As M83 would say, hurry up, we're dreaming.
Vorfreude aside, when an outing begins with the presumption that trouble will find you and ends on hold - not once but twice, mind you - someone's bound to describe it as a wonderful evening.
Even if it takes almost eight hours to reach that conclusion.
At Pasture for drinks and curry cauliflower, a wall map of the state's geology results in the devoted urban dweller being teased about being a devotee of Virginia's coastal plain and light-heartedly chided for not venturing to the western part of the state more often.
I say give me a reason and I'll get in the car.
With my back to a young woman at the bar, I overhear her bemoaning how she feels like a cougar ogling young male actors in movies. I can't let that go, so I whirl around and tell her to imagine how I feel at the movies admiring younger men.
"Yeah, but you've earned the right to do whatever you want!" she tells me, a perfect stranger. I lean in and assure her I already do anything I want without compunction.
"Ooh, can we hang out? Can I have your phone number? What's your name?" she eagerly asks, sounding for all the world like a fangirl of a middle aged woman. I'll take it, but only because there don't seem to be fanboys of the same.
The crowd at CentreStage for the Richmond Symphony's casual Friday concert is a decidedly different one than what you'd see at a Masterworks concert: more diverse in age and race and many, many decibels louder as people take their seats and chatter.
In what has to be the bossiest thing I've yet to hear out of my ultra-polite companion's mouth, he commands me, "Move!" when yet another couple arrives at the end of row O, where we're seated. It's not that we mind getting up to allow late arrivals in, it's just easier for them not to have to climb over us.
This is not an agile crowd.
I silently nickname him Bossy Boots, moving over and rearranging. A tiny piece of paper flutters out of the side pocket of my purse - a fortune from a cookie eaten my first night in San Francisco last month.
Investigate new possibilities with friends. Now is the time!
Now BB really had something to chuckle about while I look around, noting other differences from a usual symphony performance, like the lights not being lowered for the performance and that there's a host making his way through the orchestra section with a mic, warming up the crowd.
What was especially cool, though, was that Jacques Houtmann, who'd conducted the R-Symphony from 1971-86 (so right up until I arrived in Richmond) had been tapped to lead tonight's performance of Franck's "Symphony in D Minor," which we were told in his charmingly French-accented English was particularly significant for its use of English horns (a first) and that it was written in only three movements.
Easier to digest for casual audiences, one presumes.
The program described the piece as a "cathedral of sound," which is sort of what I strive for in my living room with my turntable cranked to loud, but this was a different sort of cathedral. And while it wasn't an uplifting piece, I'm not about to complain about any aspect of starting my night surrounded by classical musicians playing.
Back on the pavement, we needed sustenance for more than the soul.
It was my first time in Maya, diagonally across from CentreStage, where I was immediately won over when I saw "tequileria" painted on the glass, found flights of tequila on the menu and heard a soundtrack playing loud enough to make things lively despite being isolated by a wall on the bar side.
I only had a bite, but his corn tamal with shrimp and scallops was stellar - sweet from corn and smoky from poblano - while my tilapia tacos suffered only for the pedestrian tortillas that cradled the fish, mango salsa, jicama, cabbage and jalapeno crema contents.
Libation-wise, my Espolon blanco won out hands down for how well it complemented both our dishes in a way that his COTU beer simply couldn't begin to match, for obvious reasons. Agave, tomatillo, poblano, hello?
Once sated, it was time to move on to my cathedral of sound for records, wine and a wide-ranging conversation that stayed fluid enough to take tangential tracks when a song lyric, a painting on my wall or a recounting of a conversation with mutual friends provoked something (the latter usually causing major laughter on his part).
I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late
Next thing you know, I'm listening to his defense of why he doesn't believe in fate, a point raised by the National's "Mr. November," a song about new blue-bloods and great white hopes. Perhaps he's both; I didn't inquire. I, on the other hand, made no defense for liking to sleep late.
I regaled him with stories from my recent past, including an evening with another friend who'd marveled at not having to "entertain" me after making me dinner because I was more than happy doing nothing more than conversing for pleasure and diversion.
We talked about people we know who are in it for the long game, despite the challenges. He explained the sonic reasons I need to ride my bike over the T Pot bridge. I let slip that I'm only 5'5", which is how he discovered I'm short.
Meanwhile, we listened to records: Lydia Loveless, Roxy Music, The National x 2, Arcade Fire, the XX.
The stars and the charts and the cards make sense
Only when we want them to
When I lie awake, staring into space
I see a different view
A tad long, but otherwise, I'd say that's practically fortune cookie material.
Showing posts with label pasture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pasture. Show all posts
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Saturday, September 5, 2015
No Looking Forward, No Turning Back
The sign nailed it: "If you're not at Texas Beach, you should be here."
It doesn't matter where the sign actually sat (in front of a consignment boutique), it was the left-behind-Labor-Day syndrome it expressed. In other words, if you didn't have somewhere near the water to be, you might as well find some amusement in the city.
I did.
Pasture was doing a county fair night and while technically I've never actually been to a county fair, I figured how hard could it be?
They'd done it up right, too, with green and white striped flags hanging behind the bar, votive candles inside popcorn bags and a ring toss on the end of the bar. A box with strings (what was that popular carnival game called?) netted me a plastic ring and miniature camera (push the shutter and see a blue rhino or pink elephant!), my evening's souvenirs.
Only the music - ABC's "The Look of Love," INXS' "Listen Like Thieves" - belied the theme, although there were undoubtedly county fairs in the '80s, too. Or did I forget and we put them on hiatus during the Reagan years? Just say no to county fairs?
Naturally there were food and drink specials such as a cotton candy cocktail (champagne and St. Germain with, yup, pink cotton candy atop it) and a pork parfait (pulled pig layered with mashed potatoes, grated cheddar and a barbecue sauce topping), both of which I ordered.
Go hard or go home, I always say. I'll work on unclogging those arteries tomorrow.
Further down the bar were a couple I knew and I heard her asking about the parfait. Since I was halfway through mine, I shared my opinion - it was obscenely good - only to have her tell me she doesn't like mashed potatoes.
Sound of record scratching.
I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes. Seems it was Halloween night '82 or '83 and her mother told her she couldn't go trick or treating until she ate her mashed potatoes, which she hated. One bite in, she started gagging and her (weak-willed) mother released her to the neighborhood streets.
All these decades later, she'll only eat smashed potatoes with recognizable lumps of potato in them. What? Like I said, I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes before.
Her husband owns a record store in the neighborhood, so of course we got on the topic of the impending bike race and what it might/might not do for the city. I was glad to hear that they'll not only stay open, but later than usual and with the ability to sell beer and wine.
That's how we show thousands of visitors what a cool town we are, not by closing or truncating hours.
I left them - him to his second jalapeno corn dog and her to her hot toddy sno-cone, both part of the county fair specials - and a good-sized crowd of Labor Day left-heres to go to Hardywood for music. A last minute show had been announced and I try not to miss an opportunity to see White Laces.
My night got off to a good start there when upon walking in, a man walked up to me and said, "That's a very fine dress, miss." After thanking him, he told me yellow was his favorite color.
Complimentary men are my favorite kind.
Hardywood was completely civilized tonight with a much smaller than usual crowd (doubtless all the cool kids were at the river or beach) and White Laces was setting up when I arrived. I found a place near the back, enjoying the breeze through the open doors and directly in front of the stage for the best sound.
I heard my name, only to see a favorite shoegaze guitarist I hadn't talked to in ages, so long that I'd had no idea he'd cut off his shoulder length hair. We chatted about music and he told me about the recent show he'd seen featuring '90s alternative bands Hum and Failure, raving about how well the '90s bands' music had held up.
Then we noticed that White Laces was leaving the stage, not a good sign considering it was time for them to start playing. Why, we wondered? Because a man had gotten permission to sing a song to his wife for her 40th birthday and all of us in the room were captive to him and 20 friends singing it aloud.
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together
Awwwwww...nothing says "I love you, honey" like Pat Benetar.
That mess over, White Laces took the stage and finally got to play their well-crafted music for the small crowd, including a new song, "Maybe Not," from the upcoming record.
I'm an unabashed fan of lead singer Landis' guitar playing and voice, but it's the overall sound of a driving rhythm section, keyboards and Landis that speaks to their strengths as a band.
They were only a few songs in when I saw another friend headed my way after a busy day doing wine tastings at the market where she works. Seems she'd recently bid on a piece of art at an auction at the brewery and was in to pick up her Ed Trask piece, a worthy addition to anyone's wall. I admitted to a little envy.
By the time the band got to "Strangulation Blues" and an announcement that it was last call, I felt a twinge of regret that their set was so short. I could have happily listened to these guys for another hour, the breeze tickling my back as it moved my hair from behind.
You know, considering my lack of invitations, I felt pretty fortunate to wind up with fair food and a last minute show. I'm not denying, I'm embracing (for worse or for better) my lack of Labor Day plans.
I'm not at any beach, so I should be here. What's next?
It doesn't matter where the sign actually sat (in front of a consignment boutique), it was the left-behind-Labor-Day syndrome it expressed. In other words, if you didn't have somewhere near the water to be, you might as well find some amusement in the city.
I did.
Pasture was doing a county fair night and while technically I've never actually been to a county fair, I figured how hard could it be?
They'd done it up right, too, with green and white striped flags hanging behind the bar, votive candles inside popcorn bags and a ring toss on the end of the bar. A box with strings (what was that popular carnival game called?) netted me a plastic ring and miniature camera (push the shutter and see a blue rhino or pink elephant!), my evening's souvenirs.
Only the music - ABC's "The Look of Love," INXS' "Listen Like Thieves" - belied the theme, although there were undoubtedly county fairs in the '80s, too. Or did I forget and we put them on hiatus during the Reagan years? Just say no to county fairs?
Naturally there were food and drink specials such as a cotton candy cocktail (champagne and St. Germain with, yup, pink cotton candy atop it) and a pork parfait (pulled pig layered with mashed potatoes, grated cheddar and a barbecue sauce topping), both of which I ordered.
Go hard or go home, I always say. I'll work on unclogging those arteries tomorrow.
Further down the bar were a couple I knew and I heard her asking about the parfait. Since I was halfway through mine, I shared my opinion - it was obscenely good - only to have her tell me she doesn't like mashed potatoes.
Sound of record scratching.
I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes. Seems it was Halloween night '82 or '83 and her mother told her she couldn't go trick or treating until she ate her mashed potatoes, which she hated. One bite in, she started gagging and her (weak-willed) mother released her to the neighborhood streets.
All these decades later, she'll only eat smashed potatoes with recognizable lumps of potato in them. What? Like I said, I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes before.
Her husband owns a record store in the neighborhood, so of course we got on the topic of the impending bike race and what it might/might not do for the city. I was glad to hear that they'll not only stay open, but later than usual and with the ability to sell beer and wine.
That's how we show thousands of visitors what a cool town we are, not by closing or truncating hours.
I left them - him to his second jalapeno corn dog and her to her hot toddy sno-cone, both part of the county fair specials - and a good-sized crowd of Labor Day left-heres to go to Hardywood for music. A last minute show had been announced and I try not to miss an opportunity to see White Laces.
My night got off to a good start there when upon walking in, a man walked up to me and said, "That's a very fine dress, miss." After thanking him, he told me yellow was his favorite color.
Complimentary men are my favorite kind.
Hardywood was completely civilized tonight with a much smaller than usual crowd (doubtless all the cool kids were at the river or beach) and White Laces was setting up when I arrived. I found a place near the back, enjoying the breeze through the open doors and directly in front of the stage for the best sound.
I heard my name, only to see a favorite shoegaze guitarist I hadn't talked to in ages, so long that I'd had no idea he'd cut off his shoulder length hair. We chatted about music and he told me about the recent show he'd seen featuring '90s alternative bands Hum and Failure, raving about how well the '90s bands' music had held up.
Then we noticed that White Laces was leaving the stage, not a good sign considering it was time for them to start playing. Why, we wondered? Because a man had gotten permission to sing a song to his wife for her 40th birthday and all of us in the room were captive to him and 20 friends singing it aloud.
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together
Awwwwww...nothing says "I love you, honey" like Pat Benetar.
That mess over, White Laces took the stage and finally got to play their well-crafted music for the small crowd, including a new song, "Maybe Not," from the upcoming record.
I'm an unabashed fan of lead singer Landis' guitar playing and voice, but it's the overall sound of a driving rhythm section, keyboards and Landis that speaks to their strengths as a band.
They were only a few songs in when I saw another friend headed my way after a busy day doing wine tastings at the market where she works. Seems she'd recently bid on a piece of art at an auction at the brewery and was in to pick up her Ed Trask piece, a worthy addition to anyone's wall. I admitted to a little envy.
By the time the band got to "Strangulation Blues" and an announcement that it was last call, I felt a twinge of regret that their set was so short. I could have happily listened to these guys for another hour, the breeze tickling my back as it moved my hair from behind.
You know, considering my lack of invitations, I felt pretty fortunate to wind up with fair food and a last minute show. I'm not denying, I'm embracing (for worse or for better) my lack of Labor Day plans.
I'm not at any beach, so I should be here. What's next?
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
A Leg Up
So maybe I wasn't the very last person invited. Maybe I was just one of the last.
All I know is that when I got home from the beach at midnight last night, there was an invitation to Style Weekly's Best of party at Hardywood awaiting me. As a token of their appreciation for my hard work writing for the issue, two bands (Upper East Side Big Band and Photosynthesizers), lots of local restaurants and beer could all be mine, if I said the word.
I said yes, figuring I'd know a few people, go early and stay just as long as I chose to. Walking out of my apartment, the new guy next door sitting on his porch smiled and gave me an approving nod. "You look really great. Got a hot date?"
Not that I know of. P.S: Second oldest line in the book.
At Hardywood, the party was just starting, so I set out to mingle. I was talking to a restaurant owner about the double whammy of Broad Appetit and today's event, munching on Pasture's ham, pickle and pimento cheese roll, when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying, "I need to say hello to those legs."
You just never know who you're going to run into out of the blue or what's been going on in their life since you saw them last (a tumultuous relationship that didn't sound like much fun and was already over), but it was like old times listening to him critique all the dishes we sampled as we talked.
He was surprised to see I wasn't drinking, having forgotten I don't drink beer. In fact, the first time we hung out over a three-hour conversation, he'd e-mailed me when he got home with a fine compliment: "You'd be perfect if you drank beer." Not true, but flattering.
My friend and former neighbor, the councilman, introduced me to the owner of Paradise Garage, so I got to hear about his fabulous fundraiser parties. Maybe now my invitation will show up in the mail. When we went to try Torero Tapas Bar and Grill's paella, one of the chefs turned out to be a familiar face from another restaurant I frequent.
At the Alamo table, I asked for a sample of everything (although my hands-down favorite is that cowboy caviar) and looked around to see a disappointed-looking singer I've met before. Poor man doesn't eat pork and was having a devil of a time finding anything else at the party. This is a pig-centric town, after all.
Not shy, I didn't hesitate to ask the Alamo server if he had anything non-pig and sure enough, he got barbecued chicken for him from the back. Never hurts to ask...or to score points with a musician
Upper East Side Big Band was playing when I arrived so I caught most of their set, unsurprisingly a lot of clever arrangements of Beatles' songs ("Something" to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), and then later, part of Photosynthesizers' set as well. I was honestly amazed at how few people were in the room listening to music at any given time.
It was the photographer I'd first met at the "Man Meat" dinner seven years ago who steered me to Goatacado, where, against his advice, I skipped over the Athena for the Mountain Tropp, a killer bowl of warm quinoa, arugula, smoked Gouda, avocado, black beans, plus apple and sweet corn pico de gallo in lime mango sauce.
Apparently I looked like I was enjoying the hell out of it (true story) because twice strangers came over and asked what I was eating because it looked so good. I sent them straight to the goat.
I decided I'd had enough savory to earn my sweet, a chocolate sea salt pop from King of Pops (the guy who handed it to me agreed). I carried it inside, letting it soften, and ran into the talented and energetic actor/singer I'd come to see here Saturday night.
We talked about that show for a minute and he started razzing me about being at Hardywood so often. "Want a beer?" he said, laughing and already knowing the answer. "Gotta ask!"
Outside, I saw a patient Mom occupying her two little ones with the cornhole boxes and before long, her youngest was smiling at me and trying to impress me with his toddler moves. It was very sweet. Then his hip father steps over to speak to me and says, "Are you still doing your blog?"
Hello! Once again, my past had shown up at the party. This time it was a musician I'd met seven or eight years ago when he'd been in a band I'd really liked. I'd interviewed them, been to plenty of their shows but hadn't seen him in eons. Apparently he'd been busy in that interim.
Just as I decided to leave, a friend insisted I try a beer that had been brewed with a wine component, something still in development, but he was praising it for its integration of the two. Couldn't I taste that? I'll take my wine straight, thanks, although not at Hardywood.
Walking to my car, I realized I'd had a far better time at the party than I'd expected, but then who doesn't like getting reacquainted when it comes with sides of compliments and dinner invitations?
Leaving behind that crowd, my next destination was the great outdoors for live music. It's the first of this series I'd made it to this year, despite frequent attendance the last two years.
Plenty of people had brought blankets (a lot of the Indian print kind we all had in college) and beer (although the girl next to me forgot an opener. Duh), but not me. I found a wooden bench with a good view of the band and got comfortable, scanning the grass for my people. Before long, the organizer came over to say hello and update me on the band tour he's been working on as a roadie.
One thing I noticed right away was that the crowd was larger and more diverse age-wise than it had been in the past, a good thing. Since the organizers insist on no social media about the event, it looks like their goal of community building in real life is working. Hooray for the old ways.
The dance party king showed up and we commiserated about the (possible) loss of Balliceaux. I was certain he'd also been there that last night but I hadn't laid eyes on him. Sure enough, he'd been just as bummed as I was about the loss to the scene
I was happy to see the world travelers arrive, also recently back from their own tour. She thanked me kindly for the blog post about her outdoor birthday party, a laid back and enjoyable night with a potluck supper, a campfire, music on cassette and wide-ranging conversation. I thanked her for providing great fodder for me to write about, not to mention a thoroughly pleasant evening outdoors.
When they didn't recognize the band, Manatree, they asked who it was. "Man, they're babies!" my lanky friend said. If they looked like babies to him, they should have looked like embryos to me.
But of course, they don't because I've seen them plenty of times, although never unplugged like they were in the park tonight. There were even times when the annoying stage-whispering and laughing of self-involved twits near me all but drowned out their voices, guitars, fiddle, flute and tambourine. Only the drum beat out the rudeness.
Do I need to get back on my soap box about talkers not ruining the experience of others? If you go to a show to blather and not listen, at least have the decency to go to the back. Yeesh, I'd swear some people were raised by wolves.
Filling out their sound for the first time tonight were two female singers, also the source of the flute and fiddle playing. It was such a different experience hearing Manatree this way when their usual M.O. is short, hard, fast and loud. Tonight their sound was folky, harmonious and almost pretty.
During one song at dusk, the buzzing insects in the trees around us began humming in time with the tambourine shakes and drumbeats while fireflies lit on and off around our heads. It doesn't get much groovier than that.
It might have been perfect, but I didn't drink beer.
All I know is that when I got home from the beach at midnight last night, there was an invitation to Style Weekly's Best of party at Hardywood awaiting me. As a token of their appreciation for my hard work writing for the issue, two bands (Upper East Side Big Band and Photosynthesizers), lots of local restaurants and beer could all be mine, if I said the word.
I said yes, figuring I'd know a few people, go early and stay just as long as I chose to. Walking out of my apartment, the new guy next door sitting on his porch smiled and gave me an approving nod. "You look really great. Got a hot date?"
Not that I know of. P.S: Second oldest line in the book.
At Hardywood, the party was just starting, so I set out to mingle. I was talking to a restaurant owner about the double whammy of Broad Appetit and today's event, munching on Pasture's ham, pickle and pimento cheese roll, when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying, "I need to say hello to those legs."
You just never know who you're going to run into out of the blue or what's been going on in their life since you saw them last (a tumultuous relationship that didn't sound like much fun and was already over), but it was like old times listening to him critique all the dishes we sampled as we talked.
He was surprised to see I wasn't drinking, having forgotten I don't drink beer. In fact, the first time we hung out over a three-hour conversation, he'd e-mailed me when he got home with a fine compliment: "You'd be perfect if you drank beer." Not true, but flattering.
My friend and former neighbor, the councilman, introduced me to the owner of Paradise Garage, so I got to hear about his fabulous fundraiser parties. Maybe now my invitation will show up in the mail. When we went to try Torero Tapas Bar and Grill's paella, one of the chefs turned out to be a familiar face from another restaurant I frequent.
At the Alamo table, I asked for a sample of everything (although my hands-down favorite is that cowboy caviar) and looked around to see a disappointed-looking singer I've met before. Poor man doesn't eat pork and was having a devil of a time finding anything else at the party. This is a pig-centric town, after all.
Not shy, I didn't hesitate to ask the Alamo server if he had anything non-pig and sure enough, he got barbecued chicken for him from the back. Never hurts to ask...or to score points with a musician
Upper East Side Big Band was playing when I arrived so I caught most of their set, unsurprisingly a lot of clever arrangements of Beatles' songs ("Something" to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), and then later, part of Photosynthesizers' set as well. I was honestly amazed at how few people were in the room listening to music at any given time.
It was the photographer I'd first met at the "Man Meat" dinner seven years ago who steered me to Goatacado, where, against his advice, I skipped over the Athena for the Mountain Tropp, a killer bowl of warm quinoa, arugula, smoked Gouda, avocado, black beans, plus apple and sweet corn pico de gallo in lime mango sauce.
Apparently I looked like I was enjoying the hell out of it (true story) because twice strangers came over and asked what I was eating because it looked so good. I sent them straight to the goat.
I decided I'd had enough savory to earn my sweet, a chocolate sea salt pop from King of Pops (the guy who handed it to me agreed). I carried it inside, letting it soften, and ran into the talented and energetic actor/singer I'd come to see here Saturday night.
We talked about that show for a minute and he started razzing me about being at Hardywood so often. "Want a beer?" he said, laughing and already knowing the answer. "Gotta ask!"
Outside, I saw a patient Mom occupying her two little ones with the cornhole boxes and before long, her youngest was smiling at me and trying to impress me with his toddler moves. It was very sweet. Then his hip father steps over to speak to me and says, "Are you still doing your blog?"
Hello! Once again, my past had shown up at the party. This time it was a musician I'd met seven or eight years ago when he'd been in a band I'd really liked. I'd interviewed them, been to plenty of their shows but hadn't seen him in eons. Apparently he'd been busy in that interim.
Just as I decided to leave, a friend insisted I try a beer that had been brewed with a wine component, something still in development, but he was praising it for its integration of the two. Couldn't I taste that? I'll take my wine straight, thanks, although not at Hardywood.
Walking to my car, I realized I'd had a far better time at the party than I'd expected, but then who doesn't like getting reacquainted when it comes with sides of compliments and dinner invitations?
Leaving behind that crowd, my next destination was the great outdoors for live music. It's the first of this series I'd made it to this year, despite frequent attendance the last two years.
Plenty of people had brought blankets (a lot of the Indian print kind we all had in college) and beer (although the girl next to me forgot an opener. Duh), but not me. I found a wooden bench with a good view of the band and got comfortable, scanning the grass for my people. Before long, the organizer came over to say hello and update me on the band tour he's been working on as a roadie.
One thing I noticed right away was that the crowd was larger and more diverse age-wise than it had been in the past, a good thing. Since the organizers insist on no social media about the event, it looks like their goal of community building in real life is working. Hooray for the old ways.
The dance party king showed up and we commiserated about the (possible) loss of Balliceaux. I was certain he'd also been there that last night but I hadn't laid eyes on him. Sure enough, he'd been just as bummed as I was about the loss to the scene
I was happy to see the world travelers arrive, also recently back from their own tour. She thanked me kindly for the blog post about her outdoor birthday party, a laid back and enjoyable night with a potluck supper, a campfire, music on cassette and wide-ranging conversation. I thanked her for providing great fodder for me to write about, not to mention a thoroughly pleasant evening outdoors.
When they didn't recognize the band, Manatree, they asked who it was. "Man, they're babies!" my lanky friend said. If they looked like babies to him, they should have looked like embryos to me.
But of course, they don't because I've seen them plenty of times, although never unplugged like they were in the park tonight. There were even times when the annoying stage-whispering and laughing of self-involved twits near me all but drowned out their voices, guitars, fiddle, flute and tambourine. Only the drum beat out the rudeness.
Do I need to get back on my soap box about talkers not ruining the experience of others? If you go to a show to blather and not listen, at least have the decency to go to the back. Yeesh, I'd swear some people were raised by wolves.
Filling out their sound for the first time tonight were two female singers, also the source of the flute and fiddle playing. It was such a different experience hearing Manatree this way when their usual M.O. is short, hard, fast and loud. Tonight their sound was folky, harmonious and almost pretty.
During one song at dusk, the buzzing insects in the trees around us began humming in time with the tambourine shakes and drumbeats while fireflies lit on and off around our heads. It doesn't get much groovier than that.
It might have been perfect, but I didn't drink beer.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Holiday Antidote
Happy birthday and Merry Christmas all in the same night.
It was celebration time for a friend and former co-worker so he'd invited his dearly beloved to Pasture to fete him. I was just glad he'd picked Pasture and not someplace further afield since my vehicle is out of commission.
Walking by Rappahannock, I saw it was mobbed with suits (private party) and Pasture wasn't much less crowded with the birthday celebration coinciding with a Modern Richmond happy hour. I've been wanting to go to one of their events for a while and haven't yet, but I did get to meet the organizer tonight, where I was introduced as "Karen, a woman about town."
That's one way of putting it.
I'd brought my friend the gift of cookies, a nod to the first year we were friends when I left six dozen cookies on his desk at work and he about burst with pleasure at the unexpected gift. We've been friends long enough now that he knows to expect a doctored card (I fill in the speech bubbles to suit our history) and cookies.
After catching up with a theater-loving friend who'd missed seeing "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," I spent time chatting with a favorite music writer about the lack of local girl bands, upcoming shows we need to see and the importance of learning how to discourse rather than argue.
When you want to make a point, it's best to stay calm, we agreed.
To fuel our banter, I ordered pinto bean dip with garden salsa and hot oil for scooping with tortilla chips. I love me some beans.
When I couldn't finish the chips, I handed the little brown bag of remainders to the birthday boy who happily munched away after already having far too many birthday drinks bought for him. I foresee a hangover for him tomorrow, a shame since he has work training tomorrow.
Midway through my conversation with the music writer, I spotted a former restaurateur I hadn't seen in ages and took some time to catch up with her. Facebook had let me know that she'd met the love of her life, but I wanted to hear the story.
It was a doozy, beginning with a last minute invitation to a friend wedding in the islands, a persistently romantic man she met in the wedding party ("He said he knew the moment he laid eyes on me"), fireworks exploding over them on a darkened beach and now she's moving north to live with him happily ever after.
I couldn't have been happier for her happiness. She said she'd about given up at her age (34, pshaw!) of finding Mr. Right and getting the whole fairy tale romance when boom! It landed in her lap when she least expected it.
Heaven knows, I'm enthralled with a romantic love story.
After a couple of hours at the party, it was time to bundle up and walk over to the Speakeasy for a staged reading of Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge. The house was rapidly filling up when I asked a couple if I could join their table, followed by a noted dancer and a culture big shot and his wife.
The table's original occupants were there because their daughter was ushering and they had loads of questions about theater in Richmond since they'd only recently started getting out to see plays and readings with her. In short order, they wanted the scoop on Firehouse Theater and why everyone in the room seemed to know each other. Our advice was not to miss the Acts of Faith preview.
Then it was time for a seriously hilarious holiday mashup.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than balanced the retro and wholesome Christmas vibes I'd gotten seeing "White Christmas" Sunday. Or walking through any store right now.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters). The play posits that Ebenezer Scrooge's habit of saying "bah humbug" would be considered Tourette's syndrome these days.
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future, written for a black woman and played to perfection by Katrinah Carol Lewis, got laughs when Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1843."
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her cheerfully sanctimonious husband, who tells his children, "Okay, on the count of three, everybody weep." And they do while the Mrs. rolls her eyes.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling put in appearances trying to involve Scrooge in a scam to sell "energy shares" and the ghost of Christmas past came dressed as a UPS delivery man. A scene from Scrooge's childhood ends up being a scene from "Oliver" with the plaintive, "May I have more, sir?" getting a big laugh.
The ghost of Christmas present scene had a Dutch couple exchanging gifts - a watch chain and hair comb - a tableau straight out of "The Gift of the Magi."
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem (after he supplies happy Meals for the Cratchit's Christmas dinner) as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery.
But not before Mia Farrow takes 18 of the unwanted Cratchit children off their hands.
Todd Schall-Vess did a superb job as George Bailey, mimicking not only the timbre of Jimmy Stewart's voice but the exact cadence of the lines. No surprise there since the Byrd shows it every Christmas and Todd introduces it.
The twist that joins Scrooge and Mrs. Bob Cratchit in co-joined nastiness lands them in, when else, 1977, where they become Harry and Leona Helmsley. "Do something mean and let me watch," Scrooge tells her.
By the end of the play, the ghost is searching for a moral to the story, offering several possibilities and finally settling on this: If you're happy, you can be poor and if you're mean, you better get money.
Walking home in the cold night air, it hit me. Happiness must be the reason I can be so poor.
On the flip side, a mean person wouldn't have had to walk. Even so, I'll take it.
It was celebration time for a friend and former co-worker so he'd invited his dearly beloved to Pasture to fete him. I was just glad he'd picked Pasture and not someplace further afield since my vehicle is out of commission.
Walking by Rappahannock, I saw it was mobbed with suits (private party) and Pasture wasn't much less crowded with the birthday celebration coinciding with a Modern Richmond happy hour. I've been wanting to go to one of their events for a while and haven't yet, but I did get to meet the organizer tonight, where I was introduced as "Karen, a woman about town."
That's one way of putting it.
I'd brought my friend the gift of cookies, a nod to the first year we were friends when I left six dozen cookies on his desk at work and he about burst with pleasure at the unexpected gift. We've been friends long enough now that he knows to expect a doctored card (I fill in the speech bubbles to suit our history) and cookies.
After catching up with a theater-loving friend who'd missed seeing "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," I spent time chatting with a favorite music writer about the lack of local girl bands, upcoming shows we need to see and the importance of learning how to discourse rather than argue.
When you want to make a point, it's best to stay calm, we agreed.
To fuel our banter, I ordered pinto bean dip with garden salsa and hot oil for scooping with tortilla chips. I love me some beans.
When I couldn't finish the chips, I handed the little brown bag of remainders to the birthday boy who happily munched away after already having far too many birthday drinks bought for him. I foresee a hangover for him tomorrow, a shame since he has work training tomorrow.
Midway through my conversation with the music writer, I spotted a former restaurateur I hadn't seen in ages and took some time to catch up with her. Facebook had let me know that she'd met the love of her life, but I wanted to hear the story.
It was a doozy, beginning with a last minute invitation to a friend wedding in the islands, a persistently romantic man she met in the wedding party ("He said he knew the moment he laid eyes on me"), fireworks exploding over them on a darkened beach and now she's moving north to live with him happily ever after.
I couldn't have been happier for her happiness. She said she'd about given up at her age (34, pshaw!) of finding Mr. Right and getting the whole fairy tale romance when boom! It landed in her lap when she least expected it.
Heaven knows, I'm enthralled with a romantic love story.
After a couple of hours at the party, it was time to bundle up and walk over to the Speakeasy for a staged reading of Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge. The house was rapidly filling up when I asked a couple if I could join their table, followed by a noted dancer and a culture big shot and his wife.
The table's original occupants were there because their daughter was ushering and they had loads of questions about theater in Richmond since they'd only recently started getting out to see plays and readings with her. In short order, they wanted the scoop on Firehouse Theater and why everyone in the room seemed to know each other. Our advice was not to miss the Acts of Faith preview.
Then it was time for a seriously hilarious holiday mashup.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than balanced the retro and wholesome Christmas vibes I'd gotten seeing "White Christmas" Sunday. Or walking through any store right now.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters). The play posits that Ebenezer Scrooge's habit of saying "bah humbug" would be considered Tourette's syndrome these days.
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future, written for a black woman and played to perfection by Katrinah Carol Lewis, got laughs when Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1843."
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her cheerfully sanctimonious husband, who tells his children, "Okay, on the count of three, everybody weep." And they do while the Mrs. rolls her eyes.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling put in appearances trying to involve Scrooge in a scam to sell "energy shares" and the ghost of Christmas past came dressed as a UPS delivery man. A scene from Scrooge's childhood ends up being a scene from "Oliver" with the plaintive, "May I have more, sir?" getting a big laugh.
The ghost of Christmas present scene had a Dutch couple exchanging gifts - a watch chain and hair comb - a tableau straight out of "The Gift of the Magi."
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem (after he supplies happy Meals for the Cratchit's Christmas dinner) as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery.
But not before Mia Farrow takes 18 of the unwanted Cratchit children off their hands.
Todd Schall-Vess did a superb job as George Bailey, mimicking not only the timbre of Jimmy Stewart's voice but the exact cadence of the lines. No surprise there since the Byrd shows it every Christmas and Todd introduces it.
The twist that joins Scrooge and Mrs. Bob Cratchit in co-joined nastiness lands them in, when else, 1977, where they become Harry and Leona Helmsley. "Do something mean and let me watch," Scrooge tells her.
By the end of the play, the ghost is searching for a moral to the story, offering several possibilities and finally settling on this: If you're happy, you can be poor and if you're mean, you better get money.
Walking home in the cold night air, it hit me. Happiness must be the reason I can be so poor.
On the flip side, a mean person wouldn't have had to walk. Even so, I'll take it.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
More Feeling Than Fact
I made sure that this last day of July was a good one.
Beginning with a walk down to the river and along the pipeline walkway, I made the most of the blue skies and low humidity.
I chose to ignore the guy siting on the sidewalk who commented, "Look at those cheeks!" when I walked by.
This afternoon, a favorite drummer came by to bring me a painting he'd done for me in exchange for some writing I'd done for him.
He described it as an analogy for me: it has a decided colorful streak near the middle but it's not a bright painting. I loved it when he said that there are five other paintings under the one I ended up with.
It now holds a place of honor in my living room.
My evening began at Pasture for the "Case for Hope" drive, a happy hour collection of suitcases and duffel bags for children in foster care.
It's too good a cause not to support and I'd been out of town for the last drive, so I wasn't missing this one.
When I walked in with my three suitcases at 5 sharp, no one was there except Michele, the organizer of the event, and she was being interviewed by ABC.
Despite that, she broke to say hi to me before resuming answering questions.
After adding my bags to the pile, I headed to the bar for a glass of Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, spending some time talking to the guy from United Methodist Family Services who, like me, was wearing skinny orange stripes tonight.
What are the chances, we wondered.
Before long friends arrived: the PR whiz, my favorite Hopewell resident, the restaurant owner. I had just enough time to discuss "Cabaret," the music schedule at Strangeways Brewing and how hard it is to get a partner to do what you want before I had to leave.
After donating to a good cause, it was time for me to feed my head and Chop Suey was having a poetry reading.
Browsing the bookshelves before it even got started, I spotted the lovely poet across the room and she made it clear we had things to discuss after her month in France. Before long, she cornered me next to the music books.
Irish men, the Loire valley, camping near Geneva and bicycle tours, that's all I'm going to say about what she shared. Really, who could have a bad time in France for a month?
I especially loved her descriptions of how overwhelming it was to experience so much new and wonderful on a daily basis.
Then we found seats in the hard folding chairs arranged in rows between the shelves and waited for the magic to begin. I'm the first to admit that I love being read to.
Reading first was non-poet Meg Rains (mistakenly introduced as a "poof-reader") reading from a short non-fiction piece called, "The Memory of My Disappearance."
Favorite line: Memory is more feeling than fact.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson got up next and read for far too brief a time.
His last new book of poetry, "Swamp Isthmus" provided some intriguing imagery such as "the moon flinches, flickers" and "poems composed in the battle of night."
Sometimes night is a battle, no?
From "Fortnight's Insignia," he read, "So it's going to be that kind of a century?" and referred to "the storm's indifference to its vehicle," something I can attest to after witnessing my first hurricane earlier this month.
I would have liked to have heard more from this quiet-voiced man.
Last to read was Zachary Schomburg, whose poetry was referred to as "emotionally confusing," by Chop Suey owner Ward, who introduced Schomburg.
Saying he was going to read from his latest, "Book of Joshua," he explained the story began in 1977 and ended in 2044.
He began reading from the 1977 portion and then took audience shout-outs for the remainder.
After reading a section from 1977, someone called out 1982 and he read from that. Then 1993 and eventually 2014 ("Life is a slow farewell") and 2023.
"And then more stuff happens and then he dies," Schomburg said wrapping up quickly.
Next he put music on and read another poem to it ("I want inside you in a good way") and then added in a recording of words being said.
Schomburg continued to read the poem while the recorded voice ("This is Joshua, but not a Joshua you know") read something else and words overlapped. It had become performance art.
When the reading ended, we took a stroll up Cary Street to Pomegranate because while I'd been several times, my companion had never been.
Navigating closed sidewalks, frozen yogurt eaters (including a city councilman) and packs of annoying West End 20-somethings, we made it in time for happy hour.
Taking advantage of the hour with Pinto Gris, we began with blue fish two ways - pickled and hash- with pickled onions and beets with creme fraiche and crostini.
We noticed a table for one upstairs, off the main dining room and backed against a wall on a narrow overlook, a seemingly odd place to dine. It looked like the "time out" table.
You know, in case you misbehaved at the restaurant.
Next up I had buttermilk fried quail confit over obscenely rich butter whipped potatoes with pancetta cream and it occurred to me I hadn't had mashed potatoes probably since Thanksgiving.
Too long.
My date had an enormous and phallic-looking housemade pork sausage over polenta, positively delicious but way more food than I could have eaten, so I made do with one bite.
By the time we left, Carytown was a bit calmer and we window shopped, looking at bikes, lingerie and kitchen utensils along the way.
We finished off the evening with Cantina Puianello Lambrusco and oblique references to when pigs fly.
On a day as good as this, who knows? I'd like to think anything is possible.
Beginning with a walk down to the river and along the pipeline walkway, I made the most of the blue skies and low humidity.
I chose to ignore the guy siting on the sidewalk who commented, "Look at those cheeks!" when I walked by.
This afternoon, a favorite drummer came by to bring me a painting he'd done for me in exchange for some writing I'd done for him.
He described it as an analogy for me: it has a decided colorful streak near the middle but it's not a bright painting. I loved it when he said that there are five other paintings under the one I ended up with.
It now holds a place of honor in my living room.
My evening began at Pasture for the "Case for Hope" drive, a happy hour collection of suitcases and duffel bags for children in foster care.
It's too good a cause not to support and I'd been out of town for the last drive, so I wasn't missing this one.
When I walked in with my three suitcases at 5 sharp, no one was there except Michele, the organizer of the event, and she was being interviewed by ABC.
Despite that, she broke to say hi to me before resuming answering questions.
After adding my bags to the pile, I headed to the bar for a glass of Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, spending some time talking to the guy from United Methodist Family Services who, like me, was wearing skinny orange stripes tonight.
What are the chances, we wondered.
Before long friends arrived: the PR whiz, my favorite Hopewell resident, the restaurant owner. I had just enough time to discuss "Cabaret," the music schedule at Strangeways Brewing and how hard it is to get a partner to do what you want before I had to leave.
After donating to a good cause, it was time for me to feed my head and Chop Suey was having a poetry reading.
Browsing the bookshelves before it even got started, I spotted the lovely poet across the room and she made it clear we had things to discuss after her month in France. Before long, she cornered me next to the music books.
Irish men, the Loire valley, camping near Geneva and bicycle tours, that's all I'm going to say about what she shared. Really, who could have a bad time in France for a month?
I especially loved her descriptions of how overwhelming it was to experience so much new and wonderful on a daily basis.
Then we found seats in the hard folding chairs arranged in rows between the shelves and waited for the magic to begin. I'm the first to admit that I love being read to.
Reading first was non-poet Meg Rains (mistakenly introduced as a "poof-reader") reading from a short non-fiction piece called, "The Memory of My Disappearance."
Favorite line: Memory is more feeling than fact.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson got up next and read for far too brief a time.
His last new book of poetry, "Swamp Isthmus" provided some intriguing imagery such as "the moon flinches, flickers" and "poems composed in the battle of night."
Sometimes night is a battle, no?
From "Fortnight's Insignia," he read, "So it's going to be that kind of a century?" and referred to "the storm's indifference to its vehicle," something I can attest to after witnessing my first hurricane earlier this month.
I would have liked to have heard more from this quiet-voiced man.
Last to read was Zachary Schomburg, whose poetry was referred to as "emotionally confusing," by Chop Suey owner Ward, who introduced Schomburg.
Saying he was going to read from his latest, "Book of Joshua," he explained the story began in 1977 and ended in 2044.
He began reading from the 1977 portion and then took audience shout-outs for the remainder.
After reading a section from 1977, someone called out 1982 and he read from that. Then 1993 and eventually 2014 ("Life is a slow farewell") and 2023.
"And then more stuff happens and then he dies," Schomburg said wrapping up quickly.
Next he put music on and read another poem to it ("I want inside you in a good way") and then added in a recording of words being said.
Schomburg continued to read the poem while the recorded voice ("This is Joshua, but not a Joshua you know") read something else and words overlapped. It had become performance art.
When the reading ended, we took a stroll up Cary Street to Pomegranate because while I'd been several times, my companion had never been.
Navigating closed sidewalks, frozen yogurt eaters (including a city councilman) and packs of annoying West End 20-somethings, we made it in time for happy hour.
Taking advantage of the hour with Pinto Gris, we began with blue fish two ways - pickled and hash- with pickled onions and beets with creme fraiche and crostini.
We noticed a table for one upstairs, off the main dining room and backed against a wall on a narrow overlook, a seemingly odd place to dine. It looked like the "time out" table.
You know, in case you misbehaved at the restaurant.
Next up I had buttermilk fried quail confit over obscenely rich butter whipped potatoes with pancetta cream and it occurred to me I hadn't had mashed potatoes probably since Thanksgiving.
Too long.
My date had an enormous and phallic-looking housemade pork sausage over polenta, positively delicious but way more food than I could have eaten, so I made do with one bite.
By the time we left, Carytown was a bit calmer and we window shopped, looking at bikes, lingerie and kitchen utensils along the way.
We finished off the evening with Cantina Puianello Lambrusco and oblique references to when pigs fly.
On a day as good as this, who knows? I'd like to think anything is possible.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
I'm Gonna Be an Optimist about This
I don't often make the rounds on Saturday night.
But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.
I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.
The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.
Not much I can do about my girl parts.
We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine
The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.
We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.
Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.
Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.
A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.
After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.
If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.
One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.
Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.
We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.
Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.
We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.
Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.
All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.
Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.
We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.
The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.
When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.
With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.
But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.
Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.
But when a friend suggested a progressive evening, and pink at that, I signed on for the sheer novelty value of it.
I chose a thrift store find my friend Pru had procured for me (for a whopping $3.50) and made my way to our first point of congregation, Pasture, mainly because one of us had never been.
The music was safe- "Under Pressure" and "Safety Dance"- and the service was wildly variable considering the bar wasn't that crowded. One of the guys observed that men seemed to merit better service than women.
Not much I can do about my girl parts.
We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well, they're no friends of mine
The five of us made the most of a couple of bottles of Le Petit Balthazar, a Cinsault Rose the color of pink diamonds while crowds filled the tables and booths around us.
We tried a few nibbles - chips and dip (the chips being stellar) and meatballs with redneck romesco, more or less so-so.
Holmes told us about his post-tax day revelry, which involved alternating whiskey with tequila, as sure a recipe for disaster as any I've heard. Today they'd spent lunching on the Potomac.
Before we knew it, it was time to hit Rappahannock, where we fell hard for Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose, a wine I first had back in 2011 and bonded with immediately for its earthiness and delicacy.
A blog reader had been so taken with my prose about Peysarrol then that he'd commented about it, forever bonding us on the subject of great Roses.
After Old Salte oysters, my personal favorite, oysters and pearls (Rappahannock oysters with trout caviar) and wood-grilled octopus in piquillo pepper sauce with blood orange that had the Frog and me in raptures, we had to conclude that the food far surpassed the service. A pity, really, especially considering the noise level in the room.
If you're going to be noisy, at least be efficient.
One in our group opted for the Thibaut-Jannison blanc de Chardonnay, a perfectly beautiful expression of Virginia sparkling, offering me a taste and cementing my opinion of Claude's talent with bubbles.
Yes, ma'am, I could drink that all night long. But tonight was all about the pink.
We eventually abandoned Grace Street for Manchester, since the Frog had proposed Camden's as our final resting place and we were all about following his lead.
Someone has to be in charge or we'd forget all about the dining portion of the evening.
We arrived to find the last of the leftovers from Legend Brewery's 20th anniversary celebration, a drunken lot if ever there was one.
Ignoring the slurring remains, my party of five headed straight for the wine cases, choosing three sparkling Roses to accompany our dinner.
All three of the women in the group are rabid fans of bubbly pink, meaning we were suckers for the chilled array we found waiting for us.
Monmousseau Brut Rose kicked things off as we discussed the perils of Easter on Parade, the upcoming restaurant week and how to get to Merroir. Hint: not Route 360.
We got the party started with appetizers of seared scallops followed by roasted pork with banana, a perfect pairing of sweet and savory.
The lovely Monrovia Farms beef was all over the specials menu and two in our group chose the Monrovia Farms pot roast, reveling in the long-cooked and flavorful meat and veggies.
When we moved on to Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace, I decided on steak frites, a bavette of bottom sirloin with horseradish sauce, fries and a salad, a sweeping representation of all the food groups on one plate.
With the Killers and Bastille playing overhead, we tackled our final bottle of Gruet Brut Rose, an ideal pairing for our chocolate pate with walnut crust, a necessity for the women in the group and of negligible importance to the guys.
But if you close your eyes
does it almost feel like
nothing's changed at all?
Does it almost feel like
you've been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
I usually try to keep Saturdays to a dull roar, unwilling to join the weekend amateurs, but sometimes you just gotta put on a $3.50 dress and let it your pink freak flag fly.
Especially when you don't want your friends to leave you behind.
Friday, February 28, 2014
The Big Night
It was a night for wine, women and song.
Secco was hosting a night in Venice wine party and since I've yet to visit the actual Venice, a proxy evening seemed like just the ticket.
I walked in and staked my territory at the bar, awaiting the arrival of my evening's companion, Roxy.
She soon arrived and we stationed ourselves at the corner of the bar with a view of everything while the music was set to the Italian cafe station on Pandora. As one woman noted, it sounded like the soundtrack to "The Big Night."
Our starting libation was a Venetian spritz of Adami Prosecco "Garbel" with Cappelletti, a slightly bitter wine equivalent of Aperol, making for a refreshing way to begin the evening, even more so when enjoyed with an aged and salty cheese.
There were no gondolas, but we were off to a fine start.
The overwhelmingly estrogen-based population of the bar was soon jarred by the arrival of a strapping, young man who had wandered into the Venetian fray.
When the evening's plan was revealed, he gamely agreed to buy into it, despite this being a first date and an"almost blind" one at that.
I advised him that a first date where there were four courses and five wines would separate the girls from the women and he took my advice and paid for two in advance.
Now I had a front row seat to a first date.
Roxy and I chatted about her favorite Riesling and Champagne (both available on the chalkboard) and about how much she misses her people in San Jose. So much so she will soon move back.
Where she reminded me, she will pay $850 more for an apartment that is 300 square feet smaller than her beautiful Miller & Rhoads condo.
I have a sentimental attachment to San Jose since my best friend from college was born and raised in San Jose, making Roxy and I practically blood sisters.
Once everyone was ensconced at tables and bar, we were served Dal Maso 2012 Gambellara Ca'Fischele, a fine and acidic wine that neared perfection when eaten with tuna tartare set into hard-boiled eggs with capers and aioli.
Just as we were swooning over this blissful match, marinated squid salad with kale, garlic and chick peas arrived, again demonstrating how perfectly the acidic wine worked with the seafood and salt.
Roxy and I raised a glass to the chef's brilliance. "I'd marry him," Roxy observed. It's tough to beat a man who can cook.
Next came crispy Fontina chips filled with seared cauliflower, parsley and lemon paired with Corte Majoli 2012 Valpolicella, a medium bodied red that showed even better with the obscenely rich next course.
Chicken liver mousse sat atop grilled polenta, accompanied by chicken fat-stewed onions and bits of fried chicken skin, an altogether decadent dish that positively sang with the wine.
As our server noted, it came with a side of Lipitor.
Roxy and I alternately made orgasmic sounds about the dish and flapped our gums about how obscene it was.
Meanwhile, the first dater next to me was telling the girl, "This has a really unusual taste. I've never had liver before. I usually go paleo during the week."
Son, there's nothing paleo about chicken liver or chicken fat. Just so you know.
And, P.S. Corny lines like, "I just want to know more about your family life" make it tough to keep my liver down.
While waiting for the next course, I took a side trip to the loo, but was stopped by Chef Mike, who was offering up samples to all who passed by.
"This'll be the best bite of the night," he assured me. The piece of Dixie doughnut with a schmear of chicken liver may have been the closest thing to heaven my mouth has tasted.
I returned to a plate of beef and potato meatballs with orange peel and fennel seed in a fennel tomato sauce and matched with Zanta 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon "Due Santi," a complex, full-bodied wine that was a worthy counterpoint to the meatballs.
Truth be told, Roxy and I were lagging by this point.
Oh, not conversationally. First marriages, dimples, body confidence, we'd covered quite a bit. But our stomachs were not bottomless.
Finally the last course arrived, a chocolate roll with roasted nuts and topped with vanilla citrus whipped cream, paired with one of the last four bottles in the state of Dal Maso's 2007 late harvest sweet wine.
For no good reason, this led to a conversation about Deleon Tequila, which Roxy had recently enjoyed with her boyfriend in San Jose and which provided me with a recommendation for something new to try, assuming the VA ABC deems it acceptable to carry.
I'll certainly find out.
Back to the dessert, I have no compunction about admitting my love for chocolate, nuts and cream and while Roxy found the Dal Maso overly sweet, I found it a lovely complement to the chocolate.
I'm not saying it topped the Dixie doughnut with chicken liver mousse, but it was damn good.
After saying farewell to Roxy, I left to pick up a girlfriend for a Virginia wine crawl. Because, you know, one wine event an evening is not enough.
Approaching Pasture, we were greeted by fire performers, breathing and showing off with fire, something I've seen at Gallery 5 enough times to stop worrying if they're going to singe the hair right off their faces or not.
Inside, it was just as circus-like, with acrobats on the floor supporting other acrobats in mid-air.
My friend looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me away from the performers.
Near the back, we found a table serving Breaux Vineyards "Marquis de Lafayette," a shining example of Cabernet Franc, a grape she and I love.
Glasses in hand, we escaped to a table away from the hordes and sat down to catch up on girl stuff, oblivious to the networking going on around us.
We let the interested parties come to us, with only a brief foray out to collect some Gabriele Rausse Nebbiolo, a wine I like so much I once worked an entire day at the Virginia Wine Expo just to score bottles of this luscious grape.
Our idyllic girl time was interrupted when Jason Tessauro mounted the table next top us and began reciting his ode to Virginia wine, with highlights like, "To be or Tannat" and "I deem any man a liar who don't dig Matthew Meyer" (Williamsburg Winery's winemaker), "Keep your loyalties looser" and the fitting closer, "Has Virginia wine arrived? You bet your ass!"
Fortunately, he then dismounted from the table. the ideal moment to escape the madness and make our way to destination #2, Rappahannock.
There we found an old friend from the former Six Burner, Tracey, and Blenheim Winery's winemaker, who was gracious enough to pour us a taste of "Painted White," a delectable blend of Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier being served with scallop ceviche.
The evening's music came courtesy of my neighborhood DJ, Marty of Steady Sounds, and I have to say it was a mix of music I'd never heard him play.
Prince. Michael Jackson, Donna Summer. Diana Ross. Madonna. Needless to say, the crowd was dancing drunkenly in no time.
I was eager to sample Chatham Vineyards steel fermented Chardonnay and wasn't disappointed to taste the salinity and minerality of the eastern-most of Virginia's wineries.
Resolved: there's a winery I intend to visit come spring.
Next thing we knew, people in tight, red polyester jumpsuits with even their faces covered had joined the crowd and were dancing everywhere. If it hadn't been for the accentuation of their junk, it would have been pretty funny.
At the Boxwood Winery table, we tried a blend of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot, poured by a taster who was dancing in place to Prince's "Kiss."
Truth be told, I was holding a glass and dancing in place to the same song.
The crowd had gotten so thick (and so loopy) around DJ Marty that we did a full circle around the back of the bar in an attempt to reach the one remaining winery up front.
On the way, a woman stopped me and said point blank, "You have such a pretty face." While I would have liked to have kissed her in gratitude, I settled for thanking her profusely but she went on. "Even your hair is perfect for your face."
It's difficult to properly thank someone for saying something so complimentary and so random, so I just hugged her and went on my way.
We finally made it to the Thibaut Jannison table for a flute of Blanc de Chardonnay, at which point I made a bee line for the freshly shucked oysters and helped myself to a ridiculous number of Olde Salts.
Only when my girlfriend suggested I try some Rapphannocks did I diverge from my single-minded, salty plan.
We found respite far in the back of the room, away from the hordes dancing to "Wanna Be Starting Something" and "Let the Music Play."
From there, we had a bird's eye view of drunken people stumbling around, eyes glazed and footing unsure.
One woman came up and said, "I know you don't like me. But you're a baller when it comes to music."
Like the woman who'd liked my face, there's not a lot I could say to that. Fortunately, by that time, it didn't matter.
Friend and I were ready to move on. To the strains of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now," we made or way through the crowd and to the car.
There, we spent the better part of an hour doing the girl talk thing that all the festivities had interrupted. It was divine.
Over the course of six hours, did I manage to get enough wine, women and song?
You bet your ass I did. My loyalties remain loose with wine and tight with everything else.
Secco was hosting a night in Venice wine party and since I've yet to visit the actual Venice, a proxy evening seemed like just the ticket.
I walked in and staked my territory at the bar, awaiting the arrival of my evening's companion, Roxy.
She soon arrived and we stationed ourselves at the corner of the bar with a view of everything while the music was set to the Italian cafe station on Pandora. As one woman noted, it sounded like the soundtrack to "The Big Night."
Our starting libation was a Venetian spritz of Adami Prosecco "Garbel" with Cappelletti, a slightly bitter wine equivalent of Aperol, making for a refreshing way to begin the evening, even more so when enjoyed with an aged and salty cheese.
There were no gondolas, but we were off to a fine start.
The overwhelmingly estrogen-based population of the bar was soon jarred by the arrival of a strapping, young man who had wandered into the Venetian fray.
When the evening's plan was revealed, he gamely agreed to buy into it, despite this being a first date and an"almost blind" one at that.
I advised him that a first date where there were four courses and five wines would separate the girls from the women and he took my advice and paid for two in advance.
Now I had a front row seat to a first date.
Roxy and I chatted about her favorite Riesling and Champagne (both available on the chalkboard) and about how much she misses her people in San Jose. So much so she will soon move back.
Where she reminded me, she will pay $850 more for an apartment that is 300 square feet smaller than her beautiful Miller & Rhoads condo.
I have a sentimental attachment to San Jose since my best friend from college was born and raised in San Jose, making Roxy and I practically blood sisters.
Once everyone was ensconced at tables and bar, we were served Dal Maso 2012 Gambellara Ca'Fischele, a fine and acidic wine that neared perfection when eaten with tuna tartare set into hard-boiled eggs with capers and aioli.
Just as we were swooning over this blissful match, marinated squid salad with kale, garlic and chick peas arrived, again demonstrating how perfectly the acidic wine worked with the seafood and salt.
Roxy and I raised a glass to the chef's brilliance. "I'd marry him," Roxy observed. It's tough to beat a man who can cook.
Next came crispy Fontina chips filled with seared cauliflower, parsley and lemon paired with Corte Majoli 2012 Valpolicella, a medium bodied red that showed even better with the obscenely rich next course.
Chicken liver mousse sat atop grilled polenta, accompanied by chicken fat-stewed onions and bits of fried chicken skin, an altogether decadent dish that positively sang with the wine.
As our server noted, it came with a side of Lipitor.
Roxy and I alternately made orgasmic sounds about the dish and flapped our gums about how obscene it was.
Meanwhile, the first dater next to me was telling the girl, "This has a really unusual taste. I've never had liver before. I usually go paleo during the week."
Son, there's nothing paleo about chicken liver or chicken fat. Just so you know.
And, P.S. Corny lines like, "I just want to know more about your family life" make it tough to keep my liver down.
While waiting for the next course, I took a side trip to the loo, but was stopped by Chef Mike, who was offering up samples to all who passed by.
"This'll be the best bite of the night," he assured me. The piece of Dixie doughnut with a schmear of chicken liver may have been the closest thing to heaven my mouth has tasted.
I returned to a plate of beef and potato meatballs with orange peel and fennel seed in a fennel tomato sauce and matched with Zanta 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon "Due Santi," a complex, full-bodied wine that was a worthy counterpoint to the meatballs.
Truth be told, Roxy and I were lagging by this point.
Oh, not conversationally. First marriages, dimples, body confidence, we'd covered quite a bit. But our stomachs were not bottomless.
Finally the last course arrived, a chocolate roll with roasted nuts and topped with vanilla citrus whipped cream, paired with one of the last four bottles in the state of Dal Maso's 2007 late harvest sweet wine.
For no good reason, this led to a conversation about Deleon Tequila, which Roxy had recently enjoyed with her boyfriend in San Jose and which provided me with a recommendation for something new to try, assuming the VA ABC deems it acceptable to carry.
I'll certainly find out.
Back to the dessert, I have no compunction about admitting my love for chocolate, nuts and cream and while Roxy found the Dal Maso overly sweet, I found it a lovely complement to the chocolate.
I'm not saying it topped the Dixie doughnut with chicken liver mousse, but it was damn good.
After saying farewell to Roxy, I left to pick up a girlfriend for a Virginia wine crawl. Because, you know, one wine event an evening is not enough.
Approaching Pasture, we were greeted by fire performers, breathing and showing off with fire, something I've seen at Gallery 5 enough times to stop worrying if they're going to singe the hair right off their faces or not.
Inside, it was just as circus-like, with acrobats on the floor supporting other acrobats in mid-air.
My friend looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me away from the performers.
Near the back, we found a table serving Breaux Vineyards "Marquis de Lafayette," a shining example of Cabernet Franc, a grape she and I love.
Glasses in hand, we escaped to a table away from the hordes and sat down to catch up on girl stuff, oblivious to the networking going on around us.
We let the interested parties come to us, with only a brief foray out to collect some Gabriele Rausse Nebbiolo, a wine I like so much I once worked an entire day at the Virginia Wine Expo just to score bottles of this luscious grape.
Our idyllic girl time was interrupted when Jason Tessauro mounted the table next top us and began reciting his ode to Virginia wine, with highlights like, "To be or Tannat" and "I deem any man a liar who don't dig Matthew Meyer" (Williamsburg Winery's winemaker), "Keep your loyalties looser" and the fitting closer, "Has Virginia wine arrived? You bet your ass!"
Fortunately, he then dismounted from the table. the ideal moment to escape the madness and make our way to destination #2, Rappahannock.
There we found an old friend from the former Six Burner, Tracey, and Blenheim Winery's winemaker, who was gracious enough to pour us a taste of "Painted White," a delectable blend of Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier being served with scallop ceviche.
The evening's music came courtesy of my neighborhood DJ, Marty of Steady Sounds, and I have to say it was a mix of music I'd never heard him play.
Prince. Michael Jackson, Donna Summer. Diana Ross. Madonna. Needless to say, the crowd was dancing drunkenly in no time.
I was eager to sample Chatham Vineyards steel fermented Chardonnay and wasn't disappointed to taste the salinity and minerality of the eastern-most of Virginia's wineries.
Resolved: there's a winery I intend to visit come spring.
Next thing we knew, people in tight, red polyester jumpsuits with even their faces covered had joined the crowd and were dancing everywhere. If it hadn't been for the accentuation of their junk, it would have been pretty funny.
At the Boxwood Winery table, we tried a blend of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot, poured by a taster who was dancing in place to Prince's "Kiss."
Truth be told, I was holding a glass and dancing in place to the same song.
The crowd had gotten so thick (and so loopy) around DJ Marty that we did a full circle around the back of the bar in an attempt to reach the one remaining winery up front.
On the way, a woman stopped me and said point blank, "You have such a pretty face." While I would have liked to have kissed her in gratitude, I settled for thanking her profusely but she went on. "Even your hair is perfect for your face."
It's difficult to properly thank someone for saying something so complimentary and so random, so I just hugged her and went on my way.
We finally made it to the Thibaut Jannison table for a flute of Blanc de Chardonnay, at which point I made a bee line for the freshly shucked oysters and helped myself to a ridiculous number of Olde Salts.
Only when my girlfriend suggested I try some Rapphannocks did I diverge from my single-minded, salty plan.
We found respite far in the back of the room, away from the hordes dancing to "Wanna Be Starting Something" and "Let the Music Play."
From there, we had a bird's eye view of drunken people stumbling around, eyes glazed and footing unsure.
One woman came up and said, "I know you don't like me. But you're a baller when it comes to music."
Like the woman who'd liked my face, there's not a lot I could say to that. Fortunately, by that time, it didn't matter.
Friend and I were ready to move on. To the strains of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now," we made or way through the crowd and to the car.
There, we spent the better part of an hour doing the girl talk thing that all the festivities had interrupted. It was divine.
Over the course of six hours, did I manage to get enough wine, women and song?
You bet your ass I did. My loyalties remain loose with wine and tight with everything else.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Pretty Fly for a Tongue-Eater
My evening in ten words or less: From pop-up to porn, with a fly finish.
It was tres amigos night for the girlfriends and me at Pasture because they were doing a Hispania Bakery pop-up for their Taco Tuesday spectacular.
As if that wasn't enough of an incentive, DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was providing the appropriate mood music.
The girls and I took a table by the wall for a good view of the room as two of us sipped Spanish rose and the third tried tonight's special drink, a mango/Thai chili margarita.
I'm no cocktail expert, but the subtly sweet start and slow-burn finish made for a nicely balanced sipper.
Because inquiring minds want to know, co-owner Michele stopped by to give us the backstory on the inspiration for tonight's fun.
Seems she'd fallen in love with the desserts Maria makes for Hispania, but found getting up early enough to make it to the farmer's market to get them too challenging.
I felt her pain.
There are many things I'd like to try at the farmer's market but there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'll be up early enough to do it.
Cleverly, Michele brought the desserts to her...and to us.
A funny story about her birthday gifts to two of the kitchen staff ended with the hysterical, "I'm not Paula Deen, I'm just inappropriate!"
I don't know if the sombrero the chef was wearing helped his cooking skills, but tonight's specials suited us just fine.
My favorite were the tongue and guacamole tacos, but I also enjoyed the shrimp tacos and the elotes al estilo Mexicano, a mayo-rubbed ear of corn, spiced and with cheese.
I love $3 food.
While the restaurant continued to get busier, we gave each other love life advice and talked about musicians we know.
It required more Rose and a Pulaski (whiskey and a pickleback) while we wished the din of the room wasn't drowning out Marty's smooth sounds.
As we discussed, there can be no possible relationships with men who don't share our passion for music.
But we also couldn't lose sight of the reason for the evening (dessert, hello?!), so two of us ordered cookie plates, which came with a glass of horchata.
It may have been my first horchata, but it was not my friend's.
Seems when she was in California on her honeymoon, she (and her cute husband) made it her mission to try as many horchatas as possible.
She deemed tonight's excellent and while I sipped some of it with my spicy chocolate diablo cookie (dark chocolate ganache, cinnamon, habanero) and cinnamon-dulce de leche cookie (sprinkled with sea salt), I found my second glass of Rose went almost as well.
I have to say, it sure was delightful getting to eat Hispania Bakery treats without having to get up at the butt crack of dawn.
Before we got ready to go, one friend insisted on knowing what I was doing next.
Since I didn't yet know for sure myself, I had to throw out some options.
As it turned out, I went for porn.
It wasn't much of a crowd for "Lovelace" at the Criterion, but then not everyone wants to see a film based on the biggest-grossing porn film of all time.
But "Deep Throat" came out in 1972, so I was curious to see how well depicted that era would be.
Judging by the age of the other seven attendees tonight, they might have been wondering the same.
They certainly did a good job with the music, using everything from "Got to Use My Imagination" to "Get Ready" to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love."
And the clothes - the bell bottoms, the cutoffs and Keds, the jumpsuits, even a flowered bathing cap - nailed the '70s look.
Two tickets at a NYC theater to see "Deep Throat" cost six bucks.
Remember $3 movie tickets? Yea, neither do I.
TVs were large wooden consoles and kitchen wallpaper was yellow, orange and avocado green daisies.
The story, needless to say, was tragic, as a young woman was used and abused by a smarmy man with awful facial hair who complimented her shamelessly to win her trust.
And then proceeded to make a buck on her oral sex skills.
What was amazing was how a week-long film shoot defined her for so long - right up until she escaped him and wrote a tell-all book sharing her side of the ordeal.
Foe which she had to take a lie-detector test to satisfy her publisher.
It occurred to me how difficult it might be for a generation of digital natives to fully comprehend how culturally significant it was for a XXX movie to be shown at mainstream movie theaters back in the '70s.
Or how a song like "Spirit in the Sky" could have ever made the Top Ten chart.
Guess you just have to use your imagination, kids.
I have to assume that's what my neighbor was doing when I got home from the movie.
Crossing the street to my house, he waved and called out, "I was telling my friend here, that's my next-door neighbor's car. She always gets out looking so fly...and you do."
Fly? What is this, 1972?
It was right about then I tripped on the curb. So not fly.
Did I mention he has bad facial hair?
It was tres amigos night for the girlfriends and me at Pasture because they were doing a Hispania Bakery pop-up for their Taco Tuesday spectacular.
As if that wasn't enough of an incentive, DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was providing the appropriate mood music.
The girls and I took a table by the wall for a good view of the room as two of us sipped Spanish rose and the third tried tonight's special drink, a mango/Thai chili margarita.
I'm no cocktail expert, but the subtly sweet start and slow-burn finish made for a nicely balanced sipper.
Because inquiring minds want to know, co-owner Michele stopped by to give us the backstory on the inspiration for tonight's fun.
Seems she'd fallen in love with the desserts Maria makes for Hispania, but found getting up early enough to make it to the farmer's market to get them too challenging.
I felt her pain.
There are many things I'd like to try at the farmer's market but there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'll be up early enough to do it.
Cleverly, Michele brought the desserts to her...and to us.
A funny story about her birthday gifts to two of the kitchen staff ended with the hysterical, "I'm not Paula Deen, I'm just inappropriate!"
I don't know if the sombrero the chef was wearing helped his cooking skills, but tonight's specials suited us just fine.
My favorite were the tongue and guacamole tacos, but I also enjoyed the shrimp tacos and the elotes al estilo Mexicano, a mayo-rubbed ear of corn, spiced and with cheese.
I love $3 food.
While the restaurant continued to get busier, we gave each other love life advice and talked about musicians we know.
It required more Rose and a Pulaski (whiskey and a pickleback) while we wished the din of the room wasn't drowning out Marty's smooth sounds.
As we discussed, there can be no possible relationships with men who don't share our passion for music.
But we also couldn't lose sight of the reason for the evening (dessert, hello?!), so two of us ordered cookie plates, which came with a glass of horchata.
It may have been my first horchata, but it was not my friend's.
Seems when she was in California on her honeymoon, she (and her cute husband) made it her mission to try as many horchatas as possible.
She deemed tonight's excellent and while I sipped some of it with my spicy chocolate diablo cookie (dark chocolate ganache, cinnamon, habanero) and cinnamon-dulce de leche cookie (sprinkled with sea salt), I found my second glass of Rose went almost as well.
I have to say, it sure was delightful getting to eat Hispania Bakery treats without having to get up at the butt crack of dawn.
Before we got ready to go, one friend insisted on knowing what I was doing next.
Since I didn't yet know for sure myself, I had to throw out some options.
As it turned out, I went for porn.
It wasn't much of a crowd for "Lovelace" at the Criterion, but then not everyone wants to see a film based on the biggest-grossing porn film of all time.
But "Deep Throat" came out in 1972, so I was curious to see how well depicted that era would be.
Judging by the age of the other seven attendees tonight, they might have been wondering the same.
They certainly did a good job with the music, using everything from "Got to Use My Imagination" to "Get Ready" to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love."
And the clothes - the bell bottoms, the cutoffs and Keds, the jumpsuits, even a flowered bathing cap - nailed the '70s look.
Two tickets at a NYC theater to see "Deep Throat" cost six bucks.
Remember $3 movie tickets? Yea, neither do I.
TVs were large wooden consoles and kitchen wallpaper was yellow, orange and avocado green daisies.
The story, needless to say, was tragic, as a young woman was used and abused by a smarmy man with awful facial hair who complimented her shamelessly to win her trust.
And then proceeded to make a buck on her oral sex skills.
What was amazing was how a week-long film shoot defined her for so long - right up until she escaped him and wrote a tell-all book sharing her side of the ordeal.
Foe which she had to take a lie-detector test to satisfy her publisher.
It occurred to me how difficult it might be for a generation of digital natives to fully comprehend how culturally significant it was for a XXX movie to be shown at mainstream movie theaters back in the '70s.
Or how a song like "Spirit in the Sky" could have ever made the Top Ten chart.
Guess you just have to use your imagination, kids.
I have to assume that's what my neighbor was doing when I got home from the movie.
Crossing the street to my house, he waved and called out, "I was telling my friend here, that's my next-door neighbor's car. She always gets out looking so fly...and you do."
Fly? What is this, 1972?
It was right about then I tripped on the curb. So not fly.
Did I mention he has bad facial hair?
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Got It
Just to be clear, I have nothing at all against being happy.
After a long, busy day helping a favorite Fan resident thrift and decorate her guest room, I came home to learn that my planned cultural partner was bowing out.
Quick! Who do you call when it's 45 minutes to curtain call?
I caught her as she was about to make coq au vin and lured her away with the promise of theater.
Some nerds are so easy.
This afternoon I'd scored an adorable high-waisted floral skirt while thrifting and put that on to set the tone for Saturday night.
During a stop at Kroger on my way to pick her up, I got a double-take from a girl as I breezed through the produce section.
"Were you in Diversity Thrift today?" she asked, pointing at me and my skirt.
Were you behind the counter at Diversity, I inquired.
"Skirt looks good!" she enthused with a nod.
Every Saturday night should start with a compliment.
A few minutes later when my arms were full of unwieldy fruit, I heard a voice behind me.
It was a Kroger employee, helpfully bringing me a basket. "Here you go!" the guy said.
In all my bazillion trips to Kroger, I can't remember anyone ever noticing my hands were full and bringing me a basket.
Score 2 for the skirt.
My skirt and I went to fetch my girlfriend and head to Centenary United Methodist Church on Grace Street where Henley Street and African American Repertory Theater were doing a staged reading of "Sunset Limited."
I knew nothing about the play except that it was the winner of the National Book Award and National Book Critics' Circle Award.
Well, and that the Sunset Limited was a train that went between New Orleans and Los Angeles
It would have been enough but upon arrival, I also learned that they had cookies, lots of cookies.
Saturday night's alright for munching.
We found second row seats and settled in a for a play about two people who only met because one was ready to die.
"If it ain't got the lingering scent of divinity, I ain't interested," said the devout one.
"People stopped believing in books, music and art," bemoaned the atheist one.
The set was simple and perfect: a wooden table and two chairs, framed by perpendicular pews with stained glass windows above.
"What do you have against being happy?" asked the believer.
"It's contrary to the human condition," shot back the non-believer.
Despite being a reading, the actors moved about quite a bit and railed at each other with periodic glances down at the scripts in hand.
Although they couldn't have had much time for rehearsals, actors Daniel Moore and DL Hopkins kept up the intensity of the philosophical discussion that made up the play.
I was especially taken by how the play began, with compelling, full-on confrontational discussion going on with the audience completely unaware of what had brought us to this moment.
The intellectual pull of trying to figure out what had happened prior was very seductive.
As a card-carrying heathen, I related on many levels to the character who had no use for religion, although I don't think a lack of belief necessarily sends one into a downward spiral that ends in suicidal thoughts.
It was much harder for me to relate to the evangelical character, except in his devotion to saving the other man from himself.
"Sometimes people don't know what they want 'till they get it," he wisely says.
Amen, says I.
In lieu of staying for the talkback, Friend and I headed across the street to Pasture to have our own dissection of the play and enjoy some refreshment.
We barely made it to the back of the bar in search of seats before running into some favorite Amuse staffers, who helpfully told us about tonight's special on Spanish bubbles before giving my cute skirt its due.
Then they departed for Brown's Island to hear Toots and the Maytals and dance to reggae, while we finally had a shot at some bar stools.
Before I could sit down, I ran into a restaurant owner, all dressed up pretty and uncharacteristically out on a Saturday night, sharing a drink with a cheese monger and her bearded hubby.
Lots of people were coming in from the "Single in the City Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction" at CenterStage, never an option for me because of its cost (not that it's not a worthy cause).
There was talk of new restaurants - Dynamo, the Well- before I made it to our seats and the possibility of a light meal.
Muscanti Cava and Frito pie more than did the trick for me, especially after a first course of cookies at the play, while my lovely companion did Cava with pork and Chorizo meatballs the size of, well, big.
And flavorful, just for the record, especially with grits underneath.
During our talkback with each other about the points raised in the play, we decided our heathen credentials were in danger of being revoked because we don't feel the despair typically required of black souls like us.
How can we go through the world so damn happy when we should, in theory, be wringing our hands about the hopelessness of it all?
I can't answer for my friend, but personally, all it takes to keep me satisfied is the occasional $3.25 cute flowered skirt, a thought-provoking play and good conversation.
Like the evangelical pointed out, sometimes people don't know what they want till they get it.
Sounds pretty hopeful to me.
After a long, busy day helping a favorite Fan resident thrift and decorate her guest room, I came home to learn that my planned cultural partner was bowing out.
Quick! Who do you call when it's 45 minutes to curtain call?
I caught her as she was about to make coq au vin and lured her away with the promise of theater.
Some nerds are so easy.
This afternoon I'd scored an adorable high-waisted floral skirt while thrifting and put that on to set the tone for Saturday night.
During a stop at Kroger on my way to pick her up, I got a double-take from a girl as I breezed through the produce section.
"Were you in Diversity Thrift today?" she asked, pointing at me and my skirt.
Were you behind the counter at Diversity, I inquired.
"Skirt looks good!" she enthused with a nod.
Every Saturday night should start with a compliment.
A few minutes later when my arms were full of unwieldy fruit, I heard a voice behind me.
It was a Kroger employee, helpfully bringing me a basket. "Here you go!" the guy said.
In all my bazillion trips to Kroger, I can't remember anyone ever noticing my hands were full and bringing me a basket.
Score 2 for the skirt.
My skirt and I went to fetch my girlfriend and head to Centenary United Methodist Church on Grace Street where Henley Street and African American Repertory Theater were doing a staged reading of "Sunset Limited."
I knew nothing about the play except that it was the winner of the National Book Award and National Book Critics' Circle Award.
Well, and that the Sunset Limited was a train that went between New Orleans and Los Angeles
It would have been enough but upon arrival, I also learned that they had cookies, lots of cookies.
Saturday night's alright for munching.
We found second row seats and settled in a for a play about two people who only met because one was ready to die.
"If it ain't got the lingering scent of divinity, I ain't interested," said the devout one.
"People stopped believing in books, music and art," bemoaned the atheist one.
The set was simple and perfect: a wooden table and two chairs, framed by perpendicular pews with stained glass windows above.
"What do you have against being happy?" asked the believer.
"It's contrary to the human condition," shot back the non-believer.
Despite being a reading, the actors moved about quite a bit and railed at each other with periodic glances down at the scripts in hand.
Although they couldn't have had much time for rehearsals, actors Daniel Moore and DL Hopkins kept up the intensity of the philosophical discussion that made up the play.
I was especially taken by how the play began, with compelling, full-on confrontational discussion going on with the audience completely unaware of what had brought us to this moment.
The intellectual pull of trying to figure out what had happened prior was very seductive.
As a card-carrying heathen, I related on many levels to the character who had no use for religion, although I don't think a lack of belief necessarily sends one into a downward spiral that ends in suicidal thoughts.
It was much harder for me to relate to the evangelical character, except in his devotion to saving the other man from himself.
"Sometimes people don't know what they want 'till they get it," he wisely says.
Amen, says I.
In lieu of staying for the talkback, Friend and I headed across the street to Pasture to have our own dissection of the play and enjoy some refreshment.
We barely made it to the back of the bar in search of seats before running into some favorite Amuse staffers, who helpfully told us about tonight's special on Spanish bubbles before giving my cute skirt its due.
Then they departed for Brown's Island to hear Toots and the Maytals and dance to reggae, while we finally had a shot at some bar stools.
Before I could sit down, I ran into a restaurant owner, all dressed up pretty and uncharacteristically out on a Saturday night, sharing a drink with a cheese monger and her bearded hubby.
Lots of people were coming in from the "Single in the City Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction" at CenterStage, never an option for me because of its cost (not that it's not a worthy cause).
There was talk of new restaurants - Dynamo, the Well- before I made it to our seats and the possibility of a light meal.
Muscanti Cava and Frito pie more than did the trick for me, especially after a first course of cookies at the play, while my lovely companion did Cava with pork and Chorizo meatballs the size of, well, big.
And flavorful, just for the record, especially with grits underneath.
During our talkback with each other about the points raised in the play, we decided our heathen credentials were in danger of being revoked because we don't feel the despair typically required of black souls like us.
How can we go through the world so damn happy when we should, in theory, be wringing our hands about the hopelessness of it all?
I can't answer for my friend, but personally, all it takes to keep me satisfied is the occasional $3.25 cute flowered skirt, a thought-provoking play and good conversation.
Like the evangelical pointed out, sometimes people don't know what they want till they get it.
Sounds pretty hopeful to me.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Brutus, You Give Good Words
A trip to the theater requires a pre-show meal.
Now that we have several to choose from near CenterStage, I took my pleasure at Pasture, where the patio and bar were full, but the back bar invited all comers.
I barely got my butt in a stool when I heard my name called and saw a food punk sitting at the end of the bar, calling me over.
Company? I'll take it.
But with a curtain to make, I had to be mindful of the business at hand, so I ordered a glass of tonight's featured wine, Domaine d'Andezon, a smooth, mouth-filling red to go with my Frito pie.
Nothing prepares you for a night of Shakespeare like cheese-smothered vegetarian chili, onions and Fritos, especially when served in a red and white checked paper container (sort of like how fries came from the snack shack at the pool when I was a kid).
While I chowed down on an absolutely delightful pre-theater supper, she enjoyed a Lincoln cocktail which she tried unsuccessfully to describe to me.
Since words are what I do, I listened and then asked, "Leather chair?" and she ecstatically affirmed that, yes, a leather chair was exactly what it tasted like.
One sip and I knew I'd nailed it.
We talked about the documentary she's making on Sally Belle's Kitchen, the pleasures of a picnic at the Carillon and how easy it is to get into a rut and not try new restaurants.
Since, like me, she's a come-here, she shares my enthusiasm for Richmond, and the array of options available for anyone who cares to avail themselves of it all.
We almost got off on a discussion of negative-energy foodies, but decided to table that talk for an entire evening instead.
Julius Caesar, after all, was awaiting me.
I walked the two blocks down to CenterStage to pick up tickets and took a seat to wait for my date to arrive.
I was soon joined on my bench by a woman in a striking, long white and purple flowered dress, complete with purple belt and shoes.
She was waiting for her husband, she said, giving me a long stare.
"You have the cutest nose," she said in a very British accent. "It's really a very pretty profile you have."
I think she was saying I gave good nose, so I thanked her.
Soon the menfolk arrived and we headed upstairs for a great tragedy.
Henley Street's production had not only been getting rave reviews, but its artistic director, James Ricks, will soon leave Richmond for no doubt a bigger market, making this the last thing he'd direct for Henley Street.
It was closing night for the show, meaning everyone was superb in their roles, performing at 110% emotion.
He reads much, he is a great observer.
Ricks had set the play in early 20th century Europe, a plausible substitution for a republic headed toward dictatorship.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
Watching the action unfold, I couldn't help but be impressed with the level of acting I was seeing.
I grant, I am a woman
At the point that Brutus gets up to speak to the Romans after he and his accomplices have killed Caesar for the sake of the republic, an actor suddenly slipped into our row and sat down.
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
He became one of the Romans yelling questions and accusations at Brutus, bringing the drama within two seats.
With Caesar dead by intermission, I was eagerly awaiting and dreading the sadness of the second act.
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Watching men go into battle, even knowing the outcome, I felt what I always feel about battles.
Why must men do this?
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
By the end of this grand and glorious "Julius Caesar," one with imposing music, an evocative set and a cast that would have impressed in markets far bigger than Richmond, I joined the audience in giving a standing ovation for such a fabulous theater experience.
Of course, that's just my opinion, but then, I read much and I am a great observer.
Now that we have several to choose from near CenterStage, I took my pleasure at Pasture, where the patio and bar were full, but the back bar invited all comers.
I barely got my butt in a stool when I heard my name called and saw a food punk sitting at the end of the bar, calling me over.
Company? I'll take it.
But with a curtain to make, I had to be mindful of the business at hand, so I ordered a glass of tonight's featured wine, Domaine d'Andezon, a smooth, mouth-filling red to go with my Frito pie.
Nothing prepares you for a night of Shakespeare like cheese-smothered vegetarian chili, onions and Fritos, especially when served in a red and white checked paper container (sort of like how fries came from the snack shack at the pool when I was a kid).
While I chowed down on an absolutely delightful pre-theater supper, she enjoyed a Lincoln cocktail which she tried unsuccessfully to describe to me.
Since words are what I do, I listened and then asked, "Leather chair?" and she ecstatically affirmed that, yes, a leather chair was exactly what it tasted like.
One sip and I knew I'd nailed it.
We talked about the documentary she's making on Sally Belle's Kitchen, the pleasures of a picnic at the Carillon and how easy it is to get into a rut and not try new restaurants.
Since, like me, she's a come-here, she shares my enthusiasm for Richmond, and the array of options available for anyone who cares to avail themselves of it all.
We almost got off on a discussion of negative-energy foodies, but decided to table that talk for an entire evening instead.
Julius Caesar, after all, was awaiting me.
I walked the two blocks down to CenterStage to pick up tickets and took a seat to wait for my date to arrive.
I was soon joined on my bench by a woman in a striking, long white and purple flowered dress, complete with purple belt and shoes.
She was waiting for her husband, she said, giving me a long stare.
"You have the cutest nose," she said in a very British accent. "It's really a very pretty profile you have."
I think she was saying I gave good nose, so I thanked her.
Soon the menfolk arrived and we headed upstairs for a great tragedy.
Henley Street's production had not only been getting rave reviews, but its artistic director, James Ricks, will soon leave Richmond for no doubt a bigger market, making this the last thing he'd direct for Henley Street.
It was closing night for the show, meaning everyone was superb in their roles, performing at 110% emotion.
He reads much, he is a great observer.
Ricks had set the play in early 20th century Europe, a plausible substitution for a republic headed toward dictatorship.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
Watching the action unfold, I couldn't help but be impressed with the level of acting I was seeing.
I grant, I am a woman
At the point that Brutus gets up to speak to the Romans after he and his accomplices have killed Caesar for the sake of the republic, an actor suddenly slipped into our row and sat down.
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
He became one of the Romans yelling questions and accusations at Brutus, bringing the drama within two seats.
With Caesar dead by intermission, I was eagerly awaiting and dreading the sadness of the second act.
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Watching men go into battle, even knowing the outcome, I felt what I always feel about battles.
Why must men do this?
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
By the end of this grand and glorious "Julius Caesar," one with imposing music, an evocative set and a cast that would have impressed in markets far bigger than Richmond, I joined the audience in giving a standing ovation for such a fabulous theater experience.
Of course, that's just my opinion, but then, I read much and I am a great observer.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Tongue to Tongue
Last year, it was a first day hike.
This year, a first day brunch.
When a friend and I heard that Pasture was doing a Mexican brunch, we immediately committed to it.
I'd been to Comfort's Mexican brunch a couple of years ago and remember the thrill of eating off a south of the border menu instead of the usual southern comfort food.
This was to be the same thing.
Walking in to a half full restaurant, the hostess, looking cute in a ruffled skirt and boots, led us to a front window table.
I'd expected a bigger crowd, but it was already going on 3:00 and apparently the crowds had arrived en masse on the dot of 11 when they first opened.
My question was, who the hell is up that early on New Year's Day? And why?
The menu was far more extensive than what I'd remembered last time, meaning the decision making process was more challenging.
All except the given, tacos lingua.
Must have braised beef tongue when available.
So Friend and I split an order of three, making for his first tongue taco experience, a fact I took great pleasure in.
And of course he loved them, finding the tomatillo salsa and cheese a yummy addition to the long-cooked slices of tongue.
He even went so far as to make corny jokes about being glad he'd brushed his teeth before going tongue to tongue with his lunch.
Wah, wah.
When our server returned to find an empty plate mere minutes later, he observed, "Guess you didn't like those."
Everyone's a comedian on New Year's Day.
Up next for me was a tostada with braised chicken in red chile sauce and pickled slaw on top.
The deep flavor of the chicken and chile was satisfying, especially on a gray and damp afternoon.
The new tongue lover got seared Scottish salmon in Mexico City-style green pumpkin seed sauce, wrapping bits of fish in the accompanying flour tortillas and oohing and ahhing over the sauce.
All I know is the bites he shared with me would make a salmon lover swoon.
As we lingered in the front window eating our first brunch of 2013, we talked about our New Year's eves (he worked, I played), his love life ("I don't need any more women right now!" he said about being introduced to one) and about people who are up for anything.
We agreed that they're the best kind.
When our server came to inquire if we needed coffee or tequila (hmmm, how did he know?), my friend piped up, saying, "How about dessert?"
The choices included the "candy bar" that we'd devoured at our last Pasture lunch, as well as three other options.
My friend dithered over choosing until I finally laid it out there. "You know you want the candy bar, so just get it," I bossed him.
"Yea, you're right," he admitted sheepishly and a candy bar was delivered post haste.
If you've never had this combination of dark chocolate pate over peanut butter with a mound of thick caramel beside it, be forewarned.
Despite how obscenely rich it is, you will eat every bite.
And if you're sharing with, say, a good friend, eat quickly or risk a fork in your hand.
Once the sweet course was finished, we looked around and realized we were one of only two tables left, despite another hour before brunch ended.
Walking out onto Grace Street, the bells of the church across the street were ringing, making for a symbolic reminder of the new year we were ringing in with our shared meal.
I was even thanked for being such a good friend, a compliment I returned.
Sure, a first day hike would have been nice, but 2013 got off to a terrific start with sharing food and conversation with someone who's heard all my stories and knows where all the bodies were buried over the past four tumultuous years.
I'd even go so far as to say starting the year with him is a good omen for the coming year.
Come on, lucky '13, bring it on.
This year, a first day brunch.
When a friend and I heard that Pasture was doing a Mexican brunch, we immediately committed to it.
I'd been to Comfort's Mexican brunch a couple of years ago and remember the thrill of eating off a south of the border menu instead of the usual southern comfort food.
This was to be the same thing.
Walking in to a half full restaurant, the hostess, looking cute in a ruffled skirt and boots, led us to a front window table.
I'd expected a bigger crowd, but it was already going on 3:00 and apparently the crowds had arrived en masse on the dot of 11 when they first opened.
My question was, who the hell is up that early on New Year's Day? And why?
The menu was far more extensive than what I'd remembered last time, meaning the decision making process was more challenging.
All except the given, tacos lingua.
Must have braised beef tongue when available.
So Friend and I split an order of three, making for his first tongue taco experience, a fact I took great pleasure in.
And of course he loved them, finding the tomatillo salsa and cheese a yummy addition to the long-cooked slices of tongue.
He even went so far as to make corny jokes about being glad he'd brushed his teeth before going tongue to tongue with his lunch.
Wah, wah.
When our server returned to find an empty plate mere minutes later, he observed, "Guess you didn't like those."
Everyone's a comedian on New Year's Day.
Up next for me was a tostada with braised chicken in red chile sauce and pickled slaw on top.
The deep flavor of the chicken and chile was satisfying, especially on a gray and damp afternoon.
The new tongue lover got seared Scottish salmon in Mexico City-style green pumpkin seed sauce, wrapping bits of fish in the accompanying flour tortillas and oohing and ahhing over the sauce.
All I know is the bites he shared with me would make a salmon lover swoon.
As we lingered in the front window eating our first brunch of 2013, we talked about our New Year's eves (he worked, I played), his love life ("I don't need any more women right now!" he said about being introduced to one) and about people who are up for anything.
We agreed that they're the best kind.
When our server came to inquire if we needed coffee or tequila (hmmm, how did he know?), my friend piped up, saying, "How about dessert?"
The choices included the "candy bar" that we'd devoured at our last Pasture lunch, as well as three other options.
My friend dithered over choosing until I finally laid it out there. "You know you want the candy bar, so just get it," I bossed him.
"Yea, you're right," he admitted sheepishly and a candy bar was delivered post haste.
If you've never had this combination of dark chocolate pate over peanut butter with a mound of thick caramel beside it, be forewarned.
Despite how obscenely rich it is, you will eat every bite.
And if you're sharing with, say, a good friend, eat quickly or risk a fork in your hand.
Once the sweet course was finished, we looked around and realized we were one of only two tables left, despite another hour before brunch ended.
Walking out onto Grace Street, the bells of the church across the street were ringing, making for a symbolic reminder of the new year we were ringing in with our shared meal.
I was even thanked for being such a good friend, a compliment I returned.
Sure, a first day hike would have been nice, but 2013 got off to a terrific start with sharing food and conversation with someone who's heard all my stories and knows where all the bodies were buried over the past four tumultuous years.
I'd even go so far as to say starting the year with him is a good omen for the coming year.
Come on, lucky '13, bring it on.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Eat, Talk, Eat
What kind of friend calls at 10 fricking a.m.?
The kind who claims he's trying to "catch me between dates" but wakes me up nonetheless.
Some three hours later we convene at Pasture, a place he's never been and one I've never tried for lunch.
Given his eagerness to lunch, I arrive early.
He, having fallen back to sleep and had trouble finding a parking space among the Grace Street construction, is fifteen minutes late.
As I wait for him, I send empathetic vibes to the young man sitting two tables away with his parents.
Both are intent texting on their phones and he sits there looking lost.
Perhaps conversation is a lost art in their family.
I cam this close to inviting him over to chat while they thumbed and I waited.
Finally my friend arrives, wearing a handsome Candela gallery t-shirt and immediately takes charge.
Glancing at my untouched glass of water, he tells the server, "She needs a straw."
True that, but I'd been willing to wait so the guy didn't have to make a trip solely for a straw.
My friend had originally suggested we go to Rappahannock for lunch, but that's a meal they don't serve.
He was rewarded nonetheless when he saw an oyster sandwich on the menu and inquired about the source of the bi-valves.
Score. Rappahannock River Oyster Company.
AKA the same oysters we'd have eaten there.
I chose seafood too, in the form of a shrimp salad over mixed greens with grapefruit and avocado and a citrus dressing.
My friend, ever the comedian, jumped on the "locally sourced" bandwagon, playfully asking our server if the oysters were allowed to roam free and if they'd come from happy bi-valve families.
They had.
He must have been happy with them because the sandwich disappeared post haste and I was still savoring my grilled shrimp and ball o' avocado.
Since it had been a while, he filled me in on his dating life (a work in progress), his trip to see his family (and the endless waiting that involved) and a few tales from his restaurant job.
Before we knew it, our server brought us our check in a basket that read "eat, pray, eat" at the bottom.
The only problem was he was thinking of dessert. And I'm not much of a prayer.
He deemed the "candy bar" (dark chocolate over peanut butter) with a peanut sauce and crushed peanuts something he wanted to eat every single night before he goes to bed.
Inviting me to take a bite, I forked a piece of chocolate, a maneuver duly noted by him.
"You just want the chocolate," he accused with a grin.
Yes, I did.
Unlike the rest of the population, chocolate and peanut butter do not float my boat.
Separately, yes. Together, too much.
But he was all about it even if it couldn't be his permanent bedtime snack.
And speaking of bedtimes, maybe I should call him some morning at the ass crack of dawn after a night he's closed at the restaurant.
Paybacks are hell.
But isn't that what friends are for?
The kind who claims he's trying to "catch me between dates" but wakes me up nonetheless.
Some three hours later we convene at Pasture, a place he's never been and one I've never tried for lunch.
Given his eagerness to lunch, I arrive early.
He, having fallen back to sleep and had trouble finding a parking space among the Grace Street construction, is fifteen minutes late.
As I wait for him, I send empathetic vibes to the young man sitting two tables away with his parents.
Both are intent texting on their phones and he sits there looking lost.
Perhaps conversation is a lost art in their family.
I cam this close to inviting him over to chat while they thumbed and I waited.
Finally my friend arrives, wearing a handsome Candela gallery t-shirt and immediately takes charge.
Glancing at my untouched glass of water, he tells the server, "She needs a straw."
True that, but I'd been willing to wait so the guy didn't have to make a trip solely for a straw.
My friend had originally suggested we go to Rappahannock for lunch, but that's a meal they don't serve.
He was rewarded nonetheless when he saw an oyster sandwich on the menu and inquired about the source of the bi-valves.
Score. Rappahannock River Oyster Company.
AKA the same oysters we'd have eaten there.
I chose seafood too, in the form of a shrimp salad over mixed greens with grapefruit and avocado and a citrus dressing.
My friend, ever the comedian, jumped on the "locally sourced" bandwagon, playfully asking our server if the oysters were allowed to roam free and if they'd come from happy bi-valve families.
They had.
He must have been happy with them because the sandwich disappeared post haste and I was still savoring my grilled shrimp and ball o' avocado.
Since it had been a while, he filled me in on his dating life (a work in progress), his trip to see his family (and the endless waiting that involved) and a few tales from his restaurant job.
Before we knew it, our server brought us our check in a basket that read "eat, pray, eat" at the bottom.
The only problem was he was thinking of dessert. And I'm not much of a prayer.
He deemed the "candy bar" (dark chocolate over peanut butter) with a peanut sauce and crushed peanuts something he wanted to eat every single night before he goes to bed.
Inviting me to take a bite, I forked a piece of chocolate, a maneuver duly noted by him.
"You just want the chocolate," he accused with a grin.
Yes, I did.
Unlike the rest of the population, chocolate and peanut butter do not float my boat.
Separately, yes. Together, too much.
But he was all about it even if it couldn't be his permanent bedtime snack.
And speaking of bedtimes, maybe I should call him some morning at the ass crack of dawn after a night he's closed at the restaurant.
Paybacks are hell.
But isn't that what friends are for?
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Of Tingas, Ties and Trains
When shall we do something, a friend inquires.
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Mercy Me!
"Allow yourself to be changed by the experience."
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Begin My Blisteringly Fast Romantic Period
It was my last time subbing for Mom and I knew it.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Jeff and Geoff Sling
I've eaten more deviled eggs since Pasture opened than I have in the past ten years.
For that matter, I thought I hated sweet tea until it met Pasture's trout. The beef brisket was out of this world. I had to explain pot liquor to my friend.
And once again, I had the fried chicken.
I hate to be that predictable, but if you fry a yard bird, I will eat it.
My dates for the evening were a happy couple whom I'll be seeing again at the end of the week. We caught up over a bottle or two of Elizabeth Spencer Sauvignon Blanc special cuvee and shared food.
At the moment, I am in love with their candy bar dessert.
They told me of a recent Christmas party where a guest tossed his cookies on the floor and I shared a similar story except it involved a club and a purse. And then there was the one who did it in her hair (I saw it, so I know it happened).
After a while, the bartender asked us how we'd managed to clear out the entire bar.
In my experience, talk of vomit does it every time.
What does it mean when both members of a couple you don't know compliment your legs?
My friends were on a tight schedule because they were going to pick up his nephew (Ken, the L.A. screenwriter) at the airport.
When we got up to go, the couple sitting at the table behind us both commented on my legs and tights. My friend bragged that he had even given me tights in the past (pre-girlfriend).
Excuse me, I'm right here.
Getting into my car outside, I heard my named called only to be greeted by James, my fellow nerd, for some sidewalk catch-up.
We covered that he wants to play in front of a Jason Mraz-sized crowd, we both take magazines as dates to restaurants and it's a slow time of year for the lectures we love.
Dropping the car at home, I headed to my neighborhood bar to meet up with an old friend and see a few neighbors
Gotta give the Belvidere credit for having house-made cider (my friend finished off the latest batch) and homemade eggnog.
Festive, indeed.
Several hours later, I have to conclude that nineteen years on, the more things change, the more they stay the same when it comes to certain people.
Funniest line of the night: "We've earned each other, Karen."
In its simplest form, it's all about the laughter. And...?
For that matter, I thought I hated sweet tea until it met Pasture's trout. The beef brisket was out of this world. I had to explain pot liquor to my friend.
And once again, I had the fried chicken.
I hate to be that predictable, but if you fry a yard bird, I will eat it.
My dates for the evening were a happy couple whom I'll be seeing again at the end of the week. We caught up over a bottle or two of Elizabeth Spencer Sauvignon Blanc special cuvee and shared food.
At the moment, I am in love with their candy bar dessert.
They told me of a recent Christmas party where a guest tossed his cookies on the floor and I shared a similar story except it involved a club and a purse. And then there was the one who did it in her hair (I saw it, so I know it happened).
After a while, the bartender asked us how we'd managed to clear out the entire bar.
In my experience, talk of vomit does it every time.
What does it mean when both members of a couple you don't know compliment your legs?
My friends were on a tight schedule because they were going to pick up his nephew (Ken, the L.A. screenwriter) at the airport.
When we got up to go, the couple sitting at the table behind us both commented on my legs and tights. My friend bragged that he had even given me tights in the past (pre-girlfriend).
Excuse me, I'm right here.
Getting into my car outside, I heard my named called only to be greeted by James, my fellow nerd, for some sidewalk catch-up.
We covered that he wants to play in front of a Jason Mraz-sized crowd, we both take magazines as dates to restaurants and it's a slow time of year for the lectures we love.
Dropping the car at home, I headed to my neighborhood bar to meet up with an old friend and see a few neighbors
Gotta give the Belvidere credit for having house-made cider (my friend finished off the latest batch) and homemade eggnog.
Festive, indeed.
Several hours later, I have to conclude that nineteen years on, the more things change, the more they stay the same when it comes to certain people.
Funniest line of the night: "We've earned each other, Karen."
In its simplest form, it's all about the laughter. And...?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Blast from the Past
Out of the blue last week, I'd heard from a friend I hadn't seen in months, saying he was at Mekong and thinking of me.
Why beer should bring up thoughts of me, a non beer-drinker, is beyond me, but I agreed to a meet-up.
He asked if there were any new restaurants in my neighborhood and I figured Pasture, at 3/4 of a mile away, counted.
When I got out of my car. a couple of guys standing on the corner turned around. They must have been desperate for some visual stimulation because they stared like I had two heads.
I wasn't shy. "Could you guys stare any harder?" I asked to break the ice.
"Uh, you look nice," one said grinning. Yea, that's it, I'm sure.
Because my last two visits had been on the first nights they were open, Pasture tonight felt downright civilized in comparison when I walked in tonght.
I could hear the music clearly. There were available seats at the bar. It was a whole new world.
Beginning with Cazadores, a tequila I'm always happy to see on a menu, I waited for my time-challenged friend's arrival.
Later, the bartender noted that it was a tequila kind of night with several other Cazadores drinkers besides me.
Once my friend arrived, he spent the first ten minutes talking to the kitchen staff and not me; this is the price you pay for meeting a restaurant person.
Since the last two times I'd been in the food was being served buffet style, this was my first chance to order exactly what I wanted off the menu.
And while I'd had many of the foods on it, they'd not been full representations.
We perused the menu, looking for things that we were both eager to try.
Neither of us had had the beet salad with hazelnuts, green beans, shallot and horseradish and his first take on it was the absence of oil.
Once he got over that hump, we both loved the combination of flavors.
Although I'd had the beef tartare, I hadn't had it with the quail egg yolk to add richness or the jalapeno chili ketchup for heat.
The pork belly had already passed my lips, but not with the yin/yang looking combo of apple turnip puree and black vinegar underneath it.
While my friend had been off talking to the kitchen about fishing, I'd chatted up some guys near me to see what they were eating.
They'd heartily recommended the clams, a dish I'd not yet seen, much less had.
A bowl of Old Salt clams with cabbage, bacon, butter and lemon was as good as they said it was.
We learned that the Old Salt clams were farmed just underneath the Old Salt oysters with which we were already familiar.
Dinner as learning experience
I raved about my memory of the Brussels sprouts, winter squash, preserved lemon and pecan dish until my friend gave in...only to feel smug when he loved it as much as I did.
We (okay, mostly I) finished with the chocolate candy bar, which I'd sampled repeatedly already, but it had since been tweaked to include caramel, a decadent addition to what already tastes like soft fudge with crushed nuts.
By the end of the night, my friend and I had caught up on each other's lives, the interesting parts at least, and he'd had the nerve to give the Chef a hard time about salt and pepper.
But he'd also been nicely attentive to me, so I had to conclude that there are worse things than being brought to mind in a beer joint.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Why beer should bring up thoughts of me, a non beer-drinker, is beyond me, but I agreed to a meet-up.
He asked if there were any new restaurants in my neighborhood and I figured Pasture, at 3/4 of a mile away, counted.
When I got out of my car. a couple of guys standing on the corner turned around. They must have been desperate for some visual stimulation because they stared like I had two heads.
I wasn't shy. "Could you guys stare any harder?" I asked to break the ice.
"Uh, you look nice," one said grinning. Yea, that's it, I'm sure.
Because my last two visits had been on the first nights they were open, Pasture tonight felt downright civilized in comparison when I walked in tonght.
I could hear the music clearly. There were available seats at the bar. It was a whole new world.
Beginning with Cazadores, a tequila I'm always happy to see on a menu, I waited for my time-challenged friend's arrival.
Later, the bartender noted that it was a tequila kind of night with several other Cazadores drinkers besides me.
Once my friend arrived, he spent the first ten minutes talking to the kitchen staff and not me; this is the price you pay for meeting a restaurant person.
Since the last two times I'd been in the food was being served buffet style, this was my first chance to order exactly what I wanted off the menu.
And while I'd had many of the foods on it, they'd not been full representations.
We perused the menu, looking for things that we were both eager to try.
Neither of us had had the beet salad with hazelnuts, green beans, shallot and horseradish and his first take on it was the absence of oil.
Once he got over that hump, we both loved the combination of flavors.
Although I'd had the beef tartare, I hadn't had it with the quail egg yolk to add richness or the jalapeno chili ketchup for heat.
The pork belly had already passed my lips, but not with the yin/yang looking combo of apple turnip puree and black vinegar underneath it.
While my friend had been off talking to the kitchen about fishing, I'd chatted up some guys near me to see what they were eating.
They'd heartily recommended the clams, a dish I'd not yet seen, much less had.
A bowl of Old Salt clams with cabbage, bacon, butter and lemon was as good as they said it was.
We learned that the Old Salt clams were farmed just underneath the Old Salt oysters with which we were already familiar.
Dinner as learning experience
I raved about my memory of the Brussels sprouts, winter squash, preserved lemon and pecan dish until my friend gave in...only to feel smug when he loved it as much as I did.
We (okay, mostly I) finished with the chocolate candy bar, which I'd sampled repeatedly already, but it had since been tweaked to include caramel, a decadent addition to what already tastes like soft fudge with crushed nuts.
By the end of the night, my friend and I had caught up on each other's lives, the interesting parts at least, and he'd had the nerve to give the Chef a hard time about salt and pepper.
But he'd also been nicely attentive to me, so I had to conclude that there are worse things than being brought to mind in a beer joint.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Clearly Not Everything
My pheromones are causing the wrong people to respond to me lately. Okay, all my life.
This is not a conclusion I came to, but rather something a friend observed tonight and pointed out to me.
I don't even notice anymore; it's just the way things are.
On an unrelated note, I turned down an invitation to see "My Fair Lady" but was vindicated when the asker said, "It's definitely gonna be geared for the blue hairs."
For the record, I am not a blue hair.
Instead, I went to Pasture for Friends and Family Night and almost immediately ran into a friend (family, fortunately, resides in other states) who was meeting friends.
The beauty of friends is bottles, in this case, Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Vielles vines Sancerre, Gruet Blanc des Noir and J. Frisch Pinot Blanc.
Rich, festive tartness and full-bodied but not sweet, in that order.
I backed off the truffled deviled eggs tonight (no doubt my arteries thanked me) but partook of just as much fried chicken, fried oysters with slaw and "chocolate candy bar" as I had had Wednesday.
New tonight were the beef tartare and the butter bean hummus, both standouts. More, please.
The crowd changed, too, from Wednesday night as I ran into two musicians (bluegrass and shoegaze), multiple servers from other restaurants (Amuse and Roosevelt), a soon-to-be restaurateur I'd met months ago, multiple bloggers and a former boss complimenting me ("You can do everything").
It's unusual to find someone who can relate to "big family" syndrome and all that that entails. She, at least, was lucky enough to have a big brother.
It was great fun talking to so many people about so many topics while enjoying so much good food and wine.
Still, I look forward to the day when a guy who announces that I am hot, as I was told tonight, is someone from whom I want to hear it (although chances are, anyone who really interested me would never say that anyway).
Out, out damned pheromones.
This is not a conclusion I came to, but rather something a friend observed tonight and pointed out to me.
I don't even notice anymore; it's just the way things are.
On an unrelated note, I turned down an invitation to see "My Fair Lady" but was vindicated when the asker said, "It's definitely gonna be geared for the blue hairs."
For the record, I am not a blue hair.
Instead, I went to Pasture for Friends and Family Night and almost immediately ran into a friend (family, fortunately, resides in other states) who was meeting friends.
The beauty of friends is bottles, in this case, Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Vielles vines Sancerre, Gruet Blanc des Noir and J. Frisch Pinot Blanc.
Rich, festive tartness and full-bodied but not sweet, in that order.
I backed off the truffled deviled eggs tonight (no doubt my arteries thanked me) but partook of just as much fried chicken, fried oysters with slaw and "chocolate candy bar" as I had had Wednesday.
New tonight were the beef tartare and the butter bean hummus, both standouts. More, please.
The crowd changed, too, from Wednesday night as I ran into two musicians (bluegrass and shoegaze), multiple servers from other restaurants (Amuse and Roosevelt), a soon-to-be restaurateur I'd met months ago, multiple bloggers and a former boss complimenting me ("You can do everything").
It's unusual to find someone who can relate to "big family" syndrome and all that that entails. She, at least, was lucky enough to have a big brother.
It was great fun talking to so many people about so many topics while enjoying so much good food and wine.
Still, I look forward to the day when a guy who announces that I am hot, as I was told tonight, is someone from whom I want to hear it (although chances are, anyone who really interested me would never say that anyway).
Out, out damned pheromones.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Out to Pasture
If you're one of those people who always leaves town for holiday weekends, you may not know this, but Thanksgiving Eve is a big bar night.
If you're around, there's a good chance you're going to head out to be around others who've stayed.
With that in mind, the new Pasture opened with a party tonight in its beautiful space on Grace Street, knowing the stay-heres would want to come out.
The last time I'd looked in the window was months ago when excavation was still going on, so it was a real treat to walk in to the spacious restaurant with its white walls, bright green accents and wooden accent walls in the back.
The first person I saw was a personable server from Balliceaux and he immediately made me feel welcome.
Next up was a favorite wine rep whom my friend and I invited to join us for the evening.
There were no seats at the bar available, but I knew bartenders so getting a bottle of Bordeaux (Chateau Jacquet de la Grave) was accomplished easily.
The wine list had a nice choice of well-priced New and Old World wines, including Virginia's own.
We set up camp at the end of a nearby table, ceding the other end to a large party who needed overflow seating.
Food was set up at a long table with constantly rotating plates of simple foods prepared in creative ways.
Fried Barcat oysters came with a dollop of celery slaw on them. A Brussels sprouts and winter squash and walnut dish was full of earthy flavors.
Lamb sausage with white beans was a big hit with all of us. Deviled eggs were better than Mom's.
Jason Alley's recent award-winning pimento cheese was served on a Ritz cracker. Fried chicken drummettes were perfectly crispy.
Since there's nothing better than bubbles to go with fried chicken, we had Thibaut-Janisson Blanc de Blanc, all of us holding its crisp bubbles with our slightly greasy fingers. Yum.
After a while, a trio vacated three prime stools at the end of the bar, offering us first dibs; we took them over without hesitation.
From there, we had fun greeting people as they arrived and I enjoyed conversations with a host of people I knew.
One of my favorite theater people was there and we discussed what a boon to Center Stage Pasture will be. Imagine being able to park once and party twice down there now.
I met a blogger I'd been told I would like who told me, "I think you're the only person who eats out more than me!"
With him and yet another wine rep, we discussed the recent flap about a local chef doing reviews.
The music, when it could be heard over the ebullient crowd, was stellar.
That may just mean that Jason Alley and I have similar music taste, but it's always great to hear thoughtfully-chosen music rather than mere background-appropriate music..
When Jason finally sat down, it was with a look of fatigue and satisfaction. The first night of his long-awaited baby had been an unqualified success.
He may not have had time to enjoy it nearly as much as we had, but his sense of accomplishment must have been huge.
We gathered our things and decided to make one last stop at the Belvidere, where things seemed unnaturally calm after the party vibe at Pasture.
But the bartender was willing, so we got a bottle of Micehel-Chiario "Le Orme" Barbera D'Asti, an elegant finish to our evening.
More fun began with the sharing of stories and since we were a first-time trio, we had entire lifetimes to cover amusing each other.
By the time we left, the city felt truly deserted.
As it is, my neighborhood's been cleared out for days, but even on a night known for people being out, by this point in the evening most have gone home to get a good night's sleep before the big day.
It didn't bother me. I don't need to rest up to eat.
And I certainly don't need to rest up before tomorrow night's party. Let the holidays begin.
If you're around, there's a good chance you're going to head out to be around others who've stayed.
With that in mind, the new Pasture opened with a party tonight in its beautiful space on Grace Street, knowing the stay-heres would want to come out.
The last time I'd looked in the window was months ago when excavation was still going on, so it was a real treat to walk in to the spacious restaurant with its white walls, bright green accents and wooden accent walls in the back.
The first person I saw was a personable server from Balliceaux and he immediately made me feel welcome.
Next up was a favorite wine rep whom my friend and I invited to join us for the evening.
There were no seats at the bar available, but I knew bartenders so getting a bottle of Bordeaux (Chateau Jacquet de la Grave) was accomplished easily.
The wine list had a nice choice of well-priced New and Old World wines, including Virginia's own.
We set up camp at the end of a nearby table, ceding the other end to a large party who needed overflow seating.
Food was set up at a long table with constantly rotating plates of simple foods prepared in creative ways.
Fried Barcat oysters came with a dollop of celery slaw on them. A Brussels sprouts and winter squash and walnut dish was full of earthy flavors.
Lamb sausage with white beans was a big hit with all of us. Deviled eggs were better than Mom's.
Jason Alley's recent award-winning pimento cheese was served on a Ritz cracker. Fried chicken drummettes were perfectly crispy.
Since there's nothing better than bubbles to go with fried chicken, we had Thibaut-Janisson Blanc de Blanc, all of us holding its crisp bubbles with our slightly greasy fingers. Yum.
After a while, a trio vacated three prime stools at the end of the bar, offering us first dibs; we took them over without hesitation.
From there, we had fun greeting people as they arrived and I enjoyed conversations with a host of people I knew.
One of my favorite theater people was there and we discussed what a boon to Center Stage Pasture will be. Imagine being able to park once and party twice down there now.
I met a blogger I'd been told I would like who told me, "I think you're the only person who eats out more than me!"
With him and yet another wine rep, we discussed the recent flap about a local chef doing reviews.
The music, when it could be heard over the ebullient crowd, was stellar.
That may just mean that Jason Alley and I have similar music taste, but it's always great to hear thoughtfully-chosen music rather than mere background-appropriate music..
When Jason finally sat down, it was with a look of fatigue and satisfaction. The first night of his long-awaited baby had been an unqualified success.
He may not have had time to enjoy it nearly as much as we had, but his sense of accomplishment must have been huge.
We gathered our things and decided to make one last stop at the Belvidere, where things seemed unnaturally calm after the party vibe at Pasture.
But the bartender was willing, so we got a bottle of Micehel-Chiario "Le Orme" Barbera D'Asti, an elegant finish to our evening.
More fun began with the sharing of stories and since we were a first-time trio, we had entire lifetimes to cover amusing each other.
By the time we left, the city felt truly deserted.
As it is, my neighborhood's been cleared out for days, but even on a night known for people being out, by this point in the evening most have gone home to get a good night's sleep before the big day.
It didn't bother me. I don't need to rest up to eat.
And I certainly don't need to rest up before tomorrow night's party. Let the holidays begin.
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