Upheld and Then Some

If you stay in town for Thanksgiving, you know the drill.

Everybody's off tomorrow, so the bars are full of revelers with no curfew. Hence the night's reputation as the biggest drinking night of the year. Holmes is my go-to T-Day eve partner-in-crime, so I let him know we needed to meet up.

But you don't jump into a night such as this one cold-turkey (pardon seasonal humor), so we decided to convene at Rowland (no longer) Fine Dining to begin. With companions. By the time we arrived, Holmes and his beloved were already ensconced at the bar, putting a serious hurting on a bottle of Prosecco.

A favorite bartender was working, meaning we had great service and the equivalent of an extra friend with us. As if the impending holiday wasn't excuse enough, tonight was half off bottles of wine, so there was added incentive to drink. Over a jammy Las Rocas red blend, we checked out the new menu, with its wide array of small plates and reasonably priced entrees.

Wise move, Rowlands.

The restaurant had a chill vibe tonight with a few other regulars at the bar, an eight top that came in loopy and proceeded to get louder and loopier and two random couples at opposite ends of the room. A fine mix of separate parties, each having their own good time.

The bartender and I discussed the recent Chicha Libre show where we'd last run into each other. I laughed when she told me that she'd held back on her crazy dancing once she saw me there. As if I'd judge someone for any kind of dancing, much less just-got-off-work-dying-to-let-loose dancing.

Honey, never hold back because of me.

That business taken care of, my date and I moved on to Gordo's seafood gumbo, a deep-tasting dark roux with shrimp over a mound of rice. Usually a special, it's been added to the regular menu now, a good thing because it's a spicy and hearty dish, perfect for a cold night.

Since our little group was stretched across the length of the bar to eat, four-way conversation was challenging. But Thanksgiving eve celebrants are up to whatever the evening hands them. They'd seen the Chihuly show at VMFA since I'd last seen them, so colored glass discussion naturally followed.

Holmes had been away in Pat Robertson land and had missed Beaujolais Nouveau tastings, so he regaled us with his tales of hunting down the new wine since his return. I mentioned the sign I'd seen in an ABC store window this morning advertising black Friday sales on booze. That got Holmes' attention. And our bartender's.

Leaning over toward our conversation pit, she arched an eyebrow and asked, "Like what kind of sale? Do I need to be up?" Personally, nothing's getting me out of bed early post-turkey, so I felt unqualified to answer that.  Everyone's got their own incentives and mine is not to judge.

Mine is to eat.

Delivering Amarone slow braised short rubs with herbed Parmesan gnocchi, our bartender did her best Pepe LePew accent, saying, "Le ribs, short," and leaving us to devour the long-cooked ribs, delectable with bits of fat and the lightest of gnocchis.

Dessert was chocolate cake with whipped vanilla cream and Manon rose and by the time we finished, we were the last occupants of the restaurant. What, again?

Since it was far too early to give up on the biggest drinking night of the year, we motored to Holmes' Hideaway where the evening progressed with more pink wine and better music. Holmes, ever the musician, played some of his own recordings, along with late '60s Fleetwood Mac as we continued to sip and chat until Turkey Day had arrived. And then some.

But if you're going to stay in town for the evening, you've got a certain responsibility to the night to uphold. Not to mention the ideal meal to eat the next day to recover from it.

Bring it on.

Wearing It the Best I Can

"Every dress has a story," my friend told me repeatedly tonight.

Since I have a lot of dresses, I have to assume that means I have a lot of stories.

For her, it was a rationalization for not getting rid of dresses she no longer wears.

I met that friend at Bonvenu, where we lucked into a charming bartender and a changing crowd of colorful characters.

Waiting for my ever-tardy friend to arrive and not ready to order until she got there, the bartender suggested he pour me some wine to taste to occupy me while he took a smoke break.

Okay, Manon Rose will do.

I continued with the Manon once my friend arrived full of excuses about parking problems. Since we had lots to catch up on, we ordered right away.

The grilled hearts of Romaine salad had grilled sweet corn, goat cheese and a sunny side up egg with lemon and roasted garlic vinaigrette.

I am enjoying finding fried eggs atop almost everything these days (tartare, risotto, salad) because the richness of the yolk is a welcome addition no matter where it lands.

Our ex-builder bartender highly recommended the flat bread pizza with Hanover tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella, grilled Vidalia onions and EVOO.

He said four bar patrons had already ordered it and raved about it. I wanted to be the next raver.

And it was good, with a generous four pieces of flat bread and tomatoes to die  for (if not now, when?).

Afterwards, on my way downstairs to the loo, I passed a girl who followed me to the stairwell.

"You are beautiful in your dress," she called to me as I descended the stairs. "You are wearing it!"

I have no idea where that came from.

After dinner, our bartender insisted we try his Flirtini overage (vodka, Chambord, pineapple juice, Triple Sec and Champagne) despite my insistence that I'm not a cocktail drinker.

It seemed to pack a punch, although I'm not a qualified enough cocktail drinker to say much beyond that.

Tonight's music was made for me, with all indie selections from the past three or four years. I couldn't find fault with a single song.

An interesting-looking group came in and claimed the stools next to us. The central character looked at me and said, "You are lovely in a way that says that you don't care. Can I buy you a shot?"

Turns out that he was a (white) rapper and as opinionated as I am. When I said my preference was tequila, he said, "But not Patron, right?"

Right he was because I know that Patron's popularity is due to marketing not, flavor, and there are many far better sipping tequilas.

He was impressed with my anti-Patron sentiments and approved of my choice of Cazadores Anejo.

You never know what captures people's attention.

Another group followed them and this one delivered us a friendly Canadian eager to show us his tattoos and talk about seeing Josh Homme in Copenhaegn.

That lasted for about ten minutes before his girlfriend reeled him in. He spent the rest of the evening looking like a beaten pup.

My girlfriend spent the night telling me about her organizational efforts.

She was divesting herself of old clothes (including some of the storied dresses), reading letters from her past and sorting through old photographs.

I have letters written to me by passionate boyfriends in college. I have photographs going back at least that far.

But unlike her, I never hesitate to give away a dress I don't wear, no matter how good the stories are that go with it.

I prefer to focus on the stories that will come with the dresses that I keep. A few hanging in there right now have doozies attached to them.

Being the optimist that I am, maybe I'm always hoping that a dress' potential has yet to be reached.

You just never know what reaction the right dress might bring...or who it might come from.

Winding Down with a Bug

I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.

Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.

But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.

Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.

What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.

ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.

And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.

But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.

But up on Broad, it was uniform city.

I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."

Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?

I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.

From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.

"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."

Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.

The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.

I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.

Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.

Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.

Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.

But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.

The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.

So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.

Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.

It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."

Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.

As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."

Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.

Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.

It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the  musical imagery.

All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.

But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.

The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.

Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.

I liked his thinking on that.

Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).

He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find  someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?

Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.

Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.

Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.

Geeks like me are going to love it.