Words I never expected to hear from an artist's mouth: "I like to use data to make art."
That artist Sara Bouchard was saying it as we stood on the top floor of the Pump House - the very same one that used to host dances to which people came by boat back in the day - only made it more unlikely.
In this case, she'd created a sound installation based on water quality data from the James collected over all four seasons in 2017. She explained that the data showing dissolved oxygen levels in the river in two-hour increments was then entered into a software program that converted it to notes, which is almost more than I could comprehend.
Let's just say that this Luddite had no clue that such a thing was possible.
Once she had a score, she tapped tenor saxophonist Jason Scott to record it, while she played piano based on the pH levels of the river, which, like the oxygen levels, rise and fall on a daily basis and with the seasons.
Are you beginning to see why my head almost exploded as she explained it all?
Like my one and only tour of the Pump House previously, a hard hat was required to enter and only 20 people at a time were allowed inside the Pump House's cool, dim interior. Speakers were placed all around so that no matter which level you were on, the 30-minute composition was playing as the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows.
And beautiful as the music was anywhere in the late-19th century stone building, it was most dazzling when heard while on the Southern Gothic-looking uppermost dance floor with its lush views overlooking the canal.
I could only imagine what a wonderful place it must have been for dancing.
Chatting with the artist, I asked how she'd chosen Jason to record the piece. Seems he went to school with her husband, so he seemed like an easy choice. She was curious how I knew Jason and I explained that it was as simple as having seen him play in countless bands - RVA Big Band, the Hi-Steps, the Blue Tips, the Scott Clark 4-tet, the Jason Scott Quintet, to name but a few - over the years.
Well, that and running into him at all kinds of events around Richmond during the past decade.
If wandering around the vintage Pump House to a soundtrack created by the river's oxygen saturation levels isn't my most Richmond experience yet, it's got to be pretty damn close. So while the music only lasted half an hour, some of us spent a full hour taking in the completely unique vibe.
Now if only the Friends of the Pump House could raise enough money to restore the old place so that it could be enjoyed without hard hats, we'd be getting somewhere.
Then it was on to Secco's patio for a little Spanish immersion as the sun slowly set behind the trees. Okay, a lot of immersion.
There were pink Spanish bubbles as a belated birthday nod, Spanish white to accompany a killer kale salad with bottarga and breadcrumbs and meze (the spinach falafel among the best I've ever had), Spanish red to stand up to the spiciness of octopus Bolognese and even an after dinner Moscatel to make my warm carrot cake with dried fruit compote shine even brighter.
I have to say that the only thing that could have made the meal any more perfect would have been if we'd had a Saturday night dance at the Pump House to go to afterwards.
Dancing (slightly loopy) in the moonlight? Yes, please.
Showing posts with label secco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label secco. Show all posts
Sunday, June 2, 2019
Sunday, March 24, 2019
A Lady's Imagination is Very Rapid
Let's start with the walk.
It was noon and sunny, completely dead in places and abuzz in others. The primary groups I saw were cars headed to brunch and cars headed to the river, a fact I know from several conversations I overheard thanks to rolled down car windows.
Walking down 5th Street on the weekends is always a bit worrisome because of the things I hear parents telling their children. Last week, it was a mom telling her kids that the building on the hill was the governor's mansion. When I discretely explained that it was, in fact, Ethyl Corporation, she shrugged and said they'd never know the difference.
But why lie?
Today it was a mother and son discussion after she insisted on holding something of his while he rode his bike down the fairly steep hill, especially for a 7 or 8 year old boy. The entire time he was inching down the hill behind me, he was reminding his mother not to hold "it" too tightly. She'd reassure him that she wasn't but he'd repeat the warning again. After the 4th or 5th exchange, she put on her Mother voice and said, "Don't make me sorry I brought you!"
Calling Dr. Freud. Who says that to a child?
After the deluge Thursday, the river is back to full roar, but walking the canal walk meant having a cyclist do a series of S-curves around me, while saying, "Great hat!" I like to think that's because I washed it last night so it looked particularly fetching in the sunlight.
Walking up Broad Street, I spotted a young woman in the kind of embroidered wide leg jeans (in that worn blue color) I haven't seen since the early '70s. The silhouette was similar to a pair of sailor pants except shorter and not belled, then with quarter moon pockets and all the embroidered flowers falling out from there down the legs.
When I told her how evocative (and adorable) they were, she lamented that she'd gotten them in Japan and never been able to find a similar pair. Just looking at them, I could tell how comfortable they were and she confirmed it.
In the parking lot of the Richmond Dairy building (where my Richmond grandfather worked, it should be noted), a guy had managed to wedge a good two feet of a parking lot median between his front and rear tires, so he sat there straddling it, trying to back up over the thing.
The whole time, the car is reacting by making horrible sounds and all I could think was, this had to be harshing this guy's sunny Sunday mellow big time. Not my problem, so I moved on.
All of which followed on the heels of last night's outing to Secco, then VMFA to see Quill Theater's "Pride and Prejudice."
Secco's patio was nearly full when we got there, not that we were eating outside. Mr. Wright and I had the same fabulous grains and petit greens salad we'd swooned over two weeks ago, plus roasted vegetables with goat cheese and an entree of rockfish over spaghetti squash pancakes with Romesco sauce, the latter a collection of things I enjoy eating, but would never make for myself.
Pru and Beau made a meal of an earthy mushroom soup, duck rillettes, vegetables and a cheese/charcuterie board that belonged in a still life. Beau and I both finished with a wedge of chocolate chestnut tort over orange marmalade, although I paired mine with Burmester Tawny Port while he got his buzz on with coffee.
On the table was a discussion of Pru's upcoming birthday, not just where and when, but how best to celebrate. How many people can an introvert stand in one evening? Or would it be better just to send out "Save the Date" cards for her next big birthday which is almost a decade away?
Those of us extroverted birthday celebrants never have to go through such machinations to celebrate ourselves.
Over dinner we discovered that not one of us seasoned theatergoers had seen a theatrical production of "Pride and Prejudice," which naturally led to talk about the film versions and then other Austen films.
Colin Firth, Alan Rickman, Richard Grant, how quickly we went down the British actor rabbit hole.
Walking into the VMFA theater, we found a good sized crowd and looked for seats. Explaining to my posse (and not for the first time), I said that I like to see the actors spit. Coming in from the left side, we settled in fourth row center seats, not bad for later arrivals.
To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.
It's no wonder a 196-year old work is still being produced now given how strong and well-written the Lizzie Bennet character is. Even without the context of early 19th century Regent period mores, Lizzie's determination to wed for love not money is role model worthy.
There are few people whom I really love and still fewer of whom I think well.
And of course, a play about parents eager to marry off their five daughters, one that's full of quick wordplay and laugh-out-loud-worthy dialog, is going to appeal to a word nerd who's one of six daughters.
Joe Pabst impressed us all playing Mr. Bennet, his willingness to buck his wife's requests as well as his support for his daughter holding out for true love making him seem like a thoroughly modern man. Irene Kuykenall shone as Lizzie, as content to read a good book as socialize at a party and what reader can't relate to that?
Me, I always enjoy a good love story, especially between two strong personalities with confidence to spare. Where I overlap with Lizzie is that I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.
Because like Lizzie, I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
It was noon and sunny, completely dead in places and abuzz in others. The primary groups I saw were cars headed to brunch and cars headed to the river, a fact I know from several conversations I overheard thanks to rolled down car windows.
Walking down 5th Street on the weekends is always a bit worrisome because of the things I hear parents telling their children. Last week, it was a mom telling her kids that the building on the hill was the governor's mansion. When I discretely explained that it was, in fact, Ethyl Corporation, she shrugged and said they'd never know the difference.
But why lie?
Today it was a mother and son discussion after she insisted on holding something of his while he rode his bike down the fairly steep hill, especially for a 7 or 8 year old boy. The entire time he was inching down the hill behind me, he was reminding his mother not to hold "it" too tightly. She'd reassure him that she wasn't but he'd repeat the warning again. After the 4th or 5th exchange, she put on her Mother voice and said, "Don't make me sorry I brought you!"
Calling Dr. Freud. Who says that to a child?
After the deluge Thursday, the river is back to full roar, but walking the canal walk meant having a cyclist do a series of S-curves around me, while saying, "Great hat!" I like to think that's because I washed it last night so it looked particularly fetching in the sunlight.
Walking up Broad Street, I spotted a young woman in the kind of embroidered wide leg jeans (in that worn blue color) I haven't seen since the early '70s. The silhouette was similar to a pair of sailor pants except shorter and not belled, then with quarter moon pockets and all the embroidered flowers falling out from there down the legs.
When I told her how evocative (and adorable) they were, she lamented that she'd gotten them in Japan and never been able to find a similar pair. Just looking at them, I could tell how comfortable they were and she confirmed it.
In the parking lot of the Richmond Dairy building (where my Richmond grandfather worked, it should be noted), a guy had managed to wedge a good two feet of a parking lot median between his front and rear tires, so he sat there straddling it, trying to back up over the thing.
The whole time, the car is reacting by making horrible sounds and all I could think was, this had to be harshing this guy's sunny Sunday mellow big time. Not my problem, so I moved on.
All of which followed on the heels of last night's outing to Secco, then VMFA to see Quill Theater's "Pride and Prejudice."
Secco's patio was nearly full when we got there, not that we were eating outside. Mr. Wright and I had the same fabulous grains and petit greens salad we'd swooned over two weeks ago, plus roasted vegetables with goat cheese and an entree of rockfish over spaghetti squash pancakes with Romesco sauce, the latter a collection of things I enjoy eating, but would never make for myself.
Pru and Beau made a meal of an earthy mushroom soup, duck rillettes, vegetables and a cheese/charcuterie board that belonged in a still life. Beau and I both finished with a wedge of chocolate chestnut tort over orange marmalade, although I paired mine with Burmester Tawny Port while he got his buzz on with coffee.
On the table was a discussion of Pru's upcoming birthday, not just where and when, but how best to celebrate. How many people can an introvert stand in one evening? Or would it be better just to send out "Save the Date" cards for her next big birthday which is almost a decade away?
Those of us extroverted birthday celebrants never have to go through such machinations to celebrate ourselves.
Over dinner we discovered that not one of us seasoned theatergoers had seen a theatrical production of "Pride and Prejudice," which naturally led to talk about the film versions and then other Austen films.
Colin Firth, Alan Rickman, Richard Grant, how quickly we went down the British actor rabbit hole.
Walking into the VMFA theater, we found a good sized crowd and looked for seats. Explaining to my posse (and not for the first time), I said that I like to see the actors spit. Coming in from the left side, we settled in fourth row center seats, not bad for later arrivals.
To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.
It's no wonder a 196-year old work is still being produced now given how strong and well-written the Lizzie Bennet character is. Even without the context of early 19th century Regent period mores, Lizzie's determination to wed for love not money is role model worthy.
There are few people whom I really love and still fewer of whom I think well.
And of course, a play about parents eager to marry off their five daughters, one that's full of quick wordplay and laugh-out-loud-worthy dialog, is going to appeal to a word nerd who's one of six daughters.
Joe Pabst impressed us all playing Mr. Bennet, his willingness to buck his wife's requests as well as his support for his daughter holding out for true love making him seem like a thoroughly modern man. Irene Kuykenall shone as Lizzie, as content to read a good book as socialize at a party and what reader can't relate to that?
Me, I always enjoy a good love story, especially between two strong personalities with confidence to spare. Where I overlap with Lizzie is that I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.
Because like Lizzie, I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
With Apologies to Great Grandma
I should have enough of my Great Grandmother O'Donnell's blood in my veins to sense it a mile away.
Instead, a row of cars parked along Leigh Street with yellow "RMC parking" passes was my first clue. Next came a thumping bass and beer trucks. And cops, so many cops and I'm talking bike cops, motorcycle cops and cops with boots on the ground.
Holy mother of bad ideas, why had I walked west today instead of my usual river walk?
By the time I'd started up Meyers Street, parallel to the Boulevard, the music had morphed to smooth jazz and I saw my first cotton candy vendor. It was barely noon so things were just getting cranked up and the cops looked bored.
Meanwhile, people in green attire gravitated to the Boulevard with purpose. They meant to get their green beer on sooner rather than later.
Once I reached CVS, I could see the main stage and hear the emcee welcoming the early arrivals. "Hey, there! You guys ready to shamrock the block?" The band behind him kicked into Cee Lo Green's "Crazy," which struck me as an ideal song with which to launch a drinking festival.
St. Patrick, give me strength.
Walking east on Broad Street, a guy on bike pulled up next to me to question why I had on pink and black rather than green. Um, because it's not St. Patrick's Day yet? After digesting that bit of intel, he suggested we meet up in the same place tomorrow, except with me in green. When I declined, he asked if I was married. I clarified.
"Oh, okay, well tell him he needs to see you in a green dress tomorrow," he instructed, pedaling off and waving back at me.
So now I'm taking wardrobe instructions from a stranger?
He had seen me in a black dress last night when we landed at Secco to celebrate us both being in the same city two nights in a row for what feels like the first time since February, an occasion that called for the fresh minerality of Raventos i Blanc Brut Rosat de Nit to start.
But good as it was, dinner was every bit as stellar. Housemade pita drizzled in olive oil showed up with spinach falafel and pickled vegetables, simple but winning. Chapitre Touraine Sauvignon Blanc replaced pink bubbles to whet my whistle.
In what can best be described as a salad for salad lovers, a bowl of farro, lentils, wild rice, pepitas, smoked almonds and petite greens with a killer cranberry vinaigrette revealed a smorgasbord of textures and tastes.
We'll just call it as close to my salad ideal as I've come and leave it at that.
And I might have ordered another except that the Spanish octopus with housemade fettuccine, olives and chili oil in a decadent Bolognese sauce arrived and completely distracted me. If everyone's first octopus experience included octopus this tender and meaty red sauce this deeply flavorful, everyone would be an octopus fan.
Well, except for the part that they're smart and feel pain, but besides that.
We closed out with a chocolate chestnut torte set atop a pool of orange marmalade and festooned with preserved kumquat, a dessert with as high a percentage of dark chocolate - it was only barely sweet - as I've had. It was the marmalade's job to bring the sugar.
Apparently tomorrow, it's my job to bring the green dress. I know, I know.
No great granddaughter of Mrs. O'Donnell (as my grandmother always called her) would make that rookie mistake.
Instead, a row of cars parked along Leigh Street with yellow "RMC parking" passes was my first clue. Next came a thumping bass and beer trucks. And cops, so many cops and I'm talking bike cops, motorcycle cops and cops with boots on the ground.
Holy mother of bad ideas, why had I walked west today instead of my usual river walk?
By the time I'd started up Meyers Street, parallel to the Boulevard, the music had morphed to smooth jazz and I saw my first cotton candy vendor. It was barely noon so things were just getting cranked up and the cops looked bored.
Meanwhile, people in green attire gravitated to the Boulevard with purpose. They meant to get their green beer on sooner rather than later.
Once I reached CVS, I could see the main stage and hear the emcee welcoming the early arrivals. "Hey, there! You guys ready to shamrock the block?" The band behind him kicked into Cee Lo Green's "Crazy," which struck me as an ideal song with which to launch a drinking festival.
St. Patrick, give me strength.
Walking east on Broad Street, a guy on bike pulled up next to me to question why I had on pink and black rather than green. Um, because it's not St. Patrick's Day yet? After digesting that bit of intel, he suggested we meet up in the same place tomorrow, except with me in green. When I declined, he asked if I was married. I clarified.
"Oh, okay, well tell him he needs to see you in a green dress tomorrow," he instructed, pedaling off and waving back at me.
So now I'm taking wardrobe instructions from a stranger?
He had seen me in a black dress last night when we landed at Secco to celebrate us both being in the same city two nights in a row for what feels like the first time since February, an occasion that called for the fresh minerality of Raventos i Blanc Brut Rosat de Nit to start.
But good as it was, dinner was every bit as stellar. Housemade pita drizzled in olive oil showed up with spinach falafel and pickled vegetables, simple but winning. Chapitre Touraine Sauvignon Blanc replaced pink bubbles to whet my whistle.
In what can best be described as a salad for salad lovers, a bowl of farro, lentils, wild rice, pepitas, smoked almonds and petite greens with a killer cranberry vinaigrette revealed a smorgasbord of textures and tastes.
We'll just call it as close to my salad ideal as I've come and leave it at that.
And I might have ordered another except that the Spanish octopus with housemade fettuccine, olives and chili oil in a decadent Bolognese sauce arrived and completely distracted me. If everyone's first octopus experience included octopus this tender and meaty red sauce this deeply flavorful, everyone would be an octopus fan.
Well, except for the part that they're smart and feel pain, but besides that.
We closed out with a chocolate chestnut torte set atop a pool of orange marmalade and festooned with preserved kumquat, a dessert with as high a percentage of dark chocolate - it was only barely sweet - as I've had. It was the marmalade's job to bring the sugar.
Apparently tomorrow, it's my job to bring the green dress. I know, I know.
No great granddaughter of Mrs. O'Donnell (as my grandmother always called her) would make that rookie mistake.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Porn Names and Handcuffs
I've been slacking off in the wine dinner department.
A year and a half ago, I'd been tasked with keeping the group up-to-date on upcoming wine dinners. Mind you, I didn't ask for the job, but it was mine.
The last time I'd arranged for the posse to attend one, it was February and I'd arrived with the biggest news of the year: I'd accepted a lunch date. And because that lunch was so successful, I'd put keeping everyone abreast of wine dinners on the back burner.
Hell, if I was honest, I'd say I'd moved that pan off the stove entirely. My new love life took precedence over mere wine dinners, even with friends who had a wine jail to keep filled.
But a month ago, I'd gotten an email about Secco's upcoming Vom Boden five course wine dinner with Collin Wagner taking the reins for three courses and all five wines. Secco's wine dinners never disappoint, I was months overdue in my scheduling duties and here was my chance to get back in the swing of things. Beau made the reservation and we were set.
Driving through the Fan to get to Secco tonight, poor Beau had to deal with every possible annoyance: double-parking, unsure turners, darting pedestrians, slow parallel parkers. He got so frustrated he shouted, "City much?" to the last of the automobile-challenged we passed.
That's a brilliant phrase to describe the unfortunate subset of drivers plaguing those of us competent to drive in urban areas.
As we were walking up to Secco, the owner came out to meet us, a concerned look on her face because the dinner was sold out and she hadn't seen my name on the reservation list. I explained I'd been grouped with my friends. Inside, her partner saw me, glanced at his seating chart and took on the look of a deer in headlights. Only once he found out I was part of Beau's party did he relax.
Even better, the owner came over once we'd been seated to say that she'd looked at Beau's last name and assumed he was porn star Jack Vidra, in town this weekend for the Fire, Flour and Fork dinner at L'Opossum.
Instinctively I knew this was an association Beau would welcome. And he did.
Our six top was completed with an IT guy for the Federal Reserve whose wife was pregnant (and why waste five wines?) so he'd come alone and a cop and his German-born wife. To kick things off, we sipped Hild Elbling Sekt until the owner tapped her glass to get the ball rolling.
Almost as soon as she did, a late arrival came in and had to do the walk of shame to his seat at a table in the back while she continued talking. Pru and I just assume that people who would do such a thing were raised by wolves. That's fair, right?
Introducing Collin, who'd started at Secco in 2010 at the tender age of 19, she said that he'd been cooking all over Europe and NYC, at least right up until he'd fallen in love with the Vom Boden portfolio and become a wine rep.
Tonight he was combining both skill sets to dazzle us.
"We're going to drink esoteric German wines you'll never drink again!" he promised, sharing that he was just back from the harvest in Germany. When he returned to the kitchen, the older woman at the table next to us said wistfully to her husband, "Don't you wish you were young enough to go work in the vineyards?"
Don't we all?
Along with the bubbly Sekt, we crunched through wonton cups filled with apple. cucumber and tarragon cream sauce topped with micro-greens. We were that table who, when asked who needed a touch-up on their Sekt, saw every hand go up.
Meanwhile, Beau told us he'd been too busy working night and day last week to see any of Seattle - any, mind you - but he was hoping for better luck in San Francisco when he gets there tomorrow. Pru regaled us with the story of her father coming to visit today, a Time Life book on Nazi sympathizers in hand. I find this hysterical.
I never tire of hearing her Dad stories. I mean, a man who wears a jacket indoors because he's so underweight? A man who claims to be a vegetarian but eats ham and hot dogs? A man who is considering hair plugs at 86? Tell me more, please.
Our first course was smoked Max Creek rainbow trout ("Farm raised fish from a dude named Dave," Collin tells us) in a creamy herb emulsion with kohlrabi and celery, a dish that paired magnificently with Stein Blauschiefer Riesling Trokcen, which caused Collin to brag a little because he'd helped pick the grapes that went into what we were drinking. I loved this pairing and so did Beau, although he had to come around to the wine, which he hadn't liked until he had food with it.
How many wine dinners have I reminded him of this reality and will he ever learn?
As plates were being cleared, I noticed that the cop's wife hadn't eaten her trout and asked why not. Seems she doesn't like smoked fish, so I offered to take it off her hands, knowing Beau would aid the cause. Let no smoked trout go to waste at my table.
By that time, tongues were loosened and people were talking across tables. When Beau and the father-to-be discovered they made their livings in the soul-sucking field of technology IT security, they turned toward each other and the rest of us could have spontaneously combusted and they'd not have noticed.
Another gorgeous pairing, JB Becker Walkenberg Riesling Kabinett Trocken and rye, farro and wild rice cooked like risotto in brown butter, garlic and thyme, then crowned with the thinnest of matsutake mushrooms slices, and even the naysayers were starting to believe in the power of Riesling. Collin came out to rave about the strong and powerful 2008 wine, which, of course, was only available in very limited quantities.
The father-to-be shared the names he and his bride have chosen for their daughter once she arrives - Hannah, Eleanor and Kara - and we took a vote on it. Looks like she'll be Eleanor, though they have a cat named Theodore, so they have some concerns about establishing a theme.
It didn't take much wine for Pru to learn that the older couple next to us are also denizens of Church Hill and from there, it was all about upcoming holiday events in the 'hood. When we complimented the lovely mauve jacket the wife had on, she said she chose such colors because she'd always had to wear black, navy and gray when she was a businesswoman.
Naturally, I had to know what her business was (fundraising for MCV) even as I admired her gold shoes.
Collin returned to rave, first about the Free Union Grass farms roasted duck we were about to eat and then about his enjoyment of the Shelter Winery "Lovely Lilly" Pinot Noir. Secco's owner jumped in to talk about procuring the 40 pounds of duck required at the South of the James Market, where she had to endure listening to vegans discuss "salad and houseplants" while wearing Uggs and giving the duck the stinkeye.
A shame for them, really, because the platter arrived piled high with duck breast that was rosy and medium rare and confit duck legs with crispy bits that would rival any cracklins. I know because Beau and I sampled enough to find out. Along with the mound o' duck came freshly made steam buns, housemade hoison sauce, sliced scallions and cucumbers and pickled carrots for an assemble-your-own kind of meal.
Don't get me started on those who ate theirs with fork and knife. They're buns, people. Pick 'em up and eat 'em.
Pru wasted no time in finding out that, like her, the cop's wife had been a financial analyst and since the IT boys were still mooning over each other's RAM, that left me and the cop to find common ground while the others bonded. Pru tried to help, saying, "Both you and John are into handcuffs," a joke that went nowhere since it wasn't true.
I mean, John obviously is because of his job, but other than that time a fellow guest unexpectedly handcuffed himself to me at a dinner party in 1991, I really have no experience with cuffs. And the cop wasn't talking about his.
The gentleman at the table next to us sported a spectacular handlebar mustache and Van Dyke, leading us to compliment both while his bride was in the loo. Curious about the handlebar's origins, we learned from him that he'd had a regular mustache when he'd met his wife 20 years ago and she'd been the one to suggest waxing and twirling it.
When she returned to find what we were discussing, he said he'd told us that she was responsible for his mustache. "You should tell them that," she said with all the authority of a woman who had helped her man become more attractive.
We were, it turned out, a table full of fig fans, so when fig Lintzer cookies showed up, we were a happy bunch. Paired with the delicately sweet Julian Haart 1000L Riesling Feinherb, it was each of our duties to find room in otherwise overcrowded bellies for such a well-crafted final course. I recalled my mother's rule - "There's always a corner left for dessert" - and polished off two cookies with no shame.
If you don't consider housemade fig jam a thing of beauty, truly you are missing out.
But my posse - minus two charter members tonight, but they checked in with humor mid-meal - is no longer missing out on wine dinners because I am back on task, in search of grape and food pairings that double as social occasions. At least, in between everything else life entails now, I am.
Wine dinner much? Not lately, but tonight's esoteric German wines and strangers' back stories were enough to remind me why I should.
Even if I wasn't at Jack Vidra's table. Too bad. I'd love to hear his handcuff stories.
A year and a half ago, I'd been tasked with keeping the group up-to-date on upcoming wine dinners. Mind you, I didn't ask for the job, but it was mine.
The last time I'd arranged for the posse to attend one, it was February and I'd arrived with the biggest news of the year: I'd accepted a lunch date. And because that lunch was so successful, I'd put keeping everyone abreast of wine dinners on the back burner.
Hell, if I was honest, I'd say I'd moved that pan off the stove entirely. My new love life took precedence over mere wine dinners, even with friends who had a wine jail to keep filled.
But a month ago, I'd gotten an email about Secco's upcoming Vom Boden five course wine dinner with Collin Wagner taking the reins for three courses and all five wines. Secco's wine dinners never disappoint, I was months overdue in my scheduling duties and here was my chance to get back in the swing of things. Beau made the reservation and we were set.
Driving through the Fan to get to Secco tonight, poor Beau had to deal with every possible annoyance: double-parking, unsure turners, darting pedestrians, slow parallel parkers. He got so frustrated he shouted, "City much?" to the last of the automobile-challenged we passed.
That's a brilliant phrase to describe the unfortunate subset of drivers plaguing those of us competent to drive in urban areas.
As we were walking up to Secco, the owner came out to meet us, a concerned look on her face because the dinner was sold out and she hadn't seen my name on the reservation list. I explained I'd been grouped with my friends. Inside, her partner saw me, glanced at his seating chart and took on the look of a deer in headlights. Only once he found out I was part of Beau's party did he relax.
Even better, the owner came over once we'd been seated to say that she'd looked at Beau's last name and assumed he was porn star Jack Vidra, in town this weekend for the Fire, Flour and Fork dinner at L'Opossum.
Instinctively I knew this was an association Beau would welcome. And he did.
Our six top was completed with an IT guy for the Federal Reserve whose wife was pregnant (and why waste five wines?) so he'd come alone and a cop and his German-born wife. To kick things off, we sipped Hild Elbling Sekt until the owner tapped her glass to get the ball rolling.
Almost as soon as she did, a late arrival came in and had to do the walk of shame to his seat at a table in the back while she continued talking. Pru and I just assume that people who would do such a thing were raised by wolves. That's fair, right?
Introducing Collin, who'd started at Secco in 2010 at the tender age of 19, she said that he'd been cooking all over Europe and NYC, at least right up until he'd fallen in love with the Vom Boden portfolio and become a wine rep.
Tonight he was combining both skill sets to dazzle us.
"We're going to drink esoteric German wines you'll never drink again!" he promised, sharing that he was just back from the harvest in Germany. When he returned to the kitchen, the older woman at the table next to us said wistfully to her husband, "Don't you wish you were young enough to go work in the vineyards?"
Don't we all?
Along with the bubbly Sekt, we crunched through wonton cups filled with apple. cucumber and tarragon cream sauce topped with micro-greens. We were that table who, when asked who needed a touch-up on their Sekt, saw every hand go up.
Meanwhile, Beau told us he'd been too busy working night and day last week to see any of Seattle - any, mind you - but he was hoping for better luck in San Francisco when he gets there tomorrow. Pru regaled us with the story of her father coming to visit today, a Time Life book on Nazi sympathizers in hand. I find this hysterical.
I never tire of hearing her Dad stories. I mean, a man who wears a jacket indoors because he's so underweight? A man who claims to be a vegetarian but eats ham and hot dogs? A man who is considering hair plugs at 86? Tell me more, please.
Our first course was smoked Max Creek rainbow trout ("Farm raised fish from a dude named Dave," Collin tells us) in a creamy herb emulsion with kohlrabi and celery, a dish that paired magnificently with Stein Blauschiefer Riesling Trokcen, which caused Collin to brag a little because he'd helped pick the grapes that went into what we were drinking. I loved this pairing and so did Beau, although he had to come around to the wine, which he hadn't liked until he had food with it.
How many wine dinners have I reminded him of this reality and will he ever learn?
As plates were being cleared, I noticed that the cop's wife hadn't eaten her trout and asked why not. Seems she doesn't like smoked fish, so I offered to take it off her hands, knowing Beau would aid the cause. Let no smoked trout go to waste at my table.
By that time, tongues were loosened and people were talking across tables. When Beau and the father-to-be discovered they made their livings in t
Another gorgeous pairing, JB Becker Walkenberg Riesling Kabinett Trocken and rye, farro and wild rice cooked like risotto in brown butter, garlic and thyme, then crowned with the thinnest of matsutake mushrooms slices, and even the naysayers were starting to believe in the power of Riesling. Collin came out to rave about the strong and powerful 2008 wine, which, of course, was only available in very limited quantities.
The father-to-be shared the names he and his bride have chosen for their daughter once she arrives - Hannah, Eleanor and Kara - and we took a vote on it. Looks like she'll be Eleanor, though they have a cat named Theodore, so they have some concerns about establishing a theme.
It didn't take much wine for Pru to learn that the older couple next to us are also denizens of Church Hill and from there, it was all about upcoming holiday events in the 'hood. When we complimented the lovely mauve jacket the wife had on, she said she chose such colors because she'd always had to wear black, navy and gray when she was a businesswoman.
Naturally, I had to know what her business was (fundraising for MCV) even as I admired her gold shoes.
Collin returned to rave, first about the Free Union Grass farms roasted duck we were about to eat and then about his enjoyment of the Shelter Winery "Lovely Lilly" Pinot Noir. Secco's owner jumped in to talk about procuring the 40 pounds of duck required at the South of the James Market, where she had to endure listening to vegans discuss "salad and houseplants" while wearing Uggs and giving the duck the stinkeye.
A shame for them, really, because the platter arrived piled high with duck breast that was rosy and medium rare and confit duck legs with crispy bits that would rival any cracklins. I know because Beau and I sampled enough to find out. Along with the mound o' duck came freshly made steam buns, housemade hoison sauce, sliced scallions and cucumbers and pickled carrots for an assemble-your-own kind of meal.
Don't get me started on those who ate theirs with fork and knife. They're buns, people. Pick 'em up and eat 'em.
Pru wasted no time in finding out that, like her, the cop's wife had been a financial analyst and since the IT boys were still mooning over each other's RAM, that left me and the cop to find common ground while the others bonded. Pru tried to help, saying, "Both you and John are into handcuffs," a joke that went nowhere since it wasn't true.
I mean, John obviously is because of his job, but other than that time a fellow guest unexpectedly handcuffed himself to me at a dinner party in 1991, I really have no experience with cuffs. And the cop wasn't talking about his.
The gentleman at the table next to us sported a spectacular handlebar mustache and Van Dyke, leading us to compliment both while his bride was in the loo. Curious about the handlebar's origins, we learned from him that he'd had a regular mustache when he'd met his wife 20 years ago and she'd been the one to suggest waxing and twirling it.
When she returned to find what we were discussing, he said he'd told us that she was responsible for his mustache. "You should tell them that," she said with all the authority of a woman who had helped her man become more attractive.
We were, it turned out, a table full of fig fans, so when fig Lintzer cookies showed up, we were a happy bunch. Paired with the delicately sweet Julian Haart 1000L Riesling Feinherb, it was each of our duties to find room in otherwise overcrowded bellies for such a well-crafted final course. I recalled my mother's rule - "There's always a corner left for dessert" - and polished off two cookies with no shame.
If you don't consider housemade fig jam a thing of beauty, truly you are missing out.
But my posse - minus two charter members tonight, but they checked in with humor mid-meal - is no longer missing out on wine dinners because I am back on task, in search of grape and food pairings that double as social occasions. At least, in between everything else life entails now, I am.
Wine dinner much? Not lately, but tonight's esoteric German wines and strangers' back stories were enough to remind me why I should.
Even if I wasn't at Jack Vidra's table. Too bad. I'd love to hear his handcuff stories.
Friday, August 10, 2018
Wait and See When the Smoke Clears
You're insatiable! But yes, most likely.
To be clear, what I was asking about was whether or not I was invited to Pru's screened porch party after our dinner and theater date this evening. Considering that it had been only four days since I last enjoyed porch pleasures with her and Beau, she saw my request, perhaps, as a tad greedy. How much outdoor conversation can one woman need?
What she failed to consider was that our Sunday night verbal extravaganza had been a party, a birthday throwdown for Beau and had included two other couples besides the four of us and Queen B. We were the mortified guests who arrived an hour late to find all the other guests patiently awaiting our appearance so that the first of many bottles of Moet Chandon could be opened and poured.
I take full responsibility, since I'm the idiot who'd looked at the invitation and somehow seen 4 instead of 5:00. The good news was, once the champagne began flowing, no one seemed to care that it had been delayed. Not to mention they were all sipping on something or other, just not bubbles when the cat dragged us in.
This was a backyard party and a lavish table had been set up under a huge umbrella. It wasn't long after we took the only two vacant seats that Pru began delivering the fruits of her days-long labor: beef and veggie kebabs, six pounds of perfectly steamed shrimp, corn on the cob, fresh butterbeans and crusty bread to sop it all up with.
It was some time early on in the meal when the humid air broke and a gentle rain began falling. It was an inconsequential enough weather change that everyone continued eating and talking because between the arbor and umbrella overhead, the rain wasn't inconveniencing anyone. Or at least that's what those of us who were still dry assumed.
In fact, my date and Queen B were out of range of the covering and being doused continually while we sipped and supped.
By the time it came to the attention of the rest of us, the two of them were completely soaked. Queen B's feather earrings were reduced to a couple of rain-slicked points that in no way resembled feathers. My date's shirt and shorts could have been rung out there was so much water in them.
Neither had so much as mentioned how wet they were getting while it was happening, making us dry diners feel a little guilty for not noticing. But once it became common knowledge, Beau, the birthday boy but ever the good host, retrieved another, smaller umbrella and attempted to set it up. The result was that new lines of drippage were created and before long, my chair and the back of my dress were soaked through.
Still, no one suggested leaving the table because how often do you get to have a summer supper in a pouring rainstorm? Honestly, it only added to the good time vibe, although at times it drowned out whatever music Alexa was playing.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me...
There was a lot of talk about travel, with Beckham and the Beauty telling us about their recent foray to New Orleans and how underwhelmed they'd been by some of the food they ate in what is considered to be a stellar food town. The history couple shared that instead of going to Paris this year, they're forcing themselves to embrace a trip to Glacier National Park, even though it's going to cost as much as the City of Lights.
Pru and Beau continue to insist they want to do a Scotch-tasting tour of Scotland at some point, and that was enough for Beau to bring out a bottle of very good Islay, which suited Beckham but not everyone, so a bottle of Highlands Scotch followed, while Pru and I wisely kept to bubbles. "Brown liquors are for cozy winter nights, not summer," she sniffed.
The chocolate ganache birthday cake from Morsels got high marks from everyone and again brought up the story of Beau's first attempt at making ganache, a culinary misadventure involving using evaporated milk instead of condensed milk, resulting in a ganache with zero sweetness and a whole lot of bitterness. Problem was, the cake was a birthday offering for Pru, who prefers milk chocolate.
Beau loved it, but he was the only one. He has since stepped away from ganache-making.
It wasn't even midnight, though it was some time after the in-depth explanation of fencing from a guest who does it and the shared anticipation of next month's beach adventure for six of us that people began thinking about work tomorrow and making their farewells.
Translation: not nearly enough time for conversation beyond the constant bouncing from party guest to guest to join discussions already in progress.
Tonight's requested porch time was only the final stage of an evening that began at Secco for dinner, which for me meant chilled melon gazpacho with pickled blueberries and feta, followed by arctic char with creme fraiche. But I'm here to tell you that the most swoon-worthy part of the meal was a summer vegetable tian - a gratin-like dish that made better use of zuchinni and squash than I have ever put in my mouth - savored with Louis Pato Baga Brut Rose to kick things off and a bottle of Moreux Sancerre Blanc "Les Bouffants" to follow, because, as Pru is so fond of reminding us, why would we ever leave the Loire?
Looking at the dessert menu, Beau was bummed that our favorite butterscotch pudding was no more, but I happily had the lemon curd tart with toasted meringue, candied violets and edible flowers, causing shock waves among friends who think I must have chocolate to close out a meal.
Not so, mes amis, let's not forget that I'm also a sucker for coconut cake. Not all desserts must be chocolate, as Beau reluctantly acknowledged with his buttermilk gelato, which managed to be decadently rich without the characteristic tang of buttermilk.
You live, you learn, according to Alanis Morisette.
After a drive up scenic Route 301, we landed at Hanover Tavern to take in "Crimes of the Heart" and enjoy some Southern gothic family drama. And while watching a play about three southern sisters dealing with each other and their long-time roles in the family provided plenty of fodder for a compelling story, those of us with five sisters know that there's so much more that could have been mined on the subject of sisterly love, family history and devotion.
Don't get me started.
Take it from the oldest of six, Maggie Roop masterfully nailed the weight of carrying the life-long responsibilities of being born first, playing oldest sister Lenny as equal parts substitute mother and general peacekeeper, with little regard for her own needs.
And while the entire cast was strong, has anyone ever changed her pantyhose while giving a monologue and made it more hilarious than Maggie Bavolack as Chick? Talk about comedic gold.
Despite not getting home from Hanover until after 11:00, we closed out the night on Pru's screened porch, talking about the success of the birthday party - really, how often in life do you get to peel shrimp and sip champagne surrounded by pouring rain? - the top-notch acting in the play and how little James Bond experts Pru and Beau recalled of "On Her Majesty's Secret Service," which I'd just seen a few nights ago at the Byrd.
And that's just what I can mention.
My point is that I'm apparently not the only insatiable one since conversation flowed until the clock was hitting 1 a.m. and I finally headed back to Jackson Ward, where the recently returned student population was roaming the streets in search of a party.
My oldest sister advice to them would be to start by checking out the screened porches.
To be clear, what I was asking about was whether or not I was invited to Pru's screened porch party after our dinner and theater date this evening. Considering that it had been only four days since I last enjoyed porch pleasures with her and Beau, she saw my request, perhaps, as a tad greedy. How much outdoor conversation can one woman need?
What she failed to consider was that our Sunday night verbal extravaganza had been a party, a birthday throwdown for Beau and had included two other couples besides the four of us and Queen B. We were the mortified guests who arrived an hour late to find all the other guests patiently awaiting our appearance so that the first of many bottles of Moet Chandon could be opened and poured.
I take full responsibility, since I'm the idiot who'd looked at the invitation and somehow seen 4 instead of 5:00. The good news was, once the champagne began flowing, no one seemed to care that it had been delayed. Not to mention they were all sipping on something or other, just not bubbles when the cat dragged us in.
This was a backyard party and a lavish table had been set up under a huge umbrella. It wasn't long after we took the only two vacant seats that Pru began delivering the fruits of her days-long labor: beef and veggie kebabs, six pounds of perfectly steamed shrimp, corn on the cob, fresh butterbeans and crusty bread to sop it all up with.
It was some time early on in the meal when the humid air broke and a gentle rain began falling. It was an inconsequential enough weather change that everyone continued eating and talking because between the arbor and umbrella overhead, the rain wasn't inconveniencing anyone. Or at least that's what those of us who were still dry assumed.
In fact, my date and Queen B were out of range of the covering and being doused continually while we sipped and supped.
By the time it came to the attention of the rest of us, the two of them were completely soaked. Queen B's feather earrings were reduced to a couple of rain-slicked points that in no way resembled feathers. My date's shirt and shorts could have been rung out there was so much water in them.
Neither had so much as mentioned how wet they were getting while it was happening, making us dry diners feel a little guilty for not noticing. But once it became common knowledge, Beau, the birthday boy but ever the good host, retrieved another, smaller umbrella and attempted to set it up. The result was that new lines of drippage were created and before long, my chair and the back of my dress were soaked through.
Still, no one suggested leaving the table because how often do you get to have a summer supper in a pouring rainstorm? Honestly, it only added to the good time vibe, although at times it drowned out whatever music Alexa was playing.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me...
There was a lot of talk about travel, with Beckham and the Beauty telling us about their recent foray to New Orleans and how underwhelmed they'd been by some of the food they ate in what is considered to be a stellar food town. The history couple shared that instead of going to Paris this year, they're forcing themselves to embrace a trip to Glacier National Park, even though it's going to cost as much as the City of Lights.
Pru and Beau continue to insist they want to do a Scotch-tasting tour of Scotland at some point, and that was enough for Beau to bring out a bottle of very good Islay, which suited Beckham but not everyone, so a bottle of Highlands Scotch followed, while Pru and I wisely kept to bubbles. "Brown liquors are for cozy winter nights, not summer," she sniffed.
The chocolate ganache birthday cake from Morsels got high marks from everyone and again brought up the story of Beau's first attempt at making ganache, a culinary misadventure involving using evaporated milk instead of condensed milk, resulting in a ganache with zero sweetness and a whole lot of bitterness. Problem was, the cake was a birthday offering for Pru, who prefers milk chocolate.
Beau loved it, but he was the only one. He has since stepped away from ganache-making.
It wasn't even midnight, though it was some time after the in-depth explanation of fencing from a guest who does it and the shared anticipation of next month's beach adventure for six of us that people began thinking about work tomorrow and making their farewells.
Translation: not nearly enough time for conversation beyond the constant bouncing from party guest to guest to join discussions already in progress.
Tonight's requested porch time was only the final stage of an evening that began at Secco for dinner, which for me meant chilled melon gazpacho with pickled blueberries and feta, followed by arctic char with creme fraiche. But I'm here to tell you that the most swoon-worthy part of the meal was a summer vegetable tian - a gratin-like dish that made better use of zuchinni and squash than I have ever put in my mouth - savored with Louis Pato Baga Brut Rose to kick things off and a bottle of Moreux Sancerre Blanc "Les Bouffants" to follow, because, as Pru is so fond of reminding us, why would we ever leave the Loire?
Looking at the dessert menu, Beau was bummed that our favorite butterscotch pudding was no more, but I happily had the lemon curd tart with toasted meringue, candied violets and edible flowers, causing shock waves among friends who think I must have chocolate to close out a meal.
Not so, mes amis, let's not forget that I'm also a sucker for coconut cake. Not all desserts must be chocolate, as Beau reluctantly acknowledged with his buttermilk gelato, which managed to be decadently rich without the characteristic tang of buttermilk.
You live, you learn, according to Alanis Morisette.
After a drive up scenic Route 301, we landed at Hanover Tavern to take in "Crimes of the Heart" and enjoy some Southern gothic family drama. And while watching a play about three southern sisters dealing with each other and their long-time roles in the family provided plenty of fodder for a compelling story, those of us with five sisters know that there's so much more that could have been mined on the subject of sisterly love, family history and devotion.
Don't get me started.
Take it from the oldest of six, Maggie Roop masterfully nailed the weight of carrying the life-long responsibilities of being born first, playing oldest sister Lenny as equal parts substitute mother and general peacekeeper, with little regard for her own needs.
And while the entire cast was strong, has anyone ever changed her pantyhose while giving a monologue and made it more hilarious than Maggie Bavolack as Chick? Talk about comedic gold.
Despite not getting home from Hanover until after 11:00, we closed out the night on Pru's screened porch, talking about the success of the birthday party - really, how often in life do you get to peel shrimp and sip champagne surrounded by pouring rain? - the top-notch acting in the play and how little James Bond experts Pru and Beau recalled of "On Her Majesty's Secret Service," which I'd just seen a few nights ago at the Byrd.
And that's just what I can mention.
My point is that I'm apparently not the only insatiable one since conversation flowed until the clock was hitting 1 a.m. and I finally headed back to Jackson Ward, where the recently returned student population was roaming the streets in search of a party.
My oldest sister advice to them would be to start by checking out the screened porches.
Friday, July 13, 2018
Pink Gooch is Different
It was throwback Thursday of a different kind.
First there was the Robinson Rose Crawl, which until it became unmanageable had been the Carytown Rose Crawl (and let me tell you, there are some stories there), and last year was abandoned entirely. But the power of Rose was too strong so a new crawl was devised, this one a seelf-guided tour instead of prior years when attendees were herded from bar to bar.
As someone who did herding duties several of those years, let me assure you that it's far better to let those on a pink mission set their own pace.
Mac and I began at Secco with dozens of other pink-clad people, she with Roquefort "Corail" Rose and moi with Raventos i Blanc Brut Rosat "De Nit" (I'm trying to think SPanish for the foreseeable future) to accompany a plate of season house pickled vegetables. I would have said that the beets were the tastiest morsels on the plate, at least until I tasted the asparagus which had been sweet pickled like bread and butter pickles, but there was also a lot to be said for the fiery pickled mushrooms, so let's just say they were all stellar and leave it at that.
I got my Rose passport stamped, our photograph was taken for the crawl memory book and we ceded our seats to a couple of women who'd just walked in. You never saw two people so happy to see us leave.
Walking down Robinson, we passed clutches of pink-wearing men and women, all seeming to be in high spirits. Arriving at Acacia, we were led to our table on the patio by the chef's son (also in a pink shirt) who already had the poise of a long-time host. It was a gorgeous evening to be dining outside, not to mention the bird's eye view it provided of the overgrown herb planter (so much mint gone to seed that Mac resolved to return with her clippers and give that mint a haircut) and the roving bands of Rose crawlers.
We toasted the crawl and the weather with glasses of Mimi Sparkling Rose from Provence (Mimi being Mac's nickname to her nephews) while chatting with the two overly tan and obviously high maintenance women from Goochland seated next to us. They'd been to Helen's and found both the Roses they'd ordered lacking, so they'd moved on.
When they found out we were going to see "A Chorus Line" after the crawl, they were fascinated.
Turns out Goochlanders have no clue that Richmond boasts a vibrant theater scene. "If I'd known I could go to a play, I could have planned to attend since I have a designated driver!" one exclaimed. Frankly, she didn't strike me like the play-going type, but at least she pretended.
It was our server's first night and a chaotic one at that, so we got our orders in quickly. Mac chose Peruvian tuna ceviche while I couldn't resist the redneck crabcake, a rich cake of whitefish and Old Bay with a side salad of pickled cucumber and red onion, accompanied by a glass of Paul D. Rose from Austria.
We wound up lingering so long we had no time for the other stops - Cask, Spoonbread and Helen's - before planting our butts at Richmond Triangle Players. It was Mac's first viewing after I'd raved about how RTP had pulled off 17 dancers on that stage with aplomb and grace.
At intermission, she started her own gushing about what an incredible production it was. Standing in line at the ladies' room, a woman behind me notes of the first act, "It's tough not to get up and dance. I was chair dancing so hard!"
Honey, join the club.
Another makes an observation about the dancer affectionately referred to as "Headband Boy" for his long hair, cheesy mustache and, yes, headband, "He's every guy in 1972." Tell me something I don't know.
Those two things alone - dancing and 1972 guys - are more than enough to require repeat viewings of such a fine production of "A Chorus Line." But when preceded by Rose crawling with the best walker I know, well, it's one singular sensation.
First there was the Robinson Rose Crawl, which until it became unmanageable had been the Carytown Rose Crawl (and let me tell you, there are some stories there), and last year was abandoned entirely. But the power of Rose was too strong so a new crawl was devised, this one a seelf-guided tour instead of prior years when attendees were herded from bar to bar.
As someone who did herding duties several of those years, let me assure you that it's far better to let those on a pink mission set their own pace.
Mac and I began at Secco with dozens of other pink-clad people, she with Roquefort "Corail" Rose and moi with Raventos i Blanc Brut Rosat "De Nit" (I'm trying to think SPanish for the foreseeable future) to accompany a plate of season house pickled vegetables. I would have said that the beets were the tastiest morsels on the plate, at least until I tasted the asparagus which had been sweet pickled like bread and butter pickles, but there was also a lot to be said for the fiery pickled mushrooms, so let's just say they were all stellar and leave it at that.
I got my Rose passport stamped, our photograph was taken for the crawl memory book and we ceded our seats to a couple of women who'd just walked in. You never saw two people so happy to see us leave.
Walking down Robinson, we passed clutches of pink-wearing men and women, all seeming to be in high spirits. Arriving at Acacia, we were led to our table on the patio by the chef's son (also in a pink shirt) who already had the poise of a long-time host. It was a gorgeous evening to be dining outside, not to mention the bird's eye view it provided of the overgrown herb planter (so much mint gone to seed that Mac resolved to return with her clippers and give that mint a haircut) and the roving bands of Rose crawlers.
We toasted the crawl and the weather with glasses of Mimi Sparkling Rose from Provence (Mimi being Mac's nickname to her nephews) while chatting with the two overly tan and obviously high maintenance women from Goochland seated next to us. They'd been to Helen's and found both the Roses they'd ordered lacking, so they'd moved on.
When they found out we were going to see "A Chorus Line" after the crawl, they were fascinated.
Turns out Goochlanders have no clue that Richmond boasts a vibrant theater scene. "If I'd known I could go to a play, I could have planned to attend since I have a designated driver!" one exclaimed. Frankly, she didn't strike me like the play-going type, but at least she pretended.
It was our server's first night and a chaotic one at that, so we got our orders in quickly. Mac chose Peruvian tuna ceviche while I couldn't resist the redneck crabcake, a rich cake of whitefish and Old Bay with a side salad of pickled cucumber and red onion, accompanied by a glass of Paul D. Rose from Austria.
We wound up lingering so long we had no time for the other stops - Cask, Spoonbread and Helen's - before planting our butts at Richmond Triangle Players. It was Mac's first viewing after I'd raved about how RTP had pulled off 17 dancers on that stage with aplomb and grace.
At intermission, she started her own gushing about what an incredible production it was. Standing in line at the ladies' room, a woman behind me notes of the first act, "It's tough not to get up and dance. I was chair dancing so hard!"
Honey, join the club.
Another makes an observation about the dancer affectionately referred to as "Headband Boy" for his long hair, cheesy mustache and, yes, headband, "He's every guy in 1972." Tell me something I don't know.
Those two things alone - dancing and 1972 guys - are more than enough to require repeat viewings of such a fine production of "A Chorus Line." But when preceded by Rose crawling with the best walker I know, well, it's one singular sensation.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Closet Carpenter Fans Unite
The thing about Beau is that his eyes are always bigger than our stomachs.
Truth be told, we'd planned the evening around our all-consuming desire for Secco's legendary butterscotch pudding and worked back from there because we were both jonesing for it.
A always, the most difficult decision at Secco is what to drink (so many excellent by-the-glass choices), but Beau eventually branched out with a lemony Greek - Bosinakis Moschofilero - while I stayed true to form with Raventos i Blanc "De nit" Brut Rose because every Tuesday night should be so fabulous as to kick off with pale pink bubbles.
It was when we got to the food menu that Beau lost his head and ordered enough food for three, despite the fact that Pru had opted out of our evening's plans. She's also the one who usually reminds him to scale back his ordering, meaning his wants went unchecked tonight.
The lightest of batters made fried squid and rock shrimp over Romesco sauce disappear embarrassingly quickly, while focaccia with onion jam was an indulgent exercise in sweet/savory balance. An entree of grilled asparagus risotto was seriously elevated with pistachio for crunch, preserved lemon for piquancy and Parmesan and a perfectly poached egg for obscene richness.
To put things in perspective about the amount of food that showed up, the only dish we finished completely was the fried squid and shrimp. Pru would have reveled in saying "I told you so," but I said no such thing since such comments are the sole right of a girlfriend, not a friend.
And despite not having finished our meal and going against every dinner rule my mother instilled in us, we ordered butterscotch pudding and not one, but two so neither of us had to share while sipping our Rose course (his Italian, mine French) and mulling the quixotic nature of middle aged relationships and how differently everyone shapes theirs.
During two hours of non-stop conversation, Beau reminded me that the last time we'd been at Secco for dinner in mid-February, he'd expressed amazement that I wasn't attached, even going so far as to wonder how no man had noticed my sterling qualities. He delighted in pointing out what a difference a couple of months makes.
By the time we left Secco at 7:45, just about every seat was taken and the vibe was so lively, you'd be hard-pressed to identify it a a Tuesday evening crowd, a fact that made us both very happy.
Then it was back to my 'hood for TheatreLAB's production of "Moth," where we found seats only to be asked to move because they'd been unofficially reserved. There are worse sacrifices than having to move to the front row for an intimate spot to witness an intense two-person play, much less one starring impressive talent like Kelsey Cordrey and John Mincks.
One of the reasons Pru had given for opting out of joining us was her lack of interest in a play about millennial characters, in this case, anime-obsessed Sebastian and emo Claryssa. Beau and I, on the other hand, felt sure that a play about misfit high school students would resonate no matter the era.
The play was laugh out loud funny in parts - "They're not emos, they're artists!" - and uncomfortably cruel in others, which about sums up high school. The bluster and vulnerability Cordrey and Mincks brought to characters not all that much younger than they are ensured a fast-moving story about the nature of existing outside the cool cliques in those devastating high school years.
Since neither Beau nor I had a cool bone in our high school bodies, we could relate to those years as something to endure rather than some kind of glory days. Hell, I graduated high school a year early to escape that world and its limitations.
And like any good millennial play, it not only had young characters and abundant cell phone usage, but was extremely brief (75 minutes) and without an intermission, clearly the biggest theater trend in decades. On the plus side, that meant we were out on the streets of Jackson Ward by 9:20 and scoring caffeine for Beau at Saison Market shortly thereafter, the better to fuel our tangent-filled conversations ("Wait, what are we talking about?").
During one particularly long-winded, multi-tangential discussion of movies (yes, I walked out of "Alien" and if you know me at all, how can you wonder why?), I invoked Yoda to Beau's amazement. He did the same later when things got so deep he had to stonewall it with, "Evaluate it not," effectively ending that topic.
It was that coffee that provided the necessary jolt to keep Beau interested as I played some of my latest record finds for him - the Brass Ring, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Petula Clark - while he discovered a new term for such music: '60s sunshine pop. We'd already discovered a mutual love of the Carpenters, the epitome of that genre, when "Sing a Song" had played in his car and he'd admitted that he was mocked in high school for his love of their music.
I once heard Chrissie Hynde say that her biggest musical influence was Karen Carpenter and with that kind of benediction from the voice of the Pretenders, I think we can all agree that the Carpenters are retroactively cool, even if we'd never have admitted it in high school.
Of course, I also didn't go to prom, so what do I know about emo angst? Nothing that hasn't been paved over with middle-aged optimism, which, it turns out, was justified all along.
Much luck, I still have.
Truth be told, we'd planned the evening around our all-consuming desire for Secco's legendary butterscotch pudding and worked back from there because we were both jonesing for it.
A always, the most difficult decision at Secco is what to drink (so many excellent by-the-glass choices), but Beau eventually branched out with a lemony Greek - Bosinakis Moschofilero - while I stayed true to form with Raventos i Blanc "De nit" Brut Rose because every Tuesday night should be so fabulous as to kick off with pale pink bubbles.
It was when we got to the food menu that Beau lost his head and ordered enough food for three, despite the fact that Pru had opted out of our evening's plans. She's also the one who usually reminds him to scale back his ordering, meaning his wants went unchecked tonight.
The lightest of batters made fried squid and rock shrimp over Romesco sauce disappear embarrassingly quickly, while focaccia with onion jam was an indulgent exercise in sweet/savory balance. An entree of grilled asparagus risotto was seriously elevated with pistachio for crunch, preserved lemon for piquancy and Parmesan and a perfectly poached egg for obscene richness.
To put things in perspective about the amount of food that showed up, the only dish we finished completely was the fried squid and shrimp. Pru would have reveled in saying "I told you so," but I said no such thing since such comments are the sole right of a girlfriend, not a friend.
And despite not having finished our meal and going against every dinner rule my mother instilled in us, we ordered butterscotch pudding and not one, but two so neither of us had to share while sipping our Rose course (his Italian, mine French) and mulling the quixotic nature of middle aged relationships and how differently everyone shapes theirs.
During two hours of non-stop conversation, Beau reminded me that the last time we'd been at Secco for dinner in mid-February, he'd expressed amazement that I wasn't attached, even going so far as to wonder how no man had noticed my sterling qualities. He delighted in pointing out what a difference a couple of months makes.
By the time we left Secco at 7:45, just about every seat was taken and the vibe was so lively, you'd be hard-pressed to identify it a a Tuesday evening crowd, a fact that made us both very happy.
Then it was back to my 'hood for TheatreLAB's production of "Moth," where we found seats only to be asked to move because they'd been unofficially reserved. There are worse sacrifices than having to move to the front row for an intimate spot to witness an intense two-person play, much less one starring impressive talent like Kelsey Cordrey and John Mincks.
One of the reasons Pru had given for opting out of joining us was her lack of interest in a play about millennial characters, in this case, anime-obsessed Sebastian and emo Claryssa. Beau and I, on the other hand, felt sure that a play about misfit high school students would resonate no matter the era.
The play was laugh out loud funny in parts - "They're not emos, they're artists!" - and uncomfortably cruel in others, which about sums up high school. The bluster and vulnerability Cordrey and Mincks brought to characters not all that much younger than they are ensured a fast-moving story about the nature of existing outside the cool cliques in those devastating high school years.
Since neither Beau nor I had a cool bone in our high school bodies, we could relate to those years as something to endure rather than some kind of glory days. Hell, I graduated high school a year early to escape that world and its limitations.
And like any good millennial play, it not only had young characters and abundant cell phone usage, but was extremely brief (75 minutes) and without an intermission, clearly the biggest theater trend in decades. On the plus side, that meant we were out on the streets of Jackson Ward by 9:20 and scoring caffeine for Beau at Saison Market shortly thereafter, the better to fuel our tangent-filled conversations ("Wait, what are we talking about?").
During one particularly long-winded, multi-tangential discussion of movies (yes, I walked out of "Alien" and if you know me at all, how can you wonder why?), I invoked Yoda to Beau's amazement. He did the same later when things got so deep he had to stonewall it with, "Evaluate it not," effectively ending that topic.
It was that coffee that provided the necessary jolt to keep Beau interested as I played some of my latest record finds for him - the Brass Ring, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Petula Clark - while he discovered a new term for such music: '60s sunshine pop. We'd already discovered a mutual love of the Carpenters, the epitome of that genre, when "Sing a Song" had played in his car and he'd admitted that he was mocked in high school for his love of their music.
I once heard Chrissie Hynde say that her biggest musical influence was Karen Carpenter and with that kind of benediction from the voice of the Pretenders, I think we can all agree that the Carpenters are retroactively cool, even if we'd never have admitted it in high school.
Of course, I also didn't go to prom, so what do I know about emo angst? Nothing that hasn't been paved over with middle-aged optimism, which, it turns out, was justified all along.
Much luck, I still have.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
The Path Taken
Tonight, the poet was bested by nature.
Good thing I'm flexible because my simple plan - Secco, a poetry reading at Chop Suey and "Django" at the French Film Festival - began unraveling at stop #2.
For that matter, I was so busy blowing minds at stop #1 that I may have altered my own trajectory. Ready to get the party started, I chose Raventos i Blanc Brut Nature Rose "de Nix," a crisp sparkler from Spain along with brussels sprouts amped up with cured lemon, black lentils, Aleppo pepper and candied pecans, a dish so generous I couldn't finish the last couple sprouts.
Meanwhile, two women at the bar had just discovered Secco's "Uncork and unwind" happy hour, causing one to slip her phone into the bamboo box to qualify for happy hour deals. The other woman looked at her askance.
"I'm not giving mine up," she insisted. "No, I gotta have my phone out, but I want the discount. Do you think I can still get it?"
When her friend didn't answer, I jumped right in. Nope, I'm pretty sure you've already disqualified yourself by having been on your phone constantly since you sat down, not to mention after your Prosecco arrived and you began sipping, I told this stranger. She looked only barely disappointed.
"That's okay, it's not worth a discount not to have my phone out," she explained. That's when I realized I had the power to rock her world, but I asked permission first (as in, do you want me to blow your mind?) and she granted permission.
I don't have a cell phone, I told her. She looked surprised and then asked, "Oh, you left it in the car?" No, I don't have one. There were four simultaneous gasps. "Ever?" she asked incredulously. Ever. Serious panic was written all over her face. "How do you live? I couldn't live without mine," she said.
More's the pity, honey.
A woman sitting in between the two of us suddenly piped up. "I admire you," she claimed, but I assured her everyone says that and no one means it. "I only have mine for emergencies," she explained, but I was having none of it. And what did you do in emergencies 20 years ago? Problem-solve? Figure it out? Handle it?
Sheepishly, she said all of the above. Case closed.
As I was ordering dessert, a woman sat down next to me and began poring over a document. When my butterscotch pudding with creme fraiche and candied walnuts arrived, her head spun around like she'd seen the promised land. "What's that?" she had to know.
Only one of the best desserts in the city, I assured her. She gazed at it longingly and we struck up a conversation. Although currently a Fan resident, she's just bought a home in Greengate, the latest fake town center development nearly at the Goochland line. Trying to comprehend why anyone would abandon the city for the hinterland, she said quietly, "I need a new start."
Seems her husband has had Alzheimer's for years and lives in a facility and she's ready to live somewhere other than the home they'd shared (which had sold in mere hours). Perfectly understandable.
In fact, she decided that to celebrate her next stage of life, she was going to order a butterscotch pudding because mine looked so fabulous. The bartender leaned over and shared that she thought it was nothing short of amazing. "You think you know butterscotch pudding until you have this one," she told her.
Not that I needed it, it was nice to have corroboration.
Full of pink bubbles, sprouts and pudding, I left for Chop Suey Books, walking into a practically empty store. Something was amiss. The most significant English language poet born since WW II should have attracted more than three people.
"His flight got canceled because of snow," the clerk informed me. "He's reading at the Modlin Center tomorrow night instead." That's one of those good/bad news scenarios for anyone with a date Friday night, but at least now I knew.
Rather than dwelling on the disappointment of not having an Irishman read to me tonight, I punted, a simple matter of walking across the street to kick off my French Film Festival experience 2018 by seeing "Le Chemin." And like any FFF screening, that meant running into the faithful.
The cinephile just back from the Sarajevo Film Festival, who wanted my advice on getting involved with the Bijou. The theater manager who walked up behind me while I was getting popcorn and from behind asked, "Guess who?"
Probably the most unlikely was the woman whose open house I'd gone to in late February. Although it hadn't been mentioned in the party invitation, the occasion was her impending nuptials. When I'd asked her how she'd met him, she'd shared that they'd met on match.com just as she was about to cancel her subscription.
Lamenting my own lack of dating success, she'd told me to give up (as she had) and that's when it would happen. Here we were a month later, and an update was in order. "Our good luck rubbed off on you!" she said, delighted.
Around us, smart FFF attendees were jockeying for the Byrd's new seats, while the couple in front of me pulled out tuna fish sandwiches in baggies and began a twofold mission: eating their dinner without losing their primo seats and stinkin' up the joint with smelly tuna fish.
They finished just as the introductions were being made.
Two trailblazing women, the director and costumer of "Le Chemin," were introduced and gave minimal remarks before the film began. The title means "the path" and referred to a path where a young Parisian woman studying to be a nun walked everyday to treat a Cambodian villager's sore leg, a path that caused her to meet the husband of a woman dying of cancer.
But of course, the film was really about the path of life, how we meet people along the way, how sadness changes us and what we learn about ourselves as we engage with others. How we plan for one thing and something else comes along.
You know, the path that helps you realize when you need a new start or a butterscotch pudding. And sometimes both.
Good thing I'm flexible because my simple plan - Secco, a poetry reading at Chop Suey and "Django" at the French Film Festival - began unraveling at stop #2.
For that matter, I was so busy blowing minds at stop #1 that I may have altered my own trajectory. Ready to get the party started, I chose Raventos i Blanc Brut Nature Rose "de Nix," a crisp sparkler from Spain along with brussels sprouts amped up with cured lemon, black lentils, Aleppo pepper and candied pecans, a dish so generous I couldn't finish the last couple sprouts.
Meanwhile, two women at the bar had just discovered Secco's "Uncork and unwind" happy hour, causing one to slip her phone into the bamboo box to qualify for happy hour deals. The other woman looked at her askance.
"I'm not giving mine up," she insisted. "No, I gotta have my phone out, but I want the discount. Do you think I can still get it?"
When her friend didn't answer, I jumped right in. Nope, I'm pretty sure you've already disqualified yourself by having been on your phone constantly since you sat down, not to mention after your Prosecco arrived and you began sipping, I told this stranger. She looked only barely disappointed.
"That's okay, it's not worth a discount not to have my phone out," she explained. That's when I realized I had the power to rock her world, but I asked permission first (as in, do you want me to blow your mind?) and she granted permission.
I don't have a cell phone, I told her. She looked surprised and then asked, "Oh, you left it in the car?" No, I don't have one. There were four simultaneous gasps. "Ever?" she asked incredulously. Ever. Serious panic was written all over her face. "How do you live? I couldn't live without mine," she said.
More's the pity, honey.
A woman sitting in between the two of us suddenly piped up. "I admire you," she claimed, but I assured her everyone says that and no one means it. "I only have mine for emergencies," she explained, but I was having none of it. And what did you do in emergencies 20 years ago? Problem-solve? Figure it out? Handle it?
Sheepishly, she said all of the above. Case closed.
As I was ordering dessert, a woman sat down next to me and began poring over a document. When my butterscotch pudding with creme fraiche and candied walnuts arrived, her head spun around like she'd seen the promised land. "What's that?" she had to know.
Only one of the best desserts in the city, I assured her. She gazed at it longingly and we struck up a conversation. Although currently a Fan resident, she's just bought a home in Greengate, the latest fake town center development nearly at the Goochland line. Trying to comprehend why anyone would abandon the city for the hinterland, she said quietly, "I need a new start."
Seems her husband has had Alzheimer's for years and lives in a facility and she's ready to live somewhere other than the home they'd shared (which had sold in mere hours). Perfectly understandable.
In fact, she decided that to celebrate her next stage of life, she was going to order a butterscotch pudding because mine looked so fabulous. The bartender leaned over and shared that she thought it was nothing short of amazing. "You think you know butterscotch pudding until you have this one," she told her.
Not that I needed it, it was nice to have corroboration.
Full of pink bubbles, sprouts and pudding, I left for Chop Suey Books, walking into a practically empty store. Something was amiss. The most significant English language poet born since WW II should have attracted more than three people.
"His flight got canceled because of snow," the clerk informed me. "He's reading at the Modlin Center tomorrow night instead." That's one of those good/bad news scenarios for anyone with a date Friday night, but at least now I knew.
Rather than dwelling on the disappointment of not having an Irishman read to me tonight, I punted, a simple matter of walking across the street to kick off my French Film Festival experience 2018 by seeing "Le Chemin." And like any FFF screening, that meant running into the faithful.
The cinephile just back from the Sarajevo Film Festival, who wanted my advice on getting involved with the Bijou. The theater manager who walked up behind me while I was getting popcorn and from behind asked, "Guess who?"
Probably the most unlikely was the woman whose open house I'd gone to in late February. Although it hadn't been mentioned in the party invitation, the occasion was her impending nuptials. When I'd asked her how she'd met him, she'd shared that they'd met on match.com just as she was about to cancel her subscription.
Lamenting my own lack of dating success, she'd told me to give up (as she had) and that's when it would happen. Here we were a month later, and an update was in order. "Our good luck rubbed off on you!" she said, delighted.
Around us, smart FFF attendees were jockeying for the Byrd's new seats, while the couple in front of me pulled out tuna fish sandwiches in baggies and began a twofold mission: eating their dinner without losing their primo seats and stinkin' up the joint with smelly tuna fish.
They finished just as the introductions were being made.
Two trailblazing women, the director and costumer of "Le Chemin," were introduced and gave minimal remarks before the film began. The title means "the path" and referred to a path where a young Parisian woman studying to be a nun walked everyday to treat a Cambodian villager's sore leg, a path that caused her to meet the husband of a woman dying of cancer.
But of course, the film was really about the path of life, how we meet people along the way, how sadness changes us and what we learn about ourselves as we engage with others. How we plan for one thing and something else comes along.
You know, the path that helps you realize when you need a new start or a butterscotch pudding. And sometimes both.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Mmm, Nice
If the hour we started was uncivilized, surely the hour we ended was.
For weeks now, I'd had plans with Pru and Beau for dinner at Secco followed by a screening of "Double Indemnity" at the Byrd. When I messaged Beau asking what time they'd be picking me up, his response was, "Ridiculously early at 4:45."
I patiently explained that it was Thanksgiving Eve and thus rules of civility don't apply. Plenty of people were starting happy hour mid-afternoon. I invoked the beach, where happy hour starts anytime you like, but he said the beach doesn't count. Also, it should be noted, he was the one who'd made the reservation.
A few hours later, he notified me that Pru was under the weather so it would be just us two. "You down with that?' he wanted to know. As long as you can provide sufficient conversation, I sure am.
We got to Secco just as the sun was setting at the ungodly hour of 4:54 and before they officially opened, but the owner was gracious enough to let us inside the warm building (where the staff was doing last second prep) rather than waiting outside in the suddenly frigid air.
Once seated with our coats checked, Beau realized he'd left his phone in his jacket, making it easy for us to qualify for Secco's unplugged happy hour, although we had nothing to put in the lidded box on our table, which is where customers are supposed put their devices to qualify. It was all window dressing anyway since Beau's smart enough to keep his phone pocketed when he's with me.
To assuage his concerns about the early hour, I suggested we begin with a civilized glass and not rush into ordering like senior citizens at a Golden Corral. Given that it was a holiday eve, I opted for festive with Hillinger Secco Sparkling Pinot Noir Rose, while Beau couldn't resist an offering from the Secret Stash chalkboard, Ostatu Rioja Blanco, with which we both were quite taken.
Normally, that's the point at which he'd pull out his phone and take a picture of the label so he could reference it later for purchasing purposes. With his device unavailable, he had to settle for me writing it down with a pen on paper, to him the equivalent of a chisel and stone tablet.
Glasses in hand, the likes of LCD Soundsystem and Steely Dan playing overhead, we were easing into civilized effortlessly, if I do say so myself.
Now that his job requires frequent travel, he has plenty of out-of-town restaurant stories to share, including one about a former theater being converted into a restaurant. And while the decor and set-up impressed him, the food didn't compare to what he eats in Richmond all the time, forcing him to acknowledge Pru's prior explanation that we're spoiled because Richmond is such an outstanding food town.
Our server, young and fresh-faced, won our affection for allowing us to determine the pace of our evening and eating. When I mentioned his beautiful skin, guessing that he moisturizes daily, he admitted he did. "And I got a facial mask this afternoon," he shared, surprising neither of us. Beau says he'll be happy with how his skin looks when he's his age.
Once we'd finished our wine, we looked the menu over for our next selections, deciding on an old favorite, Chateau de Roquefort Corail Rose, for me and Steininger Gruner Veltliner Reserve for Beau. The nose on his made me wish for a dozen oysters to magically appear in front of me.
That was the cue that we needed to get serious with the menu and as we bantered about what we wanted, I reminded Beau that like Pru's immortal comment about choosing a wine, "Why would we ever leave the Loire?" in my world, the question is, why would we ever leave the starters and small plates?
Indeed, we began ordering, choosing roasted carrots that got the star treatment with smoked beets, fermented honey, the nut and spice mixture known as almond dukkah, housemade rye crackers and the mildest goat cheese we may ever taste. We followed that with a special of rabbit soup that we both loved, as much for a clear broth heavy on shallots as for the abundance of rabbit, not to mention carrots and pea shoots on top.
Because 'tis the season, we went with a roast squash tostada, fried corn tortillas layered with salsa macha, hummus, cabbage and sprinkled in pepitas. Overlooking the fact that it was a main course, we got mushroom potstickers, which announced themselves with a heavenly aroma of black garlic dashi and were accompanied by roasted pumpkin under a flurry of sprouts.
Replete with savory and having discovered a mutual fondness for butterscotch, we moved on to a decadent butterscotch pudding with whipped creme fraiche and candied pecans that was only made better with H & H 5-Year Madiera to sip along side it.
I'm here to tell you that no matter how uncivilized we felt walking in, full civility was restored by the time we took our final sips of Madiera. Good thing, too, because the classic film noir we were off to see at the Byrd was more about brassy dames and malleable men than civilized behavior.
Manager Todd introduced the Billy Wilder-directed film (I'd had no idea), explaining how Raymond Chandler had done the screenplay from James Cain's novel, which probably explains why Fred MacMurray said "baby" at the end of every sentence to Barbara Stanwyck.
Shut up, baby. Good bye, baby. I love you, baby. Every time he said something like that, the millennial couple sitting next to me went into fits of giggles. For that matter, there was plenty of inappropriate laughter at some of the more dramatic moments in the film, as if certain audience members had no familiarity with acting norms circa 1948.
Personally, I loved Fred's easy-going California charm, like when he's offered iced tea when he really wants something stronger ("Unless you got a bottle of beer that's not working"). Holding the glass up to look at it, he muses, "I wonder if a little rum would get this up on its feet?"
Oh, I bet it would.
Turns out Beau enjoyed it, too, and not just because neither of us had seen it before. It was atmospherically shot, surprisingly dense with loads of '40s humor and revealed California before it was the hip state. Besides, it's on AFI's list at #38 of the 100 Best American Films of all time, so we got to check off a box.
As we're walking back to the car, Beau commented what a fun evening it had been with such a fantastic meal and fascinating movie, as if it were over. Instead, I rang Holmes and Beloved and we landed there shortly after procuring holiday pecans for Pru's yams.
I should've known better than to bring another old soul to choose records with Beloved because she and Beau were soon knee-deep in "Moonglow." That changed when Beau got up to peruse Holmes' stack and asked ever-so-casually, "Oh, do you have any Mungo Jerry?"
Sure, the band name was familiar, even a hit song, but who asks for Mungo Jerry and who has it? Well, a few minutes later, we found out Holmes did when he returned from a back room with an album in hand and put it on. The sound of kazoos filled the man cave.
"Thanks for suggesting this," Holmes said to Beau. "I didn't know I had it." While this should have led to incredulity, it instead led to a conversation about the power of alphabetizing and jokes about the Dewey Decimal system.
Part of the blame for that undoubtedly goes to the Whispering Angels Rose then being poured into Holmes' mother's short champagne coupes as we listened to Bob Thompson's orchestra and chorus on a fabulous 1960 album, "Mmm, Nice!" that provided the ultimate party soundtrack.
Rose may also have been the culprit in discussing Beau's ring tones, one of which is from a Muhammad Ali commercial for D-Con, which Beau mimicked for us until we were laughing (so hard Beloved was in tears) at how spot-on his Ali imitation was, right down to inflections.
Imagine, if you will, the whitest of men, one who moisturizes, wears bow ties and has a fabulous swoop of hair, intoning, "I don't want you to live with roaches!" and sounding, for all the world, like the heavyweight great.
That led to Beau showing off other ringtones, until Holmes tried to compete by pulling a miniature toilet off a shelf and pushing its tiny handle down for a ridiculously loud flush sound. Game over.
And we were up on our feet, like rum-spiked tea. As in, back to a complete lack of civility. Time to go home, Gracie.
For weeks now, I'd had plans with Pru and Beau for dinner at Secco followed by a screening of "Double Indemnity" at the Byrd. When I messaged Beau asking what time they'd be picking me up, his response was, "Ridiculously early at 4:45."
I patiently explained that it was Thanksgiving Eve and thus rules of civility don't apply. Plenty of people were starting happy hour mid-afternoon. I invoked the beach, where happy hour starts anytime you like, but he said the beach doesn't count. Also, it should be noted, he was the one who'd made the reservation.
A few hours later, he notified me that Pru was under the weather so it would be just us two. "You down with that?' he wanted to know. As long as you can provide sufficient conversation, I sure am.
We got to Secco just as the sun was setting at the ungodly hour of 4:54 and before they officially opened, but the owner was gracious enough to let us inside the warm building (where the staff was doing last second prep) rather than waiting outside in the suddenly frigid air.
Once seated with our coats checked, Beau realized he'd left his phone in his jacket, making it easy for us to qualify for Secco's unplugged happy hour, although we had nothing to put in the lidded box on our table, which is where customers are supposed put their devices to qualify. It was all window dressing anyway since Beau's smart enough to keep his phone pocketed when he's with me.
To assuage his concerns about the early hour, I suggested we begin with a civilized glass and not rush into ordering like senior citizens at a Golden Corral. Given that it was a holiday eve, I opted for festive with Hillinger Secco Sparkling Pinot Noir Rose, while Beau couldn't resist an offering from the Secret Stash chalkboard, Ostatu Rioja Blanco, with which we both were quite taken.
Normally, that's the point at which he'd pull out his phone and take a picture of the label so he could reference it later for purchasing purposes. With his device unavailable, he had to settle for me writing it down with a pen on paper, to him the equivalent of a chisel and stone tablet.
Glasses in hand, the likes of LCD Soundsystem and Steely Dan playing overhead, we were easing into civilized effortlessly, if I do say so myself.
Now that his job requires frequent travel, he has plenty of out-of-town restaurant stories to share, including one about a former theater being converted into a restaurant. And while the decor and set-up impressed him, the food didn't compare to what he eats in Richmond all the time, forcing him to acknowledge Pru's prior explanation that we're spoiled because Richmond is such an outstanding food town.
Our server, young and fresh-faced, won our affection for allowing us to determine the pace of our evening and eating. When I mentioned his beautiful skin, guessing that he moisturizes daily, he admitted he did. "And I got a facial mask this afternoon," he shared, surprising neither of us. Beau says he'll be happy with how his skin looks when he's his age.
Once we'd finished our wine, we looked the menu over for our next selections, deciding on an old favorite, Chateau de Roquefort Corail Rose, for me and Steininger Gruner Veltliner Reserve for Beau. The nose on his made me wish for a dozen oysters to magically appear in front of me.
That was the cue that we needed to get serious with the menu and as we bantered about what we wanted, I reminded Beau that like Pru's immortal comment about choosing a wine, "Why would we ever leave the Loire?" in my world, the question is, why would we ever leave the starters and small plates?
Indeed, we began ordering, choosing roasted carrots that got the star treatment with smoked beets, fermented honey, the nut and spice mixture known as almond dukkah, housemade rye crackers and the mildest goat cheese we may ever taste. We followed that with a special of rabbit soup that we both loved, as much for a clear broth heavy on shallots as for the abundance of rabbit, not to mention carrots and pea shoots on top.
Because 'tis the season, we went with a roast squash tostada, fried corn tortillas layered with salsa macha, hummus, cabbage and sprinkled in pepitas. Overlooking the fact that it was a main course, we got mushroom potstickers, which announced themselves with a heavenly aroma of black garlic dashi and were accompanied by roasted pumpkin under a flurry of sprouts.
Replete with savory and having discovered a mutual fondness for butterscotch, we moved on to a decadent butterscotch pudding with whipped creme fraiche and candied pecans that was only made better with H & H 5-Year Madiera to sip along side it.
I'm here to tell you that no matter how uncivilized we felt walking in, full civility was restored by the time we took our final sips of Madiera. Good thing, too, because the classic film noir we were off to see at the Byrd was more about brassy dames and malleable men than civilized behavior.
Manager Todd introduced the Billy Wilder-directed film (I'd had no idea), explaining how Raymond Chandler had done the screenplay from James Cain's novel, which probably explains why Fred MacMurray said "baby" at the end of every sentence to Barbara Stanwyck.
Shut up, baby. Good bye, baby. I love you, baby. Every time he said something like that, the millennial couple sitting next to me went into fits of giggles. For that matter, there was plenty of inappropriate laughter at some of the more dramatic moments in the film, as if certain audience members had no familiarity with acting norms circa 1948.
Personally, I loved Fred's easy-going California charm, like when he's offered iced tea when he really wants something stronger ("Unless you got a bottle of beer that's not working"). Holding the glass up to look at it, he muses, "I wonder if a little rum would get this up on its feet?"
Oh, I bet it would.
Turns out Beau enjoyed it, too, and not just because neither of us had seen it before. It was atmospherically shot, surprisingly dense with loads of '40s humor and revealed California before it was the hip state. Besides, it's on AFI's list at #38 of the 100 Best American Films of all time, so we got to check off a box.
As we're walking back to the car, Beau commented what a fun evening it had been with such a fantastic meal and fascinating movie, as if it were over. Instead, I rang Holmes and Beloved and we landed there shortly after procuring holiday pecans for Pru's yams.
I should've known better than to bring another old soul to choose records with Beloved because she and Beau were soon knee-deep in "Moonglow." That changed when Beau got up to peruse Holmes' stack and asked ever-so-casually, "Oh, do you have any Mungo Jerry?"
Sure, the band name was familiar, even a hit song, but who asks for Mungo Jerry and who has it? Well, a few minutes later, we found out Holmes did when he returned from a back room with an album in hand and put it on. The sound of kazoos filled the man cave.
"Thanks for suggesting this," Holmes said to Beau. "I didn't know I had it." While this should have led to incredulity, it instead led to a conversation about the power of alphabetizing and jokes about the Dewey Decimal system.
Part of the blame for that undoubtedly goes to the Whispering Angels Rose then being poured into Holmes' mother's short champagne coupes as we listened to Bob Thompson's orchestra and chorus on a fabulous 1960 album, "Mmm, Nice!" that provided the ultimate party soundtrack.
Rose may also have been the culprit in discussing Beau's ring tones, one of which is from a Muhammad Ali commercial for D-Con, which Beau mimicked for us until we were laughing (so hard Beloved was in tears) at how spot-on his Ali imitation was, right down to inflections.
Imagine, if you will, the whitest of men, one who moisturizes, wears bow ties and has a fabulous swoop of hair, intoning, "I don't want you to live with roaches!" and sounding, for all the world, like the heavyweight great.
That led to Beau showing off other ringtones, until Holmes tried to compete by pulling a miniature toilet off a shelf and pushing its tiny handle down for a ridiculously loud flush sound. Game over.
And we were up on our feet, like rum-spiked tea. As in, back to a complete lack of civility. Time to go home, Gracie.
Monday, October 30, 2017
One Show Only
Of course I remember when our relationship began: exactly 7 years, 5 months and 20 days ago.
That would have been May 8, 2010, although if you want to get technical about it, a more accurate beginning might have been April 22. That's when I spent the better part of a day sewing curtains and delivering them to a new wine bar in Carytown: Secco.
That's when our relationship began.
And while my drapes became history once Secco left Carytown for the Fan, it's somehow already been a year since they decamped to Robinson Street. Tonight they were celebrating their FANiversary, an idea inspired by their current chef, Julie Heins, who suggested that the way to celebrate was to "get the band back together."
But only for one night.
Not only did they round up the three chefs who proceeded her, but they cleverly chose wines that corresponded with the year each chef began their tenure. Come on, that's nothing short of brilliant and as a long-time Secco regular, my butt was firmly planted in one of the seats for the celebration.
Because I was solo, I was guided to the "scintillating conversation table," which meant one person I knew (a former Secco server who now teaches Italian at UR) and four I didn't. I liked the odds.
Across from me sat a charming couple - a printmaker and a philosopher - although the latter defined himself as a "recovering academic and my recovery drug of choice is this" and held up the first wine of the evening, a 2010 Recaredo Cava Brut Nature Gran Reserva of which I was already growing inordinately fond.
At the far end of the table sat a guy who works at a hot yoga studio in the West End, causing me to make presumptions and inquire if that meant that he had to deal with all kinds of annoying, entitled West End women. He grimaced and acknowledged that yes, he did, and they always had a lot of complaints. Probably high maintenance haircuts, too.
This got our sixth member - an associate at the Virginia Bar who once worked retail in Short Pump - sharing horror stories about those same women and their monumental expectations of non-stop service and servitude while they were shopping.
"West End bitches" is apparently a cliche for a reason.
The first course had been created by Secco's inaugural chef, Tim Bereika (who, it seems, hasn't been cooking professionally for a year now) and was delightful: pan-roasted cauliflower with brown butter over Mejool date puree with pistachio gremolata, hitting contrasting notes of sweet and savory, smooth and crunchy, not to mention a stellar pairing with the Cava.
And just so you know, when we weren't eating and drinking, we were getting to know one another.
Talking about visiting her 84-year old mother in Croatia recently, the printmaker said that despite her age, she was doing quite well. "She'll outlive Keith Richards," she noted dismissively and her husband praised that as an especially good line.
Our next course was the work of Mike Braune and the Italian speaker next to me observed, "This is such a Mike dish," a reference to the pig and pickles. He'd slow roasted pork shoulder, pulled it apart and reformed it into little bricks, which he'd then seared and placed over raclette fondue with apples and almonds.
So Mike.
It was paired with the most unique wine of the night, a 2013 Montbourgeau l'Etoile Blanc, an oxidized wine from Jura that got raves from our table. A serious food wine that the staff had been geeking out over since its arrival. The epitome of a Secco wine.
The subject of Sicily came up when our next wine, the almost fuchsia-colored 2015 Calabretta Terre Siciliane Rosato, was poured, because the couple, who'd been to Italy, wanted to plan a trip to Sicily around her teaching schedule.
My seatmate shared that her Italian husband had never been to Sicily, reminding me of the horror a waiter south of Naples had expressed to me when I'd ordered a Sicilian wine ("But, but, it's Sicilian!" he'd gasped and promptly talked me into an Aglianico instead).
Turns out the reason for all this is campanilisma, a sense of pride in one's region that trumps nationalism for Italians. "In Venice, food from Naples was considered exotic," the printmaker marveled.
That lovely Rose was paired with John Ledbetter's Atlantic corvina over butternut squash with charred tomato and poblanos in guajillo broth with lashings of leek on top, a dish with a subtle heat and the most divine broth, although there was nothing to sop it up with, unless you were willing to ask for a spoon and clean your bowl that way. My seatmate was.
When John came out to talk about his dish, he was decidedly low-key, saying, "Y'all look so nice and I'm in a white t-shirt!" He could've been in a dress for all we cared considering how good the dish was.
Talk inevitably turned to restaurants and the philosopher asked if anyone remembered The Track. I hadn't thought about that place in ages, but I assured him I did, having once had a memorable first date there. "I loved the quiet ambiance," he said. "It was so old school."
Yes, and Richmond abandoned old school years ago.
You can't very well have six intelligent people at a table in 2017 and not get around to politics, much less with wine flowing. The philosopher made a crack about our current state of affairs vis a vis Watergate, observing, "Not that any of you were around then."
Au contraire, I told him, spilling the beans about a high school assignment where I'd rewritten one of the Canterbury Tales to tell the story of Watergate and getting an A on the paper.
He topped that nine ways to Sunday with his own high school story circa 1958 of having to write a paper on the most significant person in the world. He chose Kruschev, given the era and the impact his politics were having on the Cold War, only to be ridiculed in front of the entire class for it. Seems the teacher thought he should have chosen Eisenhower for his moral authority.
She gave him an F-, a grade no one at the table had even heard of.
It got even better when the woman at the end of the table recalled being given a worksheet to draw a flag in elementary school. Every other kid drew an American flag, while she drew a red circle in the middle of a white page: Japan's flag.
"I don't know if I was into minimalism, or what, but I'd seen a book with all these flags and I really liked the Japanese flag," she said. She didn't get a failing grade since it was just a worksheet, but she felt shamed nonetheless.
At Secco, they promise scintillating conversation and that's what you get.
For our last savory course of seared rabbit loin with potato risotto, apple butter and honey-mustard zabaglione prepared by Chef Heins, we were poured 2016 Gorrondona Txakoli Tinto (an inspired pairing) and told a good story.
Seems that when the Secco owners were in Basque country last month, they tried to order some Txakoli Tinto, only to be told that it didn't exist. Except that they knew they had a case of it back in Virginia, so what the hell? Tonight, it was jokingly referred to as "the unicorn wine," and we were told the chef got one bottle for pairing purposes and we were drinking the other 11. Seems fair to me.
Coming back from the restroom, I found a bar sitter in my chair, deep in conversation with my tablemates, and rather than disturb her, I went and sat next to her husband at the bar.
Turns out he'd been responsible for installing the VMFA photography exhibit I'd just seen Friday, but where it got really interesting was when I brought up the rabbit we were about to eat.
He recalled his brother trapping rabbits with rabbit gums when they were growing up and while I'd never heard the term, I knew immediately he meant those boxes the rabbit enters for food and then the door shuts on them and death follows. Also, good eating.
Rabbit gums. So I'd learned two new terms tonight, one English, one Italian. Not only scintillating, but educational.
Returning to my rightful seat to eat, discussion eventually turned to how full everyone was, although as someone pointed out, it's possible for your dinner compartment to be full and your dessert compartment to be empty. Kids have tried for years to convince parents of this.
So, yes, I had plenty of room to polish off the final course of chocolate bombettes over an obscene butterscotch anglaise (ignoring the sound of my arteries hardening as I all but licked the plate) with gingersnap crumbs while sipping the rest of my unicorn wine.
And then the celebrating of Secco's first year in the Fan was all over, at least all but the future drinking.
"Do we need anything?" the philosopher asked the printmaker, holding up the wine order form. Six of each, she told him. "Six?" he asked, sounding slightly incredulous. "The holidays are coming!" she said with a smile. And even if they weren't?
Rx: Secco. Never underestimate the need for the recovery drug of choice.
That would have been May 8, 2010, although if you want to get technical about it, a more accurate beginning might have been April 22. That's when I spent the better part of a day sewing curtains and delivering them to a new wine bar in Carytown: Secco.
That's when our relationship began.
And while my drapes became history once Secco left Carytown for the Fan, it's somehow already been a year since they decamped to Robinson Street. Tonight they were celebrating their FANiversary, an idea inspired by their current chef, Julie Heins, who suggested that the way to celebrate was to "get the band back together."
But only for one night.
Not only did they round up the three chefs who proceeded her, but they cleverly chose wines that corresponded with the year each chef began their tenure. Come on, that's nothing short of brilliant and as a long-time Secco regular, my butt was firmly planted in one of the seats for the celebration.
Because I was solo, I was guided to the "scintillating conversation table," which meant one person I knew (a former Secco server who now teaches Italian at UR) and four I didn't. I liked the odds.
Across from me sat a charming couple - a printmaker and a philosopher - although the latter defined himself as a "recovering academic and my recovery drug of choice is this" and held up the first wine of the evening, a 2010 Recaredo Cava Brut Nature Gran Reserva of which I was already growing inordinately fond.
At the far end of the table sat a guy who works at a hot yoga studio in the West End, causing me to make presumptions and inquire if that meant that he had to deal with all kinds of annoying, entitled West End women. He grimaced and acknowledged that yes, he did, and they always had a lot of complaints. Probably high maintenance haircuts, too.
This got our sixth member - an associate at the Virginia Bar who once worked retail in Short Pump - sharing horror stories about those same women and their monumental expectations of non-stop service and servitude while they were shopping.
"West End bitches" is apparently a cliche for a reason.
The first course had been created by Secco's inaugural chef, Tim Bereika (who, it seems, hasn't been cooking professionally for a year now) and was delightful: pan-roasted cauliflower with brown butter over Mejool date puree with pistachio gremolata, hitting contrasting notes of sweet and savory, smooth and crunchy, not to mention a stellar pairing with the Cava.
And just so you know, when we weren't eating and drinking, we were getting to know one another.
Talking about visiting her 84-year old mother in Croatia recently, the printmaker said that despite her age, she was doing quite well. "She'll outlive Keith Richards," she noted dismissively and her husband praised that as an especially good line.
Our next course was the work of Mike Braune and the Italian speaker next to me observed, "This is such a Mike dish," a reference to the pig and pickles. He'd slow roasted pork shoulder, pulled it apart and reformed it into little bricks, which he'd then seared and placed over raclette fondue with apples and almonds.
So Mike.
It was paired with the most unique wine of the night, a 2013 Montbourgeau l'Etoile Blanc, an oxidized wine from Jura that got raves from our table. A serious food wine that the staff had been geeking out over since its arrival. The epitome of a Secco wine.
The subject of Sicily came up when our next wine, the almost fuchsia-colored 2015 Calabretta Terre Siciliane Rosato, was poured, because the couple, who'd been to Italy, wanted to plan a trip to Sicily around her teaching schedule.
My seatmate shared that her Italian husband had never been to Sicily, reminding me of the horror a waiter south of Naples had expressed to me when I'd ordered a Sicilian wine ("But, but, it's Sicilian!" he'd gasped and promptly talked me into an Aglianico instead).
Turns out the reason for all this is campanilisma, a sense of pride in one's region that trumps nationalism for Italians. "In Venice, food from Naples was considered exotic," the printmaker marveled.
That lovely Rose was paired with John Ledbetter's Atlantic corvina over butternut squash with charred tomato and poblanos in guajillo broth with lashings of leek on top, a dish with a subtle heat and the most divine broth, although there was nothing to sop it up with, unless you were willing to ask for a spoon and clean your bowl that way. My seatmate was.
When John came out to talk about his dish, he was decidedly low-key, saying, "Y'all look so nice and I'm in a white t-shirt!" He could've been in a dress for all we cared considering how good the dish was.
Talk inevitably turned to restaurants and the philosopher asked if anyone remembered The Track. I hadn't thought about that place in ages, but I assured him I did, having once had a memorable first date there. "I loved the quiet ambiance," he said. "It was so old school."
Yes, and Richmond abandoned old school years ago.
You can't very well have six intelligent people at a table in 2017 and not get around to politics, much less with wine flowing. The philosopher made a crack about our current state of affairs vis a vis Watergate, observing, "Not that any of you were around then."
Au contraire, I told him, spilling the beans about a high school assignment where I'd rewritten one of the Canterbury Tales to tell the story of Watergate and getting an A on the paper.
He topped that nine ways to Sunday with his own high school story circa 1958 of having to write a paper on the most significant person in the world. He chose Kruschev, given the era and the impact his politics were having on the Cold War, only to be ridiculed in front of the entire class for it. Seems the teacher thought he should have chosen Eisenhower for his moral authority.
She gave him an F-, a grade no one at the table had even heard of.
It got even better when the woman at the end of the table recalled being given a worksheet to draw a flag in elementary school. Every other kid drew an American flag, while she drew a red circle in the middle of a white page: Japan's flag.
"I don't know if I was into minimalism, or what, but I'd seen a book with all these flags and I really liked the Japanese flag," she said. She didn't get a failing grade since it was just a worksheet, but she felt shamed nonetheless.
At Secco, they promise scintillating conversation and that's what you get.
For our last savory course of seared rabbit loin with potato risotto, apple butter and honey-mustard zabaglione prepared by Chef Heins, we were poured 2016 Gorrondona Txakoli Tinto (an inspired pairing) and told a good story.
Seems that when the Secco owners were in Basque country last month, they tried to order some Txakoli Tinto, only to be told that it didn't exist. Except that they knew they had a case of it back in Virginia, so what the hell? Tonight, it was jokingly referred to as "the unicorn wine," and we were told the chef got one bottle for pairing purposes and we were drinking the other 11. Seems fair to me.
Coming back from the restroom, I found a bar sitter in my chair, deep in conversation with my tablemates, and rather than disturb her, I went and sat next to her husband at the bar.
Turns out he'd been responsible for installing the VMFA photography exhibit I'd just seen Friday, but where it got really interesting was when I brought up the rabbit we were about to eat.
He recalled his brother trapping rabbits with rabbit gums when they were growing up and while I'd never heard the term, I knew immediately he meant those boxes the rabbit enters for food and then the door shuts on them and death follows. Also, good eating.
Rabbit gums. So I'd learned two new terms tonight, one English, one Italian. Not only scintillating, but educational.
Returning to my rightful seat to eat, discussion eventually turned to how full everyone was, although as someone pointed out, it's possible for your dinner compartment to be full and your dessert compartment to be empty. Kids have tried for years to convince parents of this.
So, yes, I had plenty of room to polish off the final course of chocolate bombettes over an obscene butterscotch anglaise (ignoring the sound of my arteries hardening as I all but licked the plate) with gingersnap crumbs while sipping the rest of my unicorn wine.
And then the celebrating of Secco's first year in the Fan was all over, at least all but the future drinking.
"Do we need anything?" the philosopher asked the printmaker, holding up the wine order form. Six of each, she told him. "Six?" he asked, sounding slightly incredulous. "The holidays are coming!" she said with a smile. And even if they weren't?
Rx: Secco. Never underestimate the need for the recovery drug of choice.
Friday, August 25, 2017
Feed Your Head
The math was off.
Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.
The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.
But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.
So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.
We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.
From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.
We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.
And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.
While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.
It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?
Certainly not this one.
We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.
And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."
You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.
We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.
"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"
When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.
I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)? I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.
The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.
Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.
But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.
They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.
For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).
Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.
Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.
And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.
But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.
At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.
Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast. You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.
And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.
Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.
The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.
But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.
So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.
We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.
From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.
We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.
And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.
While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.
It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?
Certainly not this one.
We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.
And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."
You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.
We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.
"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"
When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.
I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)? I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.
The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.
Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.
But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.
They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.
For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).
Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.
Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.
And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.
But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.
At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.
Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast. You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.
And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Lookin' for Adventure
It was a day for relaxin' with the womenfolk and then showing a gent around.
Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.
When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.
"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?
The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.
With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.
We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.
We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.
The food, as always, was second only to the view.
When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.
In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.
There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.
"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?
And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.
Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.
Unexpectedly, I had company.
Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.
As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.
I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.
I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.
When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.
I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.
One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.
Intervention was essential.
The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.
We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."
My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.
In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.
From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.
We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.
We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.
And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.
Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.
Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.
Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?
Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.
When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.
"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?
The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.
With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.
We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.
We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.
The food, as always, was second only to the view.
When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.
In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.
There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.
"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?
And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.
Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.
Unexpectedly, I had company.
Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.
As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.
I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.
I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.
When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.
I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.
One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.
Intervention was essential.
The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.
We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."
My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.
In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.
From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.
We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.
We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.
And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.
Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.
Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.
Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?
Friday, April 14, 2017
Hi-Ho From the Starship Bridge
Gemini, pace yourself, as you have a lot to do. You might feel as if something is bothering you on a subconscious level, which could be driving you much more than you are aware. Your anger is close to the surface.
And when my anger is closest to the surface, I seek out friends who make me laugh. Tonight, that was Pru and Beau as we headed to the VMFA for the James River Film Fest's final screening of "Truffaut Hitchcock," the kind of film that causes film nerds (and, as it turns out, people of a certain age) to congregate.
I was necessarily being collected at an early hour because of my refusal to conform. When Beau and I conferred about tonight's longstanding plans, I insisted on a slightly earlier time because I needed to pick up my ticket at the member services desk before the documentary.
They, on the other hand, had printed their tickets at home. Not my style.
A ticket, a real ticket, is a souvenir of an experience. I have tickets going back to the '70s that remind me of shows and plays, but it's also the retro aspect that keeps me from printing out a ticket. Mainly, it's the fact that I don't want my entire life standardized and printed on 8 1/2 by 11" sheets of paper.
We'll just call it a quality of life issue.
Heading to the museum, we immediately dove head first into a discussion about the difficulties of living with someone after becoming accustomed to living alone. Pru was the first to admit that her eccentricities have been showing, while Beau politely reminded her that everyone involved was already well aware of them.
Mine continue to come to light the more often I invite friends to stop by.
"Truffaut Hitchcock" turned out to be a cinema buff's movie, a film about film-making, one that covered Hitch's emphasis on style, how he was responsible for the "auteur" philosophy - that a director controls the artistic statement - with his ability to "write" with the camera and how he believed that logic was dull.
Tell me about it.
In addition to Truffaut and Hitchcock's conversation, so many good directors testified: Richard Linklater, Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich and Paul Schrader, among others,expounded on subjects such as how perverted "Vertigo" is (very), how Hitch deliberately made movies that played to 2,000 people, not just one and how "Psycho" was the first movie clearly drawn from the real world, so all the more disturbing for it.
One particularly satisfying takeaway is that cinema is a visual art form firmly rooted in silent films, so the long takes and leisurely pans that today unnerve and bore millennials actually make sense when referencing earlier eras. As one of our hosts pointed out, today's films have a climax every two minutes.
I don't know about you, but I find that climaxing pace exhausting. At the very least, give me a refractory period before tossing out any more expectations.
The film left us absolutely certain of Hitch's genius, but also of Truffaut's recognition of that fact, despite his relative youth. Some men catch on more quickly than others, that's all I'm going to say.
From the museum we headed to Secco for a post-film supper among the West End types that Beau pegged as being in the wrong part of town ("She's got to get home to the Barbie Dream House," Pru quipped of a stylishly-cut blond in white shoes and pricey-looking togs) whom we ignored.
Instead, we savored a bottle of Cherrier Sancerre Rose and not even two weeks after the last time we'd had grilled asparagus with breaded fried egg, oops, Pru and I had it again. Twice. There was my smoked fish brushetta with creme fraiche (tasting like pure Sweden), a special of gnocchi with oxtail (decadent and homey simultaneously) and Beau's creative entree of fried lentil pakora with artichoke, mushroom and cashew ricotta (a master class for its marriage of flavors and contrasting textures), all of which returned to the kitchen licked clean.
Because Pru and Beau once lived across the hall from each other, they keep bringing up memories I couldn't even imagine.
"Remember back in the '80s when you and Robert used to have depressing parties?" Pru asked, recalling soirees where the men smoked pipes and mulled, the music was the "Blade Runner" soundtrack and Beau turned his living room into a starship bridge ("Of course you did," Pru sniffed), whatever that might be.
Pardon my optimism, but I can imagine nothing less appealing than heading to a depressing party, although fortunately, I hadn't been invited. Or maybe I would turn it into an upbeat party and ask for dancing instead of depression.
Our final stop was Can Can for dessert, although our mistake had been in forgetting that they had an absinthe drip or we'd have headed there directly. Despite the late hour, our barkeep happily delivered chocolate fudge pudding cakes and three absinthe drips: two made with Trinity and one old school style, made from Grand Absinthe.
My only complaint was that he didn't do the drips in front of us for the pleasure that affords.
Extolling the sublime marriage of absinthe and chocolate, he became the enabler who fueled our last few hours, including procuring a baguette for the happy couple. Inexplicably, the baguettes we'd seen lolling in a basket behind the bar earlier were tossed when the kitchen closed, despite customers who wanted to purchase them. Go figure.
Appreciating the need to pace myself, I shared my second absinthe drip with Pru as the bar began to empty out and I ignored a restaurant owner leering from a nearby stool as he sipped a glass of red wine. Had ours been a depressing party, I might have asked him to join us. I didn't.
I'm pacing myself so my eccentricities don't show any more than they have to. I've been warned I have a lot to do.
Color me ready to do it.
And when my anger is closest to the surface, I seek out friends who make me laugh. Tonight, that was Pru and Beau as we headed to the VMFA for the James River Film Fest's final screening of "Truffaut Hitchcock," the kind of film that causes film nerds (and, as it turns out, people of a certain age) to congregate.
I was necessarily being collected at an early hour because of my refusal to conform. When Beau and I conferred about tonight's longstanding plans, I insisted on a slightly earlier time because I needed to pick up my ticket at the member services desk before the documentary.
They, on the other hand, had printed their tickets at home. Not my style.
A ticket, a real ticket, is a souvenir of an experience. I have tickets going back to the '70s that remind me of shows and plays, but it's also the retro aspect that keeps me from printing out a ticket. Mainly, it's the fact that I don't want my entire life standardized and printed on 8 1/2 by 11" sheets of paper.
We'll just call it a quality of life issue.
Heading to the museum, we immediately dove head first into a discussion about the difficulties of living with someone after becoming accustomed to living alone. Pru was the first to admit that her eccentricities have been showing, while Beau politely reminded her that everyone involved was already well aware of them.
Mine continue to come to light the more often I invite friends to stop by.
"Truffaut Hitchcock" turned out to be a cinema buff's movie, a film about film-making, one that covered Hitch's emphasis on style, how he was responsible for the "auteur" philosophy - that a director controls the artistic statement - with his ability to "write" with the camera and how he believed that logic was dull.
Tell me about it.
In addition to Truffaut and Hitchcock's conversation, so many good directors testified: Richard Linklater, Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich and Paul Schrader, among others,expounded on subjects such as how perverted "Vertigo" is (very), how Hitch deliberately made movies that played to 2,000 people, not just one and how "Psycho" was the first movie clearly drawn from the real world, so all the more disturbing for it.
One particularly satisfying takeaway is that cinema is a visual art form firmly rooted in silent films, so the long takes and leisurely pans that today unnerve and bore millennials actually make sense when referencing earlier eras. As one of our hosts pointed out, today's films have a climax every two minutes.
I don't know about you, but I find that climaxing pace exhausting. At the very least, give me a refractory period before tossing out any more expectations.
The film left us absolutely certain of Hitch's genius, but also of Truffaut's recognition of that fact, despite his relative youth. Some men catch on more quickly than others, that's all I'm going to say.
From the museum we headed to Secco for a post-film supper among the West End types that Beau pegged as being in the wrong part of town ("She's got to get home to the Barbie Dream House," Pru quipped of a stylishly-cut blond in white shoes and pricey-looking togs) whom we ignored.
Instead, we savored a bottle of Cherrier Sancerre Rose and not even two weeks after the last time we'd had grilled asparagus with breaded fried egg, oops, Pru and I had it again. Twice. There was my smoked fish brushetta with creme fraiche (tasting like pure Sweden), a special of gnocchi with oxtail (decadent and homey simultaneously) and Beau's creative entree of fried lentil pakora with artichoke, mushroom and cashew ricotta (a master class for its marriage of flavors and contrasting textures), all of which returned to the kitchen licked clean.
Because Pru and Beau once lived across the hall from each other, they keep bringing up memories I couldn't even imagine.
"Remember back in the '80s when you and Robert used to have depressing parties?" Pru asked, recalling soirees where the men smoked pipes and mulled, the music was the "Blade Runner" soundtrack and Beau turned his living room into a starship bridge ("Of course you did," Pru sniffed), whatever that might be.
Pardon my optimism, but I can imagine nothing less appealing than heading to a depressing party, although fortunately, I hadn't been invited. Or maybe I would turn it into an upbeat party and ask for dancing instead of depression.
Our final stop was Can Can for dessert, although our mistake had been in forgetting that they had an absinthe drip or we'd have headed there directly. Despite the late hour, our barkeep happily delivered chocolate fudge pudding cakes and three absinthe drips: two made with Trinity and one old school style, made from Grand Absinthe.
My only complaint was that he didn't do the drips in front of us for the pleasure that affords.
Extolling the sublime marriage of absinthe and chocolate, he became the enabler who fueled our last few hours, including procuring a baguette for the happy couple. Inexplicably, the baguettes we'd seen lolling in a basket behind the bar earlier were tossed when the kitchen closed, despite customers who wanted to purchase them. Go figure.
Appreciating the need to pace myself, I shared my second absinthe drip with Pru as the bar began to empty out and I ignored a restaurant owner leering from a nearby stool as he sipped a glass of red wine. Had ours been a depressing party, I might have asked him to join us. I didn't.
I'm pacing myself so my eccentricities don't show any more than they have to. I've been warned I have a lot to do.
Color me ready to do it.
Saturday, April 1, 2017
I Love Tonight
No regrets, that's the goal.
That applies to life, but it's also how I decide where I find my evening's adventure, and sometimes it's a song.
Another revolution of the sun meant that it was once again time for the French Film Festival, so I put on a navy and white striped dress over fishnets, tied a red scarf around my neck and looked about as French as I could hope for given my Irish ancestry.
As has been our standard for nearly a decade, the FFF begins for Pru and me at Secco, despite its move from Carytown to the Fan. From the secret stash, we chose Domaine du Dragon Rose from Provence to accompany a starter of grilled asparagus with a breaded egg (the yolk oozing decadently over our green veggies) and black garlic shoyu, a nearly perfect pairing that exuded Springtime.
I made a meal of spaghetti squash pancakes with peanuts, cilantro and harissa yogurt while Pru devoted herself to cheese, charcuterie and enough bon mots to have me falling off my stool in laughter.
About a woman we both know but can't find a reason to like, she casually summed up by saying, "She majored in marketing. That says it all."
Art history majors cut no quarter with sales types.
About a grown man still enthralled by sci-fi, she marveled, "This is a man who saw a million trailers for "Star Wars" and decided somehow it was going to be terrible. His father had to drag him to see it and of course he loved it."
Men, making bad calls since their youth.
Talking about the notion of a women-run world, Pru shared something she'd seen where men were caught in the wild, put into cages and taught how to be worthwhile members of a female-centric society before being set free as higher-functioning men. "Sort of a catch and release program," she said by way of summary.
Like what Jackson ward used to do with feral cats.
Properly sated and ready for culture, we moved on to the Byrd Theater - where I wished a happy French Film Festival to Todd, the Byrd's manager - only to be told that the previous movie had run late and the Q & A was just starting.
With 40 minutes to kill, we first browsed at Chop Suey Books and then headed to Sugar and Twine for chai (Pru) and a Little Debbie - squares of chocolate cake with whipped cream in between and chocolate ganache on top - (moi) a choice that had the cashier closing her head and nodding approvingly at my choice.
Once my chocolate addiction had been fed, it was on to see "Rock and Roll...of Corse" about Henry Padovani, the Corsican guitarist who'd formed the Police with Stewart Copeland and then Sting, but left when Andy Summers came on board and replaced him.
"If you don't learn anything after watching this documentary, you weren't paying attention," our host said from the stage before introducing the director and, I kid you not, Henry himself. Considering I hadn't known that the Police even had a guitarist for a year before Summers joined the band all but guaranteed I'd learn plenty.
Being the documentary dork that I am, I ate up all the vintage footage - the Clash, Kim Wilde, young R.E.M., the Bangles - while watching how this unlikely Corsican-born, Algerian and Corsican-raised bon vivant had moved from France to London at exactly the right moment to catch the wave of punk rock exploding there.
Small wonder it had taken 10 years to make the film given all the interviews done and footage dug up.
Henry, it seemed, was responsible for giving the Police the punk cred they so desperately sought despite Sting's obvious affinity for jazz and schoolteacher-deep lyrics.
With Police in his rearview mirror, he landed in Wayne County and the Electric Chairs, a band I'd never even heard of despite the band having been far bigger than the Police at the time and the interviews with their trans-gendered lead singer were not only hilarious, but revealing.
Apparently Henry is very well-endowed, in addition to being a fine guitarist and lover of life. Ahem.
I was amazed to learn that he'd been asked to be a VP at IRS records in '88 and he was the one who signed REM to their first major label deal (seeing a baby-faced Michael Stipe sing "South Central Rain" was nothing short of astounding). But he signed all kinds of talent: the Fleshtones, the Lords of the New Church, the Go Gos, the Damned.
Henry came across as a guy who'd always been thankful for the breaks that had come his way but everyone asked their opinion of him talked about what great energy he had, his enthusiasm for life and just what a decent person he was.
When the film ended, it got even better because Henry returned to the stage to take questions, his favorite being the guy who asked how he handled eating after moving from France to England. Answer: lots of fish and chips and beer.
And the evening would have been stellar if it had ended there, but instead, Henry took a seat on a dais in front of four light panels and proceeded to play two guitars and sing for us, alternating French and English.
Starting with English, he sang "I Love Today" clearly meaning every word. "Skeleton Blues," sung in French and written while he lived in a presbytery next to a cemetery, had him asking the audience how many were French and when a loud response followed, he was obviously surprised. "Jeezuzlord!" he exclaimed peering into the theater.
Sting's nickname for him had been Nature Boy, although at the time, Henry had no knowledge of the Nat King Cole song, but tonight he sang "Nature Boy" for us. He'd written "Time" as an explanation to a much younger girlfriend that age differences don't matter. So I've always believed.
I turned to Pru, asking her how old she thought that girlfriend might have been, 32? "If that!" she responded disdainfully. Oh, Henry.
"Highway" was an instrumental Lightnin' Hopkins-style dancey blues song, while he said the English-sung "Lean Love" was written when, "Men get the blues because they don't give us what we need." Works both ways, Henry. Don't you know even women get the blues?
After a tangent about how he knew all about Virginia and the Pilgrims and the boat coming over - "It's not far from you guys, right?" - he said he was going to do Lennon's "Jealous Guy."
Let me tell you, sitting in an 88-year old theater watching a 64-year old Corsican sing a John Lennon song with a Gibson guitar may just have been the most sublime Friday night I've had in some time. When he finished, he grinned and said, "I love that song!"
From the Police's first record "Outlandos d'Amour," Henry did "Next to You" in the simple acoustic style like when Sting had first played the song for the band all those years ago.
He closed with Edith Piaf's "Je ne Regrette Rien," about living life with no regrets, saying "It sums up the whole thing. Life." Amen, brother.
No matter how lean life or love gets, a bon vivant never regrets going to the French Film Festival.
That applies to life, but it's also how I decide where I find my evening's adventure, and sometimes it's a song.
Another revolution of the sun meant that it was once again time for the French Film Festival, so I put on a navy and white striped dress over fishnets, tied a red scarf around my neck and looked about as French as I could hope for given my Irish ancestry.
As has been our standard for nearly a decade, the FFF begins for Pru and me at Secco, despite its move from Carytown to the Fan. From the secret stash, we chose Domaine du Dragon Rose from Provence to accompany a starter of grilled asparagus with a breaded egg (the yolk oozing decadently over our green veggies) and black garlic shoyu, a nearly perfect pairing that exuded Springtime.
I made a meal of spaghetti squash pancakes with peanuts, cilantro and harissa yogurt while Pru devoted herself to cheese, charcuterie and enough bon mots to have me falling off my stool in laughter.
About a woman we both know but can't find a reason to like, she casually summed up by saying, "She majored in marketing. That says it all."
Art history majors cut no quarter with sales types.
About a grown man still enthralled by sci-fi, she marveled, "This is a man who saw a million trailers for "Star Wars" and decided somehow it was going to be terrible. His father had to drag him to see it and of course he loved it."
Men, making bad calls since their youth.
Talking about the notion of a women-run world, Pru shared something she'd seen where men were caught in the wild, put into cages and taught how to be worthwhile members of a female-centric society before being set free as higher-functioning men. "Sort of a catch and release program," she said by way of summary.
Like what Jackson ward used to do with feral cats.
Properly sated and ready for culture, we moved on to the Byrd Theater - where I wished a happy French Film Festival to Todd, the Byrd's manager - only to be told that the previous movie had run late and the Q & A was just starting.
With 40 minutes to kill, we first browsed at Chop Suey Books and then headed to Sugar and Twine for chai (Pru) and a Little Debbie - squares of chocolate cake with whipped cream in between and chocolate ganache on top - (moi) a choice that had the cashier closing her head and nodding approvingly at my choice.
Once my chocolate addiction had been fed, it was on to see "Rock and Roll...of Corse" about Henry Padovani, the Corsican guitarist who'd formed the Police with Stewart Copeland and then Sting, but left when Andy Summers came on board and replaced him.
"If you don't learn anything after watching this documentary, you weren't paying attention," our host said from the stage before introducing the director and, I kid you not, Henry himself. Considering I hadn't known that the Police even had a guitarist for a year before Summers joined the band all but guaranteed I'd learn plenty.
Being the documentary dork that I am, I ate up all the vintage footage - the Clash, Kim Wilde, young R.E.M., the Bangles - while watching how this unlikely Corsican-born, Algerian and Corsican-raised bon vivant had moved from France to London at exactly the right moment to catch the wave of punk rock exploding there.
Small wonder it had taken 10 years to make the film given all the interviews done and footage dug up.
Henry, it seemed, was responsible for giving the Police the punk cred they so desperately sought despite Sting's obvious affinity for jazz and schoolteacher-deep lyrics.
With Police in his rearview mirror, he landed in Wayne County and the Electric Chairs, a band I'd never even heard of despite the band having been far bigger than the Police at the time and the interviews with their trans-gendered lead singer were not only hilarious, but revealing.
Apparently Henry is very well-endowed, in addition to being a fine guitarist and lover of life. Ahem.
I was amazed to learn that he'd been asked to be a VP at IRS records in '88 and he was the one who signed REM to their first major label deal (seeing a baby-faced Michael Stipe sing "South Central Rain" was nothing short of astounding). But he signed all kinds of talent: the Fleshtones, the Lords of the New Church, the Go Gos, the Damned.
Henry came across as a guy who'd always been thankful for the breaks that had come his way but everyone asked their opinion of him talked about what great energy he had, his enthusiasm for life and just what a decent person he was.
When the film ended, it got even better because Henry returned to the stage to take questions, his favorite being the guy who asked how he handled eating after moving from France to England. Answer: lots of fish and chips and beer.
And the evening would have been stellar if it had ended there, but instead, Henry took a seat on a dais in front of four light panels and proceeded to play two guitars and sing for us, alternating French and English.
Starting with English, he sang "I Love Today" clearly meaning every word. "Skeleton Blues," sung in French and written while he lived in a presbytery next to a cemetery, had him asking the audience how many were French and when a loud response followed, he was obviously surprised. "Jeezuzlord!" he exclaimed peering into the theater.
Sting's nickname for him had been Nature Boy, although at the time, Henry had no knowledge of the Nat King Cole song, but tonight he sang "Nature Boy" for us. He'd written "Time" as an explanation to a much younger girlfriend that age differences don't matter. So I've always believed.
I turned to Pru, asking her how old she thought that girlfriend might have been, 32? "If that!" she responded disdainfully. Oh, Henry.
"Highway" was an instrumental Lightnin' Hopkins-style dancey blues song, while he said the English-sung "Lean Love" was written when, "Men get the blues because they don't give us what we need." Works both ways, Henry. Don't you know even women get the blues?
After a tangent about how he knew all about Virginia and the Pilgrims and the boat coming over - "It's not far from you guys, right?" - he said he was going to do Lennon's "Jealous Guy."
Let me tell you, sitting in an 88-year old theater watching a 64-year old Corsican sing a John Lennon song with a Gibson guitar may just have been the most sublime Friday night I've had in some time. When he finished, he grinned and said, "I love that song!"
From the Police's first record "Outlandos d'Amour," Henry did "Next to You" in the simple acoustic style like when Sting had first played the song for the band all those years ago.
He closed with Edith Piaf's "Je ne Regrette Rien," about living life with no regrets, saying "It sums up the whole thing. Life." Amen, brother.
No matter how lean life or love gets, a bon vivant never regrets going to the French Film Festival.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Big Mistakes Now Dirt Cheap
Resolve and thou art free. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sitting next to me at Firehouse Theater tonight was a woman who'd resolved for 2017 to stop working so much and see a play a week and here she was on a Saturday night, taking in "Boatwright," a play about a man resolving to build a boat and sail the ocean despite no boat-building or sailing experience.
A friend resolved to be more spontaneous this year, acting on ideas when he has them instead of overthinking them into oblivion. Unfortunately for me, I'm still overthinking which is why I'm not in Cuba at the moment.
The friend who picked me up tonight has resolved to create more "me" time and tonight that meant a whole lot of "we" time.
It was the second time for me seeing the Virginia Historical Society's exhibit "The Original Art: Celebrating the Fine Art of Book Illustration," but the first for the tall person at my side. Compelling as it had been on first viewing, it was even more so with the ultimate geek guide: an artist to provide observations about materials, composition and technique.
We lingered so long the guard had to tell us twice they were closing and all but escort us out of the building before we turned our sites on dinner.
The action at Secco was barely getting started, making a couple of bar stools an easy grab for us to begin catching up and sipping on a bottle of Basque Rose with a light spritz, Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis.
Accompanying our thirst-quenching pink was house-smoked fish salad made creamy with creme fraiche, but also getting a serious flavor jolt from mouth-filling cured lemon, which we slathered over toasted baguette slices with abandon.
Part of that abandon had to do with our multi-tangential discussion - how much communication is enough? where does one draw the line between an orderly life and OCD? what constitutes decent manners these days? - in which neither party held back much.
We were in solid agreement on going vegetarian from there on with Brussels sprouts swimming in a bath of shallots, Aleppo pepper, capers, candied pecans and more of that delightful cured lemon, along with fried acorn squash with Burrata, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, a dish I so adore I have now introduced it to no fewer than five of my favorite people.
You will know I like you if I suggest you eat this.
I know there are people out there giving up dessert and chocolate and such for Lent, but neither of us are among that hapless group, meaning we happily shared a non-traditional chocolate bread pudding, served as slices topped with the rich, complex flavors of morello cherries and hopped ice cream.
But what was really complex was the conversation because why would I want to spend hours with someone who isn't as into conversation as I am? I can dine all by myself, as I prove handily every week of my life, but for the best possible time, I need a quick mind and a forthcoming voice.
Check and check.
Tonight's play demonstrated what can happen when a middle-aged man loses a beloved wife to death and then has to figure out how to be happy in his new state. Coincidentally, I recently met just such a man and have since run into him on multiple occasions, so perhaps I have my own source for those answers now.
But in the play, the distraught Ben has his life interrupted when a neighborhood 19-year old (admirably played by Tyler Stevens) who's been kicked out of college and is looking for his own direction in life, drops by his garage with his camera.
And while the situation reads like a win/win for both - Ben will build the boat while listening to a cassette tape of waves crashing and film-making student Jaime will document it - it also brings to a head both their underlying issues.
And that Ben and I share certain opinions.
Ben is old school and can't stand the way every one of Jaime's statements sound like questions, so he calls him on it. Jaime's reasoning is that his generation speaks that way to check if anyone's listening. Most people aren't, he says.
Jaime mocks Ben as Amish for not having a cell phone (ahem) and Ben says, "I try not to let my appliances tell me what to do." This may be funnier to me than to most, but no one can argue with his dismay over rudeness when Jaime begins texting in the middle of their conversation.
Ben's point is summed up when he says, "Being alone in this world is not allowed anymore." Always connected, always available. Thank you, no.
But it's his concern with "being held hostage, and not by people, but by things" that resonated particularly because that's so many people I know and even some that I'm fond of. Held hostage by things, now there's a living hell.
During intermission, the drama continued when I tuned in to the conversation happening in the row behind us.
A guy whose career at McGuire Woods has gone very well (or so he claimed) admitted to a desultory end to his recent marriage.
I was trying to meet expectations and she wasn't trying to do anything.
When I came home, she was glad to have help with the kids but she wasn't happy to see me.
His date for the evening (and she was clearly a date) was lapping up his saga with empathy, trying to make a good impression while not judging him for his marital failing. For all I know, they were a Tinder date. Even without looking them in the face, I didn't hear a lot of potential in their verbal chemistry.
Or perhaps they don't need any because they're not actually listening to each other.
During the second act, young Jaime's inability to deal with life rationally results in being sent away for treatment, then daily meds, the combination eventually producing a more balanced young man who has learned some life lessons from the boat-builder over the months of their project.
And while Ben's impending journey seemed a bit far-fetched to him originally, Jaime comes around to the resolute older man's way of thinking.
When will a big mistake ever cost me less than right now?
Never. Like cassette tapes and statements that end in periods rather than question marks, that's just one more benefit to age.
It's all about crafting your own boat.
Sitting next to me at Firehouse Theater tonight was a woman who'd resolved for 2017 to stop working so much and see a play a week and here she was on a Saturday night, taking in "Boatwright," a play about a man resolving to build a boat and sail the ocean despite no boat-building or sailing experience.
A friend resolved to be more spontaneous this year, acting on ideas when he has them instead of overthinking them into oblivion. Unfortunately for me, I'm still overthinking which is why I'm not in Cuba at the moment.
The friend who picked me up tonight has resolved to create more "me" time and tonight that meant a whole lot of "we" time.
It was the second time for me seeing the Virginia Historical Society's exhibit "The Original Art: Celebrating the Fine Art of Book Illustration," but the first for the tall person at my side. Compelling as it had been on first viewing, it was even more so with the ultimate geek guide: an artist to provide observations about materials, composition and technique.
We lingered so long the guard had to tell us twice they were closing and all but escort us out of the building before we turned our sites on dinner.
The action at Secco was barely getting started, making a couple of bar stools an easy grab for us to begin catching up and sipping on a bottle of Basque Rose with a light spritz, Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis.
Accompanying our thirst-quenching pink was house-smoked fish salad made creamy with creme fraiche, but also getting a serious flavor jolt from mouth-filling cured lemon, which we slathered over toasted baguette slices with abandon.
Part of that abandon had to do with our multi-tangential discussion - how much communication is enough? where does one draw the line between an orderly life and OCD? what constitutes decent manners these days? - in which neither party held back much.
We were in solid agreement on going vegetarian from there on with Brussels sprouts swimming in a bath of shallots, Aleppo pepper, capers, candied pecans and more of that delightful cured lemon, along with fried acorn squash with Burrata, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, a dish I so adore I have now introduced it to no fewer than five of my favorite people.
You will know I like you if I suggest you eat this.
I know there are people out there giving up dessert and chocolate and such for Lent, but neither of us are among that hapless group, meaning we happily shared a non-traditional chocolate bread pudding, served as slices topped with the rich, complex flavors of morello cherries and hopped ice cream.
But what was really complex was the conversation because why would I want to spend hours with someone who isn't as into conversation as I am? I can dine all by myself, as I prove handily every week of my life, but for the best possible time, I need a quick mind and a forthcoming voice.
Check and check.
Tonight's play demonstrated what can happen when a middle-aged man loses a beloved wife to death and then has to figure out how to be happy in his new state. Coincidentally, I recently met just such a man and have since run into him on multiple occasions, so perhaps I have my own source for those answers now.
But in the play, the distraught Ben has his life interrupted when a neighborhood 19-year old (admirably played by Tyler Stevens) who's been kicked out of college and is looking for his own direction in life, drops by his garage with his camera.
And while the situation reads like a win/win for both - Ben will build the boat while listening to a cassette tape of waves crashing and film-making student Jaime will document it - it also brings to a head both their underlying issues.
And that Ben and I share certain opinions.
Ben is old school and can't stand the way every one of Jaime's statements sound like questions, so he calls him on it. Jaime's reasoning is that his generation speaks that way to check if anyone's listening. Most people aren't, he says.
Jaime mocks Ben as Amish for not having a cell phone (ahem) and Ben says, "I try not to let my appliances tell me what to do." This may be funnier to me than to most, but no one can argue with his dismay over rudeness when Jaime begins texting in the middle of their conversation.
Ben's point is summed up when he says, "Being alone in this world is not allowed anymore." Always connected, always available. Thank you, no.
But it's his concern with "being held hostage, and not by people, but by things" that resonated particularly because that's so many people I know and even some that I'm fond of. Held hostage by things, now there's a living hell.
During intermission, the drama continued when I tuned in to the conversation happening in the row behind us.
A guy whose career at McGuire Woods has gone very well (or so he claimed) admitted to a desultory end to his recent marriage.
I was trying to meet expectations and she wasn't trying to do anything.
When I came home, she was glad to have help with the kids but she wasn't happy to see me.
His date for the evening (and she was clearly a date) was lapping up his saga with empathy, trying to make a good impression while not judging him for his marital failing. For all I know, they were a Tinder date. Even without looking them in the face, I didn't hear a lot of potential in their verbal chemistry.
Or perhaps they don't need any because they're not actually listening to each other.
During the second act, young Jaime's inability to deal with life rationally results in being sent away for treatment, then daily meds, the combination eventually producing a more balanced young man who has learned some life lessons from the boat-builder over the months of their project.
And while Ben's impending journey seemed a bit far-fetched to him originally, Jaime comes around to the resolute older man's way of thinking.
When will a big mistake ever cost me less than right now?
Never. Like cassette tapes and statements that end in periods rather than question marks, that's just one more benefit to age.
It's all about crafting your own boat.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Be Prepared for Peace
Because when you see a guy sever his patella right in front of you, the least you can do is go to a fundraiser for him afterward.
Beckham and Beauty met me at SPARC for the lip sync benefit show for Durron's patella, not just because they'd been with me when Durron first fell, but because they were just back from a month-long honeymoon in South Africa and I wanted all the delicious details.
I joined them in the second row for an audio highlights reel of their adventure, from winery hopping to every other day beach jaunts to a safari - petting cheetahs and and feeding elephants - to loads of books read over delightfully long days.
Not going to lie, I was pea-green with envy.
When they did venture out to do the proper tourist-y things, they were continually met with uncontrolled children running amuck, an annoyance they likened to the best possible birth control.
As I'd have guessed, their re-entry to the real world has been cold and harsh - and not just because they left a cultured, competent and contemplative leader running the country and came back to a fascist creating a police state - as they adjust to early mornings, less time together and the realities of setting up a shared household while holding down demanding jobs.
Fortunately, they're young and strong with love and endless optimism on their side. And, like me, they love some good lip syncing.
The show began with Durron walking onstage, stiff-legged and using a cane, to take his rightful place in the "king's" chair, a red armchair complete with footstool for the ailing gam. Onstage was to be his spot for the entire evening.
Unlike the usual lip sync battles Beckham, the Beauty and I've attended in the past, tonight's was more of a showcase of local acting talent singing their hearts out for a fallen comrade, with host Phil kicking things off brilliantly with The Lion King's "Be Prepared," complete with a full range of actions to reflect the words.
To be honest, I had no idea about the song, but Beauty brought me up to speed.
The quartet of "Team Not This Winter Body," who'd also been present for Durron's spill, came out and addressed him directly, saying, "This is for you, buddy. We love you a lot and we're so sorry," a sentiment that was expressed repeatedly throughout the evening.
Reliably fabulous Mags blew the roof off with her histrionic take on the vocal (yet silent) acrobatics of Demi Lovato's "Heart Attack," but she stumbled a bit getting offstage, causing host Phil to call out, "No one falls tonight!"
New to the lip sync business was Natty who emoted the hell out of "Bernadette" while pounding his chest, dropping to his knees and eventually handcuffing himself to Durron to prove his love, per the song lyrics.
Epic best describes what we witnessed as this lip sync virgin showed us his mastery of the art form.
Forrest, whom I knew solely as a guitar player (a very good guitar player), pulled off dance moves in sunglasses, while he silently sang Justin Timberlake's "Can't Stop the Feeling," a song that sounds like every other auto-tuned male pop hit of this century. Or is it just me?
Britney's "Lucky" got the full treatment - tiara, feather boa, robe - from Liz who also used signage ("Because she can't walk") and a water bottle to splash her face with the tears of her lonely heart, tears which dripped down on poor Durron as she hugged him from above.
But when the song ended, everyone began freaking out about the water on the stage (no more falls, remember?) and a crew of paper towel-wielding driers descended on the stage to ensure there wasn't so much as a drop to slip on.
Up to this point, Beckham, Beauty and I had been thoroughly enjoying the show, with equal parts laughter and appreciation for how well choreographed most numbers were tonight.
Then it was Asa's turn, a good thing since I'd already decided after the last lip sync battle that Asa is a lip sync god.
He sure didn't disprove that with tonight's choice of Beyonce's "Single Ladies," coming onstage in a black bodysuit, white fur-trimmed jacket and ankle booties and shaking it for all he was worth, smacking his backside and oozing enough sass to sell every word.
Behind him were a half dozen dancers in black bodysuits and tights, nailing every booty shake, every extended ring finger, every nuance of the original choreography while Asa continued to "sing" lead from the front of the stage. More dancers joined them and suddenly, we were seeing a full-blown synchronized dance sequence with nary a hip swing or hand flutter out of place.
It was a thing of beauty, no less so for Asa's charismatic presence as front woman. That's one agile man and the look on Durron's face was pure pleasure.
The final round was the improv round, supposedly with seven contestants, although only six showed up onstage. "We need one more!" Phil called out.
"Asa's coming! He's putting his pants on!" someone hollered. One number in a bodysuit is probably enough for any man.
With all seven in place, we watched as songs - "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and something from The Little Mermaid - were played for 30 seconds and one of the contestants had to lip sync to it on the spot.
Everybody had had a turn except Natty and when the first notes of the final song began, he seized the moment, extending his arms and silently belting out the syrupy "My Heart Will Go On" in Durron's direction to great dramatic effect.
There's just no way to come down after that kind of stellar entertainment.
Although my friends and I hadn't made any post-show plans, we were on such a high after witnessing that array of terrifically talented people, that we resolved to go to Secco for vino and conversation. Though it was prime time Saturday night and the odds were stacked against us, we scored bar stools, where Beckham insisted I sit between the two since, "We've seen a lot of each other lately."
All talk. I know because they were touching each other the entire night and it was pretty charming to see. Nobody was tired of anybody.
It was a night to introduce Beauty to Hungarian wine with Affinitas Tokaj Furmint, floral, rich and a fine pairing with spicy octopus Bolognese with chile oil, not that it didn't hold up just fine to fried acorn squash (the very same I'd had a week ago and fallen hard for) with buratta, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, plus the reliable tortilla espanola and one of tonight's specials, a thoroughly obscene poutine of oxtail gravy with white cheddar over fries.
The funny part is, when we'd met at SPARC, Beckham made sure I knew they'd already eaten, yet his first words at Secco were, "We're feeling a little peckish," while requesting a food menu.
Naturally, that led to a conversation of how some people (*cough* Beckham) can say they're not hungry but that only lasts until they have access to something tasty. Like a restaurant menu.
Beauty admitted that too often she allows herself get to the "hangry" point, but tries to mitigate that by keeping a snack cabinet over her desk. Meanwhile, I eat every chance I get.
Mainly we discussed their time in South Africa, which disappointed only on the cultural front (a New Year's Eve concert in the botanical gardens featured a band so bad they left, while a piano bar seemed to be more of a recording of a piano), a fact which only bolstered their conviction to spend their free time drinking wine.
Like me, Beckham had been there before, but he was nevertheless surprised at how many new varietals are being planted and grown successfully now. Hello, South African Tempranillo.
And of course we talked about dealing with the ongoing disaster of the past eight days under a thin-skinned tyrant and whether it would be possible to have a repeat of Nazi Germany here. We're more connected so it would be more difficult, we agree, but impossible? Who knows?
When Gorbachev, the former Soviet leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner, is going on record today as saying that it "looks as if the world is preparing for war," I, for one, am all ears.
Even fabulous lip-syncing can only keep the fear at bay for so long. All the single ladies know there are people we want to see a lot of before it all goes up in flames.
Can't stop the feeling time is running out.
Beckham and Beauty met me at SPARC for the lip sync benefit show for Durron's patella, not just because they'd been with me when Durron first fell, but because they were just back from a month-long honeymoon in South Africa and I wanted all the delicious details.
I joined them in the second row for an audio highlights reel of their adventure, from winery hopping to every other day beach jaunts to a safari - petting cheetahs and and feeding elephants - to loads of books read over delightfully long days.
Not going to lie, I was pea-green with envy.
When they did venture out to do the proper tourist-y things, they were continually met with uncontrolled children running amuck, an annoyance they likened to the best possible birth control.
As I'd have guessed, their re-entry to the real world has been cold and harsh - and not just because they left a cultured, competent and contemplative leader running the country and came back to a fascist creating a police state - as they adjust to early mornings, less time together and the realities of setting up a shared household while holding down demanding jobs.
Fortunately, they're young and strong with love and endless optimism on their side. And, like me, they love some good lip syncing.
The show began with Durron walking onstage, stiff-legged and using a cane, to take his rightful place in the "king's" chair, a red armchair complete with footstool for the ailing gam. Onstage was to be his spot for the entire evening.
Unlike the usual lip sync battles Beckham, the Beauty and I've attended in the past, tonight's was more of a showcase of local acting talent singing their hearts out for a fallen comrade, with host Phil kicking things off brilliantly with The Lion King's "Be Prepared," complete with a full range of actions to reflect the words.
To be honest, I had no idea about the song, but Beauty brought me up to speed.
The quartet of "Team Not This Winter Body," who'd also been present for Durron's spill, came out and addressed him directly, saying, "This is for you, buddy. We love you a lot and we're so sorry," a sentiment that was expressed repeatedly throughout the evening.
Reliably fabulous Mags blew the roof off with her histrionic take on the vocal (yet silent) acrobatics of Demi Lovato's "Heart Attack," but she stumbled a bit getting offstage, causing host Phil to call out, "No one falls tonight!"
New to the lip sync business was Natty who emoted the hell out of "Bernadette" while pounding his chest, dropping to his knees and eventually handcuffing himself to Durron to prove his love, per the song lyrics.
Epic best describes what we witnessed as this lip sync virgin showed us his mastery of the art form.
Forrest, whom I knew solely as a guitar player (a very good guitar player), pulled off dance moves in sunglasses, while he silently sang Justin Timberlake's "Can't Stop the Feeling," a song that sounds like every other auto-tuned male pop hit of this century. Or is it just me?
Britney's "Lucky" got the full treatment - tiara, feather boa, robe - from Liz who also used signage ("Because she can't walk") and a water bottle to splash her face with the tears of her lonely heart, tears which dripped down on poor Durron as she hugged him from above.
But when the song ended, everyone began freaking out about the water on the stage (no more falls, remember?) and a crew of paper towel-wielding driers descended on the stage to ensure there wasn't so much as a drop to slip on.
Up to this point, Beckham, Beauty and I had been thoroughly enjoying the show, with equal parts laughter and appreciation for how well choreographed most numbers were tonight.
Then it was Asa's turn, a good thing since I'd already decided after the last lip sync battle that Asa is a lip sync god.
He sure didn't disprove that with tonight's choice of Beyonce's "Single Ladies," coming onstage in a black bodysuit, white fur-trimmed jacket and ankle booties and shaking it for all he was worth, smacking his backside and oozing enough sass to sell every word.
Behind him were a half dozen dancers in black bodysuits and tights, nailing every booty shake, every extended ring finger, every nuance of the original choreography while Asa continued to "sing" lead from the front of the stage. More dancers joined them and suddenly, we were seeing a full-blown synchronized dance sequence with nary a hip swing or hand flutter out of place.
It was a thing of beauty, no less so for Asa's charismatic presence as front woman. That's one agile man and the look on Durron's face was pure pleasure.
The final round was the improv round, supposedly with seven contestants, although only six showed up onstage. "We need one more!" Phil called out.
"Asa's coming! He's putting his pants on!" someone hollered. One number in a bodysuit is probably enough for any man.
With all seven in place, we watched as songs - "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and something from The Little Mermaid - were played for 30 seconds and one of the contestants had to lip sync to it on the spot.
Everybody had had a turn except Natty and when the first notes of the final song began, he seized the moment, extending his arms and silently belting out the syrupy "My Heart Will Go On" in Durron's direction to great dramatic effect.
There's just no way to come down after that kind of stellar entertainment.
Although my friends and I hadn't made any post-show plans, we were on such a high after witnessing that array of terrifically talented people, that we resolved to go to Secco for vino and conversation. Though it was prime time Saturday night and the odds were stacked against us, we scored bar stools, where Beckham insisted I sit between the two since, "We've seen a lot of each other lately."
All talk. I know because they were touching each other the entire night and it was pretty charming to see. Nobody was tired of anybody.
It was a night to introduce Beauty to Hungarian wine with Affinitas Tokaj Furmint, floral, rich and a fine pairing with spicy octopus Bolognese with chile oil, not that it didn't hold up just fine to fried acorn squash (the very same I'd had a week ago and fallen hard for) with buratta, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, plus the reliable tortilla espanola and one of tonight's specials, a thoroughly obscene poutine of oxtail gravy with white cheddar over fries.
The funny part is, when we'd met at SPARC, Beckham made sure I knew they'd already eaten, yet his first words at Secco were, "We're feeling a little peckish," while requesting a food menu.
Naturally, that led to a conversation of how some people (*cough* Beckham) can say they're not hungry but that only lasts until they have access to something tasty. Like a restaurant menu.
Beauty admitted that too often she allows herself get to the "hangry" point, but tries to mitigate that by keeping a snack cabinet over her desk. Meanwhile, I eat every chance I get.
Mainly we discussed their time in South Africa, which disappointed only on the cultural front (a New Year's Eve concert in the botanical gardens featured a band so bad they left, while a piano bar seemed to be more of a recording of a piano), a fact which only bolstered their conviction to spend their free time drinking wine.
Like me, Beckham had been there before, but he was nevertheless surprised at how many new varietals are being planted and grown successfully now. Hello, South African Tempranillo.
And of course we talked about dealing with the ongoing disaster of the past eight days under a thin-skinned tyrant and whether it would be possible to have a repeat of Nazi Germany here. We're more connected so it would be more difficult, we agree, but impossible? Who knows?
When Gorbachev, the former Soviet leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner, is going on record today as saying that it "looks as if the world is preparing for war," I, for one, am all ears.
Even fabulous lip-syncing can only keep the fear at bay for so long. All the single ladies know there are people we want to see a lot of before it all goes up in flames.
Can't stop the feeling time is running out.
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