Court is in Session

Basketball seems to be a big deal right now. I'd like to say I care, but of course I don't.

My parents do, partly because they're both big sports fans and partly because they both have money on the outcome. Mr. Wright cares, so he was at home cheering Duke on when I met up with Holmes and Beloved for dinner.

Walking out of my apartment, I spotted two female students on the porch next door sipping beers and blasting their radio (seriously, ladies, "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart"?) while just across the street, a young woman was directing seven others. "Okay, I need someone over here screaming in agony," she said, holding her cell phone and pointing. "And I need someone over here by the street crouching down."

A cinematic masterpiece in the making, I'm sure.

The fact that it was 75 degrees on a Friday afternoon meant just getting to Holmes' house was an obstacle course given the hordes of people at the VMFA (and the lack of parking anywhere along the three blocks between the museum and Holmes' house), walking dogs along the streets and in general just milling about as if they hadn't experienced a sunny, warm day for too long.

When I finally nabbed a parking space, it was next to a backyard where three kids were climbing up on to the picnic table and jumping off while shrieking at the top of their lungs while the mothers of these daredevils posed together nearby taking repeated selfies of the two of them ignoring the screams behind them.

But it was a short-lived parking spot victory because I was elected to drive everyone to Nota Bene, where an open door greeted us. The bar was populated with stools, not people, so we took up residence at the corner, close enough to feel the warm air through the door with a view of the rapidly filling dining room.

Debating what to sip, we took the owner's recommendation of a personal favorite, G.D. Vajra "Rosa Bella" Rosato, a refreshing Rose with a bone dry finish that all but begged for a warm day like the one we were reveling in. It was my opportunity to thank her for having recommended Lady Pi Pi's, the charming outdoor restaurant in Dubrovnik, where we'd had a fabulous meal at her suggestion.

"Someone told me about it and I told you," she shrugged. "Now it's your turn to recommend it to someone else going to Dubrovnik." Paying it forward at Lady Pi Pi's, so to speak.

Once we'd wet our whistles, we dove into the new spring menu with abandon to celebrate it having come out just today. Tender wood oven turnips got the star treatment with tuna sauce, turnip greens pesto and trout row. Since Nota Bene is where Holmes first began enjoying roasted cauliflower, we had to try the decadent new version with Perorino, black garlic, lemon and the piece de resistance, Prosecco-cured egg yolk.  Then to take it over the top, we had housemade burrata with snap peas, radishes and mint in whey vinaigrette, which we slathered over bread toasted with olive oil.

If we hadn't already ordered dinner, we could have stopped right there since we were all stuffed anyway. But Beloved had been determined to try the legendary white Bolognese bucatini with pork and beef and Holmes had been helpless when our server had announced a special of skin-on duck breast with, as he put it, "some kind of pommes," which turned out to be fancy hash browns.

Their choices made my mushroom and garlic white pizza with caramelized onions, Parmesan and Fontina seem like a Healthy Choice entree, not at all what I was going for but a damn fine pie nonetheless.

If it sounds like an obscene amount of food for three people, let me assure you it was. So much so that dessert was out of the question, a rarity for this group. Fortunately, Beloved and I knew that Holmes had laid in a chocolate dessert at the house for once our fullness settled.

Back in the museum district, parking spaces were emptying out and things were settling down a bit. Holmes forewarned me that while yes, we'd be having a listening party in the basement as usual, the TV would be on but muted behind Beloved's and my bar stools. He'd be able to see it and we'd never know it was on.

The plan was for an all media night, meaning we started with a CD I'd never even heard of. It was the Beatles' "Real Love," named after the Lennon song the three remaining  Beatles had overdubbed after he died and the demo was found. I've got to say, I found it really strange to hear a "Beatles" song I'd never heard before.

Next came one of Holmes' classic cassette tapes, this one a collection of songs by George Harrison and Eric Clapton doing a wide range of songs and covers. And while Holmes had neatly labeled which songs were on the tape, he'd not indicated the sources, a shame since some of the live versions had us curious about their origins.

Vinyl came courtesy of two 45s - John Hiatt's "Missing You," and the Go Gos' "Our Lips are Sealed" - before we dove into the Elton John record "17.11.70," an album taken from a live radio broadcast where his piano was accompanied only by bass and drums. His  cover of "Honky Tonk Woman" sounded positively audacious for 1971.

In between music selections, Holmes checked out the game and I realized that Beloved must have some interest because she was appalled that Holmes was rooting for Duke when he usually roots for whatever Virginia team is playing. "You even rooted for Liberty and they're a bunch of religious crazies!" she admonished him.

He refused to budge, so she retaliated by becoming an uber-fan for Virginia Tech.

Meanwhile, I kept my back to the whole thing, remembering a post by a reformed Christian friend that said, "Strongest evidence I know that there isn't a just god: Duke continues to win." Even my Mom hates Duke and that's saying something for my mild-mannered mother.

One of the more charming aspects of our ongoing conversation was Holmes enumerating some of the 99 reasons why he and Beloved should get married, a list that he added to periodically throughout the evening, apropos of nothing. So they can spend the winters someplace warm. So they can sell one house. So they can retire and goof off.

Interspersed with such practical reasons was Holmes' constant refrain, "Mostly because I love her."

Mushy talk beats basketball talk any day, no matter who's winning. That's real love.

It Had Better Be Tonight

I may be a complicated woman, but I have simple needs.

Sometimes, nothing suits me better than dinner and a movie, especially when the restaurant is a personal favorite, the film is from the '60s and the company is hilarious. I'll even do the driving for a change, which right away tells you I wasn't with Mac or Pru, both of whom prefer to be in control the driver's seat.

Since I was collecting Mr. Wright from the East End, it only made sense to drive directly to Nota Bene for dinner, where we were early enough to score the bar stools with the best prospect and refuge and the music wasn't yet drowned out by people talking.

That darkness was already falling was just another reminder of how much I detest this time of year. And don't get me started on tomorrow's rainy cold front.

But at Note Bene, everything was warm and good (wood fired ovens are reliable that way), from the bartender's favorite salad, a Brussels Caesar of shaved Brussels sprouts, oil-cured olives, pickled radish, the fermented fish sauce garum, white anchovies and the always delicious cheese Grana Padano, to a crispy pizza singing with the sweet/salty balance of wild mushrooms, roasted garlic, caramelized onions, Parmesan and Fontina.

My only regret was how quickly we demolished both while Mr. Wright patiently explained to me how well I was coming along in celebrating my (according to him) new-found shallowness and open-armed embrace of his suggestion that selfishness should guide what we do in this relationship. He argued that both qualities had long existed in me but I'd tamped them down, while I believe that both are learned behaviors since this whole shebang began.

Since he thinks both qualities are a good thing - or a "good bad thing," as he phrased it - I don't know why I'm resisting getting on board with it. Then again, if you listen to him, I hopped that shallow/selfish train a while back, somewhere after the week in Chicago or around the time of the two weeks at the beach, but most certainly after Dubrovnik and Athens.

Go ahead and ask, who am I?

Well, for one thing, I'm a dessert lover and Note Bene has one of my favorites, a fig crostada made obscene with Pineau des Charentes cream, although it's the figs and rustic glazed crust that speak to me more than the cream. Plain and simple, it's a fancy pants Fig Newton and I mean that in the most complimentary way because who else has such a way with figs?

After lingering so long, we barely made it to the Byrd in time for "The Pink Panther," taking our seats while a Pink Panther cartoon played on the screen, a prelude to manager Todd explaining that the reason "The Pink Panther" film had an animated panther in its credits was because United Artists, then at the height of its creative powers, had just formed an animation department and wanted to show off.

Just as importantly, he pointed out that this was the film where Peter Sellers essentially developed the iconic Inspector Clouseau character and took it to the bank, so we were watching its creation.

Billed as "a madcap frolic of crime and fun," I was enchanted by the movie from the credits - "Clothing by Yves St. Laurent" - right on through the opening scene, which began with, "Once upon a time," as all truly great stories should. Eye candy was everywhere since the movie was set in Rome, Paris and Cortina d'Ampezzo, a ski resort in the Alps, making for a gorgeous travelogue, if nothing else.

But the movie had plenty else, from Sellers' brilliant physical comedy (the scene where everyone's dancing and then stops, except Clouseau, who continue to do the Jerk) and deadpan delivery to a glimpse at 1963 Europe. I may hate cold weather, but I could get used to covering myself with a thick lap blanket for a horse-drawn sleigh ride to my destination in Italy.

Those sleigh bells are nothing if not festive.

For that matter, I'd also love to attend a party like those thrown by the mindless social-climbing doyenne Mrs. Dunning because I've always wanted to go to a party where the dancing involved doing the Twist, the Frug and, yes, the Jerk. I didn't see anyone doing the Pony, but it was  crowded party, so I might have missed it.

Not to mention that every movie should have a scene that starts with a close-up of a woman's behind, followed by her singing and dancing as she moves through the seated party guests, clapping and grooving along.

Fact: we have lost something in party-throwing since the '60s.

YSL's clothes were fabulous, especially the brightly-colored tunic and skinny pants ensembles worn by several female characters. all of whom, by the way, wore massive beehive up-dos. Had the film been in Smell-o-Vision, we'd have been choking on the scent of Aqua Net.

And, man, oh, man, I'd forgotten how drop dead gorgeous Robert Wagner was back then. Almost too pretty boy, but not quite. Even more exquisite was Claudia Cardinale, who was new to me but who possessed such astonishing beauty that just ogling her was enough. I don't know how a straight guy could even follow the story for gawking at her.

But that's not my problem. I've got enough on my plate taking Shallow 101 and Selfishness 101, in addition to my usual non-stop cultural calendar. Tonight, it was all I could do to do dinner and a movie while discussing my progress in the courses.

Mr. Wright likes to say that it takes a lot of thinking and talking to keep up with me. I don't know why. I'm a simple woman.

Everyday I (try to) Write the Book

As days turn to nights with zero time for blogging, it's probably best to think of these as postcards.

Greetings from First Fridays...
You know it's going to be a great evening when the owner of Chez Foushee asks how close you'd like to sit to the bossa nova band. We put just enough distance between the music and our conversation to enjoy both.

Meanwhile, we took our time with crab bisque, olives and Marcona almonds in herbed oil and a couple of Foushee market salads loaded with cannellini beans, craisins, toasted almonds and red onions over peppery arugula with green goddess dressing. The salad choice was a matter of necessity once I found out that their long-standard brussels sprouts salad (the one with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese) has been put out to pasture. I may never recover from the loss, though a dense dark chocolate mousse helped ease the pain somewhat.

Our art fix was taken at the main library with "Herald 4- Drawing from the Knew," an exhibit of seven regional artists working in vastly different styles. At 1708, we took in "Yo, Bruce: Gerald Donato + Bruce Wilhelm" because the playful nature of Donato's work never gets old. At Black Iris for the "Sink or Swim" show, my favorite was the drawing that incorporated Popeye, Olive Oil and Wimpy into one image (and probably unrecognizable to a younger viewer). Candela Gallery's group show, "Channels" of work by Willie Anne Wright, Courtney Johnson and Lisa Kokin was compelling, none more so than Kokin's mixed media sewn collages using old black and white photographs of people sewn together.

Because we're all connected, right?

Greetings from Peaches, home to 45s
Even if there had been no crate of surprises, the meal would have been memorable. Holmes, Beloved and I ventured out of their usual comfort zone for a meal taken at the corner of Nota Bene's bar. Holmes went in looking for the cauliflower that had changed his opinion about cauliflower, only to find it (like the brussels sprout salad at Chez Foushee) M.I.A. Where he scored points was in suggesting we get the brocaletti with red peppers and anchovy breadcrumbs instead.

Since when does Holmes suggest a vegetable he can't even pronounce? Or, more to the point, who was I with and what had he done with Holmes?

Bottles of Rosabella Rose (unfortunately, they were out of the Arianna Occhipinti Grillo we'd requested) accompanied the brocaletti, along with an arugula salad with red onion, fennel and sweety drops. One of the servers told us she'd been so enamored of the sweety drops that she'd ordered an entire jar for herself. I have to say, Holmes, Beloved and I were mighty taken with the teardrop-shaped cross between a cherry tomato and a jalapeno that managed to taste both sweet and tart at once.

Next we went on a fungi bender, first with a wild mushroom, roasted garlic, caramelized onion and Fontina pizza (with crust to die for) and then with a special of tagliarini with an array of mushrooms in a cream sauce. The tagliarini was so tender, it all but melted in your mouth.

Dessert was an extravaganza, with tiramisu (Beloved's first ever), lemon buttermilk zeppole with dark chocolate dipping sauce and the dessert du jour, a fig crostata. We paired the latter two with Barolo Chinato, as lovely an accompaniment to a sweet course as could be hoped for. And that rustic fig crostata, well, its thick, barely sweet crust was worthy of the figs and that's saying a lot coming from a fig fanatic.

The evening's soundtrack came courtesy of Holmes' buddy who'd been downsizing. Seems Holmes stopped by and scooped up an old Peaches crate filled with 45s. Granted, you have to be pretty seasoned to remember what Peaches was and that they sold crates for records, but none of us had any trouble.

There was loads of Elvis Costello, only a couple from the Beatles, plus the Jam, the Stranglers, B52s and a host of other '80s bands. We spent the evening working our way through the 45s, occasionally going to an album (can you ever hear too much Brass Ring, really?) for a side just to give Holmes a break on the turntable.

Greetings from the land of secession
When the day is spent driving to and from Norfolk, where signs with dire warnings of "High tide gate testing Tuesday 1 a.m." foreshadow the impending hurricane, it's best if the evening involves no car time. Fortunately, Conch Republic was no more than a brief stroll for a view of skulling boats, setting sun and a photo shoot for the restaurant at a nearby table.

In what was no doubt early preparation for Florence's arrival, all the umbrellas had been taken off the deck, unfortunate since the sun continues to shine until the weather system arrives. I made do by sitting with my back to the sun, but given that it's (sadly) nearly mid-September, it slid behind the trees before too long.

Broadbent Vino Verde washed down conch chowder, a wedge salad ("What kind of dressing do you want on that?" our young server asks. Um, bleu cheese because it wouldn't be a true wedge salad without it?) and a California Cobb. Over at the Boathouse, we saw tiki torches burning on their deck, although I can no longer think of them without thinking of last year's white supremacy march at UVA. Damn neo-Nazis spoil everything for the whole group. What's next, beach umbrellas?

I know, I know, I'm leaving out an awful lot for someone with lots to say who hasn't blogged in days, but you know what? It's going to get worse before it gets better. Depending on how Flo decides to behave, things could get even crazier next week. And the week after? Forget about it.

When you throw your lot in with a planner, there's bound to be too much adventure to document it all. All I can tell you is that my aim is true.

Freedom of Pleasure

Perhaps a night that began with a discussion of a sculpture urinating, moved through smut and ended with memories of being called the naked family, wasn't the night to go stag.

I suppose you could call it an evening wasted with Tom Lehrer, but only because he called one of his live albums that. There was nothing wasted about it.

It began when I met the posse in Church Hill, where we promptly worried Queen B by taking the ridiculously steep 23rd Street hill to get down to Nota Bene. You know, the one that feels like your car is going to roll hood over trunk because it's so vertical?

For thrill seekers like Beau and I, it's a personal favorite as far as hills go. The ladies, not so much.

But dangerous descents were forgotten once the owner found out about my travel plans and began offering recommendations involving food and sculpture, followed by the arrival of a bottle of fruity and berry fresh Tete au Bois Dormant sparkling Rose. It was brought to the table by our lanky server who called us y'all because, as he put it, "You guys doesn't sound right."

Three women and one non-alpha male? Correct, not a guy in the bunch.

A menu of 5 different gin and tonics seduced Beau who ordered one called "Oh, you fancy, huh?" supposedly because it included black pepper, but I'm inclined to think he just wanted to say that to our server, who grinned when he did.

From there we had a food lovers' feast, starting with the creamiest of burrata over sweet little heirloom tomatoes with pine nuts and grilled cucumber vinaigrette that screamed summer. My favorite part of a charcuterie board was the duck and pork country pate, not to mention a superb rhubarb jam that resembled nothing so much as apple butter.

Staying true to Nota Bene's roots, we had two pizzas, a red and a white - sausage, kale and red onion plus potato and fontina with leek cream and olive tapenade - while marveling over the chew and flavor of the crust. So. Incredibly. Good.

Bucatini white bolognese seems to get ordered every single time we go to Nota Bene (not a complaint), but this was my first time ordering their branzino with pepperonata. The combination of the wood-fired fish and long-cooked, deeply flavored peppers, onions and garlic was nothing short of sublime, to the point that moaning after taking a bite became the norm.

People stared, we didn't care.

You don't put away that much savory food and call it quits, though, meaning we capped the meal with with tiramisu (full disclosure: we got two of them) and a bay leaf panna cotta with amaretti cookie crumble and blueberries, one of those desserts that pretends to be light but is only fooling the wishful thinkers.

Start to finish, the meal was memorable, every bite a masterful marriage of flavors, colors and textures, the better to complement the wide-ranging conversations that accompanied the sipping and supping. We left in a blissful food coma, all of us.

Fortunately, nothing more was expected of us than a drive to Swift Creek Mill Theater to see "Tomfoolery," a musical revue devoted to the satirical (and protest) songs of the brilliant and hilarious Tom Lehrer.

I mean, how can you not love a lyricist who writes a song about "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park?"

Or, in the grand tradition of woman singing songs about the man they love - no matter how antisocial, alcoholic, physically repulsive or just plain unsanitary, as he put it - Lehrer writes one from the man's point of view and it's a whole lot funnier.

Sharks gotta swim, bats gotta fly
I gotta love one woman till I die
To Ed or Dick or Bob
She may be just a slob
But to me, well, she's my girl

Just as funny was "When You Are Old and Gray, a song he dedicated to anyone still in love in the audience.

So say you love me here and now
I'll make the most of that
Say you love and trust me
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat

Listening to "The Masochism Tango," I couldn't help but think what an appropriate song it was for that most unromantic of womankind: Pru. Sure enough, the moment it ended, she looked at me and observed, "You know that's my song, right?"

I did indeed.

Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany
That's why I'm in such exquisite agony
My soul is on fire, it's aflame with desire
Which is why I prespire when we tango

"Smut" had the four talented actors holding Playboy and Playgirl magazines while singing about the pleasures of dirty books.

All books can be indecent books
Though recent books are bolder
For filth (I'm glad to say) is in
The mind of the beholder
When correctly viewed, everything is lewd

I left the theater wondering how I ever thought I'd lived a full life when I'd only ever heard one Tom Lehrer song before tonight. I was an innocent, little fool, that's for sure.

The remainder of my waking hours were spent on Pru's glorious screened porch, where she regaled us with stories about her parents' penchant for clothing-optional living and the friend from childhood who'd said she always thought of Pru's clan as "the naked family." The child can hardly be blamed for that, after all, how many of us have Dads who went streaking during thunderstorms? Or naked Moms who took phone calls in full view of the garbage men?

Around midnight, I got up to leave, only to be told to sit back down, so I did. This is not a group who wants the conversation stopped until everyone agrees it's over. At least I made it home before daybreak.

But I also went to bed a new fan of Tom Lehrer. Anyone who can write, "If a person feels he can't communicate, the least he can do is shut up about it," is my kind of guy.

Y'all know what I mean, I'm sure.

Don't Dance All Night with Me

Hush, hush, keep it down now, voices carry. All across Church Hill.

When the evening starts at 5 and doesn't end until after 2 a.m., there's plenty of time to range from baby octopus stew to an amplified discussion of male archetypes and take a detour through a ghost story.

Things kicked off at Pru's manse on the hill, where she, the woman who bore her and her swain Beau welcomed me into the fold. It's so frequent that I'm their fourth that people are going to start taking  us for some sort of polyamorous, multi-generational swingers.

I think I'm okay with that at this point.

We landed at Nota Bene shortly before the dinner rush began but only after Beau managed to take the longest possible route to reach a place barely a mile from the manse. I blame all those years living in Ladysmith for his lack of city savvy (witness his horror at once seeing a rat the size of a cat in the Fan).

As if Nota Bene doesn't have enough to offer, they've added one of my very favorite bartenders to their staff, a fact that immediately derailed our wines plans, rerouting them to cocktails. My choice was a Sherry Daisy, a delightful sipper of Amontillado sherry, peach shrub and Rothman and Winter peach liqueur with an orange twist.

Arriving in a long-stemmed coupe glass - as did Beau's gin-based Fall Cocktail - Pru immediately invoked "The Thin Man" as we sipped with all the sophistication of Nick and Nora Charles.

Scanning the specials board for options, the owner sidled up and, without saying, "Psst!" whispered, as if offering black market goods, "Pro tip: get the baby octopus stew."

Since it was already under consideration, along with the radishes with bottarga and two orders of sugar toads with bagna cauda, we took her advice, throwing in an order of braised fennel and housemade bread for sopping for good measure.

And that was just to start.

The baby octopus stew - a long-simmered melange, spicy, tomato-based and chock full of chickpeas and octopus - only got forked up by Beau and I, with Pru explaining that she objected to eating such intelligent creatures.

Far more disturbing, in my opinion, was a reference from one of their favorite Italian TV shows, in which a man had been instructed what to do with a live one: beat it with a stick until it's dead and then cook it all day long. Maybe it's just me, but I don't want to have to beat my dinner into submission.

Although a wiser quartet might have stopped there, sated and happy, we pushed on, ordering torchio pork ragu, a sausage and broccolini pizza, a special of rare hanger steak and another of head-on shrimp. As Beau so succinctly put it, "I've never had anything that isn't stellar here," a fact that contributes to Nota Bene being on my birthday progressive dinner route every year since it opened.

It was an obscene amount of food laid out on our table with enough leftovers to take back to the manse for an entire meal.

But not before we dropped down the dessert rabbit hole with a savory local goat cheese custard for Beau, biscotti and sweetened, whipped ricotta cheese for Pru and a piece of chocolate almond cake dusted in confectioner's sugar and big enough for 3 for yours truly. Only the queen abstained from a  sweet course, no doubt because she's wiser than we are.

By the time we stopped eating, it was time to high tail it to Colonial Heights for a play, assuming we didn't nod off based on the feast we'd just had. The valet, an older man, took off running to fetch Beau's car and when he returned, I complimented him on how spry he was. Huffing and puffing, he smiled and said, "I...(wheeze)...am.. (gasp)...spry!"

Beau tipped him nicely for his effort.

Walking into Swift Creek Mill to see "The Woman in Black," the usher looked at Pru and I and observed, "You two look fabulous!" Taking our seats, I heard a man's voice behind me saying, "Miss Karen, we have to stop meeting like this. People will think we're in love!" and turned to see the manager of the Byrd, Todd and his lovely wife. Since this same crew and I had just seen Todd Wednesday night for "To Catch a Thief," I could see his point.

Besides, if people are going to think I'm in love, I'd prefer it wasn't with a married man. A minor point, but an important one.

Meanwhile, a flirtatious woman from Dinwiddie sitting next to Beau struck up a conversation, curious about the Byrd Theater and how difficult it was to park there and clearly eager to make Beau's acquaintance. Granted, it was probably tough to guess his status given that he'd arrived with three women, but, as Pru pointed out, he was also the youngest man in the room by at least a decade.

It pays not to be old, bald or gray sometimes, assuming you want to be hit on by women from Dinwiddie.

During the play's introduction, we learned that the building has long been haunted. A little girl's ghost has apparently been seen running through the theater and, back when it was a gristmill, a miller boy hung himself in the basement and his ghost hangs about, too.

At intermission, the bartender told Beau that she'd once had a glass thrown at her and no one else was in the room. The Swift Creek crew thinks most of the ghosts are former Central State Hospital patients, no doubt because it makes for a good story.

The play, London's second-longest running, had at some point been turned into a film which all three of my companions had seen, so I was the only one in the dark. Hell, Pru and her Mom had also seen the play performed in Bermuda years ago.

But that's my role in this little group: to always be the last to know.

The three-person play was a play within a play, with the shifting roles of the two main actors being the most compelling aspect of it for me.

As we headed back up 95 behind a guy not only swerving but with no lights on, we discussed the paranormal aspects of the play and Pru brought up the woman from Dinwiddie, asking Beau if she'd said she worked at Central State.

"I didn't actually commit any of what she said to memory," he said, proving what women have long said about men's listening skills.

We landed on Pru's tricked-out screened porch, albeit with a new outdoor heater as a concession to the season, for a post-play porch party from which the Queen excused herself, pleading age and a need for sleep, even as flutes of Simonnet Cremant de Bourgogne Brut Blanc were being poured for the three of us.

Pru's seven hour porch playlist began with "Moon River," moved through the Brass Ring and caused Beau to bring up the subject of sequencing. Both he and I could see the potential pleasure in rearranging the song order to achieve best possible flow, while Pru saw such a task as tedious and time-consuming. I pointed out that some would say that the online Scrabble games she devotedly plays would be far more tedious, leading us to agree to disagree.

We all waste time in our distinctive ways.

Because Beau had forgotten the Nota Bene leftovers in the car, he was sent to fetch them and when he returned, he shared that he could hear every word of our conversation even at a great distance. Seems that in the still of the night, at least in Church Hill, voices carry and some topics should be kept to a lower decibel level.

Conversation was all over the map, with Pru describing a woman as, "Good hair, bad skin, great big tits and low self esteem," a summary that had Beau admitting he'd never noticed her rack. The subject of staving off - "Staving, it's a good word" - arose, as we got into semantics, like we do.

Time after time, we realized how raucous and raunchy our conversation was getting and tried to reel it back in so as not to over-share with the neighborhood. We failed repeatedly.

After Pru posed her main concern ("How are we going to find you a man?" and went on to suggest I use a clipboard and take a fake survey from every man of a certain age I saw in an attempt to identify a possibility), we moved on to an issue near and dear to her heart: why don't I like "bad boys" and how could I stand "good boys"?

The resulting conversation was wide ranging and I soon realized that our definitions of good and bad boys were at the heart of our disagreement on the subject. The way I see it, there's a line in the sand and that line is thoughtfulness. If a man can cross that line, he's not thoughtful, so he's a bad boy. Her definition had more to do with the recklessness of bad boys and the blandness of good boys.

Potato, potahto, we weren't seeing the same distinction. She thought a bad boy could be thoughtless and still appealing. I didn't see it. The funniest part was when Beau tried to convince her he was a bad boy, an effort so earnest I commented on how adorable he was.

"Adorability is not a bad boy quality," Pru announced, effectively shutting down his hopes of being anything other than a good boy with great hair.

So maybe the first question on my fake survey needs to address that. Has anyone ever told you that you're adorable?

No? Next!

Time in a Bottle

With only a week left, I needed to get in one more wearing of my white shorts before Labor Day.

That need paired with temperate weather and a constant breeze told me it was a Lilly Pad kind of day.

Not that any sunny day isn't suitable for hanging out at a cinderblock building (incidentally, one with a mural on the back reading, "Having an affair? with an image of a 40s-era couple) next to a boat landing in Varina.

So mid-afternoon, my date and I pulled in behind one of many mammoth trucks and SUVs parked in the lot with boat hitches attached. Judging by the sheer number of them, the river had to be chockablock with boats and jet skis.

Walking into the Lilly Pad, I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in ages, despite knowing him for  20+ years. Saying that he was the last person I expected to see this far out, I looked to his side to see another face from the past, this one from a decade ago.

Grinning at me after hugging and saying hello, he asked, "Am I the second to last person you expected to see out here?"

After introducing my date, we chatted with them for a while. It was their first time at the Pad and they'd liked it, they'd really liked it. Grinning like fools, they were now headed back to the city to see what they could get in to.

We intended to do the same, only on premises.

That required scoring a bottle of wine in an orange beach bucket from the kite enthusiast I know behind the bar ("Don't believe a word they said!" he tells me as if I don't know this) and staking a claim on a patio table that had a generous umbrella.

I thought I was prepared, having brought a hat just in case (didn't need it), but a woman a few tables away had shown up with her own umbrella and a Chinese fan.

She also turned out to be a major Jim Croce fan, so "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" got her up and dancing (albeit alone) and later, "You Don't Miss Around with Jim" did the same. Strange, I never saw Jim Croce as particularly dancey music until today.

The live music featured Chris Grigg playing guitar and singing a hell of a range of song choices. I mean, how often does a set list range from Kenny Rogers' "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" to George Michael's "Father Figure" with a detour of "All Along the Watchtower?"

Only in Varina, folks.

People-watching at the Lilly Pad is always fabulous. Only here do you see people smoking as casually as if it's 1967. One guy lit up a cigar and blew the smoke directly at the people at the next table. Several people lit one cigarette from their last one.

Next to us, two women discussed back when they got their long hair cut into shags and the trauma that caused them. When one said, "Who wears a shag anyway?" I just smiled at her with my shag haircut.

It's the kind of joint where I'm standing in line for the ladies' room and the guy going into the men's room feels my pain, pointing inside it and saying, "Sorry, it's a one-holer."

Over on the side of the patio sits a bar, but not a service bar, just a beat-up old bar where customers can sit and have a place to put their bucket of Buds or rum and Coke. It's Lilly Pad fancy, though, with a bar-shaped canopy over it.

95% of the men on the patio have on black t-shirts of one kind or another. One says, "I love pig butts" and I'm okay with that. Another has a Confederate flag on it, the words, "We the people" and then a passage from the second amendment and I wasn't okay with that.

Over by the wall, a large table is intently listening to their drunk friend blather over the music. "You might make a left turn on Williamsburg Road, but I'll make you turn around!" he crows.

All afternoon, boats of every stripe come and go from the dock, some tying up to come into the Pad and others just heading out on the river. It was the ideal moving visual to complement the sparkling water and soft breeze.

About 6:30, the yellow A & B snack boat pulls in after another successful day hawking chips and candy to boaters.

Guitarist Grigg didn't disappoint when ending his set, first doing Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" and then, of all the unlikely choices, "I Will Survive."

I'm telling you, this guy's set pendulum swung wide.

By the time we headed out, the sun was low in the sky and the air was feeling crisp, at least to those of us who prefer summer in our veins. My white shorts felt a tad inadequate come dusk.

Luckily, we didn't have far to go for dinner. Tonight was pizza club at Nota Bene and since we couldn't very well get back to my place without passing the restaurant, it only made sense to stop. That and a favorite wine rep had designed this month's pizza club pie and cocktail.

We'd just claimed stools at the end of the bar when she came over to greet us. The Facebook oracle had told me she'd recently sprained her ankle the last day of her beach vacation, but she was without crutches tonight and hobbling around.

It didn't take long to find out that it was after she'd been experimenting with tonight's pizza club cocktail - gin, Aperol, radler, bitters, lime cordial and basil - that she'd tripped on the steps of the beach house and sprained her ankle.

That's some real dedication to pizza club research right there.

On the owner's recommendation, we began with a salad of roasted local beets, goat cheese, mint, olive oil and lemon so good it had my date recanting his distaste for beets. Holmes had done the same about cauliflower in the same restaurant.

Just as wonderful was a riff on panzanella: a bowl of heirloom cherry and grape tomatoes with basil, pickled red onion, bread and a creamy ball of burrata to take it over the top. Eating all the heirlooms I can right now, I'm all about savoring every last taste of summer before it's gone.

But the main event, the reason for the evening and the creation of the hobbled wine rep was a pizza layered with housemade sausage, rosemary, hot peppers, honey and - be still, my heart - Tallegio.

For the second time in my life, it was left to me to introduce a man of Italian decent to this semi-soft cheese from his motherland. If I were the judgmental type, I'd say some mothers were asleep at the wheel to raise sons with no knowledge of Tallegio.

Everything about the pizza combination worked, from the earthy sausage to the fruity cheese to the heat of the peppers and sweet notes of honey, all on that stellar crust from a wood-burning oven.

And this is why you go to pizza club: it's a tonight-or-never proposition.

The same could be said for white short season. Shags, though, they're timeless.

On The Highway to Happiness

Correcting one cultural lapse only reveals additional ones.

I went to the Byrd Theatre for "Sullivan's Travels," a 1941 film, because it's #61 on the American Film Institute's top 100 films of all time, has a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes and because I'd never seen a Veronica Lake film.

Apparently that's all it takes to lure me out on a thunder-storming Wednesday evening.

What I didn't know was that it was about a director who wants to abandon directing comedies and make a serious film (a la Frank Capra) about the Depression and call it "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" Incidentally, that's another film I've never seen.

I can't help but wonder if Coen brothers fans know this tidbit.

Before the movie, though, I situated myself at the bar at Nota Bene for Stobi Rose (Macedonian), the only cauliflower I know of that makes fans out of haters (mostly men) and wood oven pizza (margarita) while rain poured down on Main Street and vintage soul - including rarities like "Up the Ladder to the Roof" - played.

Conversation centered around "A Quiet Passion," the movie about Emily Dickinson I'd recently seen because I finally had access to someone else who'd seen it and needed to discuss it as much as I did.

And speaking of Dickinson, hers was one of the quotes - "My friends are my estate" - on the menu at Eleven Months, the new pop-up in Carytown which plans to revamp concepts once a year.

To keep track of that limited time, there's a digital clock on the wall counting how long they've been open (28 days, 9 hours and change while I was there), but the bartender explained that once they got to 5 1/2 months, the clock would begin counting down to closing day.

Got that?

Presently, the theme is "best friends forever" and the menu is full of quotes about friendship, but as soon as that begins to feel tired, the plan is to replace it with another theme.

The catch is that no iteration can last longer than 11 months, which I have to assume is the average attention span of their intended diners. Don't worry, kids, that's plenty of time to post video to Snapchat before moving on to the next new thing.

Not me. My eccentricities are my estate.

It Shoulda Been You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Visiting My Books

It's a long way from Prince George's County to the Devil's Workshop.

Not every evening's companion could hold an extended conversation about Greenbelt, Maryland, a New Deal-era co-op community but also the first place I lived outside of my parents' home, not to mention my first exposure to a co-op grocery store.

We began our conversation marathon on this breezy Spring evening at Nota Bene, not just because I'm such a fan, but because visitors love a chef's recommendation and this was one he'd been given. Date Night ("Bring your friends!") was in full swing, but a happy-looking couple were kind enough to give us the international "we'll-slide-over-so-you-can-have two-barstools-together" signal and we were seasoned enough to read it.

Sitting down, the man leaned in and told me, "Three words: fig and pig. It'll change your life." Gently explaining that my world had been rocked, I don't know, six or seven years ago when I'd first had Pizza Tonight's fig and pig pizza, he looked incredulous. "It's our first time!"

Better late than never, sir.

My friend's suggestion to start with pasta and pizza was overruled (I was looking for a tad more balance) and he graciously relented, thus averting a carb nap for dessert. Straight outta the wood-burning oven, braised fennel got points for its charred bits while a special of seafood ragu - octopus, crab, scallops and rigatoni in a tomato and clam sauce - presented itself as rustic but tasted anything but peasant-like.

It was over dinner that the subject of our University of Maryland roots and my art history major came up. "Did you ever take a class from Rearick?" he asked, triggering a flood of classroom vignettes I hadn't even realized my brain still stored.

Professor Rearick lives on in my memory bank for many reasons, not the least of which was his complete passion for all things Italian. He had a habit of walking around the classroom as he lectured - not taught, a distinction we both recalled with clarity - one hand making a near-constant rhythmic movement as he moved about.

But it was mainly his voice that mattered. Stentorious with measured cadences, it would rise and fall for emphasis as he shared his wealth of knowledge with kids like me, in love with art history and eager to absorb this learned man's years of study.

No memory is clearer than the one where a hapless student casually referred to Leonardo as "da Vinci." Rearick looked at the kid like he was an imbecile and asked where he was born. After he squeaked out an answer, Rearick quizzed the kid about whether people called him "of Silver Spring?" Duh. The professor drew himself up and said that the great artist's name was Leonardo and he was to be referred to as Leonardo or Leonardo di ser Piero but never, not ever, as "da Vinci."

That story has lived on in my brain for decades, but until my dining companion brought up the professor's name, it had been stored so deeply in the recesses that I couldn't have pulled it up for anything. And that, dear reader, is the unabashed pleasure of spending time with a person who shares youthful people and places with you, even though we didn't know each other at the time.

Since there was still Gavi in my glass, we closed out the meal with a new dessert -  Sullivan's Pond Farm goat cheese custard with fruity Sicilian olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt - that ate like the equivalent of a cheese plate in a petite mason jar.

But there was more dazzlement to be had. We headed up the hill to the Gypsy Room for music, gingerly stepping around two passed out people being carried out of the Bonobo concert at the National and laid out on the sidewalk. It wasn't pretty.

Downstairs, my music aficionado of friend was immediately seduced by the low light ambiance of the subterranean venue as the Devil's Workshop Big Band set up to play and we sprawled out on one of the couches. I was especially impressed with the trombone player whose music stand was fitted out with a small shelf for his PBR.  That's a musician who'll go far.

The collective took a few minutes for their sound to fully gel, but the result was a satisfying evening of popular music arranged - often by the bass player - for 14 players (drums, bass, guitar, keys and horns), making for some bass-heavy funky grooves.

They played through Kool and the Gang's "Sea of Tranquility," with a segue into D'Angelo's reworking of the song for one of his own, along with Stevie Wonder's "You've Got It Bad, Girl," The Spinners' "People Make the World Go Round" and something called "Houston Express" that wasn't readily found in my friend's mental musical card catalog.

Closing out with an original song, "Mushroom Tattoos" (only in Richmond, right?), that gave everyone a chance to solo and chant the refrain of "mushroom tattoos for everyone," the band put a feather in the cap of our evening.

The best I could do to follow that up was putting some Isley Brothers and Dramatics on the turntable and letting it wash over us with the windows wide open to the night air.

You can always count on a Prince George's County boy knowing his R & B.

To Happiness, Poetry and Success

Today we were celebrating what a long, strange and wonderful trip it's been with my Dad at the helm of the family armada.

Unfortunately for me, this involved getting up at an ungodly 8:30 to do so. On the plus side, The XX's "Co-exist" and the National's "Boxer" provided stellar soundtracks for the gray drive on mostly empty roads.

Google maps provided an unexpected new route to the Inn at Montross on the Northern Neck for a celebratory brunch for my Dad's 85th birthday, a free-wheeling meal that involved four of my five sisters, practically non-stop laughter, my first introduction to a nephew's new girlfriend (her master's is in cyber-security), a spirited point/counterpoint about Lady Gaga and endless waffles, although no consensus was reached on what is taboo in waffles (I say we start with Reese's Pieces and move on to chocolate chips...blech, in waffles?).

A family feud broke out when the subject of coconut was broached - turns out Mounds lovers were seated right next to those who liken coconut to cat hair in your throat - and I was shocked to learn that not everyone is the fan of Girl Scout Samoa cookies that I am.

And yet, we spring from the same loins.

A vote was called to determine which faction had the majority and although coconut lovers won the popular vote, someone pointed out that everyone with their hand up was, shall we say, middle-aged or older? Only one millennial professed a passion for coconut, making him the outlier among his people.

My Dad made his usual sunny remarks on the occasion, saying, "Who would have thought I'd be lucky enough to have all this," his hand gesturing at the long table, "And live so long, too?" Corny, but sincere and no doubt partially fueled by a couple of cranberry champagne cocktails.

A family member is leaving this week for the Everglades to fish for peacock bass, a colorful, showy species (because, of course, someone has to pull up a photo) with no eating value whatsoever. A debate on sport fishing ensues, although I take no part.

After the last crumb was polished off, we posed for endless pictures in various combinations, not because any of us are particularly photogenic, but because it's what we do when we get together. When one sister opted out, I reminded her that we'll never look younger than we do today. She is unmoved.

Along the way home, it was challenging trying to avert my eyes from the abundance of road kill: a hound (broke my heart), a deer, a couple of possums and perhaps unlikeliest of all, a chicken, feathers ruffling as cars drove by.

I was home just long enough to answer emails before getting in a little bit of walking by heading over to the Bijou for the fourth and final film in their Facing Fascism film festival, Louis Malle's "Lacombe, Lucien" from 1974.

Like 1969's "Z" which I'd just seen, one of the standard film credits back then was "Script girl," who in all likelihood was also coffee girl and whatever else menial job needed to be done girl.

We've come a long way, baby, and somehow it all seems to be on the chopping block again. How the hell did we allow this to happen? But I digress (again).

I'm happy to report that we barely got three minutes into the film before seeing the requisite biking scene that every French film must have. What was refreshing was that it was a handsome  young man pedaling, one who resembled an '80s teen movie hero: all thick, dark, curly hair, sullen attitude, pouty lips and sunglasses.

Louis Malle as John Hughes influence?

The film showed the seductive side of fascism for a simple young man living in the countryside toward the end of WW II in German-occupied France. Turned down for being too young when he volunteers for the Resistance, he winds up working for the Gestapo, a major problem once he falls in love with a Jewish girl.

Like the good arthouse film that it originally was, it's a story about how ordinary people carry on under frightful circumstances with an anti-hero the other characters (and the audience) can't quite condone but don't fully hate, either.

Despite an inscription on a photo to Lucien, "Best wishes for happiness, poetry and success," things didn't work out quite that well for him.

Sitting in the row behind me was a woman who moved to Richmond from NOVA with her husband and is totally loving life here, but had yet to find a vibrant film scene. Needless to say, she was thrilled to discover the Bijou.

Doing our post-film discussion in the lobby, fascism talk naturally turned to the latest national embarrassment, Trump's refugee ban - so much for Washington's declaration that "the bosom of America is open" - and how so many people are still trying to pretend like everything's okay.

When someone I consider well-informed recently told me, "I'm not worried. He hasn't done anything horrible yet," I am gobsmacked.

"It's ostrich syndrome," one of the film-goers commented about such attitudes. It's completely unsettling that anyone can accept what's happened over the past nine days without deep concern. No one wants to quote a bumper sticker, but, if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.

I took my outrage and appetite to Nota Bene for Pizza Club, the first in a series that pays tribute to the restaurant's beginnings as a friend-based pizza club. Walking in behind a couple with a toddler, I wasn't the least bit upset to hear the hostess tell them that they were full up with reservations even though I didn't have one.

Having already spotted an open bar stool, I was making my way toward it when a friend near the end of the bar motioned me over to join her. A few stools down, another familiar face was insisting that we all needed some Fernet Branca - they to close out their night and us to begin ours.

It wouldn't have been my first choice to start with, but that didn't seem to matter. Meanwhile, familiar faces abounded: at least three chefs, wine and beer reps, several servers from various restaurants, a couple of favorite beer geeks who wanted to talk theater.

Before long even our new mayor arrived, took up  a stool and ordered a martini.

"The first rule of Pizza Club is wear stretchy pants," someone announced just behind me as I ordered the evening's signature pizza created by the chef at Secco and guaranteed to win my heart because it was a white pizza: Sbronzo di Bufala (bufala soaked in Aglianico) and Cinerino (Pecorino aged under myrtle ash) with sliced garlic, Castelvetrano olives and crispy Prosciutto over a cream base.

The second rule of Pizza Club should be always get the signature pizza. I can have a fabulous Fig and Pig any day, but the beauty of those two cheeses combined was sublime. Secco for the cheese score.

Having polished off all but one slice, I took her up on it when my friend offered to share her exquisitely fresh-tasting fennel salad with parsley and Pecorino, but I still managed to knock off that last piece of pie, too.

I'm here to tell you, dealing with family is not only exhausting but appetite-inducing.

Several of us at the bar got embroiled in a rant about people taking their news from questionable sources and I was reminded of a scene from "Lacombe, Lucien" that felt like a timely reminder about the role of the media under Fascism.

When a character repeats what he's heard on French radio about the war's progress, Lucien reminds him, "Now you have to go listen to Radio London and split the difference."

Pulling the Gen X card, my friend went so far as to instruct a millennial at the bar, "Pay for reliable, researched news. Even if you have to get the New York Times or Atlantic Monthly for $1 a week, do it so you can have access to researched information."

Don't look at me, I was sitting next to her sipping Fernet and trying to process the affronts to democracy being foisted on us as detailed in my Washington Post.

Because we share similar self-identifiers - I'm heathen Catholic while she self-labels as atheist Catholic - she makes an unlikely book recommendation (sci-fi, but with Jesuits in space) before we got embroiled in discussing the character-building nature of required family dinner conversation, the demise of problem solving skills and the failure to teach critical thinking.

The third rule of pizza club could be that since some Sundays are going to involve family, those nights should be devoted to no more than fine film, good pie, strong drink and as much political conversation as you can grab.

Splitting the difference is going to be the difficult part. Finding happiness and poetry will be the success.

Brunettes are Troublemakers

Today was definitely a day for spending with like-minded souls.

On this gray, soggy day, I woke up to a message from my best friend in Texas.

Feeling nauseous especially just seeing Hilary and Bill sit, ready to listen to Trump's shit. Are you going to watch?
Not for all the $ in the world.
It was just like his campaign spewage. Totally disrespected former presidents in attendance. He spoke to the populace instead of trying to mend all those that have been offended. Very divisive.

Okay, I lied because I would have sat through it for all the money in the world, but no one was offering me that, so I went for a drizzly walk and drove to Williamsburg to spend the afternoon with an El Salvadoran immigrant who feels privileged to be living the American Dream.

As we sat in one of his restaurants, I interviewed him about his journey and the thrill of becoming a legal resident 15 years ago while behind me, a TV was tuned to a Spanish-speaking station covering the protests in D.C today.

It was interesting to listen to as we talked because Spanish would be flowing smoothly, only to be interrupted when the newscaster had to say "Trump," a word which cannot be made to sound fluid and effectively halts the progression of a sentence with its staccato single syllable.

A close second was the word "Twitter," which also didn't exactly roll off the lips.

Talking to a man who lived through El Salvador's civil wars which caused his family to be completely uprooted and displaced - homes and businesses taken by the rebels three times - only to land in Virginia, fail at his first restaurant yet go on to open eight more, making him feel like the luckiest man in the world, I couldn't help but contrast that with the sounds behind me as people protested the inauguration of a man who wants to shut the door on immigration in a country built on the backs of immigrants.

Oh, the irony. Fortunately, relief was in sight.

Planned for those of us having a tough time with today's coronation of a misogynist racist pig, the Bijou's fascist film festival offered Charlie Chaplin's classic take on right wing authoritarianism, the satirical "The Great Dictator."

As if by divine intervention, while mingling in the lobby, a guy introduced himself and his posse of three as Atlantans en route to the Women's March, one the college roommate of a Bijou co-founder. I liked them all immediately so we took over the front row of the theater.

The film's title card alone was worth the price of admission for how relevant it felt on this day.

This is a story of a period between two World Wars - an interim in which insanity cut loose, liberty took a nose dive and humanity was kicked around somewhat.

That's Exhibit "A" and further proof of the Bijou's absolute brilliance in choosing this particular film to play on this difficult day, not to mention their prescience in knowing that we'd also need a reason to laugh, which Chaplin delivered in spades.

Although I'd seen several of his silent films, this was the first of his talkies (and his first talkie) I'd seen, so I was pleasantly surprised at what a fine speaking voice he had. And while I wasn't surprised at all the physical humor, the Bijou audience reacted with belly laughs throughout.

At least right up until the end when Chaplin gives his "You, the people" speech, the one about why peace and goodwill, brotherhood and kindness needed to win out over prejudice, discrimination and dictatorships. The human truth.

It was positively stirring and just exactly what scared and disillusioned people needed to hear today.

Mingling again in the lobby afterwards, everyone talking was blown away, not only by how good the film had been but by how ideally suited it was to this time we're now living in. If only Trump's doppelganger could appear and spout such things instead of polarizing rhetoric.

When one of the guys I'd met asked James, his former roommate, for a good place for pizza and pasta, he referred the question to me. I told him Nota Bene for the win and he plugged it into his phone.

Next thing I know, they're asking me to join them for dinner and James jokes, "I can vouch for all of them except him," pointing to his college buddy. So now I've got a personal recommendation and post-film plans. Not bad for just showing up.

They'd already scored a table in the back when I arrived to join them and with bottles of Italian Rose and Temperanillo, we soon began a round robin style conversation, going around the table every time a point was raised or question asked so everyone could hear each person's answer.

They joked that I was just the latest stranger they'd picked up en route to D.C., the charming Scotch artist across from me having been acquired yesterday in Chapel Hill where they'd spent the night with the ringleader's mother, an award-winning author.

We went around the table about whether or not Trump would make it four years (and if not, why not?), our favorite scenes in "The Great Dictator" and, naturally everyone's first concert: Buffet (she claimed she didn't choose it), Elvis (in '74, so fat Elvis), Kraftwerk (he's seen them four times since) and Depeche Mode in '87 (swoon).

They were all in love with the restaurant, captivated by the food - arugula and chickpea salad, two orders of broccolini with lemon, garlic and fresno peppers, three different kinds of pizza and white pork Bolognese to die for.

"We'd never have found this place without you and it's amazing," one guy told me. The flip side was that without them, I wouldn't have had anyone to discuss the movie with in depth, much less commiserate with about the reign of horror that began today.

They were my company on a day when my misery was looking for some, discussing what could possibly improve with Trump and whether non-voters might feel differently come 2020. Everyone weighed in.

They became my surrogates tomorrow, making me an honorary member of their march entourage, in spirit anyway.

And because they were good people, when they learned I'd parked three blocks away, they insisted - a gay couple and a straight couple, none of whom had ever laid eyes on me before 6:00 tonight - on walking me to my car, or at least most of the way.

As they clustered on the corner of 23rd Street as I walked down the hill to my car, the ringleader called out, "The Brit doesn't care about your safety. He's heading back!" Assuring them they could all go back, he joked, "Call us when you get home!"

Hilarious because they already knew me well enough to burst out laughing when I yelled back, "I'll call you on my cell phone!" See, Luddites can be amusing.

I got home to one last bit of business, a message from a friend with a kind offer.

I'm carrying names on the #womansmarch tomorrow. Let me know if you want yours to be included.

Yes, please, add mine, preferably with an addendum: I can't believe we still have to protest this shit. Now my spirit and name will be there.

It appears that we've turned the page and are now living in an era where insanity has been cut loose, liberty is on a nose dive and humanity has been completely kicked around, yet good people are all around me.

We're in this together. As Chaplin's character said, "We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery."

And on a difficult day, friends, immigrants and good company were the way to stay sane.

A Bright, Willful, Curious Woman

Mining the record collection of my youth continues to be absolutely fascinating.

Apparently a young woman couldn't have too much Joan Armatrading, or maybe that was just me, while "Wings Over America" doesn't hold up nearly as well as I'd have expected. Luther Vandross on the other hand, well, Luther is timeless.

But the real gem was a Bill Conti soundtrack album to Paul Mazursky's 1978 film "An Unmarried Woman," all the more dated for the notation on the album that says, "Also available on 20th Century Fox Stereo Tapes."

Wow, I don't even know if that means 8 track or cassette given the era.

Coming across it in my stacks was a kick, not just because the movie had been such a big deal for me (and scores of other young women at the time), but because inside the record sleeve was a calendar page dated "Tuesday May 23, 1978."

Why I stuck that in there, I have no clue, other than that date - my birthday - was two months after the release of the film so perhaps I thought there was some cosmic connection.

This was, after all, not only my introduction to the hunky Englishman Alan Bates (and hearing him describe our heroine as "a bright, willful, curious woman" surely one of the finest compliments my young ears had ever heard directed at my sex) but a film that laid out in no uncertain terms that life without a partner was not only okay, but preferable in some ways.

Attention, kids: hard as it is to believe, this was a revolutionary notion at the time.

Although my then-boyfriend Curt liked to mock me about the movie's message by parroting Lily Tomlin's feminist catch phrase, "Right on, Sister Boogie Woman," the movie did have a huge impact on how I thought of relationships and what was expected of me in one.

All of a sudden, I was remembering how empowered "An Unmarried Woman" made me feel. None of which I expected when it came up next on the turntable rotation.

But I only got around to pulling out records to listen to after a soggy walk and a busy day researching and writing. At that point, my evening plans were nebulous at best until, voila!, I was offered a lifeline.

Do you have plans for dinner this evening? I can't stay out late but would enjoy company if you are available.

Sure, there was comedy happening and, yes, I'd found some live music, but neither comes close to a human who wants to share food and conversation, so I wasted little time in accepting the invitation despite the rain.

After all, I don't melt, despite the presumption in an email I came home to find from a weather wimp friend saying, "I assume you are out doing your thing. Pretty adventurous of you in this miserable weather." Is it?

We were far from the only adventurous souls who landed at Nota Bene where it was unexpectedly Date Night, so we played along, taking seats at the bar because the few open tables in the lively room were reserved and soon filled.

Almost immediately I heard my name called by a beer rep enjoying date night with her Dad while her husband is off in France drinking wine and missing her. As she pointed out, where better to be this wet night than in the cozy, wine and fire-warmed confines of Nota Bene?

Already, several items on the specials board had an "X" next to them, meaning they weren't meant to be for us, so we turned our attention to the plethora of menus for consideration.

Before long, we were joined at the bar by a trio of women who sat down, ordered and basically never shut up until they left. My friend was seated next to them, making it easier for him to overhear them than it was for me, but, as we learned later, one had been eavesdropping on us the entire time, concluding that we were, in fact, on a date.

Isn't everyone on a date when it's date night?

Our personable server delivered a bottle of Loire Valley Chardonnay along with a salad of mixed greens and herbs as we dove into dinner and recaps of our inner and outer lives since last we'd met.

Of paramount importance was establishing how much guilt was involved with tonight's rendezvous.

Only once our two pizzas - a classic Margherita and Pizza Tonight's standard-bearer, the fig and pig - showed up did we approach tonight's headlining topic of discourse, which had been pre-determined last Friday during a rescheduling of plans.

What, everyone doesn't designate a conversational topic days in advance?

Luckily, neither of us is so straight-laced we couldn't digress. I voted for the personality of Route 460 over the soul sucking of I-64 for his trip eastward tomorrow. He looked to me for restaurant recommendations down that way.

We compared thoughts on the new T-Pot bridge and I shared my personal back story on T Pot himself. When he described a cheesy '80s cover band he'd recently seen in the West end, I tried to suss out if it was the one I know and have seen in the east and west ends.

Curious about the ink arising from our server's shirt, I inquired and she graciously displayed the tattoo of a bat hanging upside down between her breasts before discussing the merits of almond brittle on chestnut honey panna cotta over the alternative, almond cake.

She may be no fan of nut brittle, but I am, so we chose brittle-covered pudding - the honey notes on the finish came across like a sunny, summer day on the palate - for our final course.

Well, not our final final course because that was Virginia whiskey and Mexican tequila - small cubes, both - as we lingered long enough to be the final guests in a restaurant so warm I was able to remove my sweater, a rarity for me.

Sort of like a rare last-minute Tuesday non-date. Right on, Sister Boogie Woman.

Buttermilk and Biscotti

You never know what you'll learn in the shade.

Rounding the corner on to Meyer from Leigh Street, I know I can rely on a shady stretch to cool down briefly, but not necessarily one offering local history and cultural commentary.

It was my response - "Hot" - when a man taking a break from weed-eating asked how I was that set us off.

"This ain't hot," he responds. "I don't even use air conditioning in my truck." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to. I don't use it in my car or apartment, I informed him. Haven't since '93.

Checkmate.

Instead of looking gobsmacked, we jumped right into the decline of Western civilization due to over-use of air conditioning, lackadaisical parenting and general laziness.

We were soul mates, I tell you.

Like me, he was a come-here (albeit in 1963), who'd married here (1971) so, unlike me, had all kinds of memories of the city in the '70s. Cary near Harrison Streets was a hotbed of eating pleasures, he assured me, mentioning Johnson's Burger Bar, a barbecue joint and a diner where he could get all-you-can-eat string beans, mashed potatoes and chopped hamburger steak.

For sixty cents.

Discussing summer weather and the need for hydration, he slid into the conversation that he only drank two things: water and buttermilk. I happen to know that my Richmond grandmother drank only water, buttermilk and (unsweetened) iced tea, so apparently there was a time when this was a thing.

"Buttermilk's good for you," he said in that same tone my grandmother used to. Look, if you have to convince yourself, maybe it's time to reconsider what you're drinking.

Although I bet it makes a helluva fine milk mustache.

But he also said with some pride that he'd never been in a club - "You don't mix people with guns and drinking" - and if you don't do that and only drink water and buttermilk, where exactly are you getting your pleasure?

No, seriously, I'm asking.

We talked for a good 15 minutes before I resumed walking so he could get back to work. He did not approve of the men he's seen sitting near Lowe's, as he put it, "drinking right out in public instead of working."

I bet my grandmother would have felt the same way. Shiftless, I can just hear her saying it now.

Curious about these restaurants and that area, I had no choice but to consult my native Richmond authorities when we met up for dinner.

Holmes immediately flashed back to first hearing about the ultra-fab JB cheeseburger at Johnson's from a friend's letter while he and his family were vacationing in London. Not to question his recall or anything, but who remembers their first mention of a new burger joint?

Anyone?

Our drive to Nota Bene took us right by the long-gone eateries. conjuring up for the natives other restaurant and club ghosts of their youth where now looms VCU's Life Sciences building.

The restaurant was nearly full except for the bar, which was empty, and while the diners were making a racket, the music at the bar - Holmes dismissed it as "whiny white boy music" and said the bands sounded like Dylan-wannabes, but it was right up my "music from a cave" alley - soared right along side it, providing us a musical soundtrack undoubtedly absent where the table-dwellers sat.

An unusually large party of wine people had already depleted the specials board, but we nabbed the last of the crusty potato and leek focaccia alongside ricotta and blistered grape tomatoes, a dish almost as memorable visually as on the tongue.

Unable to resist the siren song of the roasted cauliflower or the sugar toads, the historians duplicated our order last visit, but then, some things are just too good to pass up, even if I did have to remind Holmes the easiest way to eat toads.

The peppery assertiveness of the arugula in my salad was ably met with chickpeas, pickled onion and oil-packed tuna all dressed in lemon and olive oil, a simple and satisfying summer supper for someone like me.

And someone like me, according to Holmes anyway, is someone who all but requires chocolate at the end of a meal - not true, but who can stop the slander? - a fact he shared with the owner, who recommended the latest addition to the dessert menu.

What's not to like about housemade chocolate almond biscotti drizzled with vermouth ("Because of who we are," she admitted with a shrug) served with a little Mason jar of sweetened ricotta made obscene with orange and lemon zest, almonds and bits of chocolate?

Not terribly sweet, with contrasting textures and supremely complementary flavors, the dessert opened with the kick of vermouth and finished with a breath of orange while laying on the charm of the cheese and chocolate.

I need not require something to take great pleasure in it. I'm beginning to think it's better if I don't.

A Voice of Reason

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I might if I had that kind of booty.