed, the crabcake on English muffin sandwich didn't disappoint, but I'm of the Maryland camp that believes the binder should be minimal and this was a very creamy crabcake.

For a crab purist such as myself, it doesn't come better than a blue crab tartine that layered hunks of backfin with guacamole and micro-greens on grilled and oiled rustic bread with a chew so fabulous it was challenging to cut with a knife and fork, but utterly satisfying once in our mouths, especially after a swipe through the spicy honey drizzled on the plate.

Trying to cover eight days worth of life in between bites that were worth devoting our full attention to wasn't as easy as it sounds, but we did what we had to do to de-brief each other, scrutinize the clientele and lick all three plates clean simultaneously.

All in the name of holiday cheer, you understand. I will say that we felt far less harried than some of the anxious-appearing groups around us who were clearly in the vise-like grip of holiday responsibilities looked.

We were slackers in Christmas comparison, really only out to indulge ourselves.

To that end, we'd donned our gay apparel for Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Scrooge in Rouge," which was just the seasonal ticket for a play that combined the traditional (an offbeat retelling of "A Christmas Carol" as done by an English music hall cast) with the completely irreverent, namely cross-dressing, bad puns and references to oral sex, or any sex, really.

I mean, how do you think Bob Cratchit (or Bob Crabcakes, as he's repeatedly referred to here) wound up with all those snotty-nosed children if not for a healthy drive?

Even Tiny Tim and his tiny crutch were fair game for mocking to great hilarity. It's not often you hear, "Break a leg, Tiny Tim!"

 Oh, yes, and there was a dancing pickle.

Interestingly, the cast was the same as it had been when RTP had premiered the play in 2009, for which I had a reference solely because there's a poster for the original production in the ladies' room. I knew it well because you notice everything over years of waiting in line to relieve yourself.

Hands down, my favorite member of the cast was Steven Boschen who managed to play roles as disparate as a virginal beloved and a tubercular little sister in a series of wigs and costumes that only occasionally made him resemble Boy George, but in the best possible way. Between his stellar singing voice and gracefully feminine man hands, he made me laugh more than anyone else.

And, let's face it, laughing during this frenetic season is undoubtedly the best medicine.

I understand Prozac and Prosecco work well, too. Whatever gets you to falalalala.

A Bridge to Midnight and Beyond

You may call me many things, but gephyrophobic is not one of them.

Standing on the pipeline today, I saw a red kayak twisted in half on a rock and commented to the guy taking a photo of it, "That didn't end well," to which he responded. "Oh, but it did. We're both still here." Whoa.

Back in J-Ward, I passed a house where a man was leaning on his front porch rail. Waving hello, he called out, "You walk far! I saw you all the way on the other side of the Lee Bridge a couple days ago. Keep it up. You look good!"

I love a good walk across a bridge.

Before crossing another bridge tonight, I went to 821 Cafe for dinner. Sliding on to a stool at the counter, I spotted a sign saying, "Beer to go. Be a good friend. Save a party" (dramatic, but sound advice) and heard a server tell the bartender, "I need three shots of bourbon and a PBR." The table he was waiting on was a two-top. Happy Monday, kids.

The more things change at 821 (all new plastic chairs in orange, green, back and yellow), the more they stay the same vis a vis my beloved black bean nachos, eaten to a raucous soundtrack by the Replacements.

Properly fueled, I drove across the Manchester bridge to get to the Shop at Plant Zero for a community conversation about the proposed BridgePark, a plan to bring people to the river and the river to the city. Obviously, this is not a problem for me since I'm down there walking practically every day, but we know not everyone makes that effort.

After going around the room to introduce ourselves (we were mostly male) and share our favorite part of the James River Park System (the pipeline, duh), the presentation began, one filled with maps and drawings, projections of plans and schemes to create a series of clear, green connections to the riverfront.

This was the first I'd heard about the T Pot project -also known less charmingly as the Brown's Island dam walk - after city planner Tyler Potterfield, a narrow (8-10') walkway over the James to connect to Manchester. While it'll be great to have, it'll be too narrow for anything more than just people walking across it.

Enter Bridge Park, a plan that has yet to be finalized but whose instigators are floating all sorts of ideas for an elevated space that gives people fabulous river views and connects up to the city. They've got all sorts of auxiliary ideas: a green line biking trail to Petersburg, a reflecting pool in Kanawha Plaza that can be drained for concert audiences to sit on, a hanging plaza over Brown's Island. Rain gardens and storm water management. Routes that flow naturally as extensions through the city.

The latest plan involves taking two lanes of the under-utilized Manchester Bridge and converting them to green spaces for bikes and pedestrians, a place that can be used for events, food carts, benches and anything else the populace wants. Maybe an elevator down to the river or a crow's net for bird-watching.

Turns out hundreds of people jammed the center of the bridge on July Fourth to watch fireworks this year. I had no idea. Next year, I'll be one of them, assuming I'm in town.

Clearly, this is a project that will have to be tackled in smaller pieces.

The goal is to create natural pathways (no grade more than 5% for walkability) that encourage people to move through green space rather than roadways. There was even talk of making the current center walkway an express cycling lane once BridgePark provides alternate walking space.

During the discussion afterwards, people wondered about the cost, how long it might take and, of course, whether the populace will stand for losing two lanes of the Manchester Bridge. Here's the cold, hard numbers, though: the Huguenot bridge has two lanes and carries 25,000 cars a day. The Manchester bridge has 11 lanes for only 17,000 cars.

Them's the facts, folks.

After the discussion ended, I chatted with a musician friend, only to learn that he's a civil engineer by day. Outside, I found a group of people continuing the discussion and stopped to join them. Our quintet debated some of the points we'd just heard, citing other cities doing related and successful things.

All of us want to see it happen, yet we all know it'll be a long process and no doubt go through many iterations before a final plan is developed. As we were breaking up, one of the guys asked me about my bridge walking and more tangents followed as we discussed Earth Day festivals, granola types and commitment to a cause.

"Can I buy you a beer at Legend so we can keep this conversation going?" he asked. Much as I was enjoying it, too - he was a kindred soul on a lot of issues - I couldn't because I had plans. It's Harper Lee night.

Chop Suey Bookswas hosting a midnight book release party for Lee's new old book, "Go Set a Watchman," at Lemaire with fun, frivolity and cocktails.

Chop Suey's owner Ward had suggested two brilliant drink names, Tequila Mockingbird and Booze Radley, but Lemaire had ideas of their own with New York to Maycomb, Tired Old Town and, inexplicably, Argyle Vintage Brut.

It's crazy, I was drinking Argyle regularly in Portland, brought some to a party last week and now here it was again. Argyle, you are my destiny.

I found a decent-sized literary crowd mingling about when I got to Lemaire, although not as many familiar faces as I'd expected. The bookseller, natch, the movie maven (we compared notes on "Love and Mercy," got excited about our upcoming film al freco), and later on, my fellow history geek (lamenting over a recent lecture where the author had read, rather than spoken, the entire hour, boring us both to death), an editor and a smiling restaurant owner.

After procuring tequila from one of the overtaxed barkeeps, I decided to bide my time until a bar stool opened up. Conveniently, it was near another book lover, a guy from Ashland who, like me, had reckoned that there was no better way to spend this Monday night than waiting to be handed a book written before "To Kill a Mockingbird."

"Besides, I stay up late and get up late," he tells me. Welcome to the club, kindred soul.

It was his laughter that started the conversation because he'd tweeted about trying Belle Isle Moonshine for the first time a few minutes earlier and in response, someone had sent him a crazy headline about a goat drinking a beer and making some bad choices.

We bonded over our preference for books over electronic reading of books and newspapers (kill me now) and our mutual love of train travel (he can walk to the Ashland station), but it was sharing teenage drinking stories (his involved moonshine surreptitiously poured into a beer, leading to him walking his terrified dog down the median of a four-lane highway) that cemented the bond.

Naturally I shared my old chestnut about a gallon of Gallo wine and a Black Forest cake that, like the goat's sorry tale, also did not end well. "And such quality wine, too," he joked.

Talking about our love of reading and library book sales (Ashland's happens on the Fourth of July, as does the parade which he likes to march in), I floored him when I mentioned the downtown library's annual book giveaway. "I thought I was getting a deal paying a quarter for books! You got me beat." Yea, well, I do that sometimes.

Curious about how I'd found out about tonight's event (pu-leeze!), he'd come across it in Style Weekly's feed, making for a natural segue to what I do. Explaining the life of a freelance writer, he got points for intuitively knowing the challenges as well as the perks.

All of a sudden, people were starting to leave and we realized they had handsome books clutched to their bosoms. Midnight had come and gone without our even noticing it. We decided to be those people who didn't rush out just because they had book in hand.

We rounded out the night talking about the VMFA, east coast versus west coast, and about his swinging annual groundhog day party (he's a native Pennsylvanian) before Ward brought my book over and we said our goodnights.

"It's been fun talking to you. Here's hoping we run into each other again," he said as I shook his hand.

You may call me many things, but shy and retiring are not two of them.

A Toast to the Triangle Teams

The accidental hump day, an evening in three scenes.

Scene one in which an invitation last night for a drink tonight had been accepted when a quick check of my calendar showed absolutely nothing on the books.

Fast forward to 10:50 this morning, ten minutes after getting up, when I get an invitation to something called "The Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road" and immediately sense that I must be there.

Our cocktail hour is moved up to accommodate my ephemera and we meet at Lemaire for Simonet Blanc de Blanc and so that I can hear about the state of her love life, the good, bad and ugly.

When my advice is solicited, I suggest a full frontal attack using the truth to let her beloved know what's bothering her.

While it seems unlikely she'll take my advice, she at least acknowledges its value.

Proceed to scene two, in which I prove that while I'm not an urban planner, I can play one with neighbors.

Tonight is the first of four sessions held at Gallery 5 to brainstorm what to do with the triangle at Brook and Adams in Jackson Ward, an island neither inviting nor usable (except to skateboarders), in part due to the weird traffic tearing around it.

Urban studies graduate student Josh Son has convened the group of neighbors and people who work in the neighborhood to help him develop ideas for making that corner of Brook Road more of an asset to  the ward.

Wisely, he has arranged for food so we begin with fried chicken and dill potato salad from Saison, a chance to meet people while chewing with our mouths full.

My favorite neighborhood couple is there and we meet another couple, much younger, who share tantalizing tales of the view they have into nearby apartments. There are stories of hot tubs and sculpture and few curtains. Our group has formed itself.

From the evening's director, Josh, we hear about Brook Road's history as a turnpike from the farms of the counties into the big city, seeing old photographs that document this past, followed by photos of similar revitalization projects in places like Philly and Brooklyn.

He shows us a 45-minute condensed video of the triangle, a blur of pedestrian, bike and speeding car traffic, a testament to the need for change in this corner of the 'hood.

Thus inspired, we break into our groups to take a field trip to the triangle with two designated artists and two designated writers (no points for guessing which one I was).

On site with clipboards, paper and pencils, we note what exists there now, what the challenges are and what solutions we imagine to make this a more habitable space.

With no constraints, we talk big and imagine bigger.

We see terraced steps on all three sides providing seating under the large, old oak tree in the center of the triangle.

Our vision includes a circular stone bench around the tree once low-branch pruning is done and up-lighting to highlight what is undoubtedly the largest tree on Broad Street from Belvidere to MCV.

There would be flower gardens in large containers in two of the corners for color and contemplation.

We want a local sculptor to create a piece that incorporates a fountain where people could fill water bottles, like the ones they have in Europe.

Emboldened, we decide that the stretch of Brook Road next to the triangle needs to be closed to vehicular traffic to create a piazza for tables, chairs and umbrellas (and, as a bonus, create three additional parking spaces on Broad) so people could bring food, books or coffee and have a place to linger.

We see Max's on Broad putting cafe tables on the stretch of sidewalk next to the restaurant. New crosswalks and handicapped access ramps so that everyone can safely get to and use the space.

As we're busily discussing all this, Max's owner approaches us, clearly curious about what we're up to.

My friend warns me not to tell him because he'll disapprove, but I share anyway, explaining that his valet parking will have to move elsewhere and laying out the whole cafe culture we've imagined for this area.

He's immediately on board with the idea of closing Brook right there and having a pedestrian area with tables separate from his own.

When we return to Gallery 5, it is to hear each of the six groups' plans for re-developing Brook.

Our little group, the "corner collective" as we've dubbed ourselves, is appalled when two of the groups' plans begin by taking down the oak tree.

Almost in unison, the five of us protest, insisting we will chain ourselves to the oak before we let it be taken down. We are nothing if not passionate.

Our group presents our ideas and the remaining groups theirs, including one who plainly said that our idea for terraced steps to provide seating is an outstanding one.

All of a sudden, two hours have passed and we are at the end of tonight's session. The only thing left is to sign up for which arena - connectivity, shade/light, greenery, gathering- we want to work on next week as the plans are further refined and developed.

So while the evening should be over, it isn't.

A guy joins our group from another and soon we are discussing ideas for the triangle again. That segues into talk of the neighborhood and who's eaten where and how they liked it.

Which leads us to scene three, wherein I mention it's pupusa night at Saison and the Irish Catholic suggests the four of us adjourn there to see what kind of pupusas are on the menu tonight.

Mushroom with queso fresca and pork belly with guasano, that's what.

It matters not to me, since my standard response is always that I'll take one of each.

While we're all eating crispy, warm pupusas, we talk about the neighborhood, how we were attracted to its central location and architecture, about the house one of us is building on Leigh Street, about the old house across the street once owned by one of our friends and for years used as a studio for artists.

Everyone has a story about eating at Porkchops and Grits with gospel music playing. A couple of us rave about Lucy's, lunch and dinner. To a person, everyone is counting the days until Saison's market opens.

The Irishman has an extra ticket for Kathleen Madigan at UR Saturday night and invites me along but I have plans. The couple asks for a suggestion for a Perly's breakfast replacement and happy hour recommendations and I oblige with both. The bartender asks if anyone's been to Rogue Gentleman and what they thought.

Eventually the two women at the end of the bar, also J-Ward residents, can't stand it and join in, telling us where they live and why they love it.

They are bummed at having missed the meeting, at least until we tell them there are three more in which they can participate. With three other neighborhood restaurants providing food. And no telling how many new people they might meet.

And if you're the gregarious sort, the afterparty alone is worth the community service.

Calling All Friends

When it rains, it pours.

Weeks ago, a girlfriend had asked me to join her for the Ideas in Food dinner at Heritage.

Five courses and the chance to sit around, eat and drink for hours like we used to before her life turned upside down? Count me in.

Then I got home today to a phone message from a friend in Boston, saying he'd be in Richmond tonight and wanting to hang out.

A talented guy who befriended me three years while in town on business and has been known to e-mail from all over the world saying he's just read my blog or experienced something funny he wants to share with me? Yes, please.

Oh, if only I'd gotten a good night's sleep last night, but, alas, my body's infrequent caffeine intake and a mega-Coke a few hours before bedtime had left me unable to get to sleep until dawn.

It's nights like this you push through on pure adrenaline.

Heritage was just starting to fill up when we arrived to claim our corner booth and begin catching up on the good stuff.

With glasses of a Barbera blend and our Gemini motor mouths set on non-stop, we dove right into the juiciest stories we had as an array of food runners brought us course after course.

The Lexington-bred beef heart tartare was suggested to be finger food, so we wrapped it in rice crepes and talked about people with negative energy.

Ramen with pepperoni, octopus and wakame noodles tasted like pizza, making our Barbera the perfect pairing as I heard about her outing to Charlottesville.

A provolone tuille with caraway seeds covered brussels sprouts, thousand island dressing and a broth that brought the pastrami flavor home while I shared my recent winery visits and an unexpected Michael Shaps intersection.

Ginger and tamarind-crusted lamb shoulder sat atop yellow mustard gnocchi and lamb heart ragu, a deeply rich and earthy sauce that had my friend requesting that I not tell her what things were.

The final sweet course was chocolate layer cake with coconut cream cheese, dulce de leche and walnut brittle ice cream (my least favorite part of the dish), and one last opportunity to give advice to each other.

We had so much to talk about that even after our second glass of wine we weren't ready to leave but with people standing waiting for a table, it seemed rude to linger.

But even leaving was protracted as I chatted up Chef Lee about the crowd, talked J-Ward with my neighborhood record store owner, said hello to a guy I see at shows everywhere and heard about an irate restaurant owner who accused me of being an artist.

If he thought that was an insult, he was sadly mistaken.

Leaving with my autographed copy of "Maximum Flavor: Recipes That Will Change the Way You Cook" (unlikely since I cook as rarely as possible), Friend and I made plans for our next get-together away from the madding crowds and said good-night.

Quick, on to Lemaire to meet my Bostonian with the broad accent (one he thinks he doesn't have but does).

You'd think after not having seen someone for three years that there'd be some readjustment, but we just sort of picked up where we'd left off.

He's in town on business, but his business is an interesting one because he fabricates signs and exhibition pieces for museums, which quite naturally led to art talk.

It doesn't hurt that he's also a painter, so we were soon discussing the Turner exhibition we'd both seen at the National Gallery a few years ago.

While I only have memories of that exhibit, he took it to the next level, naming some of his hand-brewed beers after some of Turner's paintings, so "Death on a Pale Horse" becomes "Death on a Pale Ale."

He's clever that way. When he's not brewing beer, he's making his own potato vodka and showed me photographs of his home still.

I've always had a soft spot for guys who can make things and fix things.

Over a glass of 2011 Klee Pinot Noir, we caught up on each other's lives, meaning I heard about the younger women he's seeing and he heard about my recent dating escapades.

When we left there, it was to grab a burger for him at Pie before crossing the street to Balliceaux.

There were three girls at Pie's bar and while they were busy doing shots of tequila and drinking Blue Hawaiis, apparently they were eavesdropping, too.

Finally, the one on the end admitted as much and wanted to ask us a question.

"Are you two on your first date?" No, we explained, we were friends getting reacquainted after three years. Why had she thought that?

"You totally seem like friends who are finally starting to date each other," she said assuredly. Nope, try again.

Perhaps our dynamic was unique enough as to be inscrutable. In any case, we had places to be.

Given the years since we'd last seen each other, he didn't want to sit in the back room for fear the RVA Big Band would drown out our conversation, so we became the only occupants of the front bar, where Bobby K. was barkeeping.

It worked out well because we could talk about mezcal, Free Run Wine Merchants and chefs who can't pair wine because they don't drink it.

With the music coming from the back at a perfect volume to continue our chat, he told me about his trip to Copenhagen, the van Gogh exhibit he'd seen and the crooked tower that caused its builder to kill himself when he couldn't right it.

With, I might add, photographs to illustrate it all. So satisfying.

We watched as several members of the big band came up to the bar to get mind erasers during intermission. I didn't know this layered shot, but my friend did, leading to a comparison with Bobby about layered versus mixed.

Frankly, I wouldn't think you'd want your mind erased when playing music with sixteen other musicians, but what do I know?

While sipping my Espolon, local bass legend Matt Gold walked by and stopped to rehash the magnificent Richmond Symphony/Kate Lindsey show the other night.

After introducing the two, he moved on to the back and my friend showed me pictures of the hand-crafted bass he recently made, pictures he should probably have pulled out when Matt was there since he'd have a far greater appreciation for such a thing than I possibly could.

Someone who can make a bass, now that's an artist.

We finally decided to call it quits because he has an early-morning meeting, but it was a little bittersweet because for all we know, it'll be another three years before we meet up again.

Driving him back to his hotel, he said, "Don't take this wrong, but I admire your brain."

What else can a person do but grin like an idiot with a compliment like that, even from a non-date?

Dead tired or not, sometimes it's great to get poured on.

Cheap Wine and Loud Music

At no time was I ever punk.

About the closest I ever came was at a D.C. club called Poseurs back in the '80s and the name says it all. Poseur, not punk.

Despite an appreciation for the DIY ethic and a fondness for loud music, I think my taste always skewed less angry.

And certainly with age I've lost whatever punk rock attitude I may ever have had, if any.

Surely part of the reason is that I now have friends who message me late in the day asking if I would like to accompany them to Lemaire for wine drinking.

No punk gets her drink on at a four diamond hotel. But as a non-punk, why would I not?

Walking to the Jefferson, I stop at a corner and two skater kids join me to wait for the light.

"You look nice," one says, looking me up and down. He can't be more than 17.

"I like your top," the other says, pointing at my $3.25 thrift store find, a black sweater with leather trim.

I thank them and they take off down the hill on their boards. Live fast, die young, boys.

Wearing someone else's cast-offs, that's sort of punk, isn't it? Being complimented by under-age skater dudes, that counts for something, right?

Inside, I find my friend and it's discovery wine night so bottles are $15, meaning there's no reason on earth to drink a glass, not that this guy and I ever make do with a glass.

We order a bottle or two of Four Bears Chardonnay because he is devoted to both Chardonnays and California wine and it will go well with my crabcake.

He's not fond of Lemaire's crabcake (preferring Acacia's), but I find it full of lump crab meat and with a well-spiced remoulade, so I have no complaint beyond a slight excess of mayo as a binding agent.

First world problem.

We happily spend several hours catching up on his recent business dealings, what new places he's eaten at lately and what I've been up to.

Obviously, he's too busy to read the blog or he'd already know.

Midway through the second bottle, I have to say so long so I can get to the Criterion to see a one-night only screening of "CBGB."

Arriving at Criterion, I am amazed to find a line for tickets almost out the door.

Looking at the crowd, though, most of them don't look like the kind of people there to see a film about a defunct punk rock club.

I do some racial/sexual profiling and approach a middle-aged white guy with a beard, asking if he's there to see "CBGB."

He is, but as it turns out, 95% of the line is there for another movie.

Inside the theater are more middle-aged people including a guy wearing a ratty-looking CBGB t-shirt.

This must be the place.

It takes four tries for the projectionist to get the film started, and the film starts almost fifteen minutes late, but then what punk show ever started on time?

The movie begins with a caveat, "This story is mostly true," and a look at NYC's Bowery circa the late '60s.

I'm always happy to see an Alan Rickman movie, although I'm still not quite sure why they got an Englishman to play Jewish New Yorker Hilly Kristal, the man who started CBGB.

Here's where it gets personally embarrassing. I had no idea CBGB stood for "country, bluegrass, blues."

Please say I'm not the only one.

At this late date, it seems laughable that Kristal ever thought those genres were the next big thing, but luckily he had trouble booking those bands while local punks like Television showed up begging to play.

Kristal's only rule for bands was that they had to play original music. People accused him of trying to avoid paying ASCAP fees, but he claimed it was just a philosophy.

And thank god for that.

After Television gets some local press and David Bowie said Television was the real deal, bands start coming down asking to play, bands like Blondie, the Police and the Patti Smith Group.

"The name of our band is Talking Heads and we live across the street," David Byrne says when they audition for Kristal.

When the Ramones audition, all bad attitude and bangs, Kristal says to them, "No one is going to like you guys but I'll have you back."

Wise move. In 1974, they played CBGB's 74 times.

"Hey, isn't that the guy who made that awful feedback album?" a musician says to a friend when he spots Lou Reed in the crowd.

We see where Iggy Pop does the first stage-diving at CBGB's. Where even the local resident bikers are repulsed by the filth of the bathrooms.

All part of the legend.

The film didn't try to tell the whole 33 years of CBGB history, just the crucial early years when punk was being born.

The final credits had as much to see as the film, including footage when Talking Heads were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and David Byrne had Kristal up onstage so he could tell the world what a key a role he'd played in the birth of a scene.

There were some hilarious credits, too, like, "Special Thanks (the asses we want to kiss)" and "No animals were harmed in the making of this movie. The cockroach guts were Fig Newtons."

Considering there was a running gag of Kristal killing roaches in his litter-strewn office, that's a lot of Fig Newtons.

Was the movie well done? Not particularly. Did it tell an interesting story I hadn't known much about? Sure did.

When we went to leave the theater, a manager was standing there, handing each of us a certificate for a free movie, her way of making up for the delayed start and technical difficulties that began our evening.

Accepting a freebie for having to put up with a movie about the punk scene not starting on time seems kind of soft.

Poseur-like even. Sheena may have been a punk rocker, but clearly I wasn't.

Across the Universe

A friend recently called me a hedonist.

Giving credence to his theory, I sold out history and literature for wine and conversation.

My intention was to go to the Library of Virginia to hear Dr. Barbara Perry talk about her new book, "Rose Kennedy: The Life and Times of a Political Matriarch."

And wouldn't you just know that as I was getting dressed for that, an e-mail came in asking if I was free for cocktail hour?

Call me what I am, a sell-out.

Off to Lemaire I went for Renoto Feudo Maccari Nero d'Alva and Syrah, a full-bodied wine with a hint of smoke but I at least made it clear to my friend that I had limited time.

I was going to fit in some culture tonight, come hell or high water.

Before long, we had a third join us and because they're both in the business, most of the talk centered around restaurants.

Who's selling what (and why!), stations versus pooling tips (they hadn't seen the NYT article), and the food truck craze.

We ordered sustenance - fried barcat oysters, pimento cheese and tuna tartare- but before I got three bites in, it was time for me to go.

Destination: an art lecture at University of Richmond.

Curator Phyllis Wrynn was giving a talk about "Leon Bibel: Art, Activism and the WPA," the new exhibit that just opened.

I don't know about you, but the WPA fascinates me.

The idea of government stepping in to keep the creative class employed during tough economic times seems as relevant today as it was during the Great Depression.

Wrynn's a New Yorker, so her talk was given at New Yorker speed (fine by me) as she flipped through a presentation of everything from Bibel's work to the Daily Show to a "Metropolis" clip.

The show's themes of racism, unemployment, social injustice, poverty and war could have been taken from today's headlines.

I was particularly struck by her comparison of the Renaissance and the WPA era; both periods represented a spectacularly comprehensive sponsorship of the arts by a governing body.

Oh, if only such a thing were possible today.

Walking through the exhibit, it's impressive how many formats Bibel used, everything from silk-screening (previously only used for posters and advertising), lithography and dry point to watercolor and oils.

And all of them with a message.

By the time I left campus, my brain felt sufficiently fed to allow for more debauchery, so I stopped at Secco for a bite.

The tables were mostly full but there was a lone seat at the bar (hello, beautiful) and the servers and I concluded that it may have been due to Carytown restaurant week, in which they were not participating.

Keeping my Sicilian theme going, I ordered a glass of Fondo Antico "Aprile," a refreshing Rose (if not now, when?) bursting with cherry flavors and got a thumbs up from my server.

The music, as always, was loud enough and appealingly chosen, if a little surprising to hear the Beatles in between the Arcade Fire and Franz Ferdinand.

Not long after I sat down, the couples on both sides of me decided to leave and, I swear, it wasn't two minutes before all four seats were again occupied.

Before I could look for company, though, I had to order, choosing fettucini with rock shrimp, rapini, espelette butter and topped by a fried egg.

When it arrived, the woman sitting next to me took one look at it, laid her menu down and told the server, "I'll have what she has."

It was my "When Harry Met Sally" moment, but without the moaning.

She made a good call because the red chili pepper in the sauce was an inspired choice to update a rich, buttery pasta dish.

The couple on the other side shared that they'd been to the Daily and had been underwhelmed, both by the food and the crowd.

"It'll be interesting to see how it holds up once they're not the new kid on the block," she sniffed. Won't it?

Not that I needed more food, but Chef Mike had come up with a new dish (it was right there on Facebook), so I had to get it.

Paired with a half glass of Bauer Riesling, the seared scallops with parsnip puree, Tuscan kale and pickled mushrooms and cashews was as decadent as my last dish and every bit as delightfully unique.

Fortunately, since I had no capacity to move, that's when a nearby bar sitter began a travel discussion with me, telling me about her escapades in Florence and wanting to hear mine.

Seems she'd gone with a group of twelve and by the fourth day was tired of their company.

She was especially disdainful of those who couldn't get their bearings.

You've got the river here and the cathedral there so you're never really lost, she'd told them.

Right she was, since that's exactly how I'd oriented myself while there. It's not rocket science, kids.

Conveniently, that was the day she met two charming Australians and decided to spend the next 36 hours seeing the city with them.

From what I was told, they were far better company than the group had been.

And I thought I'd had a great time in Florence.

Well, I had, but I'm also a hedonist, so I pretty much have a great time whatever I do, whomever I'm with.

They don't even have to be Australian...and in most cases, one will do.

Now Hear This

Everyone needed my ear today.

First came the message, "We need to talk," which we tried doing, although we really didn't need to.

You can only rehash certain subjects so many times.

Next came, "Do you need a dinner date for tonight?" which I did so we met at Lemaire.

It was Discovery wine night when they practically give away bottles for $15, so he ordered a California chardonnay and I went with an interesting-sounding blend.

M. Chapoutier Cotes du Luberon La Ciboise Blanc, a blend of Grenache Blanc, Vermentino, Ugni Blanc and Roussanne, delivered lemon and pear up front and a nice acidity on the finish and a desire to know more about Ugni Blanc (which turned out to be nothing more than Trebbianio according to a certain someone's smart phone).

Although we started out at the bar, we soon moved to a window banquette, the better to watch the street theater and the entirety of the back room, which was full to capacity.

Deal-makers ignored everybody else, businessmen checked out every PYT who walked in and pairs of women dotted the bar, talking non-stop.

Entertaining as it was, I'd have been happy to sit outside since I've yet to do so, but my dinner date was having none of it.

Seems he's yet another man looking forward to warm weather going away while I'm lamenting its gradual but inevitable exit.

We started with Virginia cheese and charcuterie plates garnished with the sweetest of strawberries as he told me about all the drama going on with his job.

Stories like his make me grateful to be self-employed.

Like me, he's a big fan of eating out so we compared recent restaurant meals and who's been impressing us with which dishes and who seems rather static.

Nothing like a dinner date who wants to discuss food.

I kept it simple for dinner, a hearts of romaine salad with shrimp, more than enough after all that meat and cheese.

That and it left more room for dark chocolate terrine with mint cream and candied cashews, which we sort of shared, although he ate far less of it than I did.

It's a good thing I wasn't born back when women only ate a few bites on dinner dates in order to appear more feminine.

Call me new-fangled, but I count on my dresses to convey femininity, not my appetite.

The banquette was comfy enough that we lingered for hours sipping wine and chatting about our found similarities - living in Dupont Circle, a disdain for nightwear, a lot of dancing in our past- before noticing the time.

I don't have to be up early, but he does, so we wound things down and said goodnight.

There was still plenty of time for me to catch some music, so I drove to Balliceaux to find it.

The Low Branches were just finishing their first song, so I took a seat on the steps (okay, partially on a guy's feet, but he was on his phone so what did he care?) to watch their set.

I love hearing Christina sing Dolly Parton's "Jolene," especially with the fleshed out sound provided by Josh's bass and Blasco's drumming.

The also did a new song, one Matt called beautiful and Christina warned they hadn't played much yet.

Matt was right on this one.

They closed with a haunting song Christina sang in Turkish and it was over too soon.

During the break, I heard about the Fall Line Fest, which I'd missed by being at the beach.

One of the best moments came when I saw a friend, someone I recently learned I now have barely any degrees of separation from, and we just grinned at each other, unsure how to begin the discussion of what we now know.

We managed and it was pretty funny, but both of us are still adjusting.

The music resumed with ...and The Wiremen, a quartet of guitar, drums, violin and trumpet with occasional bass.

With a singer who warbles like Bryan Ferry (and was as often off-mic as on), Paul Watson's soulful trumpet playing (which I've been following for years since a long-ago show at Ghostprint Gallery), interesting drumming (brushes, yes, but the handles also used on the rims of the drums) and a violinist making the most of the instrument's potential (when he wasn't playing the bass and laying down grooves), the atmospheric set kept the crowd engaged in the soundcsapes they were creating.

Which is to say, that I never moved from the staircase where I had a straight shot of these four terrific musicians making music that spanned genres.

Before the last song, the singer said, "That bag is full of CDs and you can take one and pay what you will. That's the end of my sales pitch. Any more and I'm a minister."

No, thank you.

Heathen that I am, that's one thing my ears have absolutely no interest in hearing.

Pass the Roth, Please

Who'd have thought I had so much in common with a lawyer?

When I think lawyers, I think Warren Zevon. You know, "Lawyers, Guns and Money."

My date turned out to be more like, "Lawyers, Reading and Art."

I'm not sure whether to be thrilled or suspicious.

During an outing with friends a few nights ago. I'd met a charming man who'd been e-mailing me religiously for the past 48 hours.

And I'm talking e-mails with punctuation, capitalization and well-thought out sentence structure ("I may be over-matched," he writes at one point).

It's enough to make a language geek sit up and take notice.

I did.

So when he invited me to meet him at Lemaire tonight, I did that, too.

Before he arrived, I ran into a favorite gallerist and discussed the upcoming video installation at her gallery.

Art talk over, I order a quartino of Domaine Sorin 2012 Terra Amata, a refreshing pink tasting of melon and minerals, to await the unknown.

After all, our conversation so far has been online and over the heads of two friends who sat between us at the bar at which we met.

The evening worked out so much better than I could have hoped.

From the moment he sits down, we have conversation to spare.

He's a runner, so I hear about his marathons - Boston, New York and Chicago.

I learn he has looked up my writing online at the Style Weekly website and has insightful comments to make about much of it.

Whoa. I wasn't expecting him to do homework before our date.

He wants to know what's currently on my nightstand and I tell him about the Noel Coward biography I'm reading and how it's particularly compelling to me because it was written in 1976.

I find non-fiction especially fascinating when told through the lens of a past decade since it inevitably provides a reference point for the information.

I love the way your mind works, he tells me.

I love having somebody get my mind, I tell him.

When it comes time to eat, I order tuna crudo with seaweed salad, avocado coulis and flying fish roe of three colors served in a champagne coupe.

It's a fine pairing with my Rose.

I move on to a honey-glazed pork loin chop with spoon bread, roasted apricots, all-day turnip greens and bourbon jus while we discuss childhoods, happy parents and how soft the millennial generation is.

Unexpectedly, I find myself having a far better time than I could have hoped for.

He's not quite as outgoing as me despite his profession, but he's passionate about literature and art.

I can't remember the last time I spent an evening discussing Tolstoy and Nabokov, yet here we are.

At one point, he stops the literary conversation to rave about the appeal of my smile and dimples.

"Keep smiling at me," he says.

Wow, I'd forgotten how good dating could be.

When he brings up "Blue Jasmine," I tell him I just saw it and we launch into a discussion of Woody Allen's filmography.

Like me, he became a fan in college and has been a follower ever since.

Once the wine is finished, we decide to change locations, moving to Secco to finish out our book talk over different wine.

Seated at the end of the bar with Muse and Interpol playing, I select Cuilleron Syrah Rose "Sybel," an old favorite, while he tells me about his deep affection for Haruki Murakami's writing.

Before long we are knee-deep in our appreciation for Updike ("It's like being a voyeur") when I ask him about Cheever ("God, yes!") and then he guiltily admits he's never read Roth.

How could a man this age not have read "Goodbye, Columbus"?

Without hesitating, I picture my bookshelves and offer to lend him "The Ghost Writer" and "The Human Stain."

Despite his Roth shortcomings, I have never been on a date with someone so well read.

When Secco closes down, we walk outside still talking, with him soon promising to send me a list of authors I must read.

I have died and gone to date heaven.

If he keeps this up, he's going to see a lot of the smile and the dimples.

Monday, Monday, Can't Trust That Day

We could call this chapter "Tales of a Misspent Monday" and leave it at that.

In my defense, I worked way more of the weekend than usual and from the moment I got up until early afternoon today.

So when my lunch date e-mailed me sounding desperate ("Come now...! FAST!"), what could I do but change into a lunch dress and go fetch him?

Fast!

So we set out for Arcadia, found it closed and settled on M Bistro, a place I hadn't been in a couple of years.

We arrived toward the end of lunch, but the cool, masculine-looking interior and eager-beaver young server welcomed us in.

If I could have, I would have carded him.

Our first choice for wine was a 2011 Louis Jadot Macon Villages chardonnay, but they were out of it and our tender server suggested that the Kendall Jackson Vintners' Reserve chardonnay was "just the same."

Well, except that both friend and I knew that the French wine is unoaked while the Californian definitely finishes with oak.

We got it anyway. It's just afternoon wine.

Last time I'd been in, I'd been quite happy with my lobster roll, so I ordered it again (despite the change to it being billed as lobster and crab salad on a "rustic roll," whatever that might be) while Friend tried a crabacake over tomato salad.

What arrived looked nothing like the lobster roll of M's early days...or anything seen in New England.

The roll was round and dusted with flour and the filling was mostly crab with only incidental pieces of lobster claw meat.

Harrumph.

Pushing the flour-dusted roll aside, I begrudgingly ate the crab/lobster salad while my friend noted, "You don't like it, do you?"

It just wasn't anything like a true New England lobster roll anymore.

On the plus side, Friend said his crabcake salad was excellent and he plowed through it while telling me about his recent vacation in Philly.

Now, I've only been in Philly four times in the past eight years, so I'm no expert, but I do know I've enjoyed eating, walking and seeing all the art when I have been there, so I was eager to hear his stories.

$24 drinks, nine hour stints in the art museum, and 100 miles of walking told me everything I needed to know about their sojourn.

All he wanted in return was an update on my personal life (while giving running commentary, natch) so I obliged.

Needless to say, we ended up being the last lunch customers of the day, although Friend did take the time to teach the newbie server how to properly open a bottle of wine.

Somebody's got to teach the youth of today tomorrow's wine-pourers.

While debating the finer points of my life, we got a slice of lemon/coconut pie with strawberry coulis to help pass the time.

Now here's where the afternoon took a turn for the indulgent.

Coming back into town from Rockett's Landing, Friend suggested a stop at the Jefferson for an afternoon cap(?).

If there isn't such a thing, we were open to creating it.

We landed at TJ's, which was empty of any human life except a server, and here we finally got glasses of the un-oaked Macon Villages we'd been denied earlier.

In my never-ending quest to derail the best intentions of my friends, I suggested getting the Chesapeake dip (ham, crab, artichoke hearts in a creamy Gouda dip), knowing  my companion doesn't eat pork.

He waved off my concerns, assuring me if he can't see the ham, he's fine with it.

Now there's a man with religious convictions.

Promptly at 4, our server informed us that TJ's was closing, necessitating a trip upstairs to Lemaire if we wanted to continue our conversation.

We did.

I wanted to hear about his business plans, he wanted to hear about my gallivanting, so we climbed the grand staircase to finish our talking.

Midway through our conversation and his Cosmo (some of us were opting out by that point), his boss called and I took the phone to provide the alibi for why he'd been "detained."

I didn't even try to make up a story, opting instead for the bald-faced truth.

And while I don't know that I convinced the boss of the worthiness of our afternoon's endeavor, he at least accepted that Friend had needed some away time.

Sometimes you just gotta stand up to the big guy.

After dropping him off, I came home to find that no one desperately needed me and none of my hoped-for responses had arrived, so I was free and clear to continue my debauched Monday.

After a respite to gather my forces, I headed up the big hill to the Roosevelt to take advantage of their new Monday hours.

I'd heard they'd been slammed last Monday, but by the late hour I arrived, things were positively civilized.

I sat down next to two guys at the bar who were gracious enough to welcome me into the fold.

When the bartender brought my water, I requested a straw and he returned with one, the kind that bends to make straw-sipping so much more ergonomic.

"Wow, bendy straws and Cheerwine, that's the Roosevelt for you," one of the guys drolly observed with a smile.

I feel like that's a left-handed compliment of the highest order since there are many ways I could summarize the Roosevelt, but none so charmingly succinct.

I started with the oyster, corn and bacon stew, a gut-filling bowl of the richest stew full of sweet corn, salty bacon and buttery oysters.

Given the afternoon I'd had, it was clear my Richmond grandmother had been right with her predictions and I was going straight to hell in a hand basket.

Honestly, it's probably the first time in my life I ate an entire bowl of oyster stew by myself.

Just to ensure that my arteries close up entirely tonight, I followed that with one of tonight's specials, pulled pork under cole slaw and over house baked beans.

It was like a picnic on a plate but a picnic for two and I was, alas, just one.

As I worked my pig down, I overheard the guys next to me and gleaned that they were about to open a new business.

Never shy about my eavesdropping, I listened as they talked with a couple who'd joined them about the "wild, wild west days of Oregon Hill" and living in Jackson Ward back when fathers who were cops told their daughters not to.

That was before I moved here seven years ago, not that my father (who was not a cop) didn't approve of me moving to the neighborhood where his father worked his entire life (the Richmond Dairy, three blocks away).

Eventually, I insinuated myself into their conversation with the couple and soon learned that congratulations were in order.

After three and a half years of plugging away in Church Hill, the two guys are opening a brewery in Scott's Addition and they'd gotten the approval today.

That was something to celebrate and we toasted their success with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and whatever beer they were drinking (not their own).

Now that's a couple of guys who are going places.

No doubt they spend their afternoons more gainfully occupied than some of us.

Bravo, gents. To each his own.

Out with the Most Beautiful Girl from Pennsylvania

Only a true friend takes pictures of you sucking bones.

Her husband was going camping so we were free to debauch any way we saw fit, so we began at Lemaire.

Somehow, despite decades in this city, she'd never been.

And not only never been, but never heard about the live alligators that used to live there.

Over Michael Shaps Wineworks Cabernet Franc, we talked about Calvin Trillin, abstract expressionists and NYC in the fifties.

Moving on to Acacia, we bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of Tocco Prosecco to celebrate our girls' night out.

Then we began to eat in earnest.

There were golden figs with bleu cheese and local honey. Honestly, at this time of year, I could eat figs every day of the week.

Next up was flounder ceviche Peruvian style over avocado puree, a creamy combination punctuated with chili oil for heat.

Risking a swollen tongue, we went on to house-made burrata with local peaches (my allergy), basil, olive oil and aged balsamic.

The creamy burrata was like butter with the ripe peaches.

With so much fortification, we took on weightier topics like former boyfriends, the respect of the community and the beauty of a truly southern name.

Moving on, we got Belle Glos "Meiomi" Pinot Noir, a food-friendly wine that was bound to loosen our tongues.

For dinner, we shared pan-roasted Polyface chicken breast with smoked Gouda polenta, local green beans and a country mustard sauce.

The rustic dish satisfied on all levels - the crispy seasoned skin, the freshness of the bright green beans and the beautifully creamy polenta.

And somehow, when I got busy getting the last of the meat off the bones, out came her phone to document it.

"You're so oblivious to technology, it's easy," she laughed.

By then we'd analyzed who was superficial, who was overly outspoken and who was oblivious.

I got major bonus points from her when I told her my latest realization.

"You wouldn't have said that a year ago," she marveled.

And who knows what I'll say in another year?

It's amazing how much two friends can accomplish with a little time and a little more wine.

Our bartender was unobtrusive until my friend inquired abut a whiskey, at which point he explained away his whiskey expertise by saying that he was Irish Catholic.

I countered by telling him I was the same and yet had no whiskey knowledge whatsoever.

"She drinks tequila," my friend piped up, causing a slight raise in his eyebrow.

Don't judge, I say.

Choosing to partake of neither whiskey nor tequila, we decided to move on for dessert.

It was a no-brainer to end up at Garnett's because we knew we'd have a fine selection of sweets from which to choose.

Hers was a peanut butter pie and mine was the black and white cake with both chocolate and white icing.

It was a decadent ending to our marathon meal.

We finished, as we always do, with conversation in the car before I dropped her off.

I'm sure it says something that we'd been together five plus hours and were still talking right up until she got out of my car.

What it says is we don't get together often enough, but maybe her husband will go camping more frequently when he sees how relaxed and happy she is after a girls' night out.

I could have gone home, I could have ended it right there, but naturally I didn't.

Instead, I went to Balliceaux to hear a Brooklyn band, Madam Macadam, billed as "angry rock and roll with an emphasis on fun."

The band featured members of Lake Street Dive, another band I'd previously heard at Balliceaux.

As soon as I saw them, I recognized one guy's distinctive pale blue guitar. Funny the things that stick in your head.

I got a warm greeting from Chris, who books the shows, saying, "Always my favorite person to see."

A friend came over, saying, "Long time, no see" only to admit that he'd been in the Bahamas for 75 days (75!) for a photo shoot for the tourism board there.

Nice work if you can get it.

He did say that he'd been depressed ever since he got back, trying to make the adjustment to real life.

Meanwhile, there was music. "Thank you for coming," the lead singer said. "Who are you people?"

We were the ones who wanted to see an up and coming band and not just Black Girls.

I found a relatively safe spot near the side wall where I could see and not get knocked into too much.

These guys rocked in a Chuck Berry meets New York Dolls kind of way and eventually a friend walked by, saying, "These guys are good."

Not only good, but determined.

They'd made the eight plus hour drive down for the show, sitting in Washington traffic for two and a half hours to get here.

And yet they thanked us for being there.

Favorite song: "The Most Beautiful Girl in Pennsylvania," coincidentally, the home state of the friend I'd just dropped off.

Their set was short, maybe 35 minutes and my photographer friend was taking bets on how late Black Girls would begin (answer: just before midnight).

I saw a favorite bartender singing along to their songs and the crowd began to shimmy as Black Girls got rolling with their "snuff rock," ostensibly celebrating the guitarist's birthday.

But with Black Girls, it's always any excuse for a party.

By the time I left, I'd had a full eight hours of fun.

Walking to my car, a couple in running attire jogged by.

Who exercises at this hour when they could be listening to angry rock and roll with an emphasis on fun?

Clearly nobody I know.

After Hours at the Park

Start with a good story and end on the swings.

My favorite wine geek/musician wanted to meet up at the Roosevelt.

Until we saw they were closed for a private party. And it wasn't for us.

We switched the plans to Lemaire and at the last minute he asked if I wanted to meet him south of the river.

I declined with enough defiance and humor to make him realize there was a good story there.

So after scoring a bottle of L'Enclos des Bories Minervois, I spun my tale, saving the punch line for the end.

No way, he insisted.

Way.

Over the next couple of hours, I heard all the good winery stories before we moved on to music, Tori Amos and the urgency of competition.

I was sorry when I had to leave for my next engagement.

It also involved wine, a Fratelli Urciuolo 2010 Fiano di Avellino, scored at last week's River City Cellars tasting.

Crisp with rich undertones and the perfect way to ease into the upcoming evening, it was our aperitif before heading to City Dogs.

And, yes, that's a joke.

To my companion's horror (and fear for his stomach) I was in the mood for a dog dinner, a Tennessee slaw dog for me and Carolina dog for him, although why someone concerned about eating dogs gets pork on pork is beyond me.

When I insisted on a chocolate shake for dessert, he grimaced like I'd suggested the most outlandish thing in the world.

What, who doesn't need a sweet after all that salty?

And, for the record, he consumed fully half of that chocolate shake.

Then it was on to Balliceaux for what I knew was going to be an outstanding evening of music.

The crowd was regrettably small but wildly enthusiastic for the talent we saw.

Robin Bacior played first with a band behind her, including a cello, an instrument I find irresistible for the evocative sounds it can call forth.

I was especially fond of the songs she played on piano, hearkening back to my earlier discussion with friend #1 about the simple pleasures of a confessional girl and keyboards.

She thanked Richmond for being so welcoming, "You guys are so nice to offer your homes, your bed, your medications."

The scientist, sitting next to me, leaned over, saying, "There's a story there."

He would be the same scientist who always shows up with chocolate, although tonight's offering was sub-par.

Some kind of protein bar, he shared a piece with the warning, "It's chocolate, but it tastes a lot like chalk."

Wes Swing from Charlottesville was next and here I heard all kinds of Andrew Bird likenesses, with the upright bass, cello and his literate lyrics.

When Wes switched to playing guitar, I got more of a Nick Drake vibe.

Favorite lyric: "When you're away, my heart comes undone, like a ball of yarn."

A close second was, "I won't take you in until you pay for your sins."  In the next verse, "until" became "if" for a variation on a theme.

The star of the evening was Dave Watkins and his new electric dulcitar, a thing of beauty in blue and completely handmade by Dave.

You really have to see this guy to believe the layers of sound he can create with looping and playing, knocking on and blowing into his instrument.

And no, that's not a euphemism.

Toward the end, someone in the audience called out for "Pangea's Revenge," one of the few songs Dave sings on. He tried to demur.

"How often do you get requests at a show?" the fan called out.

Pretty often, he said, before playing it anyway.

By the time the set ended, Dave was sweaty, the audience was totally caught up in his soundscapes and it was practically 2 a.m. on a school night.

But not a soul had been willing to give up such a stellar show to go home and get some sleep.

Some people even followed that with recess on a balmy night.

A person's got to seize an extra day when you have the chance...or wait four long years to exercise your Leap Day privileges.

I wasn't willing to wait.

How Soon is Now?

If the Virginia Historical Society had spontaneously combusted tonight, half the restaurants in Richmond would have had to close and a lot of great tights would have gone up in a puff of smoke.

Fortunately that wasn't the case.

The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.

Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."

Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.

Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.

It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.

Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.

Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.

And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.

Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.

Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."

Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.

When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.

Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."

When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika  in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.

After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."

You're welcome, oh ginger one.

EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."

Call me proud of my membership in that group.

Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.

Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."

I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.

The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.

At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.

Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.

One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.

Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.

Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.

Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.

While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."

Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.

And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.

One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.

I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.

After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.

"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."

His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.

Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.

You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.

I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.

Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.

Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.

Do they give awards for finally getting it right?

My Sun and Shadow Salon

When I grow up, I want to curate.

Doesn't matter what. I'll curate music shows, maybe a few gallery shows, you name it. I just like the idea of being in charge of deciding what's interesting.

So you can see it was only logical for me to end up at the Anderson Gallery for the curator's talk about the outstanding new sculpture show.

Michael Jones McKean, sculptor and curator for "you, you sun and shadow" was giving an overview of the exhibit by showing images of the pieces as we sat in one of the galleries.

In a perfect world, we would have followed him around the galleries as he talked about the actual pieces, but there were far too many people there tonight for that to be possible.

Revert to Plan B.

Instead we sat and stood to hear his thoughts on the challenges of assembling a collection of objects in this space in this building in this city.

Looking every inch the intense young sculptor that he is, McKean talked about the ego blow of getting told no when he requested a certain piece for the show.

He told of the weekly meetings over the course of a year with the Anderson director to keep her abreast of his curating progress.

Or, as he put it, "We'd have these rap sessions and we'd just be freewheeling."

That's the kind of enthusiasm I want going into the curatorial process.

During the Q & A period, someone asked about the correlation between McKean's own work and the pieces he chose for the show. Did it represent something he had not yet achieved?

"There's some jam inside the works that I want to taste," he explained with a metaphor only an artist could deliver so quickly and sincerely.

Walking around the show afterwards was a fascinating look at the state of contemporary sculpture.

Delicate river twigs were woven into a small geodesic dome.

The figure of a  man levitates off the floor, feet in the air to greet visitors to the gallery (per the artist's instructions).

Pedestals appear to be recognizably square only to have completely unexpected sides when viewed all the way around.

A mix tape is made out of the dust of every bone in the body.

That, I would venture, is a collection of incredibly interesting stuff. That's why I want to curate.

While looking at the show, a guy I'd met six months ago came up and re-introduced himself.

He made my night by telling me that he's been reading my blog ever since. In fact, he said it had inspired him to get out more and do some of the stuff I'm always writing about.

Even better, he said I sound like I'm always having fun. How's that for the most random compliment a blogger could hope for?

With that kind of good will floating my boat, we bid farewell to art and hello to Lemaire's crowded bar.

By the time we made one loop around the bar two stools had opened up and we made them our own.

With a minute to spare, we scored a bottle of one of the Discovery wines, the Renoto Fuedo Maccari Nero D'Alva/Syrah blend full of dark fruit and tannins and we were set.

In the course of drinking the bottle, we discussed the age-old "but is it art?" question. There were some pieces in the show that challenged my companion's concept of art, making for some lively conversation.

At one point, two girls walked by teetering on impossibly high heels and I said something about it to my trusty sidekick.

Moments later, a guy came up to us and commented about how the girls couldn't even walk in those things. I offered up proof that, with enough experience, you can walk in anything.

Likewise, with enough experience (and I may be approaching that point), I figure I could curate any number of things.

People would be my first choice. I'd like to assemble a salon of interesting types to join me for conversation. shared witticisms and storytelling.

And you know why? Because there'd be jam inside of each person and I'd want to taste it.

See? I'm already talking like a curator.

Blood Brothers Let It Bleed

It began, innocently enough, with the story of a gold cocktail dress.

So right there you know it wasn't my dress.

A friend and I met at Lemaire to partake of well-priced wine and so that she could tell me about the dress she'd finally found for a big party this weekend.

Nothing about my upcoming weekend requires a cocktail dress, so I had nothing dress-related to share.

Still, we started with a bottle of Rias Baixas Albarino while listening to tales of the James Beard Foundation dinner recently held at Lemaire.

Judging by the storyteller's face when describing Chef Bundy's butter-poached Rappahannock oysters with Kite ham, it was clear we'd missed quite a meal.

We took that as a cue to order and I chose the smothered Broken Arrow Ranch Bandera quail with stone-ground Ashland grits, rainbow chard and "sawmill gravy."

Because, you know, if I'm going to get my sawmill on, there's no place like Lemaire. I kid because the succulent little bird with the gravy-covered grits was very much a take on comfort food.

We befriended the guy sitting next to us when he noticed that my girlfriend hadn't finished her scallops.

I explained that she's just picky and that the seared jumbo sea scallops with white beans and escarole in ham hock broth were actually quite good unless you were eating them and dreaming of a big old steak like my friend was.

He turned out to be a new visitor to Richmond from Philly, here on business and eager to hear more about the dining scene.

We talked about our local strengths and then shifted the talk north. He was fascinated to learn that I'd been to Morimoto in his home town and we compared impressions of their tasting menu.

A woman at the end of the bar overheard us talking and chimed in to  get some foodie talk, too.

She was a citizen activist, here from godforsaken Northern Virginia for the duration of the Gen Ass, and eager to find authentic (her word) local restaurants.

By the time I wrote down the first three that she needed to try, I was inviting her to join our little ad hoc group.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the bar, I spotted a friend ordering wine and within moments another came into Lemaire for a burger.

It was one of those nights where I had all kinds of company, familiar and new, with no effort on my part whatsoever.

Just sit here and they will come, Karen. Why, I think I will.

Gradually the business travelers had to leave to go to bed and it was time for me to say goodnight to my girlfriend and go find some music.

At Ipanema, the music was going strong when I arrived with sidekick in tow, and the guy at the door stopped me to ask for my ID.

"Really?" I asked. "You really need an ID from me?"

At the point, two of the staff sitting nearby looked at him and instructed, "She's fine," which was code for, "Dude, she's plenty old enough."

The bartender, a former Sprout friend, high-fived me in greeting and then was gracious enough to pour some Primitivo for us.

The attraction at Ipanema tonight since I'd already eaten was the Blood Brothers, Jamie and Duane, playing the vinyl that they love so well.

If anyone is concerned that the music of the sixties isn't being properly revered, they obviously haven't heard these two modsters trading turns on the turntable.

Longtime friends, they try to outdo each other with their choices. You'll see one pull an album out and just hold it in his hands for a second, trying to determine if it's got the perfect next song to play.

It was when they played the Stone Poneys' (featuring Linda Ronstadt) "Different Drum" that the crowd in the room lost their shit desire to gab and began dancing.


You and I travel to the beat of a different drum
Oh, can't you tell by the way I run
Every time you make eyes at me.


And of course once you get the crowd dancing like that, you have to play just the right thing to follow it, in this case the Spencer Davis Group, a good match energy-wise but not nearly as recognizable to the crowd.

Still, it was a well-made choice, a skill set the Blood Brothers have in spades.

We heard girl groups ("Be My Baby") and bad boys ("Get Off of My Cloud") and the floor had dancers as often as not.

Coming out of the bathroom, a guy recognized me but he had to tell me his name before I knew who he was.

It was an enthusiastic member of Team Sex, a bicycle collective known for their speed in scavenger hunts whom I hadn't seen in ages.

The people you meet after answering Nature's call.

But there were lots of familiar faces in the crowd of vinyl and/or sixties music-lovers. The pastry chef, the server from a favorite wine bistro, several DJs.

From the end of the bar, the Blood Brothers spent the evening pushing out tunes to keep sidekick and I happily ensconced on a bench watching the parade of humanity whilst sipping our earthy red wine.

Did I mention how cool they looked doing it and how much fun they were obviously having?

Cause I know it was obvious how much fun we were having listening to them. Who needs a gold cocktail dress when you've got the Stone Poneys?

Or the Blood Brothers?

You cry and moan and say it will work out
But honey child, I've got my doubts
You can't see the forest for the trees

Mission Accomplished

There were several benefits to meeting a friend at Lemaire tonight.

I got to see the Jefferson tree, supposedly a big deal but basically the same every year, in full decorated mode.

I wouldn't want to water all these poinsettias.

I got to hear about the Wye Oak/Yo la Tengo/The National show at Merriweather Post Pavilion that I hadn't gone to, having learned my MPP lesson at the Louis XIV, Keane , Killers show years ago.

Still, that was an awesome lineup and if I could have been transported, I'd have gone in a heartbeat.

I met a guy from Philadelphia who made sure I knew how to properly order a Philly cheese steak in Philly (wid, whiz).

Onions always. Provolone? Sorry, no.

I met a guy as knowledgeable about sipping tequilas as I am and compared favorites. The edge may go to him since he's explored mescals and I've yet to go there.

$100 a bottle Cuervo Familia? Nope, haven't had it.

I met a guy (we'll call him J.L.) who proclaimed my Interpol show backstory one of the best he'd ever heard.

"No, he did not." Oh, yes, he did.

I got asked to give a guy from Northern Virginia my top restaurant list, which he proceeded to write down. promising feedback.

"What? No Millie's?" Sigh.

I got to share some Discovery wines (L'Enclois des Bories, a Minervois fruit bomb with a pepper finish and a Centine blend, more easy-to-drink fruit) with friends for a mere $15 a bottle.

It's getting there by 7:00 that's tough.

I enjoyed a plate of Vermont semi-soft bleu with fruit and the braised BBQ pork quesadilla to provide sustenance.

Why choose a hard bleu when I can go soft?

My friend and I had some great discussion about offbeat ballet, poetry, wet hair and private exercising before being overtaken by outsiders.

In the end, I had promised my friend (who considers me trouble because we always end up staying out too late) an early night but we said goodbye by midnight, thereby disproving that theory.

Confucius say it's not how late you stay out; it's how much you accomplish in the time you are out.

Much merriment and sometimes that's enough.

Don't Be Discovering Me

"You steal men's souls, don't you?"


Foe those of you who are not female and who have not gone out with a girlfriend, you might not believe it, but that's the kind of thing guys say to strangers in bars.

No, really.

And not even at meat market bars, but at tasteful  places like Lemaire.

A girlfriend and I decided to meet there for Discovery Wine Wednesdays, the great deal they offer on wine for $15 a bottle.

I arrived first and found a stool safely out of TV range (a male friend recently pointed out to me that Lemaire is a great sports bar because of all the TVs; sad, but true) and at the end with a view of everyone.

My tardy friend arrived and we chose to discover the Valminor Albarino Rias Baixas for our poison.

Actually it was quite nice with a fruity nose and strong minerality.

Around us, the bar was filling up with visitors, hotel guests and locals.

We ignored them all, comfortable in our own little bubble discussing plans for her out-of-town boyfriend's upcoming visit.

Our affable bartender suggested we take advantage of the bar deal offering any three appetizers for $20 until 7:00.

Given that we were already drinking on the cheap, why not avail ourselves of some well-priced food as well?

We ordered the slow-braised BBQ pork quesadillas, the P.E.I. mussels with Jim Kite's country ham and the chilled Laughing Bird shrimp salad with Belgian endive.

Although the mussels had a different broth than stated on the menu, it was delicious and totally soppable, so what did we care about specifics?

Or maybe that makes us mussel whores. Please don't judge.

Not long after we finished eating, a guy asked if he could take the stool next to us.

He looked normal enough, so we agreed. It's not like we were stewards of the stools anyway.

He was in town because of the "Lincoln" filming or so he said.

On the other hand, his business card was a piece of 35 mm film with his information on it, so it seemed plausible.

And what a character he turned out to be! He began by saying he always sits down next to the most beautiful woman at a bar.

Not to worry; I laughed out loud at him when he said that.

He was definitely a tale-teller.

We heard of his Los Angeles exploits, his days courting sirens and his current and very kind wife ("She's in love with another woman. And with her mother.").

He told us of being sued in absentia after being rear-ended at a yield sign. His lawyer wanted to fire him as a client.

He talked about tantric sex and told me I was capable of unconditional love.

He said he'd come over to join us after spotting a hair on my chest, a hair which he removed and then placed in his wallet after singeing it on the candle.

When we went to leave, he walked out with us and hugged me before asking me (a stranger for all intents and purposes) for a  kiss.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.

And I don't want to. Non-fiction is a much better read than any fiction I could concoct.

Enjoying a Moorish Rub

I hadn't been in Lemaire in easily three months and when I walked in tonight, the bartender made  a beeline for me and said, "I'm going to Arcade Fire. Are you?"

Well of course I am, but it struck me as funny that that was how he greeted me. As he told me later, "I'd been dying to share that with someone and as soon as I saw you, I knew you'd be the one."

I'm always  glad to be somebody's "the one." We'd barely finished our talk of the challenges of ticket ordering and show expectations before my friends arrived to celebrate my birthday with me.

It was a couple date, with two of them and one of me, not that there's anything wrong with that.

I ran into wine god Bob Talcott, finishing up a glass and asking after our plans. He'd not yet formulated his, so we wished him luck while ordering a bottle of the Four Bears Sauvignon Blanc, which rewarded us with a lovely citrus nose and a long finish.

Although I'd seen my friends recently, I had several good stories to share as we scanned the menu trying to decide how best to sample it.

We settled on an array that included the Georgia sweet Vidalia onion bisque (with local lump crabmeat and bacon, oh my), the butter-basted jumbo sea scallops (I'd give butter-basted shoe leather a try in all likelihood), the Virginia microbrew beer-battered Hawaiian blue prawns, the crispy fried mac and cheese with cheese truffle fondue and one of the evening's specials (and my choice), a Moorish-rubbed pork skewer over arugula.

The bisque was the best kind of heart-attack-in-a -bowl, the butter-basted scallops obscenely rich, the prawns came with heads and tails on (to the consternation of the male), the mac and cheese a bit of overkill to my taste and the pork a standout.

The spicy Mediterranean flavors dominated the outside while the medium-rare insides were soft and succulent with the peppery arugula the perfect complement. Meat, seafood, veggies, pasta; we had it all.

After sharing my recent pheromone-fueled adventures, I was told of the wisdom of not dancing on sidewalks after midnight (her) and the idiocy of not joining someone when invited to sit in the front row (him).

In a relevant note, I was given a lesson on the history of the UR campus (which I consider a devil's triangle when trying to navigate) by my friend the alum, which helped me understand it much better.

I'd still prefer an urban campus any day, but I know I can't avoid the UR campus entirely because sometimes their events require my presence (and additional lead time to allow for my poor navigation skills).

The dessert menu led to my second discussion in as many days of white chocolate not being chocolate; I never bring it up, but I always agree. We decided on the "tasting of chocolate" selection, a trio of milk chocolate banana pot de creme, a Grand Marnier truffle torte and dark chocolate sorbet.

Each of us had a different favorite on the plate (pot de creme being mine) so we made short work of the sampler.

Lemaire attracts such an eclectic crowd; there was the businessman with his napkin tucked into his shirt collar, the very young couple canoodling on the banquette, the very old couple sipping their (what else?) old fashioneds. No one is ever out of place at not-your-mother's Lemaire and it's a fine place to celebrate an upcoming birthday.

When my couple date was busy making goo-goo eyes at each other, I discussed watching Coachella being streamed live with our bartender.

There's always something good to discuss with a person who considers me "the one" when it comes to music.

As for someone who considers me "the one" in all respects, there's just no telling when or if that conversation would ever end.

Totally willing to find out.