Sex at the River

It was a perfect day to read on your porch.

I said as much to four different men I saw reading on their porches on my walk this morning.

But, despite the mid-70s temperatures and cloud cover, my day was not about porch reading but all about a road trip.

In an effort to catch up with a favorite couple, I'd suggested Merroir because they'd never been. Make no mistake, I'd raved about the place to them, but we'd never quite been able to align out schedules and make it happen.

Today, the planets lined up and we hit the road to eat oysters by the river.

(sound of record scratching)

Unexpectedly, 64 was full of vacation-bent cars headed to the Outer Banks. It was a major buzz kill.

Fortunately, the driver was willing to be creative with the map and we were soon cruising through the back roads of Providence Forge and Quinton.

When we eventually landed in Topping at Merroir, the first person I saw I knew. Really? An hour from Richmond and I see someone I know from the Camel? Apparently, yes.

We had our pick of seating options, opting for a picnic table facing the river, and causing the female portion of the couple to take a deep breath and exclaim, "It smells so good!"

It was true, the salty air off the river was carried on the breeze and delivered to our table right about the time the first bottle of M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose arrived.

Because if a Saturday sojourn to the river isn't cause for celebration (and thus, sparkling), what is?

With sailboats pulling in and out of the marina, we ordered our first dozen oysters, a mix of buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and briny Old Saltes.

If it had been up to me, and it wasn't, they would have been all Old Saltes.

Then suddenly, we had a man in a green golf shirt join our group, a man who turned out to have gone to high school with my friend and had already been at Merroir drinking beer for four hours.

On the plus side, he was a scintillating conversationalist (JFK, the media, feminism), curious ("What are your political leanings?") and an architect, albeit one with an odd laugh.

When he got up to leave, we ordered our second dozen oysters - this time all Old Saltes- and welcomed our server for the evening who turned out to be young Ford, whom I'd first met last July when he'd waited on me and my date during his early days as a server.

Tonight, he was assured, obviously having mastered the serving game in the year since I'd seen him. Or, judging by the overly generous way he pored my wine, at least able to fake it.

I think it was around the time we moved on to our third dozen (also Old Saltes) that I looked over and saw two good friends, another favorite couple, taking the table next to us.

Good god, was there no escaping people I knew despite being an hour from home? Clearly not.

I grinned at them, I met their gaze and smiled like a crazy person, but it took me getting up and walking over to their table for them to recognize me.

That's okay, I accept that I'm not the memorable type.

I leaned in for a picture with them, capturing our random meeting, but was slapped in the face with 21st century reality when my friend went to post the picture and Facebook not only recognized me but automatically tagged me.

Do I really want to think about face recognition technology that knows who I am before a friend tags me? Nope, I don't.

Meanwhile, we kept ordering "Sex" and more food, namely a crabcake, a lamb hotdog and the clam and lamb stew, a perennial favorite with me.

The music was classic rock, veering from Neil Young to the Beatles to CCR and back, tolerable only because my friends offered me a taste of their sassy scallop ceviche.

We watched speedboats speeding in a no-wake zone and ordered Carolina shrimp and a grilled Cesar with anchovies.

Much as I love Merroir on a sunny day, today's overcast skies were ideal for lingering with no fear of discomfort or skin burning.

As we delved into another bottle of "Sex," I looked up to see a familiar face, a restaurant owner who's now out of the business.

Was there no end to the number of Richmonders who'd followed us to Topping today? I'm not complaining because it was fun to run into so many people I know, but after a dozen visits to Merroir with no familiar sightings, it was a bit surprising.

But mostly it was wonderful spending a coolish, cloudy day on the river watching boats traverse the water and eating and drinking with friends.

I heard about their recent trip to D.C.'s Hotel Rouge (and Bistro Coin) and the National Gallery, as well as a side trip to Solomon's Island, Maryland, a place I've never been.

We admired the changing light and sky as afternoon gave way to evening. Eventually, we gave in to dessert after hearing another table ask for a doughnut.

What is this doughnut you speak of?

This was a s'mores doughnut, split with marshmallow cream inside, chocolate on top and graham cracker crumbs over that and we devoured it with the last of the "Sex." Ford nodded his approval as he cleared the table.

My final request was a trip to the dock which has changed so drastically since last summer when it had been "upgraded" to include railings on three sides so it was no longer possible to sit on the end and dangle my feet in the water, as I had since they'd opened.

But making the best of what it is, we stood at the end of the railing, savoring the river breeze in our hair and ruminating on what a stellar day at the river it had been.

We didn't want to leave, but we were full and it wasn't fair to take up a table any longer with people continuing to arrive.

Walking back past other diners, my friend jokingly asked people at tables if they knew him. "We're from Richmond..." one woman said, half expectantly. Stop the madness.

Driving back, we got almost to Richmond before my friend suggested a nightcap at Lucy's, conveniently mere blocks from my house. Why would I say no?

Dinner service was winding down and our savvy bartender was able to recreate a cocktail my friend had fallen in love with at the Hotel Rouge while her beloved and I happily sipped Espolon.

With vintage soul playing - Stevie, Gladys, Smokey - we sipped our drinks and talked trash with the staff until it was time to call it a day.

My friend told me to stop gloating about taking them to a place they enjoyed so much. His girlfriend did nothing but rave about what a fabulous day it had been.

Me, I'm just going to end my lovely day reading on my porch. Because it's that kind of day night.

Playing Hooky

What do you mean you can't come to the phone? What are you doing? It's the middle of the afternoon! Don't make me speculate!

Pru's phone message was hysterical, but there was nothing to speculate about.

A friend and I had planned to drive out to the river to have lunch at Merroir, a Friday afternoon treat to ourselves.

He drove while regaling me with stories of what the area near West Point reminded him of, namely his childhood in rural North Carolina.

There was one tale of how he was taught to clean catfish as a Boy Scout: nail the fish to a tree (!) by its head, then make an "X" under the gill and use pliers to peel off the tough skin.

"It was okay at the beginning of the summer, but by mid-summer the stench of old fish heads on tree trunks was pretty bad," he said with masterful understatement.

We stopped for gas at a station where the sign read, "Fish/hunting licenses. Bait & tackle. Tornados-nachos-sandwiches." When he asked if I needed anything, all I could request was how a store sold tornadoes.

Arriving at Merroir, we debated eating outside under the big tree, but decided it wasn't quite warm enough. That said, others arrived and were braver, although one had on a puffy ski jacket with the hood up and another table had brought their own blankets, which they wrapped around themselves like cocoons.

Up on the porch, we found only one couple and they invited us to share the space with them. Also from Richmond, she admitted she had called in sick today so she and her husband could have an adventure together. That said, they had checked Yelp before coming out (you know, because strangers' opinions matter) and did not eat either raw oysters or lamb.

Friend and I settled in with a view of the incredibly blue river through the plastic shades and began our multi-course lunch. We'd order a couple of things and our server would try to take our menus and we'd insist we weren't full, until she gave up even trying.

The music was odd, everything from Led Zeppelin to the Shins so I finally had to ask, sure that they were no longer playing owner Ryan Croxton's approved mix, as they had for so long.

Nope, Black Keys radio was to blame for the Shins and the Rolling Stones. Still, the volume was good and it could have been much worse, say, Journey radio.

Since it was my friend's first Merroir outing, we started with a sampler of dozen oysters, four buttery Rapphannocks, four mildly salty Stingrays and four briny Old Saltes. Friend swooned with pleasure over the perfection of the oysters eaten riverside.

Next we got a pound of fresh North Carolina steamed shrimp and the woman playing hooky told us how much they had enjoyed theirs. "I didn't even know there was such a thing as homemade cocktail sauce," she admitted. "I thought it only came in bottles, like ketchup."

In a case like that, there really is nothing to do but smile.

My friend had to know about the Stuffin' Muffin, a mainstay on the menu and with a direct lineage to Chef Pete's mother's post-Thanksgiving day recipe. Oyster stuffing, celery, scallions and gravy soon had my friend moaning, eyes closed, "This tastes like everything I ever ate as a child."

A very good thing, he assured me.

The grilled romaine salad came loaded with anchovies after we made our love of small fish known to our eager-to-please server. The giant crabcake came atop a thick slice of Italian bread with remoulade oozing over it all and almost pushed us over the edge.

I wanted the beef sliders jut to eat from the land for something different and that was all she wrote. As in, we were full or at least full of savory so our server began working on us for dessert.

Our only option was grilled pound cake with apples, caramel sauce and homemade whipped cream and Friend said yes before I could remind him we were stuffed. Not that one adult should have to remind another of that, but his eyes were kind of glazed and I knew he was in his first Merroir-induced food coma.

We finally stood up to go for a stroll and prove that we could still move, heading down to the dock area, which seems to sport an upgrade every time I return.

This time, rope fencing had been added to cordon off the river seating area from the parking area, which was fine, but also the dock had been replaced and railings put up on three sides, which was so not okay. 
Every single other time I've been to Merroir, my visit has ended by sitting on the end of the dock, enjoying the river view with my feet hanging over the water.

I have shared a bottle of wine sitting there (carried down by our server), I have been kissed sitting there and I've even extended my bare foot down to the water to feel the temperature on a particularly hot summer day (warm as bath water).

Those days are gone, sadly.

My friend didn't know the difference, but I did and it made me a little sad to see how fancy Merroir keeps getting when only a year or two ago, it was the simplest and loveliest place to spend an afternoon or evening eating and drinking.

Not that the food isn't still stellar. It is. Not that the porch and yard aren't still delightful places to wile away hours. They are. Not that paying $15 for a dozen oysters instead of $24 like at the Grace Street offshoot, Rappahannock, isn't still part of the allure. It is.

Stop gilding the lily, guys. Merroir's rustic appeal needs no more improvements.

I don't want to have to nail a catfish head to that big tree to make my point.

Cloud Song for Bivalves

Today had to be the most exquisite weather Richmond has ever presented us with on July 25th.

So naturally my first thought was to go someplace else.

With a willing companion, we headed east to Merroir and a leisurely meal by the riverside.

Yesterday, Merroir had posted a picture of the view with an impressive looking water spout straight out from the dock.

We didn't require a water spout, just sustenance, libations and a scenic place for sustained conversation.

My first stop on arriving was necessarily the ladies' room and as I made my way there, a large party began greeting me, calling "hello" and "glad you're here" as if they knew me.

When I inquired if they were the welcome committee, they answered in the affirmative.

Turns out they were actually celebrating a birthday and doing so with lots of alcohol, making for a noisy, garrulous group for several hours to come.

Not that it mattered to us because we knew we were going to outlast them.

I have a long-standing record of closing down places even when I don't have good company, so I felt pretty sure they'd cave long before we did.

An unexpectedly beautiful Thursday afternoon at the river surely merits bubbles, so we began with Gruet Brut under a sky packed with clouds and promising spots of blue.

Our server, Ford (short for [and much cooler-sounding than] Clifford, a family name), was ever-present, checking in frequently to see if we were ready to order.

With a view of masts bobbing at the marina, the tempestuous-looking sky and a continuing stream of new arrivals, it seemed a shame to hurry.

I just don't have any trouble making the shift to river time.

But you can only send a nice boy away so many times before agreeing to order oysters to give him something to do.

We tucked into buttery Rappahannocks, mildly salty Stingrays and killer Old Salts, while discussing the difficulty (at least for me) of ordering only one type rather than a variety of all three.

I say why limit yourself when you can savor the fruits of three different parts of the river?

Others might say I'm just greedy.

The party table continued their greeting of every new arrival, pretty much drowning out the very '90s music emanating from the porch, not necessarily a bad thing when a decades-old Counting Crows or Third Eye Blind song is playing.

With bubbly and oysters behind us, we moved on to the next course.

Young Ford looked relieved.

Pan-seared scallops with crab slaw, Prospect Farms beef sliders with roasted garlic and herb aioli and the signature crabcake accompanied a bottle of Cave de Pomerols, Picpoul de Pinet, a lovely, acidic default to go with our seafood.

And may I just say what a good idea putting crab into slaw is?

Of course, with my Maryland roots, I probably wouldn't object to putting crab in much of anything savory.

One of the evening's specials was a flat bread "pizza" of butter-poached oysters, bacon, spinach and Parmesan on flat bread, which we'd both seen on Facebook earlier and discussed on the drive down.

But with our lackadaisical ways, by the time we got around to asking for it, we barely made it in time.

Ford put our order in, returning with a grin to inform us we'd gotten the last one.

Well, that was close.

Munching on the coveted final special, we discussed our next move.

Since my last visit to Merroir in late April, they'd greatly enhanced their little piece of riverside heaven.

Besides fancier picnic tables and more metal table and chair sets, there's now a landscaped area down by the dock.

Merroir, we hardly know ye.

Crushed oyster shells defined paths for Adirondack chairs and other seating so that the dock was no longer the only option for sitting.

Not that there's anything wrong with dock-sitting.

We'd already seen the birthday boy from the loud table head down there with a bottle of wine, so why not us?

After informing Ford of our intentions, he informed us that he'd have to be the one to carry our wine to the dock for us.

You just never know when the Virginia ABC will rear its useless head.

Pulling two big chairs side by side, we settled in to enjoy more Languedoc loveliness mere feet from the rippling water.

Uranus was the first arrival in the night sky but we sat there long enough to watch others join it overhead.

Call me old school (or worse), but eventually the big Adirondacks lost their appeal and we moved down to the end of the dock to hang our feet off the edge and admire the fuzzy lights across the river.

Being severely directionally-challenged, I had no idea from where they emanated and even my navigationally-savvy companion could only hazard a guess.

Irvington? White Stone? Smoldering meteorite?

But when you're sitting on a dock drinking wine and listening to fish jump, who really cares what's on the other side?

And just for the record, we did outlast everyone except the staff, who were politely waiting on the porch railings when we finally made our way back.

Say goodnight, Ford.

Out of the City and Back In

It was meal as mini-vacation.

Four of us drove down and met up with three others in Topping for an afternoon at Merroir.

The date had been set for weeks, so the absolutely perfect weather was a bonus.

We'd still have gone if the forecast had been 100 degrees, but fortunately it wasn't.

Because we arrived before the trio, we claimed the shadiest picnic table nearest the river and the monumental pile of oyster shells.

I went over to say hello to the chef before we all walked over to the dock to admire how green the water was.

And then our true purpose kicked in.

People gotta eat (and drink).

Our smiling server remembered me from my visit three weeks ago, impressing me with her customer recognition skills.

She approved of our choice of a bottle of Wimmer Gruner Veltliner, delivering it in a gallon bucket with an old label proclaiming, "Pittman Bewdley Brand Rapphannock Oysters, Lancaster, VA."

It was the ideal touch to set the tone for our afternoon of seafood eating.

Unable to wait for the trio to start slurping, we got a dozen to tide us over, mixing and matching three kinds of oysters (Rapphannocks, Stingrays and Old Saltes) with three kinds of house made sauce, cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and to-die-for red wine shallot mignonette.

If we'd left after just that part of the adventure, it would have still been noteworthy.

The sky was bright blue, the water a deep green, the breeze non-stop and the shade of the big old tree delicious.

Soon the trio arrived and we all got to eating in earnest.

My partner in crime and I made pigs of ourselves with no apologies.

He at first shunned the lamb and clam stew for fear it would be too heavy a dish, but I insisted and we were rewarded with a cioppino-like broth loaded with ground Border Springs lamb and local Old Salte clams.

I don't think he even minded me being right once he tasted it.

The smoked lamb ribs with peach barbecue sauce were bone-sucking good and one in our party even pilfered a rib from his beloved's plate when she wasn't looking.

Angels on horseback kept the oyster theme going for us, albeit with bacon, which we all know makes everything better.

I felt like we had to try the stuffin' muffin, a tribute to the chef's mom's recipe for using up leftover oyster stuffing after Thanksgiving.

Balls of stuffing were flattened, grilled and covered in a bacon and onion cream sauce for a carb fest that tasted like the holidays even on a July day.

We closed out with a pound of steamed Outer Banks shrimp cooked with celery, onions and Old Bay.

By that time, our group had downed three bottles of wine and untold food.

After a while, I lost track of what others were eating in my own feeding frenzy.

Boats came in and out of the marina, a blue heron sat on a nearby dock and everyone agreed that the river vibe had reduced us to creatures completely relaxed, at times even incoherent.

Less than an hour and a half from the city and we might as well have been in another world.

After gorging, we all wandered down to the dock to dangle our feet in the impossibly-warm water and consider a dip.

It was obvious no one wanted to get in our cars and return to the real world.

For some of us, doing so was possible only because we intend to go back very soon. Very soon.

So back we went over the two bridges and westward home.

The only needs left to be satisfied were dessert and entertainment beyond nature.

We took care of both neatly with a trip to Ipanema, meeting up with another couple still making the river to city adjustment.

Foolishly after an afternoon of much wine and seafood, I ordered the brownie a la mode and my seatmate the apple berry pie a la mode.

Not surprisingly, neither of us did justice to our desserts, but managed to down the Durant White that accompanied them.

Before long, the music for which we'd come began in the form of Friends of Mine, the latest DJ night courtesy  of Jamie, he of the former Blood Brothers before one bro split for NYC.

The idea is that he'll share turntable rights with a different friend every week and tonight's was Cassie Jane.

If tonight was any indication, I'm going to like these friends of mine, who leaned heavily on early '60s rhythm and blues to get the party started.

From the smooth soul stylings of "I'm Your Puppet" to the urgency of "In the Midnight Hour" to the forgotten "Putty in Your Hands," it was a rock solid night of music.

I mean, come on. "Heat Wave," "Piece of My Heart" and the always-classic "Little Bit of Soul"?

People should have been dancing on that beautiful new bar with that kind of music being cranked out.

It was a long way from a picnic bench by the Rappahannock, but if we had to come back to the heat of the city, this was the way to end it.

Leave it to friends of mine to put an exclamation point at the end of a stellar day.

Swallow the Leader

Sometimes I have the best job.

Like when a story I'm writing requires me to go to Rappahannock River Company's Merroir Tasting Room on the Northern Neck.

Sure, I was there to interview the owners and spend time with the guy who 's responsible for raising the baby oysters before they go out to the aqua-farms.

But it was with the chef, Pete, that I had the most fun.

So after spending the morning on the porch doing my interviewing, it was time for lunch.

I had a choice of where to eat: the tiny (but air-conditioned) bar inside, the porch (where I'd just been) or the yard under the shade of a huge, old tree.

Three guesses where I chose.

Despite being mere feet from the water, the river was still, almost glass-like today so it was still hot even in the shade.

Near the water's edge sat a giant pile of oyster shells.

My server was the personable girl who was the first oysterista hired when they decided to open the Tasting Room.

A pro.

She didn't even bring me a menu, just sat down across the wooden picnic table from me and started  chatting.

How hungry was I? Did I prefer beer or wine? Did I eat my oysters raw?

When I said wine, she lit up. "Then I have the perfect wine for you! The Wimmer Gruner Veltliner goes perfectly with everything on the menu."

She then punched my order into her phone and was off.

Sure enough, the wine was ideal: aromatic, fresh and just acidic enough.

Moments later, my dozen oysters arrived and I was treated to Rappahannocks (buttery and mild), Yorks (a "skosh saltier than the Stingrays" she said) and the Chincoteague-raised Old Salts (perfectly named).

With them came three housemade sauces: cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and red wine mignonette with shallots.

Good thing I had a dozen so I could try each variety with all the sauces.

As I slurped, two men were measuring all around me for the soon-to-be installed pergola to augment the big tree's shade.

When she brought out my enormous crabcake ("150% crab meat," she'd said), she insisted I keep my cocktail sauce in addition to the remoulade it came with.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said, leaning in. "I put that sauce on my crabcake once and Chef Pete saw me and asked if that was cocktail sauce on his crabcake. I told him so what, he had made the cocktail sauce and that they were great together. He said he couldn't condone it, but I always eat it that way."

You know I did the same after a recommendation like that.

Pete came out to join me once I finished eating and began telling me stories about his life.

My favorite concerned his wife of five years.

They'd lived across the street from each other as kids and he was her protector. They grew up, lost touch and married other people.

They had only occasional phone calls over the years. And then Pete's Dad died.

After a nasty divorce on both of their parts, he called her up out of the blue. He hadn't seen her in twenty years.

After a few long phone calls, he flew out to Colorado where she lived to get reacquainted.

"I fell madly in love with her that first night," he  said, grinning like a man still very much in love.

He immediately moved to Colorado and married her shortly thereafter.

And now they're living happily ever after in a house spitting distance from where he prepares the tastiest oysters in Virginia.

"I got lucky," he admitted as I finished the last of my Gruner Veltliner. "And that's not lost on me."

Ditto.

I may not make as much money as I'd like doing freelance writing, but every time I meet someone like Pete, or enjoy the pleasures of an unexpected lunch by the river on a summer day, I remind myself just how lucky I am.

(insert sound of slurp)

Incredibly so.