On Not Eating More Than You Can Lift

There is no love sincerer than the love of food.
 ~ George Bernard Shaw

I could politely be called an enthusiastic eater.

Partly that's because there's little that doesn't appeal to me and partly because I never succumbed to any sort of guilt about eating. I wake up hungry every single morning of my life, regardless of what I've eaten the night before.

I've been known to ask the driver of the car I'm riding in if we're going to stop for lunch barely 15 minutes after leaving home. If I get asked out at the last minute for lunch or dinner and I've already eaten, I keep quiet about it and go out for a second meal.

And sometimes when I look back at what I've been up to for the past couple of days, it feels like it's been non-stop eating. Oh, sure, I did some writing and bathing in between chowing down sessions, but not much else.

That's not embarrassment talking, that's simple fact.

Sometimes I find myself sitting at Metzger on a Sunday evening, mere hours after returning from brunch at Laura Lee's, inhaling pretzel rolls, lavash and spent grain sourdough with mustard butter and beer cheese, a completely unique squash salad with ribbons of carrots and a dark chocolate torte as if I hadn't eaten all day.

That vintage yet obscure soul music is, as usual, playing on the sound system only encourages us to linger and me to order yet another glass of Gruner Veltliner as the Sunday crowd gradually dwindles to the diehards on bar stools.

Not even a day later, I'll be happily ensconced on a stool at Dinamo, slurping up my cold weather go-to, also known as the pescatarian's delight: fish soup. Tomato based and muscular, the soup is loaded with rockfish, mussels, squid and couscous' Sardinian cousin, fregola, with just enough heat to keep you honest.

And for the record, I'm also using slices of Italian bread to sop up what my spoon is incapable of delivering to my mouth. Enthusiastic eaters leave no morsel behind.

But woman does not live by soup and wine alone, so we also share a salad and white pizza with red onions because the simplicity of a thin crust crowned with onions is about as satisfying as bread and cheese gets. The green salad is essential with pie. And the chocolate espresso torte? That's just my standard ending at Dinamo, even when I opt out of whipped cream and cherries.

There are only three things women need in life: food, water and compliments. ~ Chris Rock

Sorry, Chris, but some of us also need music.

Which means that by Tuesday night, I will lead Mr. Wright to Saison Market for wine and conversation surrounded by members of the Comedy Coalition working on being hilarious and loud. We sip until we're hungry before heading to Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos, only three of which arrive at our table because the cashier has dropped the fourth one on the floor,

When I point out to him that we could go ahead and start on the three still safe inside their box, he looks at me with amazement since clearly this option has not occurred to him. Meanwhile, we dive into the tacos, each of which contains two enormous pieces of grilled tilapia the length of the tortilla and a fresh-tasting corn and cabbage slaw.

And notice I said grilled since fried fish tacos are not a personal favorite and the Back Door is one of the few places that knows this and gives me what I like. Eventually, the fourth taco shows up and is dispatched quickly.

Our final destination, since woman can not live by food, water and compliments alone (though I have come to revel in the latter becoming a daily part of my life after it being MIA for years) was Black Iris Gallery to see L.A.'s Lonesome Leash play for a small but appreciative crowd.

First of all, there's the setting: an intimate, wood-lined room with great acoustics. Then there's the vibe: dimly-lit, hushed, anticipatory. And the crowd who comes out on a chilly Tuesday night? They're a mix of music lovers, members of the LGBTQ community and those who've been tipped off that an amazing talent will be sharing their gift.

Witness how Mr. Wright's L.A. connection had alerted him to the show after I had already I had already made it my pick for the evening.

The one-man band that is Lonesome Leash (aka Walt) took his place in the corner of the room behind his arsenal: a bass drum, a snare drum and an accordion, with a keyboard to his right. Right off the bat, this is not someone who plays the accordion according to the tenets of Cajun, Alpine or Tejano but instead makes it pulse with an energy that sounds bigger than it should.

Although he began by singing in a hushed voice - delicately, beautifully, laying his life out for dissection - as he played gentle drums and winding accordion, it only took until the end of the first song before he was also playing trumpet. Folded into accordion and drums, the pure sound of the horn took the music into something positively soul-stirring.

With each song, it seemed as if he opened himself up further, skin, bones, heart and mind, inviting the listener to follow along as he mused on life, love and time spent alone driving. Sample lyric: "There is love in everyone I have known..." He switched to keyboards  to play some of the poignant songs from his new album "Delicate Art" before returning to dazzling us as a one-man band.

Each song captured the audience, from the slow burners to the more overtly powerful tunes,  and it was all we could do to clap loudly to show our appreciation for his talent each time he quietly folded his hands to signal the song ending.

When the show concluded, a friend walked over, stood between us and Walt and said, "Thank goodness there are delicate and emotionally fragile musicians willing to open themselves up and share their take on the world." Amen, girlfriend. I couldn't have said it better myself. It was as if a butterfly had landed on my arm and sat there for an hour, allowing me to savor up close the beauty of its wings and movement.

A musical memory of the highest order.

And no amount of eats can replace that feeling. So, sorry, Chris Rock, but it'll take more than food, water and compliments, though you can score a helluva lot of points with them.

You want to show me your sincerity, GB Shaw? Add music to the mix.

And You Can Dance

High-brow, meet low-brow and let's call it a night.

The farting sounds were straight out of "Blazing Saddles," while the whinny came directly from "Young Frankenstein." Mel Brooks provided God's voice at the end.

Naturally, I'm talking about Firehouse Theatre's production of Moliere's 1673 comedy, "The Imaginary Invalid," shortened to "Invalid" for modern-day audiences.

It wasn't tough to get the manse gang on board for M & Ms: a meal at Metzger followed by a play combining Moliere and Mel Brooks. What fan of high and low could pass on that combo?

We started at the crack of evening, so Metzger was empty, with all the shades down against the heat of the western sky. But seated at the front table nearest the window, it was still a tad warm, a condition we battled with Seehof Rose and a discussion of how - gasp! - Pru is sometimes willing to leave the Loire Valley when it's for a Rose of Pinot Noir.

With vintage, obscure soul music playing, the three of us played pass-the-plate with a succession of scrumptious ddishes. Giving new life to late summer zucchini, the kitchen had charred it and added quark, chopped almonds, preserved lemon, chili and mint so everyone wanted a piece of it. Thick slices of golden beets under radicchio, roasted grapes and hazelnuts became sublime thanks to dollops of Gorgonzola's triple cream cousin, Cambozola.

With a nod to one of Pru's favorite drinks, cured steelhead trout was gussied up with gin, cucumber, wax beans, roe and the German version of salsa verde, gruene sosse. Beau's black bass was out of this world fresh tasting and I ate as much as I could without risking him giving me the stinkeye for bogarting his fish.

A dark chocolate torte with blueberry, cardamom and milk crumble accompanied Beau's No Regrets cocktail - cognac, dark and blackstrap rum, Falernum, pineapple - which Pru dubbed a dead ringer for Bermuda's national drink, the Rum Swizzle. She should know, having slurped through multiple pitchers of them during her extensive time in Bermuda over the years.

All I know is, I'd happily drink Rum Swizzles here or there. In a chair or in a lair. Anywhere, preferably from a pitcher so I'd be assured of more than just one. Now I have to question how I managed to vacation in Bermuda without discovering the Swizzle's seductive power.

Pleasantly replete, we returned to the manse to pick up Queen B, who'd skipped dinner to await the arrival of Sweetie Pie, a street dog she rescued in Mexico and who has since become her devoted canine companion, from the vet.

With our party complete, we settled in at Firehouse for "Invalid," which began with comedian Slash Coleman, dressed all in white, leading us through a series of laugh exercises to prepare us for what was to come: neuroses, nuptials and number two.

Let's just say I can assure you of more passing of gas than you've ever seen in a play before.

The rebooted version of Moliere - satisfyingly still spoken in couplets - featured much hilarious dialog about enemas (the invalid's preferred treatment method), an improvised opera and a pair of lusty young lovers, along with a serious helping of mispronounced names ("It's Cleante!") and a man playing the role of the invalid's wife for maximum comedic affect.

Adding to the play's charm was the set with a door set into a wall that leaned forward at a precipitous angle, sort of an Alice-in-Wonderland effect heightened when people came in and out of it. Tres cool.

Queen B, Pru and I laughed unabashedly throughout while Beau found less to tickle his fancy. Given that we'd just learned that he's never read or seen Ibsen's "A Doll's House," perhaps he's just not the literary fan the womenfolk are. Because I know he's the type to enjoy a good fart joke.

We closed out the night on Pru's screened porch, but only after admiring her latest DIY project, an eye-catching gold compass she'd hand painted after painting the bathroom floor black. The question had been whether or not to paint the compass so the markers were correct, but she'd opted for aligning the directionals with the walls in the petite bathroom, a choice that made perfect sense once I sat down on the toilet.

No one wants the north arrow pointing at her left thigh, after all. Better it points at the sink.

As we sat on the screened porch with the sounds of Church Hill at night all around us - train whistles, voices, cars creeping down the alley - the conversation inevitably turned to the upcoming beach week and the interesting crew who will populate Pru's beach house this year. Besides Beckham and the Beauty, one of the guests, Hotdog, is coming all the way from Arizona to amuse us with his droll and dire observations, so it looks to be a party.

"Hotdog loves to dance!" Pru reminded us again. And Beckham has offered to dazzle us with his masterful cooking skills. Personally, I'm going for Pru's surfside champagne happy hours as part of my beach farewell for the year.

And if there'll be pitchers of Rum Swizzles (insert sound of horse whinnying) to accompany that dance party, all the better.

Determine to Live Through the Day

Stay with me here, I'm going to try to take you from shoegaze to Nippy, aka the past 48 hours.

Conveniently after a weekend away, Amtrak deposited me back in Richmond half an hour before a show I wanted to see was set to start. I have to admit, Bandito's isn't my favorite venue, but it had been too long since I'd seen Glass Twin and I liked what I'd heard online of Mon Chere.

Besides, I was overdue.

If we don't count musical theater, it's been ages since I've seen music and while I'd thoroughly enjoyed Cold Cave at the Broadberry, that was over three weeks ago and, frankly, I'm not okay with that. To address that, I put up with the excessive air conditioning (C'mon, Sunday's weather was exquisite), questionable smells (I don't even want to know) and overly talkative show attendees (why talk while standing 8' from where the band's playing when you could simply move to the large, uncrowded bar on the other side of the glass door?) like a trooper.

No surprise, the only people I knew were two of the guys in Glass Twin, talented musicians I'd been fans of since their 2008 days in their last band, Marionette and their smiling projectionist. Like that band, Glass Twin does old film projections on the wall behind them as they play for additional stimulation.

Familiar as a few of those clips are, I marvel at how easy it is to lose yourself in them while the band plays.

The band has evolved since I saw them last, with two new guitarists (one of whom is sharing vocal duties with Kevin the drummer), including one who announced that the next song was going to change our outlook on life. The sound guy apparently took that to mean it was their last song and when it finished, he immediately cued up music.

Only problem was, the band had two more songs. Awkward. One guy tried to help the sound guy's cause by yelling to the band, "How're you gonna top that anyway?" which was at least a left-handed compliment.

Actually, Susanna, Mon Chere's singer said it best when they finally took the stage a few minutes past midnight. "How is Glass Twin so amazing every time?"

What I'd heard of her band online had piqued my interest because of how many of my hot buttons their sound included: a fabulous, big female voice, electronic and shoegaze. Count me in.

Despite the annoying drunk quartet shouting at each other while Mon Chere played, I enjoyed their sound live every bit as much as I'd thought I would. Their online trail only dates the band back to 2016, so chances are they're very much in the "playing out often" stage and I can check them out again.

When I finally deposited my bags at home at 1:15, it felt like a very long time since I'd gotten on the train at 6:45.

The dearth of eateries open on Monday only made Metzger's Monday Funday - a NOLA-themed night of fundraising for No Kid Hungry and Chefs Cycle - all the more appealing. Funny part was, it wasn't chef Brittany who'll be cycling come September. Seems she volunteered her husband to do that.

What she was willing to do was make a big pot of gumbo (for the first time ever, she said), offer raw or grilled Tangier oysters (any questions which I had?) and donate the proceeds. Meanwhile, the bar staff had come up with some appropriate Big Easy type cocktails.

While they didn't have an absinthe drip, I must have shown enthusiasm while ordering an absinthe frappe because my partner followed suit. It may have been my first, but it's a drink I should know because not only is it a superb summertime refresher (simple syrup, soda water, mint), but there's a 1904 song about it.

At the first cold sip
On your fevered lip
You determine to live through the day
Life's again worthwhile
As with a dawning smile
You imbibe your absinthe frappe

Some might see it as mere early evening drinking, but I see it more as cultural education. If not for that drink being on the menu, I might never have upped my theater literacy by learning about the turn-of-the-century Broadway play, "It Happened in Nordland" and its most enduring song.

Well-chosen New Orleans music from various eras played on the sound system and a lot of the people who came in lived in the neighborhood. Since they're not usually open on Mondays and it's the first of these monthly events, things were as uncrowded as I've seen Metzger in eons.

We'd come early just in case and the bartender said they were ready to be slammed, but when we headed out nearly 3 hours later, it was still very civilized. I don't know whether to to feel glad for us or sorry that more fundraising wasn't accomplished.

I've had a lot of suggestions lately to be more selfish, so I may just go that route.

This morning while out walking, I had one of my finest moments when I came to where Clay Street is closed at Harrison. When I walked that block last week, I dutifully walked blocks out of my way because of the signs saying the street was closed because of all the heavy machinery and the dug-up street.

Today, I just wasn't feeling it and joked to one of the construction guys that he was impeding my progress. He grinned and pointed, "Come right on through!" so I didn't hesitate. As I passed, he said, "You look great!" which was nice and all, but nearly as good as being allowed through.

Meanwhile, the guys at the other end of the block gave me the look that said, how the hell did you breeze right past our boss? In my defense, all I did was state the obvious and he offered a solution. Not a big deal.

I didn't have time for a detour because I'd stacked my day full: an interview done at the Kroger Training Center, of all unlikely places, being interviewed myself (a highly unusual role for me) and a meal in service of my hired mouth took me right up to movie time and an opportunity to satisfy my inner documentary dork.

There were two main reasons I wanted to see the new Kevin MacDonald film "Whitney." Critics have been raving about it and Whitney Houston was the very first concert I saw when I moved to Richmond in 1986. I hadn't chosen it (my husband had) but in hindsight, I can say that if I was going to hear that one-in-a-million voice, the time to do it was the '80s before drugs ravaged it and her.

Like a good documentary that teaches me things, I learned that Whitney's interpretation of the national anthem had been inspired by Marvin Gay's version, done before an NBA championship game. Even more impressively, there was no rehearsal. Her music director wrote out the music and played it for her once and she said, "I got it," then went on to sing it in a way no one could ever forget.

And while I'd seen "The Bodyguard" when it came out, I had no recollection of what a big deal it was to show an interracial relationship. When asked, Whitney said she was just glad that her character was a strong, black woman. I'm guessing that didn't occur to most of us in 1992, either. She was also the first major musician to play post-apartheid South Africa, not to mention looking fabulous in a bejeweled  yellow turban and gown doing it.

The audience at Criterion was mostly women and a lot of them didn't hesitate to answer back, advise and admonish people on screen. You could hear how appalled some of them were when Whitney's Daddy sued her for $100 million. Whose father does that?

Of course, one of the earmarks of a good documentary is holding your interest even when you know what's going to happen and I'm here to say that MacDonald had talked to all the important characters except Whitney's lesbian lover (although she was shown and mentioned extensively) and they were remarkably candid about some very difficult subjects.

Oh, yes, and her nickname from childhood was Nippy. In one weird scene, she tries to address Nippy as Whitney, but can't. Then she has Nippy call up Whitney and that works. Some deep stuff there. Or at least I think there is.

What really matters is that I've now caught up the blog, so life is worthwhile again.

Snazzy, Brassy and Razamatazzy

We started with three dames, one guy and finished up with four dames, one guy. Estrogen flowed.

From a table all the way in the back of Metzger, we sipped Hugl Rose while destroying the Restaurant Week menu course by course. That it was done to a killer soundtrack by Mr. Fine Wine only guaranteed that there was no place I'd rather have been, despite the RW hordes.

Crab croquettes rested on a wave of honeyed skyr (the Icelandic dairy product that's not sure if it's a cheese or yogurt) that had me wanting to lick the plate while Pru announced about her pierogi with peas, quark and mint, "I could eat an entire bowl of these."

My roast chicken alone was out of this world, but the rye berries and pops of pickled celery elevated it to fancy chicken, while Beau's ramp tagliatelle starred black trumpet mushrooms, black garlic, breadcrumbs and a cured egg yolk and could not have been any fresher tasting. Queen B swooned over her enormous wiener schnitzel, while Pru was bested by a massive pork chop with spaetzle and pork jus.

Metzger is not for the faint of appetite, even with so-called RW portions.

Much of the dinner conversation was given over to the impending visit of Burger, a family friend of Pru and Queen B's whom I've already met several times, enough times to eat multiple meals, take him on one of my death walks and go dancing with him (the others having opted out). With his return this time, we discussed ways to amuse him without leaving him so worn out he requires a nap after every activity (aka middle aged man syndrome).

Desserts of mint panna cotta and dark chocolate tortes took us into the dining room's busy hour as the place filled up around us with intentional Restaurant Week patrons. We, on the other hand, had been unaware walking, rolled the dice won handily.

For me, the musical high point of the evening was hearing through the grapevine from one of the owners that as long as Metzger is open, Mr. Fine Wine will be playing. Period. As if I wasn't already a devoted fan of the kitchen, no restaurant in town has a soundtrack that can compare.

It was only once the dessert plates had been cleared that we looked at the time and realized we had more than enough to order another bottle of Rose and linger to the vintage soul music playing. Our server looked askance, as if she'd never heard of people ordering wine after dinner, but brought it anyway.

It's certainly not the first time I've walked out of a restaurant with a corked bottle in my bag and I feel quite certain it won't be the last.

Our evening's preliminary entertainment was "Dames at Sea," a 70s spoof of glitzy Busby Berkley-style musicals like "42nd Street" that Swift Creek Mill Theatre had last staged 26 years ago.

Hmm, let's see, 1992, I was living a wholly different life than today but I'd also never seen "Dames at Sea" and I love a good dancing-focused musical. This one had the all the usual tropes: fading star, wide-eyed kid fresh off the bus from Nowheresville, a couple of  peppy sailors and a chorus girl with a heart of gold.

I can't help but appreciate a musical that begins with an overture and the 8-piece orchestra added much to the musical numbers such as "That Mister Man of Mine," with the Pru-appropriate lyric, "He wants me back but he can't afford me." Few can, my dear, very few.

"When it comes to naval affairs, I've been compared to John Paul Jones," says Mona, the aging diva, who only liked men of experience and rank to steer her rudder. Pru and I concurred on the value of such a stipulation.

The second act was even more fun than the first, set, as it was, on the USS Courageous with a sign near where we were seated that read, "Poop Deck" with an arrow pointing off stage away from actors in lederhosen and dirndl skirts tapping their hearts out.

Let's just say that a good time was had by all.

Naturally, we closed out the evening on Pru's screened porch at the manse, a given because of the temperate weather and how long it had been since we had a good catch-up session. Joining tonight's rap session was a newcomer and former Church Hill resident who's recently moved out past Varina.

It was fascinating watching her take in our whirlwind of a conversation with its constantly changing focus (if you can't keep up, just excuse yourself and go to bed) and emphasis on experiences and opinions.

Next thing I knew, Beau was pulling out an old photo of himself - easily 40 pounds heavier and without the magnificent swoop to his hair that he now dazzles strangers and friends alike with - and talking about how he ended up a svelte, stylish man about town. Spoiler alert: Pru had a hand in it, having somewhat tactfully suggested that he could dress more to his advantage with a few changes.

We stayed far later than probably any of us intended on a school night, so the thunderstorms were just starting to roll in as I left Church Hill and drove home through deserted streets that will soon be even quieter as the students in my neighborhood clear out.

Even better, my conversational affairs are soon to go from idling back to 100 mph with May kicking in. Can. Not. Wait.

Fashionably Late

When it's your thing, you get to do what you want to do.

That meant my Sunday began with a rarity - hosting lunch at my house, complete with a bouquet of black-eyed Susans in the middle of the dining room table - and a nerdy indulgence: seeing the documentary "Yves Saint Laurent: His Life and Times" at the air conditioned VMFA.

That the near capacity crowd leaned 90% female mattered not to my non-alpha male companion, who, like me, is a documentary dork and was also eager to learn more about the man behind the designer.

Because YSL himself had been interviewed extensively, there were all kinds of intimate revelations, from his longing to be a beatnik (don't we all?) to the fact that his father never acknowledged his son was gay (in the interview with his mother, she says she knew, but her husband traveled a lot for business, so there didn't seem to be any point in telling him).

But the piece-de-resistance had to be the 3-year old Yves telling his great aunt to go change her dress before they went out...and she did. When he was hired as Christian Dior's assistant and his mother was coming to meet Dior, he also had final say on her ensemble.

That's talent the boy was born with.

Unlike a more typical American film, the pace was slow and measured (like YSL himself) with full admissions about his depression and addictions, with plenty of self doubt thrown in.

And always, those fabulous couture collections that he managed to design during two 2-week periods every year. In one outdoor scene, a series of models walk by, each dressed like the epitome of the swingin' modern '60s woman and so very different from the more constrained gender roles of the '50s.

It was a fascinating film that should have sent anyone in the audience who hadn't already seen the YSL exhibit (don't look at me) directly to it.

How is it this person arrived on earth so fully formed in his fashion sense? I was 40 before I had a clue what worked for me fashion-wise - and a lot of bad choices before that - and I'm still playing catch-up in some respects (jeans, scarves, jewelry) even now.

It wasn't hard to wile away the late afternoon or choose a place for an early dinner and when we pulled up to Metzger, who should we see heading in for dinner but one of the couples we'd recently shared a beach house with. Now it was a party.

Despite the shades being down, the sun had positioned itself so that all of the restaurant's windows were taking the brunt of the heat and things heated up as we sipped Anton Bauer Rose and chatted. They'd just come from Sub Rosa and seeing Miramar, which was exactly what we'd done last Sunday.

Small world.

But it was my date's first Metzger outing, so I had to introduce him to the myriad pleasures of it, beginning with Mr. Fine Wine providing the killer vintage soul soundtrack. Looking around to take it all in, he was impressed with a cleaver on the wall and intrigued by the bandoleer of Underberg singles.

The menu had been updated only the day before and maybe that's why the corn soup with crab and speck tasted like the corn had been in the field yesterday. The milky broth was sublime by itself, but in my world, everything's better with with crab and the speck provided a beautiful salty note to contrast with the sweetness of the corn and crab.

Mr. First Timer felt the siren song of a special of pork loin and I encouraged him since Metzger is magic with meat, while I had an heirloom tomato salad (the tops of the slices bruleed for a sweet note) with peaches, tarragon and seeded granola in buttermilk dressing.

In other words, a plate of summer.

Plenty of other familiar faces showed up - the IT whiz and his wife in a cute ticking jump suit, the dancer, the musician, the Italian I hadn't seen in ages - and then our beach friends moved on just as our black forest bombe (cherry ice cream over chocolate cake covered in hard chocolate with brandy cream) arrived.

A dessert so rich we couldn't finish it provided a splendid introduction for the Metzger virgin to the digestif Underberg, so we ordered two of the little single-serve bottles labeled with the promise: "To feel bright and alert" and took our dose of herbal bitters clocking in at 44%.

Those little empty bottles used to be found scattered on the floor during Mr. Fine Wine dance parties, but now that those have stopped, Underberg can be appreciated for its true purpose: settling an overly-full belly after a protracted and indulgent meal.

And while we briefly toyed with the idea of going to a show, it sounded just as appealing to sit on the balcony, listen to Brazil '66  followed by Isaac Hayes and watch heat lightening until the rain arrived.

Because bright and alert is in the eye of the beholders.

It Shoulda Been You

It's a Saturday night tradition to progressively celebrate my birthday.

The past three years, I've been accompanied by two favorite couples, but this year, I wanted a third dynamic duo added to the mix. The funny part was her comment, "Wow, we finally made the cut! I guess we were just being auditioned up 'till now."

Not true, but their presence was a lovely addition to the party.

Things kicked off at Metzger because Mr. Fine Wine's music never gets old and just after opening is the very best time to enjoy Metzger before it's noisy and overcrowded. I arrived at the bar to find four of my six friends awaiting my arrival with bubbles in front of them in my honor.

I'm not entirely convinced that they wouldn't have been drinking bubbles anyway, but still, it was a lovely greeting. The late arrivals merited ordering another bottle.

With the early evening sun beating down on Metzger's shaded windows, my friends ate through multiple cheese and charcuterie plates, a couple of specials of pork meatballs, Morattico oysters (home to my parents), a salad of English breakfast and watermelon radishes and, most impressively, roasted asparagus over the pinkest of shrimp mousse.

It was here that we learned about the seafood/kiss rule already well-established by the newlyweds. You see, she doesn't care for seafood, so he refrains from eating it until after she's had enough wine not to mind. Such was his rationale for turning down Morattico oysters before he scored an early kiss.

I'd be the first to admit I love to kiss, but I can't see turning down a perfectly delicious oyster, either.

Mowing through food like we didn't still have two more stops to make, I gently reminded my posse not to overly front-load. Not everyone took the gentle reminder well, but part of that is due to the siren song of Metzger.

Our next stop was Nota Bene, where we went from a bright, sunlit space to the dimness of multiple candles and a wood-burning oven. Holmes regaled us with tales from the accounting world, there was talk of men in yoga pants, and, in an extraordinary moment, the entire table voted for Germany over Provence when it came to drinking Rose.

In fact, the Villa Wolf Rose carried us though multiple plates of sugar toads, braised fennel with tomato sauce and breadcrumbs, the grilled cauliflower with fresno peppers that made Holmes a believer, squid ink pasta with scallops and pizzas of at least three varieties.

Anyone watching our feeding frenzy might have been inclined to judge...and justifiably so.

Once we had hit every possible savory note, we moved on to L'Opossum for dessert at the sole dining room that's actually dimmer than Nota Bene. The next step would've been complete darkness.

Instead we indulged in apperitifs and cocktails - the Laura Palmer, the Violet Femme - and every chocolate dessert on the menu, plus apple tartine and creme brulee. When I blew out my candle, it was with a very specific wish.

Gifts beyond the company of good friends were opened and I was the happy recipient of a very groovy beach towel, loads of vinyl and a bottle of South African Pinotage brought from the source that I hope to enjoy with abandon once I find another Pinotage lover beyond the gift-giver.

He's gotta be out there somewhere. That's what birthday wishes are for, right?

She Who Wanders Winds Up Somewhere

Is Christianity inherently arrogant? A discussion.

Yes, that was a real event tonight, although I just couldn't fit it in (despite my strong opinions on the subject), only partly because it was happening in Charlottesville.

When I looked at my calendar this morning, I had three things scheduled: two interviews and Secretly Y'All, Tell Me A Story at the new Fulton location of Triple Crossing Brewery. But then about 2ish, I was foolish enough to check Facebook and spotted the Iki Kai event at Metzger.

A Hawaiian-themed evening of tropical cocktails along with chef Brittney's take on poke? Yea, I can fit that in.

But here's the rub: the invitation had clearly stated: Starting at 5 until we run out! No reservations. Hmm, my second interview ensured I couldn't possibly get there before 630ish, but how bad could it be barely an hour and a half in?

Let's see, the building was already at capacity (consequently hovering near the bar, drink in hand, was not permitted) and a gaggle of 10 with their names on the waiting list was already assembled on the corner outside, the designated waiting room.

Still, I had time before the storytelling began, so why not wait on 23rd Street and enjoy the scent of flowering trees and warmth of waning sunshine?

And while we were already in goof-off mode, across the street four Hispanic-looking men were still very busy, despite the hour, working on two new houses going up. Watching their bustling effort, I was surprised when one on the roof whistled sharply and another stuck his head out a second story window and expertly tossed a coil of cord up and onto the roof.

Ten minutes later, two of the men got in a van and pulled out while the remaining duo kept busy, a generator humming in the background.  As the van passed the group of white people waiting on the corner for tiki drinks, I had a most incongruous thought: how many tiki-seekers had done manual labor today like these guys?

Exactly. A lot to chew on there.

By the time I finally got clearance to enter the building and claim a vacant bar stool, the white-hot intensity had cooled just a tad to red hot. I'd even go so far as to say that Metzger was finally under the fire marshall's designated capacity, although not by a lot.

A familiar bearded bartender (Redundant? Discuss...) looked relieved at the slightly slower pace and marveled that at the last tiki pop-up, they hadn't premixed any of the rums or mixers as they'd done this time, so in theory they should have been having a far easier time tonight. And yet...

Let's chalk it up to the sheer thirsty numbers of tiki-starved imbibers and not assign blame, shall we?

The menu was simple enough: a handful of classic and creative tiki drinks, three kinds of ahi tuna and three of tako, and Halo Halo beer. After ordering a Mai Tai (rum agricole, Jamaican rum, creole shrub and orgeat lime) and classic tako (they were already out of spicy ahi), I scanned the room.

No kidding, there were no fewer than four infants in baby seats taking up valuable real estate. If that doesn't seem odd to you, then please explain to me why infants belong at a tiki bar in the first place.

Because of the excessive volume that prevented me from even hearing if it was the usual Mr. Fine Wine playing his rare soul 45s or an appropriately Hawaiian soundtrack? Babies don't need noise, so I doubt it.

Because parents feel like if they want to go to a tiki bar, they shouldn't have to get childcare? Bingo, far more likely.

A much more pleasurable place to cast my eye was on the handmade Iki-Kai sign that one of the server's boyfriends had crafted in white with red lit letters and placed at the head of the bar, although it was mostly obscured by hordes of people angling for drinks.

My octopus and seaweed poke was spot on, the crispy fried wontons that accompanied it a satisfying salty crunch between bites of the bounty of the sea, while the Mai Tai delivered crispness and spiciness without ever straying into cliche territory.

When I finally found my way outside, I immediately ran into friends on their way in. Knowing I could surprise them, I told them to guess where I was headed. "The theater," one wagered. Ha! When I said I was on my way to a brewery, they - both avid beer drinkers - were incredulous. They know me better.

"Wait, wait, there's something going on there," one said, racking his brain to recall. Secretly Y'All, I reminded him aloud. "That's it!" he said with satisfaction, as if he'd come up with it.

From there, I had only to follow my handwritten directions to get me from Union Hill to Triple Crossing in Fulton. Sounds so easy, right? And it probably would be for anyone not navigationally-challenged (or using a computer to get them there), neither of which describes me.

So I tried to find the road I was supposed to make a right on and couldn't. I circled back to see if I'd missed it. Still, no trace. Two more loops still didn't produce the brewery or even any telltale signage. I wasn't lost because I knew where I was, I simply couldn't locate Triple Crossing.

It seemed foolish to keep looking. Somewhere nearby, people were telling revealing stories and somewhere in C-ville, they were (hopefully) railing against the arrogance of Christianity (Q: What do you get when you have 4 Episcopalians? A: A fifth), so I needed a Plan B.

I got it parked down at the Sugar Pad, with a view of the silvery-looking river, the setting sun and far more cyclists, runners and even couples strolling hand in hand than I'd have suspected considering the hour. Chances are, each one had a story and an opinion about Christianity.

The Mai Tai and the gorgeous evening guaranteed that I cared to hear neither.

Bad is in the Ear of the Beholder

What are the chances of happening on a spontaneous joke-off on an icy Sunday night? Pretty good, as it turned out.

All I really set out for was sustenance and some relief from so much of my own company (see: a movie for one this afternoon) but I knew I wanted it set to the musical stylings of DJ Fine Wine, which meant I was headed to Metzger.

No sacrifice since it had been too long anyway.

Given the weather and knowing this city, I had the sense to call ahead to ascertain the restaurant's game plan for tonight. Open till 10, which suited me just fine since I knew winding my way through the icy streets of Church Hill was going to be slow going with plenty of un-plowed streets and bad parking jobs.

The Hill didn't disappoint.

Inside, only a few tables were occupied, while at the bar was a single couple deep in conversation and red wine, making my mid-bar choice of stools neither invasive of their personal space nor too close to the wait station.

The first words out of my mouth were sincere appreciation to the bartender for being open tonight. Seems they'd been busy with neighborhood folks yesterday and far less so for brunch and dinner tonight, but hung in there anyway. "Everybody got out yesterday so today they're staying home," he conjectured.

Not everybody.

Ten degree nights require something ruddy so I asked for a glass of Paul Direder Zweigelt, but when I asked for the Brussels sprouts with fried squid, the barkeep winced, saying it was the one thing they were out of.

Instead, I requested the winter squash, a dish so seductive it made me inordinately grateful that the sprouts were long gone.

Squash roasted to that exquisite texture hovering somewhere between toothsome and tender shared the plate with curls of endive, sunflower seeds, dates, satsuma mandarins and pureed squash. The contrast between decadent sweetness (date slices), savory earthiness and nutty bitterness (endive) was matched only by textural swings from soft and chewy to crisp and crunchy.

Vegetarians would swoon and carnivores would swear allegiance to this squash, I'm telling you. And to enjoy it to obscure vintage soul music only intensifies my pleasure.

In the meantime, a couple had joined us at the bar and were regaling the barkeep with mutual friend stories. In the course of their discussion, he mentioned the way a friend told a joke, how excruciatingly long it could take him to tell jokes and yet how beautifully he could tie together a string of bad jokes at the end of it all.

"Here's one of his jokes," he said and wound up making both the bartender and I laugh out loud with it. It was really funny, we both acknowledged. Naturally, they couldn't tell just one joke and soon the bartender trots out one of his favorites and there's more laughter.

Immediately, they're on a roll, except these are jokes that, even if you haven't heard them before, you can tell they're classics, the kind of jokes that guys were telling back before pop-top beer. I mock them as a Milton Berle rip-offs and the guy volleys back, proving my point.

Knock, knock?
Who's there?
Two.
Two who?
To whom!

See what I mean? But I can't complain because they're both excellent joke-tellers with succinct timing and superb vocal inflection when required. They've both told a few jokes in their day.

What's the best time to go to the dentist?
Tooth-hurty!

After a particularly satisfying punchline, the bartender decides to bow out on a high note, effectively ending the joke-off. The bar sitter throws out a couple more just to get the last word.

Meanwhile, I order Black Forest Cake, which gets the attention of the original couple when the towering dessert arrives. A coffee can-sized dark chocolate cake is covered thickly in Chantilly cream, brandied cherries and Kirsch, but is notable for the dozen or so pieces of chocolate sticking out of the top like a crown of edible spikes.

"We're getting that to go," he brags. It occurs to me that my chocolate is going to be a lot taller than his chocolate if his is going in a to-go box. He claims he's already made peace with this fact.

He makes sure the bartender and I know he's from Charlottesville, which doesn't excuse his annoying habit of referring to the bartender as "my friend" in every sentence ("Once is the limit for 'my friend,'" the barkeep shares after he leaves).

Perhaps trying to impress us even more, he says of his companion, "This woman is a star from Tuckahoe."

When that gets no reaction, he corrects himself. "No, from Midlothian." The bartender blinks twice, says "okaaaay," and walks slowly away to get them a bottle to go.

Somewhere midway through my Black Forest cake, I notice the guy to my right eating the schnitzel is glancing over at my dessert covetously. I see him lean over to his partner and suggest, "We should think about dessert."

She points out that he's left over half his schnitzel uneaten. I point out that it was seeing my chocolate that derailed his desire train. He admits as much.

Once my wine and cake are gone, I start layering up to leave this pitch perfect soundtrack and head home, not forgetting to thank the bartender for all the bad jokes. He looks at me reprovingly.

"I prefer to think that they're just classic jokes," he says, polishing a glass while sounding like he's talking to a child. Whatever.

Ready to go, I turn to his partner in yucks and thank him as well for his bad jokes. He nods and smiles and goes back to talking to his date.

My hand is on the door to leave before I hear him calling from behind, "Wait! Those aren't bad jokes, they're..."

I know, I know, tried and true jokes. Proven winners. Funny for a reason. Jokes my grandfather probably laughed at in his lifetime.

Jokes that made my night.

Kick Out the Jams

It was out of the natural order but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

When it comes to spinning vintage 45s, my heart belongs to Mr. Fine Wine, the problem being that it had been ten months since he'd made the trek from New Jersey to Metzger and I was jonesing badly.

I know we have a lot of great DJs in this town and I have friends who are superb DJs, but no one has ever quite nailed my musical needs on the dance floor quite like Mr. Fine Wine and it's for this reason that I would move heaven and hell to catch him when he comes to town.

Tonight, as it turned out, I didn't need to do much more than work into the early evening before Mac arrived to accompany me to Metzger's Oktoberfest.

Granted, I don't drink beer and true, sunset was nigh and the event had already been going on for close to seven hours when we arrived to find a bored-looking cop popping a squat in his cruiser, probably alternately mocking the crowd and checking the police radio.

You see, tonight's Fine Wine dance party was happening on a closed-off street, part of the Oktoberfest vibe and therein lies the rub.

If there's one thing that's a constant at all Metzger's throwdowns where he DJs, it's the heat. You can't very well fill a small restaurant to capacity with sweaty dancers and not expect the temperature to rise.

But when you're dancing outdoors on a breezy 68 degree night, such issues are moot.

But the party began with listening (nay, reveling in), not dancing, as we arrived, took stock of the knots of people and decided our course of action. Food was first.

The restaurant's windows were being utilized as order and pick-up stations, so we placed our order for roast chicken, sauerkraut and an obscenely over-sized soft pretzel with Chef Brittney after chatting her up.

When she thanked me for coming, I reminded her that I'd yet to miss a Fine Wine evening and that my main purpose in coming tonight was just that. Food and drink were mere icing on the cake. "I know, I wish more people were paying attention to the music," she lamented, a fact I'd already noticed.

Clearly most of the Oktoberfest celebrants had either no knowledge of this component of the festivities or else were oblivious to the non-stop rare yet catchy series of three-minute soul gems he was spinning.

Either way, it was tragic.

She allowed that while tonight's weather was glorious for the occasion, the street had been a miserable place along about mid-afternoon on this especially warm Fall day without so much as a lick of shade anywhere.

Our delayed arrival, it seems, was perfectly timed.

Job one was scoring Ruby Salts and slurping them standing up while mulling over the wisdom of cocktail sauce next to them (far better the accompanying lemon or mignonette, even upright) while I told her about a rainy afternoon in the kitchen of the woman anointed world's best oyster shucker, with the only warmth coming from the oven.

Mostly, we talked about "mens," as she called them and what a problem they can be. You can't buy memories like that.

Food in hand, we roosted on the steps of the church just on the other side of the magic chain that delineated the biergarten, with a clear view of Mr. You Know Who and his seemingly endless supply of obscure R & B vinyl that was already causing my hips to twitch.

After devouring crispy-skinned chicken (the juicy leg being my favorite), tangy kraut and what amounted to an everything pretzel, we procured glasses of Gruner Veltliner and took up residency on the street dance floor.

Since it was Mac's first time, I was hardly surprised when she repeatedly turned to me to say, "Man, this music is just so good!" Tell me about it....or, better yet, ask the tall guy in leiderhosen dancing non-stop. Or the trio using a hula hoop to dance over and through.

For the most part, the crowd was unfamiliar to me, unlike at past Fine Wine events, but there was one major difference tonight and it was a doozy.

This vinyl party was to stop at 9:00. For someone who's used to him starting to spin at 11, it was enough to make me dread the stroke of nine.

Not long before that cataclysmic event, a couple came over to say hi and I recognized them because we'd met previously when he'd approached me to share that his wife was a devoted reader of my blog. Apparently, she still feels shy about approaching me, despite also feeling like she knows me well given how long she's been reading about my life.

Hoping to prove the point that the blog is just another vehicle to meet people, I introduced her to Mac, suggesting she ask her how we'd come to be out together.

Because, of course, our friendship was a direct result of the blog. You just never know where a new pal is coming from.

Two beer-loving friends came over to talk, telling me they'd gone to Pridefest on Brown's Island to see my favorite cover band, Trunk Show, play this afternoon, a show I'd had to forego to work on assignments.

So, what did they play?

"Let's see, Amy Winehouse, um, there was some David Bowie..." he said, trailing off. I bet there was Fleetwood Mac, I said. "How'd you know that?" he said, sounding incredulous.

Simple, I miss about as many Cover to Cover shows as I do Mr. Fine Wine nights, although the former ends around 9 and the latter, usually not until 2 a.m. I only wish tonight.

Promptly at 9, the music died, although the man who'd introduced me to WFMU's master DJ gave him permission to play one final song, but even one final hour would never have been enough, so when that ended, we knew we had to move on.

Or as one of the more amusing staffers yelled, "The cops want you guys to get the hell out of the street!" and people began to disperse.

After a heartfelt thanks to Mr. Fine Wine, who was kind enough to remember me from past evenings, and a soulful sigh, we exited stage right.

Fortunately, I had another stellar plan, although sadly, this one didn't involve dancing.

The Bijou - the new arthouse theater that has laid claim to my last three Saturday nights, mind you - was showing the music documentary "Danny Says" about rock gadfly and former Ramones/MC5/Stooges manager Danny Fields.

Adding to the cachet of the film was that today was arthouse theater day, meaning the Bijou was showing a film that hasn't even opened nationally yet.

Yet again, Richmond manages to be too cool for school.

When one of the co-founders thanked me for coming, I reminded him I'm practically a fixture lately. "You class up the joint," he kindly told me before Mac and I joined her man in third row seats to eat gratis popcorn.

The film was a who's who of music talent from the '60s to the late '70s - Judy Collins (who kindly took Danny to a beach so he could enjoy his first acid trip at the ocean...now that's a friend), Iggy Pop (young and old, but always lean and leathery), Alice Cooper - but the undisputed star of it all was the interviews of Reid, who manages to distance himself and completely immerse himself in the tangential glow of musical evolution, which he helped shape with his support of underdog punk bands he believed in.

But as a film and photography geek, I was bowled over by all the archival footage, including a recording of Danny playing the Ramones for Lou Reed the first time ("This is the greatest thing I've ever heard!") and hearing that MC5 was the only band with a minister of defense.

You don't learn these nuggets unless you're a dedicated documentary dork and you're lucky enough to have a small, independent theater looking out for your film needs.

Nor do you have your killer Saturday night tied neatly with a bow when you learn that Danny did a stint as a DJ at WFMU, coincidentally, the same WFMU that currently hosts Mr. Fine Wine's ode to the music of my heart, Downtown Soulville.

I could have danced all night and still have begged for more.

A Voice of Reason

We've been through a lot together, and most of it was your fault
~wording on birthday gift (box of out-sized matches)

I hear this a lot, but that stuff wasn't my fault, just a byproduct of, you know, having fun.

Besides, birthdays aren't a sprint, they're a marathon.

They're an opportunity to discuss the Oxford comma, which happened at Metzger while drinking Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose, eating a cheese plate and a charcuterie plate and listening to vintage soul thanks to a Taurus also obsessed with my favorite New Jersey DJ.

For the birthday girl who grew up in Maryland, the fried softshell crab was a decided highlight.

Sitting five abreast, from the farthest bar stool I overhear, "He's talking about putting tse-tse fly sauce on his sub," and wonder how my friend can be so far along when it's only our first stop.

Oh please, do go on! I could listen to you talk about your blog all night!
~ front of birthday card showing couple deep in discussion

Prom kids commandeered a long table behind us at Nota Bene, where we wound our five-top around the corner of the bar - and I learned that the bartender's prom date 20 years ago had been named Nikki LaRoqua and that she measured up to her name - for ease in hearing each other blather.

Words fell short when a steady stream of food began showing up, a lot of it off the specials board: two bowls of braised fennel with capers and tomato, two more of sugartoads with bagna caude and lots of bread to soak up its buttery, garlicy goodness, pizza of Tellegio and onions, the same roasted cauliflower with lemon, olive oil, capers and fresno chilies I'd fallen hard for just over a week ago and a big bowl of clams and fennel.

People think I'm bossy, too."
~ caption on birthday card image of Ghengis Khan talking to dark-haired woman with glass of pink bubbles in front of her

There was spirited discussion of the difference between a harlot and a strumpet, with the consolation "harlot" t-shirt going to Pru.

Lights were dim but the restaurant was still packed when we arrived at L'Opossum for our final course. Inquiring about the nature of the black bottom, our server summed it up by saying, "It's a circle of life in a chocolate cupcake."

Perhaps not everyone could glean her meaning from that, but I could.

With disco alternating with k.d. lange crooning cover songs, we had three of them, mine with a lit candle, plus creme brulee, fiery chocolate and foie gras bread pudding. I sipped glasses of Cocchi Barolo Chinato while others savored plastic-wrapped Laura Palmers.

Holmes ordered a Glen Moray and our server asked if he wanted it over a  Death Star. He did, allowing us all to marvel over the globe-shaped ice.

It takes a long time to become young.
~ Picasso, but handwritten inside one of my birthday cards

For the second year in a row, we closed down L'Opossum in service of celebrating my birthday.

Today began with a birthday gift being delivered (on Sunday, no less) before motoring through the mist to Upper Shirley Vineyards for lunch. I hadn't expected the place to be so large, but both the packed parking lot and capacity dining room prove that the word was out.

I'll tell you this much: it appears to be the place for ladies who lunch (eat? trash talk?) in the East End. Lots of bling, lots of all-female tables, lots of shrill conversation bouncing off hard walls.

Addressing the Southern half of my heritage with practically perfect ham biscuits sweet with pepper jelly eaten on the couch for lack of a free space, followed by a move to a table of our own, shrimp and avocado salad and then fried chicken and waffles, we saved the wine tasting for afterward in lieu of dessert.

I am too lucky to have you as a girlfriend, companion, confidante, soul sister, advisory. partner-in-crime and voice of reason when I need one.~ sentiment written inside a birthday card

How hilarious is it to hear me referred to as a voice of reason? I'll take it with a grain of salt.

The Tannat was the most arresting of the bunch but it was glasses of Rose we took first to the big porch to get a view of the river, where it was too chilly and damp for the birthday girl before moving back to the couch and eventually to the city for a double hot fudge sundae at Bev's and at Secco, a bottle of Can Xa Brut Rose because birthdays.

A quick stop at En Su Boca made birthday nachos my reality and I finally got to see "Barbershop: The Next Cut," a film I'd gone to see weeks ago only to find it sold out.

Funny and not funny, relevant without being strident, with talking points that come across like an overdue rap session, it's the kind of film that makes you realize that white people don't see nearly enough black movies.

Shakedown 1981 during the scene when the entire barbershop breaks into dance at the first notes ("Can't fool myself...") of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" and I immediately flash back to a Christmas party that year when the exact same thing happened, albeit not as rhythmically since we were white.

And can we just have a moment for how good looking - body and face - Common is? It's too bad about that time I didn't get in to see him at the Pit. Needless to say, I also have new respect for Nicki Minaj's bountiful booty. Truly, a masterpiece of human engineering.

And wear some jeans for chrissakes.
~ sentiment written inside a birthday card

I might if I had that kind of booty.

Life, Better than a Reproduction Lecture

I am completely unable to ignore the man who first informed me - before I knew it myself - that I was a hopeless romantic.

Oh, I was flattered when I heard from the west coast, "Oh, shoot, is this the end of the blog? Say it ain't so...xo," but I was, alas, so much busier with work and a decided uptick in my social life that I had to let go of something.

I certainly wasn't about to let go of things like a poetry reading at Scott House, with verse dedicated to topics such as nosebleeds, elk offal, pyre-building and gray scum (Gregory Kimbrell's first reading from his completely disarming and disturbing new book of poems, "The Primitive Observatory") or Allison Titus' elegiac space rock poems about fireflies lamping the back yard.

As a result, I decided to use my usual blogging time for fun so I didn't have to miss out on anything like the screening of "Labyrinth" at Hardywood (my first viewing of the Bowie/Jim Henson classic) or an afternoon under the spell of K Dance's "Shorts," with works by Tennessee Williams, Suzan-Lori Parks and Shel Silverstein.

With no obligation to keep track of my comings and goings, I left town for three days, taking long walks in unfamiliar places, doing a lot of reading and savoring the lobster roll my critic friend recommended. When I got back, it was to an unexpected message, letting me know of the sender's "continuing appreciation for what you do to show a strong, smart, engaged approach to living."

There are people reading me who get that? Praise the lord and pass the biscuits.

Right, and there was that time I went to the new Early Bird Biscuit and shared my biscuit and blackberry jam with a homeless man who called me kind for doing so. I would call the person who wrote that to me kind as well.

When the French Film Festival hit town, Pru and I set out to get our yearly Francophile fix, except that what she really wanted to discuss for those three days was not cineastes but my absence in the blogging sphere, having been immediately suspicious when I'd stopped.

Over dinner at Secco one day, Amour Wine Bistro another and Bistro Bobette a third, she tried to get me back in writing mode. "All these amusing things I've been saying and no one's writing them down for posterity!" she lamented.

Days later, I get a message from her. "It looks like your radishes are growing fat instead of pithy at present...hmmmm." After much back and forth about my personal life, she offered advice not printable in a  family blog...or this one. Her summation? "Get out there and get pithy!"

Can I not be pithy without blogging?

Perhaps I'm too busy flaunting my D.C. roots with a James River Film Fest screening of "S.E. 67," a documentary about a group of Southeast Washington kids offered free college educations back in the '80s. I sign a petition to save the Enid Haupt Gardens in D.C., aghast that their demolition is even being considered.

There's a show and dance party at Studio 23 of go-go posters from the '70s and '80s (the graphic style instantly recognizable because I grew up seeing them everywhere), along with two DJs playing nothing but go-go, something that rarely happens outside D.C.

I have a ball dancing, talking to fellow go-go fans and even to a guy who'd attended one of the shows advertised in the poster. I overheard so many fascinating conversations and shared none of them.

Not having to blog meant plenty of time for dinner at the ever-fabulous Acacia (duck heart salad with strawberries, my, oh my and squid ink pasta with clams) before seeing Quill Theater's "King Lear" and repairing to Can-Can for Shakespeare discussion among the Saturday night divorcee crowd.

Did anyone really need to hear my thoughts on the new bands I've been seeing lately? The new Scott Clark Trio, for instance, or Microwave's soulful sounds at Cary Street? Zomes at Steady Sounds or the killer chops of Ralston, Parker, Fonville at Balliceaux? Probably not.

I have taken epic walks with my new walking partners, shared an unexpected brunch with an attentive artist and gone to a late night screening of a movie about wine, "Premiere Cru." At the Valentine's final Community Conversation, I enthusiastically discussed Richmond's public spaces with strangers and people of opposing opinions.

If anyone actually cares that I saw the cult 1986 documentary "Heavy Metal Parking Lot," I'd be thrilled to hear from them. Personally, it was a kick seeing all those skinny kids in the Capital Centre parking lot, the scene of most of my concerts for the first 8 or 10 years of my concert-going life.

Paul McCartney, Elton John, Cher, the Who, Fleetwood Mac, Diana Ross, the Beach Boys, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, all revealed themselves to me for the first time at ye old Cap Centre, but at this screening, I got the bonus of seeing the building's implosion, something I'd missed, having moved to Richmond  by then.

But who cares?

And does anyone really want to know that I've been to Merroir twice in recent weeks, along with Metzger, Pizza Tonight, My Noodle and Bar (I'm besotted with the decor) and the Roosevelt for a wine dinner with Chatham Vineyards, their delightful and voluble winemaker seated at our table? Probably not.

When it was last minute company I needed, I found it with an empathetic friend at Sabai for dinner and the Broadberry for a DJ out of Phoenix who took the stage at midnight after two others and melted our faces off with European beats.

Walking out of Richmond Ballet's Studio 3 series after being gobsmacked seeing "The Rite of Spring" and a world premiere of Mark Annear's "City Life," I run into the mustached scientist, whom I haven't seen in eons.

"Well, that was better than a reproduction lecture,' he observes in his usual deadpan, referring to the class he should have been teaching while he was instead watching dance.

Just before I get ready to leave the house Sunday, my trusty land line rings and it's the college friend who now resides in Key West, calling to check on me for the simple reason that I haven't blogged in a few weeks. Am I okay, how's my love life, how can anyone, friend or foe, be expected to match my energy level?

Although it sounds like typical friend phone conversation, you have to understand that we don't talk on the phone. Or if we do, there are years in between conversations. Clearly, he must have been worried and we can't have that.

After all, he's the one who advised me back in 2009 when my life was in shambles that, "Loneliness and regret are mean friends and piss poor mates."

I'm working on having none of either, thank you very much. So the blog is back, in some fashion or another, probably a less revealing one so more of my business is my own. How's that for pithy?

Say it ain't so.

Worth My Barking Dogs

No one gives me a Saturday night quite like Mr. Fine Wine.

For that matter, no one serves a pre-dance party dinner quite like the one my couple date and I ate through at Metzger, but only after I had to defend my thesis (potatoes don't belong in anything called nachos) and break from their wine choice (I don't start an evening of dancing with Meinklang Pinot Noir, I begin it with Casas del Mar Cava).

We had the last reservation of the night and even as we ate, every time a table around us was vacated, it was cleared and moved outside, the better to create a dance floor from the tiny restaurant. This wasn't my first Fine Wine rodeo, so I knew the drill.

Considering how much we ate, I'd say we did a fine job of doing it in the relatively brief span we were allotted. Borscht salad got its kick from sauerkraut vinaigrette; my fried sweetbreads currywurst-style tasted so enticing that even sweetbreads-averse Beau had to admit they were fabulous; a rich stout-braised pork pie would be an ideal dish on a cold, wintry night; scallops and mushrooms over a chestnut puree was pure perfection; and the evening's special was an enormous plate of steak and potatoes that fed all three of us amply.

By this point, there were only a few tables left standing around us, but that didn't prevent us from ordering chocolate and squash, a seasonal take on my requisite ending to a meal.

Beau was so impressed with the Kuri squash cake that he said he'd eat it by itself, while I far preferred having it adorned with chocolate mousse, chocolate malt, sage ice cream and divinely crunchy candied sage leaves.

Then, and only then, fully sated and with Mr. Fine Wine cranking up the turntables, did we relinquish our table. The chef ducked out the back door, telling me she was going home to put on her face and change clothes before coming back to join the party.

With Mr. Fine Wine, everybody's all in. "Thanks for coming," she said. "You never miss one of these, do you?" Sure don't.

The next three hours were an absolute ball. We began with a bottle of Paul Direder Gruner Veltliner but by the time Pru and I returned from our first dance-off up next to the turntables, it was clear water was going to be as essential as grape if we were to go the distance. And lots of it.

With Mr. Fine Wine, it's a marathon, not a sprint, especially as the room began to fill to capacity (and beyond?) and heat up. As usual, I didn't hesitate to go over and open a window to allow the cold night air in.

At one point, Pru looked at the mass of humanity quizzically and asked if I knew anybody in the room. Are you kidding?

Let's see, besides the oenophile taking the first level of her sommelier tests this week who greeted me when I arrived before they did? Other than the guy who came over to our table to hug me and tell my friends that he only runs into me at the coolest events?

Well, I congratulated the former freelancer and now reporter while ordering wine. The electronic musician/visual artist gave me a hug and told me to come dance with her. Familiar foodies and servers were rampant, especially representing the Church Hill contingent.

Even Grandma Muriel, aka the talented sax player who calls bingo at Gallery 5 wanted to chat, although he was noticeably without his peignoir and mask tonight.

But some of the best conversations and dances came courtesy of strangers. I love how when Mr. Fine Wine is spinning, there are no formalities.

A guy is dancing next to you one minute and the next he's bumping hips and circling around you. Or you're just standing there catching your breath and you feel a hand on your back inviting you to dance.

Naturally, this also results in some pretty spectacular conversation. Coming back from the loo, I rounded the corner and a smiling stranger grabbed me to dance. When the song ended and another seamlessly began, he didn't let go.

"I know you're older," he says between twirling me. "What, 41?" Trying not to laugh, I answer a question with a question, curious about where he falls in the 20-something continuum. He's coy about admitting it, but already on to other things. "Do you like cocaine?" and suggests we adjourn to his car.

I pass. Give up one minute of Mr. Fine Wine? It is to laugh.

Reaching down for some lip gloss, I find an empty Underberg miniature and have a pang of regret for not finishing our rich meal with the German digestif bitter. Next time.

It's so crazy crowded around 1 a.m. that when Pru goes out for a cig, she's gone for so long Beau gets worried. Then he's gone for ages. Turns out - and I had no idea because I was too busy dancing with others in their absence - that we'd reached critical mass and were on a one for one policy. They'd both had to wait for someone to exit the restaurant before they could be re-admitted.

All those sweaty bodies meant it was so hot that even Mr. Fine Wine had to shed his colorful cardigan and was spinning in his t-shirt. With only a dress on, I didn't have that luxury.

We were still dancing when lights came on to signal closing time, but I couldn't leave without telling the DJ what a fantastic evening he'd curated. I'd also been really impressed with one of his recent radio broadcasts, a tribute to Allen Toussaint, and mentioned that.

Taking my hand and thanking me, he said, "We met last time, didn't we?" We certainly did, not that I'd expected him to remember. As if I wasn't already high enough, my evening ended in the best possible way: leaning over the turntables still playing, talking to Mr. Fine Wine.

Hella good night...

Cuckoo Clocks Aren't Swiss

Richmond, you did right by the cinema gods again.

Who knew there were enough people left in town over Labor Day weekend to fill up the Byrd Theater and far too many still to fit into New York Deli for the afterparty?

It didn't hurt that the Bijou crew - the folks on a mission to build a small arthouse theater here - had chosen a brilliant movie, "The Third Man," to lure people away from grills and backyard drinking for a good cause.

As my friends can attest, I'm notorious for not having seen enough classic films (partly because I don't watch films on TV), but I was far from the only one. An awful lot of hands shot up when the question was asked, "Who hasn't seen this film?" and from behind me, I hard a man react, "Wow!"

Obviously, I'm not the only one lacking in vintage film viewing.

My excitement about the screening had me inviting lots of friends to the event and then spotting even more at the theater, on the streets, in line. Clearly Bijou people are my people.

The evening began with friends Pru and Beau at Metzger for dinner, chosen for its non-proximity to the Byrd Theater. I understand the appeal of park once, party twice, I really do, but I'm also sage enough to anticipate every Carytown restaurant being mobbed as a result of that thinking.

Not for us the crowds. In fact, we were the first customers in Metzger, soon plowing through a bottle of Anton Bauer Rose (because Austrian wine before a movie set in Vienna, duh), a cheese and charcuterie board (let's have a moment of reverence for the orgasmic triple-cream Brillat Savarin), smoked tomato soup, pastrami smorrebrod (the horseradish quark a highlight), Arctic char and the heirloom tomato tart, all set to a soundtrack of my favorite vintage soul (the reliably fabulous Mr. Fine Wine).

But once in Carytown, the mellow vibe vanished and I soon heard my name called from a passing car. It was the scooter queen and her beloved in search of a bite before the Psychic TV show at Strange Matter. In fact, I knew several friends who'd chosen music over movie tonight.

That's a first world problem, choosing between a classic Brit film and an experimental Brit band. We've got it so tough in Richmond.

Once in the line to get in that snaked along Cary Street and around the corner down Colonial Avenue, the parade of friends began in earnest: the movie club mastermind, the theater critic, the conga player with his violinist wife, lots of WRIR volunteers, a favorite guitarist and doughnut lover, the former neighbor, the bass player, the A/V expert. All the cool kids.

Inside the theater, it was all energy and excitement as people found seats, spotted friends and settled in for a classic film. After raffle drawings (I didn't win), info from manager Todd about the Byrd's fancy new projector and an introduction about the film, we finally got to the beautifully restored version of "The Third Man."

From the opening frames - with the completely unique credit "Zither music by Anton Karas" - the film was a thing of beauty with atmospheric shots of post-war Vienna making it look like alternately the most romantic place on earth and the most seedy. Harsh lighting and dramatic shadows reigned supreme.

An unabashed fan, I've read plenty of Graham Greene's works -"Brighton Beach," "The Heart of the Matter," "The End of the Affair," "The Quiet American, "Travels with My Aunt" to name just a few - yet I'd never read this one, making it all the more appealing for not having a clue where the story was going.

The beauty of it was how well executed the script and performances were, sucking in the audience completely. No one plays the alcoholic American quite like Petersburg boy Joseph Cotten.

It's for exactly that reason that I love going to the movies and experiencing a film with strangers. The shared experience of watching a story unfold, getting to know and like (or abruptly dislike) characters, the moments of tension and surprise shared with others around me is, in my opinion, the whole point of watching a movie.

For that matter, tonight's screening perfectly demonstrated why the Bijou Film Center is precisely what Richmond needs. There are far too many of us who haven't seen important movies like "The Third Man" or for those who have, only on small screens at home. No, thank you.

That's not a movie experience and it's nothing like what director Carol Reed was striving to accomplish with this film.

It's about the shared experience of hearing someone behind me react, like when the cat snuggles up to a shadowed man's feet and the guy behind me whispers, "Oh, my god, it's Harry!" or when the affable Sergeant Paine is killed in the sewers and a woman nearby couldn't help exclaiming, "Oh, no, not him!"

Won't it be cool when the Bijou has a regular location where we can have these kind of shared film events week in and week out?

It's going to take all of us to make it happen and hopefully sooner rather than later. Given last night's sizable and enthusiastic crowd, I don't see any reason to think it won't.

In the meantime, it was a hell of an offering to the cinema gods.

Ruby Tuesday

I got it backwards, but I came back from the river to eat oysters.

Tonight was Metzger's "Don't Chuck that Shuck" night with the Ruby Salts people shucking and the rest of us slurping $1 oysters for a good cause, namely the Virginia oyster shell recycling program. As in, all the proceeds (they brought 1,000 oysters, btw) would be donated.

Was I willing to consume bivalves for the sake of replenishing Virginia's natural oyster habitats? I would. Judging by the capacity size crowd when I arrived, so would half of Richmond.

Undeterred, I found a space near the door to wait for an open stool, happy to have the soulful stylings of Mr. Fine wine playing overhead. Still on river time, I was in no hurry.

The knot of people in front of the shucking table was the greeting party for the constant stream of people coming through the door, each time allowing the waning sun's still-yellow brilliance to bathe the bar sitters in the bright light of a Church Hill evening. Eventually, a server stood on a ledge to lower the shades for nearby diners.

Standing by the VOSRP explanatory display was a favorite drummer hanging out with a market-owning couple who were gracious enough to draw me into their group once I'd gotten a glass of Muscadet from the harried barkeep. I felt a tickle on my back and turned to find a familiar face looking for a hug.

But all in all, there were only three familiar faces in the crowd and that's a delightful change for a Richmond evening.

I dazzled my companions with oyster knowledge gleaned from past interviews with oyster gardeners, experts and shuckers, even a few lifetime watermen. Why learn if I don't share?

Because the drummer had band practice looming in 20 minutes, they'd already ordered their oysters, expecting to slurp them standing up if need be. When three stools opened up, we took possession, the drummer using his stool long enough to finish his beer and oysters before saying goodbye and turning it over to me.

I was curious about how the market owners had ended up as market owners, impressed that they'd been waiting for someone else to do it and when no one did, jumped on the idea. Frugal and DIY-driven, they'd been amazed and thrilled at the neighborhood's embrace of their concept.

Now that I had a stool, I could order my own oysters and begin my philanthropic work for the evening. Those Ruby Salts weren't going to eat themselves, although I also wouldn't be averse to someone pouring them down my throat.

Once the sun set, things began to settle down within while I moved on to more Muscadet and my next course of pork belly confit with stone fruit mostarda, walnuts and Geuze (not that I'm a lambic drinker).

The small bowl belied the big flavors within - the salty, crispy pieces of pork belly balanced by the sweetness of the mostarda - making for a dish that read sort of like a highbrow and obscenely rich General Tso's.

Of course talk turned to restaurants since their market serves food and we hashed out which places deserve how much frequency. Of course, everyone draws this line in the sand in a different place. I know there are places I can go months without visiting while others draw me in more regularly.

Their top choices and mine had some overlap and some glaring differences, but I'm used to that. My taste, my preferences in general, rarely match other people's and I'm not just talking about food.

Looking around, it was obvious that I was the sole person in Metzger who'd come out to dinner solo. In all likelihood, I was probably the only person who'd come back from the river to eat bivalves from the river.

While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
No one knows
She comes and goes

For better or for worse, most of the time no one does know.

Celebrate Good Times

When I plan my birthday progression, I begin with the soundtrack.

That meant starting at Metzger where I'd be able to celebrate to the sounds of vintage soul courtesy of Mr. Fine Wine. I was doing my final primping before Holmes and Beloved were to pick me up when the phone rang.

It was Holmes announcing he was downstairs. I explained that during open window season, I ask that my callers announce themselves through the open window and promptly hung up on him. Looking out my front window, I saw him climb out of the car, spot me watching him and bellow, "Get down here right now!"

That's no way to talk to the birthday girl in her cutest pink dress.

When we arrived at Metzger, the place was empty and I don't just mean of customers. Not a soul, staff or otherwise, was in sight. We sat down at the bar in the silent restaurant to wait for signs of life. I don't know that I've ever been alone in a silent restaurant for 10 or 15 minutes with just my companions. This must be how it feels for the staff before the onslaught.

Eventually the barkeep appeared and set about turning on the soul music he knew I wanted before opening a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose and kicking off my celebration. It wasn't long before Pru and her Beau showed up to join the party while Mr. Fine Wine provided the killer soundtrack.

My plan was to have different courses at different places, so we began with a decadent quail and pistachio terrine lined with a beet gelle, a mound of rich liptauer and a pork belly special. Conversation ranged from how Pru's uncle was at Hazleton with Ozzy Osborn to a heated discussion of wine buying (Kroger versus independent wine shops).

Behind us, the restaurant filled up while we partied on stools.

Two hours later, we packed up to move to Dutch & Co, where a fetching server in a coral striped top, coral lipstick, '80s-style bangles (Beloved resolved to get hers out now that she saw they were back in fashion) and a leather skirt that looked almost identical to the one I got in 1993, led us to a table in the front window awaiting us.

With the last of my birthday's sunshine streaming through the front window, a bottle of Moulin de Gassac "Guilhem" Rose was opened (not that we weren't already pink happy) along with a promise by our server to begin icing down several more.

Before long, there was so much good food on the table it was almost embarrassing. Chilled pea soup appealed not just for how Spring-like it tasted studded with chili shrimp conserva and peanuts but because it came with a promise of pea tendrils, leading to a lament about the lack of the use of the word "tendrils." Word nerds unite.

Holmes got his rye-crusted perfect egg while Beau shared that he'd never had a softshell crab and promptly ordered risotto with Andouille sausage and a softshell. I admire brave eaters.

We started with Moses Sleeper Brie from Jasper Hills Creamery, notable not just for the exquisite mouthfeel of the creamy cheese but for the tangle of spun balsamic on top of it. You broke off a piece of the tangle, laid it on your tongue and the crisp strings dissolved into  the heavy sweetness of balsamic. Brilliant.

My choices, as usual, came off the $5 specials chalkboard because they are inevitably some of the most creative offerings on an already excellent menu. Ahi dolce sausage with cheddar and mustard greens was as bold as breakfast sausage with thin slices of new potatoes and baby bok choy was delicate. Both impressed. For that matter, Holmes' skirt steak with asparagus, smoked mushrooms (the most intriguing element, the fungi taking on ethereal smoky notes) and wild watercress got shared and admired around the table.

As we ate, Holmes brought up how bossy I can be and I argued for how ingrained it is for the oldest of six children to be bossy. Using examples from past dinner parties at this house, he regaled Pru and Beau with my dessert sharing instructions.

Fortunately, you can only say so many bad things about the birthday girl before you have to stop and be nice to her. At least, that's what my mother always said (that and "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," which would eliminate half my commentary).

Enough wine had flowed for talk to fly about sleeping (nude versus clothed), snoring (suffering versus moving to another room) and someone's former classmate Megan Mabe, pronounced "maybe," who played the clarinet.

Church Hill having served our needs nicely, we departed for Oregon Hill and L'Opossum, taking a table in the center of the restaurant because the bar lacked enough available stools for our party, a shame since the bartender is a favorite for his pithy conversation.

But we got the photographer who moonlights as a server and she was masterful at handling our little, loopy group. Ready for a change from endless bottles of Rose at this point, I chose Creme de cassis to accompany our upcoming dessert course of not one but two flaming le petite mort au chocolat (bricks of chocolate pate) and one hot black bottom a la mode (ganache over cake with whipped and ice creams).

As we waited for the arrival of our chocolate course, the booth behind us was served a dessert with a birthday candle and the table broke out into "Happy Birthday," with one of the guys having the most incredible tenor voice and ending the trite song with all kinds of vocal flourishes. They heard that we had a celebrant as well.

Naturally the birthday boy there invited me over to chat, slinging his arm around my shoulders and asking about me. Assuming we'd have similarities given our shared birth date, I asked him to describe himself. "Confident," he said and the woman next to him nodded. Perhaps it's a May 23rd thing.

The guy across the table, the one with the amazing voice, asked for a Sinatra song I particularly liked and then stood and began serenading me with "Happy Birthday." Even better, he then began singing me "Just the Way You Look Tonight," his mellifluous voice thrilling to hear and a completely unexpected gift.

Forks were flying all over the table once the desserts arrived. Beau requested an Emerson martini and the barkeep produced one, much to his great satisfaction. And, yes, we were the last table out.

Pru and Beau drove me home, depositing me on my doorstep not long before the final minutes of May 23rd. Waving farewell and thank you from my stoop, I said the first thing that came into my head. "So we're not going dancing then?"

From there, I was back in the car and headed to Balliceaux with them to catch Bump in the Night, with two women DJs and multiple genres being played. That's some good friends who are willing to unexpectedly go dancing with you when it's almost midnight and the evening's already lasted seven hours.

Pru and I danced, Beau occasionally joining in, as the music wandered from soul to pop to the only recognizable song for me anyway, Chic's "I Want Your Love." I gave up on my shoes for the last half hour (the next morning wondering why my feet were so filthy) but danced anyway.

Now that's how you celebrate a birthday, kids.

Next morning, the festivities continued with Johnny and brunch at a packed Can Can. Just when I'd decided on quiche, our affable server wooed me with a special of tempura-fried softshell on a BLT with brioche bun and a mound of frites the size of my head. He made the right call. Quiche is forever but softshells have a short window.

From there, the afternoon wandered agreeably all over the place. First it was a walk at Maymont, followed by quiet time at a shaded stone pavilion off the main pathway. After putting in an appearance at a party on northside, we retreated to the east end and the Lily Pad, long a favorite place for the two of us to wile away an afternoon. Once, we saw Joe Morrissey there with his teen-aged girlfriend before the whole underage and baby scandal broke.

To my astonishment, the place was crawling with familiar faces, mostly bearded. The songbird, the artist, the banjo player, the book seller, the events coordinator, the front of the house manager, the wine guru, I couldn't believe how many people I saw lounging at the Lily Pad when I never see anyone I know at the Lily Pad. Our server from Dutch & Co, arrived, waving and asking if I'd had a good birthday after I left there.

Good thing I wasn't trying to do anything secretive given how many witnesses I had.

We procured a bottle of Pinot Grigio iced down in a yellow bucket that matched my sunny yellow dress perfectly and set up camp. And wouldn't you just know it? Here comes Joe Morrissey with his teen-aged girlfriend and the baby that caused all the hoopla. Clearly Joe likes the Lily Pad as much as we do.

Boats came and went all afternoon, occasionally dumping out its occupants for a drink at the pad before relaunching. Musicians got up and played under the pergola, short sets mostly. Very casual, more like someone's backyard than at a cafe. It was a perfect afternoon for doing nothing more than sipping wine and watching the river.

Three hours later, we turned in our bucket and headed back to town for dinner. Graffiato's won the dinner lottery by virtue of being open on a holiday weekend Sunday night. It wasn't crowded and for the first time at this Graffiato's, we chose the pizza bar.

With Stevie Wonder continuing my birthday soundtrack overhead, a bottle of Yalumba Vermentino arrived first, followed by chili-marinated duck hearts on local greens and a Porky's Revenge pizza of soprasetta, pepperoni and sausage, the first pizza I ever had at Graffiato's in D.C.

Actually, my birthday celebration itself began in Washington, D.C. years ago at George Washington University Hospital where a woman doctor delivered me and I began the journey to bossiness.

I've been happy enough to be confident ever since. Must be all the terrific people in my life.

Quelle Night!

I'm clawing my way back from illness to my real life.

After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I  felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.

A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.

Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.

Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.

In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.

I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.

Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.

But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.

It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.

I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.

Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").

Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.

Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.

My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.

While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.

I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.

And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.

My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.

Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.

I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.

The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.

Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.

Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.

I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.

Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.

Or at least I am.

Days of Wine and Roses

How better to impress out-of-towners than with flower power?

The garden and art-loving visitors arrived from points north only to be bundled back into the car so we could go to the VMFA. Destination: "Art of the Flower: Van Gogh, Manet and Matisse."

Detour: Amuse for brunch. They were mobbed on arrival, so we waited for a table in the groovy green chairs in the corner where the hospitable barkeep delivered the absinthe drip and four glasses.

After positioning sugar cubes on absinthe spoons and lighting them, she left us to monitor our own drips. Considering it was the visitors' first foray into absinthe, they were surprisingly quick to master the technique.

We'd barely begun sipping from the green fairy when we were told our table was ready. She accompanied us there.

Beginning with carb loading - breakfast bread with mixed berries, buttermilk biscuits with pimento cheese, sweet pickles and butter - we passed the time until our orders arrived telling jokes, including a mother's favorite. One of us even deigned to share a knock knock joke.

After getting our enthusiastic server's thumbs up on the Dutch Baby ("my favorite!"), a puffed pancake-like concoction of bacon, scallions, goat cheese and arugula, I had to admit he was right on. Light yet filling, the meaty chunks of bacon made the dish.

After my companions had polished off rave-worthy corned beef hash and eggs, a salad Nicoise and today's quiche, we headed downstairs to visually feast on floral still lifes.

For a sunny Sunday afternoon, the show was quite well attended, no doubt due to just having opened Friday. And it's a stunner, too, as much for the gorgeous paintings as for an art history lesson in the progression of French floral painting it delivers.

Since it's only my first time seeing the exhibit, I'm sure my favorites will change, but for today, I chose three.

It's hard to imagine something more romantic an artist could offer his love than Henri Fantin-Latour's "The Engagement Still Life," given to fiance Victoria Dubourg to seal the deal. I particularly liked the glass of wine in the composition, a promise, perhaps, of good times ahead.

Making my way through the next gallery, a loud-voiced young man said to his companion, " Hey! Have you read these signs on the wall? They're more interesting than the paintings." He then proceeded to read several of them to her loudly.

I decided it must be his first time in a museum and tunes him out.

Mary Cassatt's "Lilacs in a Window" was bound to catch my eye because lilacs are my favorite flower. There'd also been a Manet of "Vase of White Lilacs and Roses" which I also lingered on, but decided I preferred Cassatt's because her vase sat in a greenhouse or conservatory next to an open window where you could almost smell the warm air.

And the very last painting in the show, Matisse's "Still Life with Pascal's 'Pensees,'" spoke to me because of its appealing components: a cup and saucer, a book and a vase of anemones, a flower I love, all sitting next to a lace-curtained window. It's the kind of tableau that would give me pleasure every time I looked at it.

Just don't hold me to those favorites because I have no doubt that on my next visit to see the exhibition, I'll exercise my female prerogative to change my mind and fall in love with something else.

In the next-to-last gallery, I overheard a couple sitting on a bench talking. When he mentioned Iceland and and film, I knew he had to be talking about "Land Ho," the movie I'd just seen because it was showing again tonight.

So I asked.

Sure enough, he'd been looking online for opinions to decide if they should see it. Go, I told him, if only to see the beauty of Iceland. But if you're over 60 (and they looked like they were), you'll love the story, too.  "Thank you so much for telling us that," he said. "I was going to pass it on it after reading some online reviews but I'd much rather have a real person tell me to go."

There was my good deed for the day and I went back to looking at the last gallery.

Unused to absinthe in the afternoon, my companions demanded naps afterwards, leaving me to enjoy my Washington Post on the balcony outside in the late afternoon sunshine while they dozed.

When we reconvened, they were still wiping sleep out of their eyes ("That absinthe kicked my butt!" the professor acknowledged) and I was rarin' to go. This time, it was eastward ho to Metzger because two of the group had once lived in Germany.

Given the dearth of restaurants open on Sunday night, we shouldn't have been surprised to find a full dining room when we got there. Luckily, three bar stools soon opened up and one of us was willing to stand until a fourth came available.

Vintage soul serenaded us, a bottle of Hugl Rose was delivered and we got into a discussion of what everybody was currently reading.

Three of us listened fascinated to a description of Jose Saramago's "The History of the Siege of Lisbon," a book about a proofreader who decides to add the word "not" to a sentence which causes repercussions for himself and historians.

Fascinating as I'm finding it, my current book, "1965: The Year That Revolutionized Music," seemed shallow in comparison.

From there, we devoured smoked trout rillettes and chicken liver mousse with carrot jam (which came across more like marmalade), two excellent starters and the latter one I seem to get every time I go.

Conversation concerned birth order and how parents take fewer pictures of each successive child. My parents have albums aplenty with photos of me, the oldest, and hardly any of my youngest sister (the sixth). The exception that proves the rule was the middle son who said there were fewer pictures of him than his younger brother.

I mentioned some t-shirts I'd seen recently that perfectly summed up birth order differences:

I'm the oldest. I'm the reason they made the rules
I'm the middle child. I'm the reason they needed the rules.
I'm the youngest. What rules?

All I know is, the best thing about being the oldest of six girls was that I never had to wear a hand-me-down dress. What I did have, though, was the strictest upbringing in the family. I still haven't decided whether that was a good thing or not.

For dinner, I chose mette - hand-cut sirloin tartare with a tiny farm egg and grilled bread - enjoying perfectly seasoned meat made richer once I broke the yolk atop it ("Are you going to have all your courses on bread?" I was asked). The beer-brined pork chop the youngest son let me taste was delicious, too, although not quite fatty enough for my taste.

People continued to arrive as we ate and I spotted a friend come in with three strangers. When he came over to say hello, I learned that he was on a business dinner entertaining travel writers so he'd been on an all-day eating marathon at restaurants throughout the city.

The funniest thing he said was that he'd just come from a restaurant that had a Richard Gere menu and that I absolutely had to check it out. It gets odder because someone had noticed earlier that there was a picture of Richard Gere hanging in Metzger's kitchen.

Why Richard? Inquiring minds want to know.

He went off to eat with the travel writers (there's a job I could get used to) and I ate a dessert of three housemade gelatos: tequila/kumquat (which had a very long finish), a decadent chocolate and the most ethereal of all, creme fraiche, its flavor heightened with lemon. Each had an incredibly creamy mouthfeel.

And while it would have been great at that point to push the tables aside, dim the lights, crank the soul music and dance 'till dawn, my posse was ready for bed. That's right, the three people who'd napped were pooped while the one who'd walked four miles this morning was looking for some action.

Must be that oldest child stamina.