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.

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...

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.

Freak-a-Zoid

Tonight, there was no parking on the dance floor. And the good news is, I can still dance for three hours straight without a break.

The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.

Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.

I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.

I sure did.

Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.

When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.

Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.

Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.

"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"

We sure as hell did.

That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.

Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.

"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.

Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.

Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.

They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.

But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.

Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.

The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.

With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.

The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.

While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.

Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.

One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.

I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.

By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.

But I had other music in mind.

A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.

They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.

First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.

You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.

Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.

A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.

To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.

Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.

Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.

The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.

Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.

When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.

"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.

Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.

A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?

At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.

After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.

How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?

Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.