So it seemed like a good evening to go low-key.
Gone all day, all I wanted was an easy meal and an early night.
Enter Olio, where a Springtime salad of mixed greens, roasted red peppers, walnuts, dried cranberries, red onion, Parmesan cheese and apple slices in balsamic vinaigrette was delivered to my outside table by a server who acknowledged, "That looks so good I'm gonna have to have one of those myself today."
Go for it, man.
Eating at one of the little tables in front of Olio provided some stellar street theater to distract us from the cars tearing up Main Street at way more than the posted 25 miles per hour.
I love seeing old guys on bikes with radios attached to their handlebars.
With Olio's door propped wide open, I noticed that everyone who went in came out looking much happier, no doubt a tribute to the tasty and economical meal they'd just had.
Properly fortified, it was time to return the car to Jackson Ward and wander over to Gallery 5 for some music.
Not sure how long I'd want to stay, I knew I needed to get there in time for the first band, the Colloquial Orchestra, a group I first saw in February 2010 at the Listening Room.
Little did I know at that time what this project was about.
That night it had been a three-piece and over the past three years, I've seen it as grow to as many as eleven.
And it's different every single time.
The constant is the remarkable Dave Watkins and tonight he had assembled nine others to join him in epic music-making.
Let's see, there were four drummers, two bassists (and one of them, P.J., also playing things like a bell and megaphone), two guitarists, two saxophones, a harmonium player and, ta-da, Dave on electric dulcitar and drums.
Dave begins playing, others join in and before long, it's a dense layering of musical sounds creating a soundscape so magical, so complex, that it's hard to believe it's improvised.
Except it is.
Tonight was unique for me because of the addition of the two saxes, adding a whole new dimension to the music, not to mention having Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino back in town to add their wailing, whistling and chanting to the mix.
There were a lot of new faces in the audience at tonight's show, so I just sat back listening to the Colloquial Orchestra and watching first-timers' minds being blown.
Which, I happen to know, is exactly what Dave sets out to do every time he puts an eclectic bunch together.
By the time their set (one long piece) finished, the room felt like it was 95 degrees in there and I wasn't even doing anything.
Luckily for the musicians who were doing a lot, the air conditioning seemed to kick in during the break.
Next up was Gainesville's Peace Arrow, a guy named Mitch, who had video projections going behind him.
Good start.
Saying, "The Colloquial Orchestra was amazing and there's no way I can follow nine musicians, but I'll try," he did just that.
He began by bowing a banjo and worked his way through songs comprised of pre-recorded music, over which he played banjo, guitar, melodica and sang.
His lyrics were revelatory with bits of melody underneath and an emotional delivery that made it seem a bit like we were in his bedroom listening to his innermost thoughts.
Saying he was thrilled to be part of the tour and grateful to Gallery 5 for having him perform, he said he had CDs for free and t-shirts he'd made himself available for donation.
In other words, he was the best kind of DIY artist, sincere, hard-working and appreciative of every opportunity he was given.
I always enjoy hearing musicians when they're still early on enough to savor the experience of being out on tour and not going through the motions of touring because as a necessary evil.
It was a fine ending for an abbreviated night and walking out outside afterwards, the rush of still-75-degree weather felt like an unexpected Spring gift.
And the perfect reason to go sit on my porch and enjoy it.
Showing posts with label olio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label olio. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Tales From Another Era
Everybody should be able to love and marry whomever they choose, right?
Well, yes, except if you were of different races and unfortunately living in Virginia in the 1950s.
The one film I'd missed seeing at VCU's Southern Film Festival had been "The Loving Story" about the interracial couple who fought for the right to be married all the way to the Supreme Court, and tonight it was being shown at the Library of Virginia.
Sitting waiting for the film to begin, I couldn't help but notice an interracial couple in the row in front of me.
Behind me, two older men sat down and began discussing their familiarity with tonight's topic.
"If you think about it, Virginia's got 100 counties and six million people, so I knew there had to be some out there," one commented. "It's just my observation, but I think a lot of them aren't legally married, they're just couples. I went to the Folk Fest and I was shocked at the scores of them! Shocked at how many black and white couples I saw. Younger people wouldn't even probably notice."
And if this old coot was shocked at what he saw last Fall, it's inconceivable what an uphill battle the interracial Lovings must have fought to be able to live together during the Eisenhower years.
They'd married in D.C. and were happily living in Caroline County when a sheriff broke their door down at 4 a.m. to arrest them for having the audacity to live together in the commonwealth.
Because apparently interracial marriage was still illegal in 24 states so as to preserve the purity of the race.
The film was a documentary dork's dream because they had so much vintage footage, black and white and color, taken when all this was happening back in the '60s.
Husband Richard was pretty monosyllabic but wife Mildred was articulate and sweetly charming.
"When we first met, I didn't like him," she admits to the camera, her pretty, young face riveting to watch. "He was arrogant!"
But she also talks about how in Caroline County, blacks and whites all grew up together happily. "We didn't know nothing about this racism stuff," she naively admits.
And even her redneck husband waxed on poetically to the camera, saying, "If they tell me to leave again, I will because I am not going to divorce her."
They tried living in D.C., but hated city life and missed their small rural community, so eventually they sought help to make it possible for them to move back to Virginia.
They were advised, "Write to Bobby Kennedy. He'll help you. That's what he's there for," so Mildred sat down and wrote a lovely letter to the then-attorney general.
The world was a far simpler place back then.
He passed them on to the ACLU, where two fresh-faced young lawyers got the case of a lifetime and fought it all the way to the Supreme Court.
The film showed reaction to the case, with ignorant white people with southern accents saying things like, "I am white today because my parents practiced segregation!" and, "Some of my best friends are niggers."
During these scenes, people around me shook their heads in disbelief and mortification. Interestingly, I heard nothing from the two gents behind me.
There was plenty of footage of the young lawyers talking about the case as well as recent interviews of them as elder statesmen recalling their incredible luck in getting the Loving case.
"We had to pinch ourselves because of what we were doing," one said about getting to argue the case to the Supreme Court.
We even saw footage from in front of the federal courthouse in Richmond circa 1967.
The Lovings didn't come to court ("Just tell the court I love my wife," Richard instructed the lawyers) because Richard couldn't be bothered and Mildred wouldn't go without him.
Not that it mattered.
The Supreme Court handed down a unanimous decision and bans on interracial marriage had to be repealed.
But not as quickly as I would have thought.
Unbelievably, Alabama just repealed theirs in 2000.
2000! Hard to comprehend.
The saddest part of the story was how eight years after the decision, the couple's car was hit by a drunk driver and Richard was killed.
Such a tragic ending for two people who had spent so long just trying to legally live together.
I was just glad that I'd finally seen this amazing documentary.
My fellow filmmaker and I had a brief window to eat before moving on to the music portion of the evening and Olio got the nod for their superior sandwiches.
Fancy fast food, so to speak.
My Italian Picnic layered turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, my beloved Tallegio, fig jam and garlic aioli on a crusty baguette and I scarfed it down like I hadn't just had Roy's Big Burger for lunch..
Now that's what the 4th Earl of Sandwich was talking about.
The last stop of the evening was Balliceaux for a Steady Sounds listening party.
Walking in, I saw Marty, one of the owners of my local record shop and the sponsor of tonight's program and PJ the band photographer.
Seeing me, PJ raised his hand to hi-five me. "Yes!" he squealed. "I beat Karen!"
Satisfaction comes where you take it, my friend.
Marty came over and asked, "Want a free raffle ticket for a chance to win a free record?"
Why, yes, I did.
"The Trash Company: Earle Hotel Tapes 1979-1993" was the featured record and it was going to be played on what looked like a '70s record player from somebody's school AV club.
Being played was a brand-new reissue of fourteen years of music made by local musician Max Monroe.
And, no, not a one of us had heard of him before this.
He'd been part of a Jackson Ward funk band called the Trash Company back in the '70s and then left over artistic differences.
What was cool was that he'd spent the next fourteen years recording music in his bedroom at the seedy Earle Hotel and those demos were what we'd come to listen to tonight.
Part funk, part psychedelic, part lo-fi soul, it didn't sound like anything else I could think of.
It wasn't derivative, it was a pastiche obviously made by a talented man with a soulful voice and no musical outlet other than some cheap equipment.
The room began to fill up not long after the record was put on, with my only complaint being that many people were there to socialize rather than listen.
When side one ended, it took a minute for someone to realize and go flip the record over.
I don't have a record player, so I didn't buy a copy although I saw several people do so, a wise move since the initial pressing is already almost sold out.
Go Steady Sounds.
I can't fathom what it must feel like for this musician who continued to create music long after the world had forgotten him to suddenly find himself with a new album.
Probably almost as wonderful as being allowed to live legally with the person you love.
Sometimes you just have to pinch yourself to remember life is real.
Well, yes, except if you were of different races and unfortunately living in Virginia in the 1950s.
The one film I'd missed seeing at VCU's Southern Film Festival had been "The Loving Story" about the interracial couple who fought for the right to be married all the way to the Supreme Court, and tonight it was being shown at the Library of Virginia.
Sitting waiting for the film to begin, I couldn't help but notice an interracial couple in the row in front of me.
Behind me, two older men sat down and began discussing their familiarity with tonight's topic.
"If you think about it, Virginia's got 100 counties and six million people, so I knew there had to be some out there," one commented. "It's just my observation, but I think a lot of them aren't legally married, they're just couples. I went to the Folk Fest and I was shocked at the scores of them! Shocked at how many black and white couples I saw. Younger people wouldn't even probably notice."
And if this old coot was shocked at what he saw last Fall, it's inconceivable what an uphill battle the interracial Lovings must have fought to be able to live together during the Eisenhower years.
They'd married in D.C. and were happily living in Caroline County when a sheriff broke their door down at 4 a.m. to arrest them for having the audacity to live together in the commonwealth.
Because apparently interracial marriage was still illegal in 24 states so as to preserve the purity of the race.
The film was a documentary dork's dream because they had so much vintage footage, black and white and color, taken when all this was happening back in the '60s.
Husband Richard was pretty monosyllabic but wife Mildred was articulate and sweetly charming.
"When we first met, I didn't like him," she admits to the camera, her pretty, young face riveting to watch. "He was arrogant!"
But she also talks about how in Caroline County, blacks and whites all grew up together happily. "We didn't know nothing about this racism stuff," she naively admits.
And even her redneck husband waxed on poetically to the camera, saying, "If they tell me to leave again, I will because I am not going to divorce her."
They tried living in D.C., but hated city life and missed their small rural community, so eventually they sought help to make it possible for them to move back to Virginia.
They were advised, "Write to Bobby Kennedy. He'll help you. That's what he's there for," so Mildred sat down and wrote a lovely letter to the then-attorney general.
The world was a far simpler place back then.
He passed them on to the ACLU, where two fresh-faced young lawyers got the case of a lifetime and fought it all the way to the Supreme Court.
The film showed reaction to the case, with ignorant white people with southern accents saying things like, "I am white today because my parents practiced segregation!" and, "Some of my best friends are niggers."
During these scenes, people around me shook their heads in disbelief and mortification. Interestingly, I heard nothing from the two gents behind me.
There was plenty of footage of the young lawyers talking about the case as well as recent interviews of them as elder statesmen recalling their incredible luck in getting the Loving case.
"We had to pinch ourselves because of what we were doing," one said about getting to argue the case to the Supreme Court.
We even saw footage from in front of the federal courthouse in Richmond circa 1967.
The Lovings didn't come to court ("Just tell the court I love my wife," Richard instructed the lawyers) because Richard couldn't be bothered and Mildred wouldn't go without him.
Not that it mattered.
The Supreme Court handed down a unanimous decision and bans on interracial marriage had to be repealed.
But not as quickly as I would have thought.
Unbelievably, Alabama just repealed theirs in 2000.
2000! Hard to comprehend.
The saddest part of the story was how eight years after the decision, the couple's car was hit by a drunk driver and Richard was killed.
Such a tragic ending for two people who had spent so long just trying to legally live together.
I was just glad that I'd finally seen this amazing documentary.
My fellow filmmaker and I had a brief window to eat before moving on to the music portion of the evening and Olio got the nod for their superior sandwiches.
Fancy fast food, so to speak.
My Italian Picnic layered turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, my beloved Tallegio, fig jam and garlic aioli on a crusty baguette and I scarfed it down like I hadn't just had Roy's Big Burger for lunch..
Now that's what the 4th Earl of Sandwich was talking about.
The last stop of the evening was Balliceaux for a Steady Sounds listening party.
Walking in, I saw Marty, one of the owners of my local record shop and the sponsor of tonight's program and PJ the band photographer.
Seeing me, PJ raised his hand to hi-five me. "Yes!" he squealed. "I beat Karen!"
Satisfaction comes where you take it, my friend.
Marty came over and asked, "Want a free raffle ticket for a chance to win a free record?"
Why, yes, I did.
"The Trash Company: Earle Hotel Tapes 1979-1993" was the featured record and it was going to be played on what looked like a '70s record player from somebody's school AV club.
Being played was a brand-new reissue of fourteen years of music made by local musician Max Monroe.
And, no, not a one of us had heard of him before this.
He'd been part of a Jackson Ward funk band called the Trash Company back in the '70s and then left over artistic differences.
What was cool was that he'd spent the next fourteen years recording music in his bedroom at the seedy Earle Hotel and those demos were what we'd come to listen to tonight.
Part funk, part psychedelic, part lo-fi soul, it didn't sound like anything else I could think of.
It wasn't derivative, it was a pastiche obviously made by a talented man with a soulful voice and no musical outlet other than some cheap equipment.
The room began to fill up not long after the record was put on, with my only complaint being that many people were there to socialize rather than listen.
When side one ended, it took a minute for someone to realize and go flip the record over.
I don't have a record player, so I didn't buy a copy although I saw several people do so, a wise move since the initial pressing is already almost sold out.
Go Steady Sounds.
I can't fathom what it must feel like for this musician who continued to create music long after the world had forgotten him to suddenly find himself with a new album.
Probably almost as wonderful as being allowed to live legally with the person you love.
Sometimes you just have to pinch yourself to remember life is real.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Got a Fever of 103
The right music sets the tone for the meal.
So, after a lovely walk over to Olio in the early evening air, it was a distinct pleasure to walk in and hear some well-chosen '80s music blaring.
And by blaring, I mean playing at a volume that allowed talk but made you wish you could dance.
Looking at the specials board while listening to When in Rome, I was thrilled when it was followed by the Smiths, Psychedelic Furs and Talk Talk.
It's my life, don't you forget
It's my life, it never ends
Let's just say that soon I was inquiring of our server the source of the music.
Pandora set to New Order. Well, that explains everything except the 20-something who had clearly chosen this music for his evening's work.
It was hard to resist the evening's specials: an Italian lentil soup (executed perfectly according to the nearest Italian) and a sandwich of duck liver pate, roasted pork loin, fig jam and Dijon mustard on a crusty baguette.
My, my, the earthiness of that pate with the sweet figs was sublime.
Paired with a bottle of Planeta La Segreta red blend, this was a meal worthy of a balmy December evening.
Double chocolate cake with chocolate ganache finished everything off beautifully as Jesus and Mary Chain poured from the speakers.
Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
Well done, Olio.
From there it was an easy walk to Firehouse Theater for TheaterLab's "Life of Hannah," written by a local playwright, Michael Musatow, and rehearsed for a mere two and a half weeks.
Waiting for the play to begin, Foreigner was the music of choice and it led right into the play.
I'm hot-blooded, check it and see.
Or, better yet, don't and take my word for it.
The play about family coming to visit a young couple for Thanksgiving had the expected nervousness of the young wife while her husband placated her about his crazy family.
When he goes out for cranberries (the traditional jelled variety that comes from a can), she goes on cleaning, only to hit her head.
The bump causes her mind to imagine the husband's family arriving to hilarious results.
Funniest was Stephen Ryan as Grandpa, an old man planted in a chair whose primary activity was tapping one hand and spouting non sequiters.
If I hadn't already seen Ryan playing very different and younger roles, I'd have believed he really was as old as Grandpa.
But Grandpa wasn't the only funny one.
Daughter Clarice had changed her name to Hydrangea and adopted a hippie-dippie attitude toward life.
There was the New Jersey-accented Georgia, who espoused a theory of "Men and gambling, they're just the same."
It was your classic dysfunctional family, full of under-achievers, damaged souls and an overbearing mother.
The play was short, less than 45 minutes, but by the end, Hannah had seen enough dysfunction to resolve to change her own ways.
She even called her terrible mother to wish her a happy holiday.
And really, any woman who claims to clean to relax needs better relaxing options.
She was even going to have a drink with the turkey feast, something the very controlled Hannah didn't usually do.
Her husband was so proud.
That or he knew things would go much better if she was properly lubricated to deal with his crazy relatives once they really arrived and not just in Hannah's mind.
So glad that's Hannah's life and not mine.
And fortunately, it never ends.
So, after a lovely walk over to Olio in the early evening air, it was a distinct pleasure to walk in and hear some well-chosen '80s music blaring.
And by blaring, I mean playing at a volume that allowed talk but made you wish you could dance.
Looking at the specials board while listening to When in Rome, I was thrilled when it was followed by the Smiths, Psychedelic Furs and Talk Talk.
It's my life, don't you forget
It's my life, it never ends
Let's just say that soon I was inquiring of our server the source of the music.
Pandora set to New Order. Well, that explains everything except the 20-something who had clearly chosen this music for his evening's work.
It was hard to resist the evening's specials: an Italian lentil soup (executed perfectly according to the nearest Italian) and a sandwich of duck liver pate, roasted pork loin, fig jam and Dijon mustard on a crusty baguette.
My, my, the earthiness of that pate with the sweet figs was sublime.
Paired with a bottle of Planeta La Segreta red blend, this was a meal worthy of a balmy December evening.
Double chocolate cake with chocolate ganache finished everything off beautifully as Jesus and Mary Chain poured from the speakers.
Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
Well done, Olio.
From there it was an easy walk to Firehouse Theater for TheaterLab's "Life of Hannah," written by a local playwright, Michael Musatow, and rehearsed for a mere two and a half weeks.
Waiting for the play to begin, Foreigner was the music of choice and it led right into the play.
I'm hot-blooded, check it and see.
Or, better yet, don't and take my word for it.
The play about family coming to visit a young couple for Thanksgiving had the expected nervousness of the young wife while her husband placated her about his crazy family.
When he goes out for cranberries (the traditional jelled variety that comes from a can), she goes on cleaning, only to hit her head.
The bump causes her mind to imagine the husband's family arriving to hilarious results.
Funniest was Stephen Ryan as Grandpa, an old man planted in a chair whose primary activity was tapping one hand and spouting non sequiters.
If I hadn't already seen Ryan playing very different and younger roles, I'd have believed he really was as old as Grandpa.
But Grandpa wasn't the only funny one.
Daughter Clarice had changed her name to Hydrangea and adopted a hippie-dippie attitude toward life.
There was the New Jersey-accented Georgia, who espoused a theory of "Men and gambling, they're just the same."
It was your classic dysfunctional family, full of under-achievers, damaged souls and an overbearing mother.
The play was short, less than 45 minutes, but by the end, Hannah had seen enough dysfunction to resolve to change her own ways.
She even called her terrible mother to wish her a happy holiday.
And really, any woman who claims to clean to relax needs better relaxing options.
She was even going to have a drink with the turkey feast, something the very controlled Hannah didn't usually do.
Her husband was so proud.
That or he knew things would go much better if she was properly lubricated to deal with his crazy relatives once they really arrived and not just in Hannah's mind.
So glad that's Hannah's life and not mine.
And fortunately, it never ends.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Truth About Cover Bands
We found the perfect happy hour spot.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Honest. I Did Not Lick the Art.
I couldn't get excited about going to the county, even for festive Lebanese food.
So for my lunch plans with a favorite couple, I countered by suggesting Olio and two of us had the bright idea to do the Main Street art walk afterwards.
I arrived a bit ahead of time, early enough to play straight man to owner Jason as we chatted about the scarcity of available (straight) men, the cashier heartily seconding that.
A salad seemed like just the thing for two of us (he got the smoked salmon Nicoise and I got the Springtime), while the Bottomless Pit got the prosciutto di parma sandwich and then scarfed our leftover grilled bread.
We took Jason up on his suggestion of cookies for dessert as we headed down Main Street to see what we might find.
I have to admit, I'm a big fan of the galleries in my J-Ward neighborhood (and, honestly, I usually like the art better on my side of town) and tend to avoid the Main Street ones because of the kind of people I encounter in them.
But on a leisurely Saturday, those people are absent and the galleries are an interesting mix of out-of-town Picasso visitors and others like us, out for an afternoon art stroll.
Our first stop was the Page Bond Gallery to see Andrea Keys Connell and Lacey Jane Roberts' "VCU Arts Craft/Material Studies Fountainhead Fellows" show.
Connell did large scale ceramic works, most of which pertained to the myth of Hercules, some coming in or out of the wall, and some emerging from the floor.
From hard to soft, the centerpiece of Roberts' works was a large scale knitted piece hung on the wall and draped on the floor with words sewn on it.
It was called "Queer Houses of Brooklyn" and a variety of topical buttons lay on the floor in front of it. The price listing for the show indicated that the buttons were for giving away, so I helped myself to one that said "shooting star."
Next up was Artemis Gallery, a place new to all of us. The array of hand-crafted items was staggering and the delightful assortment of handmade and artistic pasties undoubtedly the best I've ever seen. And, just for the record, I'm not that I'm in the market for pasties.
I ran into an artist who recognized me (I couldn't pull up her name for anything) when she overheard my friend make a remark about another artist she knew.
Luckily, she didn't hear the negative comment he'd made about her friend first (one of his most charming habits being his ill-timed and frequently overheard commentary). Oops.
At Red Door, Justin Bishop's metal sculpture from the past ten years reminded me of Giacometti's work, attenuated and with rough metal surfaces.
I was particularly fascinated by the one with nails driven into the figure. Another of a horizontal figure over sharp points was visually stunning.
Leslie Wayne's show at the Visual Arts Center was difficult to get our heads around. Wayne uses sculptural techniques to craft paintings that are three-dimensional. It was challenging to read the vibrantly colored, textured surfaces as paint.
A sign in the gallery said "Please do not touch (or lick) the paintings."
Awkwardly, I saw this sign after my friend and I had yielded to the impulse to lightly touch a surface in hopes of figuring it out.
Part of the show included Wayne's "One Big Love" series, for which the artist created rules including one that the canvases couldn't be larger than 13" x 10".
She also made listening to music one of the conditions of painting the series, resulting in her playing Patty Griffin's song "One Big Love" repeatedly. Needless to say, an artist using music as an obsession feeds into all kinds of things that appeal to me.
Our final stop was Glave Kocen for Ed Trask's show of large scale works, small photographs and metal sculpture.
I was charmed by seeing one of Ed's trademark straw hats hanging on the wall in between paintings.
I was taken by how many of the pieces had a red "sold" sticker on them when the show just opened a week ago. It appears that the Main Street art-buying set had their checkbooks out at Ed's opening.
Hell, I'd happily buy a Trask if I could afford one. I know I could enjoy looking at his work on my walls every day; it embodies Richmond.
And while I could have afforded one of the framed photographs, the ones that spoke to me had already been stickered.
Ah,well. Not meant to be, today anyway, or so the pragmatist in me whispered.
Likewise the Lebanese Food Festival wasn't meant to be for me today. But given the satisfying afternoon I spent eating and ogling art with the happy couple, I'm not feeling any loss.
Shooting stars look forward, not at what they missed.
So for my lunch plans with a favorite couple, I countered by suggesting Olio and two of us had the bright idea to do the Main Street art walk afterwards.
I arrived a bit ahead of time, early enough to play straight man to owner Jason as we chatted about the scarcity of available (straight) men, the cashier heartily seconding that.
A salad seemed like just the thing for two of us (he got the smoked salmon Nicoise and I got the Springtime), while the Bottomless Pit got the prosciutto di parma sandwich and then scarfed our leftover grilled bread.
We took Jason up on his suggestion of cookies for dessert as we headed down Main Street to see what we might find.
I have to admit, I'm a big fan of the galleries in my J-Ward neighborhood (and, honestly, I usually like the art better on my side of town) and tend to avoid the Main Street ones because of the kind of people I encounter in them.
But on a leisurely Saturday, those people are absent and the galleries are an interesting mix of out-of-town Picasso visitors and others like us, out for an afternoon art stroll.
Our first stop was the Page Bond Gallery to see Andrea Keys Connell and Lacey Jane Roberts' "VCU Arts Craft/Material Studies Fountainhead Fellows" show.
Connell did large scale ceramic works, most of which pertained to the myth of Hercules, some coming in or out of the wall, and some emerging from the floor.
From hard to soft, the centerpiece of Roberts' works was a large scale knitted piece hung on the wall and draped on the floor with words sewn on it.
It was called "Queer Houses of Brooklyn" and a variety of topical buttons lay on the floor in front of it. The price listing for the show indicated that the buttons were for giving away, so I helped myself to one that said "shooting star."
Next up was Artemis Gallery, a place new to all of us. The array of hand-crafted items was staggering and the delightful assortment of handmade and artistic pasties undoubtedly the best I've ever seen. And, just for the record, I'm not that I'm in the market for pasties.
I ran into an artist who recognized me (I couldn't pull up her name for anything) when she overheard my friend make a remark about another artist she knew.
Luckily, she didn't hear the negative comment he'd made about her friend first (one of his most charming habits being his ill-timed and frequently overheard commentary). Oops.
At Red Door, Justin Bishop's metal sculpture from the past ten years reminded me of Giacometti's work, attenuated and with rough metal surfaces.
I was particularly fascinated by the one with nails driven into the figure. Another of a horizontal figure over sharp points was visually stunning.
Leslie Wayne's show at the Visual Arts Center was difficult to get our heads around. Wayne uses sculptural techniques to craft paintings that are three-dimensional. It was challenging to read the vibrantly colored, textured surfaces as paint.
A sign in the gallery said "Please do not touch (or lick) the paintings."
Awkwardly, I saw this sign after my friend and I had yielded to the impulse to lightly touch a surface in hopes of figuring it out.
Part of the show included Wayne's "One Big Love" series, for which the artist created rules including one that the canvases couldn't be larger than 13" x 10".
She also made listening to music one of the conditions of painting the series, resulting in her playing Patty Griffin's song "One Big Love" repeatedly. Needless to say, an artist using music as an obsession feeds into all kinds of things that appeal to me.
Our final stop was Glave Kocen for Ed Trask's show of large scale works, small photographs and metal sculpture.
I was charmed by seeing one of Ed's trademark straw hats hanging on the wall in between paintings.
I was taken by how many of the pieces had a red "sold" sticker on them when the show just opened a week ago. It appears that the Main Street art-buying set had their checkbooks out at Ed's opening.
Hell, I'd happily buy a Trask if I could afford one. I know I could enjoy looking at his work on my walls every day; it embodies Richmond.
And while I could have afforded one of the framed photographs, the ones that spoke to me had already been stickered.
Ah,well. Not meant to be, today anyway, or so the pragmatist in me whispered.
Likewise the Lebanese Food Festival wasn't meant to be for me today. But given the satisfying afternoon I spent eating and ogling art with the happy couple, I'm not feeling any loss.
Shooting stars look forward, not at what they missed.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Eureka! Pea Cakes!
My dinner date turned out to be a Seattle transplant and former teacher who now gives Segway tours of Jackson Ward, among other less-interesting places.
When he asked where I lived and I told him the cross streets nearest my 1876 house, he knew just where I lived. Creepy or coincidental?
In either case, he was an oenophile of the highest order and we were at Olio's wine dinner with winemaker Bob Stashak of Classic Wines of California, so I couldn't have asked for a better dining companion.
My new friend and I had randomly been assigned to the same four-top, but the other two occupants of the table had not shown up, so it was just the two of us. And while he may not have been my type (he had an absent wife), he was delightful company for the five course meal.
We began with Montpelier Viognier, tasting of peach and apricots, and bruschetta with Pierre Robert Brie, fig jam and slivered, toasted almonds.
Because there were six bruschetta and two of us and it looked like our table mates were going to be no-shows, we went ahead and ate three each and got a wine refill. Why not?
The star course of the evening arrived next: smoked trout fillet over a dilled green pea cake topped with lemon creme fraiche and salmon caviar. Ever had a pea cake? Nor had I and what a loss that was because it was the most divine taste of spring you could imagine.
Chef Rebecca (who, because I had met her at a summer party, will always be Becky to me) had combined pureed peas, partially pureed peas and whole peas with egg and a touch of flour, onion and seasonings to create the most extraordinary mouthful of fresh pea flavor. And I was lucky enough to have two pea cakes.
The smoked trout, wonderful as it was, could not have hoped for a better support system and the Domaine Napa Chardonnay, with its tropical notes, became something truly special when paired with this dish.
2007 Domaine Napa Merlot accompanied the white bean and tomato soup shooters with crispy pork cracklins and it was hands down my favorite wine of the evening and the salty cracklins my favorite part of the shooter.
Between courses, Stashak talked about his winemaking, his blending preferences, and the specifics of what we were drinking. Whenever it came to him asking questions of the dinner crowd, it was my mustachioed date who scored 100%.
If there'd been a quiz, I might have been tempted to cheat off of him. As it was, we each shared our wine tasting travel stories and compared notes about grape preferences.
Medium rare prime Angus cigarellos stuffed with Gorgonzola Dolce, fresh spinach and dried cranberries with balsamic stood up well to the Domaine Napa Cabernet Sauvignon.
The cheese was such a delicately-flavored variety that the cranberries were actually a more dominant flavor than the Gorgonzola; it was brilliant.
We finished with chocolate cupcakes iced in chocolate ganache with fresh blackberry compote and caramelized pecans and a glass of Searidge Syrah. My date felt like the Syrah almost overwhelmed the chocolate, but I've had the Searidge/chocolate combo so often at Sprout that I think of it as an ideal pairing.
The winemaker was a perfect host to the crowd, genial and informative, amusing and eager to share his knowledge, extensive after 38 years of winemaking. He seemed to be having as good a time as we were and that added to the fun factor of the evening.
After some post-dinner mingling (ran into a friend I hadn't seen in over a year and we both had significant life updates to share), I thanked my impromptu dinner date for his splendid company and left for Sprout.
Playing catchy indie pop rock tonight were two Athens, Georgia bands, Eureka California and Daniel of Moon Ladder ("If there were other people up here, they'd be Moon Ladder, but it's just me, so I'm Daniel").
I arrived to find a musician friend at the bar and we settled in for a conversation about how the ballet, opera and symphony need to attract a younger audience before their entire white-haired subscriber base buys the farm. We decided that non-traditional performances and venues and lower ticket prices were the way to go.
Having solved the looming cultural meltdown, we went back to hear the music. Daniel of Moon Ladder did a heartfelt set with guitar and ukulele ("This thing never stays in tune"), first from the stage and then from the floor ("I felt awkwardly high up there").
Eureka California, a trio with girl drummer (always notable) had an upbeat, infectious poppiness with enough reverb to make me happy and the kind of bass lines that can't be ignored. It was all good.
The lead singer acknowledged that Richmond was a nice place, saying "Today we played volleyball with anarchists in the park." When someone in the audience asked who had won, he answered, "Everybody won. They had a dog and when there's dogs, no one keeps score."
I think there may be a life lesson there, but that could have something to do with drinking all that California wine with a man with a waxed mustache who once lived in the high deserts of Idaho.
For now, we'll just accept it as Athenian wisdom and call it a day.
When he asked where I lived and I told him the cross streets nearest my 1876 house, he knew just where I lived. Creepy or coincidental?
In either case, he was an oenophile of the highest order and we were at Olio's wine dinner with winemaker Bob Stashak of Classic Wines of California, so I couldn't have asked for a better dining companion.
My new friend and I had randomly been assigned to the same four-top, but the other two occupants of the table had not shown up, so it was just the two of us. And while he may not have been my type (he had an absent wife), he was delightful company for the five course meal.
We began with Montpelier Viognier, tasting of peach and apricots, and bruschetta with Pierre Robert Brie, fig jam and slivered, toasted almonds.
Because there were six bruschetta and two of us and it looked like our table mates were going to be no-shows, we went ahead and ate three each and got a wine refill. Why not?
The star course of the evening arrived next: smoked trout fillet over a dilled green pea cake topped with lemon creme fraiche and salmon caviar. Ever had a pea cake? Nor had I and what a loss that was because it was the most divine taste of spring you could imagine.
Chef Rebecca (who, because I had met her at a summer party, will always be Becky to me) had combined pureed peas, partially pureed peas and whole peas with egg and a touch of flour, onion and seasonings to create the most extraordinary mouthful of fresh pea flavor. And I was lucky enough to have two pea cakes.
The smoked trout, wonderful as it was, could not have hoped for a better support system and the Domaine Napa Chardonnay, with its tropical notes, became something truly special when paired with this dish.
2007 Domaine Napa Merlot accompanied the white bean and tomato soup shooters with crispy pork cracklins and it was hands down my favorite wine of the evening and the salty cracklins my favorite part of the shooter.
Between courses, Stashak talked about his winemaking, his blending preferences, and the specifics of what we were drinking. Whenever it came to him asking questions of the dinner crowd, it was my mustachioed date who scored 100%.
If there'd been a quiz, I might have been tempted to cheat off of him. As it was, we each shared our wine tasting travel stories and compared notes about grape preferences.
Medium rare prime Angus cigarellos stuffed with Gorgonzola Dolce, fresh spinach and dried cranberries with balsamic stood up well to the Domaine Napa Cabernet Sauvignon.
The cheese was such a delicately-flavored variety that the cranberries were actually a more dominant flavor than the Gorgonzola; it was brilliant.
We finished with chocolate cupcakes iced in chocolate ganache with fresh blackberry compote and caramelized pecans and a glass of Searidge Syrah. My date felt like the Syrah almost overwhelmed the chocolate, but I've had the Searidge/chocolate combo so often at Sprout that I think of it as an ideal pairing.
The winemaker was a perfect host to the crowd, genial and informative, amusing and eager to share his knowledge, extensive after 38 years of winemaking. He seemed to be having as good a time as we were and that added to the fun factor of the evening.
After some post-dinner mingling (ran into a friend I hadn't seen in over a year and we both had significant life updates to share), I thanked my impromptu dinner date for his splendid company and left for Sprout.
Playing catchy indie pop rock tonight were two Athens, Georgia bands, Eureka California and Daniel of Moon Ladder ("If there were other people up here, they'd be Moon Ladder, but it's just me, so I'm Daniel").
I arrived to find a musician friend at the bar and we settled in for a conversation about how the ballet, opera and symphony need to attract a younger audience before their entire white-haired subscriber base buys the farm. We decided that non-traditional performances and venues and lower ticket prices were the way to go.
Having solved the looming cultural meltdown, we went back to hear the music. Daniel of Moon Ladder did a heartfelt set with guitar and ukulele ("This thing never stays in tune"), first from the stage and then from the floor ("I felt awkwardly high up there").
Eureka California, a trio with girl drummer (always notable) had an upbeat, infectious poppiness with enough reverb to make me happy and the kind of bass lines that can't be ignored. It was all good.
The lead singer acknowledged that Richmond was a nice place, saying "Today we played volleyball with anarchists in the park." When someone in the audience asked who had won, he answered, "Everybody won. They had a dog and when there's dogs, no one keeps score."
I think there may be a life lesson there, but that could have something to do with drinking all that California wine with a man with a waxed mustache who once lived in the high deserts of Idaho.
For now, we'll just accept it as Athenian wisdom and call it a day.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Yes & No: Hundred Dollar Wine and Sweet Tea
They had me at "Taste a world-class wine for peanuts." They were Barrel Thief and every so often they open a bottle of $100 wine and pour tastes for five bucks until it's gone.
I've never had a hundred-dollar bottle of wine, so I decided to do something about that this evening. Being poured was a 2004 Domaine Jamet Cote-Rotie, a 100% Syrah from the northern Rhone. I swirled, I sniffed, I tasted. I liked. Now there's a surprise.
It was intense, with sort of a charred herb aroma and beautifully balanced, the kind of wine you'd want to drink with lamb or some kind of beast right off the grill.
Two women had come in to taste not long after me, so I got to hear their reactions to the wine and have a bit of social interaction.
One said, "It sure doesn't taste like Virginia red wine," providing the kind of informed opinion that made the rest of us laugh out loud.
No, no it doesn't. Our pouring host suggested that perhaps it's because we don't have the sixty-degree angled slopes where the grapes can bake in the Rhone sun.
With no lamb in sight, I couldn't see any reason not to go ahead and order a second tasting, to the amazement of the pourer and the women. When am I likely to have more of this wine? Okay, then.
That fine start to my evening was followed by dinner and live music at Olio, an event I've attended a few times in the past and always enjoyed.
Tonight's performer was the one and only Meade Skeleton, whom I knew of but had never actually seen or heard.
A good number of tables were occupied when I arrived and Meade was in full voice, so I sidled up to the counter to decide what to order, choosing the Italian picnic sandwich for its house-roasted turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, fig jam and Tallegio cheese with garlic aioli on a baguette.
As I waited to order, owner Jason riffed on our last encounter, here, by asking me to move aside so he could greet another newcomer instead of me. There's nothing like a smart-assed restaurant owner to ensure my devoted business.
To go with my sandwich, Jason recommended a bold white or light-bodied red and I deferred to his choice, the Montpellier Pinot Noir, with berry flavors and a nice acidity. It was a lovely accompaniment to my picnic baguette.
I've been on a Tallegio jag lately, having bought a pound and using it to make Tallegio/bacon grilled cheeses whenever I need a little something to tide me over(night).
I usually pair it with a Honeybell or a clementine to offset the sandwich's richness and it's heavenly at 2 a.m. when I need a bedtime snack after a long night out when dinner is a distant memory. But I digress (yet again).
So, yes, Meade Skeleton sang his heart out while playing keyboard, blessing the audience at every turn, but rarely looking at us, his devoted fan base.
He played all his classics, like "Sweet Tea" (an ode to a beverage I detest) and "Hipsters Ruin Everything" as well as some interesting covers like "Your Cheating Heart" and "Daydream Believer."
He even played one of the two jingles he wrote for a commercial contest for Folger's Coffee. He mentioned that his group, the Meadow Street Band (so named because they all attend Tabernacle Baptist Church), had been unable to join him tonight. I didn't even know Meade had a band; I thought he was just a keyboard whiz with a reverence for Elvis.
But then, I don't really know much about Meade except what I'd read a few years back on his blog, most of which had to do with his opinion that RVA's music scene was not receptive to his musical stylings.
And then there was that whole "Is Meade Skeleton a real person or just a parody?" online debate for a while. Oh, he's real, alright and I'm here to say that he was in fine voice tonight.
He told the audience, "Olio has great food, but not if you're on a diet like me," his weight being a subject I recall he blogged about often.
The irony there was that during the break, he had the traditional dieter's snack of a Coca Cola and bag of chips instead of one of Olio's superb salads. Hey, I'm sure it's not easy maintaining a country singer's figure on the road.
Good thing he couldn't see me scarfing down a chocolate souffle with more wine during his second set (they'd just run out of the pistachio gelato yesterday or it would have been even more obscene). I wouldn't want to be a bad example for someone trying to do the right thing.
No indeed. I want to be a good example for someone trying to do the fun thing.
Especially the fun stuff that only costs peanuts.
I've never had a hundred-dollar bottle of wine, so I decided to do something about that this evening. Being poured was a 2004 Domaine Jamet Cote-Rotie, a 100% Syrah from the northern Rhone. I swirled, I sniffed, I tasted. I liked. Now there's a surprise.
It was intense, with sort of a charred herb aroma and beautifully balanced, the kind of wine you'd want to drink with lamb or some kind of beast right off the grill.
Two women had come in to taste not long after me, so I got to hear their reactions to the wine and have a bit of social interaction.
One said, "It sure doesn't taste like Virginia red wine," providing the kind of informed opinion that made the rest of us laugh out loud.
No, no it doesn't. Our pouring host suggested that perhaps it's because we don't have the sixty-degree angled slopes where the grapes can bake in the Rhone sun.
With no lamb in sight, I couldn't see any reason not to go ahead and order a second tasting, to the amazement of the pourer and the women. When am I likely to have more of this wine? Okay, then.
That fine start to my evening was followed by dinner and live music at Olio, an event I've attended a few times in the past and always enjoyed.
Tonight's performer was the one and only Meade Skeleton, whom I knew of but had never actually seen or heard.
A good number of tables were occupied when I arrived and Meade was in full voice, so I sidled up to the counter to decide what to order, choosing the Italian picnic sandwich for its house-roasted turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, fig jam and Tallegio cheese with garlic aioli on a baguette.
As I waited to order, owner Jason riffed on our last encounter, here, by asking me to move aside so he could greet another newcomer instead of me. There's nothing like a smart-assed restaurant owner to ensure my devoted business.
To go with my sandwich, Jason recommended a bold white or light-bodied red and I deferred to his choice, the Montpellier Pinot Noir, with berry flavors and a nice acidity. It was a lovely accompaniment to my picnic baguette.
I've been on a Tallegio jag lately, having bought a pound and using it to make Tallegio/bacon grilled cheeses whenever I need a little something to tide me over(night).
I usually pair it with a Honeybell or a clementine to offset the sandwich's richness and it's heavenly at 2 a.m. when I need a bedtime snack after a long night out when dinner is a distant memory. But I digress (yet again).
So, yes, Meade Skeleton sang his heart out while playing keyboard, blessing the audience at every turn, but rarely looking at us, his devoted fan base.
He played all his classics, like "Sweet Tea" (an ode to a beverage I detest) and "Hipsters Ruin Everything" as well as some interesting covers like "Your Cheating Heart" and "Daydream Believer."
He even played one of the two jingles he wrote for a commercial contest for Folger's Coffee. He mentioned that his group, the Meadow Street Band (so named because they all attend Tabernacle Baptist Church), had been unable to join him tonight. I didn't even know Meade had a band; I thought he was just a keyboard whiz with a reverence for Elvis.
But then, I don't really know much about Meade except what I'd read a few years back on his blog, most of which had to do with his opinion that RVA's music scene was not receptive to his musical stylings.
And then there was that whole "Is Meade Skeleton a real person or just a parody?" online debate for a while. Oh, he's real, alright and I'm here to say that he was in fine voice tonight.
He told the audience, "Olio has great food, but not if you're on a diet like me," his weight being a subject I recall he blogged about often.
The irony there was that during the break, he had the traditional dieter's snack of a Coca Cola and bag of chips instead of one of Olio's superb salads. Hey, I'm sure it's not easy maintaining a country singer's figure on the road.
Good thing he couldn't see me scarfing down a chocolate souffle with more wine during his second set (they'd just run out of the pistachio gelato yesterday or it would have been even more obscene). I wouldn't want to be a bad example for someone trying to do the right thing.
No indeed. I want to be a good example for someone trying to do the fun thing.
Especially the fun stuff that only costs peanuts.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Old Model Out of Stock
Since my last go at being single, Facebook has entered the picture, making it easy for former loves to find me and interested parties to check out my relationship status.
But sometimes it still happens the way it always has, where you randomly run into someone you knew in a past life and reconnect face to face.
Next thing you know, they're e-mailing you, suggesting a shared meal to "catch up" and you're wondering how the person they are now compares to the one you once knew.
Since there's only one way to find out, I accepted the invitation, choosing lunch at Olio both for its fresh menu and low-key vibe. I knew we'd be able to linger as long as we might want without so much as a raised eyebrow from the accommodating staff.
He was waiting for me when I arrived, unsure of how and where to order, so we approached the counter together. Owner Jason greeted my friend without even noticing me, so I teased him; he gave me some lame excuse about trying not to favor female customers over male. Whatever.
I ordered the Beef & Bleu salad (Angus beef, bleu cheese, dried fruit, roasted zucchini, and walnuts over greens with Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and my friend took my lead and also got a salad, the smoked salmon Nicoise. Olio does superb salads.
We sat down to get started talking while our food was being prepared. But where to start after years of not seeing each other? I wasn't sure whether to ask the things I was dying to know or begin innocuously.
He solved the problem by taking the lead, telling me about his work (he's an author who does a lot of speaking for corporate groups) and asking about mine.
We were knee-deep in a discussion of self-imposed deadlines when our food was delivered. We got busy eating but never stopped talking.
One conversation led to another as we kept taking tangents about the past and present. I was honestly surprised at how much detail he remembered about me and the time we had spent together, given that it wasn't recent or long-lived. Wow, he was definitely taking way better mental notes back then than I was. Impressive.
He asked if I was still a Prince fan (given last night's show at Madison Square Garden) and I told him that although I very much am, I know I'll never get better Prince memories than the two times I saw him at the Landmark. Still, it was an obscure fact to remember about me.
As he continued to ask questions of me to elicit information, he kept saying things like, "You? No way!" and "Really?" Finally he came right out and said, "Wow, a lot about you has changed. What brought all that on?"
Looking back, I had to say that it was that serious bout of pneumonia I had two years ago. After being in Intensive Care for nearly a week, something in me shifted and habits of a lifetime went away. Everything got easier.
I don't even realize anymore how different I must seem to people who are still carrying around old perceptions of me. And that would definitely include people who haven't seen me in the last two years, like my friend.
On the plus side, he said the person I've relaxed into being is so much cooler than the me he knew way back when. "And I thought that person was pretty great," he qualified.
He seemed more than okay with expecting one Karen and getting quite another. Sorry, but this is the only one available anymore.
Amazing the stuff you can discover about a person when you reconnect face to face.
But sometimes it still happens the way it always has, where you randomly run into someone you knew in a past life and reconnect face to face.
Next thing you know, they're e-mailing you, suggesting a shared meal to "catch up" and you're wondering how the person they are now compares to the one you once knew.
Since there's only one way to find out, I accepted the invitation, choosing lunch at Olio both for its fresh menu and low-key vibe. I knew we'd be able to linger as long as we might want without so much as a raised eyebrow from the accommodating staff.
He was waiting for me when I arrived, unsure of how and where to order, so we approached the counter together. Owner Jason greeted my friend without even noticing me, so I teased him; he gave me some lame excuse about trying not to favor female customers over male. Whatever.
I ordered the Beef & Bleu salad (Angus beef, bleu cheese, dried fruit, roasted zucchini, and walnuts over greens with Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and my friend took my lead and also got a salad, the smoked salmon Nicoise. Olio does superb salads.
We sat down to get started talking while our food was being prepared. But where to start after years of not seeing each other? I wasn't sure whether to ask the things I was dying to know or begin innocuously.
He solved the problem by taking the lead, telling me about his work (he's an author who does a lot of speaking for corporate groups) and asking about mine.
We were knee-deep in a discussion of self-imposed deadlines when our food was delivered. We got busy eating but never stopped talking.
One conversation led to another as we kept taking tangents about the past and present. I was honestly surprised at how much detail he remembered about me and the time we had spent together, given that it wasn't recent or long-lived. Wow, he was definitely taking way better mental notes back then than I was. Impressive.
He asked if I was still a Prince fan (given last night's show at Madison Square Garden) and I told him that although I very much am, I know I'll never get better Prince memories than the two times I saw him at the Landmark. Still, it was an obscure fact to remember about me.
As he continued to ask questions of me to elicit information, he kept saying things like, "You? No way!" and "Really?" Finally he came right out and said, "Wow, a lot about you has changed. What brought all that on?"
Looking back, I had to say that it was that serious bout of pneumonia I had two years ago. After being in Intensive Care for nearly a week, something in me shifted and habits of a lifetime went away. Everything got easier.
I don't even realize anymore how different I must seem to people who are still carrying around old perceptions of me. And that would definitely include people who haven't seen me in the last two years, like my friend.
On the plus side, he said the person I've relaxed into being is so much cooler than the me he knew way back when. "And I thought that person was pretty great," he qualified.
He seemed more than okay with expecting one Karen and getting quite another. Sorry, but this is the only one available anymore.
Amazing the stuff you can discover about a person when you reconnect face to face.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Hello, It's Me
Sometimes you have to go to a wine and cheese tasting to learn about ceiling fan settings. Or maybe that's just me.
When I got to Olio, owner Jason came over to greet me and ask how I was. My standard answer these days is, "Cold," and I usually place my cold hands on the questioner to further demonstrate what I mean.
Leading me across the store, we stopped under a ceiling fan. "This is the hot spot" he said smiling. "Reverse the fan blades and it pushes the heat down." Duly noted. Next he suggested some wine to further the process.
Among the wines being poured was the absolutely beautiful Mumm Napa Pinot Noir, velvety and with a dense berry flavor (and at $31.99 at Olio, a steal of a deal). My only regret was drinking it out of a plastic cup, but I soldiered on for the sake of the grape.
Jason suggested second helpings, but I had places to be, so I stopped by the cheese counter and picked up a half pound of Italian Tallegio before one final stop under the fan and exiting stage right.
If it's Friday, I must be going to the VMFA for their Friday film series, but tonight's installment had a twist; there was going to be a guest speaking for the first hour.
And I lucked out when I got there, running into an acquaintance and all-around interesting guy whom I hadn't seen in awhile to sit beside and share discussions of history and movies with before the festivities began.
Speaking was Marine Sgt. Kristopher Battles, the last remaining U.S. Marine Corps combat artist.
This was a guy who, after getting his degree in painting, ended up reenlisting at 38 to document war in the same way that combat artists have risked their lives doing for their country and their craft for over a century.
His slide show presented some of his works, including a sketch of three non-functioning urinals in an abandoned hotel. "This is my homage to Duchamp," he said, amusing the art geeks in the audience. He also cited Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent (also a war artist) as influences.
"And isn't that the best artist name ever?" he asked rhetorically about Sargent. I've always thought the same thing, so I loved hearing this cheerful Midwestern artist say what I've been thinking since college.
Not surprisingly, the audience contained plenty of Marines in addition to art geeks. Calling his work "the greatest job in the military," he explained why. "We are not restricted in our field range, our medium or our subject matter."
His talk was followed by a screening of They Drew Fire, a documentary about WW II combat artists. The film interviewed an array of former combat artists, most of whom agreed that it was essential that a man be a fighter first and an artist second.
The sheer number of combat artists in WW II was amazing. There were over a hundred, working not only for publications like Life and Yank magazines, but for entities like Abbott Laboratories, documenting military hospital work. Apparently the demand was huge for interpretive war imagery back in the States.
One former artist told of making a painting of soldiers rinsing blood off stretchers in the river on a hot night. One of the soldiers performed this odious task naked, but the military censors would have none of it, instructing the artist to cover the nudity.
"It was okay to kill people in war, but not to show nudity," the artist complained. "I put drawers on him, but it bothered me." He was understandably not happy with the military's censoring.
I walked out of the museum with a wider appreciation for the role of combat artists. I had been struck by the risks taken by the artists in the "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" exhibit I'd seen and to that I could now add an appreciation for the men who'd done it in the wars since.
My favorite evenings are ones like tonight where I get to learn something and then sit back and enjoy myself. I was meeting one of my favorite couples for a date at Acacia and I arrived to a full-on noisy full house.
They were stationed at the bar and I joined them toward the end of their pork terrine, managing to score a couple of bites before the plate was whisked away.
The bar was full of colorful characters (the strapless dress and Wilma Flintstone-like necklace begged for commentary), so we ordered libations and I perused the menu.
Since we'd first met over pork belly at Balliceaux, we ordered it for sentimental reasons, along with the duck confit and butternut squash hash under a poached egg. Both were terrific, although one among us found the hash to have a tad too much squash despite the excellent flavor profile of the dish.
As we were discussing current movies, the issue of making beds and anonymous commenters, a bar sitter came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who am I?" he asked from close range.
I told him he was Rick and he expressed amazement that I recognized him (I later heard from my friends that he'd been glancing over all evening; color me oblivious). We had met back in the 90s when I was working in radio and hadn't seen each other in eons.
He was the one who had tried to curry favor with me by making me a tape (!) of Porno for Pyros, a band name I remember him telling me he did not understand, but thought I might like. He got an A for effort, as I recall.
After that trip down memory lane, my friends and I moved on to dessert. Naturally the one I chose was chocolate, although the best part of it was the brown butter ice cream, with the caramelized bananas and chocolate Chantilly cream a lovely complement.
The deep and decadent butter flavor of the ice cream made every bite taste sinful. We also shared the apple skillet cake with caramel sauce and the tiniest amount of bacon brittle under the ice cream.
This led to a discussion of desserts in RVA and whether comparisons can be made between desserts at a place like Acacia and more casual restaurants.
The verdict was that quality comparisons can be made, but not creativity comparisons. Few places in Richmond innovate with dessert like Acacia does.
And speaking of few, few people would admit to not knowing about reverse ceiling fan settings. But like I said, the best nights always involve me learning something.
In the words of Todd Rundgren, something/anything.
When I got to Olio, owner Jason came over to greet me and ask how I was. My standard answer these days is, "Cold," and I usually place my cold hands on the questioner to further demonstrate what I mean.
Leading me across the store, we stopped under a ceiling fan. "This is the hot spot" he said smiling. "Reverse the fan blades and it pushes the heat down." Duly noted. Next he suggested some wine to further the process.
Among the wines being poured was the absolutely beautiful Mumm Napa Pinot Noir, velvety and with a dense berry flavor (and at $31.99 at Olio, a steal of a deal). My only regret was drinking it out of a plastic cup, but I soldiered on for the sake of the grape.
Jason suggested second helpings, but I had places to be, so I stopped by the cheese counter and picked up a half pound of Italian Tallegio before one final stop under the fan and exiting stage right.
If it's Friday, I must be going to the VMFA for their Friday film series, but tonight's installment had a twist; there was going to be a guest speaking for the first hour.
And I lucked out when I got there, running into an acquaintance and all-around interesting guy whom I hadn't seen in awhile to sit beside and share discussions of history and movies with before the festivities began.
Speaking was Marine Sgt. Kristopher Battles, the last remaining U.S. Marine Corps combat artist.
This was a guy who, after getting his degree in painting, ended up reenlisting at 38 to document war in the same way that combat artists have risked their lives doing for their country and their craft for over a century.
His slide show presented some of his works, including a sketch of three non-functioning urinals in an abandoned hotel. "This is my homage to Duchamp," he said, amusing the art geeks in the audience. He also cited Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent (also a war artist) as influences.
"And isn't that the best artist name ever?" he asked rhetorically about Sargent. I've always thought the same thing, so I loved hearing this cheerful Midwestern artist say what I've been thinking since college.
Not surprisingly, the audience contained plenty of Marines in addition to art geeks. Calling his work "the greatest job in the military," he explained why. "We are not restricted in our field range, our medium or our subject matter."
His talk was followed by a screening of They Drew Fire, a documentary about WW II combat artists. The film interviewed an array of former combat artists, most of whom agreed that it was essential that a man be a fighter first and an artist second.
The sheer number of combat artists in WW II was amazing. There were over a hundred, working not only for publications like Life and Yank magazines, but for entities like Abbott Laboratories, documenting military hospital work. Apparently the demand was huge for interpretive war imagery back in the States.
One former artist told of making a painting of soldiers rinsing blood off stretchers in the river on a hot night. One of the soldiers performed this odious task naked, but the military censors would have none of it, instructing the artist to cover the nudity.
"It was okay to kill people in war, but not to show nudity," the artist complained. "I put drawers on him, but it bothered me." He was understandably not happy with the military's censoring.
I walked out of the museum with a wider appreciation for the role of combat artists. I had been struck by the risks taken by the artists in the "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" exhibit I'd seen and to that I could now add an appreciation for the men who'd done it in the wars since.
My favorite evenings are ones like tonight where I get to learn something and then sit back and enjoy myself. I was meeting one of my favorite couples for a date at Acacia and I arrived to a full-on noisy full house.
They were stationed at the bar and I joined them toward the end of their pork terrine, managing to score a couple of bites before the plate was whisked away.
The bar was full of colorful characters (the strapless dress and Wilma Flintstone-like necklace begged for commentary), so we ordered libations and I perused the menu.
Since we'd first met over pork belly at Balliceaux, we ordered it for sentimental reasons, along with the duck confit and butternut squash hash under a poached egg. Both were terrific, although one among us found the hash to have a tad too much squash despite the excellent flavor profile of the dish.
As we were discussing current movies, the issue of making beds and anonymous commenters, a bar sitter came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who am I?" he asked from close range.
I told him he was Rick and he expressed amazement that I recognized him (I later heard from my friends that he'd been glancing over all evening; color me oblivious). We had met back in the 90s when I was working in radio and hadn't seen each other in eons.
He was the one who had tried to curry favor with me by making me a tape (!) of Porno for Pyros, a band name I remember him telling me he did not understand, but thought I might like. He got an A for effort, as I recall.
After that trip down memory lane, my friends and I moved on to dessert. Naturally the one I chose was chocolate, although the best part of it was the brown butter ice cream, with the caramelized bananas and chocolate Chantilly cream a lovely complement.
The deep and decadent butter flavor of the ice cream made every bite taste sinful. We also shared the apple skillet cake with caramel sauce and the tiniest amount of bacon brittle under the ice cream.
This led to a discussion of desserts in RVA and whether comparisons can be made between desserts at a place like Acacia and more casual restaurants.
The verdict was that quality comparisons can be made, but not creativity comparisons. Few places in Richmond innovate with dessert like Acacia does.
And speaking of few, few people would admit to not knowing about reverse ceiling fan settings. But like I said, the best nights always involve me learning something.
In the words of Todd Rundgren, something/anything.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday Thrills
Ever since the VMFA transformed itself into a world-class museum, it's been one amazing thing after another. The latest was the lecture tonight by Jun Kaneko, the Japanese sculptor who did all those massive and beautiful pieces temporarily residing in the VMFA sculpture garden.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Overheard: "I Can't. I'm Already Lit."
"I'm having a housewarming party on Sunday 3:00-3:00. You should come, I'll have some decent tequila for ya..."
That kind of invitation is impossible to resist, especially when it comes from Julep's star mixologist, Bobby. His roommate is part of the food talent at Olio, so I knew they'd have victuals and drink of the highest order. And did they ever.
When I got there, I was introduced to all kinds of new people doing everything from having political discussions to playing beer pong to debating the merits of a vintage Stallone movie (I was plenty lost on this one). As part of the tour of the house (it was, after all, a housewarming) that I was given, I was shown the extensive bar on the back porch.
Bobby made it quite clear that he would not be bartending tonight, but the bar he had assembled offered such a variety of alcohol, homemade mixers, herbs and obscure liqueurs as to make it overkill for anyone except the most ambitious party guest. I did see one amateur mixologist friend spend a good long while doing his best Bobby imitation, mixing and muddling.
And the food was just as impressive. Kielbasa, bangers and sauerkraut. Black bean cakes. The most divine mango and avocado guacamole. Blue cheese and walnut stuffed celery. Collard greens perfectly cooked and with just the right amount of fat and vinegar. Watermelon in balsamic. Burgers. Roasted corn. There may have been more, but I gave up after that much.
One of the biggest hits of the evening was the sweet potato salad, a pastel orange concoction that looked like something fruity and full of preservatives. Instead, it won over person after person who reluctantly put some on their plate saying, "I really don't like sweet potatoes." Ah, but what if you made a potato salad and used sweet rather than white or red potatoes? I watched as it made converts out of haters.
Desserts were plentiful, too. An array of cupcakes from the new Baby Cakes Bakery, assorted cakes from an Indian bakery (my favorite by far), fresh strawberries and tiny strawberry tarts in what tasted like a sugar cookie crust.
And because there's always room for Jello, there were Jello shots. As I told my host, I hadn't done Jello shots since the 90s, a fact which caused him to laugh out loud. On the other hand, no one had ever before offered me one made with tequila, much less offered me several. There were different flavors made with other things like rum and vodka, but a girl's got to stick with what she knows.
One of my absolute favorite couple dates was also invited, so I had the pleasure of their company as well as that of some favorite restaurant folks from Julep and Olio. After a discussion of the hazards of teaching public school these days (political correctness rules), we somehow degenerated into a discussion of what makes a difficult or even bad restaurant patron.
It was a timely conversation given that last night was apparently ridiculously busy due to it being UR and VCU move-in weekend. According to those who know, there were a lot of amateurs out, which meant a lot of impatient customers in completely full restaurants. With all the discussion, it soon became clear that restaurant people are so grateful for understanding customers.
When I finally decided to leave, some friends joined me in saying goodnight to our hosts. "Did you have a good time?" Bobby asked us repeatedly. Had we ever, and that was in just six hours. I can't imagine if we'd stayed the whole twelve.
That kind of invitation is impossible to resist, especially when it comes from Julep's star mixologist, Bobby. His roommate is part of the food talent at Olio, so I knew they'd have victuals and drink of the highest order. And did they ever.
When I got there, I was introduced to all kinds of new people doing everything from having political discussions to playing beer pong to debating the merits of a vintage Stallone movie (I was plenty lost on this one). As part of the tour of the house (it was, after all, a housewarming) that I was given, I was shown the extensive bar on the back porch.
Bobby made it quite clear that he would not be bartending tonight, but the bar he had assembled offered such a variety of alcohol, homemade mixers, herbs and obscure liqueurs as to make it overkill for anyone except the most ambitious party guest. I did see one amateur mixologist friend spend a good long while doing his best Bobby imitation, mixing and muddling.
And the food was just as impressive. Kielbasa, bangers and sauerkraut. Black bean cakes. The most divine mango and avocado guacamole. Blue cheese and walnut stuffed celery. Collard greens perfectly cooked and with just the right amount of fat and vinegar. Watermelon in balsamic. Burgers. Roasted corn. There may have been more, but I gave up after that much.
One of the biggest hits of the evening was the sweet potato salad, a pastel orange concoction that looked like something fruity and full of preservatives. Instead, it won over person after person who reluctantly put some on their plate saying, "I really don't like sweet potatoes." Ah, but what if you made a potato salad and used sweet rather than white or red potatoes? I watched as it made converts out of haters.
Desserts were plentiful, too. An array of cupcakes from the new Baby Cakes Bakery, assorted cakes from an Indian bakery (my favorite by far), fresh strawberries and tiny strawberry tarts in what tasted like a sugar cookie crust.
And because there's always room for Jello, there were Jello shots. As I told my host, I hadn't done Jello shots since the 90s, a fact which caused him to laugh out loud. On the other hand, no one had ever before offered me one made with tequila, much less offered me several. There were different flavors made with other things like rum and vodka, but a girl's got to stick with what she knows.
One of my absolute favorite couple dates was also invited, so I had the pleasure of their company as well as that of some favorite restaurant folks from Julep and Olio. After a discussion of the hazards of teaching public school these days (political correctness rules), we somehow degenerated into a discussion of what makes a difficult or even bad restaurant patron.
It was a timely conversation given that last night was apparently ridiculously busy due to it being UR and VCU move-in weekend. According to those who know, there were a lot of amateurs out, which meant a lot of impatient customers in completely full restaurants. With all the discussion, it soon became clear that restaurant people are so grateful for understanding customers.
When I finally decided to leave, some friends joined me in saying goodnight to our hosts. "Did you have a good time?" Bobby asked us repeatedly. Had we ever, and that was in just six hours. I can't imagine if we'd stayed the whole twelve.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Romance on the High Seas
Just because I'm not yet ready to date doesn't mean I'm not fascinated with braver friends who are.
Tonight I met up with a girlfriend at Olio for dinner and to hear about her impending romantic dating adventures on the left coast. The food was great but her man plans were even better.
After having consumed copious amounts of barbecue yesterday, I was in need of a green dinner and found it in the form of a turkey, avocado and apple salad with a side of corn/chickpea/green bean/tomato salad.
My friend, trying to eat healthier (a stage I am well past) or perhaps concerned with upcoming body revelations, opted for one of the specials, a walleye and mahi mahi burrito with mango chutney in a spinach tortilla, when what she actually wanted was the prime rib sandwich special.
Never settle, friend.
I'd tell you about the bottle of wine we had, but it disappeared so quickly I never even noticed what it was (kidding...a pinot gris, but whose I couldn't tell you).
Dessert was a shared molten chocolate lava cake for the sake of a diversion during the sharing part of the evening (or perhaps I'm sublimating my feelings in food).
I have to admit I was enthralled by the details she was sharing.
My friend is shortly leaving for California to rendezvous with a man she met while on a business trip there a few weeks ago.
They randomly met one night and talked non-stop until 4:30 a.m., always a good sign (would that I had someone I wanted to talk to until 4:30 in the morning).
The next day, she barely made it to the airport before calling him and suggesting that she return for more conversation in a few weeks.
He was impressed that she'd offered. She was impressed with his bravado ("I'm not scared of you," he told her, clearly indicating that he was).
They have developed a plan whereby she's going to fly 3,000 miles to have a 2 1/2 day date aboard his rather large sailboat.
For propriety's sake the boat has two staterooms, both of which, he informed her, now have clean sheets.
The plan is to spend the days teaching her to sail and when the appeal of lessons wears thin, he wants to cook for her.
Thoughtfully, he's laid in a case and a half of her favorite wine and cheeses for their happy hour pleasure.
They even like the same music, no small matter in my humble opinion.
I knew my friend was excited about the potential of this tryst when she told me about all the new clothing she'd bought for it.
She is only a year out of a six-year relationship that ended unexpectedly and this is her first foray into throwing caution to the wind and just letting whatever happens happen.
I am in awe of her nerve and only wish she could share it with me.
Over a final glass of wine across the street at Bacchus, she told me how excited she is about the great unknown potential of this adventure.
She's afraid to be optimistic and end up disappointed, despite all indicators being positive.
I was trying to be a cheerleader, encouraging her to finally open up and let someone in, especially someone who'd already asked if he could kiss her (she said no).
Not that I have any right to tell anyone what to do in the romance department, but I felt like she needed the bolstering.
Even if I can't put myself out there yet, I want to know someone who can.
And then maybe she can tell me what the secret is. At the very least, it's like sneaking a peek at a romance novel, something I would never do otherwise.
Even at this stage, the appeal of happily ever after is still incredibly strong.
My friends haven't teased me about being hopelessly romantic all these years without reason.
It could happen...couldn't it?
Tonight I met up with a girlfriend at Olio for dinner and to hear about her impending romantic dating adventures on the left coast. The food was great but her man plans were even better.
After having consumed copious amounts of barbecue yesterday, I was in need of a green dinner and found it in the form of a turkey, avocado and apple salad with a side of corn/chickpea/green bean/tomato salad.
My friend, trying to eat healthier (a stage I am well past) or perhaps concerned with upcoming body revelations, opted for one of the specials, a walleye and mahi mahi burrito with mango chutney in a spinach tortilla, when what she actually wanted was the prime rib sandwich special.
Never settle, friend.
I'd tell you about the bottle of wine we had, but it disappeared so quickly I never even noticed what it was (kidding...a pinot gris, but whose I couldn't tell you).
Dessert was a shared molten chocolate lava cake for the sake of a diversion during the sharing part of the evening (or perhaps I'm sublimating my feelings in food).
I have to admit I was enthralled by the details she was sharing.
My friend is shortly leaving for California to rendezvous with a man she met while on a business trip there a few weeks ago.
They randomly met one night and talked non-stop until 4:30 a.m., always a good sign (would that I had someone I wanted to talk to until 4:30 in the morning).
The next day, she barely made it to the airport before calling him and suggesting that she return for more conversation in a few weeks.
He was impressed that she'd offered. She was impressed with his bravado ("I'm not scared of you," he told her, clearly indicating that he was).
They have developed a plan whereby she's going to fly 3,000 miles to have a 2 1/2 day date aboard his rather large sailboat.
For propriety's sake the boat has two staterooms, both of which, he informed her, now have clean sheets.
The plan is to spend the days teaching her to sail and when the appeal of lessons wears thin, he wants to cook for her.
Thoughtfully, he's laid in a case and a half of her favorite wine and cheeses for their happy hour pleasure.
They even like the same music, no small matter in my humble opinion.
I knew my friend was excited about the potential of this tryst when she told me about all the new clothing she'd bought for it.
She is only a year out of a six-year relationship that ended unexpectedly and this is her first foray into throwing caution to the wind and just letting whatever happens happen.
I am in awe of her nerve and only wish she could share it with me.
Over a final glass of wine across the street at Bacchus, she told me how excited she is about the great unknown potential of this adventure.
She's afraid to be optimistic and end up disappointed, despite all indicators being positive.
I was trying to be a cheerleader, encouraging her to finally open up and let someone in, especially someone who'd already asked if he could kiss her (she said no).
Not that I have any right to tell anyone what to do in the romance department, but I felt like she needed the bolstering.
Even if I can't put myself out there yet, I want to know someone who can.
And then maybe she can tell me what the secret is. At the very least, it's like sneaking a peek at a romance novel, something I would never do otherwise.
Even at this stage, the appeal of happily ever after is still incredibly strong.
My friends haven't teased me about being hopelessly romantic all these years without reason.
It could happen...couldn't it?
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Little Dinner Music
It was almost as good as a scene from a 40s movie.
People were having dinner and drinking, some chatting softly, others raptly listening to the music.
The lights were up, so the focus was on eating and servers moved about discretely.
But the melodic strains of Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird "on stage" transformed the meal into so much more of an urbane dining experience.
Kudos to Jason at Olio for bringing in a band music-lovers would almost certainly come to hear, to a place offering creative and affordable food and drink.
I've been a fan of the restaurant since my first wine dinner there back in 2008, but this was my first time experiencing the music/dinner combo.
Even the band acknowledged that they didn't expect customers to shut up for their sets, but many did, the better to appreciate the beautiful harmonies, variety of instruments and passion the musicians brought to the room.
I arrived during the second song and conveniently found waiting for me a two-top with a clear view of the band. It was kismet.
Perusing the menu, but never losing sight of the 100 degree temperatures outside, I opted for the Smoked Salmon Nicoise (Norwegian salmon, fresh goat cheese, roasted red peppers, cukes, roasted tomatoes and red onion with balsamic dressing).
It's enough to move, much less digest, on a day as warm as this.
It wasn't long before an old friend and his new girlfriend came in and asked if they could join me at my prime spot of a table.
Pointing a finger at me, my friend admonished, "I should have known you'd be here." Well, duh.
A restaurant I like providing a band I like during dinner hours? Can we see more of this please?
Before long I felt another friend's hand on my shoulder, so he too joined us and then someone's musician friends came and the table got livelier still.
But when Antonia of Speckled Bird started doing her vox saw, all conversation ceased.
Hearing the human voice mimic a saw in the context of a beautiful song mutes even strong men.
My friend looked at me incredulously, "She's doing that with her voice?" he marveled. Why, yes she is, so keep it down, will you?
It was too funny when early on a group walked into the restaurant just as the third song was ending.
Jonathan glanced over to welcome then and then gave them a quick update, saying,"You missed all the happy songs."
That's an oversimplification, of course, because while much of their folk/Americana sound has a mournful tone to it, other songs are just flat-out beautiful, if not skipping-under-the-rainbow cliched.
As my friend and I were sharing a tiramisu close to the meal, my older friend leaned over to educate the newer friend. "If you go out with Karen, you have to be prepared to share dessert," he said, stating the obvious.
And, for the record, I don't twist anyone's arm; I'm just willing to oblige someone's sweet tooth indulgence by sharing the calorie burden with him.
After their second set, the band said goodnight even as the audience called for an encore.
But the tiny Antonia, she of the beautiful new accordion and angelic voice, had to disappoint the adoring crowd.
"But I'm hungry. I'm going to get cranky if I don't eat soon."
She had more than sung for her supper (as had Jonathan and Chris), so the audience respected that, they were excused and conversation took off at a much higher decibel level.
Diners lingered, sipping and chatting, for another hour or so as the musicians ate and moved around the room.
It was all very civilized and even a bit old-school. I absolutely loved it.
Since it was still a reasonable hour (10ish) when I left, I parked my car at home and walked the two blocks to the Belvidere for a nightcap.
I hadn't been in weeks, which is a crying shame for a place I could crawl to.There were only a few diners at that point, but Ben had a mostly full bar with my seat conveniently open.
A nearby couple turned out to be Jackson Ward residents too, even having left the city once only to return for missing all it offers (walkability, better restaurants, endless cultural options).
We hit it off at once.
I ordered an 1800 on ice and shared with Ben the story of why I'd started drinking good tequila in the first place (let's just say it involved a lot of tequila, a lunchtime job interview and I got the job...'nuff said).
But what I really wanted to talk about was beer, not tequila.
I'd heard some scuttlebutt that the Belvidere was thinking of adding an ABC/off premise license to provide a take-home beer source for the neighborhood, something my beloved J-Ward falls a bit short on.
But what had piqued my interest was the possibility that they'd be offering growlers.
Given the Belvidere's eclectic and ever-changing selection of beers on tap, I have to think that there are plenty of RVA types who would be thrilled to be able to refill their growler right in the 'hood with something new and different every week.
I couldn't have been more excited about this idea if I drank beer myself.
Ben also believes in the idea for the same reasons I do. Now all we have to do is convince owners Julie and Dave that they need to become Richmond's growler central.
Musical dining and a local growler source, both concepts hearkening back to another era in city living.
It's like what the J-Ward couple said about the current state of life here: "Richmond's becoming a great town in spite of itself."
I'd go so far as to say that Richmond's becoming a great town because of itself. Enjoy.
People were having dinner and drinking, some chatting softly, others raptly listening to the music.
The lights were up, so the focus was on eating and servers moved about discretely.
But the melodic strains of Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird "on stage" transformed the meal into so much more of an urbane dining experience.
Kudos to Jason at Olio for bringing in a band music-lovers would almost certainly come to hear, to a place offering creative and affordable food and drink.
I've been a fan of the restaurant since my first wine dinner there back in 2008, but this was my first time experiencing the music/dinner combo.
Even the band acknowledged that they didn't expect customers to shut up for their sets, but many did, the better to appreciate the beautiful harmonies, variety of instruments and passion the musicians brought to the room.
I arrived during the second song and conveniently found waiting for me a two-top with a clear view of the band. It was kismet.
Perusing the menu, but never losing sight of the 100 degree temperatures outside, I opted for the Smoked Salmon Nicoise (Norwegian salmon, fresh goat cheese, roasted red peppers, cukes, roasted tomatoes and red onion with balsamic dressing).
It's enough to move, much less digest, on a day as warm as this.
It wasn't long before an old friend and his new girlfriend came in and asked if they could join me at my prime spot of a table.
Pointing a finger at me, my friend admonished, "I should have known you'd be here." Well, duh.
A restaurant I like providing a band I like during dinner hours? Can we see more of this please?
Before long I felt another friend's hand on my shoulder, so he too joined us and then someone's musician friends came and the table got livelier still.
But when Antonia of Speckled Bird started doing her vox saw, all conversation ceased.
Hearing the human voice mimic a saw in the context of a beautiful song mutes even strong men.
My friend looked at me incredulously, "She's doing that with her voice?" he marveled. Why, yes she is, so keep it down, will you?
It was too funny when early on a group walked into the restaurant just as the third song was ending.
Jonathan glanced over to welcome then and then gave them a quick update, saying,"You missed all the happy songs."
That's an oversimplification, of course, because while much of their folk/Americana sound has a mournful tone to it, other songs are just flat-out beautiful, if not skipping-under-the-rainbow cliched.
As my friend and I were sharing a tiramisu close to the meal, my older friend leaned over to educate the newer friend. "If you go out with Karen, you have to be prepared to share dessert," he said, stating the obvious.
And, for the record, I don't twist anyone's arm; I'm just willing to oblige someone's sweet tooth indulgence by sharing the calorie burden with him.
After their second set, the band said goodnight even as the audience called for an encore.
But the tiny Antonia, she of the beautiful new accordion and angelic voice, had to disappoint the adoring crowd.
"But I'm hungry. I'm going to get cranky if I don't eat soon."
She had more than sung for her supper (as had Jonathan and Chris), so the audience respected that, they were excused and conversation took off at a much higher decibel level.
Diners lingered, sipping and chatting, for another hour or so as the musicians ate and moved around the room.
It was all very civilized and even a bit old-school. I absolutely loved it.
Since it was still a reasonable hour (10ish) when I left, I parked my car at home and walked the two blocks to the Belvidere for a nightcap.
I hadn't been in weeks, which is a crying shame for a place I could crawl to.There were only a few diners at that point, but Ben had a mostly full bar with my seat conveniently open.
A nearby couple turned out to be Jackson Ward residents too, even having left the city once only to return for missing all it offers (walkability, better restaurants, endless cultural options).
We hit it off at once.
I ordered an 1800 on ice and shared with Ben the story of why I'd started drinking good tequila in the first place (let's just say it involved a lot of tequila, a lunchtime job interview and I got the job...'nuff said).
But what I really wanted to talk about was beer, not tequila.
I'd heard some scuttlebutt that the Belvidere was thinking of adding an ABC/off premise license to provide a take-home beer source for the neighborhood, something my beloved J-Ward falls a bit short on.
But what had piqued my interest was the possibility that they'd be offering growlers.
Given the Belvidere's eclectic and ever-changing selection of beers on tap, I have to think that there are plenty of RVA types who would be thrilled to be able to refill their growler right in the 'hood with something new and different every week.
I couldn't have been more excited about this idea if I drank beer myself.
Ben also believes in the idea for the same reasons I do. Now all we have to do is convince owners Julie and Dave that they need to become Richmond's growler central.
Musical dining and a local growler source, both concepts hearkening back to another era in city living.
It's like what the J-Ward couple said about the current state of life here: "Richmond's becoming a great town in spite of itself."
I'd go so far as to say that Richmond's becoming a great town because of itself. Enjoy.
Monday, April 26, 2010
No I Don't Want a Beating
You know you made the right dining decision when the person making your food is also making sexual wisecracks with you. Tonight that happened when I went to Olio for dinner before the theater. I wanted to try the Beef and Bleu (rare Angus beef, bleu cheese, mixed greens, dried fruits, walnuts, red onion, roasted red peppers, tomatoes and a Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and enjoy it in the front window so as to have a view of the impending storm rolling in.
Owner Jason saw me with the menu and said hello, followed by a pointed crack about,"Long time, no see." And although I hadn't been in since January, as I told him, "I've eaten at your lunch cart twice in the past month. Does that count?" Obviously pleased, he admitted that it certainly did, so I got in line and placed my order.
Afterwards, as I was perusing the beverage case, I heard Jason call out to the girl who took my order, "Who ordered the black and blue?" I turned and identified myself and he said, "So you want a beating , huh?" That was definitely not what I was expecting him to say, but I played along, "Maybe it is." But Jason was even quicker than me and shot back, "Welcome to Olio, also known as Jason's house of S & M." Well done, Jason, well done.
And speaking of beverages, there on the shelf was Sprecher's root beer, voted by the New York Times as the #1 root beer for its "well-integrated flavors, soft carbonation and creamy texture." And while the Washington Post will always be my newspaper of choice, I trust the NYT when it comes to taste-testing 25 root beers. Clearly those Sprecher folks in Wisconsin know what they're doing with root beer, at least to my taste. As a complement to my black and bleu, it was perfect.
The salad itself contained an array of delicious ingredients but the standout was the hunk of bleu cheese bigger than my palm resting on the side of the plate. It was a Dutch bleu and a pocketed (rather than veined) bleu to boot. Pocketed bleus were more common in old-school French bleu- cheese making, according to Jason when I asked him about what kind of heavenly bleu this was. Crumbling it into my salad, my fingers were actually turning blue, which I was happy to lick off.
The storm arrived mid-meal with lightening and the rain came down hard, making for some excellent dinner viewing. I lingered as long as I could without missing the 8:00 curtain at the Firehouse. Playing tonight and tomorrow is "365 Days/365 Plays Revisited." It was a tribute of sorts to playwright Susan Lori Parks' project to write a play every day for a year. I'm prolific, but good god, a play a day? It boggles the mind.
Tonight's production was a theatrical/dance piece with nineteen vignettes, each paying tribute to a different one of the 365 plays. "At the start, there's always energy" one character said early on and there was plenty of energy all evening. From "trust life" to "the first constant: remember who you are," the pieces hinted at a bigger story with some danced and some acted.
There was even a piece about the intermission with one character asking another, "Do you get it so far?" and the other pronouncing, "It's very post-modern." (Note to self: isn't everything anymore?) That concept was perfectly rendered in the "2-for-1" piece in which one character said to the other, "Think I'll go pick up a gun. There's that two for one sale down the street. Want me to get you a couple?," to which the other carelessly responded, "Yea, sure."
The final search for the meaning of life had the entire cast crawling around on stage, with one girl shouting, "I found it...oh, never mind" and back they all went to examining the floor for answers.
As we all know, there's no telling where a person might find the meaning of life. For all we know, it could be somewhere as unlikely as Jason's House of S & M. One just never knows.
Owner Jason saw me with the menu and said hello, followed by a pointed crack about,"Long time, no see." And although I hadn't been in since January, as I told him, "I've eaten at your lunch cart twice in the past month. Does that count?" Obviously pleased, he admitted that it certainly did, so I got in line and placed my order.
Afterwards, as I was perusing the beverage case, I heard Jason call out to the girl who took my order, "Who ordered the black and blue?" I turned and identified myself and he said, "So you want a beating , huh?" That was definitely not what I was expecting him to say, but I played along, "Maybe it is." But Jason was even quicker than me and shot back, "Welcome to Olio, also known as Jason's house of S & M." Well done, Jason, well done.
And speaking of beverages, there on the shelf was Sprecher's root beer, voted by the New York Times as the #1 root beer for its "well-integrated flavors, soft carbonation and creamy texture." And while the Washington Post will always be my newspaper of choice, I trust the NYT when it comes to taste-testing 25 root beers. Clearly those Sprecher folks in Wisconsin know what they're doing with root beer, at least to my taste. As a complement to my black and bleu, it was perfect.
The salad itself contained an array of delicious ingredients but the standout was the hunk of bleu cheese bigger than my palm resting on the side of the plate. It was a Dutch bleu and a pocketed (rather than veined) bleu to boot. Pocketed bleus were more common in old-school French bleu- cheese making, according to Jason when I asked him about what kind of heavenly bleu this was. Crumbling it into my salad, my fingers were actually turning blue, which I was happy to lick off.
The storm arrived mid-meal with lightening and the rain came down hard, making for some excellent dinner viewing. I lingered as long as I could without missing the 8:00 curtain at the Firehouse. Playing tonight and tomorrow is "365 Days/365 Plays Revisited." It was a tribute of sorts to playwright Susan Lori Parks' project to write a play every day for a year. I'm prolific, but good god, a play a day? It boggles the mind.
Tonight's production was a theatrical/dance piece with nineteen vignettes, each paying tribute to a different one of the 365 plays. "At the start, there's always energy" one character said early on and there was plenty of energy all evening. From "trust life" to "the first constant: remember who you are," the pieces hinted at a bigger story with some danced and some acted.
There was even a piece about the intermission with one character asking another, "Do you get it so far?" and the other pronouncing, "It's very post-modern." (Note to self: isn't everything anymore?) That concept was perfectly rendered in the "2-for-1" piece in which one character said to the other, "Think I'll go pick up a gun. There's that two for one sale down the street. Want me to get you a couple?," to which the other carelessly responded, "Yea, sure."
The final search for the meaning of life had the entire cast crawling around on stage, with one girl shouting, "I found it...oh, never mind" and back they all went to examining the floor for answers.
As we all know, there's no telling where a person might find the meaning of life. For all we know, it could be somewhere as unlikely as Jason's House of S & M. One just never knows.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I've Always Been a Skirt Kind of Girl
We were both soaked by the time we got to our first stop at the Olio food cart at VCU.
Walking up Harrison to the compass, there was a flood of water coming from the alley beside the Pollak building and it was pooling at the curb.
Some idiot tore through the puddle sending a stream of dirty water all over the two of us.
The students on the steps of the building were wildly amused and we were drenched.
Luckily, the sunshine and breeze took care of most of it as we walked, but with shoes soaked through, I squeaked when I walked for a good while.
We'd had lunch at Olio before so I expected a taste delight, but it was even better than I knew.
First of all, the cart's iPod was playing O.D.B and that's not something you hear coming out of your typical VCU food cart, so we gave the cart guy props for that.
My friend got the special, a roasted pork sandwich with cheddar and ailoi and I got the Arc de Triomphe with roasted turkey, triple-creme brie and bacon.
He also ordered gazpacho and I got the corn and black bean salad.
Clutching our Olio bags and watching out for puddle jerks, we headed back to the car and drove to Maymont to join the throngs, having forgotten it was Easter break week and bound to be crowded.
We found a shady bench just inside the gates and tore into our meal.
The sandwiches were terrific, not just for the flavor combinations (triple creme anything makes me very happy), but for the bread.
Olio par-bakes the bread and then makes the sandwiches each morning; they then finish baking off the bread right there.
The heat coming out of that cart is sauna-like, but the results are so worth it.
Fresh baked bread takes a sandwich to a whole new level, not tasting grilled, but rather warm and crusty.
My cumin-infused salad was sublime and friend's gazpacho couldn't have tasted any fresher.
We walked off all that goodness by taking in the Tree Skirt Fashion Show put on by the VCU Sophomore Draping class.
Thirty-plus trees were draped in mostly muslin, some casual and apron-like, some fitted and Barbie-esque and many quite bridal-looking.
Trees of all sizes had been used, giving the effect of slender, young bodies, thicker, more matronly shapes and some downright fat trees with lumps.
Likewise, the skirts ranged from very basic to wildly creative and everything in between.
With many of the trees budding or in bloom, the state of the trees added a human element to the perception of trees as bodies.
My friend is a photographer so he shot trees and skirts from every possible angle, all the while encouraging the tree models with his comments like, "That's it, baby! You're working it. Billow some more."
No, he really said those things.
The skirts are only up through Friday but you can't go wrong with a walk through Maymont and the skirts are the perfect diversion on a sunny day.
After a while, I have to admit, I was getting partial to the shaded skirts, but that was partly the glare of the sun on muslin.
We stopped by the fountain on the way out just to feel the cooler air and were treated to the wind spraying the fountain all over us.
Somehow it felt like more of a treat than our first dousing.
How better to end my afternoon than with my second wet skirt of the day?
Walking up Harrison to the compass, there was a flood of water coming from the alley beside the Pollak building and it was pooling at the curb.
Some idiot tore through the puddle sending a stream of dirty water all over the two of us.
The students on the steps of the building were wildly amused and we were drenched.
Luckily, the sunshine and breeze took care of most of it as we walked, but with shoes soaked through, I squeaked when I walked for a good while.
We'd had lunch at Olio before so I expected a taste delight, but it was even better than I knew.
First of all, the cart's iPod was playing O.D.B and that's not something you hear coming out of your typical VCU food cart, so we gave the cart guy props for that.
My friend got the special, a roasted pork sandwich with cheddar and ailoi and I got the Arc de Triomphe with roasted turkey, triple-creme brie and bacon.
He also ordered gazpacho and I got the corn and black bean salad.
Clutching our Olio bags and watching out for puddle jerks, we headed back to the car and drove to Maymont to join the throngs, having forgotten it was Easter break week and bound to be crowded.
We found a shady bench just inside the gates and tore into our meal.
The sandwiches were terrific, not just for the flavor combinations (triple creme anything makes me very happy), but for the bread.
Olio par-bakes the bread and then makes the sandwiches each morning; they then finish baking off the bread right there.
The heat coming out of that cart is sauna-like, but the results are so worth it.
Fresh baked bread takes a sandwich to a whole new level, not tasting grilled, but rather warm and crusty.
My cumin-infused salad was sublime and friend's gazpacho couldn't have tasted any fresher.
We walked off all that goodness by taking in the Tree Skirt Fashion Show put on by the VCU Sophomore Draping class.
Thirty-plus trees were draped in mostly muslin, some casual and apron-like, some fitted and Barbie-esque and many quite bridal-looking.
Trees of all sizes had been used, giving the effect of slender, young bodies, thicker, more matronly shapes and some downright fat trees with lumps.
Likewise, the skirts ranged from very basic to wildly creative and everything in between.
With many of the trees budding or in bloom, the state of the trees added a human element to the perception of trees as bodies.
My friend is a photographer so he shot trees and skirts from every possible angle, all the while encouraging the tree models with his comments like, "That's it, baby! You're working it. Billow some more."
No, he really said those things.
The skirts are only up through Friday but you can't go wrong with a walk through Maymont and the skirts are the perfect diversion on a sunny day.
After a while, I have to admit, I was getting partial to the shaded skirts, but that was partly the glare of the sun on muslin.
We stopped by the fountain on the way out just to feel the cooler air and were treated to the wind spraying the fountain all over us.
Somehow it felt like more of a treat than our first dousing.
How better to end my afternoon than with my second wet skirt of the day?
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