Between Jefferson and First

Today's lesson? Don't try to hide happiness.

When a favorite Gemini and I finally managed to meet for lunch - mind you, we've been trying to plan this since our birthdays in May - at Lucy's, the conversation necessarily started with her curious about my love life. Although she'd briefly met Mr. Wright back in May when we all wound up at the same restaurant, she needed details.

Trying to keep my giddiness under control, I started rambling calmly about him, about us, about things we'd done and places we'd gone, stopping only when she grabbed my arm. "Is there something bad about him or the relationship?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Why are you telling me this so matter-of-factly?"

Needless to say, gushing has become my usual M.O. when talking about this wonderful new phase of my life to anyone foolish enough to ask. But ever since Mac chided me about whining about the cold weather on the way to Folk Fest ("You have a man who loves you, so you don't get to complain about Fall!"), I've been trying to temper my over-the-top happiness.

I should have known a Gemini wouldn't let me get away with that crap.

As she devoured her salmon salad and I my shrimp po'boy salad, I proceeded to let loose with everything that's been happening in my life and how well it suits me. That, she told me, was what she wanted to hear.

Around the time the chocolate mousse pie with graham cracker crust showed up, we felt a presence behind us and looked up to find a familiar goateed face (writer/one of my former editors/radio host) standing behind our bar stools. "I'm here with P," he said. "Weren't you two here talking and eating last time we came here?" Not long after, when we went to leave, the duo were still standing at the door awaiting a free table. "Hey, weren't you two here last time we came here for lunch?" P inquired.

Geminis may be overly observant, but even we can't recall everyone who eats at the restaurants we do. We are, after all, concentrating on each other.

The subject of so much of my conversation showed up hours later for a J-Ward date that began by walking to Rogue for dinner. There, we took the only two available stools, only to hear the man to my left say, "Boy, they let anyone in here, don't they?"

There sat a local chef and now sommelier who's been off the radar for a hot minute, so, after introductions, I naturally asked what he had cooking. Giving me a pained look, he assured me he has something big in the works but legally can't say what it is yet. It was obvious the restraint he was displaying was wearing on him, so I assumed it was a matter of city incompetence or money shortages.

In any case, he assured me I'd know something soon.

Sipping Terre di San Venanzio Fortunato Prosecco while noshing on charred carrots jazzed up with harissa, yogurt, a generous amount of crumbled peanuts and capers followed by to-die-for sweet potato-filled cappalletti surrounded by broccoli rabe and caramelized pearl onions with dollops of ricotta, we left the chef to his ruminations. Meanwhile, Rogue's chef proffered a wave and smile from the far end of the bar.

When my chocolate cremeux with meringue stars, vanilla sponge cake and caramelized cinnamon ice cream with graham cracker crumbles arrived, I'd barely made a dent when the man to Mr. Wright's left elbowed him aside to ask of me, "What's that?"

I can't be the only woman impressed by a guy curious about a fabulous looking dessert, can I?

After selling the dessert hard, I polished mine off, suggested he order his own and we left to walk over to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre Company's production of "Between Riverside and Crazy." When the usher pointed out our seats, she said they were right in front of "this couple." Glancing at the couple, major figures in the local theater scene, I shouldn't have been surprised when they began cracking wise about the kind of people in the row in front of them.

Clearly everyone I know is a comedian.

The incredibly well-acted play, which won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 2015, took us into the rent-controlled apartment of an older black retired cop on disability. His son, just released from jail and his girlfriend, live there too, along with a recovering addict. Everyone refers to him as "Pops" and appreciates his hard-won wisdom, even if he has been cranky since his wife died. He's also got a lawsuit pending against the department since it was a white cop who mistakenly shot him.

The dialog crackled with authenticity and not a few completely politically incorrect statements, but the play was most appealing because I had no idea where it was going. And I certainly didn't see Pops' sex scene coming,

No surprise for a recent Pulitzer winner, the play offered no answers about the state of modern life, but rather showed the good, the bad and the ugly and left the future in limbo, providing plenty to discuss with my willing partner, who saw shades of Redd Foxx's Sanford character in Pops.

This morning, at my yearly girl parts check-up, the nurse-practitioner's first question was whether anything was new. I assumed she meant health wise. Mid-exam, she asked the all-important question - "Are you involved in any domestic violence?" and I laughed out loud.

From there, I was off and blathering about this fascinating new person in my life. She stopped me only to complete the exam before asking what had happened next. She wanted all the intel and who was I to deny her a chirpy version? With a Q & A period (her idea).

I won't necessarily volunteer (although it's likely) to share my happiness, but if you ask, I will answer with many words, chirpy words.

Which I seem to have in spades these days. Not necessarily a bad thing, either.

Be Good or Be Gone

I can thank 5th Wall Theatre for teaching me that I don't like moon pies.

Pru might be inclined to point out that our pre-theater dinner at Rogue might have had something to do with it and she'd likely be right. If we hadn't eaten through three courses, we may have had a teensy bit more room to enjoy the southern disks of tastelessness.

Since it was St. Patrick's Day and since we knew there would be all kinds of unpleasant drunken revelry going on all over town, from the moment she picked me up, we resolved to stay in Jackson Ward for the entire evening.

Better safe than face to face with a drunk in a green t-shirt.

Rogue was a bastion of understated cool on a Saturday night, allowing us to score two end bar stools and, once Pru had cooed over the plush new bar stools, complete with backs, glasses of a white Riojas.

Some people would be ashamed to admit that they ordered two of the same dishes as they'd had on their last visit, but I'm not one of them. That first time had been with Beau and not Pru, so why wouldn't I want to introduce her to a couple of dishes we'd fallen for on our maiden voyage?

If I were ever to meet a person who purported to hate carrots (thankfully, I have not), I would take them immediately to  Rogue and order the charred carrots. Then I would sit there to watch the revelation on their face as they learned what carrots' potential can be in the right hands. Cooked to al dente perfection, these multi-colored beauties are bathed in citrus, ginger and soy, with peanuts added for crunch. Cue angels singing.

Fact: I will no doubt have them the next time I go to Rogue, too. No shame.

Beets topped with greens and chevre was every bit as solid as last time and for something new, we tried the russet potato gnocchi in bolognese sauce, the rich meat sauce aided and abetted by the runny egg  and bits of Parmesan on top.

This leads to a discussion because I'm of the opinion that gnocchi is better than pasta and Pru tried to make a case for pasta. But when I point out that if you want pasta and they don't have it, you'll probably eat gnocchi instead and be happy. But if you're looking forward to gnocchi? Pasta probably isn't going to do the trick. At least that's how we saw it.

How we saw "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was from the front row (there were only two) of the Basement, arriving as the two dinettes (servers in a diner) were offering coffee and Moon Pies to those in the front row. A woman two seats down scored a cup of coffee and later was offered a slice of actual pie. For the record, she ate every bite, but only after feeding her husband the first one. Ain't love grand?

What I got offered was a Moon Pie and naturally I accepted it since it looked chocolate to me. Heaven knows, it only took one bite to determine that it tasted like what I imagined the wrapper it came in would have tasted like. Plastic-tasting chocolate, stale, almost chewy marshmallow and bone-dry graham crackers ensured that my first bite would be my last.

Happily, "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was far more pleasurable, with a litany of feel-good songs dealing with the problems that come with being a garage or diner worker: love, food and jobs, not to mention drinking. Who doesn't put on their drinking shoes occasionally?

The waitresses uniforms were perfection: orange, blue and white, right down to the buttons, with an apron for good measure, just like a proper HoJo server would have on so she'd have a place to stash her order book.

A lot of the fun of the musical was that the four actors playing the pump boys played their own instruments, although watching the Dinettes play pots, pans and the counter was pretty darn impressive, too.

During the moving song "Mamaw," I spotted a guy in the second row mouthing every single word to the song. He was part of a large group who'd come in, all in blue blazers and khakis, and while I'd resorted to making rich white people jokes, Pru had pegged them for a men's glee club. She's brilliant like that.

It was the kind of play where you walked out, not feeling like your worldview had been changed in any way, but confident that you'd been solidly entertained by talented people for a couple of hours.

As for the green beer squad, we never so much as laid eyes on them. As usual, J-Ward for the win.

Away in a Motel

People are going to talk.

For the second night in a row, my dance card was identical to that of the night before: dinner and a play with a good friend's man. Same old same old.

I kid, but where else am I going to get a man for an evening out? Fortunately, Pru doesn't mind lending him out on occasion and this well-reviewed play had piqued both our interests, but not hers.

We began sating our curiosity at dinner at Rogue, the new incarnation of what was Rogue Gentlemen, but after pipes froze and burst in the apartment over the restaurant, causing flooding downstairs, it was time for a makeover. Not only did the place get a shortened moniker, but also a sleek new look that's lighter and more welcoming than the original.

Or perhaps I'm just more of a fan of mid-century modern than I was of Prohibition-era speakeasy decor. And for a change, I was glad my Google calendar-obsessed companion had made a reservation because there were no available seats at the bar, no doubt because of people wanting to experience the new bar stools with backs!

Rogue has gone comfortable and I like it.

I also like a wine list with champagne by the glass, meaning I sipped Lallier Grand Reserve Grand Cru whilst Beau sought something single malt and smoky (but not peat-y, he hastened to explain) because, unlike last night, he wanted nothing to do with fruity and sweet.

Periodically, aromatic clouds from his brown liquor drifted my way.

Both Beau and I are big fans of small plates, so Rogue's new all small plate menu suited us to a "T." Charred carrots, red and golden beets with chevre and pumpkin ravioli with sausage wowed us with nuance, bright flavors and standout seasonality.

While we ate, people kept arriving and those without reservations were given the option of hanging around in hopes of bar stools being vacated. One trio of guys cooled their heels for nearly an hour with not a stool in sight before giving up and going who-knows-where.

Beau was the perfect dinner companion, telling me with all sincerity that he can't for the life of him understand why I am single. His only theory was that I'm daunting to approach, a theory I reject because anyone who sees me is likely going to see me smiling and laughing and that overrides the daunting issue. Subject closed.

Come dessert time, our server  explained that we could expect deconstructed takes on classic sweets. Beau thought his deconstructed carrot cake - complete with shavings of fresh carrots - took first place, but my deconstructed chocolate cheesecake gave it a run for its money. It's not often you get desserts that are both clever and swoon-worthy.

We digested while watching Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Corpus Christi," an updated take on the life of Joshua, aka Jesus, that re-imagines him and a couple of his apostles as gay men.

Before the play began, I admitted to Beau that most of my knowledge of religious stories was gleaned from art history, not from church-going. He, on the other hand, had one of those crazy Christian upbringings where everything was about religion (or at least the organized version of it).

We were a pair, alright.

Even so, both of us were sucked into the narrative, from Joshua's non-traditional birth through his difficult years at Pontius Pilate High School to his dramatically-lit crucifixion as king of the queers. Along the way, the cast of 13 men had scads of opportunities to play drag female roles to perfection.

For a heathen like me, it was a much more compelling story than the tired version long foisted on believers, which is why it was completely gratifying to see online that there were protesters, albeit a small, motley group, marching outside the theater Sunday.

Get over yourselves. It's a play.

Despite having borrowed her man for the evening, Pru welcomed us into the manse once the play was over. Once we'd given her the full scoop - restaurant menu and renovation, thoughts on the play - she got down to business: my lack of a love life.

The problem, she told me, is that I'm not flirtatious when I go out and she says she's been out with me enough times to know that's been the case for years. Claims I send out a "do not try anything with me because I'm not interested" vibe in spades.

After reminding her that I had a boyfriend for 4 of the 8 years she's known me, she reminded me that I was still terrible at it during the 4 years I was available. I didn't have a good argument for that.

Considering the three of us had seen each other the night before, we found enough new to talk about to keep us going until nearly 2 a.m. and fortunately for me, I was only the topic of discussion for part of it. I know, I know, they only care because they love me.

Still, you hate to get crucified by friends.