Director of Vibe, now there's a job I could excel at.
In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.
Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.
As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.
How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?
Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.
When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.
We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.
I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.
He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.
Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram
A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.
Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.
Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.
Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."
Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.
I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.
But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.
We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.
Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.
The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.
Somebody will need to know.
Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.
If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.
Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.
No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.
By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.
Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.
I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.
So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."
My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.
We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?
I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.
The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.
With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.
Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.
Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.
Coming from a hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.
On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.
I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.
The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.
By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.
Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.
Showing posts with label mama j's kitchen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mama j's kitchen. Show all posts
Friday, January 27, 2017
Sunday, May 1, 2016
The Enormous Sighs
Stayin' close, keeping it Southern.
It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.
Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."
Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.
Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"
The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.
When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?
Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.
I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.
Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.
This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.
It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.
You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.
Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.
There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.
Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.
Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...
The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).
I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.
Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.
Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.
Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.
Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.
It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.
Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."
Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.
Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"
The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.
When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?
Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.
I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.
Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.
This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.
It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.
You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.
Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.
There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.
Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.
Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...
The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).
I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.
Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.
Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.
Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.
Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
No Truth is Marching On
Another night in J-Ward, another new friend wowed.
Lessons learned from Mama J's on a Friday night: Arrive at 4:00, like the couple next to us (he'd also been there last night, pre-KRS-One at the National) or after 7:00 (happy hour is over) when the waits are shorter than the length of the meal, a worthy goal.
Ordinarily, I'd never attempt Mama's at prime time but that's the window we had available and I wanted to show off the neighborhood fried chicken and cake. Okay, and the fried catfish, the perfectly cooked greens and the corn muffins.
As it was, with the bar two deep and a crowd of people waiting by the door, I used the time to school my newbie on the importance of choosing your cake variety early to have it cut and set aside before the cake's all gone.
Coincidentally, chocolate cake with white icing is tops for both of us, so that worked out very nicely.
We were making do with one stool when the bartender pointed us to the end of the bar and two open stools, but I no sooner planted my backside when the stool's previous owner got indignant with me. Of course I moved and the barkeep apologized, but also whispered that she'd been ready for some new faces, namely us.
A table soon opened up so I could introduce my first-timer to Jackson Ward soul food while the Spinners and O'Jays played overhead. I pity the fool who isn't won over by that combination.
Our massive slice o' cake had to accompany us to Richmond Comedy Coalition for "High There," the weekly improvised sit-com set in an inherited head shop. Odd as that might sound, it isn't the first time I've shown up there with cake in hand (last time it was Garnett's).
Cake and comedy, it's a natural, don't you think?
Tonight's sealed envelope revealed the two-pronged plot: High Times magazine was coming to review High There while the two ditzy staffers plot to get a 50-cent an hour raise. Grace needs it for her kombucha brewing start-up and Townsend tells Grace she needs more money because her cat, Mr. Tibalt, has colitis and it's getting very expensive (Grace: "I know, I follow the blog!").
The dreadlocked reviewer Star Brody shows up and mistakenly interviews Joe, the owner of the bookshop upstairs, while the staff waits on a woman they think is the reviewer but is actually writing for Water Aerobics Weekly ("Yes, weekly, there's enough water aerobics news for a weekly!").
And if you're dying to know how the shop fared with the review, you'll be happy to know that it was rated three pot leaves and a half. Not only that, but the staff managed to sell the 8-foot king bong (with matching tiara), so they both got 75-cent raises.
Let's just have a moment, shall we, to appreciate the RCC talent, a group of people who are able to improvise such hilarious situations and dialog on the fly.
Just like when I saw episode #1, between scenes we were shown the cheesiest vintage commercials known to man. I'm talking Mr. T cereal and Valley Ball, a Van Nuys bar boasting a vodka drip and topless dancers. An amusement park called Flintstones Bedrock City in British Columbia ("Kids, get your dinosaur driving license!") and a Chuck Norris movie of non-stop violence called "Code of Silence."
After this week's episode ended with a group hug, our host invited everyone to stay for the late show, but, alas, my companion works tomorrow morning, so we walked back to my house and said goodnight, but not before I was given way too much credit for dreaming up a great evening.
Stop that, it's just not all that tough to do where I live.
I couldn't think of any reason not to go right back for the late show, even getting the same seat, for a show based on Reddit's ridiculous postings. The funny part was, more than a few of the comedy crew admitted that they had no idea what Reddit was before planning this show.
Oh, good, then it's not just me.
A screen shot of several Reddit pages and the accompanying comments were screened on the wall, honing in on a guy named Superthug with an obviously Photoshopped gash on his head, a bullshit caption and, in the comments, a brief video of what claimed to be "Siri's ass."
I suppose for those of you who follow Siri's directions, this might hold some appeal.
Believe it or not, this evolved into a skit starring a man with a head gash because of having sex with a shark (but still looking for more action) and a stilted-voiced Siri checking her data base, only to inform him that Helen Mirren was "DTF."
You can challenge me on this, but I'm willing to bet that Helen Mirren and "DTF" have never before been used in the same sentence.
After a miscue by our host who tried to send us home before the second part of the program. we again scanned Reddit, this time coming up with a piece about a guy who took credit for telling Obama, "Yes, we can" and creating his campaign slogan. The comments section yielded a reference to Forest Gump and his indelible effect on history and they were off and running.
Two brothers both want to be president, but it's the simple-minded Marquise who talks of nothing but recycling, composting and garbage (his three-pronged political plan) who gets the support of big money, Angela Merkel and the little people, who chant, "Marquise, Marquise, Marquise."
Along the way, Dark Justice gives a speech while others hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and an interpretive dance is done. "Did you just shoot me with an interpretive dance gun?" DJ asks Marquise incredulously. Sure did and probably recycled it afterwards.
You'd think people couldn't make this stuff up, but I'm here to tell you they can. Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Lessons learned from Mama J's on a Friday night: Arrive at 4:00, like the couple next to us (he'd also been there last night, pre-KRS-One at the National) or after 7:00 (happy hour is over) when the waits are shorter than the length of the meal, a worthy goal.
Ordinarily, I'd never attempt Mama's at prime time but that's the window we had available and I wanted to show off the neighborhood fried chicken and cake. Okay, and the fried catfish, the perfectly cooked greens and the corn muffins.
As it was, with the bar two deep and a crowd of people waiting by the door, I used the time to school my newbie on the importance of choosing your cake variety early to have it cut and set aside before the cake's all gone.
Coincidentally, chocolate cake with white icing is tops for both of us, so that worked out very nicely.
We were making do with one stool when the bartender pointed us to the end of the bar and two open stools, but I no sooner planted my backside when the stool's previous owner got indignant with me. Of course I moved and the barkeep apologized, but also whispered that she'd been ready for some new faces, namely us.
A table soon opened up so I could introduce my first-timer to Jackson Ward soul food while the Spinners and O'Jays played overhead. I pity the fool who isn't won over by that combination.
Our massive slice o' cake had to accompany us to Richmond Comedy Coalition for "High There," the weekly improvised sit-com set in an inherited head shop. Odd as that might sound, it isn't the first time I've shown up there with cake in hand (last time it was Garnett's).
Cake and comedy, it's a natural, don't you think?
Tonight's sealed envelope revealed the two-pronged plot: High Times magazine was coming to review High There while the two ditzy staffers plot to get a 50-cent an hour raise. Grace needs it for her kombucha brewing start-up and Townsend tells Grace she needs more money because her cat, Mr. Tibalt, has colitis and it's getting very expensive (Grace: "I know, I follow the blog!").
The dreadlocked reviewer Star Brody shows up and mistakenly interviews Joe, the owner of the bookshop upstairs, while the staff waits on a woman they think is the reviewer but is actually writing for Water Aerobics Weekly ("Yes, weekly, there's enough water aerobics news for a weekly!").
And if you're dying to know how the shop fared with the review, you'll be happy to know that it was rated three pot leaves and a half. Not only that, but the staff managed to sell the 8-foot king bong (with matching tiara), so they both got 75-cent raises.
Let's just have a moment, shall we, to appreciate the RCC talent, a group of people who are able to improvise such hilarious situations and dialog on the fly.
Just like when I saw episode #1, between scenes we were shown the cheesiest vintage commercials known to man. I'm talking Mr. T cereal and Valley Ball, a Van Nuys bar boasting a vodka drip and topless dancers. An amusement park called Flintstones Bedrock City in British Columbia ("Kids, get your dinosaur driving license!") and a Chuck Norris movie of non-stop violence called "Code of Silence."
After this week's episode ended with a group hug, our host invited everyone to stay for the late show, but, alas, my companion works tomorrow morning, so we walked back to my house and said goodnight, but not before I was given way too much credit for dreaming up a great evening.
Stop that, it's just not all that tough to do where I live.
I couldn't think of any reason not to go right back for the late show, even getting the same seat, for a show based on Reddit's ridiculous postings. The funny part was, more than a few of the comedy crew admitted that they had no idea what Reddit was before planning this show.
Oh, good, then it's not just me.
A screen shot of several Reddit pages and the accompanying comments were screened on the wall, honing in on a guy named Superthug with an obviously Photoshopped gash on his head, a bullshit caption and, in the comments, a brief video of what claimed to be "Siri's ass."
I suppose for those of you who follow Siri's directions, this might hold some appeal.
Believe it or not, this evolved into a skit starring a man with a head gash because of having sex with a shark (but still looking for more action) and a stilted-voiced Siri checking her data base, only to inform him that Helen Mirren was "DTF."
You can challenge me on this, but I'm willing to bet that Helen Mirren and "DTF" have never before been used in the same sentence.
After a miscue by our host who tried to send us home before the second part of the program. we again scanned Reddit, this time coming up with a piece about a guy who took credit for telling Obama, "Yes, we can" and creating his campaign slogan. The comments section yielded a reference to Forest Gump and his indelible effect on history and they were off and running.
Two brothers both want to be president, but it's the simple-minded Marquise who talks of nothing but recycling, composting and garbage (his three-pronged political plan) who gets the support of big money, Angela Merkel and the little people, who chant, "Marquise, Marquise, Marquise."
Along the way, Dark Justice gives a speech while others hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and an interpretive dance is done. "Did you just shoot me with an interpretive dance gun?" DJ asks Marquise incredulously. Sure did and probably recycled it afterwards.
You'd think people couldn't make this stuff up, but I'm here to tell you they can. Glory, glory, hallelujah.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Put Your Chips Down and Dance
Home by 3, out the door by 4 after a laid back weekend away.
On a day this bodacious, what's a three block walk to hear an Athens, GA band and a Swedish band do a quick in-store performance of tuneful melodies with the front door flung wide open?
"I love how it sounds with these hard wood floors," the lead singer of King of Prussia said, explaining that when they'd first gotten together, they'd rehearsed in an old church with floors like the ones in Steady Sounds.
When they finished, their tour mates, Sweden's Case Conrad, who shared two band members from Barcelona with King of Prussia, took over and gave us a taste of their '80s-influenced sound.
Mid-song, an old guy in an overcoat who'd been wandering down the street, came in, put down the bag of potato chips he'd been munching and began dancing and playing air bass, both quite well, I might add.
The bassist (from Barcelona) grinned and mirrored the guy's moves.
It might have been at that moment that I decided that I was going to go to the Case Conrad/King of Prussia show at the Camel tonight.
After, of course, I finished with my community duty/
Tonight was the fourth in the Valentine's community conversation series and it was taking place at Mama J's Kitchen, a few blocks away, on the topic of "Transportation on Broad Street."
It was my first time in Mama J's special events space and while today's beautiful weather put a hurting on the attendance numbers, those of us who did show up dove into Mama's famous seafood salad along with a big platter of fried chicken.
Tonight's subject was considerably broader (ha!) than past evenings since it wasn't just about an area, but about addressing an important issue there.
We broke into small groups to discuss our memories of Broad Street (one woman recalled 8 cent rides on the streetcars) before using keypads to determine the demographics of the room (versus the city) along with other details.
When asked what our favorite things about the city were, the choices of history, outdoors, neighborhoods, people, proximity to other cities, Short Pump Town Center and weather varied among people depending on how long they'd lived here, but one thing was crystal clear.
"We like everything except Short Pump and the weather," facilitator Matthew drolly observed after zero people chose either of those answers.
One depressing statistic was that 45% of the people in the room never used any means of transportation other than a car to get somewhere in Richmond.
As in they never walked to a restaurant or store, much less took the bus or biked. On the plus side, at least they were interested enough to attend this conversation.
Next came the Valentine's slide show of vintage photographs from the collection, showing things like when railroad tracks used to run down the middle of Broad Street. I had no idea. Pictures of the horse-drawn streetcars from 1860 and the electric trolleys that began operating in 1888.
One of my favorite images was of the Ashland-Northern Neck streetcar station depot, the one at Laurel and Broad that has been recently renovated by VCU and will host its first art show this week. I passed that building for years on my daily walk and had never seen what it originally looked like.
I learned that the original farmer's market at 6th and Marshall was called Second Market because the one at 17th Street in the Bottom was First Market. And now I get the bank name, too.
Completely over the top was a photograph from Richmond's elaborate 1900 street fair, at which we erected a plaster, steel and wood replica of Paris' Arc de Triomphe at Broad and 10th Street, big enough for the trolleys to go under.
Oh, and by the way, at the other end of Broad was a model of the Eiffel Tower. No joke.
They just don't make street fairs the way they used to.
Our small groups met again to talk about our hopes for Broad and transportation and one guy in our circle works for a group pushing rapid bus transit on Broad from Rockett's Landing to Willow Lawn with dedicated bus lanes and green light capability to keep them moving. It's a start anyway.
Then tonight's speaker, Richmond Magazine's "The Hat" got up and began explaining why he was qualified to talk about the topic.
Explaining that he was a native, albeit one whose parents had taken white flight from the city in his toddlerhood, he explained, "So I hired a canoe and a native guide to find my way back across the river," where he's lived ever since.
Harry impressed upon us how Richmond was the first city in the world to have an electric trolley system and how crucial this was in eliminating the overabundance of horse dung on Broad Street.
He left us with his insistence that whatever the next big transportation thing is for the city, it has to be as grand and memorable as the trolleys were.
We can only hope.
After walking home (not bragging, just stating the facts), it was time to return to the Athenian and the Swedes.
When I walked into the Camel, Grass Panther only had a few songs left but enough for me to catch the one man band's excellent guitar shredding and intense vocals. I had, however, missed hearing his magnum opus, "Skinny Pants Hurt My Nuts," but perhaps I'll get to hear it next time he plays.
Tonight's crowd at the Camel was small, a shame since shows now start not only at a reasonable hour for worker bees (8) but on time (unheard of in Richmond).
I found a couple of music-loving friends, told them what I'd heard at Steady Sounds earlier, and soon after Case Conrad started with "Sugar Factory" and moved into the moody and new "Kill the Lights," they turned to me and started nodding that they liked it.
My inner synth-loving self fell hard for "Copper Thief" and the exuberant "The Years I Spent Punkrocking" about San Francisco, Dylan and Diamond Dave Whitaker.
Honestly, I'd have been happy if they'd played everything off their new album.
King of Prussia came next, playing their version of '90s college rock (Athens, GA, hello?) with the two musicians from Barcelona helping them flesh out their songs, like on a song described as about "breaking hearts and taking names" and with a sinuous slide guitar to really evoke the gut-wrenching of heartbreak.
They did a country-tinged song ("Wouldn't it be funny if we covered Blake Shelton?" Blake who?) and a sunny, older song they dedicated to the two guys next to me who'd known them back in Athens.
When they finished, a couple of friends and I talked about '90s music and how far less of it grabbed us than '80s, a function, no doubt of our ages.
Last up were local experimental and shoegazers Canary, oh, Canary, always good for killer guitar riffs and dramatic vocals and tonight, bathed in red lights, their choice of the color spectrum. Don't give them no stinkin' green lights.
Their set was abbreviated to make the curfew but they called DJ Black Liquid (who entreated the crowd to come closer) onstage to help with vocals on "Dirty South" resulting in a lot of grinning and satisfied looks from lead singer Michael.
It may have been short, but Canary, oh Canary represented well for Richmond in front of the likes of Athenians and Swedes.
As for Broad Street and transportation, 1st Street to Lombardy, seven hours out and about. I'm doing what I can here to support the cause in the dirty south.
On a day this bodacious, what's a three block walk to hear an Athens, GA band and a Swedish band do a quick in-store performance of tuneful melodies with the front door flung wide open?
"I love how it sounds with these hard wood floors," the lead singer of King of Prussia said, explaining that when they'd first gotten together, they'd rehearsed in an old church with floors like the ones in Steady Sounds.
When they finished, their tour mates, Sweden's Case Conrad, who shared two band members from Barcelona with King of Prussia, took over and gave us a taste of their '80s-influenced sound.
Mid-song, an old guy in an overcoat who'd been wandering down the street, came in, put down the bag of potato chips he'd been munching and began dancing and playing air bass, both quite well, I might add.
The bassist (from Barcelona) grinned and mirrored the guy's moves.
It might have been at that moment that I decided that I was going to go to the Case Conrad/King of Prussia show at the Camel tonight.
After, of course, I finished with my community duty/
Tonight was the fourth in the Valentine's community conversation series and it was taking place at Mama J's Kitchen, a few blocks away, on the topic of "Transportation on Broad Street."
It was my first time in Mama J's special events space and while today's beautiful weather put a hurting on the attendance numbers, those of us who did show up dove into Mama's famous seafood salad along with a big platter of fried chicken.
Tonight's subject was considerably broader (ha!) than past evenings since it wasn't just about an area, but about addressing an important issue there.
We broke into small groups to discuss our memories of Broad Street (one woman recalled 8 cent rides on the streetcars) before using keypads to determine the demographics of the room (versus the city) along with other details.
When asked what our favorite things about the city were, the choices of history, outdoors, neighborhoods, people, proximity to other cities, Short Pump Town Center and weather varied among people depending on how long they'd lived here, but one thing was crystal clear.
"We like everything except Short Pump and the weather," facilitator Matthew drolly observed after zero people chose either of those answers.
One depressing statistic was that 45% of the people in the room never used any means of transportation other than a car to get somewhere in Richmond.
As in they never walked to a restaurant or store, much less took the bus or biked. On the plus side, at least they were interested enough to attend this conversation.
Next came the Valentine's slide show of vintage photographs from the collection, showing things like when railroad tracks used to run down the middle of Broad Street. I had no idea. Pictures of the horse-drawn streetcars from 1860 and the electric trolleys that began operating in 1888.
One of my favorite images was of the Ashland-Northern Neck streetcar station depot, the one at Laurel and Broad that has been recently renovated by VCU and will host its first art show this week. I passed that building for years on my daily walk and had never seen what it originally looked like.
I learned that the original farmer's market at 6th and Marshall was called Second Market because the one at 17th Street in the Bottom was First Market. And now I get the bank name, too.
Completely over the top was a photograph from Richmond's elaborate 1900 street fair, at which we erected a plaster, steel and wood replica of Paris' Arc de Triomphe at Broad and 10th Street, big enough for the trolleys to go under.
Oh, and by the way, at the other end of Broad was a model of the Eiffel Tower. No joke.
They just don't make street fairs the way they used to.
Our small groups met again to talk about our hopes for Broad and transportation and one guy in our circle works for a group pushing rapid bus transit on Broad from Rockett's Landing to Willow Lawn with dedicated bus lanes and green light capability to keep them moving. It's a start anyway.
Then tonight's speaker, Richmond Magazine's "The Hat" got up and began explaining why he was qualified to talk about the topic.
Explaining that he was a native, albeit one whose parents had taken white flight from the city in his toddlerhood, he explained, "So I hired a canoe and a native guide to find my way back across the river," where he's lived ever since.
Harry impressed upon us how Richmond was the first city in the world to have an electric trolley system and how crucial this was in eliminating the overabundance of horse dung on Broad Street.
He left us with his insistence that whatever the next big transportation thing is for the city, it has to be as grand and memorable as the trolleys were.
We can only hope.
After walking home (not bragging, just stating the facts), it was time to return to the Athenian and the Swedes.
When I walked into the Camel, Grass Panther only had a few songs left but enough for me to catch the one man band's excellent guitar shredding and intense vocals. I had, however, missed hearing his magnum opus, "Skinny Pants Hurt My Nuts," but perhaps I'll get to hear it next time he plays.
Tonight's crowd at the Camel was small, a shame since shows now start not only at a reasonable hour for worker bees (8) but on time (unheard of in Richmond).
I found a couple of music-loving friends, told them what I'd heard at Steady Sounds earlier, and soon after Case Conrad started with "Sugar Factory" and moved into the moody and new "Kill the Lights," they turned to me and started nodding that they liked it.
My inner synth-loving self fell hard for "Copper Thief" and the exuberant "The Years I Spent Punkrocking" about San Francisco, Dylan and Diamond Dave Whitaker.
Honestly, I'd have been happy if they'd played everything off their new album.
King of Prussia came next, playing their version of '90s college rock (Athens, GA, hello?) with the two musicians from Barcelona helping them flesh out their songs, like on a song described as about "breaking hearts and taking names" and with a sinuous slide guitar to really evoke the gut-wrenching of heartbreak.
They did a country-tinged song ("Wouldn't it be funny if we covered Blake Shelton?" Blake who?) and a sunny, older song they dedicated to the two guys next to me who'd known them back in Athens.
When they finished, a couple of friends and I talked about '90s music and how far less of it grabbed us than '80s, a function, no doubt of our ages.
Last up were local experimental and shoegazers Canary, oh, Canary, always good for killer guitar riffs and dramatic vocals and tonight, bathed in red lights, their choice of the color spectrum. Don't give them no stinkin' green lights.
Their set was abbreviated to make the curfew but they called DJ Black Liquid (who entreated the crowd to come closer) onstage to help with vocals on "Dirty South" resulting in a lot of grinning and satisfied looks from lead singer Michael.
It may have been short, but Canary, oh Canary represented well for Richmond in front of the likes of Athenians and Swedes.
As for Broad Street and transportation, 1st Street to Lombardy, seven hours out and about. I'm doing what I can here to support the cause in the dirty south.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Maybe Next Year, Baby
Some nights it's good to be called "baby."
It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.
Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."
My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."
With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"
Quite well, thank you.
She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."
A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.
I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.
When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.
Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.
She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.
No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?
"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.
Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.
"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.
"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.
Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.
"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.
"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.
"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.
"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.
Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.
Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.
Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.
The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."
Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.
The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.
They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.
The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.
But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.
One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.
There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.
But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.
I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."
It all evens out in the end.
The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.
Seems I need an annual music video dose.
Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.
Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.
I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.
Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.
Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.
I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.
During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.
There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.
He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.
His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.
He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.
Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.
Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.
Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.
After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.
"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."
I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.
As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."
Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.
My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.
It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.
Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."
My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."
With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"
Quite well, thank you.
She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."
A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.
I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.
When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.
Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.
She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.
No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?
"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.
Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.
"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.
"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.
Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.
"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.
"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.
"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.
"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.
Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.
Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.
Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.
The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."
Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.
The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.
They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.
The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.
But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.
One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.
There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.
But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.
I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."
It all evens out in the end.
The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.
Seems I need an annual music video dose.
Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.
Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.
I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.
Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.
Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.
I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.
During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.
There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.
He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.
His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.
He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.
Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.
Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.
Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.
After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.
"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."
I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.
As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."
Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.
My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
A Little Wisp of a Scherzo
You start slow and you build on a hot Wednesday evening.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Broadly Appetizing
Broad Appetit is the new Watermelon Festival.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Cut to Life
It was literally banner news.
Walking through my beloved Jackson Ward last week, I'd seen a sign hanging on Mama J's proclaiming, "Open on Monday."
They didn't have to tell me twice.
A) It's a few blocks from home and B) it's open on a night when so many are not.
Tonight's partner in crime and I rolled in early so we could catch a movie and, just in case, avoid the crowds.
At 5:15, we had our pick of seats and took two prime bar stools with a view of the cake cabinet.
By 6:00, every single table and stool were taken. It pays to know what you're doing.
And it helps to be a neighbor.
The bartender immediately recognized me and welcomed us back, detailing happy hour specials on libations and wings.
But the cakes in the cabinet were too alluring not to admire first, so we tried to figure out which cakes on the chalkboard were still available.
My companion was leaning toward the strawberry lemon cake when a server got it out of the case and cut the last two slices.
Knowing how it works at Mama's we immediately lamented not having called dibs on a piece of that cake.
The server took one of the two she'd cut and laid it in front of us. The last piece.
Whew, that was a close one.
Since he'd picked the cake, I got to choose dinner, opting for Mama's seafood salad followed by country fried steak smothered in onion and pepper gravy and mashed potatoes with more gravy.
It's rare that I can refrain from ordering Mama's fried chicken, but I stayed strong.
The reward was on the plate.
Mama's seafood salad combines elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a mayo and Old Bay-based dressing.
It's a fitting start to any meal at Mama's.
The fried steak had a wonderfully flavorful breading, perfectly fried and still crispy despite a liberal ladling of (red and green pepper and onion) gravy sitting atop it.
We were half way through when a server not our own came over to ask, "How are y'all doing with your food?"
"Great," the monosyllabic one said, while I went with, "Wonderful!"
"I like her answer," the server said, filling a water glass and smiling broadly. "She had to close her eyes to answer."
Yes, I did.
Say what you want about the lowly country fried steak (the inferior cut of beef, all the tenderizing required, the requisite gravy to hide any shortcomings), it's a tasty dish when done as well as this was.
Even the mashed potatoes were a treat, full of bits of red skin and seasoned to be a standalone and not just a vehicle for gravy.
While we ate, a woman came in for a piece of cake to go.
She requested the coconut pineapple and when our server went to cut it for her, he mentioned that it was his favorite.
After cutting and boxing her piece, he put the last piece of that cake in a box and set it behind the bar.
"Is that for you?" the customer asked, laughing.
"Yea, I've learned to cut mine early," he said. "Otherwise we run out and I don't get mine."
Leaning in conspiratorially, the woman confided, "I used to come down here every week after church and get a slice of that cake."
If she was looking for us to judge her, she'd picked the wrong people.
"I had to stop!" she finished.
It doesn't take many trips to Mama's to learn that the smart people choose their cake first and put it on hold for later, we all agreed.
Our cake was a two-toned and moist delight with strawberry icing on the lemon layer and lemon icing (my favorite of the two) on the strawberry layer.
We ate it down to the crumbs.
By then, the place had filled up with two large parties and our server confirmed that last Monday had been their biggest Monday ever.
Clearly I was late to seeing the banner, since this was their 6th Monday and I was just now taking advantage of it.
Now I know.
From Jackson Ward, it was on to the Westhampton theater for a beautiful and at times difficult-to-watch film about love and death.
"Amour" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, all kinds of European film critics' awards and is nominated for scads more here.
Surprisingly, there was a decent crowd for tonight's showing, albeit a talkative one all the way through the opening credits.
Like the woman beside me who said loudly, "It's gonna be subtitled so it doesn't matter how loud we are," to her companion.
Actually, it does.
The story of an 80-something French couple deeply entrenched in their simple, cultured lives and long-time marriage was a revelation in acting and storytelling.
After the wife has two strokes and surgery fails to help, the loving husband takes on her care.
The beauty of the film was the lack of sympathy or any sort of overriding emotion in the way the decline of the wife unfolds.
When she directs her husband mid-meal to fetch the family photo albums, it is so that she can reminisce about their life together while she's still able to.
"It's beautiful," she says, turning pages of an album.
"What?" he asks.
"Life," she says simply, but devastatingly for the audience who, like her, knows she's not long for this world.
Because the movie allows each scene to unfold, there are many that would have those with short attention spans squirming in their chairs, itching for something faster to happen.
But life doesn't always move in quick cuts and the film's pace befits the character's mindsets, slow to accept the inevitable.
The enduring love shown between the couple, the way she chides him for being overly-attentive when she comes home from the hospital, the way he essentially gives up his life to provide her care, is what gives the movie its title.
It's an amour for the ages.
By the time they are both gone and the quiet, unhurried, music-less movie finishes, sobs and sniffles could be heard all over the theater.
Okay, so it wasn't a feelgood movie, just an unflinching look at a stage of life and infirmity that most people would prefer not to imagine, but as love stories go, it was exquisite.
A banner cinema experience even.
A reminder that even beautiful lives end and if that's not impetus to savor every bit now, I can't imagine what would be.
Walking through my beloved Jackson Ward last week, I'd seen a sign hanging on Mama J's proclaiming, "Open on Monday."
They didn't have to tell me twice.
A) It's a few blocks from home and B) it's open on a night when so many are not.
Tonight's partner in crime and I rolled in early so we could catch a movie and, just in case, avoid the crowds.
At 5:15, we had our pick of seats and took two prime bar stools with a view of the cake cabinet.
By 6:00, every single table and stool were taken. It pays to know what you're doing.
And it helps to be a neighbor.
The bartender immediately recognized me and welcomed us back, detailing happy hour specials on libations and wings.
But the cakes in the cabinet were too alluring not to admire first, so we tried to figure out which cakes on the chalkboard were still available.
My companion was leaning toward the strawberry lemon cake when a server got it out of the case and cut the last two slices.
Knowing how it works at Mama's we immediately lamented not having called dibs on a piece of that cake.
The server took one of the two she'd cut and laid it in front of us. The last piece.
Whew, that was a close one.
Since he'd picked the cake, I got to choose dinner, opting for Mama's seafood salad followed by country fried steak smothered in onion and pepper gravy and mashed potatoes with more gravy.
It's rare that I can refrain from ordering Mama's fried chicken, but I stayed strong.
The reward was on the plate.
Mama's seafood salad combines elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a mayo and Old Bay-based dressing.
It's a fitting start to any meal at Mama's.
The fried steak had a wonderfully flavorful breading, perfectly fried and still crispy despite a liberal ladling of (red and green pepper and onion) gravy sitting atop it.
We were half way through when a server not our own came over to ask, "How are y'all doing with your food?"
"Great," the monosyllabic one said, while I went with, "Wonderful!"
"I like her answer," the server said, filling a water glass and smiling broadly. "She had to close her eyes to answer."
Yes, I did.
Say what you want about the lowly country fried steak (the inferior cut of beef, all the tenderizing required, the requisite gravy to hide any shortcomings), it's a tasty dish when done as well as this was.
Even the mashed potatoes were a treat, full of bits of red skin and seasoned to be a standalone and not just a vehicle for gravy.
While we ate, a woman came in for a piece of cake to go.
She requested the coconut pineapple and when our server went to cut it for her, he mentioned that it was his favorite.
After cutting and boxing her piece, he put the last piece of that cake in a box and set it behind the bar.
"Is that for you?" the customer asked, laughing.
"Yea, I've learned to cut mine early," he said. "Otherwise we run out and I don't get mine."
Leaning in conspiratorially, the woman confided, "I used to come down here every week after church and get a slice of that cake."
If she was looking for us to judge her, she'd picked the wrong people.
"I had to stop!" she finished.
It doesn't take many trips to Mama's to learn that the smart people choose their cake first and put it on hold for later, we all agreed.
Our cake was a two-toned and moist delight with strawberry icing on the lemon layer and lemon icing (my favorite of the two) on the strawberry layer.
We ate it down to the crumbs.
By then, the place had filled up with two large parties and our server confirmed that last Monday had been their biggest Monday ever.
Clearly I was late to seeing the banner, since this was their 6th Monday and I was just now taking advantage of it.
Now I know.
From Jackson Ward, it was on to the Westhampton theater for a beautiful and at times difficult-to-watch film about love and death.
"Amour" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, all kinds of European film critics' awards and is nominated for scads more here.
Surprisingly, there was a decent crowd for tonight's showing, albeit a talkative one all the way through the opening credits.
Like the woman beside me who said loudly, "It's gonna be subtitled so it doesn't matter how loud we are," to her companion.
Actually, it does.
The story of an 80-something French couple deeply entrenched in their simple, cultured lives and long-time marriage was a revelation in acting and storytelling.
After the wife has two strokes and surgery fails to help, the loving husband takes on her care.
The beauty of the film was the lack of sympathy or any sort of overriding emotion in the way the decline of the wife unfolds.
When she directs her husband mid-meal to fetch the family photo albums, it is so that she can reminisce about their life together while she's still able to.
"It's beautiful," she says, turning pages of an album.
"What?" he asks.
"Life," she says simply, but devastatingly for the audience who, like her, knows she's not long for this world.
Because the movie allows each scene to unfold, there are many that would have those with short attention spans squirming in their chairs, itching for something faster to happen.
But life doesn't always move in quick cuts and the film's pace befits the character's mindsets, slow to accept the inevitable.
The enduring love shown between the couple, the way she chides him for being overly-attentive when she comes home from the hospital, the way he essentially gives up his life to provide her care, is what gives the movie its title.
It's an amour for the ages.
By the time they are both gone and the quiet, unhurried, music-less movie finishes, sobs and sniffles could be heard all over the theater.
Okay, so it wasn't a feelgood movie, just an unflinching look at a stage of life and infirmity that most people would prefer not to imagine, but as love stories go, it was exquisite.
A banner cinema experience even.
A reminder that even beautiful lives end and if that's not impetus to savor every bit now, I can't imagine what would be.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Now is Good
You can already feel it.
The town is going into pre-Sandy mode and hunkering down. It's hysterical.
By late afternoon, I was seeing pictures on Facebook of the long lines at Kroger.
Seriously, people?
Yes, the governor has already declared a state of emergency. And that's okay.
I, for one, learned back in 2003 pre-Isabel when a state of emergency was declared and we scoffed.
No, really, my friend and I sat at Avalon and dismissed the folly of declaring a SoE before the storm even got near land.
Twelve days later when I finally got my power back (seriously, twelve), I'd lost the ability to scoff.
So with Sandy bearing down, I know people are beginning to nest.
Sorry, just can't do it.
Instead, willing accomplice and I grabbed umbrellas and put foot in path to head to Mama J's for pre-Sandy soul food.
The line was out the door.
But, as is so often the case, we got seated immediately because we were willing to sit at the bar.
Meanwhile, people in line long before us continued to stand in the rain in hope of getting a table before the place closed.
Fools.
Our bartender was sunny and attentive and I immediately displaced a former coworker with a hug when I sat down, so life was good.
We began with tonight's soup, a trout chowder, thick and creamy and loaded with corn, potatoes and the unmistakable taste of trout.
No one but Mama J's would offer such a thing, I swear it.
Next came Mama J's famous seafood salad, a combination of elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a creamy dressing heavy on the Old Bay.
Let's just say it's justifiably famous (especially for three bucks).
While people lined up at the bar to make to-go orders (honestly, some of them were ordering enough to carry them through Sandy and the aftermath), we took our time, ordering fried chicken and cole slaw next.
"It'll take twenty minutes for that, " our bartender warned, a fact with which we had no problem.
We had nothing but time.
As we watched an incident unfold where the ownership of the last piece of rum cake was in question, we noticed that Mama's was down to only two kinds of cake.
Since they almost always have five varieties, it told us that it had been a busy day/week for soul food.
Eventually our fried chicken arrived, too hot to pick up but smelling too good to ignore.
Within minutes, we were pulling the pieces apart and savoring crispy skin and hot meat, all the while keeping an eye on the cake case.
When we'd cleared our plate, we qualified for dessert (just like with my Richmond grandmother) and had a choice of chocolate cake with either strawberry frosting or chocolate frosting.
My date opted for chocolate/chocolate, the signature cake of my youth, where our motto was, "You can never have too much chocolate."
It explains a lot, doesn't it?
Once we finished as much of the cake as we could (it had been a filling meal, after all), we felt obligated to vacate our stools so some of the teeming masses could sit in our stead.
It was an atmospheric walk home in the light rain, impending fog and warm air.
You could practically smell that there's a storm coming.
My date went to work and I called a friend who answered the phone with, "What? Are you bored?"
In short order, I was invited over for bubbles and an exchange of witticisms.
Not a bad offer for a Friday night.
Passing by the Kroger, I was reminded, not of the impending storm, but of the impending holiday as I saw two gringos standing out front.
Serapes, straw hats and cigarillos made the look.
Further on, I saw Super Girl snapping on her cape before getting into her SUV.
Ah, yes, the holiday of fantasy is almost upon us.
Costume-less, I made for my friend's house.
Like any good party, we all ended up in the kitchen, the back door wide open to the damp, warm air and smell of impending doom.
Our host graciously poured Mumm Napa Brut Rose, full of beautiful bubbles, a yeasty fragrance and a hint of strawberries.
Or, as the curly-haired one observed after her first sip, "Mmmm, I could drink this first thing in the morning every single day!"
Wouldn't that be a lovely life?
Between the interesting musical selections, stuff like new Keane, old Weepies, Nick Drake, and Captain Sensible, he who co-founded The Damned and went on to re-brand himself as an alt-pop singer.
And I liked his alt-pop, if I do say so myself.
And that's a good party when I discover a musician I hadn't known and get to hear it played at party volumes while sipping the prettiest of pink bubbles from a bottle with a label one guest described as "Like pink peau de soie."
When's the last time you were at a party and someone mentioned, much less knew what peau de soie was?
When's the last time a state of emergency was declared and I drank pink bubbles in anticipation?
When's the last time I got made fun of so badly that I almost rolled off the sofa laughing so hard?
Not recently enough.
To quote a doctor I once interviewed, "If not now, when?"
The town is going into pre-Sandy mode and hunkering down. It's hysterical.
By late afternoon, I was seeing pictures on Facebook of the long lines at Kroger.
Seriously, people?
Yes, the governor has already declared a state of emergency. And that's okay.
I, for one, learned back in 2003 pre-Isabel when a state of emergency was declared and we scoffed.
No, really, my friend and I sat at Avalon and dismissed the folly of declaring a SoE before the storm even got near land.
Twelve days later when I finally got my power back (seriously, twelve), I'd lost the ability to scoff.
So with Sandy bearing down, I know people are beginning to nest.
Sorry, just can't do it.
Instead, willing accomplice and I grabbed umbrellas and put foot in path to head to Mama J's for pre-Sandy soul food.
The line was out the door.
But, as is so often the case, we got seated immediately because we were willing to sit at the bar.
Meanwhile, people in line long before us continued to stand in the rain in hope of getting a table before the place closed.
Fools.
Our bartender was sunny and attentive and I immediately displaced a former coworker with a hug when I sat down, so life was good.
We began with tonight's soup, a trout chowder, thick and creamy and loaded with corn, potatoes and the unmistakable taste of trout.
No one but Mama J's would offer such a thing, I swear it.
Next came Mama J's famous seafood salad, a combination of elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a creamy dressing heavy on the Old Bay.
Let's just say it's justifiably famous (especially for three bucks).
While people lined up at the bar to make to-go orders (honestly, some of them were ordering enough to carry them through Sandy and the aftermath), we took our time, ordering fried chicken and cole slaw next.
"It'll take twenty minutes for that, " our bartender warned, a fact with which we had no problem.
We had nothing but time.
As we watched an incident unfold where the ownership of the last piece of rum cake was in question, we noticed that Mama's was down to only two kinds of cake.
Since they almost always have five varieties, it told us that it had been a busy day/week for soul food.
Eventually our fried chicken arrived, too hot to pick up but smelling too good to ignore.
Within minutes, we were pulling the pieces apart and savoring crispy skin and hot meat, all the while keeping an eye on the cake case.
When we'd cleared our plate, we qualified for dessert (just like with my Richmond grandmother) and had a choice of chocolate cake with either strawberry frosting or chocolate frosting.
My date opted for chocolate/chocolate, the signature cake of my youth, where our motto was, "You can never have too much chocolate."
It explains a lot, doesn't it?
Once we finished as much of the cake as we could (it had been a filling meal, after all), we felt obligated to vacate our stools so some of the teeming masses could sit in our stead.
It was an atmospheric walk home in the light rain, impending fog and warm air.
You could practically smell that there's a storm coming.
My date went to work and I called a friend who answered the phone with, "What? Are you bored?"
In short order, I was invited over for bubbles and an exchange of witticisms.
Not a bad offer for a Friday night.
Passing by the Kroger, I was reminded, not of the impending storm, but of the impending holiday as I saw two gringos standing out front.
Serapes, straw hats and cigarillos made the look.
Further on, I saw Super Girl snapping on her cape before getting into her SUV.
Ah, yes, the holiday of fantasy is almost upon us.
Costume-less, I made for my friend's house.
Like any good party, we all ended up in the kitchen, the back door wide open to the damp, warm air and smell of impending doom.
Our host graciously poured Mumm Napa Brut Rose, full of beautiful bubbles, a yeasty fragrance and a hint of strawberries.
Or, as the curly-haired one observed after her first sip, "Mmmm, I could drink this first thing in the morning every single day!"
Wouldn't that be a lovely life?
Between the interesting musical selections, stuff like new Keane, old Weepies, Nick Drake, and Captain Sensible, he who co-founded The Damned and went on to re-brand himself as an alt-pop singer.
And I liked his alt-pop, if I do say so myself.
And that's a good party when I discover a musician I hadn't known and get to hear it played at party volumes while sipping the prettiest of pink bubbles from a bottle with a label one guest described as "Like pink peau de soie."
When's the last time you were at a party and someone mentioned, much less knew what peau de soie was?
When's the last time a state of emergency was declared and I drank pink bubbles in anticipation?
When's the last time I got made fun of so badly that I almost rolled off the sofa laughing so hard?
Not recently enough.
To quote a doctor I once interviewed, "If not now, when?"
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Atta Boy
It's a wonder everyone isn't sick right now given the see-saw rhythm of the weather this January.
And of course some people are.
Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."
Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.
Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.
In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."
So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.
Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.
I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.
Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.
Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.
Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.
It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.
I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.
Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.
Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.
And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.
And of course some people are.
Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."
Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.
Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.
In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."
So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.
Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.
I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.
Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.
Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.
Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.
It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.
I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.
Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.
Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.
And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Deck the Halls with Vino
Never let it be said that I can't entertain strangers.
Sure, my only intention in going to Mama J's was Sunday supper, but as long as I was there, why not entertain some visitors to our fair city?
I got there late and the place was full. In fact, the woman just ahead of me, who was waiting for two associates, was told there was a 25-minute wait.
When the hostess asked how many were in my party, I volunteered to eat the bar. Moments later the woman joined me there.
Renee was from Portland and is here doing business at the Convention Center.
She ordered a drink while I ordered dinner and we started getting to know each other.
The bartender tried to take her menu at one point and I told him to leave it so she could drool over it.
"Drool away," he grinned.
By the time my food came, I knew loads about her, so much that I suggested she stop waiting for her dinner companions and eat with me.
It wasn't only selfishness; Mama's was closing in half an hour and there was no guarantee they'd make it in time.
I'm not sure my suggestion was half as convincing as the sight and smell of me eating my dark meat fried chicken, greens, corn muffin and cole slaw.
Forsaking her friends, she ordered.
On the other side of me sat a couple with accents and a few well-placed questions revealed that they were visiting Brazilians.
In their eagerness to taste American soul food, they'd ordered a ton of it.
She asked for barbecue sauce for her massive crabcakes and the bartender politely explained that she might want to try the tartar sauce first.
"I love the barbecue sauce," she said, "But I should stop putting it on everything."
I recommended a favorite Brazilian chef's restaurant to her and she was thrilled, thanking me repeatedly.
Right about closing time Renee's associates showed up and ordered stiff drinks and take-out.
They took stools at the end of the bar and she and I went right on chatting about equality, travel and how beautiful she thought J-Ward was.
Once she and the crew left, I ordered a slice of lemon cake and savored every bite like it was the once a year treat it was in my childhood.
All five of my sisters hated lemon cake, so it was just me and my parents who ate it, meaning we only had it annually.
As opposed to chocolate cake, which we had weekly. Seriously. It's no wonder I'm a chocoholic.
After dinner, I was on my way to a friend's for a holiday wine tasting get-together.
I walked in to find them in mid-decorating mode, but that activity became secondary so we could move on to the fun part.
There were six of us, two couples, half of a couple and yours truly. And the Christmas tunes played on.
Four wines were on the tasting menu tonight and we started with the RdV (Rutger de Vink) Rendezvous, a Merlot-based beauty that grabbed everyone at the table with its velvety smoothness.
Next we tried the RdV "Friends and Family," a Bordeaux-style red so accessible that it tasted like something eminently drinkable day in and day out.
It was around this time that the subject of Jackson Ward's walkability came up and I found myself defending my beloved 'hood.
Don't tell me I can't walk to any number of restaurants and concert venues from home because I've done it.
Now that everyone was warmed up we moved on to the RdV, a Cabernet Sauvignon blend with a much higher price tag than I could ever afford.
No doubt about it, it had beautiful tannins, lovely fruit and enough complexity to justify the price tag. Still, it didn't make me forget the Rendezvous.
And as long as you're still thinking of the past, how can you fully enjoy the present?
Our male host continued to decorate even after we began sipping, hanging silver balls and tearing the crotch of his jeans in doing so.
We'd have laughed anyway, but we were three wines in so we teased him unmercifully.
We finished with Linden Hardscrabble Red, which equaled, if not exceeded the party's passion for the RdV Rendezvous.
It was smooth with beautiful dark fruit and it proved why Linden's Jim Law is the reigning Virginia wine god for so many wine geeks.
By the end of the evening, we all had a favorite wine and their place was mostly decorated.
The Christmas music was long gone (you can only hear Phil Spector's Christmas song so many times before pulling the plug) but the place looked beautiful and the wine was mostly gone.
As they say this time of year, falalalalalalalala.
Sure, my only intention in going to Mama J's was Sunday supper, but as long as I was there, why not entertain some visitors to our fair city?
I got there late and the place was full. In fact, the woman just ahead of me, who was waiting for two associates, was told there was a 25-minute wait.
When the hostess asked how many were in my party, I volunteered to eat the bar. Moments later the woman joined me there.
Renee was from Portland and is here doing business at the Convention Center.
She ordered a drink while I ordered dinner and we started getting to know each other.
The bartender tried to take her menu at one point and I told him to leave it so she could drool over it.
"Drool away," he grinned.
By the time my food came, I knew loads about her, so much that I suggested she stop waiting for her dinner companions and eat with me.
It wasn't only selfishness; Mama's was closing in half an hour and there was no guarantee they'd make it in time.
I'm not sure my suggestion was half as convincing as the sight and smell of me eating my dark meat fried chicken, greens, corn muffin and cole slaw.
Forsaking her friends, she ordered.
On the other side of me sat a couple with accents and a few well-placed questions revealed that they were visiting Brazilians.
In their eagerness to taste American soul food, they'd ordered a ton of it.
She asked for barbecue sauce for her massive crabcakes and the bartender politely explained that she might want to try the tartar sauce first.
"I love the barbecue sauce," she said, "But I should stop putting it on everything."
I recommended a favorite Brazilian chef's restaurant to her and she was thrilled, thanking me repeatedly.
Right about closing time Renee's associates showed up and ordered stiff drinks and take-out.
They took stools at the end of the bar and she and I went right on chatting about equality, travel and how beautiful she thought J-Ward was.
Once she and the crew left, I ordered a slice of lemon cake and savored every bite like it was the once a year treat it was in my childhood.
All five of my sisters hated lemon cake, so it was just me and my parents who ate it, meaning we only had it annually.
As opposed to chocolate cake, which we had weekly. Seriously. It's no wonder I'm a chocoholic.
After dinner, I was on my way to a friend's for a holiday wine tasting get-together.
I walked in to find them in mid-decorating mode, but that activity became secondary so we could move on to the fun part.
There were six of us, two couples, half of a couple and yours truly. And the Christmas tunes played on.
Four wines were on the tasting menu tonight and we started with the RdV (Rutger de Vink) Rendezvous, a Merlot-based beauty that grabbed everyone at the table with its velvety smoothness.
Next we tried the RdV "Friends and Family," a Bordeaux-style red so accessible that it tasted like something eminently drinkable day in and day out.
It was around this time that the subject of Jackson Ward's walkability came up and I found myself defending my beloved 'hood.
Don't tell me I can't walk to any number of restaurants and concert venues from home because I've done it.
Now that everyone was warmed up we moved on to the RdV, a Cabernet Sauvignon blend with a much higher price tag than I could ever afford.
No doubt about it, it had beautiful tannins, lovely fruit and enough complexity to justify the price tag. Still, it didn't make me forget the Rendezvous.
And as long as you're still thinking of the past, how can you fully enjoy the present?
Our male host continued to decorate even after we began sipping, hanging silver balls and tearing the crotch of his jeans in doing so.
We'd have laughed anyway, but we were three wines in so we teased him unmercifully.
We finished with Linden Hardscrabble Red, which equaled, if not exceeded the party's passion for the RdV Rendezvous.
It was smooth with beautiful dark fruit and it proved why Linden's Jim Law is the reigning Virginia wine god for so many wine geeks.
By the end of the evening, we all had a favorite wine and their place was mostly decorated.
The Christmas music was long gone (you can only hear Phil Spector's Christmas song so many times before pulling the plug) but the place looked beautiful and the wine was mostly gone.
As they say this time of year, falalalalalalalala.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Didn't I Tell You Already?
My devotion to Jackson Ward is legendary, both in this blog and among anyone who will listen to me go on and on about my neighborhood of the past five years.
Still,, it's nice to have my opinion validated in a place as lofty as the New York Times. The article about J-Ward in Sunday's paper, here, tells the rest of the world what I have been trying to convince anyone who lives in other RVA neighborhoods for a while now.
Ghostprint Gallery? I'm in there every single month for their opening preview to see what compelling show they've hung. It's one of two galleries I tell people never to miss on First Fridays.
Nate's Taco Truck Stop, while a more recent addition to the Ward, already feels like it's been there forever. I used to have to walk over to the Compass to score Nate's Frito Pie and now I don't even have to leave the 'hood to indulge in my favorite bag o' lunch.
Steady Sounds is a regular destination for me and I don't even own a turntable. I know people who do, though, and this is where I buy vinyl for them. And I've seen some excellent live music here (Alessi's Ark, White Laces, The Great Unknown, Bake Sale, Jonathan Vassar) leaning on bins in their intimate setting.
And Ettamae's Cafe? Shoot, I've been singing these guys' praises since the first week they opened, here, back last summer. That post even ended up on the press page of Ettamae's website and I've been back loads of times since. I find it hard to resist a place with terrific food and where the Chef not only kisses you but his co-owner yells, "Now the party can start!" when you walk in.
I've been a regular at Mama J's since March 2010, here, when a friend and I discovered Croaker's Spot had left the Ward (fools! but they're coming back) one cold evening. Since then, it's my go-to place for fried chicken and homemade cake, two staples of my diet P.A. (Post Apocalypse or after layoff, pneumonia, breakup or roughly February 2009 through the present). I have a friend I can call up and all I say is, "You wanna?" and he knows I mean we're doing lunch at Mama's.
So for a change, I am happy with the out-of-town press' take on my fair city. I've complained before that outsiders tend to mention the same old places (Mama Zu, Kuba Kuba, Millie's) ad nauseum. This time the NYT got it right, not even acknowledging the (IMHO) over-hyped restaurant that shall not be named in J-Ward.
On the other hand, if they do a sequel to that story, they should contact me and I'll bring them even more up to date.
J-Ward Girl knows of what she speaks.
Still,, it's nice to have my opinion validated in a place as lofty as the New York Times. The article about J-Ward in Sunday's paper, here, tells the rest of the world what I have been trying to convince anyone who lives in other RVA neighborhoods for a while now.
Ghostprint Gallery? I'm in there every single month for their opening preview to see what compelling show they've hung. It's one of two galleries I tell people never to miss on First Fridays.
Nate's Taco Truck Stop, while a more recent addition to the Ward, already feels like it's been there forever. I used to have to walk over to the Compass to score Nate's Frito Pie and now I don't even have to leave the 'hood to indulge in my favorite bag o' lunch.
Steady Sounds is a regular destination for me and I don't even own a turntable. I know people who do, though, and this is where I buy vinyl for them. And I've seen some excellent live music here (Alessi's Ark, White Laces, The Great Unknown, Bake Sale, Jonathan Vassar) leaning on bins in their intimate setting.
And Ettamae's Cafe? Shoot, I've been singing these guys' praises since the first week they opened, here, back last summer. That post even ended up on the press page of Ettamae's website and I've been back loads of times since. I find it hard to resist a place with terrific food and where the Chef not only kisses you but his co-owner yells, "Now the party can start!" when you walk in.
I've been a regular at Mama J's since March 2010, here, when a friend and I discovered Croaker's Spot had left the Ward (fools! but they're coming back) one cold evening. Since then, it's my go-to place for fried chicken and homemade cake, two staples of my diet P.A. (Post Apocalypse or after layoff, pneumonia, breakup or roughly February 2009 through the present). I have a friend I can call up and all I say is, "You wanna?" and he knows I mean we're doing lunch at Mama's.
So for a change, I am happy with the out-of-town press' take on my fair city. I've complained before that outsiders tend to mention the same old places (Mama Zu, Kuba Kuba, Millie's) ad nauseum. This time the NYT got it right, not even acknowledging the (IMHO) over-hyped restaurant that shall not be named in J-Ward.
On the other hand, if they do a sequel to that story, they should contact me and I'll bring them even more up to date.
J-Ward Girl knows of what she speaks.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Post-Soul Food Serenade
When I'm craving comfort food, few places satisfy like Mama J's. And when I want company, I know which friend to ask on a moment's notice and be guaranteed he'll drop everything and join me.
So I did and 40 minutes later we sitting down amongst the lunching crowd of policemen, guys in both work uniforms and suits and a woman in a fur. Next to us was a mother and daughter eating catfish and discussing yams versus sweet potatoes.
We'd both had fried chicken last time, so we were looking for something different today. My friend kept looking at the nearby catfish and saying, "That sure does look good," so I knew where he was going with that.
When our server Coco (whom we always seem to get and enjoy) asked if he wanted that baked or fried, he laughed out loud. "Well, I have to ask!" she smiled.
I decided on the barbecued spare ribs with Mama's potato salad and a corn muffin. My friend insisted we begin with Mama's terrific seafood salad to tide us over.
He got no argument from me; it was the very first thing I'd eaten at Mama's over a year ago and Coco said it's their most popular catering order item.
Elbow macaroni with crab and shrimp mixed into a creamy dressing makes this stuff addictive. We were just finishing it when our entrees arrived, his catfish steaming and my plate-sized rack slathered in sauce.
The daughter's mouth fell open when she saw my food, prompting her mother to say, "You are not getting all those ribs, too!"
My friend was midway into his first enormous piece of catfish and I was on my third spare rib, fingers sticky and coated in sauce, when he nonchalantly said, "Well, the speaker stands came in for the stereo I'm building you."
He begins to describe them, the height, the anodized metal, and goes into the Swedish CD player he ordered when I realize he's been gathering the components for some time without mentioning their arrival.
He means for me to have a top-notch stereo whether I need it or not and it's getting close to installation time it would seem.
We've been friends for a while; he's a brilliant conversationalist and the perfect eating companion. Like me, he enjoys everything from foie gras to fried pork chops, always requires dessert and he's constantly teaching me more about wine.
And speaking of desserts, today we chose the coconut pineapple cake on Coco's recommendation (last time she'd steered us to the rum cake). The sweet density of the cake itself led to a discussion of cake-mix cakes and how far removed from real cake they are.
But Mama's sister's cake was the real deal and loaded with coconut and pineapple bits. Unlike a lot of guys who claim to not have a sweet tooth, my friend enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.
So I really don't need gifts from him, much less something as generous as this hi-fi that will soon reside with me in Jackson Ward.
On the other hand, he's got an enormous vinyl collection, so perhaps he just wants an additional place to enjoy listening with a fellow music fan.
It would be very convenient after a filling meal at Mama J's, now that I think about it.
So I did and 40 minutes later we sitting down amongst the lunching crowd of policemen, guys in both work uniforms and suits and a woman in a fur. Next to us was a mother and daughter eating catfish and discussing yams versus sweet potatoes.
We'd both had fried chicken last time, so we were looking for something different today. My friend kept looking at the nearby catfish and saying, "That sure does look good," so I knew where he was going with that.
When our server Coco (whom we always seem to get and enjoy) asked if he wanted that baked or fried, he laughed out loud. "Well, I have to ask!" she smiled.
I decided on the barbecued spare ribs with Mama's potato salad and a corn muffin. My friend insisted we begin with Mama's terrific seafood salad to tide us over.
He got no argument from me; it was the very first thing I'd eaten at Mama's over a year ago and Coco said it's their most popular catering order item.
Elbow macaroni with crab and shrimp mixed into a creamy dressing makes this stuff addictive. We were just finishing it when our entrees arrived, his catfish steaming and my plate-sized rack slathered in sauce.
The daughter's mouth fell open when she saw my food, prompting her mother to say, "You are not getting all those ribs, too!"
My friend was midway into his first enormous piece of catfish and I was on my third spare rib, fingers sticky and coated in sauce, when he nonchalantly said, "Well, the speaker stands came in for the stereo I'm building you."
He begins to describe them, the height, the anodized metal, and goes into the Swedish CD player he ordered when I realize he's been gathering the components for some time without mentioning their arrival.
He means for me to have a top-notch stereo whether I need it or not and it's getting close to installation time it would seem.
We've been friends for a while; he's a brilliant conversationalist and the perfect eating companion. Like me, he enjoys everything from foie gras to fried pork chops, always requires dessert and he's constantly teaching me more about wine.
And speaking of desserts, today we chose the coconut pineapple cake on Coco's recommendation (last time she'd steered us to the rum cake). The sweet density of the cake itself led to a discussion of cake-mix cakes and how far removed from real cake they are.
But Mama's sister's cake was the real deal and loaded with coconut and pineapple bits. Unlike a lot of guys who claim to not have a sweet tooth, my friend enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.
So I really don't need gifts from him, much less something as generous as this hi-fi that will soon reside with me in Jackson Ward.
On the other hand, he's got an enormous vinyl collection, so perhaps he just wants an additional place to enjoy listening with a fellow music fan.
It would be very convenient after a filling meal at Mama J's, now that I think about it.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Pre-Parisian Soul Food
A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
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