Just another evening ending in a history discussion on the front porch with a history major and an international studies major around midnight.
I scored major points in a discussion of British colonialism when I referred to Europeans as an invasive species, a discussion that could be traced back to theirs about the migrating patterns of one guy's Philippine ancestors (psst, there's a Philippine/Virginia pipeline) when I'd walked up.
They, naturally, were chain smoking, practically lighting one from another in that intense, deep discussion manner they probably first saw in an old '80s movie. Don't forget, this is the apartment downstairs that also yielded two guitarists, neither of whom knew much of anything about Prince or his significance musically when I brought up his untimely death.
Guitar players.
I stumbled on the history round table after getting home from an evening out with friends, wherein I found myself introducing two neighbors who live seven houses apart and didn't know each other despite decades in proximity.
Jaws dropped when we heard the story of the crazy neighbor - they all knew her, hell, I recognized her - who'd arrived at the neighborhood "Alley Cat" party, not only dressed as a cat, but pushing a cat dressed as a cat in a carriage. One neighbor used an air whistle to alert a friend of a sighting of her.
That's part of the magic that happens at the seductively-lit (and is that something that only people of a certain age notice?) Pizza Tonight - which deserves the more apt new name it's about to get - as I showed Holmes and Beloved tonight on our first date in two months.
Knowing what the kitchen is capable of with cabbage, how could we not try the cauliflower and capers that wove its spell on Holmes, a confirmed non-cauliflower eater? Or Beloved's suggestion of the warm olives, so far removed from the cheap martini garnish as to be of a separate botanical genus?
When a server went to remove the plate of pits, she checked for missed olives. The bartender scoffed. "That look on her face when she put that first olive in her mouth? No way she was leaving one!" They already had Beloved's number.
Fair to say that they also had Holmes' and mine with the shoegazing, dreampop soundtrack. After several songs so up my music-from-a-cave alley (and Holmes') that we looked for its source: the selfsame observant bartender. Curious, we asked.
"It's a band called Nothing," she said, making sure we knew it was a band, as if we were either 1) musical idiots or 2) clueless old people, reinforced when a woman nearby pointed out, "Or you could have just said, "It's Nothing."
Once we dispelled those notions, the evening unfolded with hours more of good music as she played us more Nothing from their last record, "Guilty of Everything," (and aren't we all?) along with Failure and her favorite, Hum, who were big in the '90s and broke up when the new millennium rolled around.
When Holmes suggested Bob Moses to her, she knew nothing of the band. What kind of electronica do you like, I wanted to know. She thought for hardly a moment and responded, "ELO," surprising the hell out of me because I would go right to prog rock if asked that.
But then this where Holmes, the consummate musician, comes to the rescue, explaining that their extensive use of synthesizers puts them squarely in the electronica camp, which totally makes sense for a woman raised by a Dad who loved Meat Loaf and pre-1990 Springsteen.
Coming highly recommended for the pig parts, the pizza of the week, Porchetta, onions and mushrooms was irrefutable evidence that whatever this place calls itself name-wise, its roots were in terrific pizza (and on the fly, at that).
When Beloved bragged about her latest estate sale find of the soundtrack to "Hair," a staffer jumped in, saying he had two copies, both of which had been mistreated before he got them. You heard right, people were debating their favorite "Hair" song at the bar, as if it isn't common knowledge that "Good Morning, Starshine" is the clear winner there.
We were told a great RVA stereotype story: apparently there are West End women who come to Carytown to brunch, ending their giggling forays buying cards at Mongrel, cards they then return a few days later when sober, unwilling after all to send Mom an Easter card with three forms of the verb "to suck" on it.
Coaxing from me and the staff got my friends trying their first sugar toads, mastering the eating method easily and moaning about the richness of the buttery fish like they'd never had puffer fish before.
Over dessert of an almond cake an Italian would appreciate and a couple of exquisite cream puffs, we grooved to the '90s with Superdrag, another bartender fave ("I should have been born ten years earlier so I could have experienced the whole '90s thing firsthand.") making for interesting music at an appealing volume, an all too rare combination.
More than once we discussed Pop ' Roll, a sub genre of Rock that Holmes is devoted to, and, for the bartender, a different way of looking at her musical taste.
As pre-history debate meals go, it's pretty hard to beat low lighting, honest food and another evening heavy on laughs and early morning singing songs.
Showing posts with label pizza tonight restaurant and bar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pizza tonight restaurant and bar. Show all posts
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
A Mad and Faithful Telling
If there were an online final exam, I would fail.
No really, I don't Google people, I've never Facebook stalked an ex, it just doesn't occur to me to research people that way. I don't even friend people on Facebook, assuming they'll friend me if they're interested.
So in a recent conversation about my past, I was met with incredulity when I admitted I'd never so much as thought of looking for my first love online.
Apparently I'm susceptible to suggestion because that's exactly what I did today.
To be clear here, we're talking about a guy I haven't seen since 1981, but what do you know, I typed in his name (an unusual one I still, coincidentally, use for my bank password), his page popped up and there he was, just as attractive as he'd been the year MTV went on the air.
Back then, everyone told him he looked like Paul McCartney, but these days, he looks way better, but then he's not nearly as old as Sir Paul, either.
Do you have any idea how strange it is to lay eyes on someone who was once an integral part of your life and then out of sight for decades? Would it be out of line to message him? What would he think of how I look today? What kind of conversation might we have if I opened that door?
Well, I'm here to tell you that looking up a piece of your past for the first time is nothing but a gateway drug.
It occurred to me that I could be using the wondrous powers of the Internet to catch up with all kinds of people from my recent past, especially given how many new people I'd met in the seven years since my life imploded and put itself back together.
My intent was pretty simple, nothing more than contacting people I hadn't seen in a while (okay, years in some cases) and asking if we weren't about due to meet up for a drink and a catch-up session.
You know, throw it up against the wall and see what sticks, so to speak.
The first message I put out there got a response within minutes. "Overdue. My, did you come into the 21st century and buy a phone? Hello, Karen. When do you have a free evening?"
Well, that was way simpler than I'd expected.
I suggest tomorrow night and he counters with tonight, so my plans for seeing a Norwegian film at VCU Cinematheque go by the wayside. He defers to me for a new-to-him restaurant idea and then confirms place and time.
I'll be the one - what the hell - you'll recognize me, I message him in farewell.
"You make me laugh," he writes. And who doesn't like that?
We meet at Pizza Tonight because he hasn't even heard of it, much less been there yet. I get there first and am hearing from the chef about his woodpile freezing in the recent Polar Vortex, a problem not easily solved when even the interior of a log has ice crystals.
My friend arrives and immediately jumps into the conversation because, according to an article I read just today, there's nothing men enjoy discussing more than fire and bourbon.
I've little interest in either but it's great entertainment watching them dive off the deep end into wood suppliers (it's hysterical when a certain one is named and both their faces wrinkle in disgust), fire-starting methods and broken hose repair.
Honestly, I'm more interested in the bartender's spiel about the Autumn Olive Farms pig specials on the chalkboard (the 24 ounce pork chop has already sold out- what?) and how fabulous this pork belly special is.
"It's got a layer of fat," she explains, almost drooling, "But not like the fat on commercially-raised pigs. This is well-earned fat from roaming over 80 acres."
I'm sold and so is my companion, who's been sick in bed for the past couple days and is finally now feeling human enough to eat, so we proceed to order with abandon.
First to come out are cabbage leaves with olive oil and bottarga, rich and deeply flavorful and inspiring my friend to note, "I don't even have to put bottarga on anything to eat it!" Next is the pork belly over pickled cabbage, a sublime balance of fat and piquancy that proves the bartender's description was no hype.
Since it had been a while since the two of us had broken bread and talked, he brought me up to speed on his life, including a funny/not funny story about a terrible, awful, no good day when he'd first taken a tumble off a poorly-constructed dock, tearing up his knee cap, and then accidentally put his hand through the windshield of his boat when the engine had died unexpectedly while they were out on the river.
It sounded disastrous to me, but he was long over it, so we got back to chowing down.
It was all about the beautiful texture of charred octopus and white beans, leading to him sharing that he'd cooked baby octopus just last week in much the same fashion, but enjoying tonight's no less for it.
So you know, I have never once cooked octopus. Why would I when others can do it for me so much better?
Accompanying this delightful meal was a Spotify station called Gardens and Villa that was totally on my musical wavelength, playing the likes of Tan Lines, a band I have never once heard out (which is why I own the CD) and Mike Snow. Good stuff, in other words.
When I commented to a server about how excellent the music was sounding, she lit up, making me think it had been her choice. Like me, she said she can't stand the frequent blandness of restaurant music. With all the songs in the world available these days, why should anyone settle for same old, same old?
An entree of prawns roasted in their shells came with a traditional sauce of olive oil, anchovy, parsley, lemon, garlic and red pepper, the crustaceans so large we actually left one on the plate, but for different reasons: he was stuffed and I was saving myself for dessert.
Pizza Tonight occupies the building that formerly housed Aziza's, who were known for their massive cream puffs coated in dark chocolate ganache that few people left without ordering.
Needless to say, PT knew they had to carry on the cream puff tradition, but I knew from a prior visit that the chef had revamped the puff to better reflect his taste (read: less sweet and massive) and make it his own.
These (for there were two small instead of one enormous) were far more refined and elegant cream puffs (more Myrna Loy than Jayne Mansfield), filled with a ricotta mixture studded with bits of dark chocolate and almonds and dusted with confectioner's sugar.
We were the last to finish eating, the last to finish talking and yet still, the fire-starters had to retreat to the back kitchen to discuss the long oven, which my friend immediately saw as the ideal vehicle for cooking whole chickens to crispy-skinned perfection, something he says is not yet being done correctly in Richmond.
I don't know about all that, but I do know I had a hell of a better time than I would have at that Norwegian movie and it was only because I belatedly harnessed the power of the Internets.
Who knows what else might come of the other messages I sent out earlier today?
I came home to a message responding to mine from my Boston buddy saying, "I am an open book. I always think of you when I hear Devotchka. I met a girl from Richmond in a bar in NYC and told her about your blog. She looked it up and said she wants your life, so watch out!"
This mission to get up to speed in the online world could turn out to be a lot more fun than I anticipated. Watch out, indeed.
No really, I don't Google people, I've never Facebook stalked an ex, it just doesn't occur to me to research people that way. I don't even friend people on Facebook, assuming they'll friend me if they're interested.
So in a recent conversation about my past, I was met with incredulity when I admitted I'd never so much as thought of looking for my first love online.
Apparently I'm susceptible to suggestion because that's exactly what I did today.
To be clear here, we're talking about a guy I haven't seen since 1981, but what do you know, I typed in his name (an unusual one I still, coincidentally, use for my bank password), his page popped up and there he was, just as attractive as he'd been the year MTV went on the air.
Back then, everyone told him he looked like Paul McCartney, but these days, he looks way better, but then he's not nearly as old as Sir Paul, either.
Do you have any idea how strange it is to lay eyes on someone who was once an integral part of your life and then out of sight for decades? Would it be out of line to message him? What would he think of how I look today? What kind of conversation might we have if I opened that door?
Well, I'm here to tell you that looking up a piece of your past for the first time is nothing but a gateway drug.
It occurred to me that I could be using the wondrous powers of the Internet to catch up with all kinds of people from my recent past, especially given how many new people I'd met in the seven years since my life imploded and put itself back together.
My intent was pretty simple, nothing more than contacting people I hadn't seen in a while (okay, years in some cases) and asking if we weren't about due to meet up for a drink and a catch-up session.
You know, throw it up against the wall and see what sticks, so to speak.
The first message I put out there got a response within minutes. "Overdue. My, did you come into the 21st century and buy a phone? Hello, Karen. When do you have a free evening?"
Well, that was way simpler than I'd expected.
I suggest tomorrow night and he counters with tonight, so my plans for seeing a Norwegian film at VCU Cinematheque go by the wayside. He defers to me for a new-to-him restaurant idea and then confirms place and time.
I'll be the one - what the hell - you'll recognize me, I message him in farewell.
"You make me laugh," he writes. And who doesn't like that?
We meet at Pizza Tonight because he hasn't even heard of it, much less been there yet. I get there first and am hearing from the chef about his woodpile freezing in the recent Polar Vortex, a problem not easily solved when even the interior of a log has ice crystals.
My friend arrives and immediately jumps into the conversation because, according to an article I read just today, there's nothing men enjoy discussing more than fire and bourbon.
I've little interest in either but it's great entertainment watching them dive off the deep end into wood suppliers (it's hysterical when a certain one is named and both their faces wrinkle in disgust), fire-starting methods and broken hose repair.
Honestly, I'm more interested in the bartender's spiel about the Autumn Olive Farms pig specials on the chalkboard (the 24 ounce pork chop has already sold out- what?) and how fabulous this pork belly special is.
"It's got a layer of fat," she explains, almost drooling, "But not like the fat on commercially-raised pigs. This is well-earned fat from roaming over 80 acres."
I'm sold and so is my companion, who's been sick in bed for the past couple days and is finally now feeling human enough to eat, so we proceed to order with abandon.
First to come out are cabbage leaves with olive oil and bottarga, rich and deeply flavorful and inspiring my friend to note, "I don't even have to put bottarga on anything to eat it!" Next is the pork belly over pickled cabbage, a sublime balance of fat and piquancy that proves the bartender's description was no hype.
Since it had been a while since the two of us had broken bread and talked, he brought me up to speed on his life, including a funny/not funny story about a terrible, awful, no good day when he'd first taken a tumble off a poorly-constructed dock, tearing up his knee cap, and then accidentally put his hand through the windshield of his boat when the engine had died unexpectedly while they were out on the river.
It sounded disastrous to me, but he was long over it, so we got back to chowing down.
It was all about the beautiful texture of charred octopus and white beans, leading to him sharing that he'd cooked baby octopus just last week in much the same fashion, but enjoying tonight's no less for it.
So you know, I have never once cooked octopus. Why would I when others can do it for me so much better?
Accompanying this delightful meal was a Spotify station called Gardens and Villa that was totally on my musical wavelength, playing the likes of Tan Lines, a band I have never once heard out (which is why I own the CD) and Mike Snow. Good stuff, in other words.
When I commented to a server about how excellent the music was sounding, she lit up, making me think it had been her choice. Like me, she said she can't stand the frequent blandness of restaurant music. With all the songs in the world available these days, why should anyone settle for same old, same old?
An entree of prawns roasted in their shells came with a traditional sauce of olive oil, anchovy, parsley, lemon, garlic and red pepper, the crustaceans so large we actually left one on the plate, but for different reasons: he was stuffed and I was saving myself for dessert.
Pizza Tonight occupies the building that formerly housed Aziza's, who were known for their massive cream puffs coated in dark chocolate ganache that few people left without ordering.
Needless to say, PT knew they had to carry on the cream puff tradition, but I knew from a prior visit that the chef had revamped the puff to better reflect his taste (read: less sweet and massive) and make it his own.
These (for there were two small instead of one enormous) were far more refined and elegant cream puffs (more Myrna Loy than Jayne Mansfield), filled with a ricotta mixture studded with bits of dark chocolate and almonds and dusted with confectioner's sugar.
We were the last to finish eating, the last to finish talking and yet still, the fire-starters had to retreat to the back kitchen to discuss the long oven, which my friend immediately saw as the ideal vehicle for cooking whole chickens to crispy-skinned perfection, something he says is not yet being done correctly in Richmond.
I don't know about all that, but I do know I had a hell of a better time than I would have at that Norwegian movie and it was only because I belatedly harnessed the power of the Internets.
Who knows what else might come of the other messages I sent out earlier today?
I came home to a message responding to mine from my Boston buddy saying, "I am an open book. I always think of you when I hear Devotchka. I met a girl from Richmond in a bar in NYC and told her about your blog. She looked it up and said she wants your life, so watch out!"
This mission to get up to speed in the online world could turn out to be a lot more fun than I anticipated. Watch out, indeed.
Monday, December 21, 2015
You Are Dreaming
Holiday hustle and bustle, my ass. I'm losing track of where I've been and what's still left to do.
One thing that got crossed off my to-do list was a sunny road trip to Williamsburg for research.
There I meet a restaurant owner whose son is having his reception there tonight (I spot the large silver sparkly letters spelling out "Mr. and Mr." through the doors of the charming enclosed patio), making her a bit harried trying to find enough time to be both mother of the bride in full preparation mode and a restaurant owner.
Three guys in a British pub argue vehemently about the proper ingredients for chili while I eat a bowl of the house black bean and beef chili and eavesdrop. A local walking by advises me, suggesting I try an osteria because, "You can't beat it for the money." I like how the plastic enclosure on the patio is so heavy it looks like old-fashioned wavy glass (cue Ye Olde Paul's Deli).
It's been a good week for timely train rides and a belly dancer with undulating hips and a sword balanced on her head.
When I say I'm going to Lulu's for a band, everyone at Pizza Tonight is surprised to learn they occasionally do weekend live music, but when I mosey over for The League of Space Pirates 3rd annual "There's No Winter in Space" non-denominational holiday special, no one is surprised to see a heathen like me in attendance.
Besides, I'm all about celebrating the winter solstice or anything to bring on even an extra minute of daylight every day. Let guitar and bass duo Flashlight Tag sing it into being so and I will watch.
I've noticed I make it difficult for some people. Walking briskly past a guy on Broad Street, he asks if he can walk with me. I assure him he can't keep up. "I would try!" he insists, then proves he can't. Walking towards GWAR bar with a fellow film and music enthusiast, I hear from behind me, "You're walking too fast for a guy with a sore foot."
Surely it's okay to razz a 42-year old about already having old man-itis, isn't it?
I hope all the photographers I know are capturing Mother Nature's rare December pageantry. Every day I pass rose bushes covered in fragrant flowers. Entire hedges of pink and white azaleas are in full bloom around the Siegel Center. In my own yard, I currently have dianthus, daisies and geraniums blooming. A musician friend and I spend time marveling at now meaningless traditional rules of what to plant when.
Best rapper line comes from local Noah-O, who, when he spots a plastic squirt gun on the stage, leans down and exclaims, "Oh, shit, I'm not a rapper without this," and tucks it in his waistband.
I'm inordinately happy to be told that my Style Weekly piece on the Historical Society's new "Dressing Downtown Abbey" exhibit is up and getting good reads. The way some of us see it, beautiful dresses never go out of style.
Nor, apparently, do cool threads. The members of a band covering vintage '60s and '70s music dress like it's 1967. I'm particularly taken with the white and gray striped bell bottoms the guitarist is wearing, but they're all looking pretty groovy singing "Dance to the Music" as people do.
Three days, four bands, the poetry of a pie with Calbrese and a glass of Sangiovese, late night fried bologna served on the bartender's penultimate shift and the distinct pleasure of listening to my now-functional car CD player and specifically, my favorite Swedish export, the Shout Out Louds.
Unbeknownst to anyone, it was their "Time Left for Love" that provided the name for this blog.
The rumor said it was a serial killer
But they got hit by a Caterpillar
You know the engine was still on
I smashed a window, I could go on...
And on, as you may have noticed. Keep up if you can.
One thing that got crossed off my to-do list was a sunny road trip to Williamsburg for research.
There I meet a restaurant owner whose son is having his reception there tonight (I spot the large silver sparkly letters spelling out "Mr. and Mr." through the doors of the charming enclosed patio), making her a bit harried trying to find enough time to be both mother of the bride in full preparation mode and a restaurant owner.
Three guys in a British pub argue vehemently about the proper ingredients for chili while I eat a bowl of the house black bean and beef chili and eavesdrop. A local walking by advises me, suggesting I try an osteria because, "You can't beat it for the money." I like how the plastic enclosure on the patio is so heavy it looks like old-fashioned wavy glass (cue Ye Olde Paul's Deli).
It's been a good week for timely train rides and a belly dancer with undulating hips and a sword balanced on her head.
When I say I'm going to Lulu's for a band, everyone at Pizza Tonight is surprised to learn they occasionally do weekend live music, but when I mosey over for The League of Space Pirates 3rd annual "There's No Winter in Space" non-denominational holiday special, no one is surprised to see a heathen like me in attendance.
Besides, I'm all about celebrating the winter solstice or anything to bring on even an extra minute of daylight every day. Let guitar and bass duo Flashlight Tag sing it into being so and I will watch.
I've noticed I make it difficult for some people. Walking briskly past a guy on Broad Street, he asks if he can walk with me. I assure him he can't keep up. "I would try!" he insists, then proves he can't. Walking towards GWAR bar with a fellow film and music enthusiast, I hear from behind me, "You're walking too fast for a guy with a sore foot."
Surely it's okay to razz a 42-year old about already having old man-itis, isn't it?
I hope all the photographers I know are capturing Mother Nature's rare December pageantry. Every day I pass rose bushes covered in fragrant flowers. Entire hedges of pink and white azaleas are in full bloom around the Siegel Center. In my own yard, I currently have dianthus, daisies and geraniums blooming. A musician friend and I spend time marveling at now meaningless traditional rules of what to plant when.
Best rapper line comes from local Noah-O, who, when he spots a plastic squirt gun on the stage, leans down and exclaims, "Oh, shit, I'm not a rapper without this," and tucks it in his waistband.
I'm inordinately happy to be told that my Style Weekly piece on the Historical Society's new "Dressing Downtown Abbey" exhibit is up and getting good reads. The way some of us see it, beautiful dresses never go out of style.
Nor, apparently, do cool threads. The members of a band covering vintage '60s and '70s music dress like it's 1967. I'm particularly taken with the white and gray striped bell bottoms the guitarist is wearing, but they're all looking pretty groovy singing "Dance to the Music" as people do.
Three days, four bands, the poetry of a pie with Calbrese and a glass of Sangiovese, late night fried bologna served on the bartender's penultimate shift and the distinct pleasure of listening to my now-functional car CD player and specifically, my favorite Swedish export, the Shout Out Louds.
Unbeknownst to anyone, it was their "Time Left for Love" that provided the name for this blog.
The rumor said it was a serial killer
But they got hit by a Caterpillar
You know the engine was still on
I smashed a window, I could go on...
And on, as you may have noticed. Keep up if you can.
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