Make It Up as We Go Along

If the measure of a good end to an evening is a sweaty dress, I scored big time.

After a particularly complimentary date invitation, we wound up at Acacia, which was nearly empty, not necessarily a bad thing after my last couple of exceedingly crowded nights there.

Beginning light and bright (Hollerer Gruner Veltliner), the evening unfolded with shared stories while men in business attire clustered awkwardly at the bar to drink before retiring to tables.

The music playing was interesting enough to catch my ear - Fly Golden Eagle was a major highlight - an unexpected plus at a place known for middle eastern trance music.

Eventually bowing to our server's pressure, we decided to go prix fixe, which for me meant a well-executed salad of roasted beets, goat cheese, mixed lettuces and balsamic vinaigrette followed by two tempura-fried softshell crabs over cheddar grits and sauteed kale in a lemon  butter sauce while my date went with a buttery petite filet.

In no hurry to rush the evening, we moved on to Mas de la Dame Rose about the same time another couple at the bar did (copycats!) and called them out on it. They took the criticism, smiled and drank the pink wine nonetheless.

My dessert was chocolate cake (which came across more like a brownie, so perhaps it was a cake brownie) with brown sugar ice cream and chocolate almond streusel but I had no compunction about tasting my date's molasses cake with sweet carrot mousse, cream cheese ice cream and candied pecans, a delicious alternative to chocolate, although not quite as wonderful as gingerbread.

After discussion of dive bars on Collington Road, the weather forecast and heads too big to get out of restaurant doors, we finished up with bubbles before ending a mighty fine date.

But I knew that after a stellar 9 1/2 hours of sleep last night, sleep was not forthcoming so I headed to Cary Street Cafe for some cover bands. Judging by the crowd, I wasn't the only one with that idea.

It was my first time hearing Diamond Heist, a Neil Diamond cover band and it didn't take long to make me sorry I'd missed part of their set.

Luckily, I got to hear "I'm a Believer," "Coming to America" and, most importantly, "Sweet Caroline," a song that had the crowd shouting along in unison.

Good times never seemed so good
I feel inclined 
to believe they never could

When they came offstage, I told the singer how much I'd enjoyed their set and he responded by saying, "You're Karen from the Times Dispatch, right?"

Wow, that was another lifetime ago, but yes, that would be me.

We talked about Neil Diamond and I was amazed to learn that he hadn't known the songs before the band began. Clearly, he's not as chronologically challenged as me.

People poured in before Fear of Music, a Talking Heads cover band, took the stage. I've seen them before, so I knew to expect hits and deep cuts, all note perfect and that's what they delivered.

I saw lots of familiar faces - the editor, the DJ, the National employee, the man about town- but also lots of people too young to have been alive when this music came out. Surely it was the songs that had sucked them in.

"Life in Wartime," "Take Me to the River, "(Nothing But) Flowers," they nailed song after song and it took no time at all before I was one of the people dancing to every note.

Before long, I marched up to the man about town and told him he needed to join me for dancing and he was agreeable enough to accommodate, bringing his beer to my space in front of the band.

From there, it was a free for all, with wild dancing going on to "Burning Down the House, "Road to Nowhere" and "Wild, Wild Life." There's no other way to react to that music.

Of course, my favorite is "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" and you better believe I sang and danced to every word.

I can't tell one from the other
Did I find you or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be

During the break between sets, the man about town got me water and explained that he could only stay for one or two more songs.

Six songs later, I reminded him of his words and we left not long before their last song.

My dress was as sweaty as his shirt and we agreed that everything on our bodies needed to make a direct line to the washing machine.

Cover up and say good night. Good night.

Not Afraid to Pair Food and Music

Given my present mood, did I need to see a tear jerking play tonight?

Not really.

Would I have missed Firehouse Theater's staged reading of "In My Father's Eyes"?

Not a chance.

The playwright was a heart surgeon (he has surgery scheduled tomorrow), the composer was David Friedman ("Beauty and the Beast," "Aladdin," and "Pocahontas") and the cast consisted of four people and a a narrator.

The story of a man who falls madly in love with an aspiring actress/singer/dancer who dies when her child is born flashed back and forth in time.

The dysfunctional relationship between father and daughter alternated with the epic love story of man and the woman he worshipped but never really knew.

And I wasn't the only one tearing up at various developments in the story.

At intermission, several people acknowledged how moving some of the relationships were (the painter and the widower? the dead wife's longing for a different life? both achingly sad).

The cast was uniformly strong (Scott Wichmann being a personal favorite) and because of the extensive staging, the audience got a lot of bang for their five dollar buck.

But then that seems to be the case with all of Firehouse's staged readings.

At the talkback afterwards, playwright John Anastasi told of working with Broadway composer Friedman.

Apparently the man could sit at the piano and come up with a melody in minutes.

"Do you like that?' he'd ask to Anastasi's enthusiastic yes. "Okay, what do you need in this part?"

He'd then create lyrics on the spot to fit the scene. That's talent with a capital "T."

Before the show, I had the good fortune to run into a friend and her group, making for satisfying theater talk and chef talk.

Plus it's not every day I meet Phyllis Richman's cousin.

That group left after the play but my friend and I decided to have a quick drink at Ballieaux.

When our bartender told us it was half priced wine by the bottle night, we were less concerned about quickness and decided to enjoy a little Provence pink for peanuts.

Our Mas de la Dame Rose kept us going through the talkative company that showed up.

And the soundtrack? Interpol, Killers and the like, all loud.

A music friend and I got off on talk of Ian Dury and Wye Oak.

A massage therapist joined us to share his input on healthy eating, cheap pasta and tooth repairs.

We were joined by the chef for the upcoming Mint in the Fan who waxed poetic about lamb innards, quality salt and creative panna cotta.

And music. Finally, a chef devoted to making the music heard in a restaurant as creative and interesting as the food.

Count me in.

Good company, spirited conversation and girl talk make a person forget all about the sad relationships that began the evening.

Besides, in my father's eyes, I'm golden. He told me so earlier today.

Bottoming Out after Saturday in the Slip

I don't wait for engraved invitations anymore. I ask. And sometimes I get text-like responses.

So where have u been recently? I was thinking a bit later in the evening. 8 or 830 ish. What say? U going to some show later?

This quasi-invitation came from half of one of my favorite couples when I suggested a Saturday night couple date.

We established that I had no music plans for the evening (I know, a rarity on a weekend night) and I listed out my recent destinations. Result: Bistro Bobette at 815.

Crossing Cary Street to get to Bobette, a cab driver called out to me, "Hey, you in the black dress, you got a nice butt." Thus I was welcomed to Shockoe Slip.

I was greeted with hugs and kisses and Mas de la Dame Rose was offered before I could ask for it; my friends shortly arrived. 

It was a good foodie night at Bobette's bar, with a nearby trio of guys (including the Welshman still hoping for lip prints on his shirttail) eating even more than the three of us did. We don't often see that.

Every time they liked something, they ordered another dish of it. Ah, so these were smart men.

I was eager to hear about my friends' recent jaunt to DC; they'd done eleven restaurants in 2 1/2 days. Even I was impressed.

But tales of food can't match the real thing, so we wasted no time in availing ourselves of two of tonight's specials.

The rabbit pate with hazelnuts had a subtly rich flavor enhanced by the accompanying lentils. The lamb heart was rich, rare and as easy to cut as butter. I'd eat it anyway, but I'm hoping that eating heart improves one's love life.

After such rich starters, we naturally opted for more of the same, choosing a special of spicy rack of lamb and the mixed grill of quail, beef and bacon-wrapped pork.

The seven lamb lollipops were done in a spicy jus boasting coriander for flavor and crunch; sauteed pattypan squash and tomatoes accompanied it.

The chef himself doesn't usually care for lamb, but loves this locally grown lamb for its young, white meat. I could see why.

As for the mixed grill, how can you go wrong with fowl, cow and pig on one plate? The quail especially was melt-in-your mouth succulent.

Midway through dinner, a new couple joined us at the bar . In an odd coincidence, the female half of that couple, like the female of the couple I was with, was Russian.

They hit it off like a house on fire, alternating between Russian and English as they discussed god-knows what animatedly. 

It was pretty cute to see, like two stray dogs discovering that they liked to play together.

They paused only when the lavender ice cream came out with its distinctive aroma and high butterfat. 

I admit I had one sachet moment, but the flavor was so beautiful that I, like the others, was quickly won over.

We saw a loopy woman led out by her husband after she fell asleep in her chair. No one at her table seemed to find anything unusual about her post-dinner snooze while they chatted, but it seemed very odd to us.

As the last customers in the place, but not yet out of conversation,we decided to move the party six blocks east to Mint.

Of course, Saturday night parking in the Bottom is problematic at best and the omnipresent cops with their cars blocking half the intersections don't make it any easier.

We arrived just as the last diners were leaving, so Julep became Mint right before our eyes.

Shades were lowered and the music went from restaurant-stuffy to very cool. I heard a band I loved, the Budos Band, a ten-piece on Daptone records which says a lot, doing instrumental soul music.

One of the servers took note of it and came over and said, "This sounds like music from a '70s King Fu movie." 

He then proceeded to do bad lip synched dialog to simulate such a movie for our amusement. But the music reference was apt, I'd have to say. And I want more.

And then the Russian and her boyfriend showed up and it was a full-on party.

Mixologist Bobby told me about his ever-evolving drink list and then acknowledged the inevitable.

"You want a Don Julio?" he asked with a touch of resignation in his voice. I just nodded.

But when he brought it to me, it was more than just tequila and a slow-melting cube.

"I know you're a purist, so I only put the ground mustard seed on part of the rim," he said with a smile. 

He'd also slipped in a lime twist, no doubt to make himself feel better about having to pour such a boring drink. And as it turned out, the mustard seed was a nice touch.

Once I began sipping, I heard about one of his new creations, a tequila and absinthe drink with an avocado yogurt, which sounded so wonderful that I had to taste it.

Okay, so I might consider a cocktail if it contained that many things I love.

For entertainment value, Bobby told us about having run over a passed-out guy on the 14th Street bridge late last night. 

It wasn't so bad; Bobby was on his bike and only ran over the guy's foot and the guy never even stirred. 

Of course, it scared Bobby to death, though, so he called for non-emergency help and an ambulance was dispatched to help drunk guy get off the bridge.

If not for Bobby, he'd have probably slept it off on the sidewalk till daybreak, woken up and strolled home feeling much better.

What lesson can we learn here?

If not for going out all the time, I'd never get to hear such great stories. Or an evening of Russian conversation.

I wouldn't get to try mustard seed with tequila. Or find out that I might have the potential to be a cocktail drinker.

And then there was the cabbie commentary on my backside. I just can't get that kind of thing at home.

At least not yet. I remain eternally optimistic.

Eat Out Much?

I love introducing a newcomer to one of my favorite restaurants and tonight's was Bistro Bobette.

I got there on time and was greeted by two of the same crew I'd left just last night at Balliceaux.

Accommodating their wishes to be marked, I said hello to them and the chef.

Lipstick prints all around.

Enjoying a glass of Mas de la Dame Rose, I became acquainted with a Richmond transplant with a long history in fine dining.

He had stumbled on Bobette a few days after it opened and continues to walk to it weekly to satisfy his foodie needs.

Along with the Welshman from last night, I had superb company to keep me occupied until my friend belatedly showed up.

As my grandmother used to say, "You can choose to be early or choose to be late."

Enough said.

Our evening's raison d'etre was his message to me of, "How 'bout some offal tomorrow? You have to have guts to eat offal."

Corny jokes aside, I'm the wrong person to challenge on organ eating and that's how we'd ended up at Bobette, always a sure bet for the leftover bits of an animal.

Brains, cheeks, liver, yea, they got 'em.

After he got settled in with a Hendrick's martini, we asked for the country pate and cornichon with pickled onion and celery remoulade, the seared duck foie gras with mango tatin and a balsamic rosemary reduction and the evening's unlisted special of sweetbreads with morels and asparagus (ah, spring!).

To wash down such a rich course of innards, we chose the Château d'Orschwihr Riesling Bollenberg,which turned out to be a perfect match for so much rich food. 

Or perhaps so much rich food just made us think so.

As we enjoyed our organ meats, we chatted with our transplant neighbor (from Jacksonville, ugh!) who had been systematically eating his way through Richmond restaurants since officially moving here. 

I didn't agree with a lot of his opinions, but respected his newcomer's thoughts on our restaurants.

It was fascinating to compare his first take on places I have been eating at for ages. 

Before long we segued into music and the sound of the Dave Matthews Band in the 90s. 

Talk about memories.

As much as we were scarfing down our offal, we needed one more delicacy and opted for another of the evening's specials, the fried soft-shell crab with morels and asparagus.

Chef Francis prefers the smaller soft shells (they release their liquids more quickly and fry up faster) and they were exquisite. 

That's twice now I've had soft shells this season and I hope many more are to come.

We finished with blood orange wine shared by a friend and its delicate flavor and sweetness were as good as dessert. 

After the richness of our meal, anything more would have been overkill.

When all was said and done, my friend had to admit that his first visit to Bobette had been stellar. 

He's a hard sell and devoted to the old-school restaurants (mostly the ones I avoid), but even he had to admit that this was the real deal.

We walked out to the strains of a sax player blowing hard on the corner. 

He was amazed to hear such a thing, but then, he was amazed to learn that there was offal in Richmond.

Some people need to get out more. 

I don't think I'm one of them.

Skating at Bistro Bobette

We're not the same town we were before the VMFA remodeling, I swear.

I can say that because artists like Julian Schnabel didn't used to come here to talk, as he did tonight in a wide-ranging discussion with modern art curator John Ravenal.

Schnabel was funny, talkative and opinionated.

"Paintings are not pictures of something; they are something," he told the audience.

As a painter who has been known for both painting on broken ceramic plates as well as painting on velvet, the man should know of what he speaks.

"I wanted to paint on something particular to me."

The time went by quickly with Schnabel talking about the Picassos he has owned, the passage of time ("People invented time because they couldn't handle infinity") and imagery ("It almost didn't matter what the imagery was").

When Ravenal tried to wrap up the talk, Schnabel was having none of it.

"Anybody want to go home?" he asked of the crowd. "You won't be rude if you leave."

Not a soul moved.

When asked about favorite music, he cited Berlin, Aretha's version of Bacharach's "I Say a Little Prayer" and all of Tom Waits' ballads.

Personally, I found that to be a terrific answer.

Finally the talk turned to Schnabel's films and he spoke of the lack of critical praise for his new film "Miral."

Frustrated, he sent copies to actor and director friends to get input.

"I'm going to play something that will blow your mind," he promised. "And if it doesn't, you can say 'Julian, you're full of shit."

He then held his cell up to the microphone.

It was director Carl Reiner raving about the film and saying that Julian should call him back for more praise.

"Call this number for lauding," Reiner said in his unmistakable voice.

I have to say, the unexpected pleasure of an artist talk at the VMFA is hearing the artist's voicemail messages.

Fact.

When I walked out of the museum, it had obviously just rained but the temperature was lovely for a drive downtown to Bistro Bobette to meet one of my favorite couples for dinner.

With them, it's a pleasure to be a fifth wheel.

I was late, but they were later, so it worked out well.

The bar was full of regulars - the Welshman, the New Yorker- who amused me until my friends arrived.

Mas de la Dame Rose helped, too.

Because we were overdue for a couple date, it was a while before we got around to ordering.

I couldn't resist the special of skate wing with fiddlehead ferns and artichoke bits in a balsamic reduction.

My handsome friend got the moullard duck confit with greens and green peppercorns; his beloved the veal with morels in a brandy cream sauce.

We three never eat together without playing musical plates and tonight was no different.

The texture of the duck was uniquely different, the morels and fiddleheads screamed spring right now and the skate everyone agreed was magnificent.

As much as we talked, discussing theater, Peter Chang's, Richmond Magazine and, of course, the new and upcoming restaurants, we didn't come close to closing the gap on new-to-each-other information.

In fact, when I mentioned my recent visit to the Balkan, the response I got was "WTF?" said just like that for decorum's sake, I guess.

"But you don't ever go to the West End," he said.

Never say never about a lot of things.

Eventually we were the last customers, having outlasted even the other regulars, so we made our way out to Cary Street, satisfied after another superb meal at Bobette.

If the masses ever discover this place (and I hope they will), it will be a squeeze for the regulars because it's just not that big.

As I drove westward, vaguely intending to go home, I remembered it was Mondo Italia night at Balliceaux and detoured there.

Jazz band Glows in the Dark was playing music from 70s Italian films while just such a film showed behind them.

Don't knock the pleasures of Italian movie music from the 70s until you've heard it.

Despite endless sex and violence onscreen (breasts and bloodshed everywhere), the music is terrific and being played by some of RVA's best jazz players.

Tonight they even had a couple of vocalists, Eddie P. from Amazing Ghost and Lydia Ooghe from Lux Vacancy, making for a musically perfect way to end my evening.

Let's take stock here.

A world-renowned artist and director not only speaks at the VMFA, but offers to arrange a screening of his brand-new film there since it may never open in Richmond (and gets an ovation when he says it).

A local restaurant offers morels, fiddleheads and skate wing as casually as some places used to offer fillet Mignon and broccoli.

A jazz band who has scored films for national directors plays a free show of vintage 70s movie music performed by some of RVA's A-list jazz musicians.

Maybe it doesn't have to do with the museum renovation, but clearly we're in the new and improved Richmond, VA.

Funny, I feel right at home.