My Kingdom for Someone to Ride With

Some Christmas presents come early and arrive in the form of words.

A: I learned from your blog that X and Y had broken up. You are my conduit to the Richmond social, food and art scene. Thank you.
K: It pleases me no end that you still catch up on my blog on occasion.
A: I don't catch up on your blog "on occasion." I've subscribed via a feed reader and read EVERY SINGLE ENTRY AS THEY POST.

Some Christmas music is just a new song from an old artist that evokes memories.

Hearing on the radio that David Bazhan is back making music with his band Pedro the Lion, I immediately fell for their new song, "Yellow Bike" which is as much a tribute to Christmas past - the song begins with him seeing the bike next to the Christmas tree - as any "traditional" song...with a far better guitar line.

And speaking of music, as if it wasn't enough to be reminiscing about childhood bikes and holidays, I also heard a live version of "Never Going Back Again." It was recorded on the "Tusk" tour and is part of a new Fleetwood Mac box set because, somehow, someway, the Mac has apparently been a band for 50 years.

Granted, I didn't discover them until the mid '70s but, yes, I was that college kid who went to all the shows with her best friend when they played multiple night stands.

Holy crap, I'm old.

But not too old to appreciate seeing a piece of classic feminist theater for only the second time in my life. Back in 2010 when I couldn't afford a theater ticket and wasn't yet on the Theater Alliance Panel, I'd ushered a performance so that I could see Henley Street Theater's production of "A Doll's House," my first time seeing it.

Planning to see TheatreLAB's production of the same, Pru and Beau had expressed interest, although Pru changed her mind, deciding she was no longer in the mood for Ibsen. That left the odd couple, Beau and me.

We started the evening at Longoven, a place I'd been but he hadn't. Walking in, a favorite bartender greeted me with a smile and we were led to a table underneath a giant wreath that gave off the most delicious evergreen aroma.

Carrying the "pink bubbles fo-evah" banner, I stayed true to form with Montand Cremant du Jura Rose, while Beau furthered his Hungarian curiosity with Evolucio Tokaj, the latest in a series he's had from that region.

Naturally this led to a discussion of the Balkan restaurant Ambar, where he'd first fallen hard for Hungarian wines. I've been to the one in D.C., while Beau's been to the one in Clarendon and both of us had been intrigued and wowed by a wine list covering places like Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Moldovia and Macedonia.

So many grapes, so little time.

Everything we put in our mouths was exceptional and highly creative, leading Beau to dub Longoven "non-safe eating," a term I love. One of my sisters used to regularly proclaim that "Only boring people get bored," but I'd tack on an addendum of, "Only boring people prefer safe eating."

Knocking it out of the park was a dish of smoked duck, over which rested a mound of turnip slices and turnip confit and topped with a leaf of grilled radicchio and horseradish cream. Delicately fried cauliflower leaves added the final texture and flavor. It was a dish that got better with each successive bite as my palate absorbed the brilliant combination of rich and bitter, soft and toothsome.

Waiting for our next course, Beau did his best to toss a compliment my way, observing, "Your hair always looks good, but tonight's dishevelment is less." The backtracking that followed may have been the humorous high point of the evening.

Next up was a risotto of seeds - sunflower, chia, pepitas, millet and quinoa - arranged in a circle like a wreath and bordered with autumn greens, a dollop of Fontina fondue at the center. It was vegetarian comfort food of the highest order and our only regret was not having a piece of crusty bread to sop up the remains with.

More Cremant arrived for me as Beau made the switch to the Loire with Domaine a Deux Sauvignon Blanc Touraine and we geared up for our shared large plate.

We'd chosen a favorite for both of us, skate wing, seared and riding atop cauliflower puree with maitake mushrooms and dollops of soubise, which combines two of my very favorite staples, onion butter, into a sauce. The edges of the wing were seared to golden brown crunch perfection and our server (a transplant from Raleigh) commented on how clean we'd licked the plate.

We are nothing if not eaters, Beau and I. And, unlike Pru, we both need a shift to sweet after multiple savory courses.

Intrigued by the combination of black sesame ice cream with black sesame sponge cake, both dehydrated and fresh, and a pear sauce, Beau's dessert was a fascinating shade of gunmetal gray and pastiche of sweet and savory.

Meanwhile, I savored a glass of 20-year Tawny Port with hazelnut sponge cake and hazelnut praline with rosettes of hazelnut mousse and the thinnest of slivers of dark chocolate, a dish that took a turn for the obscene with Comte ice cream.

Whoever thought of translating Comte into ice cream deserves a major award. It also convinced both of us that even the dessert-avoiding Pru could have been seduced by its cheesy richness.

When our server came over to inquire if she could get us anything else, Beau piped up, "What else you got?" Clearly the wine had kicked in and it was time to motor.

Some plays may lack traditional Christmas characters - the Grinch, Scrooge - but the fact that they take place at Christmastime more than qualifies them for December entertainment.

Full as ticks from a meal of non-safe food, we headed east to the Basement for a lesson in female empowerment. In a play oozing male chauvinism, the production was a solid reminder of how revolutionary Ibsen's script had been when it was written in 1879, but how it still resonates today.

I wouldn't change the smallest part of you, not in any way.

Even the music chosen to be played before and between acts reflected the kind of strong women Nora found herself becoming: Aretha, Adele, Carole King, Dolly Parton, Marian Anderson. Director Josh Chenard had chosen groundbreaking women to establish the mood.

I hardly saw you for four weeks. I was never so bored.

Watching Landon Nagel switch seamlessly from adoring, sweet-talking lover to bullying husband was disturbing and unsettling, like reading about abused women who choose not to press charges against the men who beat them because they focus on his "good" side. Nagel's ability to convey both convincingly speaks to his well-honed skills as an actor.

Although whether the sweat on his face was due to his 19th century costume or his passion in portraying Torvald, I really can't say.

I'm your husband. It's your job to indulge me.

Katrinah Carol Lewis wrung every possible emotion from the character of Nora as we watched her abandon the fantasy of a strong and happy marriage to go from docile wife to a woman who is driven to understand herself and her own needs before she can address any other aspects of her life.

"A Doll's House," for me, is the kind of play that reminds a 21st century woman how fortunate she was to come up during a time when women could be themselves and follow whatever (convoluted, in my case) path they chose. The confrontational scene near the end where Nora tells Torvald she's leaving him - and why - remains a classic of female empowerment.

And that door slam as the story concludes? Has there ever been a more satisfying ending to a play?

Or to a day more satisfying than one that began with learning that there are some people who read my ramblings every single time they post?

Some Christmas season evenings, I'm just grateful that my dishevelment isn't an issue for everyone.

You Know You Need It

It's like when you start craving salads and veggies and you know your body is telling you something.

As I sat in my sunny front room working this afternoon, it was easy to ignore the sounds of people outside enjoying a gorgeous fall day, but it was impossible to ignore something pushing me to go to the VMFA.

Admittedly, it had been far too long since my last visit, so I did what my mind (heart? soul?) directed and changed clothes to go to the museum.

Walking out of my apartment and across the street to my car, a stranger called out, "I like your dress! It looks great on you." Another $3 thrift store find validated.

I found the VMFA fairly crowded with visitors mostly buzzing around the "Forbidden City" outposts, but rather than join them, I headed upstairs to the photography gallery for "Artists as Art: Photographic Portraits."

I was especially impressed with how the show had been curated given that nine female-taken photographs shared the walls with fifteen taken by men. That's an unusually high average for a show, any kind of show.

The exhibit began with soft focus, romantic Pictorialist photographs and moved through to images such as Warhol's Polaroids.

But it was the subjects themselves that drew me in. Alvin Landon Coburn's 1908 photo of William Butler Yeats showed an intense and intelligent man in glasses. He looked like a poet.

Most of the Pictorialist works were so delicately focused in gradations of black, white and gray that they resembled drawings.

With Bernice Abbott's 1928 photograph of James Joyce, the first and last thing that captured my attention was the delicacy of his hands.

Arnold Neuman's image of Edward Hopper was taken on a bench in front of his studio on Cape Cod with his wife Jo a small figure in the background. Neuman had captured the same sort of isolation that Hopper was known for.

You had to smile looking at Robert Frank's photograph of Allen Ginsburg hugging a tree in 1959 or Annie Leibovitz's iconic image of David Byrne in the infamous leaf suit from 1986.

Moving through the gallery, practically every face was an important contributor to the 20th century art world, as were some of the names of the men and women who'd captured them.

Mind, heart and soul fed, I wandered around the corner into the nearly empty Amuse, joining its only three occupants at the bar.

Usually there's a boisterous contingent over in the lounge area's green chairs, but they were conspicuously absent today (Lady Di, where are you?) which meant that I could actually hear the music being played, a rarity at Amuse.

The bartender said brunch had been busy and then apparently everyone except me had left the building for the great outdoors on this magnificent day. Conformity was never my strong suit.

My glass of Montand sparkling brut Rose ("I love it, too! Drink it while you can. It'll be gone soon!" the bartender advises) arrived with a brilliant red flower in it, although when I inquired what it was, she had no idea. It had come from Manakintowne Growers and was sitting in a glass with brilliant fuzzy purple basil flowers, but it was a mystery. In any case, it made a colorful addition to my glass of pink.

Checking out the menu, a necessity since I hadn't been to Amuse in far too long, I spotted something with my name on it: biscuit du jour. Inquiring about today's iteration, I swooned a little.

Housemade biscuits with the last of the season heirloom tomatoes, herb aioli and white Cheddar cheese. The bartender, who'd tasted one this morning, rhapsodized about the combination, saying it even beat last week's five spice variety.  Faster than you can say "I have a biscuit addiction," I ordered some.

I've no idea where the chef is getting heirloom tomatoes when it's almost November, but that's not my concern. Biting into these biscuits was transcendent.

Sweet, juicy tomato slices buried under the freshest tasting herb aioli and melted cheese between a biscuit worthy of my Richmond grandmother and washed down with sparkling Rose. If it could get any better on this Sunday afternoon without being illegal, I don't know how. I was just grateful I was alone so I could eat both.

Looking at my reaction, she gave me a well-deserved "I told you so" and shared that the combination for teh biscuit had come to the pastry chef in a dream.

Now here's my moral dilemma.Was my inner self jolting me to go to the museum to see a finely-executed photography show or had my inner biscuit hound sensed that its needs could be addressed there?

Don't know, don't care. Both were flat out wonderful.

When I went to leave, the bartender reminded me not to make it so long until I come back again.

Not a chance. "Forbidden City" plus dreamy biscuits, you're up next...and soon.

Soul Provider

There's a reason Thursday is called the new Friday.

Seems to me that Thursday has a habit of kicking Friday's ass. Like tonight.

Pru and I began at the VMFA for an artists' talk with Sonya Clark and Robert Pruitt, both of whom have pieces in the current "Identity Shifts" exhibit.

Which, I might add, I've seen three times and can't recommend highly enough.

The two artists, who met for the first time last night, had much in common in their hair-centric work. ""It was like meeting a brother of another mother," Sonya said fittingly.

A Texan, it was Robert's first time in Virginia, but his paintings of women with Afros shaped liked atomic bombs, starbursts and pyramids were second only to those with guns woven into the hair.

Discussing how nothing is neutral and all subjects are seen through the life experiences of the viewer, their discussion provided an interesting look at how two black artists about a decade apart in age work with loaded cultural symbols.

Engaging the mind is always a fine way to begin an evening. So naturally we followed that with pure indulgence.

Snagging seats at the bar of Amuse upstairs in the museum, we both began with pink, although mine was bubbly (Montand Sparkling Brut Rose) and hers was still.

"Feeling sparkly, are you?" Pru asked. Aren't I usually?

She's a bit under the weather with a summer cold (although  a trooper to go out anyway), so left ordering to me. I chose the housemade beef jerky and a beautiful summer Caprese salad with burrata and tomatoes of every color.

Only problem was that our food arrived prior to utensils, so I had to request of the trainee serving us to provide some flatware so we could eat with dignity.

Just as we were finishing up our food, we began eavesdropping on the conversation between the woman next to us and our sunny bartender.

Next thing you know, the blond stranger was offering us the remains of her cheese plate and why would I turn down perfectly good stinky cheese when it's offered?

I wouldn't. As part of the paying it forward credo, I'd recently shared a basket of onion rings with a stranger once I was full and here was my payback.

Katie, who'd recently moved back here from Chicago, quickly joined the fray - our fray- for discussion of dating younger men, large families (don't waste food) and lookalike women (apparently plentiful in the windy city).

I knew I'd found a soulmate when while discussing Wrigley Field, Pru said, "Men put pork chops in their pockets for a snack," and Katie roared, saying, "That's the line of the evening. I'm going to put that in my phone!"

Some of us know that we must document certain things or they are lost forever.

She got almost as excited during a discussion of past love lives when I said, "I didn't marry them all," a reference to dating men my junior. For all I know, that may have gone into the phone as well.

Not long after, Pru had everyone in stitches with her rendition of a song set to the music of the TV show, "Rawhide," that went something like this: "Get it up, get it in, get it out! Don't mess my hair doooooo."

I don't know where she gets these things, but she's pretty hilarious even when under the weather.

Because we were at Amuse and because there's no reason to be there and not, we ended with a visit from the green fairy, sipping our absinthe while talking about the new sous chef, who was kind enough to come out, say hello and talk sausage-making.

By the time we tore ourselves away from the museum, it was her bedtime and time for me to go to Balliceaux for the Commonwealth of Notions, Volume Four, a benefit for WRIR curated by DJ Shannon Cleary.

Walking in, I saw a friend who was considering leaving because the band wasn't set up yet. Don't be hasty, my friend.

I convinced him otherwise and we went to get drinks ("Where are my manners? What would you like?" he asked like the gentleman he is) and chat about the art lecture I'd just heard.

His girlfriend has been wanting to see "Posing Beauty" at the VMFA and he's been putting her off. I think I helped convince him that she's right.

Then the band was onstage warming up and he began geeking out over singer Eddie P's unusual guitar, pointing out that it was mahogany and that during WWII, spruce was only used for the war effort so many guitars were made of other woods like mahogany instead.

"You don't really want to hear this, do you?" he asked, stopping his informational spiel mid-sentence.

Oh, but I do want to hear. How else would I know why Eddie's guitar looks different than all the others I've seen? I'm a research nerd of the highest order.

Familiar faces showed up - the sax player who claims he doesn't always hear about good shows, the pig-tailed songbird just off work and needing a drink, the bespectacled editor, the jazz drummer I seldom see out- and then it was show time.

First up was Eddie's new project, Microwaves, with a drummer, percussionist, and three horn players, all from Bio Ritmo, including sax, trumpet and a tuba player wearing a tie, .

I've been a huge fan of Eddie's voice since I first heard him in Amazing Ghost, so from the initial notes, I was all about their soulful sound.

Asking my friend if he was glad he'd decided to stay after a few songs, he said, "This kind of music is not my thing, but they're good." He changed his tune when he found out this was their first gig. "They're really good!"

Yes, they were and, unlike my friend, right up my alley musically. I was already dancing in place as the crowd grew around me. I was only sorry when the set ended.

During the break, he left but a friend and former Floyd Avenue neighbor came in and took his place so my company was seamless.

The next band was even bigger, with the same two drummers, but also a keyboard player, two guitarists, bassist, and three horns: sax, trumpet (again Bob) and now the tie-wearing tuba player had morphed into a trombone player.

It was magic!

The singer of Todd Herrington's Things was familiar to me as the guitarist and singer of the soul cover band, the Hi-Steps, but this project was doing all original, funky material, presumably Todd's.

Some songs had vocals (and multiple vocalists) and some were instrumental, and stylistically they varied, but all powered along like a well-oiled R & B machine with some serious musical chops.

My friend turned to me and shared, "When I first came to Richmond 40 years ago, I saw Tower of Power at the Mosque. This is like that!"

Damned if it wasn't.

All I can say is praise be to Shannon Cleary for kicking off his four-day music extravaganza with two stellar soul outfits on the bill.

I only hope that this is a trend and more local bands are picking up the mantle of R & B. And, if not, at least I've got two new groups to follow.

They're just the kind of dance-worthy bands that'll end up having shows on Thursdays, I bet.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Even if it messes up my hairdoooo.

Buoyant and Deep

Geminis just want to have fun.

My birthday may be officially over, but my friend's doesn't arrive until tomorrow, meaning today was celebration day for both of us.

When I picked her up at noon, I asked her husband when I needed to have her back. The last time I'd asked, he'd replied "sunrise." Much had happened since then, but I figured we had, at the very least, the shank of the afternoon to fete ourselves.

First stop: Amuse where we found seats at the bar in a dining room crowded with tables of people digging in and chatting. If you ever want to take the pulse of RVA's lunch scene, this is the place to do it.

Because it was a mutual birthday celebration, we began with Montand sparkling brut rose and a toast to our annual celebration, an afternoon of debauchery and discourse.

Our server, in the cutest black fringed skirt (which I may need to track down at H & M), assessed the situation and backed off since it was obvious we had lots to discuss before we could even look at the menu.

The stories! The pictures! The drunken videos! There was so much I needed to see and hear about.

First up was exchanging cards and gifts and while her gift to me blew me away (kicking and screaming into the 21st century), it is always words that mean the most to me.

You are still hands down the best conversationalist in the whole damn city.

So, yes, I would still marry her if she were a guy.

Eventually we got salads of local greens, candied pecans, radishes and fig vinaigrette, savoring how delicious and distinct the variety of lettuces were, tasting like Spring in every bite.

Why do some chefs drown their beautiful greens in dressing when the taste is so delightful on its own? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

Over white bean and sausage soup, mussels and sausage in white wine and garlic broth and fries (always fries), not to mention more pink bubbles, we covered it all. The Italian chef recently returned. People who don't respond to babies. Lazy people who claim to be ambitious. The new Shockoe Bottom. Why New Orleans is calling to us both. The third place.

I may not be the best damn conversationalist but I can talk ad infinitum and at some point we looked up and realized multiple hours had flown by without us even noticing.

It was time for dessert and more pink, but we needed a change of scenery.

While I may get to the museum with alarming regularity, my friend doesn't, so we walked the Art Nouveau and Art Deco galleries after lunch, she taking in the sculpture of a snake attacking a swan and both of us marveling at the fluidly designed furniture that would take up our entire bedrooms.

But at least there was some culture between the debauching.

From there we went to Can Can, easily sliding into a street parking space close to the nearly full patio. Don't these people have jobs?

I was pleasantly surprised to find the front windows wide open despite the 90+ degree heat as we installed ourselves at the bar.

Multiple bearded servers pounced on us, eager to slake our thirsts and try to tickle our fancy with dessert menus.

Gemini birthday celebrations almost demand pink, so we chose Guilhem Rose, a pale salmon color and tasting fresh as a summer day.

We narrowed our dessert choice to three ice creams - orange caramel, chocolate and vanilla- over shortbread crumbs for textural contrast, a fine choice on a sticky, hot day.

To commemorate the occasion, Friend took a photograph of us, immediately proclaiming that she looked drunk in the picture.

I didn't see it, honestly, but as soon as she posted it to Instagram, her husband commented, "Getting drunk?" so perhaps my wine goggles were already on.

But why shouldn't they be? This is the friend who essentially taught me to drink, with whom I have spent many an evening sipping and discussing our lives and loves.

She is convinced that we are responsible for keeping Broadbent Vinho Verde in business and based on many past summers, she's probably not far off.

Geminis may be many things - open minded, enthusiastic, witty - but you've got no chance getting close to one of us unless you love to talk.

Together, we happily plumb everything that comes into our heads. Sometimes there are pictures to prove it.

So Bohemian Like You

There's something about Geminis.

I'm one (and a pretty classic one at that) and many of the people closest to me are as well. That means that for the next little while, I'll be celebrating with them while they celebrate with me.

Tonight's quartet was 3/4 Gemini with one non, meaning we had seven personalities at the table. It can be a lot when you put so many multiple personalities together.

Our dinner party got started at Amuse just after that hailstorm that surely caught everyone off guard, littering the streets with so many leaves that in places they looked solid green.

But things were calm and collected at the museum as we were led to a table overlooking the reflecting pool and sculpture garden.

Celebratory drinks were in order - mine was Montand sparkling brut Rose- as we toasted the birthday boys and girls in the now sunny dining room. To each his own, but nothing says "I'm special" to me like bubbles.

The storm was the topic of the moment with one in our group having already lost power due to a fallen tree in his backyard. I was teased because my lack of a cell phone meant I hadn't received the dire "Take shelter" text that the three of them had to warn them of impending doom.

No, I figured it out the old-school way, by closing the windows and staying inside once hail began pinging off my tin roof and the wind became louder than the music I was playing.

Call me old fashioned.

I started my meal with a salad of local greens, pickled radish, goat cheese, spicy candied pecans and fig vinaigrette as we watched the sun give way to clouds and another bout of torrential rain begin.

At first we thought the hail was back but it turned out to be nothing more than gigantic raindrops, almost causing waves in the reflecting pool.

There was lots to catch up on - a possible new love that had been keeping the writer from working on his book, the theater in one Gemini's background that her mate didn't know about, the non-Gemini who'd blown his mates' minds by introducing them to spring mix instead of iceberg lettuce- and before long, we were the loudest table at Amuse.

A dubious honor, at best. YOLO- you only live once- became the rallying cry of the night.

Things settled down a bit as I ate mussels for the second day in a row, these with Surry sausage and Pecorino, and noticed all the familiar faces in the dining room.

With the film director I'd met at Bistro Bobette, the curator I'd interviewed about pop art, the yoga master recently returned from Mexico, the multi-media artist whose new show I'd just seen last night, the dining room was quickly filling up.

Our server offered us dessert, but we had plans elsewhere for that (if there's one thing Geminis require on their birthday, it's sweets), so we decided instead on after dinner drinks and before long, the absinthe drip was brought to our table so I could have a birthday eve visit from the green fairy.

The gentleman at the next table looked on curiously, eventually compelled to ask what it was and I was only too happy to explain about the drip's arrival back when the museum was lousy with Picassos and we were celebrating all things bohemian.

Not sure I made a convert of him, but I at least got him thinking about absinthe for the first time in his life.

Once everyone else had their post-meal bevvies of choice, we toasted each other as the adaptable, enthusiastic and eloquent people Geminis are known to be, ignoring what a pain our dual natures can be.

Next stop: Shyndigz for birthday cake.

We only had to wait a few minutes before being led to a booth but the place was already crazy busy for a Thursday evening.

When our gregarious server (a Gemini maybe?) told us about one of the cakes of the day, a black raspberry chocolate cake with whipped cream filling and chocolate icing, I knew I'd found my slice of heaven.

Others chose the s'mores pie for its warm, ooey-gooey goodness recalling Girl Scout camping trips of our youth and pushing me right over the edge after one bite.

Stick a fork in me, I was done.

Well, finished eating and drinking, but certainly not done for the evening, so I bade farewell to the Gemini contingent after birthday cards were exchanged and left to meet a friend for a movie.

We'd been trying for the better part of a week and a half to see the new John Turturro/Woody Allen movie, "Fading Gigolo" at the Criterion.

Coincidentally, the last time I'd been at Shyndigz, I'd run into a friend who'd heard a segment on NPR about the fabulous soundtrack to the movie and been so impressed with what she'd heard that she rushed out to order the CD.

One more reason I didn't want this movie to leave town without me seeing it first.

My friend was waiting for me in the lobby and with her popcorn in hand, we became the second and third people in the theater. Clearly not a big night for gigolos.

But my girlfriend and I are both Turturro fans and I've been a Woody Allen devotee since high school, so we already knew there was plenty for us in a script written by Turturro and finessed by Allen.

And the score! From the opening scenes set to jazz, the music was as fabulous (and often foreign) as my friend had told me.

But mostly it was the charm of seeing Woody Allen play pimp in his low-key comedic way to Turturro's middle-aged florist turned reluctant gigolo that captured me and made for such a charming story.

"A man needs to be funny," a woman tells her girlfriend, a fact any woman could affirm.

"A woman is meant to be looked at, else she'll just fade away," another tells the gigolo as she poses fetchingly for him.

Like an Allen film, the story is a postcard to NYC, in this case Brooklyn, and to jazz music, apparently also a favorite of Turturro's as well as Allen's.

There are probably women who can't imagine one as unconventional looking as Turturro as a for-hire gigolo, but I had no problem at all seeing why women wanted to sleep with him and pay for the privilege. Plus he brings them artistically arranged flowers, always a bonus.

What Gemini wouldn't savor a sweet, little movie about the nuances of love and intimacy to round out her evening?

YOLO, no matter how many personalities you have.

Flirtation with the New

You know you're running late when you're putting on mascara at a gas station while you fill your tank.

I made it to the VMFA with minutes to spare and got in line for my ticket to see tonight's James River Film Festival offering, "The Great Confusion: The 1913 Armory Show."

For an art history geek, the Armory show is legendary, the holy grail, the official introduction of modern art to Americans.

Even though I arrived after most of the crowd, I was able to slide into a choice seat because there was one (and only one) open front and center. It pays to be dateless sometimes.

On hand was the director Michael Maglara, an opera singer turned record label owner turned filmmaker who also happens to be an insurance consultant.

So there was that.

He began by talking about the American audacity of the armory show and went on to praise the bravery (and audacity) of Virginia for building an art museum in 1936 as the country was trying to crawl out of the Great Depression.

Telling us that the VMFA has works by  36 of the artists who exhibited at the show, he emphasized that the 1913 event represented the beginning of America's flirtation with the new.

I wasn't sure what to expect from Maglara's "essay in film," but what we got was an odd and disjointed look at the men behind the organization of the show (several of whom were drop dead handsome), shots that inexplicably panned over individual works from the show (instead of just showing us the entire work) and inappropriately swelling music to tell us when to feel strongly.

It's not that there weren't interesting parts to the story. I had no idea how much of the exhibit focused on European painters like Matisse, Picasso, Gauguin and Degas. The very first Cezanne to be purchased for an American museum came from this show,

The organizers from the Association of American Painters and Sculptors actually went to the studios of the European painters and hand chose things for the show. They took so long doing that that they left very little time to choose the American art.

Turns out the show was much bigger than I knew - 1000-1300 works of over 300 artists in octagonal galleries that forced juxtapositions of works to elicit associations and comparisons.

And, as it turned out, outrage. Gallery I became known as the chamber of horrors because of Marcel Duchamp's "Nude Descending Staircase," not that Matisse's "Blue Nude" didn't get quite a few panties in a wad, too.

Amazingly, the show was affordable with etchings, drawings and lithographs going for as little as $10 and paintings for $3000.

Although the film's narrative and execution turned me off, it provided scads of new-to-me artists whom I now want to research and see their work.

The brilliant colorist William Glackens, Odilon Redon who sold more pieces than anyone there, and the surprising number of female artists in the show: Edith Dimock, Florence Howell Barkley.

And in the "the more things change, the more they stay the same department," despite the exhibition running for a month, on the very last day of the show, 12,000 people came, causing a traffic jam on Lexington Avenue. Sounds a lot like the last week of VMFA's blockbuster shows, if you ask me.

I didn't stay for the Q & A with the director because I would have wanted to comment on what I didn't like about the movie- things like how the same stock shots were used over and over again- and since I've never made a movie, I really have no business judging someone else's.

Instead, I took myself upstairs to Amuse for a bite, happily running into a friend at the bar who invited me to join him.

The new Spring menu, both food and cocktail, premiered this week, and even has snacks on it now. Snacks at the art museum, could life get any better?

Starting with a glass of Montand sparkling brut rose (and isn't it wonderful that we're back in rose season?), I ordered housemade beef jerky, a pairing that perhaps only I could love (and did) while my friend told me about his new love interest.

He was especially pleased with himself because for the first time, he was purposely taking things slow, enjoying the wooing process and savoring the anticipation of each time they got together.

It was turning out to be terribly romantic, he said, making him wonder why he'd rushed into past relationships and skipped this delightful stage.

Beats me. I, for one, can enjoy the wooing stage as long as I have someone worthy willing to woo.

When I couldn't decide what to eat, I asked my server for a recommendation and ended up with roasted red and golden beets over deliriously decadent Marcona almond cream with sherry vinaigrette and - ta da!- a blue cheese doughnut.

Just thing about that for a minute: fried dough with blue cheese in the center. Hello, gorgeous.

A couple he knew came up to chat and they had also seen the film. While the guys talked, she and I discussed the film and found that we shared the same opinion of it.

"I felt manipulated by it and why did he show us just bits of the paintings that way?" she asked. When I mentioned the bad music and lack of narrative, she got worked up. "The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I didn't like it. I feel better knowing it wasn't just me."

And after she managed to drag her husband to an art film, too. "He'll never do that again," she sighed before high-fiving me as they left.

My friend is planning a trip to California, his first, so we talked about my experiences there - staying overnight on a vintage ocean liner, the pleasures of the L.A. Museum, oceanfront walking and wine tasting in Santa Barbara, the limited amounts of wine country I was lucky enough to see and taste through.

"Ooh, I want a Karen California itinerary," he enthused, but I had to deflect credit to my companion since all I'd had to do was eat, drink and absorb, with naps when it all the wine became overwhelming.

When you're flirting with the new - a coast you've never been to, somebody you just met and are getting to know- sometimes it's best to take things slowly and savor the anticipation.

No one should be in so much of a hurry that they're putting on mascara at a gas station.

Once Around the Block

I got an invitation to First Dinner, as in first of 2012.

So I took a left, a sharp left and another left with a bottle of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose in hand and ended up at an intimate little dinner party.

To make it even better, a big window was open, the better to savor this unseasonable first day of the year.

How fortunate for me that other people want to cook and share.

Both the crab, tomato and fettuccine dish and the pink bubbles held their own against stories of music and lives past.

Actually the conversation was wide-ranging, touching on greed, PDAs on a bus and spontaneous singalongs to Bryan Adams (no, not me).

Speaking of, the music was vintage (Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra) until it was romantic and melancholy (Jens Lekman, Badly Drawn Boy) but always worthy of keeping an ear cocked.

I'd like to revive the salon tradition and play host.

The good dinner parties are where you only have wise and witty people to talk to and no one wants to leave.

The best are where you leave only because you know that it won't be too long before it'll start, again.

Yolks and Oats Took the Cake

It's amazing I could even fit in seeing a film between all the eating that we did tonight.

I was meeting a favorite couple at Amuse and they were bringing her mother, on a visit here from Ukraine.

With the beautiful day pulling people out to the balcony, I had no problem scoring four stools at the bar and was rewarded with a glass of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.

While I awaited their arrival, I admired a nearby server's dinner, one of the evening's specials.

Byrd Mill grits supported pork belly and a fried egg from Ayrshire Farms, with Brussels sprouts and Hanover tomato jam on the side. I wanted to face-plant in her plate, but refrained.

The color of the yolk was so brilliant that I knew that the egg hadn't been long out of the chicken. But we were not there to eat because the Friday Film started at 6:30.

Of course once my friends arrived, I glowingly described what I'd witnessed and we ordered it  as a pre- movie snack.

Every element was perfection from the just-laid-yesterday egg oozing over it all to the tantalizing sweetness of the tomato jam complementing the slight bitterness of the sprout leaves.

We pig lovers appreciated that the piece of pork belly was large and meaty with just enough of a layer of fat to make it decadent without being able to actually hear your arteries hardening as you ate.

Best of all, Chef Greg Hanley wandered out to introduce himself, so I got a chance to go on and on about the sublime creation we'd just inhaled.

After so many good meals at Amuse, it was a real pleasure to finally put a face and personality to the man's impressive output. He already knew how much I eat.

Before long he was off to the kitchen and we were off to the movies. Showing this evening was local filmmaker Sonali Gulati's film "I Am."

Several years ago, I'd seen her film "Nalini By Day, Nancy By Night" about the double lives of Indian call center employees and had been impressed with her storytelling ability.

When I'd gotten my ticket for tonight's film, the guy selling it to me had said, "It's a really good film. I just got to see it in film class. You're going to like it."

He was correct. Gulati's documentary about returning to India after her mother died and after she'd come out as a lesbian was moving, funny and well-done.

She began by thanking her partner for sitting through it again tonight, "For the 140th time." As I like to remind myself, no sacrifice is too great for love.

Six years in the making, it told the stories of other gays as well as herself, and the difficulties they faced in a country where homosexuality was outlawed until 2009.

The film traced her going to a doctor who said he could cure her of her lesbianism with a serum. She admitted that she hesitated taking it because, "What if it worked?"

It was heartening to see how many Indian parents got over their initial reactions to learning their children were gay.

After homosexuality was decriminalized, the scenes of celebrants included parents proudly supporting their children in a way that seemed unlikely at the start of the film.

As one placard said, "Proud to be Indian. Proud to be gay. No need to choose."

The film got a standing ovation from the very diverse straight and gay crowd.

After the screening, Gulati took questions from the audience, many of whom were curious about how traumatic it had been for her never to have come out to her mother before her untimely death.  She handled all questions with poise, humor and honesty.

Then we had to skedaddle before the museum closed and we turned into pumpkins, but not before discussing a desire to see the VMFA (and Amuse) open on additional evenings. Members can hope, can't they?

We decided on dinner at the Empress, settled into a front booth and prepared to eat more than we needed to.

I started with an organic wine, Haut-Poitou Sauvignon Blanc, fresh and crisp and not too fruity (insert corny gay joke here).

An amuse bouche of a tiny slice of sweet potato with a dollop of cream, lemon verbena and volcanic sea salt was a bite of heaven. We were ready for the kitchen to bring it on.

Truffle vichyssoise (looking like a bowl of whipped cream it was so thick and dense), tuna tartare (with a ginger-honey sauce that was irresistible), Meaty Caprese (roll ups of cured meat, Mozzarella and basil over chopped tomatoes and pomegranate molasses), bison lasagna (surprisingly and deliciously spicy with a strong red pepper element), pistachio-crusted duck breast (boasting a habanero-blueberry sauce and feta/mushroom oats, both of which were the undisputed stars of the meal) and the evening fish special (king clip over kale with a tomato pan sauce).

Good thing we'd had a snack before the movie to tide us over. True, there were four of us, but we ate a lot of food for four people, even with two Ukrainians amongst us.

Afterwards, we agreed that dessert was unnecessary, but that we'd listen to the choices. Big mistake.

One of the evening's specials was a lavender and local honey creme brulee. The honey was from Nelson County and the lavender was from their herb garden out behind the restaurant.

My preference is for chocolate creme brulee, but this delicately nuanced version was like inhaling a summer day in the garden. Everyone agreed that it had a beautiful, fresh taste.

And then we all exploded from over-eating and that was the end of the night.

No, no, actually I came home and sat on the porch admiring the full moon and trying to make sense of life on such a beautiful night.

I laughed when a friend recently told me, "Reading your life is like watching a great TV show."

That's one way of looking at it.

Amused by a Cocktail of a Brunch

At what point does brunch cease to be brunch and become an all-day adventure?

Running into a friend unexpectedly yesterday, I suggested brunch at Amuse today with his sweetie only to find that he was all for it. One caveat, however: he had to go to work afterwards.

He called later to confirm and we decided on 11:45, which would allow for a civilized wake-up time and still let us to beat the pretty people/churchgoers in.

Arriving close to on time despite my new-found propensity for tardiness, I found them absent and planted myself at the bar. Bartender Stephen greeted me and. without a word, made me feel welcome.

Reaching for the absinthe drip, he hauled it down and said, "Maybe I'd better refill this just in case." It wasn't even noon and he was making presumptions about my future absinthe consumption. Good or bad, I couldn't decide.

My friends the happy couple arrived and were pleased to see I'd scored bar stools for them.

When Stephen automatically began pouring  Montand Sparkling Brut Rose for me, they followed suit and had the same.

It was the earliest I'd ever been at Amuse and I felt fortunate to experience the pleasures of the early afternoon light, so different from the late afternoon and early  evening light, on the nearby museum walls

At times, we could even see the play of the water's reflection from downstairs on the wall and glass panels. It was lovely transient art.

With a couple of glasses of bubbles imbibed, we moved on to the eating portion of brunch, which began with hunks of raspberry coffeecake as the bread du jour. Moist and with bits of raspberries throughout, it took the edge off our appetites.

When we finally did order, two of us couldn't resist the special of Marguez lamb sausage over a Spanish tortilla with caramelized onion, spinach, and Manchego topped with a Romesco sauce; a side salad accompanied it, adding its peppery flavors to the mix.

The harissa seasoning of the sausage gave the dish a decided piquancy and the caramelized onion provided the sweetness. The eggy tortilla and sausage made for a hearty dish. Plainly put, we had laid down the base layer.

Afterwards, Stephen teased us by telling us about a new drink of which he was quite proud, although it was not yet on the menu. Don't tease and not produce, I warned him.

With a little prodding, we were able to order the Lady Blackberry, an enticing combination of Patron and gin that somehow also involved egg whites. A study in pink layers, it was complex and silky.

Should you be in Amuse anytime soon and seeking a unique cocktail, ask about it; this is a drink that will speak to many palates.

Once done with that guilty pleasure, we continued with the cocktail portion of the afternoon, which for me meant the green fairy arrived (okay, so Stephen had been prescient in filling the drip earlier) while my friends began with a Bamboozle and a Hemingway.

We finally got around to discussing dessert, only to become lost in other topics like life's priorities.  The male half of the couple boiled his down simply enough: women, music, blueberry pie, steak and then bourbon.

I will have to give it some thought before producing my own such list. It did, however, spur us to order dessert. We tried one of today's specials, the blueberry buckle as well as the old standby, the chocolate pate.

The buckle came over a mango/goat cheese combination and beside an enormous gob of fresh whipped cream.

As the three of us enjoyed the buckle, we got into a discussion of young men's presumed wisdom. It was a good thing the green fairy had visited me repeatedly by that point.

My friend said that when he was in college, he was sure he knew absolutely everything.

"That blueberry almost came out my nose," his loving girlfriend said in response to that statement. The visual alone made the day a success.

At several points in the afternoon, it was acknowledged that we had been there for three, four and finally five hours. Only then did it seem wise to end our endless brunch and move on.

Had it not been for a surreptitious trip through the "Civil War Redux: Pinhole Photographs of Reenactments" exhibit in a nearby hallway earlier, I would not have been ready to leave.

Much as I love Amuse, I do require at least some art when visiting the museum; I am an art geek after all.

The shadowy pictures of re-enactors on the steps of the White House of the Confederacy and in front of the Lee Memorial  danced the line between modern day and the past.

I especially loved the occasional anachronistic detail like a Custer re-enactor leaning against a Dodge truck. Where history meets the highway, so to speak.

It's the same bizarre intersection as when a quiet little brunch becomes a day-long odyssey through food, cocktails and conversation.

I honestly thought I'd be home in an hour and a half. I'm sincerely glad that I wasn't. And that's without even sharing the best part of the day.

Mum's the word. Or, for now, Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.

And, needless to say, no one did any work afterwards.

On Silently Not Getting the Girl

"Studies have proven that it's okay for you to be happy."

That's taken from part of the pre-movie entertainment at VMFA's Friday Films.

In between slides about the museum's gift shop, art classes and upcoming films, that one appears seemingly apropos of nothing. Not to worry, I took note.

Tonight was the final night of the regular Friday Film series, although the museum intends to intermittently show films.

For such a momentous occasion, the event's organizer Trent Nicholas chose a film he'd always wanted to show but hadn't.

It was Charlie Chaplin's "The Circus" from 1928, made on the cusp of talkies, and he'd refrained because it was a silent film. For the final night, he decided on a little self-indulgence, even if no one else came. But the faithful came.

My silent movie expert of a friend Jameson would probably choke on his Lobo Marino (orange soda and PBR, a South American favorite) if he heard me say this, but it may have been my first Chaplin film ever.My apologies to those more film-savvy than me.

The comedy was much more romantic than I expected, especially since the guy (the Little Tramp character) didn't get the girl (she went with the stereotypically macho tightrope walker...boring). Just like real life sometimes.

Along the way Chaplin showed off his physical comedy skills, most of which are lost one me. The amazing part that did impress me was that he also wrote, directed, produced, wrote the music, sang the theme song and acted in this film; it garnered him a special Academy Award for all that.

One of my favorite moments came with a line of dialog rather than a pratfall or sight gag.  Chaplin was engaged to help give a horse a pill by blowing it through a long straw into the horse's mouth while two others held the horse's mouth open.

Naturally he failed, inadvertently swallowing the pill himself. His explanation? "The horse blew first." I found that hysterical.

Once the short film ended, I saw no reason not to go upstairs to Amuse, especially since I hadn't been since the madness of Picasso had been lifted.

I arrived to a subdued dining room and only one couple at the bar; it was quite a change from the past few months. In all fairness, it was also the start of the holiday weekend, undoubtedly a factor.

Settling in with my Montand sparkling rose (the bartender's only question having been "Are you starting with Rose or absinthe tonight?"), I was pleased to see that the "safe" menu had finally exited along with the Picasso hordes.

Piquing my interest was the Spring Vegetable Garden with curry "soil" and creme fraiche. When it arrived, it was easily one of the prettiest plates ever set before me.

A variety of local, organic baby veggies (beets, carrots, peppers and radishes) sat atop "dirt" made of crumbled gingersnaps and curry with a knotted spring onion in the center and a dollop of creme fraiche on top.

The combination of the spicy but not sweet crumbles and the fresh baby veggies was inspired. I hope this dish stays on the menu all summer. It's just the kind of dazzler at which Amuse excels.

Noting that the absinthe drip was without iced water, I inquired about its unused look only to discover that it hadn't been active since that final Picasso weekend when I'd been in.

Somebody needed to change that and I was sure that I was just the girl to do it. And they had changed absinthe brands

Bartender Stephen offered to fill it in readiness if I thought I might need a green fairy tonight. I did so he did.

Meanwhile, I enjoyed a plate of grilled asparagus with Pecorino and olive oil while the drip was readied.

As the dining room began to empty, I sipped my absinthe while discussing a Post article I'd brought to Stephen about muddling and muddlers.

His new summer drink menu calls for much muddling, so I knew he'd be interested. He's already engaged a coworker to go on a muddler buying trip based on the piece's recommendations. Always happy to be of service where I can.

Leaving the restaurant, I passed a clutch of security people and somewhat guiltily asked if I was the last person in the museum.

I was, I was told, so I apologized. "It's okay. It just means that you're special," one of the guys said, attempting to be polite when surely they wanted me gone.

Hey, I was just busy being happy and lost track of time. I know it's okay because studies have proven it.

Something Old, Something New

I pressed the "repeat" button tonight to get my evening rolling. I went to Amuse for drinks, even though I'd been there yesterday. I saw the "Celebration of Print" show at VMFA for the third time this week.

But repeating myself was more than worth it because I was meeting up with a recently-engaged friend  (now wearing a carat and three quarters on her left hand and, holy cow, that's a lot of ice) who told me all the details of her proposal. I love that he asked her by saying, "So what are you doing for the next twenty years?"

Our libation of choice was the Montand sparkling rose (redundant, I know, but at $5 a glass, impossible to pass up), enjoyed with an amuse bouche of smoked duck on rye with allspice creme fraiche and pomegranate gastrique. Divine.

We followed that with tonight's special, lamb/pork/beef meatballs in Romesco sauce with turnip puree and fresh peas. My friend declared them "little meatloaves," and said they made her crave exactly that. Knowing her, she'll make meatloaf this weekend.

Since she's an illustrator, I insisted that we take in the print show before we left because I knew how impressed she'd be. And she was, oohing and ahhing over the big names, the unknowns and the three prints of cats.

It was so enjoyable to go back over the show with someone so familiar with all the printing processes, my own little expert, so to speak. Once more, I saw the show with fresh eyes.

Afterwards, she went home to her man and I met another friend for dinner at the Cellar Door; it was his first time and my fourth and we enjoyed it equally.

Despite him arriving a half hour before me and scanning the menu endlessly while he waited for me, he'd somehow missed their Peruvian chicken specialty and ended up ordering the Jackson Ward sandwich, probably because it's where we live.

Not me. I had the Mansion salad, loaded with that chicken and their spicy Peruvian ranch dressing. I traded a bite of mine for a bite of his marinated beef sandwich and jicama fries, so everybody was happy, but I guarantee you he'll get the chicken next time.

He had updates on his love life to share as well as tales of gardening and rug binding. Sometimes he's as good as a girlfriend for girl talk (and I mean that in the most complimentary way). If only he hadn't been too full for dessert.

Then we were off to different shows. I ditched my car at home and walked over to Gallery 5 for a superb night of fresh-sounding music. When I arrived, not a soul was outside except for the two headliners, heads bent together in the glow of the street lights. It would have made a great photograph.

The Cinnamon Band had just begun and it took me only seconds to recall how much I'd liked them when I first heard them at Live at Ipanema, here.

This time they were back in their usual electric mode, but no less impressive. And this time I got to hear the shimmering chords and explosive drumming that had been toned down at Ipanema. Happily, the audience was attentively into them, and the energy in the room was terrific.

All the way from Montreal came Handsome Furs, although somehow there were only two of them instead of the usual dozen or so that comprise a Canadian band. I don't know how they get away with that in a country that boasts bands bigger than sports teams.

A guy behind me noted, "Damn, they're short!" and another said, "Skinny, too!" Between them, maybe 200 pounds, but their sound belied their size.

The raw energy of Handsome Furs was complemented by Alexei's exuberant synth and drum machine playing and  Dan's excellent guitar playing and vocals. Plus they're married and in love, so they kiss between songs sometimes. You don't see that much.

After tearing through the first couple of songs, Dan took off his shirt, saying, "Virginia is hot! But the smokes are cheap. I'm such a dirtbag, I love to smoke."

He introduced the song "When I Get Back" by explaining that it was about post-tour resolutions, like not drinking lighter fluid because it was the only alcohol in the house or giving up cigs because they're bad for you. It was pretty funny stuff and the song rocked.

Alexei showed off her flexibility with waist-high leg kicks to match the beat and a flailing arm to balance herself on keyboard on occasion. Her little two-piece midriff and short set with red tights made her a  pogo stick of color as she played, her long, red hair falling in her eyes pretty much all the time since she never stopped moving.

The music had definite 80s undertones (Human League, Devo) but with elements of blues and rockabilly over post-punk. As always, I appreciate the way young artists are able to choose one from column A, one from column B and one from column C and reinterpret it all as new.

Songs were short, fast and energetic and it's clear why they're both so skinny given the physicality of the workout performance they gave. They really looked like they were having a great time up there.

As was I. Nothing wrong with starting with something old (and familiar) especially when I end up with something new (and different).

And you know I can skip the something borrowed and something blue.

There's No Place Like Home...at Amuse

Some of the best times my friend and I have shared have been our road trips. When we get away to DC or Norfolk for eating and music, we always return recharged after the change of scenery.

So I considered it the best kind of compliment when we walked out of the VMFA today after a three-hour lunch and she said, "I feel so amazing. That was like getting out of town for the day!"

Since my very first visit to the renovated VMFA and certainly to Amuse, I have touted its ability to transport the visitor to another, more cosmopolitan city. But it was my friend's first visit to Amuse (and only second visit to the new VMFA) so she was unprepared to spend the afternoon somewhere that felt so unlike Richmond.

It was high lunch hour when we arrived, but we were graciously seated in the deep green chairs and two glasses of Montand sparkling brut rose were a lovely visual accompaniment to the chairs' green. Within minutes, our bar stools became available and we moved.

She began by taking pictures with her new camera, of the bar, of the rose, even one of me that was so colorful I made it my new Facebook profile picture. I should have her take my picture more often because she does a damn fine job.

Since she was the Amuse virgin, I let her make our lunch selections. Being gluten intolerant, she was beyond thrilled at all the options she had on the menu.

As our bartender explained, the chef prefers to include vegan, vegetarian and gluten-free options on his menu so that people don't feel limited to asking for a dish minus half the ingredients.

We began with the mussels with Sausagecraft's Della Nona sausage in a garlic butter sauce; it broke my heart to know she was unable to sop up that yummy broth with bread, but she made do by eating the broth alone. I went through more bread than I care to admit.

Next up was a salad of Manakintowne greens, including pea shoots (always a sure sign spring is here), shaved fennel, and beautiful watermelon radishes, all in a grapefruit vinaigrette (her favorite).

For our main dish, she chose for us the roasted local chicken breast with gin and juice endive, sun-dried cherries and quinoa (another of her hot buttons). The yardbird tasted especially fresh, not at all like a factory-farmed supermarket bird.

Meanwhile, I had moved on to a second glass of rose while my friend nursed hers like a teetotaler. This was so uncharacteristic that I had to tease her about it. As I reminded her, she was the one who had schooled me on imbibing when we first became friends, keeping me up late and teaching me tolerance.

Our bartender, eavesdropping as all good bartenders do, looked up sagely.. "And the student becomes the teacher," she said nodding. My friend, trying valiantly to prove her mettle, claimed she would have a second glass.

Of course, by the time she did, I was ready for a digestif, so while she tackled rose #2, I ordered up an absinthe. Since it was her first time seeing the drip, she documented it with her new camera and, at my insistence, took a sip and eventually another.

Earlier in the week, I'd returned home one afternoon to a phone message saying, "I hope you're out having an absinthe for lunch." I hadn't been, but perhaps it planted the idea in my head.

But sparkling rose and absinthe for lunch? That's a pretty colorful lunch, even for me.

No wonder we didn't feel like we were in Richmond anymore. The terrific part was that we were.

Weak, Engaged and In the Know

I sold out intellectual pursuits for a pink bubbly and sunny views. No, I'm not proud of that, but it's fact. Go right ahead and judge.

With ticket in hand for the "Community of Huguenot Goldsmiths" lecture at VMFA at 6, the plan was to stop by Amuse for a pre-lecture absinthe and then make my way downstairs to the lecture.

But when I took my seat at the empty bar (unheard of, but everyone else was doing their drinking on the terrace in the 82-degree weather), I got sidetracked.

Knowing my fondness for pink, I was immediately informed by two members of the staff about a new addition to the wine list. "Well, I'm here for absinthe and a lecture," I explained unconvincingly.

"But it's sparkling rose and from Champagne," bartender Stephen tempted me. "Would you like to taste it?" Well, who doesn't see where this is going? The Francois Montand Sparkling Brut Rose had me at the first sip. Pale pink, it had loads of flavor and beautiful bubbles.

As a consolation prize for not having ordered absinthe, I was given a slotted absinthe drip spoon, but told I should continue to visit Amuse for my absinthe fixes. Will do. We'll consider it a trophy rather than for actual use.

I was given a peek at Amuse's summer drink list, full of high end rum and tequila cocktails, all mixed with the flavors of summer.

By the time I thought to inquire about the time, it was 6:05 and I hadn't finished my bubbles, so with a little nudge from Stephen (who reminded me that tickets to the event were free), I changed course and decided to stay for a bit.

And as long as I was going to stay, I decided to eat a little something, not that I was the least bit hungry after a 3:00 Five Guys burger and fries, but why not if I was going to stick around? So I got the grilled asparagus (garlic, Pecorino, olive oil and absolutely delicious) and another glass of pink bubbles.

When the sun had dropped below the buildings and the shades began to raise up to let the early evening light in, one of the servers began singing appropriate music to accompany the incoming light.

When I asked if he did the same when they lowered them, he admitted he did. I've no doubt that a sense of humor helps in the restaurant business.

Determined not to be  a complete cultural slug, I finally paid up and headed to the Grace Street Theater for another installment of the James River Film Festival.  Showing was a restored 35 mm print of "Taxi Driver," all the more significant for this being the 35th anniversary of the film.

And then there's the fact that I'd never seen it (my film failings are well documented because of not watching TV) and since it's considered one of the greatest movies of the 70s, I knew where I needed to be.

The film was introduced by Trent Nicholas, he of VMFA's Film series, and he made a good point. "Seems appropriate to be seeing Taxi Driver's mean streets in the former Lee Theater, a porn theater. You're sitting in a lot of heritage here and not just X-rated heritage."

It was such a terrific way to experience the film for the first time. The virgin print we saw was flawless, clean, color-saturated and looking as sharp as the day it was released.

I didn't realize that Bernard Herrmann, the composer for so many of Hitchcock's films, had scored this movie, either. There were times when I heard enough of a similarity to know it was Herrmann and others when his innovative music was pure 70s. It was the last movie he scored, dying before it was released.

And I don't know who looked younger, Scorcese as a cuckolded husband in the taxi or DeNiro, looking lean of face and body. Boy, the 70s were a long time ago.

Favorite period details? The porno theater concession stand Travis Bickle frequented carried no Coke, only RC cola. And an RC and three candy bars cost $1.85.

At a political rally scene, there were young guys sporting Afros and middle-aged women wearing white gloves, making for a great visual metaphor for the cultural overlap still happening in 1976.

Nicholas' point that movies were meant to be seen on a big screen surrounded by other people for a shared experience was driven home tonight.

I was far from the only audience member who had never seen it and there was much squirming and murmuring during some of the more difficult scenes. It was good to know I wasn't alone in my reactions.

Of course, there was also the girl behind me who laughed at the line "You talking to me?" when it was anything but appropriate for the moment.

Such a heavy, albeit important, film had to be followed with much lighter fare and the Black Girls show at Balliceaux supplied that. Walking down the alley to get there, I heard the fireworks coming from the Diamond's opening night.

The group of white boys, with their pastiche of influences (KC and the Sunshine band, Modest Mouse, 70s funk) and multiple vocalists, get better with each show. Tonight's crowd danced far less than the Sprout crowd where I saw them last (there people were doing the bump), but not because the incentive to do so wasn't there.

I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in years who had just happened in to Ballcieaux tonight to meet a friend. I asked him how he was enjoying the band, since I was there specifically because of the band.

"They're amazing," he said enthusiastically. "So you knew to come and we just lucked into seeing a band this good?"

Well, yes, but I also sold my intellectual plans down the river this evening, so don't give me too much credit. Who knows when I'll get another chance to learn about Huguenot goldmaking?

Not that I have any interest in gold, mind you.